Seniors #2 journal: Your Good Place (due December 3)
POST BEFORE TUESDAY DECEMBER 3
I'm not always up to date on the most novel vernacular, teen or otherwise. By the time I start using some "new" expression, it's bottomed out to the level of drab cliche. So if you get a "you go, girl" or an "atta boy" from me, try not to gawk in amazement at me as if I'm some ancient mariner.
Within the last year, people my age and in my small circle of very cool friends have begun to use the phrase "in a good place," as in "his boss gave him a raise today, so he's in a good place" or he was able to watch football all Sunday afternoon, so he was "in his good place." Getting a raise might put you in a "figurative good place," but watching football all Sunday afternoon and evening on your couch in your Mancave is a "real good place."
Which leads me to this blog's question: Where's your "good place?"
You SHOULD answer VERY literally and specifically, sparing no expense of travel. The place must exist.
Maybe take me to some sunny exotic island in the Bahamas, send me schussing down the Rockies, or lead me to traverse your favorite hiking spot on the Appalachian Trail. Send me on a trip to a Delaware beach, or for youse Jersey girlzs and guyzs, the "shore." Plop me in the middle of the Christiana Mall (no... please don't) on Black Friday or at Granny's house for a home-cooked meal. Take me on an Owl Prowl through Brandywine Creek State Park (look it up, it's a real thing), a nice walk around Valley Garden Park in late spring, or an easy five mile jog in White Clay Creek Park with your Ipod at full blast and with your eyes (and other senses) wide open.
Or perhaps you're the more "stay at home" type, who like Henry David Thoreau or Emily Dickinson, could make a full day out of bird watching, sitting in his cabin doorway or "going to church" in her family orchard. Then stay at home. Describe what it's like to be playing the guitar, getting big in the weight room, or just "chewing the fat" with your friends.
This journal will be somewhat similar to your next creative writing assignment. If you like, you can use this assignment to stretch your writing muscles before running the real race. Eventually, you will have to show off your skillz of using concrete images, connotative words, figures of speech, and sensory images to set the appropriate mood of your favorite place.
However, one requirement of your post at Schoolsville is that your "good place" MUST be a "good place." Please, for this assignment I want no glimpses into any personal mansions of doom and gloom. As I might have said once or twice in the 70s, "Don't be such a downer, man."
For Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, listening to the music of the "two Italian ladies" took his soul to heights that not even two weeks of prison lockup could destroy.
Can your "good place" do the same?
posted by JTF @ 1:44 PM
40 comments
40 Comments:
Every summer when the car rolls on to Godwin Street, butterflies fill my stomach. The house my family rents in South Bethany every year is my "good place." Every summer we spend two weeks in that little slice of paradise. To others it may appear to be a typical beach house, but to me, every inch of it is perfect. One of my favorite rooms in the house is the kitchen connected to the dining room area. It includes a large table that can seat up to fourteen people who don't mind being a little squished. This is one of my favorite spots because the best memories I have come from that table. All of my family gathers around every night we stay there. Whether the meal of the night is a home cooked turkey dinner or boxes of takeout pizza, everyone enjoys it and talks and laughs throughout the whole thing. Many old family friends and honored guests have had the chance to experience those meals throughout the years. However the members of my family that are there every night, are who really make it special. Those dinners give a chance for everyone to join in conversation and it really gives a chance for all of us to laugh at ourselves. Throughout the whole trip, that table always seems to be the center. My cousins color there and play games in the mornings. All the food is laid out to be packed for the beach on that plaid table cloth every day. We all stay up late on summer nights hiding our cards against the table during poker games. When it comes to my family, that table has seen it all. It is the place where we all come together, unified and free of stress. When I'm sitting there with my family laughing so hard that tears come out of my eyes, it is easy to tell I'm "in a good place."
The stress of the day is on my weak and brittle shoulders. If one more thing floats onto the already unbearable load, I will crumble. The waves of “to-do’s” flow through my head, awaiting the crash that will come as they’re crossed off, one by one. I don’t want to do anything. In fact, I want to curl up into a ball, go to sleep, and pretend as if homework, tests, quizzes, and applications don’t exist. As much as I wish this reality existed, it is just a fallacy in my head. So, I make the most of the cards that have been dealt, and prepare for an endless night of work. The studying and the writing begin to fog my thinking, so I make way to the only place I know where it can be lifted. I cut the corner to my living room, turn on the light, and catch sight of the grand mass of mahogany and ivory before me. I file through the pieces I know like the back of my hand, pick one, and prepare to play. I take a deep breath as my gentle hands graze the cold and smooth keys, focus all of my attention to the music, and let the notes carry me away. As I play, each note, chord, scale becomes a part of me. Each slur carries me to the next, with a quick breath in between. I hear the metronome in the back of my mind, keeping me in time. I think, “and a 1 and a 2 hold 3, 4 left hand rest 2, 3, 4” Each trill, crescendo, decrescendo, staccato, quarter note, half note, pass through me as my eyes control my fingers. Bass and treble cleft become one, creating a harmonizing song. The music soothes me, causes me to forget about the world around me, all of my troubles and worries. I play as long, or as short as I need to in order for this peace to come over me. I finish the piece, lift my hands from the keys, and channel back to a new world of stress free living. I channel back to my good place.
My “good place” was my Uncle Rob’s house in Chestertown. I say was because he recently moved to Texas. That day was one of the saddest days of both my life and my dads life. The reason for this is because my dad had been friends with him his whole life. From childhood to 50 years later they are still best friends. So he really isn’t my uncle but our families are so close that we treat each other like family. His house and property was my “get away from everything” place. A place to relax and not worry about anything. A place with clean air that you can take a deep breath and just feel the fresh air enter and release from your lungs. This place was my favorite place to go. My favorite thing to do when it was nice out, or even freezing cold out, would be to hop on my uncles four wheeler and drive down his three acres of land and back into the trails in the woods. It was a way to get away from things and clear my mind. These trails led to the banks along the river. At night it was an unbelievable sight that nothing could match. The light from the moon reflecting on the water along with the lights on all of the boats were like nothing I had ever seen. The lights of the city across the river made it look like paradise. When I would go back to the barn there would be a bonfire lit with my family around it. The smell of cherry wood burning is always a welcoming smell. It reminds me of where I am and who I have around me. It’s a smell that puts me in my “good place.” A smell that brings back all of the memories and good times that my family and I have had there throughout our lives. In a way that most may not understand, this place was my oasis. My paradise. My home away from home. My place of freedom.
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The warm setting sun, the soft comfort of the sand beneath my toes, and the sound of the cool crushing waves right around low tide. This is my "good place", Long Beach Island, NJ, right around sun set. Every year my family packs up the car and heads to LBI for a full 2 weeks of relaxation and fun. We are the definition of "beach people". We set up our spots on the sand near the water early morning around 9, and stay there till 5 or 6. However, I find myself parked up on the sand for much longer after the rest of my family packs up and leaves. There is something so magical about the beach right around sunset when all the screaming kids and gawking seagulls leave and call it a day. There is an overwhelming sense of peace as you stare out into the vast abyss while the sun spills out colors of deep reds, oranges, and yellows. It is my happy place where all the problems and burdens in the world cease to exist and i'm alone with peace of mind. The sounds of the waves rolling in rhythm with each crash, the faint sound of the seagrass swaying in the wind, and the smell of the salt water in the air is heavenly. As I sit there it is as if all time has stopped in the world. My skin is tanned from the beating rays earlier in the day, and my hair is matted with sand and salt water from riding in waves. Many people dislike the feeling of sand stuck to them and the stickiness of the salt water on their bodies, but I love it. I feel whole here in my good place. I depend on these weeks here in LBI as somewhat as my renewal or therapy for the upcoming fall. The beach is where I let all of my worries go with each coming wave and breathe in the fresh salt air that opens my mind to new beginnings. I cherish beach time because it is where I begin the day with my family all together, and end the day in awe of nature and thankfulness of life. LBI is my good place. A place where memories are made, friendships shared, and peace given.
The warm setting sun, the soft comfort of the sand beneath my toes, and the sound of the cool crushing waves right around low tide. This is my "good place", Long Beach Island, NJ, right around sun set. Every year my family packs up the car and heads to LBI for a full 2 weeks of relaxation and fun. We are the definition of "beach people". We set up our spots on the sand near the water early morning around 9, and stay there till 5 or 6. However, I find myself parked up on the sand for much longer after the rest of my family packs up and leaves. There is something so magical about the beach right around sunset when all the screaming kids and gawking seagulls leave and call it a day. There is an overwhelming sense of peace as you stare out into the vast abyss while the sun spills out colors of deep reds, oranges, and yellows. It is my happy place where all the problems and burdens in the world cease to exist and i'm alone with peace of mind. The sounds of the waves rolling in rhythm with each crash, the faint sound of the seagrass swaying in the wind, and the smell of the salt water in the air is heavenly. As I sit there it is as if all time has stopped in the world. My skin is tanned from the beating rays earlier in the day, and my hair is matted with sand and salt water from riding in waves. Many people dislike the feeling of sand stuck to them and the stickiness of the salt water on their bodies, but I love it. I feel whole here in my good place. I depend on these weeks here in LBI as somewhat as my renewal or therapy for the upcoming fall. The beach is where I let all of my worries go with each coming wave and breathe in the fresh salt air that opens my mind to new beginnings. I cherish beach time because it is where I begin the day with my family all together, and end the day in awe of nature and thankfulness of life. LBI is my good place. A place where memories are made, friendships shared, and peace given.
A snowflake lands precariously on the tip of my nose like a thought-there one moment gone the next- as it melts on the warmth of my skin. I see my breath form ringlets gliding up towards the atmosphere. The whirlwind of snow bounces of my ears, and I hear the distant sound of carving boards echo down the slope. As I make my way up the mountain, the ski lift rocking ever so slightly, my mind begins to take in all that's around me. I see a lost mitten on the bunny slope, and rosy cheeks for miles. My nose inhales the sweet smell of chocolate belgian waffles coming from the sugar shack. I shiver as we rise higher into the unending cold, but now we've gotten to the best part. As I float over the top of the mountain, there's nothing but untouched serenity for the next five minutes. The green everglades glisten with snow as a squirrel hops from one branch to the next. All I hear is the icy babble of the creek mixed with the murmur of the lifts propelling our weight onward. All I see is white. All I see is perfection. As my foot dangles off the seat, I turn my back and look down the hundreds of feet to the twinkling lights of Vermont below. I spin my head back around and smile at my cousin Berna as we silently take in the view. The lift begins to slow down ever so slightly as we reach the treacherous top. I plop one foot off my board, push the crunched snow, and glide following a path into the unknown. The last run of the day.
Everyone has their own “good place”. That happy place they can escape to. Where it seems that nothing bad can happen, and they’ll always be in a good mood. My own personal good place is the Outer Banks in North Carolina, my family’s traditional vacationing spot. This is my good place because I can always count on it to be a fun, relaxing trip with my family. Every year it is our week long escape from work, stress, and drama. With my dad’s side of the family, together we rent out a simple yet luxurious beach front house right on the ocean. Even though the house itself is perfect, the main attraction is the beach, our own private section of the seemingly endless span of sand. While we are there our days are filled with lounging under the sun, cooling off in the ocean, and having fun in the sand. Every now and then, when I’m lying out on my beach blanket, about to fall asleep, something from home will pop into my head. A problem at work, drama at home, meetings and appointments, or some kind of worry will pop in my head. But then the psshhh sound of the crashing waves turns to a shhh, silencing the thoughts and worries in my head. I tell myself not now, whatever it is can wait. It can wait until next week, and then just like that I am back into my good place. The relaxing light sea breeze assures me that I can enjoy an uninterrupted week in my good place, without being bothered by any problems waiting for me back in Delaware.
Rural New Mexico: orange clay, cracked and dusty, maybe some spires of ancient rock looming in the distance. I love being in these quiet, rural areas because there’s room, empty space. Even more so at night, when the air is cool and the ground is still warm from the heat of the sun. And when I look up, all I can see are millions of stars. I have always loved the stars, even more than I love summer thunder storms and walking down a tree-lined road in autumn. My friends might say it’s because I spend so much time watching Doctor Who and Star Trek, but that’s not really it. All that empty space with all those stars hanging above is the closest I can get to the vastness of my imagination. There’s enough there to fill the desert, each star is a word, a hope, a different world. Some of them are friends, like the three stars of Orion’s belt that I’ve been able to pick out of the night sky since kindergarten. Subtract my imagination from the picture, and there’s still the blanket of the night sky, covering me as I sit on the cracked earth and watch lizards dart from rock to rock. There’s still the quiet solitude that all introverts crave, a separation from civilization without being too far away. The chilly nights that carry warm air on the breeze. Warm, peaceful, and spacious. There’s life if you know where to look, plants and animals that know how to just keep living. I’ll take that over a bleak New England winter any day. There’s a certain brightness to the desert, a vividness in the animals and in the colors of life that warm my heart as much as the air warms my skin. And above all, there are the stars, not blotted out by pollution, not covered by skyscrapers or trees. There can be sprawling fields of grass and long stretches of cracked earth within a mile of each other. But it’s the night sky that really makes me feel at home. I’d rather be alone with a telescope in the desert, greeting the stars as old friends, than anywhere else in the world. When I’m looking up at the night sky from open desert land, I truly am in a good place.
My good place would be our cabin down in West Virginia. My family and another bought this cabin fifteen years ago. We have been working on fixing it up ever since, and now it is in pretty great shape. It’s about a 6 hour drive from my house. My dad goes down there for a weekend every month to go hunting with his friends. I really only get to go down to the cabin a few times a year because of school and work, but when I do go down there it is perfect. Everybody is so relaxed and happy there. Everybody has hillbilly accents and we just have a great time. We have made friends with the neighbors around us, so they always come over and hangout for the day and help us make dinner. Usually we have about ten or fifteen awesome people in the cabin at all times. Our cabin is located high up in the mountains, so cell phone service is not an option. I have an iPhone 4s, and I still don’t get service when we’re at the cabin. This is actually kind of nice. This way nobody is distracted by technology. We put all our cell phones away and control our technology before it controls us. The surroundings down at the cabin are just acres and acres of nature. There’s a waterfall about twenty minutes away, so we go down there in the summer. Even though I don’t get to go down too much, the cabin definitely has a special place in my heart. It is my good place.
There’s a poet by the name of Richard Siken who once wrote, “Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.” But, I’ve never lived in a house that still felt like a home when it was empty. I have three older sisters, the closest one to me in age is five years my elder, but we’re all Pangaea-close. In the master bedroom, my parents’ bedroom, there’s a king size bed that’s fluffed with cotton and a million memories. When we were little, my sisters and I would crowd on that bed with my mom and we would all talk at once, a mile a minute, I swear. We would sit there every night, listening to bedtime stories and talking. Now that we’re all older, that bed has undergone a renaissance or two. It’s not technically the same physical bed it was in the late 90s, but the place, to me, is the same. Now that we’re all older, my sisters are all moved out and it’s just me, my mom, and the king-size bed. Every night, she and I will sit and laugh and share stories, just so the bed won’t forget how to hold memories within its springs. As the months roll by, my sisters roll back home, just to visit. And every time they flop back onto the sacred mattress, its creaks beg for the stories it has missed. This place, this king-size cushion, is my good place. But, to simply write about a place is blasphemous because it interrupts the sacredness of the souls within them. I’d never love a hunk of cotton this much if it wasn’t for the fact that every time I jump on it, I can hear my sisters’ laughter, I can feel my mother’s smile, I can remember what it’s like to be six years old again.
My good place is my study. It’s wrapped with calming beige walls and covered in cozy tan carpet. A small cherry wood desk topped with a computer beckons me from the side wall. A small clock ticking methodically between two shaded windows is the only sound that disturbs the quiet. However the rhythmic ticks are easily silenced by a state of focus. Sometimes I play music softly to enhance my inspiration and muffle the little outside noise that seeps through the walls. My study is my own peaceful little place cut off from the hectic world. I spend most of my time there. It’s where I read, do homework, study, and relax. Most of all, it’s where I write. It is a serene, quiet environment that is perfect for getting the creative juices flowing. I can spend hours writing in there without even realizing how much time has passed. In what feels like minutes I take a blank page and turn it into a complex story weaved with an intricate plot and populated with dynamic characters. I've tried writing in other areas, and although I come up with some of my best ideas in the most random places, there’s nowhere that I feel more comfortable working than in my study.
For me, my good place is at my mommom and poppop’s house, but the best time to go over is when the Eagles game is on. For a couple of the games, mainly when we play the cowboys, my grandparents invite all of my family over for good food and a good time. The Eagles are one of the many things that bring my family together and I am never unhappy when I am watching the game at my grandparents, even if we are losing. When I am in the company of my grandparents nothing could make me happier. I love coming over to be with family, yell at the TV, but most importantly to indulge in whatever delicious food my mommom had prepared for the game. The most recent time we went over for a game she prepared a Costco chicken pot pie and it was, and I quote, “To die for.” For dessert she always has some homemade cake for us and my favorite is when she makes me a chocolate, chocolate cake because I do not enjoy vanilla. Her house is so quaint and put together I have told my mommom so many times that she needs to apply to have her house on Home and Gardens. Being with family to me can make any place a good place, but something about my grandparents’ house makes it my favorite place to be. I can’t decide whether it’s the loving atmosphere and attention I get when I step foot in their house, I’m one of three grandchildren, or when the eagles game is on I feel a sense of unity when they get a touchdown and my whole family cheers with enthusiasm. In conclusion my good place is my grandparents’ house when my whole family comes over to watch the Eagles game.
I wake up to the smell of cigarette smoke creeping through the air and the sound of waves rush into my ears, forgotten in my deep sleep. I shuffle out to the lanai where my grandpa is perched blowing smoke into the salty air, sometimes I think he sleeps out there, sitting up, cigarette in hand. He turns to looks at me and his speckled brown cheeks lift his mouth into a smile. He says good morning and tells me that my parents are still back at our house around the block. I look down through the screen around the porch, the water is crystal clear and the sand perfectly leveled, the beach comber still driving down the coast in the distance. From ten levels above the water I can see the sand bar where my grandpa taught me how to find sand dollars. He swam out with my older sister and I the first time we visited him and showed us that we could find the beds with our feet and bring the sand dollars up between our toes. The water in the gulf is usually around eighty degrees in the summer and there are barely any waves so we can stay in for hours. Even when we go down for Christmas I can lay on the beach and sometimes get in the gulf if its above seventy degrees. There are no worries on Vanderbilt beach, no time schedule, no deadlines, nothing but the sun and sand. It is my favorite place in the world and I’m lucky enough to call it home.
I am a walking jar of worries, always. Each day the worries over flow the jar, because I am just not capable of holding them all in at once. From school, to sports, to college applications the worries are endless. These endless worries however, disappear in that one good place. My good place is the Chesapeake Bay with the wind whipping my ponytail, the sun kissing my skin, and the water glistening in the light. A few summers back my cousins purchased four massive jet skis and oh man, did I fall in love. The feeling of pushing the jet skis off the trailer into the water is when my level of excitement is screaming. Then the life jacket snaps into place, maybe a little tighter then the year before, but still just right. The key sparks the ignition and boom I’m in my good place. Boats, trees, waves, and beautiful homes line my vision. The wind is hitting my face and it feels amazing. The rush I get being up on the jet ski is a feeling that is truly indescribable. As the jet ski whips over the crashing waves made by the passing boats my mind is set free. All I think about is jumping the wave and catching many more during the day. The tight hands of a passenger on the jet ski raise the level of excitement. Surrounded by my family on boats and jet skis is just one small memory that I will never forget. The laughs, the enjoyment and the worriless day is surreal. Out on the water I have not one worry in the world. All I do is laugh and smile while I’m on the water, with my firm grip on the throttle of the jet ski. I forget I have a phone, six college applications, and a babysitting job awaiting me the upcoming week. The worries are set free out on the jet skis. I feel free, happy, and in my good place.
As the hot sand crunches under my feet and goes in between my toes, I know I am in my “good place.” I feel the heat of the sun beat upon my back as I glance around to find a spot to set down my chair and towel. My list in my head of things to do goes away. All my worries suddenly just stop by the time I find a place to sit. As I set down my chair I begin to remember that I have to keep putting on sunscreen so I don’t get burnt…again. As I sit down, the only thing I think about is how tan I wish I was. Every teenage girl wants to be tan, so my goal every time I set foot on the beach is to maximize my tan. As I put my sunglasses on, I remind myself not to fall asleep. Getting a sunglasses tan line would defiantly not be on my agenda for that day. I slowly fall asleep as I feel the warmth of the sun beat down on my skin. I hear the waves as the crash up onto shore. They are never to loud or quiet, they always seem just perfect. As I get to hot sitting in my chair or on the towel, I got into the ocean for at least a half hour and then come right back out. It doesn’t matter if I have my friends or family with me on the beach, or if its just me, I am always content there and forget bout everything.
I look out into a silent, waiting crowd. The almost blinding spotlights keep me from making out the specific faces of my friends, family, and acquaintances. The rest of the theater is dark, only the stage illuminated.
You can hear the sound of my footsteps as I saunter across the wood panels of the stage. The curtain behind me creates a blank canvas that I hope to color in with sound. There's a single stool waiting, almost smiling. It's as excited as I am. I look forward and I see the open doors in the back and a few people standing by the entry way. Some people wave and cheer, some wait patiently.
The spotlight makes visible the particles of dust in the air that someone else may not see. It's as if there's always something there, even if you think you are alone. The microphone in front of my red lips is begging to be used. The new, shining copper strings of my guitar are yearning to be touched. The beautiful ash wood guitar is like shining star in my hands.
There is no one else in this world. I'm in my own bright star. It doesn't matter if there are a thousand or only three people. This wood floor, the glossy stool, the black metal microphone, and my shining star are the only things around me. The stage is my haven.
Football, family, and food. Those are three of my favorite things in life. There’s absolutely nothing I enjoy more on a Sunday, than popping a squat next to my dad in the living room and screaming at the television with a mouth full of food while cheering on the Ravens. The bonding experience I share with my family while watching the game is unparalleled. I’d say the three hours we’re all together in front of the TV might be the only time that my mother, father, sister, and I all get along. When I’m kicked back in my brown leather recliner basking in the glow of the big-screen, I’m most definitely in my “good place”. It’s almost an escape of sorts from all the bothersome things in real life that stress me out and make me anxious. This may seem strange, but football gives me the pleasure of freeing my mind of all my worries because when I’m watching my team, the only thing my mind can focus on is them winning. I can forget about all the homework and the responsibilities and the constant harassment from my mother about college applications. From the moment the first whistle is blown to the last whistle, nothing else matters besides my team. Sure I get a little tempered sometimes when they aren’t playing well and it’s always disappointing when they lose, but the pure entertainment provided by watching them play is unmatched. The Ravens playing on Sunday is the perfect medicine to a long, stressful week and anytime I’m not able to sit down and watch them with my dad, I know for a fact that it won’t be a good day.
The Swiss Alps in June. I can almost smell the soft, cleansing scent of pine and a wood burning fire sending puffs of smoke into the air. Yes, fire because even in June, Switzerland’s lowest temperature is around fifty degrees. That morning was around sixty, but we could hardly see the picturesque cabins lining the streets in front of us due to the dense fog. We had decided to take a “short” two hour hike up into the Alps. My mother was hoping to see the almost cliche Swiss brown cows with brass bells around their necks. I was hoping to fill my camera’s memory card with stunning panoramas. We began our hike into the valley between giant cliff faces, pausing whenever the fog cleared to snap a photograph. Inside a forest of pine, a mountain stream trickled down a rock path. Our party of four, each of us in turn, leaned out over the rocks and took a sip. The water was fresher than bottled water, like the taste of catching a snow flake on the tongue. Two, now almost three, hours later we reached the edge of the canopy of trees that had been surrounding us. As I stepped out into the meadow, my mouth dropped open as if it was on hinges. I was surrounded by the most beautiful scenery I had ever seen. It was straight out of the Sound of Music, and it was hard to believe something that beautiful could be real. The blue-tinted mountains, rimmed in snow, towered before me. A waterfall scurried down the cliff face and disappeared behind the ring of pine trees guarding the meadow. There were wildflowers everywhere, yellow and white and blue, and the grass was greener than any I had ever seen. As I stretched out, trying to touch the mountain face that seemed only inches away, I realized that this was bliss; this was true and utter happiness. This was my “good place.”
My Tempurpedic matress topper invites me in for another night of my favorite three “R’s”: resting, reading, and relaxation. For busy go-doers, this scenario is only a once a week gift. For someone like me, this is an every night ritual. I am a proud homebody, the classic stereotype of someone who would rather watch the same movie ten times than go out to a crowded party. Of course, I enjoy going out with my friends and having girls’ nights. But most of the time when I am out, I cannot wait to get home. The dim pink glow of my childhood lamp in my small room is comforting to me. In fact, everything in my “happy place” is pink. Six-year-old Stephanie decorated her room like any other adolescent girl would: lots, and LOTS, of pink. To my loved ones, I often have to justify between solitude and loneliness. My family used to get concerned at the amount of time I would spend in my stuffed animal cluttered bed, but now they know it is my norm. I could spend hours on end in my room and not feel a hint of regret that I could be doing something else. I am not lonely, I am not sad, I am not depressed. I am content and relaxed. I prefer the home environment without being disturbed, and it is fulfilling to me. I know plenty of people who would cringe at the thought of my happy place. Time is everything to some people. In my happy place, I don’t even have a clock. I respect others’ lifestyles of always needing to be busy because that is the way our society is, especially in the north part of the United States. I, on the other hand, would rather bundle up in my fuzzy fushia comforter and enjoy my three R’s. My happy place is where I can close my eyes and still see a pink sheen peek through.
If it’s not summer, then it’s a day suitable to be spent in the tingling-with-warmth, healthy rays of the sun. The expected hotness of the sand, the cooling breeze, and the roar of the water is welcomed. After all of the bustle to get there, the rest of the day is spent in a bliss of happiness. Our Grandma Beach is with us and preferably, our cousins are able to come as well. We spend the day relaxing. We soak up as much of the sun’s rays as we can. We swim until our lips are blue and we can no longer feel our fingers. We take long walks and admire the grand waterfront homes. We constantly look for that conch shell that is impossible to find on a Delaware beach. We dig in the sand and look for those little sand crabs. We attempt at making sand castles with our youngest sister because she has been “mad at the ocean” ever since she was caught in a crashing wave. We stay on the beach for hours until the crowds have left. And then if we are lucky enough, we go out for dinner. With the cousins in tow, it may be a Grotto’s kind of night or some place with fresh snow crab legs. With just the sisters, mom, and grandma, we wish to indulge in the luxurious authentic Italian restaurant called DiFabio’s. These days most often end with meeting our cousins once again at an ice cream parlor, most often in Dewey. From there we walk to the beach and run around like kids enjoying the coolness of the sand and the mystery of the black water. This is my good place not just because of the beach or because of the food. This is my good place because I am with the people that make my summers- my family.
After competing this weekend in the Miss Delaware Teen USA pageant, I would have to say my good place is up on that stage. When I first arrived to the DoubleTree Hotel in Wilmington on Friday night for the information session, I was appalled to see that “casual dress” does not mean casual for these pageant girls. Being underdressed was never one of my favorite things to do. But besides this minor mishap, I left the hotel that evening excited about the weekend ahead of me. I showed up Saturday morning bright and early with a huge smile on my face. Of course only after managing to carry in all the luggage I would need for such a daring and fun experience, I was ready to take on the day. Three bags of shoes galore and more make-up than you could possibly imagine existed, still felt as if it wasn’t enough compared to some of these pageant beauties. But I walked into that interview room rocking the royal blue dress I had on and catching the attention of the judges with my booming “Good morning.” It was a great start to a great weekend and a great place. Even the gallons of hairspray that made it feel like I was carrying a seven pound weight on my head and the high heels that have permanently molded my feet into an upward position were not enough to wipe the smile off of my face. Walking across the stage in both my evening gown and bathing suit gave me such confidence. That was the main reason I did the pageant in the first place. What a confidence booster it was! When they called my name first for the top fourteen semi-finalists, I was overwhelmed with joy. But when they called my name last for top five finalists, I was walking on cloud nine. The whole weekend was a great time and that stage when I was finally called as third runner up in my very first pageant was the greatest place of all.
When I think of my “good place,” many places come to mind but one place stands above the others. Beaver Creek, Colorado is my “good place.” My family travels there for our ski trips. We have vacationed in other spots along the Rocky Mountains but none of them compare to the perfection of Beaver Creek. Beaver Creek is a small ski resort outside of Vail. The excitement of a ski vacation builds up inside of me before the plane even touches ground in Colorado. The air is brisk on my cheeks and the snow falls magically from the sky. As I look out the car window the mountains tower over me with their sharp edges hidden beneath a heavy white blanket. The ski lifts seem to be stick figures when you look up at the mountains from the village below. The village is full of old wooden buildings and a ice skating rink at the middle of it. The hotel we stay at is right on the mountain for ski in- ski out accessibility. We wake up at the crack of dawn to get first tracks down the freshly groomed trails. Beaver Creek is known for always having groomed trails lined by Aspen trees. The corduroy cracks as the edges of my skis glide down the slopes. The sky can range from a bright blue sky to a blizzard mess. Beaver Creek is my “good place’ because it is where my family comes together. The memories we create when we are there help me get through tough times. The beauty of the village adds to my peace of mind.
It’s been a stressful past couple of weeks. Test after test, project after project, assignment after assignment. But now, I can finally get away. I am in Mexico, my good place. A warm breeze blows, gently rustling the leaves of the palm trees on the beach. The sounds of children, young and old, still playing in the pool even though it is almost time for dinner, fills the air, along with the sounds of other people walking to dinner, chatting along the way. The sun sets slowly and serenely over the calm water, as birds squawk in the distance. Waves roll, and then break gently on the beach. This is Riviera Maya, Mexico. A warm smile crosses my face, as all of my worries slip away. Here, I don’t need to worry about any tests, or any quizzes, or any projects, or any applications. The only thing I need to worry about is if I will have shrimp or jerk chicken for dinner. The sky is on fire, streaked with bright oranges, reds, and yellows, each color bright and warm like paint on a vast canvas. I sip my drink and know that here, at my good place, there are no worries.
My heart beats faster with every menacing tick of the metronome. I can feel every bobby pin pushing any memory of my steps that was left out of my mind. My legs are trembling under my weight like they’ve been electrocuted by the “ding” of the judges’ bell. I peer through a crack in the curtain as the dancer’s before me gasp for air, waiting to bow before the judges. I take one last conscious breath and plaster on a smile. Shoulders back, smile fixed, arms stiff - my upper half becomes a statue for next two minutes. I climb the steps onto the stage (more like observation room) and take my position before the five judges. The ballroom is wall-to-wall people, standing on tip-toes and peering over shoulders to watch the competition. I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as my temperature rises - the audience’s eyes burning through me the longer I wait for the musicians to start. The judges occasionally glance up - yawning, reaching for a soda, slipping a cell phone halfway out of their pocket. The metronome’s ticks creep closer and closer until finally an accordian sings a warm-up. Tap 2, 3, 4. The melody begins and flows from the amplifier throughout the ballroom, like a ripple in a pond. The little kids huddled to the sides of the judges tables’ hush each other’s shouted whispers. Dance teachers from across the region are seated in the front row, glancing up from their record books with pens poised, eager to catch a flaw in my technique. I notice the dads shoved up against the back wall who have dresses hanging from their arms and water bottles shoved deep in their pant pockets. In the middle of the crowd I see family - both my blood and dance family. I see my sister sitting on her toes and the people behind her leaning left and right. I see Annie and Mackenzie with wide eyes tapping their fingers to the beat of my steps and holding their breath. I see my dad last. He catches my glance and pulls his cheeks up into a smile with the tips of his fingers. My twitching cheeks relax into a genuine smile. The nerves spill out of my mouth as I breathe one more time. I am in my good place.
The walls of Cittadella, the stores and bars in the square, all are part of the Italian culture. Everything about that small town in Northern Italy is perfect. The streets of Rome light up at night with the smell of fresh pizza taking over your senses. The wish you make as you throw a penny over your left shoulder into the Trevi Fountain. The glass, jewelry, and plethora of gondolas in Venice catch your eye as you walk through town. The cathedrals in Padua make you wish that you could celebrate mass in such exquisite churches. Everything about my trip was beautiful. Experiencing the Italian tradition when the new Pope was elected, hearing the clock ringing every 5 minutes in Cittadella, trying new foods, walking everywhere, it was all part of what they do. And I could not love it more. In Italy, everything was relaxed and stress free. There were no cares in the world. With all the weight on my shoulders now from the countless amounts of math problems, and drawn out college applications I think back to my trip to the most amazing country in the world. Instantly a smile is brought to my face. I think about how one day I will go back to Italy. I think about the memories created those special two weeks with the people I met and became close with. Looking at pictures and souvenirs remind me of how lucky I am to have experienced such a remarkable trip and that one day all of the hard work that brings stress to my life will all be worth it when I am back in my “good place.”
You enter though a staircase covered wall-to-wall in chalk drawings from those who have passed by. At the bottom of the steps is a room covered in band posters and tapestries. The only parts of the wall and ceiling that show are the painted blue pipes wrapped in white Christmas lights. The comfiest loveseat in the universe somehow fits up to five people with a bright pink circular chair from the 90’s on the side. Stacks of CD’s and old records sit on tables and bookcases are filled to the brim with novels. The TV sits right in front of the couch, making the perfect view for video games. My room is the usual hang out place for normal crew, and it may only be for the endless supply of Nerds Rope candy that magically appears. It is a happy place to be, and everyone is always in a good mood when we are down in my basement bedroom. Even if it is cold, the scent of vanilla candles warms everyone. It is a place where the best memories are made by my favorite people and where everyone is happy.
The countless hours of schoolwork continue to pile up. The trivial bickering between parents never ceases. The stupid drama of high school always fills the halls. It seems as if I constantly find myself wishing to escape from this world—to escape to my “good place.” Luckily for me, my good place is only a few steps out my back door. I put my Northface over top of my sweatshirt and cover my ears with my hood. Wrap my warm wool scarf around my neck and lace up my shoes. I step outside and feel the crisp, cold air chill my face. The gentle, cool wind brushes against my pale freckled cheeks. With every exhale, I see a cloud form from each one my breaths. I take a few more steps and plug my phone into my iHome. I put my volume up to exactly twenty-one. Low enough to not disrupt my neighbors, but loud enough to allow me to get lost in the music. I hit play and pick up my basketball. I grasp the ball with my hands and feel thousands of leather dimples in my chilled palms. I bounce it once. The wind picks up and now beats against my red, rosy cheeks. I bounce it again. The music fills my ears. The lyrics flow into my mind, “Lose yourself in the music, the moment. You own it; you better never let it go. You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime.” I repeat the words; the song speaks to me. I take my first shot. As I throw up the ball, I throw away all the problems in my life. The rattle of the chain net jingles as the ball goes through the hoop—I’m already in my good place.
During the summers of my grade school years, my sister and I were dropped off at my grandmom’s house for the day. Unless my parents took off work for vacation or we had summer camp to go to, we were always at my grandmom’s house. I absolutely hated waking up early in the morning, especially during my summer break, so every morning I walked into her house and went straight to her bedroom to go back to sleep. This was my daily routine.
I would wake up just in time for lunch, precisely at 12 o’clock. Everyone knows that grandmom’s always cook the best. That’s their job! And she definitely lived up to that duty. She always made the best food. Take for instance one of my favorite meals she would make: hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, and broccoli. My mom could use the EXACT same brand of macaroni and cheese, but Grandmom’s always tasted better. It must be a grandmom thing.
My favorite days at Grandmom’s house were always Fridays. Since I normally missed breakfast, which was always cereal on Fridays, I woke up just in time for my favorite meal at her house: soup, a sandwich, and some type of fruit. On Fridays, she didn’t even have to come wake me up. The aroma of tomato soup gently made its way out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bedroom. The smell hovered around my nostrils, causing an almost insatiable hunger in my growling tummy.
Tomato soup always came with saltine crackers that were perfectly softened by the warm soup – not too crunchy and not too mushy. Seconds were always welcome, and I always accepted. Grilled cheese was the second course, and to this very day, I have never had a grilled cheese as good as the ones that she made. They are impossible to replicate. The cheese oozed out around the edges of the bread, and practically melted in your mouth. A crunchy apple was the perfect ending to lunch and left me stuffed to the max. Fridays were my favorite day at my favorite place.
My good place would have to be out in the mountains living off the land. When I grow up I want to have my own cabin in the woods to either live there or just have a little get away house. There is nothing like being out in nature and breathing in the fresh air. During the summer my friend and I always spend a few days out in his woods. We leave our phones and all electronics back at his house and just leave all that behind. We usually hunt and cook up what we kill. One year he shot a buck and now it is on his wall above his bed. We also fish out in this pond off the back of his property. Every night I sleep in my hammock by the fire. Also every year I visit my aunt and uncle up in Ohio and we always go hiking in their woods and on their trials. I just love being out in the wilderness and just being one with nature. Being cooped up in a house all day is the last place I want to be. I want to be out in nature exploring and just living life to the fullest. That is my good place.
To me, Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year. From the music to the cookies to the holiday spirit in the air, no other time of year can bring me the genuine joy that Christmas does. But there is one thing that brings me the most joy of all during the Christmas season, and that is lights. Each year at this time as I walk down the paths of Pennsylvania’s own Longwood Gardens, I find myself in my good place. In my opinion, Christmas lights make everything more beautiful. Maybe it’s just me, but I believe that in every aspect of life, the more sparkle, the better. From the time I turn into the driveway to the time I leave, there is not a moment that goes by without glimmering lights in sight. The lights of the gardens give every tree, every house, and every building, an extra radiance that ignites the Christmas spirit within each person who sees them. No matter how old I become, these lights never fail to bring back nostalgic feelings. When I enter Longwood Gardens, the glimmer of the Christmas lights are able to make me forget about all of the stresses and troubles in my life. The shining tree branches, ponds, tree houses, and observatories have the power of captivating the ever-youthful part of my heart and make me feel the excitement that a child experiences on Christmas morning. Also, watching surrounding families and friends walking down these paths, taking pictures, sharing stories, and enjoying each other’s company, reminds me of what Christmas is about. Watching couples stroll hand in hand looking at the twinkle of the lights or watching them stop to take a picture under a lit canopy sparks a feeling of joy within. I do not know if it is the hot chocolate I drink or the layers and bundles of clothes I wear, but each visit, warms my heart in a sense. A visit to Longwood Gardens during the Christmas season is something that has always and will always be able to make me feel completely content, which is why I consider it my good place. When I am walking through the gleaming fortress of Christmas lights, the beaming sense of joy that is felt in my heart can easily be seen on my face and in my actions for the rest of the Christmas season.
The smell of vanilla, chocolate, and peanut butter parades into the room, and classic jingles set the mood as the four of us reminisce. As my father surgically wraps the festive lights around the blue spruce, my mother, my brother, and I pluck ornaments out of the chest. Each decorative ornament contains its own tale. We laugh at some and simply hold a moment of silence to ourselves for others. I always pick out the glass ballerina with the cotton candy blue tutu. As I walk towards the tree, scanning for the perfect branch, my mind is taken to The Nutcracker unfolding on the stage as I sat next to my mom when I was just a little girl. I place it on the tree delicately, and admire its beauty as the lights jump off her perfect sculpture. A zoomed in portrait of my 5-year-old face is centered in a mess of dark green puzzle pieces and purple glitter glued to a round piece of cardboard. As I spot it, I shared a chuckle with everyone and jokingly positioned it front and center on the tree. When it comes to the angel my older brother and I trade off every year whose going to place her in her rightful position at the top. When the tree is all done, we stuff our faces with warm, freshly baked, cookies and drink hot chocolate. At the end of the night, after everyone has gone to bed, I like to sit alone by the tree. As I admire the array of colors that paint the tree, I can’t help but be as happy as can be. I was in my good place.
My good place is, in fact, not a very comfortable place to be a good amount of the time. In fact, I’ve received countless amount of turf burns, more bruises than I can count, and even suffered a concussion at my good place. The weather at this place is completely bipolar, ranging from sweltering heat to bone chilling temperatures in which I could very well have lost a toe and not realized it due to it being beyond numb. But that doesn’t stop me, ever, from stepping out onto the pitch and placing myself in the penalty area of a soccer field. In fact, these extraordinary circumstances are badges of honor, showcasing the extreme adoration I have for my good place. Because why else would I intentionally place myself in a situation where I must prevent eleven opponents from doing everything in their ability to score a goal? If you think I’m doing it for the fun of it, well, you’re partly correct. But mostly I do it for the rush of adrenaline that is produced when the ball is in my control, but most importantly, not in the net. My place is heartbreaking, a place that demands perfection that I can’t always give, but is also incredibly rewarding, providing a sense of purpose and accomplishment with each growing day. Not many people would ever want to be placed in my good place, but that makes it even more special.
There is a certain type of night, usually in the summertime, when the sky is sodden with moisture, saturated to the point that it staggers with the weight of a rain yet to come. Gauzy clouds, so thin that you could tear each open with a fingernail, laze over the velvet night. The inebriating scent of freshly shorn grass and fading blossoms welcome me as I walk, quietly and alone, to the edge of my driveway. Floral wind teases my hair as I move to lie on my back, gravel burrowing pleasantly into my skin. Snapping my eyes open, my vision is consumed with beauty. The moon gazes at me, and the stars that splatter the night twinkle out a greeting. Outside in the vast darkness, enveloped in silence and stars, I can unleash my imagination. I’ve run wild with Lepus, the Hare; I have borrowed Perseus’ winged sandals and flown across the vast galaxy, stopping on my way to visit with my favorite twins, Castor and Pollock. In these warm, wet nights, I can be pure imagination; I can leave my body behind on the pavement and be another constellation in the sky, suspended with ancient heroes, princesses, and one uniquely gifted hunter. I find myself drifting among the stars until the first shy beams of the morning peak over the horizon. Only then do I force myself to leave my personal sanctuary, my ‘good place’.
What defines a "good place?" It does not have to be some exotic island or even a geographical spot on the map. A "good place" is somewhere that makes you happy. A place that can never be replaced. The place that will forever give me joy is a softball field, It does not matter if it is Canal Little League in Bear, DE or the glamorous turf fields in Myrtle Beach, SC. Any softball field anywhere makes me happy. The sounds of the screaming fans in the last inning of the championship game give me one of the best feelings in the world. The look of a freshly manicured field is one of the best pictures printed into my head. The grass is bright green, the dirt is a perfect brownish orange color, and the chalk of the foul lines is a perfect Snow White. The smell of hot dogs being dished out at the concessions stands reminds me of many nights being stuck at the field. Hot dogs were my dinners most nights during the spring of 2008. The touch a game ball. Bright yellow, no dents, and not a single scratch. Usually I am the second one to touch this perfect ball. The umpire hands it to me and I throw it out to my pitcher to begin another game. Finally the taste of a softball field is my all-time favorite thing about the game. This taste is not something felt with your tongue, but it is something felt with your heart. This taste is the taste of victory and there is truly nothing better.
The warm sun beats down my neck as I walk slowly down the never ending ramp to my beach house. Numerous sights bring back old memories from childhood experiences. When I am down at Rehoboth beach there is nothing that can put a damper on my mood. This house is what I consider my “good place”. We have been traveling to this house every summer for the past six years. No matter how many times I go, nothing seems to bore me. This one place allows me to get away from all the stress of school, work, and other aspects of life. My “good place” allow me to get together with my family and actually allow us all to be together. The one thing that is helping me get through this year, from the constant stress of tests after tests, projects, college applications, and extracurricular activities, is my “good place”. Whenever I become sad, stressed, or just want something happy to think about I just recall the memories of my house at Rehoboth.
"May I offer you a cool beverage, or anything to eat?" says the waiter of the pool-side lounge at the Loews Royal Pacific Resort in Orlando, Florida. I lay basking in the sun besides the gargantuan pool,looking at the clear blue water falls cascading into the pool. I look beside the water falls at the giant movie screen in the middle of the pool, laughing at the picture that is playing. "Life cannot get any better than this," I think to myself. I get up, and walk over the the poolside bar, that serves many of my favorite virgin tropical drinks. I get my drink, and I sit by the edge of the pool, sipping my drink and feeling the rush of the cool water in between my toes. When I am done my drink, I walk two minutes down the path from the pool, and I arrive on a make-shift beach, where I see children, teenagers, and even adults enjoying volleyball matches, frisbee games, and many other beach activities. I spend my time there, then I go into the resort building and go to my room, and I quickly change back into my clothes. I walk back out, walk down the path again, past the pool, past the beach, and past beautiful plants and trees of all kinds. I walk for five minutes and then find myself at the entrance of Orlando Studios theme park, my all time favorite amusement park. I plan on spending my whole night here, then coming back to the resort and watching the movie of the night as I take my nightly swim. This is truly heaven on earth, and if it were ever possible, I would spend every day of my life here.
My “good place”, without a doubt, is being inside a baseball stadium. How could you go wrong with sitting back, eating some overpriced ballpark food, and taking in the best game being played by the best players in the world? Whether it is Citizens Bank Park, home of my beloved Phillies, or Yankee Stadium, home of the hated Yankees, a ballpark is a ballpark, they are all great. The smell of hot dogs and peanuts, the sound of the ball hitting the bat, the sweat I feel dripping down my face, the scoreboard lit up like a Christmas tree in July, and that huge souvenir soda quenching my thirst. Every stadium across the big leagues has different features that make them unique. I feel like this is different from football stadiums or hockey arenas which are more uniform in appearance. The dimensions in every baseball stadium differ just as the unique players on each team do. For me, going to a ballpark brings about a great bond shared by my dad and I. Every summer we travel to a new city to see a new stadium. It has become a tradition I have grown very fond of. We have been to ten different stadiums thus far. As someone who lives and breathes the game of baseball, there is no place I would rather be. One day I imagine myself calling a baseball stadium my office. I would love to make a career out of doing something I love and there is no place I would rather do that than in a baseball stadium. I would love to help people come to appreciate the game the way I do, whether it be sharing the game by voice such as Harry Kalas or Vin Scully or writing about the game for a major sports network or even a local newspaper. Some way or another, I want to make a career out of being in my “good place”.
The one "good place" where I feel at peace is the beautiful region of Tuscany, Italy. I stayed at a villa over in Tuscany for a week during the summer of 2008 and I fell in love with the region. When people first think of Italy they think of food, and that is to be understood. While I was in Tuscany I had a number of outstanding dishes, ranging from traditional cheese pizza to gorgonzola cream gnocchi. There was not a single meal I was disappointed in. What was also great about the region of Tuscany is that the people's lifestyle was so relaxed. Here in America we are always rushing from place to place, not stopping to enjoy ourselves. In Italy, you have no choice but to slow down. The Tuscan region makes you appreciate the little things you do throughout the day, such as dinner with the family. The Tuscan region provides it's people with a relaxing, Italian culture that cannot be duplicated anywhere else in the world. Tuscany, Italy is without a doubt my "good place."
The gleaming lights that almost blind me, my heart pounding so fast it hurts, the pain my mouth experiences from smiling so much, and the ever so often reminder to myself to breath are the just some key components to my not-so-average “good place.” When I step onto the riser, walking into my temporary spot on stage, I look out into the sea of people whom I cannot see, but know are present, beaming at every move I make. Glancing out, I see lights almost as bright as the sun, making every move of mine all the more visible to my not-so-visible audience. In my peripheral vision, I notice the back round behind me changing every few seconds from white to pink then to white again. I’m continuing to smile, while holding my hands in exact position on my waist with my elbows pinched back so far that my body feels as if it could snap in two. My right foot is placed facing east, while my left is north. Unfortunately, this uncomfortable stance is the first and only pageant stance there is. I am concentrated, but I couldn’t even begin to tell you what it is that I am concentrated on. The ballroom is inaudible to me until the emcee disturbs my concentration with, “Up next, Brighid Minemier!” It took a second to register, but that was my cue. Without any hesitation, I dropped my sweaty hands from my waist, and my right foot compulsorily stepped down off the riser, moving me further onto the stage platform. I pause in the center, just as I had practiced, taking my standard back-breaking stance. The voice in my head instantaneously counts, “one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, go!” Again, just as I had practiced. Once those three seconds went by, my right foot again, followed by my left, stepped forward taking me now to the edge of center stage. I paused once more and my back was be relived to know this was my final time to take up that painful but elegant pageant stance. My once invisible audience is now more visible and my attempt to quickly find familiar faces failed because the emcee once again interrupted me with, “Thank you, Brighid Minemier!” And I knew this was my final cue. My hands instantly dropped from my waist, relieving my back. This time, my left foot stepped back, turning my body east and my right foot took the lead, heading me south of stage. My back was now facing the audience and the lights no longer blinded my vision.
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