Landslide

Every time that I listen to Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," I feel a little tug on my heart. The summer before I went to college, I remember looking at my older sister, and telling her this was my song to her. And every time I've heard it since, I think of Rhea.

Stability is not really something I'm used to. Every semester, I've been at college, I've lived an entirely different life. First semester, I was testing the waters. Second semester, I did everything. Last semester, I had a harsh reality check. And this semester? Well, I guess I'm still trying to figure that out.

I don't date much, and I don't really know if I'm even ready for any sort of real relationship. The idea of being with someone for more than a few months baffles me. Not because I think I'm incapable or because I don't want to, but because I've been measuring my life in four month periods.

Four months ago, I had a different roommate, and I was just meeting three of the people I now consider some of my best friends. I never would have woken up at six am to run 2.5 miles. I never would have stayed home on the weekend to catch up on homework. The slightest mention of a relationship would have probably made me laugh...and run.

Four months from now, I'm (hopefully) going to be in Spain. I definitely won't be living with the same people. Everyone I come into contact with will be a stranger. Every date will be a first one, and every experience will be untainted.

I can't really relate to people like my Delta Gamma big sister who has dated the same guy for five years, who still lives with her parents, and who has been in the same town for years. I can't really relate to people like my best friend from India who has known what she's wanted to do her whole life, whose cultural background has given her the support structure she's needed to create a life plan...and to stick to it.

Not that there is anything wrong with these lifestyles. I’m actually quite envious of these people who are fortunate to see people have these support systems and ideals for most of their life.

But me? Not so much.

I crave stability though every choice in my life contradicts this. Rhea has been my constant for the past 19 years. She has seen me grow up. She was there when I cried because she got to wear glasses and I didn’t (don’t worry, I now have four eyes of my own) , when I got hurt by the first guy I really cared about, when I found Christ and lost most of my friends, when I found out I couldn’t afford my dream school. Throughout every phase of my life, she was holding my hand...until I decided to let go.

I almost drowned once. It was the last “family” vacation before we moved to Alabama when my mother needed a distraction from spending the summer away from my daddy. To continue her childhood tradition, we rented a beach house in South Haven, Michigan. (For all my southern friends, yes, Lake Michigan is considered the beach). Mom was busy with Patrick, who was just a toddler, so being 16 Rhea was left to “look after” me. For some odd reason, my mom trusted us to spend a day by ourselves while she went to shop in Saugatuck. We swam past the sandbar and danced against the waves. We were singing Ice Cube's "You Can Do It", and let's just say that I put my back into it a bit too much. I don't really remember what happened after that, but I’ll never forget when I was my sister holding me and crying. I remember her saying, "Don't you realize you almost died?"

I ask myself these questions daily--"Mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?"

The funny thing is though, that every time I think I can't-- I do. I persevere.

I still go to the beach from time to time, and I pass the sandbars every time. And I'm still alive.

I've had many changes of scenery and I'm still here. As I fall more in love with who I am, I realize that maybe, just maybe, we are meant to be our own stability. And that as long as people love you, it doesn't matter if they've been in your life for just two hours, two months, or 20 years. As long as you have someone to drag you through the changing ocean tides, you'll be okay.

Maybe one day, I'll fall in love, have a stable career, get married, and possibly understand the concept of forever. Maybe, I'll even have kids and a bloodhound as sweet as Darby.

But right now? I think I’ll appreciate my nomadic life--four months at a time.