"So, what's next?"
It's a common question for twenty-somethings. One you were probably asked about a hundred times over break by well meaning friends and family. "What are you doing this summer? What's your plan for after graduation? What is next?"
We are achingly familiar with these questions and how to answer them. We answer by explaining how we are moving toward a lifestyle that we're unquestionably expected to desire: stable job, lots of money, spouse and kids, white picket fence. These conversations feel more like progress reports than meaningful exchange.
Every interaction has a certain socially prescribed script and I don't hold bitterness for those who ask about my future. However, I do think it's important to ponder why these "scripts" exist and examine their effects on us.
I am expected to be in active pursuit of success and something that has to do with the firmness of one's handshake. I’ve slowly learned the language I must eloquently speak in order to be valued in my culture. “Graduation, internship, goal, five-year plan” are all included in the approved, future-oriented syntax. But I’ve been trained to forego vulnerability, passion and whimsicality. I say network where I once said fellowship, brand instead of personality, journey in lieu of adventure. I am taught to encounter experiences, situations, people, and even myself as commodities with which to gain footing, and ultimately achieve a goal that I had no voice in defining.
Those not pursuing quantitative achievements are perceived as ignorant, purposeless, and lazy. Words associated with confusion and stillness are colored with shame; ponderers and wanderers equally marginalized for their "unproductive, aimless" behavior.
Even those living "purposed" lives are uncomfortable with inevitable stagnations. Texting at stoplights, checking email while walking to class; we fill still spaces with digital activity. After all, Facebook twiddling and LinkedIn editing must be better than doing nothing. We orient every moment towards production and progression as is expected of us. It is from this place that the question "what's next?" is posed. Intended or not, it changes the very grammar of conversation. We emphasis verbs, reference accomplishments and avoid mentioning irrelevant information such as emotions, thoughts, and hopes.
God forbid we sit still, share authentically, walk with our eyes to the sky, take time to practice peace or, worse still, speak about such things with affection or desire.
Last year I spent a semester abroad in Tanzania, a small country on the coast of East Africa.There I found a languid life, the hours between sun up and sun down almost completely void of structure. Classes ran from nine to noon every morning. The rest of the day was free, which felt especially unnatural to us because of our rural location and lack of transportation or wifi. Facing these empty hours was overwhelming at first. I felt pressure to work ahead on homework (to feel that I'd achieved something) or talk to someone even if I didn't want to (in order to "improve my people skills"). For the first couple weeks I spent much of my time feeling guilty because, after all, I should be doing something productive, shouldn't I? And sitting around enjoying the weather certainly didn't count.
I adapted slowly to the peaceful pace of Tanzania and eventually found in those "empty" moments the space to stretch sore limbs and simply exist. I hiked a mountain to watch morning mist wake the world up. I observed a sunbird flit from branch to branch and memorized its song. I spent long evenings forming friendships with people who's networks were useless to me. I filled secret journals with poetry and sang to the river rushing past, unchanged and unconcerned by my woes, submissive in its listening. I laid on sunned rocks and let heat seep through my skin, steeping me in sunbeams and constancy. I stargazed, pointing at constellations I could not remember the names of. I learned village languages so specific to their region, I'd certainly never encounter them elsewhere.
It is in these moments that being alive feels like worship, breathing feels like contribution, recognizing the weight of your own body, realizing the absolute rarity of your own mind and the irreplaceable nowness of this moment, that one finds fulfillment.
My time was unmeasured. My love was unrestricted. I was not strategic. I was not selective. I just existed.
At dinner, we swapped stories and reflected on our day. I was not asked, even subconsciously, to verify movement or evidence progression. We did not ask "what's next", but rather "what's now".
When I got back to the States people wanted to know about my trip. They asked me what I did, how it was, where I would travel to next. I had no vocabulary with which to respond. My answers had little to do with what I did/would do, but rather who I became.
Responsibility and ambition are not bad things. Nor are money or stability or success or families. But it is important to acknowledge that when we place ultimate priority on pursuing success we risk lose something inherent, something life giving, something human. Luckily, you don't have to quit your life and move Africa to recover it.
Maybe at lunch today, instead of asking a friend what they're doing this summer you could ask them to share with you something that made them happy today. Rather than go to dinner with your boss, serve a meal at a homeless shelter. Instead of working on next week's paper, write yourself a love letter.
I wonder what our society would be like if we asked less questions about what is/will be done and more about who we are and can become. What would it be like, America, to leave a culture of "What's next?" and become a people of "What's now?"
