I opened my drawer recently to look for something, and came across some pictures I had in there from college. They were mostly from my Senior year, with some Junior year ones thrown in there. As I flipped through them, I began to remember (and, in some cases, not remember) all of the wonderful events and stories behind those pictures. Such amazingly good times.
As I poured through those pictures, something caught my eye--my eyes. Literally, my eyes in those pictures caught my eye. There was a, for lack of a better word, "shine" in them. I looked genuinely happy, excited even. I have a picture from high school on my desk, and that picture doesn't have that same "shine." There was something about those two years in my life that excited me. I was really happy to be there, immersed in that whole environment. And, magically, I was for a brief few moments transported back to that time, reliving all of the fun that went with those couple of years.
As I left that time and came back to (the present) reality, there existed an acute sense of sadness, as I was reminded that those times are over, and that I would never quite have those experiences again. I wondered if my eyes would ever shine like that again.
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2006 was a year of transition for me. I left one major "way of life" and began to adopt a new one. Like 2000, when I moved from high school to college, and 2004, when I moved from college to Goldman, 2006 will probably stand out in my life as one of those great "in between years," where the old gives way to the new, and the new presents itself with challenges I had never faced before, and I struggle to react.
In my last week at Goldman, I distinctly remember walking to work and having this feeling come over me like, "Chris, what in the world are you doing?" Even though I frankly hated almost every second of that job, there was familiarity and, even amongst the unpredictability that so defined that place, a degree of predictability. There were no surprises in the work itself, even if you could never get a grasp on the amount and timing of the work. And, perhaps most importantly, every two weeks a nice chunk of change got deposited in your account.
I guess what I'm saying is that Goldman was secure. I knew the ropes. I had paid my dues, and I was beginning to reap some rewards from those dues; I was more confident, more self-assured in what I was doing; I was secure in it all.
Granted that feeling of doubt I had that last week lasted only for a few seconds, but it characterized something about me: that I am a creature of comfort. New experiences scare me. And no matter how much I might dislike a certain pattern in my life, I like the fact that there is a pattern in the first place. Leaving Goldman was going to disrupt all of that.
As I "transitioned" from Goldman to Talbot, I was faced with something that I had never seen before. This was (and still is) hard. I take a while to adjust to new experiences. I can't hit the ground running. I take a while to hit my stride.
This is what has characterized my L.A.G. ("Life After Goldman"). I feel like I'm asked to compete in a race having just received a new pair of legs. Before I know it, I'm at the starting blocks. The announcer says "Get ready, get set," and the gun goes off, and I'm trying to get everything together, but these new legs don't work like my last ones, and I'm moving in fits and starts. Every once in a while, it looks like I might actually know what I'm doing, but before too long, I stumble again, fall down, scrape my knees, and have to get back up and try it again. Meanwhile, the other runners--the ones who have had their legs longer than I mine--are rapidly moving out of sight.
As I reflect upon where I ended 2006, I'm standing on that path, legs a bit cut up, palms red and a bit raw. I'm bent over with my hands on my unfamiliar knees, breathing deeply. I rub the right side of my face on my shoulder to get the sweat out of my eyes. I'm tired. I'm beat. I'm still unsure, and even as I stand there, my legs wobble.
But I take a deep breath, and, with a burst of determination, I stand erect, bend my elbows, and with my still untested left foot, push off...
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I began 2007 with a very "collegy" experience. I went to the Rose Bowl to see USC "rout" (I think that is the choice word of the various sports news columns I read after the game) Michigan. I was surrounded once again by all of my best college friends. By all appearances it was just like old times--the times reflected in those pictures I recently came across.
There were pictures taken this day, as well. With my newly acquired camera (thanks, Mom!), I wanted to make sure to get as many shots of this day as I could. So every time there was a "group" picture, or a chance to take a picture with a good friend, I did. As I got home and looked through the photos, I paid special attention to my eyes.
My eyes weren't shining in the pictures I took on New Years Day 2007.
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I enter 2007 ready to race. I'm going to fall down again, I know it. I'm going to get some more scrapes and bruises. And I'm going to get tired. After one of my falls, I'm sure that I'm going to look back at the start of the race and see my old legs. I'm going to remember how comfortable they were. I'm going to envy how easy they were. And I'm not going to remember how painful they, too, were when I first tried to use them, how hard it was to hit my stride going with them, and, even when I did hit my stride, how they still ached, and how longingly in those moments I looked back at my pair of legs before those (the college legs--now those were some good legs).
But I'm going to keep on running. And I'm going to keep on racing. Why? Because I know that in 2007 I'm going to hit my stride.
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There's no reason why my eyes shouldn't have shone brightly in those pictures. I was, once again, surrounded by all of my best friends. I was at a great event that was reminiscent of my college days. And I got to see USC rout (Did I use that word before? Because that's what they did) Michigan.
After some reflection, the reason why my eyes didn't shine in that picture is because I didn't let them shine.
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It doesn't matter how long we may have been stuck in a sense of our limitations. If we go into a darkened room and turn on the light, it doesn't matter if the room has been dark for a day, a week, or ten thousand years - we turn on the light and it is illuminated. Once we control our capacity for love and happiness, the light has been turned on. -- Sharon Salzburg
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"Shining," true happiness, is a choice. It is not caused by your external circumstances. You can be truly happy in the midst of painful experiences. And you can be miserable surrounded by love. It's all up to you.
I have been focused for too long on my circumstances. At Goldman, I looked at my hours, and my work and decided not to be happy about it. At Talbot, I have focused on how awkward my new legs are, and have chosen not to rejoice because of them. And on New Year's Day 2007, I focused on the fact that our gathering seemed to be merely a shadow of the past, and chose not to shine because of it.
I have missed two and a half years of opportunities to truly shine because I have been so focused on past experiences, past happiness, past moments that I can never regain, that I have forgotten about the present reality.
And every day in the present reality is a time for me to be thankful for what I have, for the light that has been turned on, and for the fact that I have been given an opportunity to even race in the first place.
You see, I finally realized today that whenever I have hit my stride in my life, it is not because I finally became familiar with my legs. Rather, it is because I stopped focusing on my legs entirely.
Whenever I have hit my stride in life, it is because I have focused on the race.
In 2007, I will focus on the race.
In 2007, I will shine.
Hello, 2007.
