Bush
I studied Literature & Creative Writing with a confident expectation that I would be poor to the point of homelessness after graduation. I was 100% at peace with that.
Weekly Three
HEAR: Check out this cool song I heard for the first time on the radio the other day. “Who Is He? (And What Is He to You?)” by Bill Withers.
READ: As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner, one of my favorite novels of all time. FNOAT?
VIEW: I was having fun earlier looking at different areas with this interactive topographical map.
No. 54: Bush
I pursued a degree in Literature and Creative Writing with the confident expectation that, after graduation, I would be poor to the point of homelessness. The plan was to muster up enough to book a flight to Hawaii and would live in a leafy bush on the North Shore of sunny Oahu. I was convinced it was impossible for a guy with a humanities degree to make decent money. It seemed that was the way it was supposed to be.
The administration wouldn’t have it. They assured our bookish bunch of Lit students that making (some) money was possible. Maybe so. Maybe some. But that’s not what mattered. A financially stable career right out of college, built on an education concerning itself entirely language? Couldn't be, unless you were a dead author or J.K. Rowling, and I didn't want to be either of those.
So I graduated and readied for the bush. But I prolonged my bushdome with a two-month trip to Europe, which I had been saving for working as a food runner at a fancy restaurant in downtown La Jolla. Europe was nice. It agreed with my art-centric studies. Sure I was dirty, poorly dressed, and surviving on a diet of bread, mortadella, and beer. But there, one-hundred yards away, drenched in moonlight, was the Roman colosseum. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Then things got plot twisted. I’m writing you from the comfort of a fifth-story apartment a.k.a not a bush.
Far from the amenities found in a bush, I live in a place with heat, running water, and glass-paned windows. I’ve got four bikes, a TV, a computer, a kitchen; a bookshelf, a dining room table, a writing desk (!). I have a two guitars and a ukelele. I had a piano. Turkish rugs line my hardwood floor. There are, like, six different kinds of watches on my dresser.
Most importantly, though, I live and share my space with someone I love. Could I court her from the recess of a hollow bush? I give shelter and food to my dog. He might be okay with #bushlife, but still.
It’s really nice, not living in a bush.
But college me was willing to accept the idea of living in a bush with the solemnity of a monk receiving the eucharist. Amen.
There seemed some big positives of bush living. Free rent. The great outdoors. The hunt (or scavenge) for food. Adventure. Freedom. How could it get better than that. Turns out, in a lot of ways.
But maybe that’s just what happens when your baseline is a bush. Technically, a cardboard box is an improvement. This is one reason I’m grateful for that earlier, bush-ready me. That guy was happy with what he had, even if it was the most commonplace and neglected type of foliage out there.
This guy is happy, too — surprised, yes, fully aware of the blessed life he lives.
I’ve heard the sentiment expressed: When you come from nothing, you’re not afraid of being knocked down again, because you’ve been there.
I say, untrue
Kind of.
First, I didn’t come from nothing. Second, that sentiment makes the sentiment-sayer sound like some kind of rich elitist, asshole. I am none of these (I hope), especially not rich. But, to the point: Since superseding life in a bush, I can’t say I’m unafraid a personal fallout so severe I'm forced to to shelter in a bush.
Perhaps what the sentiment does accurately express, though, is that people who live without the guarantee of an endowment or a roof over their head are excellent at adapting.
If personal fallout occurs and I end up in a bush, I won’t be happy, but I’ll be happy-er than I would have been if I came of age totally certain that my bank account would be ever flush, my career foretold, and my Egyptian cotton pillow cooler on the other side.
And, after the fallout, when my new, good-natured bush neighbor says, with a chuckle, “Bet you never thought you’d be living in a bush, huh?”
I can give the honest reply, “Actually . . .” ♦
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