New Haven Independent

July 22, 2006

I leave on Tuesday, July 25. I will be in Campinas for a month, and then return for a few days to gather the rest of my clothing and school books and whatnot. And then I’ll go back down for real.
I am a mixture of emotions. When I found out that I’d be leaving, I was in Vermont in my bedroom. Dennis was walking up the stairs and I called out to him that I’d be leaving this week.
To make a long story short, the ride to Queens from Vermont that night was sad and tense, mostly because neither of us wanted to admit to our sadness. Dennis tried to make me smile and laugh, but sometimes it hurt so much even to force my lips up into a smile that tears came out anyway. My laughter sounded fake, mostly because it was fake. We just didn’t want to be in the car together sad. But after a while, neither of us could fake it anymore. It was a sad ride home.
Somewhere around Greenwich I got tired of crying and decided to change my attitude. Dennis was asleep anyway, and I had a cup of coffee to keep me going. And I’m not about to shed tears into a good cup of coffee. So I’m leaving in a few days. I know I will cry a few more times and I will do my best not to.

Last night I talked to Brinn. She sounds good although I only talked to her for a few minutes. She told me I shouldn’t go, that I’m crazy for going so far away. I made some tentative plans to see or talk to her again before I go. I know I’ll talk to her again; we have a bond now. I’m going to miss writing about her.

And on a final note, my writing time is over for NHI. I will, however, continue on my own at a different site. Click here to read it. It’s been a pretty awesome year of words and I hope I’ll have another awesome year beginning Tuesday. It’s been a privilege and a pleasure to spend this time in reflection, a real gift to be able to connect with the New Haven community, and to immerse myself in words.

When I was at SEA a bunch of years ago, I climbed to the top of the foremast alone one morning while we were sailing away from Silver Bank toward the Dominican Republic. It was late morning and the sea was calm, the sky a bright blue with tiny white whisps of cloud floating about. I was all alone swaying at the top of the ship, higher than anyone or anything else out there. I clung to the mast and kept repeating in a whisper, “Trust yourself, trust yourself, trust yourself” to keep my mind off of my fear of heights. On the mast, a sailor had scribbled three words, which to this day have remained etched in my memory—a kind of mantra or anthem for difficult times. The sailor wrote: “Everyday an adventure.” And I’ve kept those words in my mind, a secret source of strength and inspiration when I’m faced with challenges. I can be afraid of them or I can see these challenges as adventures.
So here I am, about to climb another mast, repeating “trust yourself,” and seeing every day from here on out as an adventure.