Grace Hagenson
J. Robinson
AP American Literature
22 October 2007
Modest Means of Fulfillment
I live in a two-story house in an almost quixotic location on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The six room house is almost vacant, being that only my mother, stepfather, and I inhabit it. We have a less than extravagant porch with rocking chairs and a placid view of the Atlantic Ocean. On certain days, such as today, when I am working on a more leisurely school assignment, the only presence I prefer is the whooshing and whistling sprays and crashes of the ocean, along with the steady symphony of a chorus of crickets.
The crickets surround me and provide an eerie sort of company, but a comfort nonetheless. I can not see them, yet I know they are there. I wonder if the crickets can distinguish each others chirps, or if one chirp is engulfed by the vast orchestra of the others. My limited knowledge of biology tells me that one sex, either female or male, calls to the other in search of a mate, and also that the only purpose of an insect’s life is to procreate. The cries from the chaotic foliage of my backyard resound monotonously in search of their life’s only mission, for what else is there to do in a life but to strive to fulfill a mission? I admire the little green bodies for staying so steadfast to their mission. However short these little creature’s lives may be, they imbibe themselves entirely with the only thing they know how to do. I turn my attention from the soft chirps of the crickets and drink in the serenity of the ocean.
It must be something in the magnitude of the ocean that makes me feel so small, yet my life so significant. Gazing out into the enormity of the ocean, and on to where the emerald greens hold hands with the horizon, I feel as if anything can happen. The tides come in. The tides go out. There is an endless cycle of repetition, yet every tide is also different. With every tide comes a new grain of sand. With every tide comes a new deceased animal or plant. Every tide represents an endless number of possibilities, any of which I wish I could foresee, but know that such a plea is impossible. The pinks and purples of dusk saunter on the horizon and whisper secrets into the infinite knowledge of the Atlantic like a small child whispering already-presumed facts into a mother‘s ear. Oh, how I long to quench my thirst with the secrets of the vast body of water before me.
The soft noises of dusk soon become the creepy noises of night, and at this time I feel it necessary to retire to the safety of an illuminated house. As I lay in bed, I am uneasy about what decisions I will make about my life and profession that will ultimately become my identity. I know not whether I want to become a doctor, a lawyer, an economist, a politician, or a writer, so I proceed in going to my classes and sinking into my cyclic day. I think about my purpose in this life and try to focus on the bigger picture, and also where my modest life will fit into this bigger picture. As I lay in bed, I am comforted that whatever decisions I will make about my life and profession will shine with my wonderful identity. I take a sip of the water on my bed stand and listen to the little creatures as they sing me a lullaby outside my window.
