Sailing through life

It’s interesting to think how one person’s hell is another’s luxury.
After reading The Life of Pi I have a new understanding of how some must view a life at sea. Granted, I am not ship wrecked, or stranded on a lifeboat with no company but a tiger. I have been sailing from before I could walk; I learnt to steer a boat before I learnt to drive a car. Some, however, have not been so fortunate. Some do not understand the ways of a boat.

They don’t know that dolphins are the socialites of the sea. That they love the sound of a ship’s motor and will swim alongside you, dancing and playing, until you cease to acknowledge them and they get bored.

They would not know that when a boat leans on its side, lying on the sea as if lying down to bed as we do, so that when you are on the inside of the boat looking out you do not see sky or land (if there happens to be any close by) but only water, as if you are swimming with the fish, that his extreme tilting of a boat is not dangerous, not something to worry about; it is natural. The boat is bending her ear to the tumultuous sea to hear it whisper and better understand its moods. A well designed boat- a graceful lady of the water- will then straighten herself with no need of help from her captain (who really serves her more than she serves him) and will carry on her buoyant dance through the sea, whom she now has a better understanding of.
No, some one who does not know boats may not appreciate that exchange.

Just as they may not know that there are fish with wings- rightfully named flying fish. This sounds like a fairy tale now but it is the truth, which only someone who sees them in action would believe. They breach the waves and spread their wings, not covered with feathers but with scales, and when they catch the wind just right, like the sail of a boat, they fly alongside a 50 ft Beneteau with ease, clearing the length of the boat and then some before closing their wings and ducking their heads and diving back into their watery home.

Likewise, one who does not appreciate these things may not realise that there is a special moment when you are lying on the bow of the boat with the wind coming at you and all around you, when the hull hits a wave in that moment where you are pointing to the skies, before the boat comes down on the other side of the wave when, just for that brief moment, you feel this is the closest you will ever come to flying; like the fish beside you and the birds above you, this is the only time you can know what it is like to have wings.

No, someone unfamiliar with sailing not privy to the ways of the water will never know these small blessings of the sea. I am fortunate and I am in awe; open water is a world in itself.

New.

There is something so fulfilling about finishing a semester at a new school, in a new place, with new people, yet feeling at home.

Something blissfully rewarding about looking back on the four months that have just flown by, leaving you dazed in the wake of the wind that hit you as the wings of time beat by you.
Something amazing about looking back on all those things that seemed so new that are now familiar. All those faces you did not know, that you now hold dear. All those once unfamiliar places that now welcome you as your home does, with open arms and a warm hug (though the winter months are cold).
Something special about remembering that first encounter with a new friend, when you were wearing nothing but a bathrobe and you were so uncomfortable but she was so friendly. Or when you watched Doctor Who with a cute boy and how that night turned into a relationship. Or the friend with the tin mug, the girl you call your “twin”, and the ‘crazy’ friend you love.

I like to think that these people, these new people know me as I am. Not as I was, and not yet as I will be. They only know of my past what I want them to know, only what I think they need to know. Not that I have to hide things, but I have grown, I know I’ve grown, and these ‘new’ people know this ‘new’ me. Funny how new things seem to come together. And now they are not new, the are friends. And we will face new 'new' things together.

Most of all, there's something so heart-warming about the happy memories you have made. Something so fortunate about the sadness you feel saying goodbye for 3 short weeks after 4 short months together.
I look back at my first semester at Northeastern with love and happiness, and I am so lucky.

Friendship

Feelings are strange, uncontrollable things.
Feelings set the course for our relationships, our friendships, and ourselves.
Feelings are like the compass we use to navigate when we are unsure, like the flashlight we use to illuminate the dark unknown. We resent the compass when it leads us astray; get angry with the flashlight when its beam is too dim. Yet we would be even more lost without them.

Relationships are founded in and strengthened by our feelings. When I say relationships I mean friendships too, because they are the same as romantic relationships, if not more significant and important.

Friendships teach us how to trust; how to rely on other people when we need them most and to appreciate them for always being there for us. They teach us how to communicate; how to say when something small is bothering us so it does not become something big. Friendships teach us to give each other space, but to know we will always be there for one another. They teach you how to form other relationships and still have faith in the one, or few, best friends that mean the most to you. They teach you how to overcome, and to always hold on to those you love.
Romance comes and goes but friends only leave you when you give up on them. So don’t give up, it’s as simple as that.

A friendship is like a map. If you can form a caring, trusting, mutually exclusive friendship you are drawing your own map for other relationships in life.
A friend teaches you to love a sibling.
A friend teaches you to love romantically. Because if you cannot be friends with a partner first your map is incomplete, you will get lost (but that’s not to say you won’t have fun along the way).

Friends are the most important people in your life; so unless you have a very good reason to never, ever let them go. If they are true friends they won’t let you go either.

Aunty Angela

Life is fleeting.
It doesn’t need to be said yet it is often forgotten.
Life is precious and wonderful and painful and unfair and fleeting.

It may seem never ending at times but don’t be fooled. It’s gone in the blink of an eye. You take a breath and you’re in college, you shed a tear and you have your first job, you laugh and you have a family and then you blink and it’s all over.
Life can so easily be stolen by a vicious murder or equally vicious cancer.

This does not mean that it is pointless, or to be taken for granted. This means quite the opposite in fact.
It means that every moment you spend with your husband or your mother or your sister or your son should be a moment of unquestionable love. You do not have to say it every minute of every day, but show it. Make sure the people that you love know that you love them so that when you are gone they remember you with happy tears in their eyes and in their hearts.
It means that you should never take the people in your life for granted because you do not know how long they will be in your life.
It means that you should live with the intention and the attitude that you do not and will not be taken for granted.
It means you should make the most of every smile you smile and every tear you cry because you never know when they will be your last and the overwhelming sensation of being full of emotion is what makes life worth living.

I have been so lucky in my life, so fortunate to know some truly amazing individuals. I was lucky enough to know one of the most beautiful women, inside and out, that anyone could hope to meet. She was strength, she was courage, and though I never told her she was and always will be my inspiration. I loved her in life, and I will continue to love her in death.
We should all be so lucky to know an amazing person like this woman. We should always tell them how much we appreciate them.

Tell your role model, tell your mother, tell your friends.
And live each day like it’s your last.

Rest in Peace Aunty Angela.

First Snow.

There’s something so hopeful in the first snow of the year, so full of promise. Yet there is something sinister in the biting cold. Isn’t that how life is? A wonderfully exciting mix of hopeful and sinister, and guessing which will come next.

There is something blissfully sweet in tasting fresh snow on your tongue.

As I slipped and slid through the already melting snow on the sidewalk in front of my new home many of my new friends asked if this was my first time seeing snow.
No, I replied, but I always consider it my first time anyway.

Isn’t it nice to think that as you watch the delicate fat flakes drift slowly to the earth that this is the first time you are ever seeing something so beautiful? Isn’t it a nice feeling that the rush of excitement you feel as you don your jacket and gloves (or in my case socks) and rush out into the cold to warm your heart with childish play is as if for the first time, every time?

There is something so hopeful in the promise of the first snow of the year, barely fresh on the ground before it is in your hands and you’re hurling it at your friend. Something so beautiful about how the snowflakes settle in your eyelashes and make the whole world look, if only for that fleeting moment, perfect.
In that moment time stands still. It is not the first snow of the year, but the only snow of the year, and every snow of the year. It is the winter you spent snowed in in Italy, and the surprise snow in Cyprus, and the first snow you ever saw and the last snow you will ever see all at once. It is hopeful, it is infinite.

And then a snowball hits you and the rush brings you back to the present, and the cold catches up with you and you can’t feel your cheeks or your hands, but you are happy.

Lost Ships

We are, each of us, just ships sailing blindly trough the night. We navigate with no precise destination and we learn new routes along the way.
We are, each of us, lonely. We crave companionship, be it friendly or romantic, and without it we feel lost.

I don’t like this concept. I don’t like the notion that without a significant other we feel incomplete. I don’t like the thought that if you have not met the right person yet– or any person for that matter- that you have not succeeded.
I love my friends: I have succeeded.
I love being alone: I have succeeded.

Succeed on your own. Plot your own course and navigate through the night. Then you will be accomplished. Then whomever you meet will be significant.
We do not need other ships to help us on our way. We gain nothing from following another lost wanderer. Find your way, then help another.
Find the North Star to lead you home. Find it within yourself.

Crash into me

Life is a series of collisions.
We collide with a doctor’s waiting hands at birth, collide with a stranger on the street or a person we are destined to love, collide with a wall or a door or a moment and our lives change forever. Life is not measured by the things we did and did not do. It is measured by the experiences we have and the impact that we leave.

Sometimes you simply collide and keep on going; some interactions are a hit and run. But then there are the few, the memorable few who you crash into. You crash and then you are never the same. You crash and a part of them is embedded in you, or you in them. Like the exchanged paint on a car’s bumper that has collided with another car’s fender.
Sometimes they break you. The crash leaves you broken and bruised, damaged seemingly beyond repair. But then you pound out the dents and get a new paint job and if you’re lucky you’re better than new. Sometimes the crash hurts you or scares you, but it can always be fixed. You can always be fixed.
And sometimes it’s a good crash. Sometimes the dents are good and the scratches heal on their own and you are better off because of it. These crashes, these people are the best friends, the college roommates, the first loves and almost first loves. You crash into them and you are never the same.

Collide, and your life will begin.

Today is a day to remember.

Today I had my first full, painfully long day of classes in college. I woke up early, complained about my 8am class, agonized over my full schedule and did not give the date a second glance until I had to write it down in class. Then I paused. A full schedule is a blessing on a day like today. It means I am receiving an education, it means I am surrounded by people (some, if not most of which I like a lot). It means I am alive.

This day one year ago I was sitting in my apartment in Florence, Italy writing a memorial blog post. I was still in awe of how much I loved Florence and my roommates immediately. I was overwhelmed by appreciation for how fortunate I was. I still am.

This day eleven years ago I sat on my mother’s bed as an eight year old girl all alone and terrified as I watched the images on the TV screen of buildings collapsing into rubble and people crying out in agony. This day eleven years ago was a tragedy, for those living in New York, London, China, and Trinidad alike. It was a tragedy for the world. The entire world remembers exactly what they were doing on this day eleven years ago; it’s something no one will ever forget.

Today I sent a text message to everyone I love reminding them how much I appreciate them not just today, but everyday.
Today I saw a table full of soldiers having lunch. I hesitated, but I stopped and thanked them. I told them I am proud of them, today especially, and they told me never to forget.

Never forget.

Thoughts from Places: College

It is a strange sensation to feel so old, yet so childish.
I am aware that I am one year the senior of the vast majority of my fellow freshmen, yet I find myself equally nervous, equally excited, equally flustered in these our first weeks of the first year of college.

I felt like my five-year-old self again waving goodbye to my father on my first day of school when a matter of days ago I waved goodbye to him outside of my dorm as he left to return home.
I felt older than everyone in the room when I attended my first college party and every other person was a freshman already drunk off life from the excitement of the freedom they have not until this point in their lives experienced.
I felt like a youngster braving my first sleepover (which was no easy feat for me) when I slept in my dorm room for the first time.
I felt old when I had to explain to everyone in my classes that yes, I am a freshman but no, I am not straight out of high school.
I felt like a happy pre-teen with her first cell phone happily texting all my friends when I got my first American phone, yet I felt peculiarly like a responsible adult when I got my first phone bill and proceeded to pay it on my own, sans parental help.

I already have a pile of schoolbooks towering over me as I write, threatening to topple over at any time. I already have homework as of yet unfinished though I have only had half a week of classes.
I have already suffered through and survived my first frozen dinner because I am already tired of the cafeteria food though I have only been eating here for two weeks.
I have already done laundry.
I do not yet have a regular routine of sleep, work and play. I am not yet overwhelmed or over worked, though I know it is all to come.
I enjoy these 'already’s' and 'not yet’s'. I enjoy the unfolding of this college experience, because I could either be scared and unhappy or I can embrace it and know that every other person here feels the same way I do.

College so far is a conflict between my mature self, braving this responsible new life alone and my childish self, still easily excited by and happy because of everything around me. I hope that does not change. I hope college life continues to excite and terrify me at times. I hope I ride the highs and brave the challenges and learn from it all. I hope I come away from this semester and this year ready for more, because I have found in life more always comes! And more often than not, it is for the best.

Thoughts from Places: A Return

It is a curious experience to return to a place you know well that feels as though it no longer knows you. Having been away from home for over a year, and being so changed and happy from my time away this is a bittersweet return.

It is as if my house from the time I was five years old now feels more like a museum than a home. I walk the halls recalling memories that no longer feel like my own, seeing belongings that have now become relics.

It’s the seeing people that you knew for so long and recognising faces that are attached to stories the way they are attached to their bodies. When these faces recognise you, but no longer know you. You do not share a life anymore, but lead different lives in different places connected only by this place, a weak cable binding you together.

It is the driving the streets you always knew, now under a new traffic plan and getting lost in a place you know like the back of your hand.

It’s eating local food you love from a restaurant you had never been to and feeling nostalgic for things you are experiencing in that moment. It is a strange sensation to feel homesick while you are home because you were lucky enough to find a new home in your time away.

There is something peculiar about falling back into old routines as a new person.
Above all it is the seeing friends so dear to you that is seems as if no time has passed and the year apart was just a dream that never happened, but all the while knowing that you are better because of that year and not willing to let it go. It’s the overlap of new memories precariously perched on top of old memories, and making new memories with old friends.

Then, all of a sudden, it takes you by surprise. It’s realizing that high school is over and everything that upset you about this place in the past is behind you. It’s realising that happiness is not limited to one place but follows you wherever you allow it. It’s finding new friends in old acquaintances and enjoying yourself more in the two-week return than in the four years you lived there. It’s the reluctance to leave after you had been so reluctant to return in the first place.

At the end of the day it’s the smallest things that stick out. Not my high school graduation or my first relationship, not learning to drive or overcoming the struggles that seemed so great at the time but now are so insignificant. It’s the jokes I found so funny I laughed until I cried, it’s the mundane tasks I had to complete, it’s the simple times that were happy times. And it’s the new memories made.

At the end of the day it’s the people that make me happy, the people that I cherish, the people I will always remember.

Flying

There is something soothing about flying.
Once the stress of juggling your bags and clearing security pass and the plane takes off there’s something very soothing about it. I love sitting by the window and watching the world pass me by below, all my sadness and my fears miles below me anchored to the earth I am soaring above.

Once the baby a couple aisles away stops crying and the air hostesses stop all their fussing I feel perfectly at ease. Just sad enough from the goodbyes I have just wiped my eyes from and just weary enough of whatever new experience may be waiting for me once I land.

But between take off and landing there is something so soothing about flying. When the plane enters a cloud and the world around you disappears into the white fluffy essence of childhood dreams.

Yes, I find there is something quite soothing about flying.

The Island of Aphrodite

Cyprus is sometimes known as the island of Aphrodite. According to legend Aphrodite was born from the sea foam off the coast of Paphos in the south of Cyprus. I knew this legend long before I ever stepped foot on the island; I knew that Cyprus is the ‘island of love’. But I never expected to come to Cyprus and fall in love.

I love the island. I love the mountains, a cool and green escape in the dry heat of summer. I love the beaches, some nicer than even those on the Caribbean island I am from. I love the landscape, dry and bare in most parts, yet very beautiful in its minimalism.
I love the nightlife. From the repetitive club I frequented in Nicosia to the dangerously exciting nights in Ayia Napa: party capital of Cyprus.
I love the cultures. I love the history. From the time of the Venetian rule to current events still being disputed today. I love learning about Cyprus because I love Cyprus.
I love my mother’s apartment; so eclectically decorated and welcoming that it felt like home from the first night I spent there. I love my mother’s new apartment a stone’s throw away from the one I already call home, but bigger and full of promise.
Above all, I love my friends.

People who I have known for two years, some for one year and some only for six months but all who seem like I have known them for my whole life. I have shared the most amazing year of my life with these people and I will never forget them.
I love the girl who will leave a party on New Years Eve to get headache tablets for my sister, and the girl I knew for 3 months before I went to stay with her in London, and the girl who would walk to my apartment at 4am because she can. I love the friend who introduced me to all my other friends, and the friend who turns up at my house with a guitar to jam in the middle of the night, and the friend that always takes a joke too far, and the friend who loves the Jetsons, and the boy that made it that much harder to say goodbye.

I didn’t expect to come to Cyprus and fall in love, but I fell in love with the island itself. I love the island of love like a home now.
Goodbye for now Cyprus, you will be missed.

Goodbye

I have become quite accustomed to goodbyes in my time, but being accustomed to something does not make it any easier. When I was younger I was accustomed to suffering from frequent asthma attacks but that did not make the incapacitating loss of breath fun in any way. As used to them as I am, I still hate goodbyes.

The word itself implies that it is something positive. ‘Good’ bye gives the impression that it is something good. As in “It was nice to see you but I’m happy this time is coming to an end because I know our parting will make me happy.” Saying goodbye to a person or a place has never made me happy. By my definition a goodbye is always something sad, something no one looks forward to, but also something that is inevitable.

In my life I have said six very hard, very painful goodbyes. Each time I’ve moved to a new country I have had to say goodbye to the people and the places I love before my fresh start in a new place with new people. Saying goodbye is hardest when you don’t know for sure when next you will see those people and be able to say hello again. I’ve found, however, that it is never as permanent as you think.

Goodbye, as hard as it is to say, is never final. If you care enough and try enough and want to enough you will see those people again. If someone means enough to you it doesn’t matter how far apart you may be or how long you go without seeing each other. Friends forever is not just a cheesy title, it is a promise. I have gone three or more years without seeing friends that, when reunited, feel as if we were never apart at all. I have gone over a year now without seeing my two closest friends but I still talk to them all the time. With facebook and skype and cell phones and email goodbye is only as final as you allow it to be.

I have also found that every painful goodbye leads to a timid hello. I said goodbye to Trinidad to say hello to Holland. I said goodbye to Italy to say hello to Cyprus. I’m saying goodbye to Cyprus to say hello to Boston. Each time you say goodbye you are moving on to something else. Like that cliché saying goes: when one door closes another opens. If you allow yourself you will discover a new place and make new friends. A goodbye is just a hello waiting to happen; hello to the new experiences you are destined to have and hello again to the people you will inevitably be reunited with in the future.

As The Beatles so melodiously put it, “You say goodbye and I say hello. Hello hello.”

Sweet, sweet T&T.

I am from Trinidad and Tobago. I was born and lived there until I was nine years old, and again from fourteen until eighteen. I have never, however, identified with it as much as my parents would like. I do not freely call it my home.
That being said I have never been ashamed of the beautiful twin island nation… until now.

Recently I heard the heartbreaking news that a man by the name of Jack Warner was made Minister of National Security of our already corrupt and crime-ridden country. Jack Warner, once the Vice President of the worldwide football federation FIFA, was publicly suspended from the club for charges of alleged corruption and bribery in 2011. As such Warner resigned from FIFA before the investigation could be completed and “presumption of innocence is maintained”. Following this the current government of Trinidad and Tobago did not see any problem in appointing him Minister of National Security one year later. I, for one, do not feel safe.

This week I sat through a video 37 minutes long of a speech made by a woman by the name of Therese Baptiste-Cornelis. It took me three days to be able to watch the video in its entirety. This woman is our newly appointed permanent representative to the United Nations office in Geneva. She is, as a result, also ambassador to the World Trade Organisation, the World Health Organisation, the United Nations Environment Programme, the International Labour Organisation, the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, the International Trade Commission, the United Nations Educations, Scientific and Cultural Organisation in Paris, the Food and Agriculture Organistaion in Rome and the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation in Vienna. She represents our small island in Switzerland, France, Italy and Austria. The speech to which I am referring was given as the keynote speech at the Institute of Cultural Diplomacy in Geneva, on the topic of Cultural Diversity as the Fourth Policy Area of Sustainable Development. I cannot begin to describe how embarrassing and disappointing this speech was. To represent our country in such a negative light in an international setting was the last straw for me.

I cannot find pride in a country that promotes people like Therese Baptiste-Cornelis and Jack Warner in our government. People who are ignorant and thought to be corrupt should not be allowed to represent a small island nation in the international arena. These are the people the world turns to when they want to learn what our twin islands Trinidad and Tobago have to offer. These are the headlines that the world will read. If this and Nicki Minaj are all we have to offer then I am disappointed and ashamed.

My opinion, however, is just that: opinion. I have never been particularly patriotic. I simply do not feel that I have one home as I have lived all over the world. This is one person’s view, simply an individual outlook on the island and the way we present ourselves publicly. Because when one person humiliates us it reflects badly on all of us. So many Trini’s are proud to be Trini: “Trini to de bone” we say. Yet where are they now standing up for their country? So many who live abroad make sure that the world knows they are from Trinidad and Tobago. The island is beautiful, they say, the Carnival is the best in the world. But where will empty compliments get us? The island is deteriorating. The oil is running out. Overpopulation and pollution are not non-existent. Not to mention the crime. As a teenager living there I had next to no freedom; incapacitated by the rampant crime. Yet no one mentions these things when they boast of their Caribbean isle.
I am not saying the island is horrible. I am not saying the people are hypocrites. I am simply saying that there is room for improvement and we will not and cannot improve until we, the people, speak up and do something about it. I believe it is ALWAYS good to be outspoken, as long as you have something the world should hear. Therese Baptiste-Cornelis, on the other hand, should have thought before she spoke.

That being said I cannot deny the beauty and excellence of the small islands. While I am not blind to its negatives there are many aspects of which I am proud. I am proud of the nature in many parts of the island that is still more beautiful than much I have seen in the developed world. I am proud of Carnival, a nation wide celebration of joy and patriotism where your neighbours and your enemies alike are your best friends for two days and all judgment is put aside. I am proud of our Olympians Jehue Gordon, George Bovell, Andrew Lewis and others who have worked hard to achieve their dreams and represent our nation in a very positive light. I am proud of the multiculturalism that Therese Baptiste-Cornelis mispronounced and misrepresented; the celebration of Christmas and Divali equally, of mixed cultures and mixed religions living together in a way I have seen nowhere else in the world.

I am cynical and I am outspoken, but I find things to be proud of.

Home is where the heart is

In eleven short days I’m going ‘home’ for the first time in a year. Home, however, is a relative term for me. I am returning to the place I was born, the place where my father owns a house and I have very many memories and good friends. The place I’ve lived for the majority of my life, however sporadically, and where I attended and graduated high school. But does that make it home?

I’m leaving a place where I have never officially lived, but have been visiting for three years now. I have friends, many friends who I am very close with despite never actually living here. This is a place I feel comfortable, a place where I also have many memories, a place where my mother has an apartment. I feel at home here.

I recently left Italy where I lived and studied for the past year. I had four different apartments while I was there which I shared with different people each time. I lived in four different cities. I am not fluent in Italian and never felt I truly fit in as it is obvious that I am not a local, though I loved my time there and will always have a place in my heart for those cities. Italy gave me great memories. I felt at home there.

I’ve lived in four different places in my life.

In a few months I will be moving, yet again, to a new place. I will be starting over. I have visited this place once and have never seen the student housing I will be living in by myself. If everything goes according to plan I will be living in this place for four years.

Property does not make a home. Time does not make a home (though it does make it easier). Language does not make a home.
Friends and family make a home. Memories make a home. Love makes a home. You make your home.
If you want to you will feel at home. If you try to you will feel at home. If you make the effort and see the positives in a place, if you learn to love it you will call it home. This is something I have learnt from experience. No matter how long (or short) you live there, no matter who lives there with you, no matter why you live there. Call it home and it will become one.

A kiss.

A kiss is like a touch of magic.
A kiss goodnight, a kiss better, a kiss goodbye. The comforting kiss on the forehead from your loving mother as she tucks you in to bed at night. The welcoming kiss on the cheek from a good friend when you are reunited after time apart. The passionate kiss on the mouth from a lover, expressing how they feel in a way that does not need to be spoken aloud. A kiss is a promise, a remedy, a gift.

On your cheek or on your lips a kiss will always bring a smile to your heart. I dare you to kiss, or be kissed, and not feel it spread through your body. Not feel it’s warmth erupt at the point of origin and pulse happiness from your fingertips to your heart. No matter where you are kissed or by whom I dare you not to feel it in your heart.
A kiss is the only part of fairytales that is not fiction.
A kiss is a dream come true, a granted wish.
A kiss is like a touch of magic.

A love letter to Florence

When a girl falls in love for the first time she will remember it for the rest of her life. She will remember his face and his hands, or maybe his arms and how she fit between them. She will remember his voice and the feeling- above all the feeling. The bliss and the beauty of the world when she was with him, the ‘can-do-no-wrong’ way she saw him, and the indescribable happiness with which he filled her heart. That memory will be her most valued memory. Even when the magic comes to an end and she cries and mourns and then she moves on. Even when she finds someone else, maybe even someone better. Her first love will always be her strongest.

That is how I feel about you.
You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You were my first love: the first one to creep into my heart and stay, to crawl into my mind and fill it with joy. You could do, and can do no wrong in my eyes. Your faults are not faults, but contribute to your beauty. With you I could not be unhappy, a bad day was a good day in comparison to the rest of my bad days. You saved me. You came to me (or, rather, I to you) when I needed you most, but you welcomed me with open arms and loved me as I loved you. You wiped away my tears, you calmed my fears, you comforted me and erased all my bad memories. The world was better when I was with you. I have not been as happy since, or felt as loved or loved as much. There have been others, but none the same. None have loved me as you did and I could not love another more. I would not betray you. Though I cried when it came to an end and though I was sad and hurt I knew you did not want our end any more than I did. I knew we wanted to be together forever. We shared the same hopes and dreams; no one could come between us. But our time came to an end and I had to leave you though I did not want to. Leaving you was the hardest part because loving you was so easy. Wait for me, I will return. Remember be, I will never forget you. Love me as I love you: forever.

Io sono tuo,
Tara.

Writer's block

I have that painful stare-at-the-blank-page-can’t-think-of-anything-good-to-write illness. It’s torturing me.
I have all these thoughts in my head, so many in fact that they are swimming circles around each other. Racing and competing and drowning each other in a competition so fierce none come out on top and the page in front of me remains blank.

One thought rings loudest in my mind, but whispers words so fragile they disappear as soon as I write them down.

What do you do when the one thing you want to write about won’t jump out of your head, crawl down your arm, ignite in your fingertips and tattoo themselves on a page in front of you? What then? How do you make the one idea you have an actuality when you know it’s the one idea that isn’t any good? ‘No one will want to read this’ I keep thinking, ‘that is not a good story.’ Yet it remains, the only idea stronger than all the rest, the only spark of inspiration setting a fire in my mind.
Yet the words are stuck, trapped inside me. They pulse in my brain and leak through the membrane to my blood, flowing through my small body and into my heart where they beat within me like a life force, mocking me, taunting me with their fickle presence. The one thing I want to write won’t come out and nothing else survives.

How do poets find inspiration so willing to be tamed? How do authors write plots so eager to unfold? How do musicians make melodies wanting to be heard? When I can’t write a story because it doesn’t want to be told. It wants to be lived. And life is not an option.

I have that painful illness, that teasing trick, that contemptuous feeling.
I have writer’s block.

The Beach

I love the beach.

I love how the sand gives way to my eager steps towards the water. I love how the hot sand makes the cool water that much more rewarding. I love how the sun hits the waves and reflects off the surface as if the clear water hid crystals just waiting to be found.

I used to believe that I was destined to be a mermaid because I love the beach, and water, and swimming so much. I would have to be dragged out of the surf by my parents as the sun set and my lips turned blue with chill, but I still never wanted to leave.

Water is calm. Water is fresh. Water is relaxing and energizing, loving and teasing.

I love how after a swim the salt sticks to my skin and crystallizes on the light hairs on my arm. I love how if I lick my lips I can taste the sea and all the things I love about it. I love how my hair dries after being tousled by the waves and saturated with salt.

Today I sat at the beach and read. I did not pay attention to the conversation of the people next to me. I did not aimlessly watch as the passers by passed by me. I barely even spoke to my mother who was sitting at my side also immersed in a book. I escaped from my world, from my thoughts, from everything on my mind good and bad happy and sad and I read.

Reading is my great escape, my favourite way to ease my mind and forget my troubles, but reading on the beach is unparalleled. The combination of a good novel, a sunny day, the sand and the sea and the way my hair dries after a swim makes life seem serene.

I love the beach.

Lessons Learned

It has now been over a month since I left Italy. It’s hard to imagine my time in Italy felt so long but my time away from it now is going so quickly. In one more month I’ll be leaving Cyprus, my home away from home, quite possibly for good. One short month after that I’ll be starting college in Boston, living in America for the first time in my life.

It’s taken me this whole month to decide what my big end of Italy post should be. I was going to write a one-month anniversary reflecting on everything I learnt this year but honestly that post would probably take a year in itself to write and read. I’ve learnt so much, seen so much, experienced and loved so much this year. I decided to write not what I learnt most in Italy, but what I learnt most about myself.
This year, amongst many other things, was a test of my independence and my relationships with others. It tested my friendships that were hard to maintain while away from home, tested new friendships formed and sadly lost, and tested romantic relationships. Not just in Italy, but in life I have learnt that all relationships start within oneself.

Recently I read a very good quote: "As you grow older, you'll find the only things you regret are the things you didn't do." If you don’t fight for what you want you won’t get it. If you don’t tell your friend you care about them you will regret it but if you do argue and quarrel and cry you will forget what you were arguing about eventually. This advice applies to all aspects of life, not just relationships. If you don’t travel you will regret not experiencing another culture. If you don’t smile you will regret the sadness you allowed into your heart. And if you don’t love you will regret missing the opportunity. Some things come once in a lifetime, like cooking the perfect soufflé or travelling with friends. Cease the opportunity because it’s better to experience than wonder what you could have learnt.
If someone is important to you let them know. I’ve made many mistakes this year when it comes to relationships with others and I will admit that they were my mistakes and my responsibility, because a friendship cannot fall apart unless you let it. That being said the other person has to accept this attitude as well because one person cannot be entirely responsible for both parts of a relationship. If you both accept your own responsibility instead of blaming each other I believe that even the hardest friendship or relationship can be maintained. Maybe not in the way you had hoped, maybe not even in a way that you want at first. But keeping a friend is better than losing one, no matter how hard it is to keep them.


That is what I learnt this year. Above all I learnt that I will never stop learning, never stop trying and never stop growing.

Time has caught me up

I was having a bad day. We all have them, whether we live in paradise or purgatory, Venice or not, somewhere we love or somewhere we hate everybody has bad days. Perhaps I was having a bad day because I was having a bad week. Small things were piling up and it had begun to feel like important things were crumbling around me and falling away from me, slipping through my fingers. I let these small things grow and allowed the negativity to overwhelm me; I will admit I am guilty of that. I let my own sad negative thoughts overcome the magical beauty of this place I now call home: Venice. But then Venice saved me, embraced me, and showed me the beauty of life that cannot be ignored.

I went for a walk. I wanted to stretch my legs and clear my mind. Somewhere between my apartment and the historic Rialto market I stumbled upon a little piece of my personal heaven. Tucked between a mask-making store selling hand made masks and a store with barrels full of delicious cheap wine I found the most chaotically quirky and enchanting bookstore that I have ever seen. I walked in to a big room with piles of art shrouding the entrance. Books were piled up to my waist along every wall, without any order or category. Some were English, many were German, a few were French and most were Italian. Every genre, every size, every age. Some books seemed older than me and some were books I recognized from my child hood. In the very centre of the room was a large antique gondola, sinking under the weight of even more books piled within it, the pages spilling over the sides. The next room looked almost the same, except in place of the antique gondola was a large bathtub, equally full of books. In the very corner of the store was a doorway. The short double doors were rotting from the bottom up. They opened onto three short smooth stairs that led straight into the blue-green water of a Venetian canal. If it weren’t for a barrier made of an old oar blocking the way I could have walked straight out of the store into the canal, away from the comforting books into the cold water. I sat by the doorway onto the water. I browsed every shelf (and bathtub, and gondola) overflowing with books and then I found the small simple cure for my bad mood: I found a note.
On top of a book inside the gondola in the first room of the small store a little loose sheet of white paper caught my eye. I picked it up, surprised to realize that the messy purple hand-writing scrawled across the top of the page was not in Italian, but in English. I read the words that danced in my brain and crawled into my heart:

“time, which behaves differently for each of us, has caught me up.”

I couldn’t help but smile, I couldn’t help but be filled with happiness and I couldn’t help but slip the loose-leaf paper into my purse before I walked out of the store. I felt as though the note had been left there, written in my language in my favourite colour, for me to find and fall in love with. Suddenly I wasn’t alone, my troubles weren’t troubles at all and life was beautiful again.

Small coincidences- that may not be coincidence at all, but fate- are the greatest reminders of the beauty of life. That note meant to me that nothing was more important than I let it be and nothing could ‘catch me up’ unless I allowed it too. It meant that I wasn’t alone and that I was entirely independent and in control of my own feelings as well as all the small things falling around me and the bigger things building up.

What does it mean to you?

Guest Post: Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance

Recently I was approached by a kind representative of the Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance asking me if she could write a guest post for my blog. Naturally I agreed. I was both touched by her opinion of my blog and moved by her motivation to help others.
Before reading this there are three things you should consider:
1) I did not write this, but I agree with every word
2) Writing- clearly- is my escape and I whole heartedly encourage others to find an escape in it too
3) I do not believe in posting my personal life issues on this blog, but know that this matter is very close to my heart.


Creating the Life You Want With Words, Melanie Bowen.

A journal can be a place of solace. It can be a place to express your feelings, fears and dreams without worrying about anyone else judging you for those things. A journal can be a way to track your progress during challenges. Major illness can definitely be one of those challenges in which keeping a journal can be a helpful and healthy thing. Sitting in a doctor’s office and being told a shocking mesothelioma prognosis or that you have a chronic illness such as pancreatitis can be a shattering, life-changing moment. However, keeping a journal during your health journey can provide you with a place to find your feet and, amazingly, hope for the future.

Improve Your Health Through Writing

As surprising as it might seem, there is actual scientific evidence that keeping a journal and writing can improve your health. University of Texas at Austin researcher and psychologist James Pennebaker discovered that journaling on a regular basis strengthens the immune system.

Writing and journaling also has been shown to improve mental health in a number of ways. Numerous researchers have found that journal-keeping reduces stress levels in individuals facing dramatic health issues. For many years, therapists have contended that journaling allows people to gain clarity about issues in their life and a method to come to terms with events in their life. This process alone can help improve depression and anxiety symptoms for many people.

Find Your True Happiness in a Journal

Journal writing is also a way to come to a deeper understanding of yourself and what makes you truly happy. This can be especially important in facing major health issues. For many individuals with life-changing health issues, there comes a time when you start thinking about what you really want to accomplish and would really make you happy. A journal is a great place to start exploring those ideas and goals.

When you think back to things that have made you happiest in the past, ask yourself when was the last time you did any of those things. Was there something specific about that activity that made you happy or filled you with joy? Are there other things you could do that would bring those wonderful feelings to you in another way?

As part of your journal writing, do a little brainstorming. Make up a list of all the places you want to see. Make a list of things you would love to learn. Make a list of people you want to meet. Make a list of people you haven’t seen in years, but really want to reconnect with. Are any of these things that you could do right now? What do you need to do to make them happen?

Before you know it, you will find yourself with an entire list of things to do and look forward to every day. The simple act of writing these things down will make you more likely to actually make them happen and accomplish them. Once you accomplish one goal, then add something new to your list.

The wonderful thing about this kind of journal keeping is that it gives you a map. Do you remember the movie “The Bucket List?” Morgan Freeman was slowly sinking into misery until Jack Nicholson pushed him to start living for now and doing things. Suddenly, Morgan was happier, full of energy and had a purpose in life again. You see, Jack had figured out a secret about living. If you write things down, you will do them. Write your list. Find your happiness. Find your hope and live for today.

Check out a lot more information on illness and wellness at the Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance.

I am proud to have shared this on my page, and hope that my readers consider it as educational and moving as I did.

Sogni d'oro

The fog is beautiful this morning.
Venice is still sleeping, blanketed by a thick mist that conceals the tops of picturesque old churches. I stand on the slow waterbus and shiver; I am still sleeping too.
I had a bad dream last night. One that felt so real it seems as though I got no sleep at all. Maybe I wasn’t dreaming, maybe I was living another life in a parallel universe. Maybe that’s why I got no sleep. It was a dream that stayed in my mind once I got out of bed and followed me through my slow morning routine. Now the dream is stitched into my clothes and tangled in my hair. By the end of the day it will wash away with my hot evening shower, but for now I can’t get it off my mind.
It was a bad dream because it was so good. The dream was what I want, what I wish could be reality. The dream was only bad because it was only a dream. I don’t want to let go, don’t want it to fade away. My dream will drift into the Venetian fog and add to the clouds that are covering the tops of picturesque old churches.
Because though I am living in Venice and though I am lucky and happy to be here we dream because sometimes fiction is better than reality. We dream because sometimes there is somewhere else that we would rather be or something else we would rather be doing.
We can’t help it; dreams are wishes we make in our sleep.

Osservazioni (in Venezia)

My feet are inches from the water of a murky green Venetian canal. If I were taller the sole of my boots would touch the surface and I would seemingly be walking on water. I hear children talking, people walking, and the deep voice of a gondolier calling to his colleague as the pointed bow of his boat creeps around the corner. His colleague replied with a similar deep-throated response and soon the two gondolas are side by side on the narrow canal a foot from my dangling legs. Their passengers are laughing, they are navigating, and I am writing. They pass.
Another gondola turns the corner. And another. Another child laughs, another family walks through the piazza behind me.

A child is intrigued by me sitting by myself in the corner of a piazza with my feet inches from the green murky water of a Venetian canal. She walks up to me and tries to read what I am writing over my shoulder, taking it upon herself to keep a young stranger company. I say ‘Ciao’ she says ‘I only speak French’ (in French) so I say ‘Bonjour’ and she scurries off to her father.

Traffic, in Venice, means three or more gondolas on the same canal. It means navigating past each other as two of the slender boats pass under a bridge at once. It is the serene steering around others, the graceful compromise and negotiation of vessels. Traffic in Venice is like life.

I am cold and slightly hungry but I would rather stay here than walk the short distance back to my house. How can I sit inside on a sunny day in Venice? How can I waste my already limited time here? I am trying to be happy and think positively and appreciate how fortunate I am to be here.

Three young boys, my age or slightly younger, steer a small red motorboat passed me. There is a gondola in front of them and a gondola behind them. They are trying to decide if they should turn right or turn left. “A destra o sinistra?” They go straight ahead.

As I sit here I think. I think about friends I have and friends I have lost, about people I know and people I knew. I think about people I miss, about relationships that I have had and relationships that I could have had. I think about how my right hand is much colder than my left.

Another gondola sails past me.

Mostly I am thinking about how curious it is that people can make you both blissfully happy and heart wrenchingly sad, often times the same person causing both. I think about how relationships- with friends, with family, with the opposite sex- have such an impact on one’s mood, one’s outlook and one’s life. I think about how sadness is a familiar feeling.

Four gondolas go past in succession.

And finally, I think about how people, good or bad nice or otherwise cannot rival the beauty of Venice.

Thoughts from Places- Part IV

Returning to Florence 23/02/2012
Sitting in front of Santa Maria Novella once more, listening to live music and enjoying the first warm day I’ve experienced in months. I love life. Returning to Florence was the best thing I could have done. Though I was there for immigration reasons and I spent most of the day in the questura, there are no words for how much I enjoyed being back in Florence. From the moment the train pulled into the station I felt like I was home. It’s amazing how after only three months in Florence it feels more like home to me than anywhere else I have lived. I missed Florence, and she welcomed me back with open arms.
Spending the night with my old roommate in a new place was so familiar it was unreal. Sleeping in a house I had never seen before should not have been so comfortable for me, but it was Florence so it could not have been any other way. Something about walking down the street that I used to live on and seeing that the same graffiti is still there comforted me. Florence hasn’t changed at all, and though I wish that my leaving the city had broken it’s heart as much as it broke mine I could not be happier that the streets of Florence are still my streets and that Florence is still my Florence. There is no joy like the joy Florence brings me, and no love like the love I have felt there.
I returned to the small café around the corner from my old apartment that I used to get a cappuccino at every morning. I was nervous that my favourite old lady would not recognise me and would not greet me with the “ciao bella” that made my day every day of my three months there. But from the moment her face lit up with recognition I could not believe that I ever doubted her. I was as much a part of her morning routine as she was of mine, and when she asked me where I had been it made me sad to say that I no longer live around the corner and that I was only back in town for one day.
I regret saying that I was happier in my one day in Florence than my one month in Tuscania, but it’s the truth. The familiarity, the memories, and the success of receiving my ‘Permit of Stay’, which is the reason I went back in the first place topped the three weekends I couldn’t leave the house because of snow.
Florence will always have a special place in my heart.

Leaving Tuscania 24/02/2012
If practice makes perfect I should be pretty damn perfect at goodbyes by this point. The amount of times I have lived and loved in a place and then had to leave it would make me the goodbye queen. Somehow, however, I have not quite perfected them yet. I have not quite learnt how to leave a place I love without feeling sad, how to part with a new but still close friend without knowing I will miss them.
I loved Tuscania. I loved the small town and the cobblestone streets, I loved the view of the countryside on a sunny day, I loved my house and my pets and my one short month of memories. But above all I loved the bonds that I formed. Above all I will miss the people more than the place.
I already miss the adorably friendly woman who worked at the green grocer who insisted I teach her a new word in English every time I stopped in to buy milk. She would write the words on a post-it note next to her cash register and make sure to use the word the next time I came back for more milk.
I already miss my advisor, who took two hours out of her day to walk me to the doctor and drive me to the supermarket on the one day that being independent and fending for myself just didn’t seem so appealing.
I miss my landlord’s weird, crazy, strange, friendly son who started off as just a neighbour and quickly became a good (though very confusing) friend. He helped me with my Italian homework, made sure I practiced the language though he spoke very impressive English and he introduced us to his friends. Coming from Florence where unless you went above and beyond making an Italian friend was a triumphant feat my small group of Italian friends in Tuscania were something to be proud of.
I miss my cat, who came with the house and stole my heart the moment she curled up in my lap in front of our fire place on one of our first nights there. I miss her warm purring body on top of my chest on the nights so cold that sleeping on the couch was more appealing than sleeping in my bed because it was that much closer to the fire, the only source of heat in the house.
But somewhere amongst all that missing and all those goodbyes, I am happy for the time I spent there, happy for the bonds I formed, and happy to know that I will be back one day without a doubt.
As for right now, I am happy to be in Rome!


Discovering Rome 28/02/2012
In my first few days in Rome I have leant some very important lessons. 1) Get used to the tourists; they’re everywhere! 2) Do not use a fountain as a landmark, there are about a million and one, and 3) expect to spend a lot of money. In my short time here, however, I’ve fallen in love with life in a big city all over again. Yes, I miss the welcoming small town feel of Tuscania, I miss walking from one end of the town to another in under an hour and I miss running into the same person every night. Most of all I miss interacting with local people. I can already tell that’s going to be hard in Rome. Aside from that, however, I love it. I love that it feels like I live in New York or London but surrounded by all the magnificent history of the Roman Empire. I love that everywhere I turn there is another grandiose monument of majestic fountain and I don’t even know what half of them were built for. I love that I can get on a metro 10 mins away from my apartment and get off 1 minute away from the Spanish Steps. So far, I love Rome, and it’s only the beginning. I can already tell the Eternal city will be hard to leave.

Un incontrare..

Last weekend I met a girl. This girl wasn’t particularly beautiful or particularly funny. She wasn’t inspirational or the protagonist of a heart wrenching story. But she was memorable. She was memorable for me because she was like looking through a time machine. For fifteen minutes I felt as though I was having a conversation with myself three years in the future. Her name was Danielle.

Danielle studied in Tuscania three years ago. She spoke a little more Italian than her classmates, but still nowhere near fluent. She was timid and excited and flirtatious and naïve. She lived here for one semester and met her husband. When we met she was sitting in the restaurant that he used to work in, the restaurant where they met. She was with her entire family and he with his and they were having a second celebration for their recent union. As I was walking out I caught a glimpse of their wedding photos that his proud father and owner of the restaurant framed and put on the wall. I loved their story, I loved her radiating joy, and I loved meeting her.

I have studied in Italy for almost 6 months now. I remember being the new girl, starting in Italy for the first time. I was lucky enough to have friends that had already studied here for one semester who took me under their wing. This time I am that person, and I have extended my wings to others. I can almost understand some Italian but am nowhere near fluent. I help translate what I can, just as Danielle did. I am not looking to meet the love of my life, in fact my father’s one condition when he encouraged me to study in Italy was “Do not get married.” I was, however, inspired, intrigued and in awe of this young girl that has lived my life and come away so happy.

I love what I’m doing, I love where I am, I love how fortunate I am and I try to appreciate every moment of it. But being diagnosed with bronchitis, being miserable due to the weather and being mildly home sick I’ve found myself losing sight recently of how lucky I am and how truly happy I am to be here. Meeting this girl reminded me of that.
It’s not because she has a fairytale happy ending, in fact it is more so because she does not have an ending yet. She is me and I am her. She studied at the same school I am studying in the same small town I am living in. I hope that one day I can go back to Florence, or come back to Tuscania and walk the same old streets older and wiser. I hope that these memories will follow me for the rest of my life and shape me the way it shaped her life. I know this experience has already changed me for the better.

V-Day

I used to believe that Valentines Day was a made up holiday for Hallmark and Cadbury to exploit lonely people or expectant couples. A girl on Valentines day falls into one of two categories, either single and therefore supposedly depressed and lonely or in a relationship and therefore in need of gifts and candy and spoiling for one insignificant day.

Today is different. Today I am single, ergo I must fall into the first category. But I am not sad and I am certainly not lonely. I am currently surrounded by good friends, eating a slice of torta al limone with a glass of sparkling white wine, and we’re settling down soon to watch ‘A Room with a View’. I couldn’t be further from lonely.
Today I am filled with love.

I love the small old city I live in where people are so excited to teach me Italian and for me to teach them English.
I love the new friends I have made, some I know I will be lucky enough to call best friends for the rest of my life.
I love the beautiful, though possibly haunted and freezing cold villa that I live in, even though I can see my breath in my bedroom at times…
I may not love my lungs for recently contracting bronchitis but other than that I am perfectly content.
I love myself, I love my friends, I love my family (though I miss them dearly), and I love life. What else can you ask for on a day of love?

Buon Valentino a tutti. Happy Valentines Day.

La bella lingua

I love Italian.
Aside from the fact that the modern tongue is directly developed from some of the greatest writers in Italian history, and regardless of the evolution of the language from individual regional dialects to the Tuscan and mostly Florentine vernacular becoming the prominent common language, and despite my bias because of how much I love Florence… I love Italian.
There are so many things about this language that are more beautiful, more creative, and more romantic than English could ever hope to be. How can you not love a language in which dinner is a verb?! Io ceno, I dine.
My new nickname is buona forchetta, which literally means ‘good fork’ but is their way of saying one has a good appetite. I consider it a compliment.
The Italian class I am taking this semester is more than overwhelming. I am doing a semester worth of second level Italian in four weeks, and then intermediate Italian for the remaining two months. I felt like I was having a heart attack in my brain today when my teacher tried to explain the difference between in and nel in relation to place, but then I learnt the word for hug, abbracciare, which literally means ‘embrace her’ and I fell in love with the language all over again.
Making a simple word more exciting by adding –issima to the end is, well, exciting. Bravissima! Bellissima! Or, one that I have become particularly well acquainted with in my short time here in Tuscania, Freddissima! (which means really f-ing cold).
Cado innamorato is a much more beautiful way of saying ‘fall in love’. It makes me almost believe that when one falls in love in Italy one never hits the ground. (A lot to expect from a language, I know). To say mi trucco, or literally ‘I trick’ instead of ‘to put on makeup’ is much more lavish, and funny that Italians refer to makeup as a trick, a distortion of natural feminine beauty. Buonanotte sounds more musical than a simple goodnight, and sogni d’oro, dream of gold, is quite possibly the most romantic thing I have ever heard. Who doesn’t want golden dreams?

Sono innamorato con questa lingua, e voglio imparare l’italiano piu e piu.

Tuscania

At the beginning of last semester my advisor recommended that we write a letter to ourselves saying our first thoughts and feelings about Florence. We then gave the letters to her and she returned them at the end of the semester so we could see how we grew and if we met our expectations. This semester I’m doing it again:

Dear Tara,
I- you- arrived yesterday. Even though I had a 4am flight and even though I waited at the airport for 5 hours for the provided transportation to take me from Rome to Tuscania and even though it’s freezing cold… I love it. Tuscania is beautiful. The kind of town you could get lost in, in many senses of the word. It’s so small yet so maze-like within the ancient city walls that one wrong turn could take you 20 mins from where you are trying to go (and that could be the best 20 minutes you’ve ever spent). But it’s also the kind of place you could get lost from the world in. It would be easy to come here and never leave. But I’m glad I am. I’m glad that in one month I’ll be packing my bags again and heading off to Rome. Nothing excites me more than the thought of how amazing this semester is going to be, how different each city will be and how much I’m going to learn. I am already excited for the next chapter. I’m worried this will go too quickly. I will admit I’m guilty of living with my head in the future. I’m already sad about the end of this adventure that has only just begun. I can’t help but miss certain people and wish I could share this beautiful place with them. I’m frustrated by technicalities that are ruining my excitement about being here. But though my mind is plagued by these worries I refuse to take a minute of my time here for granted. I hope that Tuscania will be the true Italian experience I’ve been seeking. I hope that no one will speak to me in English and that I will make friends with local people. I’m hoping I will get lost here, everyday, but I hope that after one month I’ll be able to find my way around with a blindfold and without a word of English. I’m looking forward to the complete opposite in Rome. I want the big city feel with the Italian touch, I want the history mixed in with the nightlife, I want the freedom… and the fast internet. And Venice, no words can describe how excited I am for Venice.
As for now, I am lucky enough (again) to have roommates I can see myself being good friends with very soon. I’m lucky enough to be able to get by with the little Italian I know thus far. I’m lucky enough to love what I’m studying. I’m lucky.

Thoughts on a stormy day

It’s a stormy day today. I slept late and woke up to the sound of the wind chimes outside my bedroom window. The wind had caught them and agitated them and they were calling out for help. As I went outside to relieve the wind chimes from their unwanted energy one of the large plants on my balcony caught the wind as well and blew right over. It’s lying on the floor now, resting on its side like me in my bed.

It’s a stormy day today. I just tried to write a poem and all that came out was
‘the storm clouds in my head have crawled into the sky,
now the world and I can see eye to eye’.
I can’t seem to turn my thoughts off. I often think too much.

It’s a stormy day today. I’ve found that recently I haven’t been writing anything I find worthwhile. I wrote one poem I like last week, and six that I don’t. I started a blog post yesterday but never finished it. I can’t condense my stormy thoughts to coherent rhythmic words on a page. This is the best I can do.

It’s a stormy day today and I’m worried. I’m worried that the rain will dampen the clothes I’ve put out to dry. I’m worried the sky will stay so dark I’ll need to turn on the lights before the sun even sets. I’m worried I don’t know what to pack. I’m worried about going back to Italy (mostly excited, but worried too.) I’m worried about my future.

It’s a stormy day today, but it may not be tomorrow. I have no way of knowing if it will be stormy tomorrow; either in my head or in the skies. I can only hope for sunshine. I need to learn that I can’t control the future. I can make decisions- hopefully the right decisions- that will determine certain things. But I can’t know what will happen before it happens. I can’t know what to do before I do it. I can’t hop in a time machine and turn the dial to five months from now or five years from now and prove to myself that everything will be ok. Maybe it won’t, maybe nothing will be ok. Maybe nothing will be as I expect. But maybe, just maybe it will. Maybe my dreams will come true and my worries will prove to be pointless. Maybe five months from now I will be the happiest I have ever been. I can only hope for sunshine.