I feel God here with me.
Right here in my little basement apartment:
He feels my full heart.
Tonight I am angry. I am thankful I am peaceful I am elated in my happiness. I am face to face with finality—and its fluid possibility to never actually be final. I am tan. Finally. I am barefoot in my highschool jeans I am baffled and I am exploding with all of this. I swim in my own contradiction, thankful for the complexity of the woman I am.
I am so full of gratitude for my junior year of college. I am full of new knowledge. I learned about the culture of India and how to dance with the Hare Krishnas. I learned how to be best friends with a girl again, only because of a feeling that we should be. Three months later, I learned how to send that girl off to China. I learned the possibility of a boy who listens, who sees my metaphors, who sees me. He really did. But after that, I learned that it’s not enough for a boy to see me. I needed more from him. I learned about what I need. I learned how to watercolor paint and string seashell beads. I learned about nineteenth century England and the way literature saved society when they could no longer believe in God. I drove and sang at the top of my lungs for hours—to battle my sadness, to prove my freedom. I ate paste. I painted and etched pottery like nobody’s business. I spun across the ice at 45 mph, in the backseat, toward another car in the canyon; I closed my eyes and thought “I might die.” I found out how to miss someone that lives down the street. I taught myself how to install a showerhead, set up a video projector, and make a bomb shelter more fun than it is creepy. With my Dad, I finally began the resolution of what we’ve never talked about. I took my car towards the lake on the horizon, turning left and right with a feeling, until I found some water—and named it my writing place. I hiked down Timp in the dark. I learned that I can be alone. I drew lines. I found peace in my solitude, and ached in a beautiful way—to let go. God rejuvenated me. I watched my hope ivy grow out towards the light. I ran down my street with my pants at my ankles. I missed my Mom. I finished six journals. I learned that sometimes I am not strong, and that’s okay. I’m still learning how to admit that out loud. I found inspiration in my homework, and knew that that is what college is supposed to be like. I discovered my love for orchestras and concertos and sonatas and oh man, cellos. I learned about Romantic, Victorian, and Contemporary authors. I ate sushi. I kissed a firefighter who walked 24 blocks to come back to my house and do so. I wrote a sonnet, and felt trapped in the pentameter. I tested the boundaries of my bravery. I found out that my favorite tree on campus has a name… there’s a little inscription just by the roots that I never noticed before: THE FREEDOM TREE.
I am thankful for this year—when many of my own roots clarified their inscriptions to me.
So many words have come into my vision.
I am branches of learning.
I am the potential of three thousand rejuvenated leaves,
a faithful green.