A Snip of Perspective

My hair was the stuff of legends. By far the thickest in my drama group and undoubtedly the most stubborn ponytail there, it was infamous for remaining poker straight through curling irons, hot rollers, and gallons of hairspray. Last May, when a sign-up sheet circulated for Locks of Love, an organization that collects hair to make into wigs for cancer victims, something clicked and I knew that my hair was meant to go. So, after years of contemplating a legitimate haircut, but chickening out at the last moment and asking for just a trim, I had a faith moment.

The actual haircut was surprisingly emotional for me. It’s fairly ridiculous to say that my hair has sentimental value to me, and I do feel guilty for feeling sad about the loss of that constant rope of comfort. Rather than spout about how wonderful it felt to donate my hair, I’ll tell the truth:

I was shocked at the tears that sprung to my eyes as I clutched the freshly cut ponytail. Holding it out in front of me and giving a fake smile for the cameras, I felt as though I was holding a limb that had just been severed. I held onto it for a few minutes while Molly, the hairdresser, smoothed the rough edges and angled my bangs. Quietly, I sat and ran my hand over the smooth, healthy, freshly shorn edges. It felt like an exceptionally fresh paintbrush or a patch of perfectly mown grass. It felt like a work of art, pure and natural, that I had cultivated, invested hundreds of hours of time into (trust me).

Giving it to someone else –perhaps two someones, considering the volume- was truly giving a part of me. It was heart-wrenching, but somehow liberating at the same time. That ponytail, grown since seventh grade, had allowed me to dig quite a rut and build quite dependence upon it. I hid behind it when embarrassed, twirled it when bored, mussed it when stressed, and attempted to curl it on special occasions. Those close to me could tell exactly what every motion that involved my hair meant, simply because of how often I performed them.

Then it got cut. Waking up the next morning, I felt the impact sink in. Yes, I can’t take back that haircut. Yes, I wish I still had enough hair to grab to hide my embarrassment. Yes, I still reach up to grab the ponytail that doesn’t exist anymore. But someone out there who doesn’t have any hair is getting a gift that could change their perspective on life. Someone out there will get a ponytail to twirl, hair to flip over their shoulder, and a tumble of curls to get in their face in the wind. If, that is, the hair stays curled for them, which I certainly hope it does. Someone out there will feel like they’re getting a missing limb replaced. And that’s an experience I’d be happy to share. 

Adventure

Quotes of the Week

1. A tramp, a gentleman, a poet, a dreamer, a lonely fellow always hopeful of romance and adventure. ~Charlie Chaplain

2. Adventure is worthwhile in itself. ~Amelia Earhart

3. It is in the compelling zest of high adventure and of victory, and in creative action, that man finds his supreme joys. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Songs of the Week

1. Every Teardrop is a Waterfall by Coldplay

2. Your Surrender by Neon Trees

3. Crazy Days by Adam Gregory

I'm a very content person. I have wonderful people in my life, I want for almost nothing and the opportunities I have are truly amazing. The majority of the time, if you ask me what's wrong, my answer will be nothing. I lead a life of ease, and I know how thankful I am for that.
That being said, every once in a while, I get an itch. A feeling that I'm not living my life to the fullest extent possible. Something buried deep inside of me that is just yearning for adventure. An honest to God, heart pounding, definitely against the rules, I'm going to get in trouble for this adventure. Something that'll make me smile and feel excited about life and living. Because somewhere between my childhood, which was filled with dreams of princes, dragons, and flying unicorns, and now, I've lost that spark. My joie de vivre. My kefie. My aficion. I don't know where it went or how to get it back, but I just know that an adventure would be the first step to gaining back the passion in life.

Now, I just have to find one. But, then again, I'm only 18. Without overstepping the law or general guidelines of propriety, there's not a whole lot of options. But what defines a true adventure? If we're going by the definition of the great pirate Captain Jack Sparrow, adventure is freedom, not knowing what's going to happen next, being at the mercy of fate. Which makes me want to consider my desire for said adventure, because, frankly, that sounds like the kind of thing that would make me wish I was back in math class, yawning and watching the seconds tick by.

If the essence of true adventure is a situation in which you're not sure what the ending is, that's going to take a huge leap of faith that'll probably be rife with consequences that may or may not ruin other aspects of my less than thrilling life. But what the hell. Bring it on. Because I'd rather spend one day having the time of my life and risking it all than going my whole life without a single memory of adventure.

More on Storytelling

~I wrote this piece for a scholarship essay. Enjoy!~

I’m very selfish with my stories. I’m always willing and eager to share the latest escapade of my crazy, adventurous best friends or the hilarity that was the conversation at the dinner table last night. But when it comes to the moments that truly touched me, made me smile or prompted tears, I rarely share them. The Tale of How He Said “I Love You,” for example, is one that will never leave my lips. The Real Reason I Was Crying That Night is another that is destined to be unspoken for all time. But why do I find it so hard to even contemplate telling these stories? It’s because of the very reason I do tell stories. People, me included, tell stories to share. And I guess I’m just not willing to share those experiences with people like I am the majority of my stories. I usually love telling stories: getting the reaction, being able to share a burden, receiving the advice. It’s positively therapeutic. It’s more than necessary, it’s a life staple.

To get through life, we have to tell stories. We tell stories to make sure they’re heard. Yes, heard by someone else, but also, heard by us. We tell stories to other people because it’s an act of sharing. We’re sharing an experience, a laugh, a problem or a warning. Unlike a physical gift, easily thrown away and instantly forgettable, stories stick in the mind. It’s a gift to share the tale that we have. Whether a trivial account of dress shopping at Macy’s or a heart-wrenching description of an adoption gone wrong, this story was shared for a reason: to give the listener a taste of the laughter or a share of the burden. The teller is imparting a part of themselves to the listener, truly the greatest gift we can give to someone else. But even more than that, it’s important that we hear our stories to give ourselves a gift: faith.

We’re living to make our own stories. We tell stories to remember the real and make magic the mundane. We fail to realize the magic that lies within every one of our lives and so we tell stories to supplement. Maybe our dreams have yet to come true and we need to hear the dreams of another, told from our tongues to regain our hope. Maybe we’re longing for someone who understands. The words “once upon a time” are a doorway. They lead us not into our lives, worn, comfortable and littered with the dreams we’ve long since stopped pursuing, but into the lives of others, who live in a kingdom far, far away where dragons are the scariest reality, fairy godmothers wait to come to our aid in our moment of greatest need, and animals are the best friends.

It’s not escaping, though. Not completely. It’s just slipping into that far, far away for a minute, breathing in a breath of the air on which magic floats by, and returning to the here and now. It’s a gift of refreshment, telling stories. We hear that some little part of us still believes in that magic, and the knowledge that deep inside of us still lies that little girl who will live happily ever after  allows us to carry on, forging through the chapters of our own stories. Stories inspire us to keep going, through the dragon fights, magical enchantments, and sword fights of our own world: losing a loved one, getting fired, or simply just being in a slump. If that princess can keep going through being locked in a tower and guarded by an evil witch, why can’t I get up tomorrow and finally quit the job I’ve hated for years? Those stories foster in us a burning desire for our own happily ever after. Even if we have to sit on the sidelines for years and watch daring knights and beautiful princesses parade past, why can’t we stand up and join in the pageantry? Is it naïve of us in such uncertain times to believe with all of our beings that happily ever after is within our reach? The gift in those stories lies in how much it makes us believe in ourselves, in this magic and in the world. That’s why we have to share and tell our stories.

The reason we tell stories is to do what we’ve been learning to do from day one: share. Share with others, share with ourselves. Share the giggles, share the sobs, share the blush, share the problem. And in return for sharing that moment, that piece of ourselves, we can receive a perfect reaction: a burst of laughter, a tear, a hug, a piece of advice. When I tell the story of “I Accidentally Spilled a Gallon of Iced Tea on My Sister’s Lap,” I tell it to share the laughter and embarrassment. When I tell the story of “How Much I Miss My Grandma,” I tell it to share how much I love her and to get some comfort in return. When I tell the story of “Beauty and the Beast,” I tell it to remind myself that magic does lie in the ordinary. When I tell the story of “Aladdin,” I tell it to hear that I believe in magic carpets and genies and happily ever afters. Because when it comes down to it, telling a story is the best present we can give someone. And when they listen and react, it’s the perfect gift they can give us. We tell stories to share, because, just as we learned ages ago, sharing is truly caring.

Mature or old?

Quotes of the Week:

"How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" ~Satchel Paige

“Maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had, and what you've learned from them, and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated." ~Author unknown

Songs of the Week:

1. Haunted by Taylor Swift

 2. Si on changeait by Marc Dupre

3. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths

Floating through life, if you're lucky enough to be average, you'll become mature in time. You'll eventually realize that the key to life is not how dramatic you can make a miscommunication with your boyfriend, but about how capably you can deal with the problems that the world inevitably hands you. This happens at different points in everyone's life, but for me it happened at the end of my junior year.

One day, I woke up and realized that my problems and trials had eclipsed those of a teenager and were now akin to those of adults. And in that moment, I defined maturity: what it means to be truly helpless as you watch a loved one suffer. How to say goodbye to someone that might not come back. Defining exactly how much a person means to you on paper. Making choices much more consequential than what classes to take or what shoes to wear. Choices that have a somber, elderly tome to them. Gone are the days when it's cool to gossip about the latest celebrity abs. Suddenly, being a grown up, the thing we all despised for years becomes a reality. It's not all fun and games and eating ice cream for dinner and shopping till your card's out of money. It's about choices, problems, challenges, and trials and what you decide to do and how you overcome those things and sort them out. And it's hard.

It's a lot of work. It's a big responsibility, and it still scares me. But I can't let that get in the way of life. Part of being mature means facing all of those problems head on. It means going out and taking the world by storm. That's the real definition of maturity. It doesn't come with age or years of schooling. It just naturally happens. It doesn't end any hope you have of ever enjoying yourself for a carefree afternoon. It just means that at the end of the afternoon, you're strong enough to get back in the saddle and take on the world.

But no pressure. Because you can do it.

My Utopia: Chautauqua

~This is a descriptive piece about Chautauqua, my favorite place in the world and summer utopia. It's a bit lengthy, but I didn't want to cut any of it. Enjoy!~

Nestled in the midst of the green corn fields and sleepy farmhouses of southwestern New York is Chautauqua. It sticks out from its surroundings like a Victorian ball gown in the middle of a closet full of overalls. During the season, from late June to late August, it literally hums with activity from dawn till dusk. But instead of causing a rushed, hectic lifestyle, the constant thrum of happening that envelops you inspires relaxation and peace. 

I can tell we’re getting close to Chautauqua because the speed of the world seems to change. Driving through acres of farm land and forests slows time to a slow crawl. In Mayville, a small town at the north end of the lake, the pace picks up with a yawn and a stretch, but within minutes, time is both racing past at light speed and leisurely strolling past. Cars from literally every state prowl the stretches of gravel and mud that pretend to be parking lots, searching desperately for a space that isn’t miles from the white wash and brick gate. We find one in the shade of a lone pine tree, park the car and unload our luggage. The trek down the parking lot isn’t long at all- what we’re marching towards is worth it. When we get to the highway crossing, there are legions of people waiting to cross into our utopia. The light changes to red, the cars stop and we begin the last leg of our homecoming. We pass under the arch of brick with white concrete framing that declares in all capital font that you are entering the Chautauqua Institution and approach the pedestrian gate. 

One of the most criticized aspects of this vibrant, one-of-a-kind community is the gate. Symbolic of entering a cultural feast for the senses, it is also said to create a wall that defies all of the values on which the Institution was founded by shutting out those who don’t have gate passes. But every summer as the criticism ebbs and flows like the waves of the lake, the gate stands and the tradition continues. 

As I wait to get my pass scanned by the friendly ladies I know from summers past, I admire the pots of flowers simply brimming over with twisting vines and eruptions of colorful pansies. Flowers bloom on almost every square inch of available soil in Chautauqua. There aren’t many available inches though, with houses squeezed as closely together as possible, so the trend is to jam as many colors and varieties in as possible. The result is a fusion of casual chaos and intricate order; or in other words, a symphony of colors that spills out onto the sidewalks and streets. A highlight of every summer, the gardens are one of my favorite parts of Chautauqua. 

My gate pass is scanned, and with a cheery beep verifying that I am indeed Laura Scherb of 12 Bliss, I enter into my favorite 750-acre stretch of world. Ahead of me, the smooth, worn, elderly brick walk reaches into the heart of the Institution. All around me, people flutter and buzz about like butterflies and bees inside a magical flower garden.  Pedestrians stroll past leisurely, taking their time, chatting about the gorgeous weather, the upcoming programs, the charming Victorian architecture and those spectacular flowers. Flashy new bikes as well as the classic models of decades past weave through the throngs, and every once in a while, a car dares to disturb the peace and inch through. The atmosphere is at once energizing and calming. I cross the street, not even needing to think about watching for cars, and begin my red carpet walk down the brick lane. 

The glitzering sun is so persistent in its shining that even the wide, lush leaves on the trees that line the walk can’t hide it. Instead, the shadows and the rays of light seem to be waltzing across the red bricks in time to the wind’s song. The shade and the wind and the sun all blend together to create the perfect summer day. The beautiful essence of the day makes the people in it all the more beautiful as well, smiling and happily greeting each other as they walk down the way. The smiles and hellos from strangers make it official: I’m in Chautauqua.

The houses on either side of me all have large porches- a Chautauqua staple. Nearly all are framed with gingerbread trim as well. Narrow, colorful and eclectic, these houses are typical of every street in Chautauqua. I smile to see grandmas sitting with glasses of tea and books on the wide porches while their grandchildren whiz past on bikes, shouting that they’re on their way out for ice cream, down to the dock, to meet a friend at the fountain. 

The beauty of a gated community is that the kids are free to roam, explore and terrorize. Gangs on bikes can spend hours traipsing through the ravines looking for fossils, skipping rocks on the shore to their hearts’ content and buying gallons upon gallons of ice cream. Chautauqua’s safety allows for the preservation of adventure, which thrives in the young residents. It’s rare in this day and age for parents to let their kids be off on their own without cell phones, but the gates and strong family ties allow it here. 

My feet lead the way to a break in the brick- Pratt Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares. Lined with quaint bed and breakfasts, vintage boutiques, charming houses and businesses, it borders Bestor Plaza. On the corner to my right is the Logan House, the new offices of the Chautauquan Daily newspaper. Through the windows’ rippled glass, I can see the interns, writers and editors working on the first issue of the season. Even as their deadline looms, everyone is smiling, excited and loving every moment of their job. To my left is the elegant St. Elmo Hotel. Rising six stories up into the blue sky, it towers above everything else surrounding the Plaza. Under the huge wrap around porch filled with rockers, ground level windows offer a peek into the shops below. I can see into the Chautauqua Emporium, a dainty boutique that sells clothing, Vera Bradley, greeting cards and miscellaneous knick knacks and Food for Thought, a store, bakery, deli combo that sells mouthwatering lunches, baked treats and chilled ice cream. I face front and am almost bowled over by the burst of joy that courses through my veins at the sight of the center of the small village: Bestor Plaza. 

About the length of a football field, the lush, thick green grass of the plaza is divided into four by brick walks that split it vertically and horizontally.  In the center is the solid, gray, square fountain that is guarded on the four corners by giant fish, from whose mouths spring water. The fish are the perfect size for little bums to sit upon, sticking their hands in the streams of water and splashing passersby with cool droplets. In the center of the fountain, four figures carved into each side of a large stone block present a reminder of the four pillars of Chautauqua: religion, art, knowledge and music. The pennies being plopped in by little hands will make smooth treasures for older hands that dip into the slippery bottom to collect the meager offerings for the Chautauqua fund. 

Giggles of delight, screams of wonder and thrill, a smatter of conversation and the notes from musicians with hopeful, open cases all meld together into one noise, one I can only describe as summer in Chautauqua.  Kites dip and sway through the delicious breeze, all kinds of sports balls fly through the air and little feet, shoes long forgotten, pound through the grass, the soft mud cushioning their run. I can smell the meatballs that will be served today for dinner at Food for Thought and the spicy, enticing smell of the French fries and hamburgers being offered at the Refectory across the way. 

On the north end of the plaza, the Colonnade building stands tall and proud, columns shining after a springtime wash. The shop windows in between the columns glitter and shine, beckoning mothers to come in and take a peek while their children enjoy the plaza. Somewhere in the second floor administrational offices, in one of the paned windows, sits the Bestor Plaza webcam, capturing all of the passion for life that is palpable on the summer breeze. On the opposing end of the plaza sits the academic, stately and yet still elegant Smith Library. The doors always open to stave off the heat caused by a lack of air conditioning, the building seems welcoming, even for the dark brick and wrought iron railings. The balcony on the second floor is the perfect place to take in the wonders of the plaza. 

Bordering the side of the plaza opposite me is the Chautauqua Post Office. Granted its own zip code, Chautauqua does its mail system the way it does everything else: with a reverence for tradition. Each resident is assigned a mailbox, but not one that is on their property. The boxes are all in the post office, with a combination lock on the outside that uses letters. They’re originals from the early 1900 post office. Because everyone has to go to one place to get their mail, the post office is truly a community maker: while doing a daily chore, you chat and socialize with your neighbors. 

Under the post office is the Candy Store, as my cousins and I christened it years ago. Given a quarter each by my grandfather,  we would go to the then enormous candy section, get our money’s worth and dance out to the fountain to enjoy our plunder.  Imagine our surprise when we grew up to realize that the Candy Store is actually called the Chautauqua Book Store. Now, I love going in to browse through hundreds of books. I can spend hours in there, tucked under a random nook, enjoying the smell of new books mixed with chocolate. But for now, that’s not where I’m headed. 

With a fresh wave of determination beating through my legs, I walk through the happy insanity that is the plaza and continue down the hill. It’s so steep, I feel like my body is slanted backwards trying to stay vertical. The more steps I take away from the plaza, the quieter it gets. I walk more quickly, and as I approach the end of the hill, I can’t help myself: I begin to run. 

Breathless, I reach the bottom of the hill. Immediately, my face feels like it’s going to split in half from the intensity of my smile. There it is. The first swimming pool in which I ever splashed, the shore where I collected my first seashell, the best tubing location I could ever wish for: Chautauqua Lake. I inhale, smelling the seaweed, the freshness of the water and the promise of another amazing summer. The glittering blue waves throw little jewels of sunlight to me. A puff of wind whips my hair back, pleading me to go hop in the Lightning, our sailboat, and cast off. 

Suddenly, the Westminster chimes interrupt my reunion with the lake. The Miller Bell Tower, standing guard on Miller Point since 1911, is yet another Chautauqua landmark. The familiar red brick fits perfectly with the classic chimes that announce the time to the whole Institution. I walk over to the Bell Tower, surrounded by Miller Park on one side and the sapphire water on the other three.  Under the shade of the oaks and maples is my favorite statue in Chautauqua: a Galapagos tortoise. I run my fingers over the cool brass and look out over the lake, smiling faintly and lost in thought. 

Fifteen minutes later, the noon chime of the Bell Tower startles me. It’s so much louder this much closer, ringing through your very soul. As she does every day, the bell mistress begins her fourteen minute performance. The bells peal through the air, conjuring all the joy and good spirit throughout the Institution and proclaiming it to the small bit of world they reign over. 

I start walking towards my house, taking the scenic route along the lake. It’ll be time to eat lunch on the porch in typical Chautauqua style. On my way, a group of young boys on bikes zooms around me, headed, no doubt, to the Youth Center Diner to grab a burger. I see one of my neighbors walking her dog and give her a hug. Everybody in Chautauqua is family after spending a summer. 

“How are you, honey?” she asks, beaming. “How was your winter?”

“I’m great, thanks Ellie,” I reply. “And winter? That’s the furthest thing from my mind. It’s summer, and it’s time for Chautauqua.” Ellie laughs and links her arm through mine. It always surprises me that at 80, she can still walk the hill down to the lake.

“That’s the truth, isn’t it, sweetheart? We’re glad to have y’all here. Welcome home!”

Welcome home indeed. 


Images from: http://www.campusschool.dsu.edu/myweb/history.htm, http://writemeg.com/2011/09/07/wordless-wednesday-chautauqua-institution-in-chautauqua-new-york, http://www.wysardphoto.com/Vacation/Chautauqua-Gallery/2003621_RgNh4f/1/102599812_ChaLQ#!i=102599812&k=ChaLQ, http://www.ciweb.org/plan-your-visit, http://www.urbanohio.com/forum2/index.php?topic=17014.0, http://www4.wittenberg.edu/news/2009/07_23a.html

Say it, do it, live it.

Quotes of the Week

"She needs to sort out her priorities." ~Ron Weasley 

"Say what you mean and mean what you say, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." ~Dr. Seuss

"Please make sure to secure your mask before assisting others." ~Airline Stewardesses Everywhere

Songs of the Week

1. Belle of the Boulevard by Dashboard Confessional

2. Beautiful Disaster by Jon McLaughlin

3. Strip Me by Natasha Bedingfield

I've been taught for as long as I can remember to put other people before myself. I like to think that I've done a pretty good job so far in my life. I've kept quiet about the small things, let a lot of bygones be bygones without speaking up and generally made life as easy as possible for those around me. If someone made a comment that rubbed me the wrong way, I avoided eye contact, smiled and got over it. If I disagreed with someone's opinion, I smiled and nodded, not saying anything so as not to make waves. If the waitress gave me the wrong kind of food, I shushed my family and insisted that spaghetti instead of stuffed shells was perfectly fine. My goal was to be as quiet as possible, fly under the radar and cause as few problems as possible. I succeeded. For about the first sixteen years of my life, I played it cool about everything. And while that's served me very well, getting favors and many pats on the head for being a good girl, it's simply not the way life is meant to be lived. People walked all over me, took advantage of my silence and benefited from my selfless mantra. Yes, I was putting their needs in front of my own, but I was also putting myself in last place, behind even the stinkbugs I refused to kill.

I'll be clear about one thing: the last thing in the world I wish to communicate here is to be selfish, self centered and self absorbed. But, as a very random person once pointed out to me, sometimes, you need to be selfish. Never lose sight of the rest of the world, but keep in mind that you matter to. I spent far too long pretending that nothing mattered to me and that I was ok with whatever everyone else was ok with. When being selfless crosses a line and starts becoming self-destructive, stop.

Take a step back, a deep breath and a leap of faith in yourself. Have an opinion, even if it's the wrong one. Take a stance, if not for an issue, for yourself. If someone says something you disagree with, say so. Don't hide it. If you get a regular soda instead of a diet decaffeinated one, grab the waitress and change it out for what you wanted. It's ok to think about yourself. It's ok to make sure your mask is secure before helping others.

I finally figured that out. It took me a lot of biting my lip, changing to be what people wanted me to be and living in fear of the opinions of others, but I finally broke free. I am the person I want to be. I have opinions, most of which you'd probably disagree with. I do what I want, and I make good choices that won't hurt others, but that also won't hurt me. No one has a say over my beliefs except for me. And that's not to say that I won't change my mind if you present a good case. And let me assure you, I'm much happier now. I'm not going out of my way to make life difficult for people by any means, but nobody can just push my opinion aside and run me over. I've compromised, and it has changed the way I look at the world.

Make waves. Change things that you don't think are right. Make a difference in the world, for better or for status quo. Say what you mean to say. Cut down on the amount of times a day you say "That's fine." Or "It doesn't matter to me." Or "Whatever you want; it's up to you." Say it, do it, live it.

Some Second Person Fun

~Just a thought I had in math class, scribbled down and expanded upon later. Enjoy!~

Imagine yourself walking through a dark cave. 

People have told you that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but you’ve been walking for so long in the darkness that you don’t believe it anymore. You’ve actually come to embrace the darkness- it’s comfortable, familiar. You feel safe knowing that it’s the same dangerous unknown you’ve been walking through for as long as you can remember. You don’t even know how to think about the possibility of seeing light anymore. It’s incomprehensible. You know somewhere in the back of your mind that there’s a chance, but you know more that you’re too far gone. You yearn for the darkness. You trip through, stumbling over unexpected rocks and boulders that pop up when you least anticipate them. Every once in a while, a haunting echo of the way things used to be sneaks into your ear, reminding you of how fantastic life in the light once was. You try to ignore the occasional dampness from the reality that seeps into your shoes. It’s easy to shove that in the back of your mind. After all, you’re not sure what’s really real anymore. Why not question your sense of touch too? 

All of the sudden, a burst of realization comes bursting through the cave. It’s the strongest feeling you’ve had in a while. It scares you. It hurts you. You find yourself crying at the rawness inside of you that has suddenly burst outward. And yet, as the pain is tearing through the cave, you feel a little something beginning to bubble forth. You start to run- anything away to get away from this sensation. As you run forward, you trip and go sprawling onto the floor of the cave. But where you expected to find a rock and a hard place, there is only the shock of water. Instead of an abrasion and the continuation of your journey, you find that falling into this pool may be the worst injury the cave has brought to you. You sink towards where the bottom is supposed to be, feeling as empty as you’ve ever felt. 

But just as you begin to close your eyes and succumb, there’s a burst of light, and something dives into the pool after you. You realize the rescuer itself is the light. It reaches out, grabs you and pulls you upwards, away from the darkness and into the bright, shocking light. It’s an unknown force that rescued you and it remains unknowable as it energizes you, dries you off and injects you with the golden light. As you are taking your first cleansing breath in ages, it zips away as fast as it appeared. As it does, in the brilliant trail of hope left behind, you notice a glow coming in the distance. You think back, remembering sinking into the cold water. It felt like the world was ending. Now, watching the glow approach, you see: it’s just beginning. 

Your eyes grow wide, your heart pounds with anticipation and the glow washes over you. With a dazzling burst of color, the cave of darkness you’ve been wandering through for so long explodes into color and life. You see that the cave is no cave at all, but rather a tropical paradise with waterfalls, flowers so exquisite they look fake and birds of every hue imaginable. It’s the world, the whole wide world, and it is good, and it is open to you, and it is yours to take. You realize that this hasn’t been hidden from you, no. Your own blindness has been holding you back; you were blind but now you see. And what you see. It’s paradise, it’s Eden, it’s heaven. It’s free and there for you. Music blasts through the sweet, fragrant air as you vow never to close your eyes again. Your face tilts up to meet the sun as you smile with sheer joy, spread your arms wide in triumph and take your first step forward into the light of the new world. You are ready to live.

This is what it’s like to get over someone.