I've been to two 50th High School Reunions in the past month: mine and John's, my boyfriend. Before each, I've looked at the annuals for our senior year. There were so many similarities in that any page of class pictures looked very much alike because we shared common hair and clothing styles in 1973. Like our classmates who attended, as well as those who weren't present, I imagine we've all been thinking back to those days when we were eighteen and so much of life was ahead.
The school mascot for my school and John's were/are the same-- the Yellow Jacket. While my school, Sanford Central H.S. was grades nine through twelve, his in Roanoke Rapids, N.C. was a Jr.-Sr. high with grades seven through twelve; my class had 364 graduates and his had 200.
On the Saturday night when we attended my reunion, I looked forward to seeing classmates, but most of the ones I hung out with didn't come. My focus was on introducing John to those who were there--- and that included my classmate who had been my husband for forty years. Navigating those interactions, the awkwardness of John's first meeting with my Ex, was the "highlight" of that evening.
At John's reunion last weekend, I could relax and be in a more comfortable role as a participant-observer. Most of his close friends attended and I had the fun of hearing them tell about their memories of high school. Overall, his class felt like a closer group, with attending a smaller school and having two extra years together. His stories came to life for me as he showed me around Roanoke Rapids-- the places where he rode his bike, huts where he attended Boy Scout meetings, fields where he played ball, his home and the houses of some of his friends including those who hosted some notorious parties. Hearing the train sound, crossing over the tracks in his hometown, I could imagine him walking those iron rails as a boy, that adventure that feels like taking a dare.
Over these weeks during this Reunion season, John and I talked about things we didn't do, weren't part of in high school. I've had those conversations with other classmates as well. There are regrets I have from not stepping up and giving things a try, not moving out of my comfort zone and trying something new. Back then, I was too shy and lacked the confidence to risk being awkward, to risk "messing up." At my reunion, I talked with a classmate, a guy that I don't remember knowing in high school. He had a tall, athletic build and I asked him about what he was involved in, thinking he may have been on one of the sports teams. I shouldn't have made that assumption; just because he had the build for athletics, and was a male, didn't mean that was how he wanted to spend his time.
"No, I didn't play any sports--- although I would have liked to," he responded, then explained. "I drove a school bus because my family needed the money."
We talked for a while and he told me he was now retired and able to enjoy life more; now he had the money he needed. It reminded me that in each person's history, there are circumstances that were at play that determined what opportunities they were able to take advantage of--- doors that were opened or closed. Some students had the support and security nets to take more risks in high school; others wouldn't have those things until later in life--- if at all.
For me, it wasn't until mid-life that I started taking risks, that I stepped beyond my anxiety of "messing up" and tried new things. When my aunt died in 1993, when I was thirty-eight, I was sad that she'd never shown us her art-- her paintings she'd done years before. I was determined I wouldn't "die with my art left inside me" and so I started taking writing classes and then joined a critique group. I was hesitant to say I was a writer--mostly feeling like an imposter during those early years of developing my craft. Things changed at forty-five when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. With no choice but to face the thing I feared, I had to step beyond myself. Those eight months of surgery, chemo, and radiation, and living through the humiliation of losing my hair, forged a woman with more bravery. After that, when there was something that caused me to be afraid, I would say to myself, "I've been through breast cancer. I'm not afraid of _______."
As those of you who've read my writings including my memoir, He Heard My Voice know, out of my cancer experience, I got into the practice of going on Solo Journeys. Each trip I took gave me more confidence and led to a more adventurous journey. Later, I started dancing and now feel more bold, not embarrassed to get out on the floor--which I would have been at earlier times in my life. I sometimes think of myself as a "Late Bloomer." I finally had what I needed to take risks in my life--- what I couldn't do in high school; maybe some of you feel the same way.
This summer I enjoyed watching the morning glory plants I grew from seeds finally come into bloom in August. There was a proliferation of purple-blue and pink that lasted for a few weeks, then they were completely gone. The foliage turned yellow and brown and the vines appeared to be dying. But in the past couple of weeks, the heart-shaped foliage has become a healthy green. Last week, I was surprised to find one large white bloom. It was a reminder that even at this late stage, there is still life in that plant, there are still blooms yet to unfold.
May it be so in our lives, that we still bloom-- no matter if it's late in the season. We may have bloomed early and are also getting a second bloom, or maybe, it's our first experience of blossoming. It's still part of the beauty of how life unfolds, of what we couldn't see ahead when we were just eighteen and so much of life was ahead of us.
Blessings on You,
Connie
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