And so the summer sun has set. This isn't official for a few days but the weather demanded otherwise last Saturday and has proudly, albeit suddenly arrived ahead of schedule. My summer of 2016 was very interesting. And quiet. Perhaps this is why I found it interesting, as my life is usually noisy with activity. I spent more time alone this summer than any other extended period of time I can recall. I say that with neutrality, as I easily appreciate the timeless hours of sunlit veranda meditations, solo bike rides through our beautiful countryside, and the occasional party-of-one night on the town as a weary observer of often curious, sometimes regretful, always entertaining human behavior. All that said, I certainly did have my social moments, including a week with my niece visiting from South Dakota, some social wine nights on the veranda, a couple camping excursions with friends, and the rare 2AM when-we-were-twenty-something throwback bonanza with old friends. Still, it was a quiet summer. I think some of this is due to my cohort getting older, having partners and/or families, having (real) obligations, and simply having less energy (I somehow still summon the whimsy of my twenties). Also, I'm simply less social these days. This isn't by design but rather by resign. Something has surrendered inside of me -- a fire, a charm, a wit, a reason, a purpose, a care -- that has left me more resigned to stop becoming and just be. There were nights were I'd just sit in my chair with my candles, my glass of wine, and stare -- no music, no guitar, no HBO, no reading, no texting -- just staring through the glass trying to decide whether I'm the creature looking out of they're the creatures looking in. I didn't blink. For once.
I found out nearly six months ago my current research job would end in September. It's now September. Having now surrendered my fire, I absorbed this information as though I was diagnosed with a terminal disease. I went about my days with my primary intent to be only among the things that make me happy. I made little compromise for others, but to be honest there wasn't really anyone else to make any compromise for. I didn't seek any one thing or any one person. I acted mostly out of selfish instinct to pursue my happiness as though it may be the last time I would pursue it. Perhaps this is also a reason for my quiet summer. I just wanted to be at peace -- to listen more than talk; to go to a show rather than be in one; to be invisible among the company of my passions.
I knew that this latest blow from science would likely be the one to knock me out of research forever. Evidently even passions receive terminal diagnoses. Those that know me are familiar with the struggles I've endured to keep this fire alive -- my fire for discovery and knowledge may actually have suffocated to a muted smolder. My existence in the institutional power chamber -- the machine -- that is Academia is anathema to my passions' identity. Academia has been poisoned by years of poor public relations (and therefore poor funding), hostile takeovers by institutions that now market diseases as revenue sources, consolidation of laboratories into legacy teams that bully the underdogs, and -- most importantly -- rejection of creativity as a risk not worth taking. Science has lost its soul. But that's for another blog post (likely coming soon).
In the mean time I embraced my passions this summer in the most introverted, resigned way. I stopped trying to manifest them through and for others; rather, I embraced their unadulterated essence as much as possible because I wasn't sharing them with others. I rode my bike more this summer than in any previous. I drank the best wine I've ever consumed, often atop my apartment perch thinking about nothing but the hungry bat about to emerge and announce dusk's arrival. I played music for no one (literally -- I played part of a show to a completely empty and cavernous venue, which was actually pretty hauntingly special). I went to a neuroscience retreat on Mt. Hood and, naturally, brought along a bottle of colloidal, cellar-funked Mortier Cabernet Franc for myself in the star-studded outdoor hot tub. I twice escaped the heat and drove into the desert (I love the irony here) to discover hidden swimming holes in Mosier and Hood River. I went out often to places old and new (including a random concert in Lake Oswego of all places) just to see what different lives and stories would simultaneously intersect. And yes, I often went absolutely nowhere. I would sit. And stare. And exist in a moment that I knew may not last long, nor ever happen again. Like my life as a scientist.
The summer wasn't all lonely and quiet. The time with my ten-year-old niece was as precious of an experience as I may ever have, especially if I don't end up having a child of my own someday. And I saw one friend of mine more than I have in past years, which means a lot to me given his more paternal role in my life. We had some great rides together, I surprised him in Manzanita on his birthday at a Led Zeppelin tribute band show, and we had a couple great days in Eugene for the season opener Ducks football game. I also had a great two-day camp in Washington with a good friend and his wife. And I even (finally) went on a "date" with a female member of the human race -- the first such activity in nearly a year and a half. I was reluctant but eventually yielded to what seemed to be forceful coercion from friends. We had a drink, some ice cream, and then she got on a bus...[shrug] I'm not sure I understand or even desire dating. Or I'm still just not ready for it (which is ridiculous - there's plenty of previous posts below filling in that story). But I did it! I went on a date -- the first one in a year and a half...the first one since I was 34 years old (ouch). And I did do among my summer of introversion no less.
But now the summer of 2016 has ended. As they all do. I feel refreshed, leveled, upright, satiated, and...bored, which I equate to a form of death. But perhaps autumn will bring a clamorous response: a cold, wet, windy, numbing moment of death and rebirth. I have a few really good bottles of wine left, a handful of candles, and just enough money for October's rent, after which I'll be ready to pass on to whatever lies ahead. Ironically, the approaching death will be the best taste of life I've had in a while.
