Anna Rae Gwarjanski Portfolio |
I still remember Piper’s screams and my confusion and disbelief as she came into my room at 4 in the morning to tell me you were gone. I still remember the team meeting that day and the same look on everyone’s faces, a look of utter bewilderment and devastation that something so awful could happen to someone so full of life. I remember your mom talking to us and telling us how much being an Alabama swimmer meant to you. I still remember praying with the team before your funeral and just feeling lost. I remember breaking down at one point during the funeral and someone, a complete stranger, holding my hand. It's been two years, but I still think about losing you everyday.
But I also still remember your huge smile and boyish, carefree charm. I remember riding together for 12 hours, just you and me, that first summer to Tallahassee for a meet. I remember our talks about relationships and God and politics and swimming. I remember Stephy, Jenna, and I nicknaming you “RJ” and making you guess what it meant. I remember how you were protective and told me you wished you had been there when this one guy treated me badly so you could give him the “man eye” (I still don’t know what that means). I remember calling you to fix my car whenever it broke down; I always offered to buy you dinner afterward in thanks, but you never let me pay. I remember you being the only person on the team who at least pretended not to mind how much I sang. You were also the only person besides me who appreciated the greatness that is Chacos. There’s a special bond among the injured members of a team, and I remember doing therapy with you, sharing frustrations. I remember each time in my classes I mentioned I was a swimmer, girls would always ask, “OMG do you know John Servati?” I don’t know if it’s my right, but I was (and still am, if I’m honest) so mad at God for taking you. I don’t understand it. You had been so unhappy, and you weren’t anymore. You told me you had met someone. You said you were at peace with your injuries and were in a really great place. I know you died a hero, but it’s not fair that you had to go right as things were looking up. It pisses me off. The other day, I heard a song on the radio called “One More Hell.” It reminded me of you. The singer, Hailey Whitters, wrote it about losing her younger brother in a car accident: “I talk about you a little, but I think about you a lot. I’d kill for another memory, but I’m thankful for the ones I’ve got. And if Heaven’s like they say it is, save me a seat. I can’t wait to hear your laugh and have you next to me. If I had a superpower, I know what I would do: I’d forget about the hell to pay and raise one more hell with you.” That’s how I feel, too. I miss you, brother.
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I want to play for the Eagles.
There, I said it. That was terrifying to put in writing because, let’s face it, I’m 23 years old with less than a year of rugby under my belt. I’ve had three major injuries, two of which required surgery. I’ve got another four months of rehab left from my March knee reconstruction. Journalists have hard hours, and when I find a full-time position, an exercise and practice schedule will be difficult to maintain. The odds are not in my favor. But I wrote it down because every time I’m watching a rugby game, I get chills. Because every time I think about the day I finish ACL therapy and am allowed to get back out on that pitch, I get butterflies. Because every time I’ve applied for a new job opening, the first thing I check is how close the nearest women’s club team is. This is going to be a weird analogy, but it’s always confused me when people get married and say their significant other is “the one.” I’ve never understood how you can know that. But I think I get it now. I know, deep in my bones, that I’m supposed to play rugby for as long as my body will let me. I’ve played a lot of sports, but never before have I felt this happiness, this elated, bubbly joy. To say that I love being a rugger is an understatement, but I don’t know how else to describe it. And because I’m absurdly competitive, I want to play at the highest level. It’ll be a long road, and to be honest I don’t even know if it’s possible, but I’ve never wanted something this much. Labor doesn’t scare me; I’ve always had a strong work ethic. What frightens me is that I might get hurt, that my body might not hold up. It took me a few weeks after I had knee surgery to decide if I was going to try and compete again. I’ve had too much bad luck with injuries over the past seven years, and I wasn’t sure how far I could push it. But my physical therapist said as long as I hit my rehab hard, there’s no anatomical reason I should get re-injured. She’s helping me strengthen my weak links (both knees, ankles, and hips). I’ve started leg pressing (with PT supervision) to build up my quad, and then I’m doing hamstring work all summer. I’m on the comeback train. I was also nervous to voice these ambitions because I’m a grown up now. I have a master’s degree. I’m supposed to be pursuing a career and making money and settling down with a husband and popping out some kids. I retired from varsity athletics; now I should be running a few 5K’s, maybe get wild and lift some weights on the weekends, but play rugby? Tackle people? Chase a brand new sport full-tilt wherever it takes me? At my age? What am I, crazy? I guess I am. (P.S.: if any recruiters happen to stumble upon this, I’m 5’10, weigh 170 lbs, and play lock and flank. My one rep strength maxes are 215 lbs. for bench press, 245 lbs. for back squat, and 250 lbs. for deadlift. I’ve only played 15’s, but it’s just because I got hurt before I could try 7’s.) “One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.” -Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums *I think this post is boiling out of me in response to Donald Trump’s impending nomination and, in particular, his rampant support among Christians. I stand by everything I’ve written, but I will say that I don’t remember the last time I really slept well, so this post may come off as extra hippie/radical and a little long-winded.*
I’ve had questions about God and the metaphysical since adolescence. Growing up in the Bible Belt, that doesn’t always work out. I think I was 11 or 12 when I first started thinking of Christianity as a choice and not just a mandatory extracurricular that I would dress up for on Sundays. The first thing that I can remember concerning me was about the stoniness of Christianity. John 3:16, arguably the most repeated verse in the Bible, says “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” The two verses following that go on to say “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God” (John 3:17-18). I remember reading this and thinking, “but what about people in other parts of the world who have never heard of Jesus? Or, instead of being raised on Jesus, they were raised on Muhammed? Are they just out of luck?” I couldn’t ever picture myself as a child, or even now, telling my parents they had chosen the wrong religion and that I was swapping over, so how could I imagine a child from a different part of the country doing that? Or what about all of the rules, specifically in the Old Testament, that God gives us to live by? Like abstaining from tattoos, or that homosexuality is a sin, or that eating shellfish is forbidden? I have three tattoos and plan on at least three more, a lot of my friends are gay, and I love shrimp. However, I think it’s common sense today that a woman on her period is not “unclean.” What parts of the Bible do we take word for word, and what do we glance over? I’ve known atheists, agnostics, Muslims, and Buddhists who were better people than a lot of Christians. How is it fair to say that there’s a bar on Heaven’s gate that says, “sorry, we realize you had a good soul, but you chose Door Number 2 when you should have picked Door Number 3”? To be honest, this is the question that tears me apart the most. 1 Peter 4:8 keeps me from getting totally despondent: “Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.” This verse begins with 'above all,' and it’s really what I’ve based my spirituality on-- I believe in the basic theology of Christianity, but I like to think that my religion is kindness (I’m sounding like a hippie right now, but deal with it). I read somewhere that God and the Devil look a lot alike (the Devil did fall from being one of the most beautiful angels, after all), but the way to tell them apart is to pay attention to how you feel when they leave-- if you feel joyful and at peace, that’s God; if you feel sad, mad, or anxious, that’s not God. Over the years, I’ve read many different books and talked to many different people from all backgrounds about spirituality. I took an Eastern Religions class in high school. I’ve read the Bible straight-through twice, not including countless devotionals. And I’m still no closer to being any less confused. I know I believe in a Higher Power, and I believe wholeheartedly in Jesus’s teachings of love, but that’s about where my dogma ends. However, confusion is not the end of the road. Anne Lamott, a radical (and sometimes sacrilegious) Christian writer, said "I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me-- that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns." That's pretty similar to how I feel, too. In a quote from her book Stitches, Lamott (she's one of my favorite authors, if you can't tell) describes God “as shorthand for the Good, for the animating energy of love; for Life, for the light that radiates from within people and from above; in the energies of nature, even in our rough, messy, selves.” That’s about as close as I can come to describing what/who I worship. I do know one thing: that there is both Good and Evil in this world. There is no other way to describe events like the Holocaust or the Rwandan Civil War as anything but evil. But there is also Good. There are certain things I know are holy, like:
These are what I love. This is where I find God. And of the very little I am certain, those anchor me. |
About the AuthorConfessions of a failed southern lady. I've got messy hair and a thirsty heart. Writer, photographer, career wanderer. Archives
May 2023
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