Weakness and wings

I followed along behind her, my best friend as a child. My darker hair carefully secured in a ponytail, while her blonde locks swung freely behind bangs teased high and sprayed to maintain the pouf. We were walking through a small patch of trees on our way to find a suitable site for a fort. She always lead - the more adventurous counterpart to my cautious spirit.

“Look, P” She whispered.
“It’s a baby bird. It fell out of its nest.”

I remember frowning over it. My love of animals and tendency to nurture warred with my finicky nature as I watched bugs crawl through the tiny feathers. My friend was the one to pick up the tiny bird, so we took it to her house, placed it carefully in an aquarium with a light for warmth, and tried to feed it. It died, she told me 2 days later. We had a funeral service and buried it in the requisite shoebox.

The lesson, I thought, was to stay in the nest until you were sure you were ready to leave. If you tried to fly too early, you might fall, and even the best of intentions from 2 young girls, an aquarium and an eye-dropper full of food couldn’t help you. It was another sign to be cautious, to be sure, to be careful.

I remember being told that I could be whatever I wanted to be. I was a product of older parents, both being in their early 30’s when I was born and having deliberated on having children very carefully. They had saved money for me before I was ever conceived. When I was struggling with completing my PhD, I called a friend to tell her I couldn’t handle the situation. She asked if I’d ever been denied something that I really wanted, and I realized that I hadn’t. There had been disappointments and heartbreaks, absolutely. I’ve lost people I loved, not found the great love of my life, and have had some minor failures, but for the most part, I’ve been blessed with success. I carefully weigh risks before committing to something, so if I don’t feel confident, I opt out. I huddle deep in the safety of my nest - not leaning too far out, always fearful of toppling out and falling to the ground.

I may have some weakness of character from my background. School came easily, so I now expect most life events to fall into place. After talking to my friend, I realized that I was willing to fight for this degree, but also realized I viewed God as primarily benevolent. Though I’ve certainly made mistakes and haven’t lived a life completely pleasing to Him, I expect that He’s going to help me out when I need Him. And if, for some reason, I don’t receive what I feel is appropriate, there must be some reason. He must have something better in mind.

But I’ve made what I believe to be safe choices throughout my life. Instead of going away for undergrad, I took the scholarship and stayed near home. When my first selection of majors became too mind-numbingly difficult, I changed to something I could more easily master. And I dropped a class so I could graduate summa cum laude. I was honest about it – I remember the look on the professor’s face after he told me that I was capable of comprehending Electricity and Magnetism, but would probably end up with a C in the class.

Me: “I’ve never had a C.”
Prof: …
Me: “Ever.”
Prof: … It’s not always about grades. Sometimes it’s about the material, and things coming slowly. You’re not doing poorly. In fact, I don’t know that anyone in the class will get higher than a C. It’s just the way things are.”

But it’s not the way things are for me. I learned to live with a small population of Bs taking up residence on my transcript. But dropping below the highest honor level to take a single class in my final semester was something I couldn’t do. A stronger person could have – one who was more concerned with truly earning an honor, and who wanted complete understanding of the subject matter. I’m not always that person, and I think about that class when I see my diploma. So I don’t have it out. In fact, I’m not sure where it is. I don’t like to be reminded of failures, even when they’re masked by apparent success. It makes the nest less comfortable.

I took a summer research position that I referenced in my last post. I had actually accepted a different one - in New England - when I was offered another. Both were pretty competitive – small programs located at large universities. I knew that entering the first one, and having my initial experience at living far from home, going sailing on a daily basis to do oceanography experiments, biking to work through northeastern woods, would be amazing. But the adjustment scared me – I didn’t know what to expect, and had no contacts there – my support system was located securely in the middle of the country, not on the eastern edge. And I was 20, but, as mentioned, somewhat lacking in personal strength of any great magnitude. So I took the second offer, sending profuse regrets to the donor of the generous initial offer. I knew that performing research at the Big 10 school would likely land me there for a graduate program. I could easily drive home, I knew some people who lived in the city, and I had an excellent idea of what to expect. It was a different nest, but only required a short flight. A tiny hop, really.

I knew when I made my decision that it was a pivotal moment. If I had picked the other path, my life now could be incredibly different. I might be braver, stronger, more interesting. But I made the safe choice, got a publication, secured money for grad school, found my way around one more Midwestern town, then moved in a year later to start studying, exactly as planned. I picked a group, then projects, where I felt success was highly likely. I latched on to people who I thought were both brilliant and kind – who knew enough to help me with concepts that confused me, and who were willing to devote time and energy to enable my progress in research.

I presented a poster at my first big conference. It was the easiest, least stressful way to gain confidence and work my way into the field. Then I gave a talk at my second. I visited Hindu temples that morning, taking my shoes off and walking silently through gardens in Japan. Marvelling over the fact that I was on the other side of the Earth. That it was night at home, but there was daylight here. People walked their dogs, hung their laundry, worshipped, played - but all around us was a different language – people who looked and sounded so different than what I was used to. I arrived at the meeting to find men from my research group, and sat on the edge of the 2 rows we occupied near the front of the exhibition hall. I gave the talk with relative calm, but I read from my notes, too nervous to rely on memory, taking the easy way out even then.

But what I’m reflecting over this evening is that I took the easy job. I wanted the choice of offers to be simple, clear and easy. And it turned out to be. I knew people here, I could afford the house I so desperately wanted, the benefits were good, and the salary was generous. And the people – I work with an exceptionally kind, patient, bright group. They’ve allowed me to fumble through my first months, only offering help, never expressing disappointment that I may not be all my CV and interview lead them to believe. They’re throwing projects my way – allowing me to help with high-level research and asking my opinions, making me feel important and smart even though I know I have ever so much to learn. The problem, if you can call it that, is that I expected this. Interviewing here was comfortable, and I predicted the environment would be friendly and welcoming. I turned down jobs that may have stretched my talents more, made me work harder, learn faster, develop skills that weren’t so dependent on people around me. But my wings are weak, I’m afraid. And I don’t trust them to support me. So I hope that I flap them a little harder while I’m here. Maybe eventually I’ll jump, assuming that I can either fly or float safely to the ground. But in the meantime, I keep finding safe little nests, peeking out of them, leaning over the edge a little farther each time, and wondering what else is out there.