A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at my violin teacher's apartment, laying stomach-down on her black, wool carpet – like I always do. My instrument was left off to the side for the first 45 of the 60-minute lesson – like it normally is (Elizabeth, my mom, and I like to chat a lot).
Usually, it's because the carpet is comfortable or because there's a lot to discuss or because Mom has questions for her, but this time, it's because I was stressed.
AP exams were coming up, and I kept complaining about how "cooked" I was. The realization of the impending 12th grade and the pressure to finish the year off strong was also boiling and melting my brain.
It wasn't a great day, nor was it a great week despite it being spring break. For the most part, I stayed inside studying – bleeding my eyes through Quizlets, my hands feeling like a shot of lidocaine with every practice test completed.
It was hard to appreciate many things – the warmer weather, the freedom, the flowers that I kept mistaking for cherry blossoms. Even time spent relaxing or walking with my dogs admiring these said flowers felt like time wasted in lieu of work.
Funny how, for the past month, I'd been telling my friends "You can't take this for granted" when taking pictures of pretty flowers. "They bloom now and will soon vanish."
But then, once I grew stressed, I couldn't care less.
***
I was in Evanston, Illinois this past weekend with the Mias (Mia Oehm and Mia Robarts) to celebrate my brother Andre's 19th birthday.
The weather was refreshing. Almost no clouds, a picturesque baby-blue sky, a comfortable 70-80 degrees. Colonial-styled homes basked in the sunshine. Cafes and charming boutiques buzzed with life. The sounds of the Lake Michigan waves gently splashing against the sand mingled with the occasional seagull's cry. I made sure to point this out to Andre, the Mias, and the moms supervising us.
"It's a great day!" I borderline yelled, noise-canceling headphones in both my ears. "You can't take moments like this for granted." They looked at me weirdly.
I said the same thing hours later at 6:00 PM, attempting to persuade the Mias to walk with me to Andre's dorm earlier than he'd asked us to. We ended up leaving 30 minutes later. Robarts was still groggy and Oehm had an essay to write.
Although I had the same weight of work as any other weekend (probably even more), this one felt "lighter". Although Mondays came just as soon as they normally did, this one felt farther away.
Most importantly, I appreciated everything. The warmer weather, the freedom, the flowers sprinkled around campus, the beef noodle soup, Andre's beautiful trio at the Pick-Staiger concert hall, the post-birthday-celebration karaoke, the conversations about Austrian and Japanese toilets.
Perhaps everything is beautiful, but only at the right time. Traffic can be annoying when running late but calming on a leisurely drive. Rain can ruin afternoon plans but may sound soothing at night. Snowstorms can be dangerous during a commute but peaceful and pretty when you're inside toasting toes and marshmallows. The school bell pierces through your ears at 8 AM but sings seven hours later.
How do we make sure the time is always right? Perhaps we can't, but maybe it's about learning to live like it is, even when it isn't.
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