Under the Raydar

I am really impressed with my friends. To be more specific, I would say that I am impressed with the grace with which they carry themselves through the sometimes ungraceful. It is a constant reminder of the power we have to choose: to choose to walk with your chin up high, to strap on a pair of heels, drink tea, drink expensive wine and make cheap macaroni and cheese, go for a drive with no real destination, decide to do something to make yourself happy.

Deciding: it is one of the most powerful weapons we have, against anything.

My friend was upset and when we asked what would make her feel better, and she responded with, "I don’t know. Wear dresses and talk about what makes us happy?"

So we did that.

Pretty soon we had mostly forgotten whatever it was that had drawn us together. Lately, this has been happening frequently — this sudden and powerful convergence of friends that has made me so glad to be together that we have left behind whatever had made us un-glad: I have ended up with my room crowded with friends, telling stories about early morning talks, crazy rafting adventures, Bristol Falls at nighttime; I have ended up having tea and conversation that made me forget all of the things I had left to do; I have had late-night laundry room rants in the middle of a party; I have had early morning drives and distracted rehearsals and stretched out meals that have reminded me how lucky we are to have friends who make us so happy.

Yet even more, one of the biggest things we have realized in these conversations, and grown into realizing again and again in our time here is that given any situation, and given any sadness, much of what can make us happiest is the decision to be happy. Our own decision to be happy.

So, to my friends, I would like to say, I am glad that we can all decide: to make a waffle in the waffle iron, even if it means waiting in line; to toss aside your textbook to read something you will really enjoy — on your Kindles, from your bookshelves, from your magazine rack; to put on summer clothes to do homework, even in the middle of the winter; to run, even when your legs are exhausted; to sign up for a new workshop or class and learning to salsa, how to throw on the wheel, how to persistently knit — even with bumps; to flirt at the salad bar, even if you may only meet up at the fountain sodas later; to sketch in a sketch book or to write a poem, even though you haven’t done it in years; to wake each other up to go to the gym, even if you are running on four hours of sleep; to wear your prettiest underwear, even with sweatpants on; to choose to walk out the door if it means being able to walk into any new one, to climb through any window, later; to decide to take a risk on the slopes, in the class, in Proctor when you come across those strange-smelling potatoes; to start over, to do laundry and rearrange the room, to decide to laugh like you really mean it.

To my friends, I would like to say — as any friend might — I am glad we have decided that we are worth something to each other. I am glad that we are here to remind each other that we are graceful, that ungracefulness makes us walk taller, and that there are too many things to laugh about for it to matter if we look graceful doing it, anyway.