Tales from Rural Maine: Success

On May 22nd, 1994, my Smith College classmates and I stood in the hot sun in our black robes and we graduated. Then our lives diverged. We forged ahead. We gained, we lost, we suffered, we prevailed, we learned, we grew. We got older.

On May 22nd, 2016, (barring unforeseen disasters) I will complete my training as a (potentially) state-certified interior firefighter. Nothing in the whole wide world could have seemed more improbable to me on May 22nd, 1994. Nothing. I know for certain that the young "me" who stood in the sun that day twenty-two years ago, never, ever dreamed of moving back to her tiny home town in Maine and becoming a volunteer firefighter (or a yoga teacher, for that matter). If time travel were possible, I would put on my turnout gear, hop in my DeLorean and step out under the Emerson Arch in front of her just to see her face.

I have imagined doing this--traveling back to see her. And at first, I thought she (the young me) would *never* believe it. She would never in a million years be able to comprehend that she could or would ever do such a thing. I imagined that she would look at this 43-year-old fire fighting-yoga teaching me and just feel bewildered and frightened.

But then...I remembered. That girl? That young woman? As frightened and alone and overwhelmed as she was? As certain as she was that her path lay somewhere along the lines of motherhood and writing or something academic...despite all that, what I see in my mind's eye when I imagine traveling back in time to show her this fire-fighting-yoga-me...? I see her taking it in, processing it, and then...I see her smile! I see a look of shock and then a radiant smile that spreads across her face, dawning, as she realizes the awesomeness of the potential inside her. That girl I was, she didn't really know how big she was *inside*--and I love to imagine that if I could go back and show her, that she would *believe* it. And she would smile.

That girl--that young woman--I was, she is 43 years old now. And a PTSD sufferer. I have a genetic disorder that leaves me bruised, exhausted, and heavy. It makes my joints ache terribly. The doctors told me it was untreatable and incurable. And yet here I am. I'm teaching yoga. And I'm training to be a firefighter alongside young men who could bench press me if they wanted to. Half of them are young enough to be my children. And I go toe-to-toe. I hold my own. (I cry sometimes when I'm stuck in confined spaces, but I hold my own!)

(I think I may qualify for a spot on Marissa Walsh's next panel on "Not Quite What I Was Expecting.") smile emoticon

We're talking a lot--our alumnae community--these days about the definition of success. I think that mine comes down to this: Success is, more than anything, about creativity. If you have created solutions, opportunities, healing, growth, art, relationships, families, solitude, peace, progress, forgiveness, gratitude, laughter, or conversations--if you have *created* something, anything that matters to you (or to others), then I think you have succeeded. And you are succeeding if you are seeking and savoring joy. And perhaps, more than anything, you have succeeded if the "you" that is living now would make the "you" from May 22, 1994 smile as she realizes how very, very powerful, how very, very *big* you really and truly are.

Namaste, my fellow Smithies! (And remember to check your smoke detectors.) 

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