Latter half of my summer while my cousins were here-being a tourist and bonding over girly things, volunteering, and of course one shot hidden in there of my drink in a cafe writing my desperate second to last essay. Two months without camping=two months with the family.
I’m a year older and it’s weird. I look at snowboarding in a different way. I see it as teenage rebellion rather than rebellious but fun that was just for me. It’s no longer innocent but informed; everything is. I see how awkwardly I toed the line between not caring and not knowing when it came to presentation. I cared so much about clothes but at the same time I differed from others in that I didn’t really reap the benefits of doing so, and was never entirely in touch. I was still inside my own head, and most of the clothes that would have fit me into a box stayed in my closet, because I felt like my inner expression was somehow visible externally already. Alas, I was as poorly dressed as a teenager as I was as a kid.
The way I look back at the things I wrote and how they are so different for me now. I always knew that focussing on internal problems and writing about them was the premature version of great writing. Great writing is able to project itself on external issues but I could never see what the external subjects were last year. Even now, they are illformed shadows emerging from a bluish haze-this is the world, and this is the world you’ve been reading about. Finally, the odd subject choices of books make sense. We don’t just reflect our inner selves with our writing but the outer one. And our reflections of the outer world are never fully without inklings of our inner selves.
You know what? I laugh though. It seems like I had a good time. That angst from not knowing what to do and finding strength through rebellion may have been wayward, but it led to the right place. I wouldn’t have been able to go forward in writing or academics without snowboarding, as weird as that sounds, because snowboarding forced me to be more social. And as for writing, I’ll always enjoy the childish fun of it, and it will always lead me astray.
And as for snowboarding, I think it’s quite a good trade to stop snowboarding as a teenager…and snowboard as an adult.
(Admittedly the adult in me thinks hiking is boring and the teenage me is more excited in it. But the adult me will try to be patient and not think about how life is too short to be doing slow paced things.)
If all things go well too (we’re lacking drivers at the moment) I may be able to have a one year anniversary backpacking trip to Joffre Lakes. The girl there was the first person I connected to as my new autonomous self. I remember feeling so alienated from myself. I was depressed at not knowing how to act (like an angsty teenager) but a year later, I know not to be afraid of muddy steep inclines, coldness, or strangers.
I also never thought I’d keep writing journals as an adult, since it seemed like I had nothing to write about until university, but here I am. Like an introvert who needs to recharge, I can go ages without writing but more often than not I have to write a journal. There are always lots of things to dissect and record and retell and immortalize.