tuna and beans, flames and bondfires.

Today has been a day spent wrapped in thought. It's been a week since I stepped foot onto this gracious continent, and yet, I think I am just now beginning to feel the weight of my presence here. I am beginning to realize that I have a budding life here, that my presence, although short, would be missed if I dissipated into the heavy summer heat. It is bittersweet.

The first week I had morning coffee with friend thousands of miles away. I met new faces, shared gourmet pizzas, and beers on the beach. I felt warm and welcome. I didn't feel loss. Today marked a change, maybe a shift not unlike the plates deep beneath the earth that have caused such tragic catastrophe in recent months. I found myself contemplating what the hell am I doing? Am I running towards my dream or away from someone else's? Am I being authentic or just jumping into another fantastic story running parallel to mine back in the States?

I am beginning to see people as they really are. I pride myself in keeping the company of people I consider real. And in being real, they probably carry some burden or have experienced something that allows them to really feel and care for others. I consider myself lucky to know such endearing souls. Within this category, however, I have begun to define two types. There are those who try to project their ideals and ideas about you onto you, perhaps inspiring you to move in new ways to fit some novel shape. But there are also those that can be limitting. Like a piece of clothing that is just too tight or a shoe too small. No room to grow. When you are young, physical and psychological growth can be seen, praised, and acknowledged by all. When you get a bit older, all of this growing takes place on the inside. It's harder to realize, harder to accept, it requires honesty.

Here is my fear. In growing,I will hurt others. Hurt the people who make the boxes, in which, I appear to fit in the images of their minds, but never quite fully in their hearts. In growing from these, the boxes may spilt and shatter. Pieces of remorse and a dream of what that box could have held, but never truly contained. I don't want to admit that I am growing, but I know I am.

How can I both hold on and let go? The past is the past, but as this trip has shown me, there are parallel universes. You can carry friendships across oceans and conversations over invisible connections. But then there are the connections of the heart. Do those float away towards distant shores, or reverberate into oblivion? If I build the box, can I make it big enough so that my heart can never burst through?