Lately, my days have looked like this: I am pulled harshly from my sleep by my blaring alarm and I bumble around the house for an hour preparing myself for classes. It seems no matter how early I wake up, I always end up frazzled before I step out the door. Is my ID in my bag? Am I wearing the right kind of shoes? Have I forgotten something?
When I get to campus, my day is a flurry of action. I have barely recovered from one class before I am pushed—head-first—into the next one, and I count each minute on my watch until my last class ends. I slump out, textbooks in hand, and I am left reeling, hungry, and with a thousand more things on my mind than when I woke up.
Time will most certainly teach me the intricacies of getting through a day in university. I am, after all, only in the first semester of my first year. Still, only four months of university life and I feel bone-tired, the exhaustion seeming to seep into my being. I sleep but I am not rested, I pause but my mind is in motion.
Recently, as part of the First Year Experience program, I went on a trip to “Heenat Salma Farm.” I spent an afternoon out in nature, doing various activities that grounded me. Surrounded by good company and the outdoors, I experienced, for the first time in a while, tranquillity.
I still remember how I felt after the harvesting activity, the sun setting and warming my back. A bag in one hand filled with radishes and zucchini, and in the other a gift of green leafy vegetables from my friends, I stood on the gravel path. I dug my feet into it, hearing the crunch and feeling myself sink into the earth. Rooted, I let everything wash over me. A quiet kind of happiness engulfed me. It was deep and tender. I felt like the setting sun was inside me, lighting my nerves and making me feel alive. I felt fulfilled and happy, my mind finally quieted by the calm of nature.
I have a confession, though: I had two essays due that night. However, instead of letting myself worry about it then, as I instinctively felt inclined to do, I just let myself be. I did not let myself worry about them then. I only thought about the quiet, easy way the wind moved around me and how good it felt to be fully present in the moment. It felt like a revelation, a wonderful impossibility. It was so different from my afternoons in the library or hours sitting in classes. It was relaxing, divine–it left me with a kind of happiness that didn’t leave me grinning or doubling over in laughter but floating, simultaneously tethered and untethered to the world.
This serene moment is part of my personal philosophy: the best response to life’s demands is to pause.
In "Invitation" by Mary Oliver, she wrote, “It is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world.” In my urge to take university seriously, I had forgotten how to exist as I am in each moment. Every minute for the past few months seems to have been spent stressing over the next deadline, so I was always in my mind and not living in the moment.
As we reach the end of the fall semester, I invite you to take a pause, wherever and whenever you can, in whatever capacity you are capable. You must grant yourself the kindness and grace to live your life actively, and to be present in each moment. This is the care you must show yourself. You are, after all, only capable of working as well as you take care of yourself. Our best revolt against the systems that chain us to work endlessly is to pause and live for the sake of living. Not to grind out hours or for some goal, but to exist and just be.
Take a breath in. Exhale deeply.
Do it until you feel that quiet, steady beating in your chest.
Let it be the melody that guides you through your days, reminding you that you are alive—that you must live.
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