There were a lot of places I thought I'd be when I turned 25. As I reflect on those places, I realize they were appropriately idealistic. Immature would be a harsh way of putting it, but to some extent perhaps that is what it was. I imagined a life that was filled mostly with comfort, faintly filled with frustrations, but also had a good share of hard lessons. Of course I thought I'd have a job that managed to fulfill some, if not every, aspect of my "dream job". It would be everything I hoped for, while allowing for growth and creativity. The icing on the cake of my early 20s would be a striking young man that maintained the empty voids in my life that friends, family and work didn't fill.

But as December 27th came and went, so too did that fantasy. The stark realization that what I thought I was supposed to be doing has ended up being completely the wrong route for me right now. And said revelation landed at my feet in the form of a not so pretty present. The big 2-5, in one form or another, is the defining moment in which we walk away from young adult life and gracefully or not enter true adulthood. It's like someone turned on the lights and said, welcome - you are now an adult, figure shit out. Refreshing to some extent, but extremely scary as well. Where do you go from here? And that's of course a rhetorical question, because many know where they are suppose to be going. So I guess the better question is where do I go from here? I can firmly state that although teaching is a wonderful profession and one I hope I return to, it isn't a puzzle piece that fits into my life at the moment. Young and vibrant I find myself in front of the classroom only to be slapped in the face by a hardened education system embedded in ideals and concepts I'm not sure I believe it. Further, although I embody a sort of energy that fills a room, that fortitude and youth may be too close to those I teach. I'm relatable, but perhaps too relatable. Maybe in another chapter of my life.

So then I ask again, where do you from here? All I can say is I hope it's somewhere up, because turning 25 has been a real downer so far.

What it comes down to it we all do stupid things; make mistakes. Finding ourselves in a predicament. Many really. And what it usually boils down to is, the public and the personal. If you’re in or have ever been in any circumstance like the one I currently find myself, you bang your head against the wall so many times in an attempt to make sense of it that it soon stops making sense. You sleep through the hours you can because for in those silent moments, you don’t have to worry. You pray to the God you’ve claimed you don’t believe in, that he will somehow spare you of humiliation outside of what you’ve created yourself.

I work, teach and coach young adults that fight everyday to find themselves. They paint on faces, play dress up for themselves or others, and calculate every move they make – because perception is reality in their world. Identity for them lies somewhere between acceptance and confidence. It’s the question of: How much of the real me do I have to give up to make a “better” me? So they make choices, bad and good, about how they want to be perceived and how they want to define themselves.

So when their mentor, their big sister, makes a mistake that for most of their young adult lives they have been taught is unacceptable, you question what you’re doing here. You question how you expect to make an impact on their lives when that impact might be negative at times. Teachers and coaches are role models. We stand in front of the classroom everyday conveying knowledge about subjects we deem important. We discuss morals, ethics in hopes that we might be able to impart some sort of awareness of the world outside of high school banter. And I suppose we expose our own faults so that we reveal how they make us stronger – make us more human. But that doesn’t make it any easier. That doesn’t make the mistake I made ok.

How then, when you, yourself are having a learning experience of your own, make sure your students are as well?

I often wonder if we live in a world where hearts no longer bleed and emotions remain frozen somewhere between our brains and expression. Cell phones jam communication that once allowed for weeks of anticipation. The rush of slipping your finger into the crease of a letter where concealment waits to be let free from the bounds of paper, are trapped outside the walls of the virtual universe. Music runs rampant through our bodies, but unlike the celebration of movement – the sharing of intimacy - we rock out with ourselves. We walk through a constant rhythm of inconsistency, alone, despite the fact that we are surrounded by thousands of others moving through the same motions.

Have we left a stage of innocence behind in hopes that we will find the answers to every huddled question? There is something blissful about the outstretched arms of naivety; and the desperate longing to return to the days of patience. We should all take a step back and run freely through the dreads of our days – take them as experiences to be learned from. Jump openly in puddles when it's raining, the back splash will make you a dirtier person. Yell. Whenever possible. For no reason other than the air that you exhale tastes sweet as it passes through your lungs and out your mouth. Get angry, it will teach you what is really worth your temper. There are not answers to everything. Wade in the waters of uncertainty, because that is where we are human. Our skin softens beneath the chill, our eyes become less dodgy, and our insecurities drip from our pores.

As I sit in bed reflecting on another year that's passed and conversations I've had in the last few days, I can't help but comment on the notion of growth; the fantasy of love; and the importance of family. We all define ourselves by something other than ourselves. Whether that be a profession, looks, stories of fairytales we create in our minds in order to escape reality, family, friends, the place we live, lovers, significant others, etc. We all work so hard to figure out who we are, that I've come to think we do the exact opposite - we lose ourselves.

I've spent the greater part of my life trying to fix myself; fix what's in it and come to a conclusion on who I am or where I'm going. This year was no different. Somewhere amidst the whirlwind of emotions regarding living a life where my education has failed me and job searches produced nothing but an angry stamp on my forehead, I found myself applying and taking tests for a teachers' certification program. It was a decision, I had convinced myself, that would fill the void in my nonprofessional life and something I knew I would love.

False.

It was a tactic I like to call running. A tactic that I've become so good at I often don't realize when I'm doing it. I am becoming a teacher because it was the only road I saw back in March of 2009. It was a way to shut my father up about Law School all while proving a point that I was starting a journey that would not only satisfy me, but would be benefit the young minds of America. I wonder, however, if that's how it's supposed to be. Forced. Forced to make a choice, rather than fall into it. I like to call my students the "Yes Generation." They never hear the answer no. Not from their parents, not from their teachers, not from anybody. I was raised on the brink of that generation and to a father that so lovingly preached I could do anything I wanted. Be anything I wanted. And it's not that I don't thank him everyday for that, because some are not so lucky. But contrary to that, what happens when you don't know what you love? When the line you're walking isn't pointing anywhere clear?

I'm confident that I will mold the coming generations of young adolescents just fine. I will be able to open up worlds to kids that they've never seen; never dreamed. I will be a phenomenal resource for some, while not for others. I will be a good teacher.

But is that where I'm supposed to be?

I spent all of college telling myself that to be swept off your feet, as your heart races from the anticipation of being with someone, was the only way to have it. Nonetheless, as I graduated that ideal faded. Somewhere I got the notion that in truth it’s about work, about molding with someone; not finding perfection right away. Yet once again, over the last couple months, my two beliefs have melded into one. There’s no reason one shouldn’t be swept away by the charming nature of a lover everyday, not just once in a blue moon. What’s more, amongst the moments of lust, anger, and love, you will grow together. Not because you're two halves of the perfect whole; but because you're two wholes that make each other better. Eventually you blend the parts of your life, to a point where you don’t have to ask them if they want ice cream, you will just know. You won't have to tell them you need silence, they'll just hear you. Maybe you’ll say though that my fabricated image, this story from when I was just a little girl, is so deeply ingrained I can’t seem to shake it. That it’s ridiculous to become high from love; or not even that deep, from just being with someone. I don’t believe it's impractical though. I believe it’s the truth.

As the moon sleeps silently in the wake of the morning's sun, I find myself walking the canopied sidewalks of hushed streets and fallen dreams. The trees whisper a language of comfort and hope, while the storm that's brewing strikes shallow lightening bolts beneath my feet.

"Hang yourself out to dry, with the realization that what you'll get in return is simply the aftermath of this storm that's settling at your feet: tampered and torn with nothing to show for it. You'll ruffle your leaves and break your branches with the hope that someone will be there to pick up the mess. What you'll soon realize is that you're the only one that will be there in the end. you'll slowly pick up the pieces that have fallen somewhere in the wreckage."

So when the sun rises and the moon's found his way behind the mess we call a storm, I hope the debris is manageable. I hope it's forgotten.

Beneath the shadows of doubt, through the coldness of your skin, i wonder if their lies a heartbeat that is heard by anyone but yourself. selfishness is a disease, with no cure but reality. but i wonder if reality really ever kicks it. ya know. makes the disease crawl from the depths of your veins, out the skin that shelters it. it's so cold to the touch, how it incubates anything but dead cells, i'm not sure. nevermind that though. because i'm fully convinced it's incurable. so then how do we maintain it; keep it from growing. shrink it in a sense. i would really like to know what your skin feels like warm - with a bit of color. you'd be suprised how much more you can feel. sensations are unbearable; rich beneath blood that flows with something other than yourself. i wish i could give that to you. it would be my gift and your tragedy. but you'd live. and we'd survive.

They told me to dance. Said I didn't have a choice. So I moved until my feet were caloussed with raw wounds; until blood was the only thing that felt good on my barefeet. And when I stopped, my feet no longer able to listen, I sat down in the dirt head in my hands. A throbbing ran through me, like a drunkards ache for a simple sip of booze. It existed somewhere other than just my toes; my heart made music on my chest as it pumped anger and disgust past my ribs. But instead of lashing out - instead of giving them what they wanted - I used the beats my body was creating.

At that moment I got up and I danced. But what they saw and what they felt was far different from the previous. It was rich, heartfelt. My muscles moved with the freedom of liberation and rebellion. It was my creation that made the burns disappear. It was my movement that made them see that I was not a failure. My gift. My life. My decisions.


They told me to dance. I should have never listened.

Silence is eerie when he sits next you and attempts to have a conversation. His head is tilted back, resting lightly on the arm of a couch the two of you are sharing. He’s extended his legs so they rest gently in your lap, like a lover’s do on a cold winter’s night. There’s beauty in the way he doesn’t ask you how your days was or what you have planned for tomorrow. How he shouts nothingness that makes more sense than our crosslegged natured world. Rather, his eyes leisurely blink, balancing at a close for what seem like moments longer than most would allow. And as his feet begin to warm in your lap, you fail to remember why Silence ever scared you. Why the way he looms beneath the notes of expression cause tension. His face is in fact soft beneath such defined features. Almond eyes do not watch intent on discovering what we demand remains unspoken. Quite the opposite. He waits, patiently, for the space to be filled with language. It is not his to imbue quizzical thoughts and unanswered questions. Silence provides the silence. We provide the couch.

Mahogany

THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS....

The panes were sweet mahogany, carefully crafted to create a certain sense of serenity. Etched strategically into the rich wood were leaves; not too deep - just perfectly placed in the shallow depths of each frame. The artist must have known the couple. Perhaps understood their personalities, anxieties, fears; for although each window pane looked the same from afar, they were in fact rather different. Endowment rendered, they were individually left with quite distinct dispositions.

Whatever the matter, Roselyn spent most her time gazing purposely out the windows paned with character. What she saw, what she was looking at, is a mystery to anyone. And although her husband would sit with her sometimes, he never did ask what it was she was doing. They'd simply discuss the remote nothingness of the days: what was for dinner, how annoying that songbird was, how time had seemed to pass as gently as a summer's creek.

I wonder though if her mind was quite somewhere else. A far away place. As if the windows were in fact paper with which she was writing a story. Each chapter thoughtfully embossed into the glass sheets; living, breathing, life both inside and outside the house.

I

want to write,

like a song bird in the early morning.

Exhaling melodies into the open

air for the wind to seize

upon its back. Carrying them distances

until my voice grows hoarse.

I

want to write,

as if the harvest moon's just settled,

low. Laying its gentle shadow amidst

a backdrop of darkness, while she

hums sweet lullabies

to her dreaming souls.

I

want to write,

for the voice that isn't heard

in the back of the room on a rainy day.

Under a shadow's doubt, hidden

behind a facade so eager to listen -

yet unable to hear.

I

want to write.

Most said it would be like this. Sudden. Breath taking. But more importantly - at a moment when I'd forgotten about looking for it - an instant when I'd given up on the finding.

It came rushing full force, like a warm humid breeze on a summer's morning; feelings brimming, skin clammy, muscles calm. And then there was the way he kissed me. It was laced in honesty and character, causing a shutter much like a rather girlish crush. Perhaps it was the softness of his lips or the gentility with which he held me as the winter air caught short my breath. Regardless, it felt good, trustworthy - like nothing I've allowed in years. Comfortable. Easy.

It came over me like a warm humid breeze, a breeze I want to pocket and keep. A breeze I hope keeps finding its way towards my direction.

If I was half as talented as this young lady I'd be content with my

writing. She is phenomenal. An unbelievable performer and

amazing person.

Coming over you like a morning fog. Heavy. Dense. Yet somehow fragile as it takes the breath from your lungs. It's choppy; getting caught between your ribs - making it hard to breathe - to remember why you've kept a barrier from your heart. A wall to protect you from a feeling that warms your chest but shatters the delicate fibers that create its essence.

And so as the sun sets on my trip - one I thought would be a simple vacation with nothing but sunshine and the beach - I'm leaving having learned more than expected. More about my relationship with my brother; more about myself; and more about gift of getting to know strangers.

It came to me the reality that I wasn’t living. I was keeping experiences from myself and had some how managed to stamp a huge “handle with care” sign on my life. I’ve spent so many years and an excess amount of effort protecting myself from things that may have helped me grow. Not only was the island a place of freedom – a life lived in the essence of their small world amidst a vast ocean of clear blue water – it was a smack in the face. One slap to the left cheek for never truly understanding how lucky we are as Americans; how fortunate I am as a woman who has had many doors slammed in my face, yet always someone waiting to help me on the other side. One slap to the left cheek for giving up on a profession (because a family seemed more important to me) that I watched young adults fighting for in lieu of their misfortunes based on our bias American standards.

There seems a disconnect between what I thought was living and what really is. Anal, particular and far too entranced in what could be instead of what is, I’ve come to the conclusion that what is meant to be will be. And on the way to that place, the goal is to touch everything it has to offer. Handle, taste, smell and feel all there is in that moment. Embrace the people who walk your way; ask intimate questions in a non-intimate setting for the sake of learning something greater than a simple name and what they do. For you never know when you’ll cross the path of a young man who on a short vacation seemed to steal your heart through is character, uncanny humor, strong laugh and an open book of a life; or the willingness of individuals to unquestionably take in a visitor as a friend; or the pleasure two quaint French men can impose on your temperament while riding horses in the Caribbean rain.