The lesson
I don't quite know how to start a blog post, given that this is my first one, but I'll get straight into it.
I want to start this post by discussing an object that stems from a practical joke in an ancient Greek tale: the Pythagorean cup—or bowl, as I first heard of it. Claimed to have been invented by Pythagoras of Samos to regulate Samos' workers' wine intake, the cup consists of a siphon system. If filled above a designated level, the wine would drain itself out of the cup and into the greedy drinker's lap; funny, isn't it?
You may ask yourself why I'm discussing mythology on a blog that has nothing to do with it— or maybe it does, and I just haven't told you.
(Spoiler: it doesn't.)
I bring you this fun fact to set the tone for this entry because, as of late, my life has felt like the wine has miraculously drained from my cup and onto my lap, leaving everlasting maroon stains on my outfit.
Is this an exaggerated example? Maybe.
But in my defense, it's not my fault that the wine kept being poured until it passed above the designated level; nobody told me what to do when you go from getting what you want to getting it all pulled from under you like a magician stripping the tablecloth from a full dinner table.
Okay, I may have exaggerated the feeling just a tiny bit.
(Can't a girl be dramatic?)
In all seriousness, life has felt like a game of Mario Bros, where if you can't pass a level, you can't move on. And you might read this and say, "Well, of course. That's life!"
But let me tell you, this has never happened to me before. There has always been a loophole, or at least, the universe has granted me ways to keep moving forward without meeting all the level requirements.This time, however, I couldn't move forward unless I master my current level, and when I try to skip, I hit a wall.
It is incredibly frustrating to keep moving, thinking you can climb the flag when you can't even get on the platform to jump onto it.
In late May, I had reached out to my tarot reader, seeking guidance regarding the uncertainty I felt about the path ahead. For the first time in a long time, I had no clear picture of my future; all I knew was that, yet again, things were changing —with or without me.
Amid an eight-minute-long voice recording whose snippets I'd hear in conversations with others, there were a couple of phrases that I wouldn't understand until I was ready to do so.
When I first started writing this entry, I was very angry.
I had so much anger in my mind, it clouded my vision, weighed my bones, and it grew more and more every day, to the point where it was almost resentful.
It got to a point where the anger was irrational; I knew I couldn't be angry at what I couldn't control, so my anger shifted towards anything and anyone it could — I was desperate to pin it on anything, or anyone else, like a giant sign on a stranger's back saying "KICK ME!" or a giant red button saying "DO NOT TOUCH," tempting whoever nears it to do the opposite of what it says.
This strategy only worked for the first couple of days.
I’d look for any astrological transit, minor inconvenience, or failure just to say: "You see! It's not me! It's because of..." And then I'd trail off, listing things that certainly contributed to my boiling point, but never the reason the stove was still on.
Like everything in life, I let it linger.
For weeks, I carried it around with me, during meetings, clandestine lunches, and on long walks around the city; it was the uninvited guest overstaying its welcome at my party.
But for a minute, it was the fuel that kept me going, too.
I didn't know my anger was the hand on my back pushing me while I rode through time passing, until I looked back, pedaling on my own, and finally noticing its absence once I was all the way down the hill — no brakes holding me back.
Even if it was more of a blindfold in my eyes and less of a guiding force, my anger towards my reality slowly helped me master those levels I had been stuck in for days, allowing me to move forward.
There's only so many times you can hit a wall head-on before you fall back on your ass, hitting the floor. Realistically, you can keep at it, like a raging bull when shown a red hanky. Still, there will come a time when your body will give up on you, forcing you to stop and take a minute before you start again.
My anger had taken me to that point, leaving me on the floor of my room, sitting cross-legged as I wrote in the mirror in front of me, looking for answers to the questions in my mind.
Although I didn't understand it at first, I am grateful I fell on my ass so many times this summer, shaking off the damage, and being forced to wait before I stood up again.
My tarot reader had told me that one of my biggest challenges was that I desperately climbed up a ladder, without even noticing the floors I had been climbing, or where I was even climbing to — the type of hunger for more that blinds you, the one that takes away the beauty of sitting down with a plate full of food and savoring it, forcing oneself to scarf down the contents of the plate without ever knowing what was truly in it.
If you think I'll disagree with her, you clearly haven't known me enough; she was right.
For the last couple of years, I feel like I've gotten on a train and haven't looked back, breezing through my accomplishments, setbacks, and everything in between, anything to get to the destination quicker, moving from one thing to the next.
And this lifestyle, moving from train to train, adapting and growing in between stops, saying goodbye at random stations, and never looking back at others, was something I had grown accustomed to over the years.
And don't get me wrong, I had found comfort in conducting the trains, never overstaying my welcome in any of my destinations, and making many friends along the way over the years. I'd take them with me on my journeys, meeting them halfway or having them with me on my phone, on pictures, long calls, and daily text conversations.
I'm still a conductor, but my train takes a different journey these days.
It's a slower one, through a beautiful meadow, one that forces me to slow down my pace and enjoy all I have around me in the different moments of my journey through life. This slower pace has led me to unknowingly become some type of master of the stations I stop at, like a librarian who knows all the shelves around them.
It was uncomfortable at first; I was very reluctant towards the other train passengers and the stations themselves, fighting the urge to go back to my train and move on to the next place on the itinerary.
Knowing I couldn't do this, I slowly integrated myself into these places, taking my time to understand not only the people but also their destinations. Slowly, I continued on my way, passing through other stations and finding myself enjoying my time there, picking up some passengers to take with me along my journey.
Before I knew it, I had slowly added more stations to my map, which was once a blank page, now had a route, even if I didn't know what the final destination would be. These train stations were now mastered levels, where I had grown to appreciate the lessons and tools I acquired along the way.
This change of pace, although forced, has been exactly what I needed to move forward — not only during my internship, but also through life outside of my summer project.
My blinding hunger was not the only thing I had been warned about in that eight-minute voice message.
I had been warned of a more dangerous thing: the everlasting need to win a competition that no one else was competing in, except myself. Initially, I had breezed through this portion of the message, not thinking it could relate to my reality. I, of course, was wrong, as one mostly is when considering you can beat the Astros. You may win the war, but you will never win against what is bigger than you; all that is meant for you will reach you, good or bad, deserved or not.
While breezing through my newfound route, I found myself being the only passenger in my train, which wasn't an odd occurrence these days. I looked out the window, only to find myself staring back amid dimmed streetlights getting smaller as I passed them. I sighed, looking away, only to find myself still staring back, a hint of a smile on my lips. For a minute, I swore I saw my reflection move, and I almost got up to chase it.
I blinked again, and suddenly my tired eyes were boring into mine.There was a time when I would have chased my reflection onto the next station, and the next, and the next...
These days, I find comfort in the way my reflection stares back at me, matching my pace. I find myself in no need to catch it off guard, nor to rush, so I cannot allow it to keep up with me. Instead, I find comfort in knowing that its presence is a constant, even if I am not all there.
Once I learned I was not my biggest competition, but my biggest ally and my only constant throughout all my travels; I have found these journeys to be satisfying, even if I don't always get what I want from them.
There is satisfaction in knowing I can always revisit the station, even if I have already moved on to the next. I'm not sure where I'll go next, nor whether I'll find what I'm looking for at the next station.
Even if I can't picture my final destination, I've discovered a newfound appreciation for the journey, growing fond not only of the visuals, but also of the different travelers I've met and all I've learned along the way.
Sources: https://www.ancient-origins.net/artifacts-ancient-technology/sipl-drip-morbid-motif-crafty-pythagoras-cup-0010112