Denver Writes

When I first clanked my way down the stairs of Metropolis Coffee, my boot announcing my entrance louder than any doorbell could, I had no idea what to expect. I try to make it that way, holding back distracting anticipatory butterflies, furrowing fear, and unruly excuses until moments before landing myself in a situation. I figure by that point survival instincts kick in to sedate all elevated emotions, and I can deal with what I may have foolishly signed myself up for.

This week I landed myself in a creative writing camp for kids ages 8-11, run by the nonprofit Denver Writes in the basement of a downtown Broadway Street coffee shop. Past all the angsty, edgy vibes of the hipster coffee shop patrons, I discovered a colorful classroom and smiling instructor. As a volunteer, I took my stance at the doorway like a warrior positioning himself for battle.

To speak in baseball terms, I came close to striking out. Strike one: while discussing star wars with one boy, I mentioned the death of a character, leading a boy nearby to launch into a list of dead relatives and far away funerals. I call that a ‘fowl’ ball. Strike two: a talkative boy from Puerto Rico circled the room challenging the other kids to list difficult English words, determined to translate them all to Spanish. When he came over to me, I offered “Supercalifragelisticespialidocious” with what I thought was a gentle smile. It turns out he had never seen Mary Poppins. My swing entirely missed. 

But the first smile I received back changed everything. I found myself amongst creative, spunky, kindred spirits. I was part of a Charlie Brown cast of quirky characters. This included a boy whose red-headed afro was double the size of his freckled, toothless-grin face, a dedicated child-architect of table-filling “Tornado Towns”, and a drama queen Hollywood actress in the making, quite capable of squeezing affection out of anyone with high intensity hugs. Across five, eight-hour days I came to love these children, amazed at how quickly my warrior-like defense and wacky emotions had been conquered by that all-encompassing feeling of friendship.

As more volunteers filed in, each found the group of children with which they most “belonged.” It seems my heart always lies with the island of misfit toys, the different kids who miraculously find each other and remain lovingly loyal amidst the trauma and drama of every other group. We came to be known as the “Injured Table.”

There was Allison, gifted with natural puppy eyes and a sweet disposition, who had a nosebleed on day two. She was the first to walk alongside me as I limped behind the group, filling the summer air with stories of bunnies and kittens. There was Julian, with long golden locks ripe for jokes from boys with a narrow-minded conception of “girl.” He possessed all the brilliance and stubbornness of an artist, crafting intricate sculptures from Babybel cheese wax wrappers. On day three I accidentally stepped on his toe with the boot I wore on my fractured foot. His parents reported he was fine, but he made a point of elevating and icing his foot when I did, and limping beside me the rest of the week.

Lastly, there was Ellen, the quietest girl I have ever met. Other volunteers grew tired of holding an ear to catch her whispered words, but I was honored to be the mouthpiece of her mature, enlightened, and tragically overlooked commentary. But the children in the group stood up for each other, and just as they would slow to walk with me, they leaned in to hear the inner workings of the girl next to them.

Every day I made my way past the patrons with curled mustaches, puffy hair, and squinty eyes into the treasure of young, creative minds. After a week of characters, conflict, and magic, on and off the page, the camp came to a close with a play and presentation of stories. A surprise usually allotted for fairy tales rose out of Ellen’s mouth when, for the first time that week, her voice rang out confident and clear. As she read her story, the other children’s jaws dropped, and they mouthed their shock to each other. I cannot remember the last time I smiled so hard. Afterwards all of the kids crowded around her to congratulate her. All the scene needed was a Hollywood soundtrack and a teary eyed audience.

I entered the camp with a clunking foot and mentality. I left feeling gentle, fluttery, proud. I learned from an injured table with more of a sense of companionship and strength than most adults. I worked with a cast of novel-worthy personalities and eccentricities. And the ending turned out to be priceless.

The Garden of Gods and Crutches

Colorado’s summer has at last arrived, after weeks of stormy indecision. It arrived in a neatly packaged box, ready for assemblage like a beginner’s Lego kit, tied together with shiny ribbons of expectation and wrapping paper folded carefully around the edges. It is hard to delve into summer for this reason. When it first arrives I like to stare at it, to think of all that it could be, to ponder what gift the world has delivered this time.  At last it comes time to crack it open like a fortune cookie, to disturb the untouched beauty with the hope that even more beauty awaits within.

I began to construct my summer, building a structure of sun, pasting wallpaper of pages, inviting friends through the door I’d adorned with a welcome sign smile. I dreamed in the morning and danced through the night. The clouds transformed into anything I wanted them to be. But the fortune cookie crack was not the only one destined for me. In mid-leap, mid-dance, mid-smile, mid-summer, I tripped and fractured the arch of my foot.    

Soon I was given a gift all right—crutches, a boot, pain medication, the whole package. The best way to appreciate every step is to make that step a hop, limp, hobble, or artificial click of plastic. I started the summer as a classic Lego character, clicking my feet into every summer backdrop. But I soon became a Bionicle, an iron woman who first had to assemble herself before any hope of assembling a magical summer. My summer gift had one loose part.

Footsteps are highly symbolic—of where one is going, how fast one ultimately gets there, of which path one chooses to take. What did it mean that I only had one foot, that my clanking boot sent sidewalk ants scrambling, and pitying eyes staring? Did it mean that I temporarily would have no story, no symbolic strides towards adventure? That what is so crucial to so many lives, the intrinsic need to see and experience would not be realized for the doctor’s jail sentence of four to six weeks?

Determined, I went on one foot to see the world. I made each hop, limp, hobble, and click count. I accompanied my dad, step-mom, and brother to Garden of the Gods. Amidst valleys filled with perfectly draped sun, it seemed as though the world danced for me. I could not craft the clouds, yet the sky’s creamy concoction calmed my achy foot and antsy heart nonetheless. I had to be contented floating through the summer scenes, without pounding my foot down, announcing my conquest.

I clicked my way on crutches down the Garden of the Gods trail. A couple passing by remarked on my comical state, saying “Wow, brave girl!” and “You’re going to be strong after this!” I smiled and savored in the ingredients of a story coming together already. I cared less that the smoothness of my summer soup was interrupted by the splash of a chunky boot. So the flavor is a little sour—the other ingredients are still intact. My days settle around my boot, but I swallow my experiences all the same.

Perhaps “brave” wasn’t the best word. At the time, it was more stubbornness. But I am starting to think bravery is the mastery of smiling at each step instead of grimacing. It is trusting in one’s fortune cookie, and a summer that doesn’t come together like the picture on the Lego box. It is trusting life to come to me, even if that means slowing down. I tore into summer too fast. Now I carefully untie the ribbons and salvage the pieces.

The End of the Beginning

 "I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is."
Vladimir Nabokov

So the final pen has dropped in triumph or in pure exhaustion. Boxes have been tossed and taped and manhandled into overpriced storage lockers, and the content of suitcases has been squished into oblivion. I stood alone in my empty dorm room, humming ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’ as I contemplated the bumpy paint and my first year of college. I traced the walls as if they would give in like sand, as if my heart beat would impress upon my one-year home one last mark of my existence.

When I regarded the city one last time, it blinked innocently, unaware of any fast-approaching separation. On the plane ride back to Colorado, I surveyed surrounding faces for any sign of insurmountable feelings. I wondered when my own rip tides of emotion would pull me under. In the plane’s last few seconds on the ground, I imagined my feet once more walking me through campus, tickled by the sacred college grass. I remembered the ache of San Francisco hills attempted in heels, and sprints for the bus managed in dresses. I recalled the purposeful steps made to my friends’ doors, in late night slippers or early afternoon flip-flops.

I returned to Colorado with lighter hair and hippie dresses and a college sweatshirt. I think of my days on the beach with hats blown away by the wind, tangoing through golden wisps of fog. I feel the maxi dresses hardened by the water and textured by the sand from strolling. My sweater still smells slightly of campfire smoke and granola. My purse is a scrapbook of ticket stubs and business cards and collector coins. I trace each one and remember the disco light of dancing halls, the echo of opera, the chill of dusk on Alcatraz, the buzzing orange of a Giants game.


I feel the experiences that at one time surrounded me settle into 2D form, filling my picture frames and Microsoft word documents. What was my constant reality suddenly feels like a hazy, distant past.  But it does anything but fade into obscurity. With distance, in miles and in minutes, every memory becomes more valuable. Every stranger is deemed a friend, every conversation a philosophy. Such is the nature of memory. Every line of music triggers a heartstring, every cable car ride is comprised of bright colors and bright faces, every taste is of elegance.

My rip tide is gentle. My descent downwards from my castle, my university on a hill, is softer than the waves of the ocean, smoother than the steep San Francisco streets. I leave shrouded in the glow of experiences that can now never be taken from me, kept in permanent custody in my heart. This is merely the end of the beginning—soon my return will recolor the memories I will try so hard to preserve until then. When the second chapter comes I will be reminded once more why I started reading.

Warmth

Decadent memories flutter lightly around me like butterfly kisses, and the city fastens me in its arms. I feast off of the dance in my step, gentle smiles shared between friends, and the ever-climbing click of the cable car announcing the next destination. The entirety of my experience is like a three course meal laid in front of me, each bite worth contemplation, each leading into the next creamy cornerstone. There is nowhere I taste the richness of my experience like the restaurants that become my backdrops. Filled with bubbly birthdays, toasts to tickled-pink triumph, and arrangements of flowers and laughter, I can only describe the taste as warmth.

Part One: A Blooming Breakfast

There is nothing like disgruntled sleepy-eyed souls gathered under one roof, soothed back into the beauty of humanity by the first taste of breakfast. Is it worth a 45-minute trudge through a grumbling city, weaving oneself through coffee breath and watch-obsessed work goers? Is it worth an exponentially growing line of San Franciscans that take this one bite of breakfast and happiness more seriously than most take their jobs?

Absolutely. In honor of a friend’s birthday (and made possible by a sudden class cancellation), two friends and I set our sights on the topic of mystic murmurs throughout the city—Mama’s breakfast diner in North Beach. Known as one of the best breakfast joints in the city, we thought an early wake up call and arrival would expedite our anticipated spiritual experience. Instead we resigned ourselves to the back of a line filled with lip-biting, fluttery customers awaiting their next slice of revelation. As we waited we watched Chinese dance lessons slide elegantly through the park, sword-play grow saucy, and children tug their elderly grandparents along like toys.

   When at last our turn came, a beaming waiter opened the door of the temporary oasis, ushering us in while promising the rest of the line “just one more minute, just one more minute.” A table clothed in sunlight awaited, the warm pressure constant and comforting. Amidst Coca-Cola bottles filled with lone roses and an early morning lullaby of murmured conversation, my friends and I shared hazelnut, chocolate, banana, and raspberry French Toast and an oozing cheeseburger. We let the fruit stain our fingers blotchy red and the grease coat our throats. The sun only added to its richness.

Part Two: Charming Cheesecake

As a sequel to our birthday breakfast, my friends and I set our sights higher—seven floors higher to be exact. We put our name in for the Union Square Macy’s top floor Cheesecake Factory. As we waited we wandered through city streets, poking our heads into coffee shop windows and down alleys where tables stood ready for the next Lady and the Tramp. When our name was called sooner than expected, we sprinted back up the hills down which we had so casually strolled, our sample mall perfumes leaving barely a trace.

When we returned we claimed our seats on the outdoor patio. Around us rose a city airbrushed with the light of dusk. A menu of cheesecakes and creamy feathered coffee awaited us. We decided on a dulce de leche, a pineapple, and a coffee chocolate mix. When they arrived we watched each other carefully position our first bites, rotating each plate slowly and methodically. Each bite was so soft yet so textured by flavor, and even as a fast eater I took time to worship every worthy wisp.

We stayed until dusk turned to dark, watching the lights of the city flicker on like jewels caught in sudden sun. My stomach settled serenely, and my friends remained shrouded in the glow of coffee tendrils and smiles even as the sun sank. It felt as though neither wind nor time could shake us from the top of our peaceful palace, even as the buzz of the city crashed like a wave below us.

Such are the memories, strong and sure, worth reveling in and frequenting when waves crash harder. When my very core warms at the taste of nostalgia, at the sight of a friend, at the stirrings of a city. I want my three course meal to last a lifetime, its presence as pronounced as the sun’s touch on the skin and a city’s place in the sky.  

Willows and Wishes

A birthday is a strange day. Most magical days come when unexpected, and the morning of one feels no different. But from the very first disgruntled sigh and ray of morning sun, a birthday is marked as special. Whatever ensues, a birthday will go down in memory tainted in a different color, held to a higher expectation and remembered with heightened awareness. This year my birthday fell on a school day, and so I arose dutifully. The day began in its quiet, understated way. Like the murmurs of a stage before a play, as the groggy audience of one I heard only the last minute hushed whispers of a crew whisking around the edges.

Throughout the day I was given not just gifts, but reminders of the greater gift I bask in every day. My roommate baked me cookies and posted “Happy B-Day” in sticky notes above my bed. My friends shuffled suspiciously into my room only to reveal a pack of doughnuts and homemade cards. One card was a collage of our best pictures, and I was moved to think that so many lovely moments represent my time here. The other was comprised of makeshift lyrics to songs, the most notable being Sound of Music’s “I feel nineteen, going on twenty…” and Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ changed to ‘Young and sweet only nineteen…”

As usual I went to work in my student assistant position in the MFA in Writing department. I am constantly reminded that I have the best bosses in the world, as I am not only surrounded by the loud and constant eccentricity of writers but their underlying deeply rooted kindness. It is a high concentration rare to find in one person, let alone diffused throughout a whole department. When my bosses inquired as to whether I would have cake on my birthday and discovered I had had none, they were shocked. They declared that I must have cake, and I was promptly ushered into a taxi and to a cake shop to choose whichever I wanted. I had the strange experience of ordering my own name to be iced onto a cake, and attending an impromptu office party in my honor. As if that was not enough, my boss bought me an autographed book by one of my favorite authors. It is surreal to behold such occasions, such catalyst people, such gifts. It is strange to wonder if I deserve it, and to shake my head at each new surprising moment.

Later that night I skyped my family and opened my presents in front of them. They presented me a half-eaten birthday cake and candles I symbolically blew out from across the country. The presiding priest at a school mass sent out a prayer to me, and afterwards I got more hugs than I knew what to do with. When each hug lingered, it felt as though everyone reached out a loving hand at the same time. Shrouded in hugs and hopes and humility, I felt thrust upon the stage of my next year. With such an opening act, I couldn’t help but to wonder at the plot of the play.

I had hinted to my friends that I wanted to go on a celebratory picnic. So they spent all week planning a picnic that I conveniently forgot that I mentioned. So I suffered the usual irritation over hushed conversations and exclusion born from a surprise party, ironic because I myself planted the idea. But with due time all was revealed, and my obliviousness reveled in when we laughed about it together. In the lovely Dolores Park of San Francisco, my friends arranged an artful assortment of goodies around a grand centerpiece of a chocolate toffee cake. One had traveled to the Ferry building to buy farmers market bread and cheese. Another had made homemade punch, sandwiches, and a fruit salad. I was greeted by a small pot of flowers and a playlist of my favorite songs.

We sat underneath a beautiful willow tree, swinging lethargically around us as though it too was listening to the music. The sun peaked its way around the trunk, too shy to join our party but too curious to avert his glance. The park was packed—one would think a fair happened somewhere in its midst, but just the gathering of typical San Franciscans ever appreciative of a nice day. We watched tight-ropers and a gang of hoola-hoop enthusiasts set up in the park. A band strummed away U2 covers and as the day went on more and more passerby circled around to watch. When a man with a pet iguana sat down near us, we eagerly asked if we could pet the curious-looking creature. The man not only let us pet the iguana, but placed him on each of our shoulders.

People who walked by remarked about our set up and wished me happy birthday. When it came time to sing happy birthday, a couple sitting near us helped us light the candles and we afterwards gave them each a piece of cake. An older man sitting higher up the hill offered us birthday pot, to which we only laughed nervously.

When the time came to go, I walked behind my friends, laughing as we all three limped with our loads. It was a beautiful image, seeing them walking with their summer dresses billowing behind them and their picnic bags hoisted determinedly to their sides. They did not even know that I watched them in such an appreciative manner, full of awe at the two people who single-handedly supply me more than my fair share of happiness. On the bus back we all leaned on each other, stuffed to the brim, exhausted in the most liberating of ways.

A special day indeed. A stage with rose petals strewn across its shining surface. My birthday wish was for a glorious second act, and a sequel to this day next year. If every year has one day of cakes and kindness, willows and wishes, it will be a good life.

Butterflies, Bays, and Beaches

 Spring break. That elusive, stereotyped, sun-draped week of wonder. The teaser for summer, the anticipation junky dream, the step from the dappled light of every day to the full sun of freedom. Mine has not disappointed. My week has been an itinerary of spontaneity, a constant drive for more. My feet touched bridges, boats, trains, tunnels, trails, sand, boardwalks, cable cars. My hands reached for butterflies, flowers, palm trees, bike helmets, sting rays, dresses, lighthouses, railings. Every day I reached farther and farther.

 Day One- Japanese Tea Gardens, Twin Peaks, and Cable Cars

I used to think a girl in a flowing dress running frantically was cliché. Not anymore. This is the constant reality of my life. Sometimes it is an out of body experience, watching myself enact what I’d once glorified. But most of the time I just run and laugh later about how ridiculous I look. The week began running to the Japanese Tea Gardens. I made it through the gates minutes before the free admission period ended. The stress of the run evaporated immediately upon entrance as I surveyed the sweet serenity of the place around me. Everything looked airbrushed, neatly patted into place, painted with the delicacy of an eyelash brush. Fish dotted the ponds in slow, twinkling brushstrokes of color, and I struggled to take in every detail.

Next my friend Maddelyn and I set out for Twin Peaks, one of the greatest scenic outlooks in the city. The bus we took plopped us in the middle of a residential neighborhood with no sign of a trail. My mentality with directions is always to set off in one direction (whether or not it’s the right one). In this case that meant up. So we took the first staircase we could find. The path led us through beautiful, cottage-like homes, underneath large flowering canopies and Spanish colonial rooftops. We reached the top of the staircase and surveyed our surroundings. First calmly, then desperately. Maddelyn and I sucked in our breath at the same time in a movie moment of confusion. We were once again stuck in a residential area. After climbing a characteristically San Franciscan flight of steep steps, it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

We wandered for a while and eventually found a public footpath. From there it was just more up, up, up. We could see the view from behind the greenery, growing wider and wider. Our feet became the lenses with which we shrunk our world. The top was nothing short of spectacular. Downtown San Francisco popped up like the page of a storybook, the rest of the city expanding outward in waves of hills and houses dotted with hastily applied watercolor. I searched for all of the landmarks I’d visited, all of the skyscrapers I knew. It felt like a giant game of “Where’s Waldo?” renamed “Where’s Hannah been?” I remember thinking, “Huh. So this is what the big picture is.” 

 Later that night, both of us were exhausted. But another friend challenged us to go out and see what we could make of the night. So we barely caught the bus into downtown (running dramatically of course) and we barely caught a cable car leaving from downtown to Fisherman’s Wharf. We didn’t expect much but a scenic nighttime ride. While on the cable car we met two exhausted tourists. They shared that after one hill too many, the only thing they wanted to do in the city was drink. After we’d continued the polite conversation, they offered each of us what is called a City Pass. We may as well have been handed two golden tickets. Inside the little tourist handbook we found free passes to the biggest museums of the city. Moral of the story—the night always has something up its sleeve.

Day Two- Academy of Science and Legion of Honor

With our city passes in hand, day two started out with the Academy of Science. The museum is organized into an underground aquarium, an earthquake simulation, and two big domes. We saw a show in the first dome, the largest digital planetarium in the nation. The second dome was a representation of the Amazon’s canopy layers, complete with the sound of fluttering birds and butterflies never far away. I laughed when the elevator attendant asked all leaving the dome to “Check yourself for butterflies!” I had a different kind, born in my stomach from the excitement of such a day.

We then went to the Legion of Honor art museum to see the visiting Brooklyn Fashion collection. There is nothing like the desire of a girl for the exquisite, unfathomable elegance of another time. Regardless of what one wears, one will always yearn for the fabric inches away, and the resonating feeling the simple caress of a dress can evoke. I laughed at a designer dress splattered with a butterfly pattern. I dreamed of wearing the dress back to the dome of butterflies, of being one of their own.

Day Three and Four—Benecia, CA

My first trip out of San Francisco was to the quaint little town of Benecia to visit a family friend of Maddelyn’s. I overslept and amidst the chaos of my own creation (involving the tornado of thrown clothing and the vicious breakfast throat stuffing) I forgot to be excited. It hit me as we were running to the ferry building. We needed a gift for our hostess, and we hastily stopped ourselves at a flower stand to buy daffodils. I was then a girl running in a flowing dress holding flowers, about to catch a ferry on a beautiful day. My cheesy smile outlasted everyone else on the ferry. Even with the wind and the spray of the water plotting against me, I stayed leaning over the side. I didn’t sit down until the city was out of sight, waving as though bidding goodbye to my one true love.

In Benecia I met our hostess, a delightful woman named Sheila. We were mom’d for the length of our stay, bombarded with snacks and home-cooked meals and stories and dinner time prayers. To my delight, I was also bombarded with wet dog kisses. She had two poodles and a long-haired shepherd mix, in addition to a vocal, constantly puzzled cat and a attention-seeking canary. There is nothing so soothing to the soul as gathering in the kitchen to talk, animals swarming around my feet, cooking dinner as the sun sets over California palm trees. Amidst tendrils of steam and light, I could only describe the sensation as warm.

The first day Maddelyn and I strolled in and out of blooming white cherry blossom trees on the main street of the town, peeking into antique store after antique store. We were drawn into one by the promise of old dance music cooing down a hallway. We began to dance in the doorway, and when spotted by the owner he ushered us in.

That night I spent pinned under that behemoth of a dog, and then awakened to the promise of fresh fruit and bikes on the back patio. We rode into a California state park, parked our bikes and strolled by the shore. Later Sheila dropped us off at our stop and I said my first goodbye at a train station. It was more of a hopeful “Until we meet again.”

Back in San Francisco we wandered through Fisherman’s Wharf as the sun set. The bridge was but a faint etching in the background, and the boats danced like the silhouettes of people. My heart was calm like the distant ocean yet gushing like the crash of waves underneath my feet. I watched the lights flicker on and listened to the dramatic scramble of seafood vendors. I thought of the people watching from Twin Peaks, but I couldn’t help but to smile at the smaller picture before me.

Day Five- Santa Cruz, CA

In the greatest feat of the break, Maddelyn and I made it to Santa Cruz. After a 6:30 wake up call, a 2-hour train ride and a 45-minute bus ride we finally arrived, hungry for adventure and junk food. We sang Katy Perry’s “California Girls” under our breath on the bus ride there, and in the course of the day I was anointed one.

It is repeatedly amazing to me how something so touristy somehow manages to be classy. How the grease of french fries and the drip of popsicles onto sun-kissed skin turns to magic in the current of memories. Perhaps it is the weaving of the senses, the constant reminder of where I was. All elements of a story I was free to compose as I wished. In cheesy places I find myself doing cheesy things—no running this time, but splashing and dancing and singing. I climbed cliff faces and burst through rock formations into light.

I rode on the Ferris Wheel and the Flying Dutchman and I soared over the ocean adorned with dancing sailing boats. I looked behind me and everyone would’ve looked photo-shopped had it not been for the reflection of the horizon in their eyes, their wind-whipped faces, their fearless smiles. Afterwards I wandered to a nearby lighthouse surrounded by what looked like giant corks. A brave fisherman stood calmly on the very edge, craning his neck to see what awaited him below. I could only look around and above. I stayed until sunset, watching the seagulls fly above me like last minute editions to a cheesy 3D movie. They cast momentary shadows over my face that the sun then readily scribbled back in with warmth.

On the long ride back home the last of the sunscreen wore off and the memories sunk in. Most of my life I’ve had to chase down memories. I’ve done everything in my power to tie them down, to feel them one more time. But these memories stick. Like the wet mark of a dog’s kiss in the moments right afterwards. Like the deeper feeling of sun preserved even as one reenters the shade. Like the internal feeling of butterflies when the heart is given one more environment in which to fly. After so much reaching, something has taken a hold of me. Perhaps spring break was not the only elusive one; perhaps we both finally crashed into each other at the same time. Running in a flowing dress finally got me somewhere.

Ocean Pants

This past weekend the world threw together a tossed salad bowl of delicious moments for me to taste. Any of the ingredients alone would’ve satisfied me, but together I reached pure, salty transcendence. I’m talking 100% concentrated magic to savor and swallow all at once. I recently joined my school’s Outdoors Club and went on a seaside hike. I felt as though I’d been gifted a VIP one-time only guest pass to such a beautiful day. I wondered how often I could gain admittance to this amphitheater of understated glory. 

We began in the Presidio and ended at the Golden Gate Bridge. This was as far as the official group planning had gone. But as alive and bursting college students often to do, the group wanted more. I thought we’d sucked the last sip from the day’s serving of fun. But alas, everyone else knew the secret—the true magic is in the very last drop. So we headed down to the water once more.

Of course the sea is beautiful to watch, like a 3D postcard and Van Gough swirls in action. But I watched everyone around me undergo a transformation. Everyone went from seeing to being.  One can only observe beauty so close at hand for so long without reaching out to touch it. The feeling is as innocent and grand as the act of falling in love. It is as whimsical as reaching into a painting and feeling that world accept you and fold around you. It is as surreal as realizing a dream is a reality you can touch, tangible proof of a lifetime of yearning.

It started when one of my friends in the club wandered near the water. She waded in until the water gently licked her knees; she was trusting, calm, peaceful. I couldn’t say the same of the first big wave that came. It ripped her off of her feet and she fell into the water. We all watched her as she righted herself and readjusted her deformed sports bra, the waves whipping mischievously around her ankles. I will always remember her next reaction, and those of the others around me. She burst out laughing and dived head on back into the water.

Soon more and more members joined her. I ran in hand in hand with two other friends, laughing and screaming as the waves knocked us over like dominos. We took turns helping each other float, tangoing to the siren call of the ocean, cheering others on as they charged into the depths. We danced on nature’s stage, we tasted that last sip on our tongues, we splashed in the wake of our dreams. They kept coming and coming.

As we dried off, we raced each other down the shoreline and kicked up sand. We laughed in the breathless way, the kind that shows the most awe, the deepest appreciation. By the time we left we looked like spotted lizards. The creases in our work out clothing looked like scales, our hair spiraled in hardened spikes, and sand still dotted everything. I could feel the sand in cuts on my lip, under my eyelashes like hastily applied makeup. It dotted my cheeks like freckles, and I wore it like a badge of honor. I found specks of it on my body, in my room, for days afterwards. I smiled at any sign of it.

This week a friend and I finished a big test and we ran into the ocean afterwards. I wore the same pants. I felt the same sticky thrill of a life converging around me. You cannot help but to change after running into the ocean. When you realize the last sip is really as vast and unending as the sea, you must thrust yourself into the postcard, the salad bowl, the taste as often as possible. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I love wearing signs of a dream come true up and down my sleeves. It is amazing how much hope one can draw from a single day. The world has fed me enough for years.