the panic of real life

Back in Chicago after four months, I am cognizant that my preoccupations are different now, after being away, re-evaluating my direction, working with awesome kids. This is all really good, of course, but caused me a bit of a panic yesterday.

Walking down Lincoln Avenue, past my old haunts - half-wanting to see a friendly face, half-praying that no one would recognize me - I had to catch my breath. I realized my forehead was furrowed beyond relaxation, and I was sweating in the perfectly pleasant autumn breeze.

I had a few metaphorical images flash before me - my subconscious's attempts to capture the feeling of starting this journey. The first one is of myself squeezing into a narrow channel or tube, shedding every excess that will not fit, adjusting, letting myself move through it with no sure sense of when it will end, but a hopeful certainty that I will land in some beautiful place, stretch out, and breathe - someday. The other image is perhaps partially stolen from some recently-seen film... I see myself standing on the corner of Lincoln and Lawrence, when the scene begins to spin around me, becomes a blur, turns a full 360-degrees, and stops in its original place again. I stop for a moment to let this happen with obvious fear on my face, then I straighten my posture, fix my gaze, and cross the street.

Last night I spoke with a friend who this week began her first year as a medical intern (after 3 years of medical school and rotations). She mentioned that we had some catching up to do, about the overwhelming reality of starting one's "real life". It's not just me.

There should be a word that means both exciting and scary. That's how real life feels. The sense that all of your questions - the main ones being "can this actually work?" and "what am I doing?" - could, conceivably, remain unanswered for twenty years or more.