The Rooster’s Call: A reflection on the future
chickens/fear
The morning after graduating from high school, I hope on an old road bike I bought for $60, biked to the grocery store and got a doughnut and a chocolate milk, then rode to a beach on Lake Michigan and watched the sunrise. Why? Because I had nothing else to do. And because I was going to college in the fall in Switzerland. And because the beach was there.
I spent my high school days on eight acres on land tucked into the northern Milwaukee suburbs. We had a large front lawn with two stumps that made mowing a little tricky. A small path went back to the barn and the coop. Mom had another path cut around the edge of the property so there would be a small walkway around the back from the barn to the backyard. An old, dead, magical tree was in the backyard. We took the pool out and put in a patio with outdoor furniture. Floor to ceiling windows in the living room looked out onto the patio and the backyard, the dead tree framed by the woods further back, the grass, and the stones. It was a nice house, my room was in the back, furthest from the kitchen, closest to the barn. In the mornings, I could hear the rooster calling, especially in the summers when I would sleep with the windows open and wake to sun heating the carpet and the rooster’s call.
That ride to the beach the morning after graduating marked a shift from that comfortable house, that certainty, towards the next steps. I didn’t know then that I would only stay in Switzerland for a single semester, then be back at that house in the same bedroom, working for a small accounting firm downtown. Or that I would move out to Colorado to finish college the next fall. Or that I would come to the end of my undergraduate career with the same feelings I had when I chugged the chocolate milk and stuffed my face with doughnut four years ago.
I felt happy watching the sun turn pink, belly full of sugar, wondering what my last summer in Wisconsin would hold. And I feel happy now, facing a move to Denver and struggling through my first year out of college. I do feel happy. Excited. A little afraid.
No one’s holding my hand now, telling me where and when and who to be. It all falls to me, all of the responsibilities, my future, it all comes around to what I do in the next few months. Truth be told, I broke my bike a while back, not the one I bought for $60 and rode to the beach, but a newer one, one that carried me up to Garden of the Gods my second day in Colorado. One took me over the rolling hills of northern Wisconsin the summer before I came here. One that took me around campus the last three years. But the frame cracked and I let the chain and derailleurs fall into disrepair. I can’t ride it anymore. And there aren’t any beaches around Colorado Springs.
I’ve been thinking about that morning recently, wondering how I came up with the idea to do that. It must have been some desire to be alone and outside, in my own space for a little while. And that feeling is coming back now. I’m wondering how I’m going to afford rent in September when I move to Denver without a promised job. I’m wondering how I’ll like Denver because I’ve said for years I didn’t think I would want to move there. I’m wondering if I’ll be ready to go to grad school next fall or if I’ll be happy doing whatever I’m doing when that time comes. I’m wondering if I’ll stay in contact with the friends I have and love in the Springs. I’m wondering if there will come a time in the next few years that I regret some of the decisions I made. I’m wondering if I’ll ever learn to be selfish enough to do what’s best for me without worrying about the people around me.
I still wake up to sun streaming through a window. This time, the window is next to my pillow and the sun hits my face instead of the carpet. I still keep the window open, and the sounds of people coming and going from the house next door greet me, too. I fill my days by thinking, reading, writing, hoping, dreaming, playing video games in the evenings, getting drinks at cafes, making coffee, making dinners, talking, listening, mountain biking and climbing. It’s a peaceful time now, similar to that beachy summer of four years ago. But it’s more reflective now, too, because of the years I’ve lived between.
I’d tell that short-haired, wide eyed, full of excitement high school graduate to go after things more, to put himself out there when he feels most like he wants to withdraw, to save more of the money he makes working for the accounting firm, to be honest with himself about what he wants, to ask for things instead of hoping they happen, to be willing to smoke that cigar in the Swiss alps leaning next to a pile of chopped wood, to live like he wants to live and not like he wants others to see him live. I’d tell that kid that he has happy years ahead of him.
Because he does.
I did.
I hope, four years from now, when summer comes around again, that I’m still sleeping with the windows open, letting the sun stream through in the mornings, listening for the sounds of the people I care about, listening for the rooster’s call, heading out to do something I love with my day, coming home with a smile because I know who and where and what I am. I hope in four years I can tell myself today that I have happy years ahead, and I had nothing to be scared of.
