It was craft night – a practice my mentor and I would do frequently. After a home cooked meal, the two of us would sit in Laura’s little apartment, books stacked from corner to corner, and we would each pursue our own artistic endeavors, making conversation over swishing pencils.
I don’t remember the exact context, but I do remember that it was a joke, not meant to be particularly profound. “Let your no’s be no’s and your yeses be wise,” Laura said as she sat the bowl of pineapple rice in front of me. She laid out her chopsticks followed by my fork. I wasn’t graceful enough to eat with the cooler utensils.
I know how to use chopsticks now. Laura no longer lives in her little apartment, but a two-story house with enough room to give all her books homes on shelves. In a few months, I will have completed my undergraduate degree, and I feel very far from the awkward early teen that I was when she first gave me that accidental advice. I wish I’d listened more.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am not the person to offer advice on doing less. In fact, it has become somewhat of a punchline. Every once in a while, there’s a spark of fear behind my loved one’s eyes as they watch me commit to yet another thing that I don’t have time for. I was clocked as an over-committer early by Asbury graduate Lily Kesten when she pulled me aside my freshman year to warn me not to burn myself out. I’m sorry Lily – I failed.
If I tried to offer pragmatic advice on doing less, I would be a hypocrite to rival the Pharisees. So instead, I will preach to myself as I look ahead at my final few months in Wilmore.
At the risk of sounding too much like a self-help book or a really stupid coming-of-age film – I want to actually live my life. Instead for a good part of the past few years, I have seen most days as a series of tasks or events to show up to. It’s important to note that I have loved college and all in all have few regrets. But when I look back, I’m curious about how much more I would have been able to enjoy if I hadn’t felt the need to fill every spare moment of my time.
As circles like Asbury tend to be overrun with over-committers like me, I imagine that I am not alone in this feeling. College is full of opportunity, especially at a small liberal arts school like Asbury that prides itself on its prioritization of community. It’s easy to say yes and then look up and realize your time went by in such a daze that you didn’t fully experience any of it.
But freshman, final-semester seniors and well-past undergrads, there is good news: we still have time. There is little point in dwelling on what we should have done (or maybe in this case what we should not have done). I refuse to make my last first editorial of the semester a sob story. That said, my commitment to being less committed does begin with a podcast about death.
My brother and I are both big fans of a podcast called “Ologies” by Alie Ward. Each episode interviews an expert in a particular area of study – it’s a gold mine for nerds who just want to know things. My brother sent me an episode on thanatology: the study of death and dying and prefaced it by saying that it was “life-changing.” My brother is not as dramatic as I am, so when he said it, I believed him. He wasn’t wrong. This podcast about death was much more about how to live considering the inevitable fact of death. Thanatologist Cole Imperi also brought up what she calls “little deaths” : things like losing a job or moving away from somewhere you love. When she mentioned this, I couldn’t help but think about commencement. The beginning of my adult life but still an ending that I don’t know if I’m entirely ready for. Her advice for handling anxiety over death, whether metaphorical or literal, was to figure out “why you’re here” and to align how you spend your life with that “why.”
Listening to this episode, and sitting at an hour-long standstill on I-70 West on my way back to school, I was first grateful for all of the people and things in my life that remind me why I’m here. This was quickly followed by how hair-brained I felt when thinking about finding more time to dedicate to these people and things. Laura’s advice came back to me, and I thought that maybe the problem was that my unwise yeses were detracting from my wise ones.
It is my final semester of college. I will not lie and say that I’m no longer busy or that I don’t still groan when looking over my syllabi. Sometimes the things that bring meaning also bring stress and deadlines. This article is not meant to encourage anyone to drop out. But I have already noticed that tasks I used to find trivial now have a new sense of life. Now that they aren’t crammed between other unnecessary commitments. My walks with friends along the railroad tracks and down Main Street feel more important to me now than they did before. I even have time for more of them. Life doesn’t end after college, and plenty of what I do contributes to a purpose beyond my diploma. But keeping the fast-approaching end in mind makes me want to live better before it’s over.
Photo courtesy of Unsplash.
Letter from the Editor: “Let your no’s be no’s and yeses be wise”
It was craft night – a practice my mentor and I would do frequently. After a home cooked meal, the two of us would sit in Laura’s little apartment, books stacked from corner to corner, and we would each pursue our own artistic endeavors, making conversation over swishing pencils.
I don’t remember the exact context, but I do remember that it was a joke, not meant to be particularly profound. “Let your no’s be no’s and your yeses be wise,” Laura said as she sat the bowl of pineapple rice in front of me. She laid out her chopsticks followed by my fork. I wasn’t graceful enough to eat with the cooler utensils.
I know how to use chopsticks now. Laura no longer lives in her little apartment, but a two-story house with enough room to give all her books homes on shelves. In a few months, I will have completed my undergraduate degree, and I feel very far from the awkward early teen that I was when she first gave me that accidental advice. I wish I’d listened more.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am not the person to offer advice on doing less. In fact, it has become somewhat of a punchline. Every once in a while, there’s a spark of fear behind my loved one’s eyes as they watch me commit to yet another thing that I don’t have time for. I was clocked as an over-committer early by Asbury graduate Lily Kesten when she pulled me aside my freshman year to warn me not to burn myself out. I’m sorry Lily – I failed.
If I tried to offer pragmatic advice on doing less, I would be a hypocrite to rival the Pharisees. So instead, I will preach to myself as I look ahead at my final few months in Wilmore.
At the risk of sounding too much like a self-help book or a really stupid coming-of-age film – I want to actually live my life. Instead for a good part of the past few years, I have seen most days as a series of tasks or events to show up to. It’s important to note that I have loved college and all in all have few regrets. But when I look back, I’m curious about how much more I would have been able to enjoy if I hadn’t felt the need to fill every spare moment of my time.
As circles like Asbury tend to be overrun with over-committers like me, I imagine that I am not alone in this feeling. College is full of opportunity, especially at a small liberal arts school like Asbury that prides itself on its prioritization of community. It’s easy to say yes and then look up and realize your time went by in such a daze that you didn’t fully experience any of it.
But freshman, final-semester seniors and well-past undergrads, there is good news: we still have time. There is little point in dwelling on what we should have done (or maybe in this case what we should not have done). I refuse to make my last first editorial of the semester a sob story. That said, my commitment to being less committed does begin with a podcast about death.
I don’t want to be a teacher anymore: thoughts after the Nashville shooting
My brother and I are both big fans of a podcast called “Ologies” by Alie Ward. Each episode interviews an expert in a particular area of study – it’s a gold mine for nerds who just want to know things. My brother sent me an episode on thanatology: the study of death and dying and prefaced it by saying that it was “life-changing.” My brother is not as dramatic as I am, so when he said it, I believed him. He wasn’t wrong. This podcast about death was much more about how to live considering the inevitable fact of death. Thanatologist Cole Imperi also brought up what she calls “little deaths” : things like losing a job or moving away from somewhere you love. When she mentioned this, I couldn’t help but think about commencement. The beginning of my adult life but still an ending that I don’t know if I’m entirely ready for. Her advice for handling anxiety over death, whether metaphorical or literal, was to figure out “why you’re here” and to align how you spend your life with that “why.”
Listening to this episode, and sitting at an hour-long standstill on I-70 West on my way back to school, I was first grateful for all of the people and things in my life that remind me why I’m here. This was quickly followed by how hair-brained I felt when thinking about finding more time to dedicate to these people and things. Laura’s advice came back to me, and I thought that maybe the problem was that my unwise yeses were detracting from my wise ones.
It is my final semester of college. I will not lie and say that I’m no longer busy or that I don’t still groan when looking over my syllabi. Sometimes the things that bring meaning also bring stress and deadlines. This article is not meant to encourage anyone to drop out. But I have already noticed that tasks I used to find trivial now have a new sense of life. Now that they aren’t crammed between other unnecessary commitments. My walks with friends along the railroad tracks and down Main Street feel more important to me now than they did before. I even have time for more of them. Life doesn’t end after college, and plenty of what I do contributes to a purpose beyond my diploma. But keeping the fast-approaching end in mind makes me want to live better before it’s over.
Photo courtesy of Unsplash.