“Go ahead and fail. You’ll be happy you did.”
The Admissions Officer actually said, “No, I can’t help you,” and as an extra precaution to have her bases covered she added, “Sorry.”
No problem. I’ve been told “No,” before Admissions Officer lady ma’am. Ain’t no thang.
Sometimes there are just roadblocks. Sometimes the answer is simply no and I won’t help you. Turns out registering to study is difficult if you’ve studied in the United States and you want to study in Durham College, Canada. But then what to expect from these countries? Sometimes just an uphill battle.
Look at me, whipping out the metaphors.
Sometimes the road names are off.
I woke up one September morning, had a grapefruit and sugar for breakfast, brewed coffee and treated myself to some creamer, because it was a Monday morning. “Anything to get through the first day of the week,” I think to myself. Watched some the Carol Burnett show bloopers on my iPad. It’s a sunny Monday, windy, but sunny.
Dressed in my Kacky’s and a black sweater. Black shoes, watch. Put on some cover-up, and some mascara. I’m breaking out these days, even though I’m in my early twenties, my skin thinks I’m still fifteen. I spray something in my short curly brown hair to make it look more presentable. Sigh. This is literally as good as it will ever get.
Finished drinking my coffee, gathered my bags and walked out the basement door. Mom, Papa and Kamren had been up at 5:00 am for an early appointment in Toronto. I was home alone and had to make certain the house was locked. My parents have a walk out and I walked out of it to get to the barn where the 2007 Honda Pilot is parked. Maroon coloured.
The barn was built in 1923. The roof burned down, I don’t remember when and I think it was my dad who built it back up again. I’m fuzzy sometimes when it comes to details. It’s the old style barn. The kind made with pinewood. Now they make them with metal and plastic. It has a cement and rock foundation. I looked in its windows and a pair of eyes were staring me down. My dad had a ramble of farm cats. All of them hated human-kind. I could be freaked out by their stares but for some reason they comfort me. I’m used to them.
I hopped in my parental units’ Honda to drive to Oshawa for work at The BookShop. “Another day, another dollar,” I say out loud. I turned on the radio and tuned into a popular station. FM 98.1 CHFI, Toronto’s favorite hits. It’s either that or 99.9 KISS FM, 95.9 COUNTRY or 102.1 ROCK. I’m sick of them all, but I can’t stand silence. The same songs come on about love, cheating, missing out on love, hatred and haters and blah blah blah. But I sing along.
Half way off the Island Road to Port Perry I thought to myself. “I should take a different way to work.” I nodded and said aloud, “Yes. Challenge my brain.”
I drive through Colombus, a small hamlet, where the population is less than 500 and continue along Simcoe Street. I turn left on Harmony, and pat my-self theoretically on the back. Good idea Tarea. You done good. So I drove happily, over hills, singing superficially to dumb love songs as I went and enjoyed the lovely liveliness of my spontaneity.
But then the traffic slowed as I neared the intersection from Harmony, onto a street, the name of which I forget, where I would connect to Ritson and get into Oshawa. I read a bright orange sign that read “ROAD CLOSED.” I blew a piece of my curly hair out of my face that I had let fall because I was being carefree. Well carefree no longer. I pulled a U-turn, which was illegal, because everything is illegal in Ontario, Canada, and drove back the exact way I came. I only wasted 8 minutes, I had timed it, but it was the idea that my light of creativity had been snuffed out. I’d tried something slightly new and there were quite literally roadblocks. I was venturing out there, saying “No” to the haters, not letting anything get me down, I was attempting to invent a new momentum in my dreary existence and there were quite literally ROADBLOCKS.
I pursed my lips, and began to pick at my eyebrow. It’s a nervous habit. I turned the radio off and cursed at the uselessness it was for me.
So. There you have it. Monday.
I recently read a blog post Failure Makes You a Winner, written by Christine Carter, Ph.D. regarding failure and happiness. Convenient placed in my path of life when failures are in abundance. In the post she quotes Joseph Campbell and his classic analysis of the “hero’s journey.” According to Campbell, the hero leaves home to face the unknown and this is when the “Dragons have now to be slain and surprising barriers passed-again, again and again. Meanwhile there will be a multitude of preliminary victories, unretainable ecstasies, and momentary glimpses of the wonderful land.” Amen, thank you Joseph Campbell. Your strength gives me strength.
We are heroes then. Us failed ones. We’ll fall down and get up and fall up and get down, but the point is that we’re still going to exist and persist. Carter states also in her blog that “grit” as she calls it, predicts better performance than IQ or innate talent and it’s born through experience. Humanity faces struggle, we’ll grow, morph into something else, but its a common ground. The outcome of your happiness and success will depend on your ability to grit your teeth and defeat your dragons so to speak.
A friend of mine always says that if you’ve met failure, then you’re on the right track and if there are roadblocks, you’re simply ahead of the times. “Be thankful for them,” he says, “make them a part of you, but don’t let them define you.”
Amen. Now if it were only easier said than done. Hahaha…hmmmm
Us happy people gotta stick together.
I depend heavily on my family and my friends whom I ask to send anything on happiness, or their motivation, how they find it all in the name of life and being able to live it. I am very grateful to them for their participation. If you’d like to do so please…drop me a line.~FindingFelicity
Please check out blood.ca to find a clinic and give.