I Want The Autotelic Life.
Prompt: Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
I stepped into the mildew speckled shower under the staircase with a clenched jaw. I glared at the hot and cold knobs high above my head and strained to reach them. Once I stood on the balls of my feet, I could just turn on the-shower-that-shouldn’t-have-been-a-shower. I peered around and saw the shampoo hidden in the shadows, beside peeling walls. I carefully avoided hitting my head on the slanted ceiling as I stooped to pick it up.
In that instant, I made my secret vow.
I pledged that my future would not consist of mildew covered showers.
Of course, there are worse things in the world than showers under the stairs. The source of the terror and revulsion I experienced when I made my vow had nothing to do with my physical comfort. It began months — maybe even years — before that pivotal night. I saw the plumbing of my house slowly break down as one shower stopped working after another. I felt nauseous at the sight of puddles forming on the carpet in my basement. Puddles do not belong inside. I was terrified because nothing was being done to fix the problem. The breakdown of the plumbing in my house disturbed me to the core of my being because it was the physical embodiment of complacency.
I tremble at the thought of an “ordinary” life — a house, in the the suburbs, with a white picket fence, a dog, 2.5 kids — because I know that there is probably some mildew growing, furtively at first, within that life. Mildew is able to grow with a quiet fervor around the edges of such a life because it so often lacks an intrinsic purpose for existing. The suburban house, and all the false perfection it so desperately tries to convey, exists to prove our own worth to our neighbors and to compel us to believe that we should be satisfied now. The ordinary life lulls people into believing that it is okay to stop moving forward, to stop growing.
Don’t misunderstand me — the last thing I want is a bigger house with a longer fence and two dogs. I do not want an upgraded version of the same story.
I want the autotelic life.
As the water crashed against me in that ill-placed shower, I decided that my life would not be ordinary. My life would have greater meaning than clawing for the approval of others or blankly going through the motions of meeting societal expectations. I would exist to do great work and to love life on Earth for its own sake. The phrase “my work” is a holy term for me because it represents who I am. When I write, lead others, improve systems, learn, sing — when I engage in anything that is inherently valuable — I invest my soul in what I am doing. I become my work. This is the life I will lead. This is the life I must lead.
I crept out from under the shower beneath the stairs and I marched on up to my room. I snatched the first pen I could find. Anything would do. I rummaged around in my desk for a notebook of some sort. Finding none, I grabbed a fistful of looseleaf and settled into bed. I leaned the crumpled paper against my worn copy of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s Flow.
I touched pen to paper and began.
I had work to do.
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