When things come in a series

My life for the past year or so has felt defined by portions in the length of six weeks. Six weeks of healing after a surgery, six weeks to prep all the final details for a wedding, six weeks of grad school application deadlines, six weeks of grad school auditions. And so on and so forth (nearly everything these days is six weeks, it seems).

Every time I am at the beginning of another six-week cycle, my spirit is so afraid. I find myself caught up in the refrain of I’m tired and I can’t do it. And then, every time, I do it, whether tired or afraid or burnt out or anxious.

I just finished the aforementioned six weeks of graduate school auditions for an MFA in Dance. The experience tested me. Though I have outgrown (some of) the insecurity of my younger dancing days, the imposter syndrome that seems to grow synonymously alongside my artistic practice really loves to take hold.

Before one audition, I wept profusely. I turned to my wife and told her that I was unable to go on. She held my hands and patiently willed me strength, with so much tenderness that I only cried harder. Then, I went out and did it.

As a dancer, I think a lot about the human capacity. On tough days, my life can feel a bit like an equation. Did I eat enough peanut butter to make it through this dance class and then the class I am teaching later? How much water have I had today? On a scale of one to ten, how badly does my left rhomboid hurt?

Sometimes, I can become consumed by this sort of thinking (it’s the very kind that led me to really struggle with an eating disorder). In both a semi-facetious and also serious sort of way, I’m a bit haunted by the way my body can survive six weeks of very intense auditions but cannot survive eating a red onion (which leaves me bed-bound for days at this point).

Frankly, the human will to survive both disturbs and astonishes me. Don’t get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful that my body keeps going through all these six week cycles. I don’t want to give up.

I’m reading I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman for my book club, and the whole plot revolves around survival, sheer will, and counting. The nameless main character lives in a post-apocalyptic bunker with other women as they navigate a bleak existence.

The book blends elements of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road with a hint of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. I won’t spoil the plot, but it’s a testament to survival and to discovery. One of my favorite parts of the story is how the main character begins counting to develop a sense of time, and consequently, her own agency.

We are faced with many hard things right now. It feels euphemistic to even write “hard things,” which is a lukewarm offering to describe current events. I’m not sure I am able (or qualified) to make any sort of meaning out of human suffering and dissonance. I trudge onward, counting my steps, counting the series of six weeks.

If I can offer anything, it is the gift my wife gave me. If you need it, I will hold your hands, look you in the eyes, and tell you that you, too, can do it. Together, we can survive the next six weeks, and all those to come after.