Lucky #43

A summer thunderstorm in March. Subtle lightning provides a brief moment of brightness in the 11:00 pm sky. Raindrops land on my forehead as I walk towards my bus stop, leftovers from work in one hand and the drink that I'd been struggling to finish for the past 7 hours in the other. My phone is on 3%. I try to memorize what route I'm taking, where to get on, and where to get off. Do I turn right or left to get to Erin's apartment? I slip my phone in my bag just to pick it up again a minute later. I couldn't remember the number 43, and I wanted to see how much time had passed. I worried it wouldn't show.

On the bus, I find my favorite spot — a seat along the wall across from the back door. I like that I can look out the window without turning my head, and I like even more that no one can sit behind me. Once again, I'm in the middle, presuming my birth order most naturally in the world.

I am mostly fond of the in-between. The walk to and from the function, the bus ride, sitting in the train station, waiting for your name to be called at the doctor's office. I'm very familiar with that pit that forms in your stomach while you anticipate something. It reminds me that new things are yet to come — good or bad. Our lives are defined by before and after, and yet somehow I'm always writhing in the middle. I'm trying to learn not to mind.

I feel like I've been working a lot recently, but also not at all. I feel like I'm not seeing my friends enough, not writing, not eating right. The paintings I started a year, 2 months, and 2 weeks ago stare at me from my bed. Those, along with the half-finished sweater that'll be ready when it's too hot out for alpaca wool, the book that was loaned to me on my nightstand that I haven't started, an almost-filled journal, an opened but still in its packaging Sonny Angel waiting for a permanent home, and a film camera with 21 out of 36 exposures completed.

In school, the idea that the process was much more valuable than the finished product was hammered into our collective psyche. I'd agree halfheartedly. Sometimes I'd spend 10 minutes on a project and be satisfied, sometimes 10 hours. I'd fill in the gaps in "proof of process" assignments by making small alterations to other ideas, like a different color palette or a slightly more expressive typeface. You'd turn in process after process until the project was finished, and the class would collectively “oo” and “ah” at all your hard work. The final project only receives that long-awaited professorial stamp of approval as long as your process reflects growth.

I want an "A" for all my middles. I want to believe that the things I start or will forever be working on are worth more than what they could be. I think the saying "starting is the hardest part" isn't quite true for me. It's finishing things. It's saying I'm happy with where this is and that I don't want it to change. A bus ride might be a middle, but there's an obvious start and stop — a known pick-up and drop-off. Finding a balance, or a comfortable in-between, to everything else in life feels nearly impossible. It's always too much or not enough. All or nothing. Black or white. It's a dead phone and the 43 bus.