At first glance, graduating from University seems not any different than the previous 17 or so summer vacations I've lived through. Maybe because it's summertime in St. Paul, or maybe it's the immediacy of it all. Either way, there is a major difference that sometimes is difficult to comprehend. Whether I believe it or not, I don't have to go back to school in the fall. I don't ever have to go back.
But if I wanted to, I could.
If I wanted to go back to my alma matter in August to pursue a master's degree, I could. If I wanted to move to Cincinnati, I could. Now more than ever, life is filled with boundless opportunities. And that's what separates this summer from any other summer: the rediscovery of freedom. I was always free, what with free will and everything; I could have dropped out of school and disappeared at a moment's notice. In my case, however, that would not have felt like the right thing to do. Of course freedom includes the ability to choose whatever one wants, but it also implies that the chooser will choose what at the time feels like the right decision. And in my current position, I've never had so much opportunity for potentially right decisions.
This realization struck on May 14th while I was driving on I-29 between Grand Forks and Fargo. For the first half hour, I had only two things on my mind: Mac DeMarco (Ya, I got a CD player) and getting to St. Paul as efficiently as possible. Then suddenly, for the first time out of all the times I've ever driven that route, I asked myself why.
I glanced at my gas tank. Over 3/4 tank. I glanced at the passenger seat. A small box, with over $1000 inside. Cash. In the rearview mirror I noticed a portion of my possessions, knowing that most of the rest was in the trunk. The road signs said 45 miles to Fargo, but I knew better than that. In 6.5 hours, I'm in Omaha. Without even making a single turn. Another 3 hours and I'm in Kansas City. Wouldn't it be lovely to explore Kansas City? I've always wanted to visit Kansas City. And even then, if I kept going, if for some reason KC had nothing for me, I'm already halfway to the Gulf of Mexico. By the same time the next day, May 15th, I'm on the beach. Looking out at the ocean and beyond...
We all know that I did none of those things. In Fargo, I took the eastbound I-94 exit to Minneapolis. Just like all the other times. But the question is, why didn't I keep going? What stopped me?
The answer is simple, and it has to do with love and magnets. Specifically, the magnetism of love. As a fourth generation resident of St. Paul, most of my friends and nearly all of my family live right in the city. It's where I grew up, and along with Minneapolis, is home to many, many places, some as tiny as a room, some as vast as a river, that I've grown to love. It's not easy being alone in this world. But when I'm in St. Paul, as blasé as it sometimes gets, loneliness may as well be a theoretical experience. In St. Paul, often I feel as if there's no where else I'd rather be.
And so, just like a magnet, we're drawn to the people and places we love. Without love's magnetism, it's hard to imagine the existence of cities at all. Without love's magnetism, humans are castaways amid oceans of land, drifting between settings and existences the way fish drift the sea.
In another reality, I never took that turn in Fargo. I kept going. I landed at the Gulf of Mexico, and who knows? Maybe I did find something greater there. Maybe my treasure is waiting for me at the Louisiana coast. Maybe a love more profound than any Minnesota product is right there, sitting next to the crashing waves of the sea.
But that's neither here nor there. Even if I jumped back in my car to find out, the magnets always find a way to pull me back.
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