Creative Writing #3 journal: Your Good Place (due December 23)
POST BEFORE TUESDAY DECEMBER 23
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 and writing descriptively as you can. 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 maybe 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--it's on my "bucket list"), 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 constitutes your attempt to write description, using concrete nouns, figures of speech, sensory images, and connotative words to set a certain mood.
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?
Minimum of 250 words. If you've had trouble posting at Schoolsville, then e-mail me your response.
posted by JTF @ 11:02 PM
23 comments
23 Comments:
My good place is on a small, flat little beach in Venice, Florida. It's the middle of spring when trees begin to come alive again. The heat is dry and absent of any humidity thickening the air. A sky saturated with white clouds rolls overhead. Patches of sun break the white blanket intermittently. The light that does get through is bright but not blinding. My good place is walking along this beach just inside the reach of the ocean. The turquoise water and ivory foam brush the tops of my feet, cooling the skin. I continue to walk and look down at the string of rocks and shells until my eye grasps a small black triangle. I pull it out of the sand and admire the miniature sculpture that was carved out millions of years ago, taking off my sunglasses to capture every detail. I gather as many as I find, each unique in itself, and stroll back to where I started. Upon reaching the spot with my belongings, I sit down in my blue Tommy Bahama beach chair with the head cushion flipped down as always. My good place is when my phone plays music into my headphones as I break the seal of an ice-cold Coke and set it next to my chair. A gentle breeze floats over the waves and directly up the sand to me, keeping the heat just under an irritating temperature. I empty the collected shark teeth onto a large, round white disk to see them clearly in the contrast. I separate the larger from the small and wait for my dad to come back with his assortment. We compare the best of each lot, put them to the side, and give the rest to fascinated children that also share a love for the beach. This is my good place.
My body sinks into the deep layers of my cushion filled mattress. My penguin pajamas create static with my sheets and begin to stick together. My head and back are propped up with two pillows giving me support and comfort. The room is dim, but the light from my computer keeps me from sheer darkness. I seem to be alone, but am still accompanied by Netflix. The scattered written homework assignments have all accumulated into one big pile. The Scoobydoo gummy snack wrappers from earlier are still on my side table. The continuous thought of studying more or relaxing replays in my head. I cave. Chad Michael Murray appears once again on my computer as scenes of One Tree Hill continue to play… normal routine. The struggle between watching the computer screen and multitasking is constant. I seem to never leave this place. My parents call for me to eat dinner, but soon after I make my way back, some sort of inclination. My bedroom is my good place. Once I begin to fall asleep, the room turns to sheer darkness; there is no conflict of multitasking, and no worries because I know I will return to my good place again tomorrow.
I step outside and walk through my front and back yard on a lovely spring day. The sun burns brightly, suspended in the great blue canvas of the sky. A single cloud streaks across the expanse of the sky. A subtle spring zephyr eases its way around the neighborhood, filling every nook and cranny with the warm breath of life. The stoic cypress trees stand at sentry in a row. Meanwhile, the singing songbirds stand as overwatch, whispering notes that drift out over the landscape. The delicate blades of emerald grass form a soft sea of green in the yard. The sword-edged tulip shoots penetrate the mulch to claim their stake in the world. The stagnant brown mass of the shrubbery exploded in greenery, leaving behind bushy green heads spread around the yard. The silent stones stuck in the wall once again surrender their sovereignty to the slowly creeping moss. The pond in the back hums as the filter does its thing, and the trickle of water from the waterfall resonates between the stones. A school of koi dance around each other hunting for food. The two slumbering Japanese cherry trees finally awaken, giving forth to something not usually seen in these parts of the country. No, these trees do not send forth their common budding leaves as fodder for the elements. No, they send out their finest, most glorious imperial regalia, the cherry blossom. The trees clothe themselves in a thousand radiant pink blossoms wrapped in the light of the rising sun. The tree is generous in its gifts, as it hands out its blossoms to everyone who admires its beauty with the help of its most honorable guard, the spring wind. One by one, the petals speckle the emerald sea of grass like rowboats out on a nice day.
My good place is unlike the typical idea of a good place in the Bahamas or with a favorite book. I enjoy solitude more than the company of others so finding the time of day not interrupted by other people is difficult. Alas, I manage to find it from time to time and I head down into the basement with a bag and a cold thermos of monster in my hand. I turn on the controller and turn off the lights creating a cave-like experience. I lay down on the couch and put my Falcons blanket over everything but my head. To me, a happy place is somewhere the troubles of your life cannot touch you, cannot control your mind. Before I begin to play Destiny, the best game of 2014, I turn on Pandora and allow Eminem radio to fill my ears. I am warm, supplied with candy and monster, and comfortable. Some might find it funny how something so simple can bring me so much joy. I can be down in the basement in my own little world for hours before I realize there is a world beyond the upstairs. This place is like no other, there is nobody I don’t want to see. No voices I don’t want to hear. This place is like no other and that is why it is my good place.
My “good place” is at music festivals. There is no feeling quite like spending all day and night listening to great musicians with your best friends. “Festival season” as it has come to be known takes place in the spring and summer. It is such a relaxing feeling being outside under the warm sun with an endless flow of good music to fill your ears. From laying on a hammock in the shade to losing yourself in a crowd full of people, music festivals have it all. It is almost euphoric being in the middle of a high-energy crowd while listening to your favorite songs. I get to discover new artists and meet new people with common interests. Everyone seems to be friendly and respectful and just in an overall good mood. Being one amongst thousands of happy people all there to enjoy themselves and share in the love of an artist’s music is an experience unlike any other. I just let go of all the stress in my life and live in the moment. Lifelong memories are made and there is never a dull moment. After a fun day of dancing and nonstop excitement, it is comforting to know that I will be doing it all again the next day. Whether I am camping at the festival or staying in a nearby hotel, I know that I have another day full of music, love, and peace to look forward to the next day. After the last artist plays his/her last song, it is time to go home and share stories of the unforgettable experience I just shared with my friends and thousands of strangers. It’s never long before I find myself looking for the next music festival to go to.
My “good place” – a place where I am perfectly content – is at a concert. Whether it is a stadium concert for a well-known band like One Direction or a small venue concert for a local band like Hollywood Ending, I am truly happy. The energy in the atmosphere is almost indescribable and the adrenaline rush I get from the liveliness in the environment is a feeling like no other. The suspense of waiting for the musician(s) to come on stage and start the show is unbelievable. I love how the artists and the crowd feed off of each other’s energy during a show. The engagement is something that I think makes the gig remarkable. Another reason why my “good place” is at a concert is because I go with some of my best friends. I originally met my friends at other concerts, and we’ve been going together ever since. I don’t usually see these friends unless a concert is involved because of the distance between all of us, but the time we spend together at a show makes everything worthwhile. Music is continually an important part of my life. I’ve always believed that music touches people in unexplainable ways, but that’s the beauty of it. The fact that people of similar interests can come together and be involved in such an incredible experience is amazing. Watching great performers that play enjoyable music and being surrounded by people with the same interests as me at a concert is my “good place.”
The car door slams, and I settle into the cool, smooth car seat. Hot McNuggets, milkshakes, cheeseburgers and fries sit on my lap awaiting to be eaten. The roar of the engine tells me to pull on the seatbelt as I place my feet over the dashboard. A click of the button, and blaring music fills my ears disabling me from thinking about anything in my life. My best friend sits next to me in the drivers seat, and conversation flows endlessly about nothing of importance as we zoom down the lanes and speed by the other drivers on the road. I focus on the flashing lights and passing stores and restaurants as the cool, crisp air fills the car through the wide open window. Next to me, a never-ending stream of rap is leaving the lips of my friend song after song. The clear, perfect reciting of lyrics never fails to amaze me and I am able to further relax. My warm sweatshirt and sweatpants protect me from the chill of the outside air. I feel a soft hand wrap around my shoulder and I smile and take in the moment before placing the hand off of my shoulder and back onto the steering wheel. A smile is glued on my face and there is no place I’d rather be. Fast food, driving, and my best friend. This is indeed a good place to be.
The van bumps along the gravel road filled with potholes, and I’m not sure if it’s the motion of the van or my excitement that’s bouncing me up and down in my seat. We wind through this dusty little road, lined with tall grasses and wildflowers, for what seems like forever, until we come to an old, wooden, orange overhead sign that reads “Camp Ak-o-mak.” We make our way forward, underneath the sign, being swallowed by the trees. When the trees give way, they open to a large field. To the left, there’s the Mainhouse that was built in 1928. It is green and orange, two stories, the paint peeling off in the corners and near the windows. Everything is made of wood. The kitchen is attached to it, and I can smell the aromas of the next meal being prepared. The 19th hole (where we fill our water bottles) is overflowing with the pinks, purples, and oranges that are so bright, they can only be flowers. Behind the Mainhouse, and down a steep hill is Ahmic Lake, the sun glaring off the surface, blinding me. To the right there is a large open field with small rolling hills, turned golden by the sun. There’s the old tennis courts, cracks riddling the ground and tennis balls flying everywhere; the neglected archery range, hay stacks toppled sideways and targets askew; the beach volleyball courts, the sand sparkling and hot; the gravel basketball court with the freshly painted hoops and dust rising around the ankles of little girls; the soccer field, the goals dilapidated but still standing; the softball field, all grass and no bases, a high fly ball hanging in the outfield. Behind all these are the rock climbing wall, missing handholds, but still used in a good game of hide-and-seek, and the vertical obstacle course with whole chunks of the course absent and the rest blowing pathetically in the wind. The sun pours over this beautiful scene and I can’t help but think that I am home, at long last.
At first, my body shivers as I submerge myself under the clear water, but by the end of the first lap, I have begun to adjust. My body moves naturally through the water, gliding on the surface and streamlining off the wall. I feel comfortable and excited to be here because I am where I belong: in the water. To most people, the pungent aroma of chlorine gives them a headache, but to me, it is the sweet smell of relief. Swimming gives me a break from reality unlike any other activity because it allows me to decompress after a stressful day. Everything becomes background noise when my head is below the surface; the only sounds to be heard are the swooshes of water and my own gasps as I breathe for air. There are no distractions because my scenery is the tiled bottom of the pool. With no auditory or visual distractions, my mind takes control and forces me to face whatever I had been avoiding in my head all day. The pool is the place where I finally deal with my thoughts and emotions, and for however long I am swimming, I am processing. It is where I have uninterrupted “me time” because whenever I am in the pool, no one can interrupt. It is truly my happy place because it is impossible to leave the water in a bad mood. Although my lungs cough harshly and my arms occasionally ache, the endorphins that flood my body after the workout energize me. The pool, my happy place, is where I love to be most.
Outside of my room, I have my own personal balcony. I wake up, walk onto that balcony, sit down, and just watch. I look up at the sky and the sun pokes a heated finger on every portion of my body until I am completely covered in warmth. As I look back down, I transform into an observer watching a familiar species in their natural environment. To my left I see my little cousins, Bobo and Ifeoma, wobbling over to the pool. They jump in simultaneously and the clear blue water swallows them up. Just as they pounce back up for air, I notice the vibrant smiles my aunts’ faces. They’re nearly falling over with laughter as they listen to uncle Uche tell them a story. Soon enough their laughter becomes contagious and a smile finds its way to my lips. Behind the comedy show are my father’s employees. They’re hard at work, putting up the enormous tents we ordered for the next party. Radient red, beautiful blue and gailient green tents soon cover the compound like a blanket. Then the smell of my auntie Kechi’s chin-chin finds me and I know I have to get down to the kitchen. The scent of the cinnamon-covered fried dough dances through my nostrils and entices my taste buds to the point where my hunger is too much to bare. Before I know it, I’ve left my balcony. I’m racing down stair cases that lead to the first floor – greeting every adult I encounter on the way down. “Nneka, Kedu?” they ask. “Odimma” I reply with a warm smile. I’ve made my way down the stair cases but I’m no longer looking for the kitchen. My hunger is soon forgotten because I notice that my friends have arrived early for tonight’s party. They’ve taken the liberty of turning on the stereo and they’re grabbing me by the hands begging me to join them. Hugs and laughter fly around the living room as we begin to dance to the music. The beat of “Kukere” bounces through my brain and Davido’s lyrics float off my lips. I look around and I begin to appreciate all of these elements of my culture–the people, the food, the music– and I am at peace. It’s moments like these that I realize that Nigeria is a wonderful place to be.
Having just read “The Portable Phonograph,” it may be ironic that my good place also involves music. I, like the musician in the Clark’s story, am always moved by beautiful music, as it transports me to other places. I am either transported through a memory, if the song reminds me of my past, or I am transported to visions of the future, of what I hope it to be. In my mind places exist that I have never been able to personally experience. While sitting in my worn out, cracked piano bench, I have traveled through nearly all of Europe. When my lanky fingers pour out Kiss the Rain on the piano, I am in London. I am walking around with an umbrella draped over my shivering shoulder with the Big Ben clock tower watching over me. As River Flows in You fills the room, I am walking on Heaven’s Trail in Ireland. Millions of stars fill the sky, scintillating with vivacity, replacing my water-stained ceiling, and I stare at the same stars that Abraham stared at when God promised him his descendants. Never once have I physically been to Ireland or London, but do I need to be physically there? I have found a way to experience the entire world from one room. It became clear to my mother that my love and passion for music would not be quelled, and it came to the point where my instruments were overtaking my bedroom. My mother decided that the guest room in my house was proving to be useless, and for my birthday one year we converted the guest room to my music room. It is here where I sometimes sleep to be close to my music. It is here where I come when the stress and anxiety of school and family become too much. It is here where I feel most perfectly at home. Music allows me to express myself in a way that words are not able to. My music room has sheet music from every era spewed in every nook and cranny. Painted above my window is a phrase that has encouraged me to allow my music to control me. Above the window it says, “Life is a journey, and only you hold the map.” This is my good place because in it, I can be anywhere I want to be.
My good place is my bedroom, a safe haven where I can be alone and enjoy every moment of it. Upon walking through the door, I am hit with the sweet pumpkin cupcake scent of my Bath and Body Works wallflower. Tucked away in my dresser drawers are several pieces of my go-to me-time outfit: tee shirts, sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and hoodies. Lying on my bead are mounds of soft blankets and Pillow Pets, waiting to envelope me as I take my usual afternoon nap. The white Christmas lights draped around my posters of Freddie Mercury, Alton Brown, and Justin Timberlake bring a sense of comfort and warmth. My good place has all the things I like: my Jack Russell Terriers, nail polish, Netflix, and of course, snacks. My typical weekends revolve around simultaneously painting my nails, watching reruns of Dance Moms or Malcolm in the Middle, and gorging myself with popcorn and candy. An endless supply of Tic-tacs and chocolate is stashed in my closet, all for me, myself, and I. Let’s not forget my obsession with online shopping. Why leave the safety of my room when I can do everything I like there? It may not be considered a healthy lifestyle, but I couldn’t imagine myself not doing it. My good place is where I don’t have to worry about anyone else. It is a place where I can laugh or cry without anyone watching. My good place is where I can be productive and where I can be a lazy slug. My good place is where I can be myself and escape from the hectic outside world I call school, work, and other human beings.
I remember the first time my dad showed me a picture of a 1991 Toyota Celica he’d found on Craig’s list. It was a little red convertible searching for a new owner. Immediately I was in love. Every girl dreams of one day cruising around in a little red convertible like every female protagonist she admires from cheesy high school romantic comedies with poor actors and poor filming that we can’t seem to peel our eyes away. When I first sat behind the wheel of my car the only thing that could come to my mind was my Granddaddy. My little red car somehow smelled exactly of Granddaddy’s little white one story three bedroom house on Bonnie Brook Rd. It seemed only fitting to name my car Bonnie (Bon Bon for short these days). Averaging two hours of driving every day, Bonnie has become my happy place. There’s a certain joy like no other that I have driving Bonnie around on a summer day. With the press of a button I roll her top down and start off on whatever journey the day may bring. The radio is always blasting with cheesy 90’s music which my friends don’t understand. When it’s just me and Bonnie out on the road, there’s no one to judge me for attempting to hit every high note of Prince’s “Kiss.” Off pitch notes are lost in the wind which blows my hair into a tangled mess. On a warm sunny day I can feel the sun kissing my skin with every mile. If I close my eyes (not while I’m driving of course) it’s as if I’m lying out on an Oceanside beach. With the top down in the Spring I can smell the bloom of every blossoming plant and flower. Unfortunately living in Chestertown does bring some unpleasant smells as well when it comes times for the farmers to fertilize their fields. Bonnie provides a place for me to escape every day. For that hour drive I feel as though I am invincible. There’s no one else around to disturb my peace and I like it that way.
The sand shifts beneath my bare feet as I take the last step over the crest of the dunes. A cool breeze slides across my face, lifting the hair from my neck. I blink rapidly to diffuse the rays of the late morning sun, and then the glory of Stone Harbor, NJ comes into view. Golden sand stretches in both directions with only the rare beach-goers speckling the sand before noon. The gray-green undulating waves scintillate in the sunlight, and they lap forward eagerly like excited puppies onto the dark bronze of the soaked sand. The sky is a vivid cornflower blue with white wisps of clouds that are tightropes stretched toward the brilliance of the sun. My sister and I meander through the rippling sand and begin passing a volleyball with our feet on the dense, packed sand closer to the water. The volleyball is soon coated with a fine layer of the wet grains of sand, and it soon scrapes against the smooth skin of my inner arms as my sister and I continue to pass the ball back and forth. The heat and radiance of the sun soon drive us into the water as the golden orb glides directly overhead. I slip through the cold, salty waves, and float on top of the water as the waves roll underneath, up and down and up and down. After awhile, I make my way out of the tide’s grasp, trying not to get caught by the waves being propelled toward the shore. I bask in the golden light, and my eyelids flutter closed as I let the heat drive the shimmering droplets of water and its lingering coolness from my body. I cannot bear to put in my headphones and block the luxurious sound of the water crashing against the shore. The rolling water tumbles over and under itself, and white foam bubbles as it careens toward the sand. The deep, rhythmic crashing of the waves provides the sweet, overlapping notes that lull me into a blissful mid-afternoon nap.
The sound of the wave runners passing by and the horn from the departing ferry reminds me of where I am the happiest. The warm, sandy beach of Lewes, Delaware that is so calm and peaceful compared to the hectic town and beach of Rehoboth. Sitting in my aqua beach chair on the shore is somewhere I can go to relax and let my mind wander completely on its own. The smell of sweet sunscreen and tanning oil wafts through the air after being baked by the rays of the sun. Buckets and shovels building golden mansions in the sand. The waves crash against the shore crushing shells in their way and pulling them back into the depths of the ocean. A never-ending process occurring everyday almost as if it’s a job it must do. The ocean has a calming sensation that transports you to your very own tropical island where no one can bother you. Resting for hours or reading your favorite book, listening to the crashing and swishing of water as fish jump in and out. You look around and see lobsters baking under the sun on their beach blankets, once looking like ghosts. The tightening of the skin that lets you know when its time to reapply sunscreen to make sure you aren’t the next lobster frying there. The best part about the beach is that you can go down by yourself and have a relaxing vacation or you can go with family and friends and make memories. The beach is a magical place that brings out your inner happiness, forces you to let go of all the stress in life, and lets you enjoy one day at a time.
The light gently streams through the curtains and I can hear the birds singing to each other as the day begins. I blearily stretch and blink my eyes open. I am engulfed in the warm comfort of my bed. As I lay under the covers everything feels perfect. There can be no other place I should be other than my warm bed. My mind is still full of the dreams from the night before, and the world is wonderfully bleary. I sleepily look around my room and see all my things on the floor where I dropped them last night when I finally went to bed. The worries of last night are far away now. I stare up at my ceiling feeling perfectly content. But what time is it? Am I late for school? I sigh and roll over to my nightstand where my phone is resting. I check my phone and realize it's the weekend and it's only eight in the morning. Perfect. I sigh happily and snuggle deeper into my covers and close my eyes. Here in my covers the world is perfect and everything is good. This is my good place. Wrapped in my warm blanket in bed without any worries. This is place where the rest of the world fades away and everything is absolutely perfect. All my troubles are distant memories and life seems so much better. I feel perfectly rested and at ease. Wrapped in my covers I feel perfectly at home and happy.
When I get out of school my thoughts are buzzing wildly around my head reminding me of all the things I have to do and all the stresses of the day. My head aches and I can’t wait for a break. Then I go into the house and I see her. She looks bigger than last week and that’s good. She’s growing just as she should. Then as soon as her mom puts her in my arms and I look into her eyes all the things that were once buzzing in my head just a moment before have all disappeared. The world hasn’t left its mark on her yet and it’s beautiful. Her innocence and purity radiates off her and it makes me feel so warm inside. Every time I’ve held her she has fallen asleep in my arms and I feel so great inside that someone so helpless feels safe in my arms. I feel as though nothing can break through the way I feel when I hold her. I’ve never experienced a love so great in my life. The only things running through my mind are of how great these feelings are within me and how she is so peaceful, unlike the rest of us. I feel so light and warm when I hold her. I think to how I can’t wait to be a mother myself so I can experience this great, joyous feeling of the love that envelops me.
9,836 miles “Down Under” is my good place. It’s impossible to be anything but happy when I’m in Australia. I love being able to walk from my grandma’s house to the local shops. I smell the beefiness of a “snack pack,” the creamy perfection of the frozen yogurt, and the fruity freshness as I pass the market with people scurrying through mangos, oranges, and rambutans. The smell of coffee brewing triggers the image of people relaxing both inside and outside of the café all day long. From Canley Vale to Liverpool, the whistling of the train soothes me as I munch on a “Golden Gay Time” ice cream bar. The bumpiness of the train comes to a halt. The sun has gone down and I am now walking through the streets at night with my siblings and my cousins. The night air is silent. The only noise that fills the night is the obnoxiousness we bring as someone is sliding down the hill on a penny board, dogs bark as we pass neighbors’ houses, and the laughs as we poke fun at one another. We’ll all gather in one room, all nine of us, doing our own thing, together. Its organized chaos. My grandma comes in to check on us like a mother bear but she soon becomes one of the kids as we throw jokes around the room. My uncle might wander into the room with a smirk on his face as I wait for an observed comment to slip through his lips sarcastically. My 5-year-old cousin will try to explain something to me with her improper English combined with her Australian accent I once thought was so peculiar but is now something that puts a smile on my face. It’s like an unfamiliar scent you eventually find a liking to. 9,836 miles away is my good place, where I’ll find happiness in the simplest of things.
The glistening golden dome depicting Our Lady lies ahead as we travel down the drive to the main circle. I step out of the car and am immediately engulfed by the unavoidable spirit shared by so many on the University of Notre Dame campus. I first walk to the Basilica, a building visited by so many who wish to understand and experience its beauty. When I walk through the immense oak doors, I look up in awe at the aesthetic murals that adorn and conquer the ceiling. Detailed statues and stations line the walls. A towering tabernacle consumes the center of the basilica. I am peaceful and spiritual as all that surrounds me is glorious. My next stop is the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes. Tucked away from the center of campus, the Grotto acts as an escape for all who need it. Candles, devotion, and prayer are the focus for many who spend time basking in the serenity of the Grotto. My first step into the Grotto marks the end of conversation with others and the start of conversation with God. I worry about nothing else as I take time to light a candle, instantly giving life to the power of prayer. The Grotto leads to the St. Joseph’s and St. Mary’s lakes. Running and walking trails encompass both lakes, providing a place for exercise with a view. The crisp, South Bend air and layers of fog hanging over the lakes characterize early morning runs. As I turn the corner of one of the trails, I see an opening among the trees to the left of me. The opening allows for a breath-taking glimpse of the dome and steeple of the basilica which act in unison to provide this frame of beauty. My last stop includes what I see first when I arrive on campus: the golden dome. If I chipped away the gold leaf paint, I would find that the dome acts as more than just a symbol of the University. It holds the traditions and values cherished by the University of Notre Dame. I look up to its magnificence with adoration as I am privileged to experience its glory.
I can feel the sweat beads form on my skin from the intense rays of the sun. Luckily, the virgin Slippery Monkey, also covered in “sweat” beads, in my hand is keeping me cool. Aruba is known as one happy island by its slogan, and that motto holds true for me since I am nothing but happy when I am there. Bob Marley’s song, Don’t Worry, Be Happy, is the theme of any visit, whether it’d be physically or mentally, to Aruba. I’m disconnected from the stress that is associated with my life back in Pennsylvania. Contagious smiles gleam on practically every face that passes by as I lie back on the reclining chair that has become my haven for the beginning portion of the day. Contrary to the hustle and bustle of an ordinary day, I have the time on my side to do as I wish. As much as I love to relax, staying busy keeps me on my toes, so I look around for the next fun event to do rather than just squander my time in paradise by the pool. The game of beach volleyball is calling my name. What’s better than playing a sport, meeting new people, and getting a beautiful bronzed complexion all at the same time? It does not get much better than this; unless, of course, that sport is soccer rather than beach volleyball. As I glance over towards the endless crystal blue horizon that lies before me, I see a group of people start to move to the beat of the lively music. Not wanting to dance alone, I gather my family and lead them to the site of the shindig on the beach. The soft sand between my toes facilitates the movement of my body to the music playing. Good vibes are being spread through the music, dancing, loved ones, and even strangers that surround me. My worries are as small as the waves in Aruba and that is why it is considered my good place.
I put my car in park and step out onto the hardscape patio in front of a modest yet beautiful ranch styled house. For the cars that pass by, it is just another home belonging to just another non-descript family. But to me, the house and its inhabitants are not just ordinary. They are special and meaningful. They are the heart of the Papili family. They are Mom-mom and Pop-pop. Ever since I can remember, my cousins, aunts, and uncles have been going to Mom-mom and Pop-pop’s every Sunday after church. When I step into the house, I immediately feel the warmth of the oven toast my skin. Smells of bread and pizzelles fill my nostrils. I walk into the kitchen and see my entire family crammed around an island. My Mom-mom sits at the head of the island, telling stories we’ve all heard a hundred times, yet we never stop her. I go over and spread my jacket across a chair, making sure to say hello to every family member along the way. In the back corner of the kitchen is my Pop-pop. I only see the back of his balding head, for he, like always, is hard at work, cooking eggs stuffed with parmigiano reggiano, general salami, and a whole bunch of other Italian secrets that no one can quite replicate. He turns his face to welcome me home. His paw-like hands embrace me, and his smile makes me feel as though I am still the little boy who sat on his lap many years ago. I take my seat at the packed island, and begin to eat the breakfast of Italy. Everything here tastes so good: the orange juice, cold and refreshing as it splashes into my mouth; the potatoes, mixed with olive oil and peppers; the Italian bread, whose warm, crisp texture is enough to make your mouth water uncontrollably. I take a look around and take a moment to fully appreciate what’s in front of me: family, laughter, history, tradition. Love. This is where I belong. This is where I feel most comfortable. This is my “good place.”
When my parents surprised me with my baby blue Honda CRV this summer I never thought that it would ever become my "happy place". I love everything about my car. My whole life always seems to be one big hustle and bustle but my car is that one place I get to go and just chill for a while. I live for the dark and gloomy commute to school every morning because it means that I'll get to be in the coziness of my car I love rushing down Kirkwood Highway blasting my favorite drake song. I get to turn the radio up as loud as I want without anyone yelling at me to turn it down. I can scream and sing as off-key as I want too because no ones telling me to shut up. No one to judge my terrible rendition of "Started from the Bottom". It's just me, Drakes voice blaring from the radio,and my car. As I zoom down the windy back roads I get to catch a glimpse of the beauty from the world around me. I speed past the tall, naked trees, see dead brown leaves scattered on the frosty grass, and catch a peak of the deer hiding in bushes. Driving is the only time I get to admire how gorgeous nature really is. My car is the one place where I get to take a break and reflect on the craziness going on in my life. I take a moment to think and sort out things that need to be fixed or congratulate myself on the things I've accomplished. As I take time to think I love listening to the soft purr of the engine. It helps me relax and feel more at ease. There's no place in this entire world that makes me feel as tranquil as I do in my car, that's why it's my "good place."
My “good place” is ski field. Skiing is my favorite sport in winter. It is a great feeling when I stand on top of the mountain. The world is full of peace with all the white snow surrounds me. When the sun is out, the ice crystals shine like diamonds. Standing on the top of the mountain, I find the world becomes quiet and all you can hear is the sound of wind. It is a great way for me to find inner peace. I could have a short period of time for my mind to rest. I do not need to think about my life such as school or relationship with others. All I need to do is listen to the sound of nature and rush down the mountain. The speed gives me a feeling of relief. My blood is boiling when everything just passes through my eyes so quickly. It is the call from my wild nature. All the bad things and pressure in my life are forgotten. It feels like that I am the only thing left in the whole world and nothing really matters. When the sun goes down, the sky becomes really dark. The flood lights are on. My surrounding turns into darkness. The wind blows with snow flying. The feeling of loneliness starts to rush into my heart. I start to miss my family and friends, especially my warm home. Then, my period of “escaping from the real world” ends. I stop skiing and come back to the civilization.
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