Today, I started my Creative Writing Residency at Wilkes University. In our orientation we were told what to expect, had a tour of the campus, and then, in a tradition as old as time, the faculty and students broke bread together and began to know one another by sharing stories. It’s odd, and jarring, to sit among these very talented, creative thinkers and artists, some of whom had stories that made my journey seem like a leisurely stroll in the park. A short one at that, over even terrain. These are people who’ve been around the world, who’ve been on Oprah, who’ve written entire novels when they were still in middle school, and one man who has been a refugee of the UN for 20 years because his own country abandoned him and has done his own TED talk about being a survivor looking for a country to call his own. It’s odd to sit among them and think that I belong here. That I should be seen as a peer when so often I’m not entirely sure what I should be doing from one moment to the next.

So, after all the niceties had been completed, the rite of breaking bread was over, and I began the long, arduous task of grappling with my imposter syndrome, I did what I often do when I need relief: I went for a walk, seeking something. It might be inspiration, a sign, an answer, anything that would help me cope with the feeling that I simply did not belong here. Or at least I would find something or someone that would distract me from the turmoil inside my head.

What I found was a bench. The bench was dedicated to Jonathan Ratchko, a young man who attended Wilkes and tragically died at only nineteen. He was an athlete, a student, a son, and a friend to many. I sat on his bench and thought about what the hell I was doing at nineteen, what I had yet to do, and what I would have missed out on. Then, I thought about some of the small moments that led me to that bench, at Wilkes, about to undertake a program I never really thought I’d be able to or even have the hubris to think I should.

While ruminating, I noticed a grey bag attached to the left side of that bench. It was labeled “The Bench Project: Sit Down, Be Open, Read, Write, Find the Joy, Share the Moment.” So I did. Inside was a slightly damp notebook that only went back to May, with messages from a dozen or so people. People who also found inspiration on Jonathan’s bench. They wrote about things they learned; some wrote about staying positive; another about trying to learn a trick on a skateboard, and then, a few pages later, writing about mastering it; there was a sketch of someone’s madre; and a heart drawn by a seven-year-old who said, “Never stop learning.”

So, I listened, and I wrote the following: 

Hello, my friend,

It is odd being here, admitting to myself that I belong here. Not specifically at Wilkes, but at this point in my life. That I have things to say that others may want to hear. That others don’t even know that they need to hear.

I am, in all likelihood, beyond my halfway mark. That Midlife passed me before that bastard let me put on my shoes to catch up. But I have come to realize a few things. I am here because I am supposed to be, but more importantly, because I want to be, and every misstep and stumble was in this direction. I also know that there is no point in trying to catch up to anyone or anything. No milestones, no author’s book count. So I have hung up my running shoes and slipped on something more comfortable, and enjoyed the walk. Because if you spend your whole life running after something, or away from it, you’ll only die tired.

I hope you find this on your own path toward something you want. And though I don’t know you I’m glad you made it this far.

Christian Curet

I hope you all are misstepping and stumbling your way toward something you want because you also want to be there and not because you feel you have to be. And if you’re not, that’s okay too, because you are still here. I hope you find time to enjoy the journey, because it might last you a hundred years or only nineteen, but by any measure, it’s not nearly enough to spend it with people you enjoy being with and learn what deserves to be learned. And occasionally sit on a bench and write in a random notebook.

Thanks, Jonathan, for the inspiration.