When I was a kid I often allowed myself to contemplate the wonder of the universe. This eccentric fascination, for a child, would be set off by the most peculiar and often benign actions. One distinctly vivid recollection has me sitting next to the seemingly endless wooden fence of my day care center on the plain cracked concrete back porch where I learned the basics of culture and creativity. A girl who was also exploring the mysteries outside the four walls of her crib was combing my hair to “pretty me up” as the care takers passed out our afternoon snack of cookies and milk. While she diligently passed the teeth of her comb through the knots in my hair I was afforded the comfort of inner peace, often overlooked as I have progressed through life. This fleeting moment of clarity had me place myself in the diorama of existence, an unusual place for a child. While I can no longer recall my exact prepubescent positioning system, I am inclined to believe that I placed myself right after dinosaurs and immediately preceding a life of saving others from dragons. Even then I envisioned myself as a hero that others looked up to. Yet, while this internal image of myself as a champion of hopes and dreams persists; I can no longer sit lazily under the sun and ponder the vastness of the universe. I no longer have a desire to understand and interpret the stars like they were a pseudo-angelic Rosetta stone intended only for my understanding of the world. Now the only time I see that same vastness of possibility and hope is when I look into the eyes of a child. Whenever I see a child smile I remember what it was like being in day care with complete understanding that this world is a book written in a language open for interpretation. Life is simply interpreting that book and choosing how we wish to share, or to hoard, its passages. I now want to take the diorama I constructed as a child, from words in the book of life, which has been meticulously crafted through time in the proximity of dragons and present it to others; in my own language, to an eager generation of unidentified flying cerebral missiles. I am ready to walk down the path that I have for so long only passed on my way to the library. I am ready to become a teacher, in some element. However, my story is not complete. I do not know which way the path leads past this point. I understand that I wish to begin a journey towards helping others. Like all great journeys though, mine has yet to divulge its greatest mysteries.
