this story was originally supposed to run in a now defunct publication. the question is from a teenager in brooklyn.
how?
—dazed and confused
dear dazed and confused,
imagine entering the world as a sort of homecoming. but the flooring is cracked, the walls peeling, furniture destroyed, garage door broken, and the faucet has been left on and all the rooms are flooded. and you think, “this isn’t what i imagined.” but you know what must be done because this is your home. someone must live here. when we inherit a bad house, as we have, we must make the choice to step through the door nonetheless, if only to see what’s left under the rubble.
and so you look around and you ask, not how, but what. what would make this room inhabitable? what table will you build so that your neighbors will sit together and share a meal knee-to-knee? what wood will you use and how many will it seat? what will you put on the walls so when visitors come, they pause and take a minute out of their very busy, very important days to stare in wonder? what will you grow in the garden for the birds and squirrels? which way will the bedroom window face so when you wake up, you see the sun, which has continued to rise despite all the nights you thought the world has ended?
when i was 16 and on my own, i spent a month sleeping on a stranger’s couch. even when all else fell apart, there was someone who said, “here. i kept this old thing around just in case.” for every injustice and horror in history, there has always been at least one person who stood up and said, “no. i cannot accept this.” the world has come back from apocalypse again and again—not by politicians, ceos, or rocket scientists, but by individuals with hands to craft and an imagination of what the house could look like.
i know we are prone to thinking we are losing the war, that humanity is doomed, but when i was 16 and dazed and confused, i often imagined a pair of hands holding me and saying, “no. you are not lost. you are right here.” so start here. with the mess.
you asked ‘how’, but i’m answering why:
because you will travel somewhere so beautiful that no photograph can do it justice.
because you will read a poem so simple and true that you’ll recite it to everyone you meet.
because you will be served a dish so good that your mouth will water everytime you think of it.
and because you will someday meet a stranger who will light a fire in you that cannot be put out and you will think, “oh my god. i’ve been missing you my whole life.” but also, because, sometimes the hands that you hope will come to save you will be your own.
but if you are still wondering how, here are three rules that i live by that have yet to fail me:
act from and with care. know where your heart is and you will never be truly lost.
never ask for permission to move in the direction of what you know is to be true and just.
the stories we tell ourselves come with an ending. don’t let yours be a tragedy.
i see what you see. this house is broken, it’s true. but we can start by just sweeping up the glass. everything else will come after. i’ll bring the broom.
This was lovely to read. I'm always drawn to the rules for living that others establish for themselves, and the three you close with (especially "The stories we tell ourselves come with an ending. Don’t let yours be a tragedy") are especially powerful.
I thought this was beautiful the first time I read it. It’s more beautiful the second time.