Alive

Do you ever take the time to really think about alive? Not life, but alive. I know I don't. I spend tons of time thinking about life--the things I did or am going to do and why am I wasting so much of it--but it's very seldom that I pause and reflect on the fact that I am alive.

I've been spending the last week and a half or so trying to sort though the boxes of stuff that I left behind when I left for Japan. It hasn't been going well. I'll unpack and consolidate and organize for an hour or two, find a few small things to throw away or take to the thrift store, then take a three-hour break to watch multiple episodes of The Office on Netflix. When I come back to the task later in the day, I feel completely overwhelmed: there's just so much stuff here! If I got by without it for two whole years, then I probably don't need it at all, right? But once I begin to take guilt and thrift and sentimental value into account, it seems impossible to part with a single middle-school diary or postcard sent from a foreign country.

This afternoon, between finding a place for my stationary collection and finally deciding to get rid of all my VHS tapes, I came across a manila envelope containing my important personal documents. Among them was my birth certificate. Meghan Elizabeth Janssen, born at 1444 on September 4, 1985 in San Diego, CA to Nancy Jo and Wesley Lawrence Janssen. Beyond the specific numbers and names, there's nothing in this set of facts to set me apart from every other person on the face of this planet. And yet, there it is: the public record that I am alive. Alive.

Suddenly, all my anxiety about the details of my life is put on hold. Alive. Whoa. That's cool.