I tell everyone we are so very  through

‘Cause I am so much better without you

And you never say what you really mean

And from you, I really need a vaccine

I start to go insane, under my skin

The story you tell is so addictive

You make my brain go for a loop

My English teacher assigns an essay, whoop

More poetry, Why can’t I seem to get away

Great, these insipid rhymes are here to stay

      The darkness is ugly. The dark conceals. It represents the unknown to the human brain. To a child, this inspires fear at the prospect of a monster lurking behind the veil of darkness. But, this is not only fear to be outgrown by a bedwetting child. It is easy for us to take comfort in what is immediately seen; we like when the whole picture is laid before our eyes, nothing unexpected. However, there is another dimension to this limited sight–the unseen. The unseen, like the frightful darkness, is hard for us to see. So, we associate it with fear. But, can’t this also be a source of beauty? How can we live when we only want to see what is familiar to us, or, in other words, what is in the light. We may not know everything around us. But, I concede that the darkness is the reason to live, to see what is unusual, strange, and out of the ordinary lurking in the shadows. This monster that causes the child to clunch his/her covers more tightly has no reason to be feared at all.

My image depicts me and a group of nine others gybing through the wind, navigating the cool Maine waters in a thirty-foot Baltimore Boat. The beaming expressions of excitement and focus can be found on everyone’s faces (kind of). I am squatting ready to grasp the mainsail at a moments notice, ready to wrestle the wind. The salty froth is streaming up the side, stinging out sunburn-clad skin from the harsh and inhospitable sun. We are all clearly exhausted from long, physically-demanding days. We caught some sleep at the most random moments, especially when we were under-weigh, like in the picture. There is no other boat traffic around us. We were very much alone for a long period of time. Us, the boat, and the sea. Our only navigation was a simple map, a leg divider, and a compass.

What is unseen, beyond the expression of sheer joy, is the feeling of terror, as this is my very first experience sailing a boat. Would we capsize, what if I led us into to shallow water, what if we became caught on a lobster pot? In fact, I had met these strangers just two hours ago, and I was alone 400 miles from home. And yet none of my thoughts came true. It neglects to see the way in which each of us relied upon each other to survive on this thirty-foot boat: sleeping, cooking, and bow watch. The trip was miserable but fun in its own unique blend. Wet and moldy clothes were inescapable. The blisters on my hands throbbed after the days of rowing on windless days and sheeting the sail on the days with sporadic fits of wind. I had learned the skill of resilience throughout our three-week expedition in the unknown.

 

The truth

It sticks out sharply from the sand

Standing alone, it is appreciated,

World build around it

But…

 

What is honest?

What is its cost?

What is true?

 

How do we know what is true is true is true

How do we be bold,

While hiding imperfection

 

“Life’s but a walking shadow,

A poor player

That struts and frets

his hour upon the stage

And is heard from no more” (1)

 

Fake and fake and fake,

We are just an immaculate facade

With a dilapidated interior

 

We are only acting

 

1. Quote from Shakespeare’s Macbeth; Act 5, Scene 5, Lines 23-27   

      People always say that nothing is permanent; everything is temporary, transient, fleeting. And yet we always seem to take comfort in our habits and rhythms like we have no defense when we are thrown into a time of major change. I used to hate change vehemently. I liked my friends, my school, and my environment. I liked what was familiar. However, this is not conducive for a military family that packs up and leaves no trace every three years. I had made many cross-country moves before, but I had been too young to really understand what was happening and too young to make a lasting connection and love for my community. We made our final move in 2010 just before my dad retired. I had lived most of my life on the sunny beaches of California, longer than anywhere else. I liked running down the wooden pier and watching the fisherman reel in fish. I enjoyed my sad attempts at surfing in the cool waters of the Pacific. I finally had friends that I was going to miss. Our final goodbye to the great state of California came as we crossed out the final item on our bucket list of places we wanted to visit– the last national park we had yet to visit–Yosemite We were going to drive away of everything I was familiar with over the Sierra-Nevadas through the Tioga Mountain Pass.

      We made our ascent up the mountain escaping the forest fires eating at the forest below. The switchbacks were making me dizzy. We stopped briefly to stretch our legs in a grassy meadow just abeam of the road. The air no longer smelled like smoke and I could finally breathe. I watched the Mule Deer run in the open, the birds and their singsong banter in the trees, and a bear crawling through the underbrush in the distance. They were always moving. They were nomads in the search of food or escaping the clutches of the flames now far below. Their lives were constantly changing, but they survived, and they kept moving. To my ten-year-old mind, this meant everything. This meant I would survive this move.

     On that mountain, I looked back and knew I would bring with me the memories I had made, but now looked forward, at the unknown land of Virginia, with renewed enthusiasm. I learned to embrace change, which I can no longer live without.