By Erin Urhahn
I found a Disney puzzle in my basement in early high school and decided I wanted to put it together. It was either 500 or 1,000 pieces — I don’t remember which. I wanted to be good at it. I wanted to hold the colorful pieces between my fingers and feel the contrasting textures. I wanted to bind each piece together, quickly, like the rungs of a zipper, seamlessly clinging to each other, becoming one.
It didn’t matter how many times I reapproached the puzzle, too soon after I started, I would find myself walking away and deciding to try something else. Puzzles demanded time and patience — two things I wasn’t willing to waste.
Looking back, my inability to do puzzles mirrored the restlessness I experienced daily. I always felt pressure to have more, do more and ultimately be more. I couldn’t be still. I filled every hour with something — clubs, sports, random commitments — because I wouldn’t ask myself what I actually wanted to do. When my friends and family would try to make conversation, I was always busy, very busy, too busy to talk about it. I was living in the fast lane with no destination in mind.
Now, in my second year of college, I still keep busy bouncing between school, work and a variety of sorority events. Most nights, old seasons of “Survivor,” Oreos and jalapeno-flavored Cheetos keep me company. In my dorm room, a collage of photos with the people I love and the places I’ve been cover the wall above my TV, making my room feel a little less lonely.
One day this spring, when I couldn’t watch any more episodes of “Survivor,” I pulled out a puzzle I keep in my bottom drawer. It had a long-haired orange cat sitting in a wicker chair below an array of daisies and sunflowers. A blueish-striped cat perched to the left of it, between a wheelbarrow of yellow hydrangeas and an old gardening can full of pink tulips. Sitting on a small white rug with my legs crossed, I dumped the 750 pieces onto the floor in front of me.
As soon as I started assembling the puzzle, I noticed how different each piece was. Some snapped seamlessly together, as if they belonged. Others, I spent hours looking at, wondering: What are you? Where do you go? I played some soft country music on the TV, not loud enough to be distracting, and I let those two questions circle in my mind until I wasn’t talking to the puzzle anymore, I was talking to myself. The puzzle looked at me and asked: What are you doing? Where are you going? They’re two questions I didn’t have answers to.
I had the urge to throw all of the pieces back in the box, close it in the drawer and never reopen it again. The uneasiness I felt all those years ago when I first tried to do puzzles came back. I still didn’t know how to be content or to be alone with the one person I spend the most time with: myself. Instead of giving up, I kept putting the pieces together, one after the other. I let myself think about the big, hard questions I’d been avoiding, like: What do I want to do? Where do I want to go?
I still don’t know where the pressure came from to have my whole life figured out so quickly. I do know constantly grasping for more, for something better, has left me feeling completely unsatisfied. It’s time I learn to be still. It’s time I stop using busy as an excuse and start being present. It’s time to let go of the desire to have it all figured out and learn to put the pieces of the puzzle together as they come. I don’t have to have all of the answers; I don’t know what I’m doing with my life or where I’m going, and I don’t think I have to.
After months of working on the puzzle, I found myself celebrating each piece I clicked together instead of dreading the ones left to fit in. When the puzzle was completed, I felt capable. I took a photo of me and the completed puzzle and found a spot where it fit perfectly within the collage of photos from life on the wall. It’s a reminder of my lingering desire to live a little slower, be a little more intentional and rejoice in each little accomplishment, trusting something beautiful — like the finished puzzle — is in the works.
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