The Room Where I Work

            I've spent nine months in the room where I work. In this time, my situation hasn't changed much. My early post-undergrad days, while stagnant, have been nonetheless rewarding, especially creatively. The room can be a prison or blank canvas. A retardant or stimulant. It stifles mobility but offers ample time for self-reflection.

There is a world map taped to the wall in the room where I work. It often taunts me as I sit there and read book after book about others who've had the courage to explore it beyond it's paper form. But, it also lets me fantasize about opportunity, as well as ponder success and failure come and gone.

I didn't always work in the room where I work. I remember staying up late with my dad as he used the family globe and a flashlight to teach me how the days and seasons pass. He would beam the light on the Pacific to show me that while it was bedtime for me, kids were just waking in Japan. It was comforting to know that the world continued to turn even as I slept.

I was in a Geography Bee at a school not far from the room where I work. In order to earn a spot on that stage, I had to defeat my classmates with my knowledge of the world. I can't put into words the pressure I felt when my teacher told me I needed to get the next question right to qualify.

She asked, “Where is Helsinki?”, which is a city very far from the room where I work. The moments of deep contemplation felt like hours under the scrutiny of my classmates. My adolescent brain somehow determined Helsinki sounded kind of European and even a little Nordic, so I thought Finland would be a decent guess. I can still feel the shock and elation that overtook me when she told me I was right.

Years later, I took a class in a room other than the room where I work. It was there I learned to read maps beyond their Geography. They started to scream “POSSIBILITY” and transcend the ridgedness and mindless memorization that I once took them for.

The professor of that class would frown upon the room where I work. He would remind me of the world I willingly isolate myself from. A world shaped by discovery's beauties and horrors alike.

Yes, he would remind me of the sights I can't see in the room where I work. Sights of mountains... those obstacles that slowed the campaigns of legendary generals and provided refuge and inspiration to daring thinkers of the past. Also, sights of oceans... those big blue masses that so many explorers wandered far and wide, trying to find glory in escape.

One day I'll leave the room where I work. Cities will become more than dots on a map or a chance to compete in the school-wide Geography Bee. They will no longer be Google searches or Wiki entries. No, they will become the centers of revolution and the birthplaces of ideas they truly are. They are the strongholds of collective hope.

There is in indeed a world beyond the room where I work...

                                                                                    … I just haven't seen it yet.