On Discipline

I spent two whole days crying in Virginia. The hotel was beautiful and accommodating, but I could not stop myself from thinking about how unhappy it was all making me feel. And yes I might have exaggerated a little when I said I spent two whole days crying.

In the fall of my ninth year in school my father, the great golfer, gained a spot in the coveted United States Amateur Golf Tournament in the hills of Western Virginia. I remember the plane ride from Dallas to Raleigh, then the commuter flight from Raleigh to God-Knows-Where, Virginia. I remember the car ride from God-Knows-Where, Virginia to the hotel through the black application mountains with my father trying to avoid the deer. And most of all I remember the majesty of the front of the hotel, with the illuminated clock tower that hovered over the large deep front porch. That image, the image of the old world, was something so contrasting with the modern life that I lived day to day. That was the last night I spent in awe of this place, for when morning came I realized that this old world, as much as I admired its beauty and simplicity, did not suit me well.
The hotel had made a mistake; it placed a family of four in a small two-bed suite. My father had made a mistake; he had brought his city daughter to the middle of a country resort in a town so small it did not contain a grocery store.
The view from the room that my brother and I shared was green. There was a large tree just to the left of the wall of windows that distorted the view of the rolling hills that lead to the green bowling lawns in back of the hotel. The bowling lawns however where shadowed by the large mountains that stood watching in the background. Basically, the large mountains shadowed everything from the hotel to the little toy town. I spent two mornings listening to my father getting ready while reading the breakfast menu, and watching the golfers walk across the bowling lawns.
At first my brother wanted to experience everything the hotel had to offer, particularly the shuttles that took the guests from each activity to the next. This was back in the day when my brother based his friendships with other people on personality rather than looks, which caused him to make friends with all of the drivers. From the moment he woke up to the moment he crashed into sleep he had a sense of go go go. Nothing could stop him, he wanted to play cricket, ride horses, gallivant in the town, swim in the pool, and watch my father play golf. None of those things interested me, yet I had to entertain my mother by agreeing to join.
The horse ridding was horrible. The smell of the barn, the flies swarming the horse and the incessant talking of my pubescent brother squealing with joy. My mother, my brother, the guide and I started down the dirt trail on the side of mountain. To the left I could see straight down at least 20 feet, and to my right was this vast expanse of green trees lit from behind by the sun. It was beautiful, there is no doubt in my mind even 6 years later that this resort was beautiful, but I could not relax, not when I could tell my horse was not comfortable with a person on its back. Especially when this uncomfortable horse could not walk in a straight line. I pulled, he pushed forward. Our struggle continued for twenty long minutes until I surrendered to his strength. He bucked, I yelled, and from then on I was pulled by the horse, who was in turn pulled by the guide. That horse from Western Virginia was the first and last horse that I have ridden.
As the shuttle sped through the darkening woods and my brother continued to talk the driver's ear off, I could not stop thinking about how I could not control that horse, and if I could not control the horse then how was I supposed to control myself? I have always had a problem with discipline, and even though I have been aware of this I have not been able to come to my senses and do something about it. That night as I ate and watched pro-wrestling with my brother in our room, I could not stop thinking about how I had no control over myself. I thought about how in 3rd grade I had cried during a social studies class because I knew that when I grew up that I would start smoking. I thought about how I had grown into this scholarly procrastinator, and I had not even reached high school. I thought about what the future would bring if I continued to not have control over myself, and above all I thought about the obscure surrounding that brought about this revelation. The horse, the woods, the shuttle. All of it added up made me realize that I needed to start learning how to implement self-discipline.
I could not sleep that night. The wind howled and the large green tree kept scratching the window. A storm was coming, from the north the weatherman said. Around 4:30 am I decided that I had had enough of trying to fall asleep so I turned on the light and pulled out a book. The rain started at 5:15, waking my brother up and causing a dog from a nearby house to start barking. By 5:30 my brother had fallen back asleep while the rain continued on and I charged through Gore Vidal's Palimpsest. I charged through the witty narrative that depicted his youth, the time he spent in the military, the house he bought in communist Cuba and the emotion and drive that Mr. Vidal experience through it all.
I remember being woken by my mother telling me it was time for breakfast. I remember rolling over in bed causing one the pages of the memoir to rip. I remember how ironic it was that I fell asleep with a book next to me without even trying when I had tried so hard before. I remember getting dressed and walking down to the dining room with my book in my hand, and feeling comfort in the hardback cover. I spent the rest of that day studying every word Gore Vidal said, reading multiple chapters multiple times, drinking hot chocolate and sitting on the expansive front porch. I watched guest come and go in the shuttles and saw golfers arrive back at their temporary home dumbfounded by the course that demolished them. I listened to the elderly couples sitting around me talking about the beauty that stood before them. I even got up to wander around the hotel's land, exploring the Roman architecture of the spa and seeing the bowling lawns for the first time without a glass panel standing in between us.
I wrote all of this down, everything from the moment I woke up in the morning with dark circles under my eyes to the golf gala that my family attended that night. I had found a purpose that morning, reading about the life of Mr. Vidal. If he could be this involved with so many things he loved, then what was exactly stopping me. Why was I being dragged down by this persistent lack of discipline? I had to do what I wanted. I could no longer be just dragged around like a follower. I had to become who I am, not something that other people wanted me to be. Instead of doing something because I had to, I wanted to do something because it would turn me into a better version of myself.
I remember having another night of restless sleep, of tossing and turning. I starting crying because I had become irrationally overwhelmed with the idea that this purpose would only last in the state of Virginia. I remember waking up and having a cup of hot chocolate. I remember sitting on the great wide front porch with my mother, watching the bellmen load up the rental car. I remember my father not talking on the long ride back to the airport in God-Knows-Where, Virginia. I remember writing down everything I saw, from the green trees to the deer grazing beside the highway. I remember coming back to our house on Windsor Parkway, and writing down a detailed depiction of my room and realizing that I had started my life over again but this time with a purpose.