It’s been thirteen days since my last post. Which has some odd poetry to it, because on that exact date in June, I turned my tassel from the right of my cap to the left, and finally put on my big-kid pants.
That’s right, I graduated.
Five days ago, Pauley Pavilion herded me out the door and put up a DO NOT ENTER sign, shutting me out as effectively as the clanging, tall metal doors of a fortress would. But, in all honesty, I barely felt its finality. Graduation shot over my head like that bouquet I’m sure to miss catching at your wedding, the significance and importance escaping me, to the point that my ‘special day’ felt more like a group decision to dress up in unattractive, faux-trash bags – just so we could say we did. The kick in the gut came two days later, when I moved out and the definition of ‘home’ officially changed.
If home is where the heart is, UCLA stole the show. That view from the rooftop of MS, the deliciousness of sticking my toes in the fountain at Jans Steps, the sorely-sought practice rooms in Shobo, the luxurious naps in Powell, Jans, Young, the Sunken gardens (you name it, I’ve slept there)…everything from the Beauty & the Beast mosaiced halls of Kerkhoff, to the ‘MAY LA FORCE BE WITH YOU’ pillar in Anderson, seeped into every crevice of my beating heart. That campus and the people I met there gave me one exhilarating, inspirational ride – pushing me to the very precipice of pursuing my dream. So many heartstrings of mine were unknowingly tied to those places that when I picked up my bags and pushed through the door, I didn’t expect the strain. I didn’t prepare for the tearing. I didn’t know how much hope and motivation I was leaving behind.
So, it’s been thirteen days since my last post. I’ve been a little too lost to write, a little too scared to write, a little nervous that this new, shelled creature I am no longer had the words to piece together. I had to build a new home for my heart, let its tendrils stretch out and grab something new. What I didn’t know, what I couldn’t have known till I’d dragged my fingers back to this keyboard, is that I didn’t have to look very far; in the middle of that whirl of pondering the Great Perhaps, I had forgotten the simple, powerful phrase that I based this blog on: MAKE GOOD ART. When you’re tired, when you’re sad, when you’re nervous, when you’re happy, when life is threatening to eat your insides out and tell you what you’re made of – MAKE GOOD ART. Lo and behold, all I had to do to sweep up that fear, send it on its way, push my fingers onto these keys and start.
So, I’d like to make an addendum to the old adage: Home is where the art is. I’m keeping this new heart in words.