The first day, exciting yet scary. It's a new beginning, a blank slate. About those I feel the same way. I have nothing to work off of. No foundation to start on. I'm like a wire that isn't grounded. What if I spark? Everything could blow up. I know it won't happen but I worry anyway. Anxiety eats me, hungry. What if... is my enemy. I cannot shake this feeling no matter how hard I try, how much I know it will be fine. This is how these always start. It was so even on the first day of my senior year of high school. I went into it thinking of all the worst case scenarios, it being my first day in person since before the covid lockdown and all. I knew my teachers would be good, of five I had already had three, and I knew the other two were good teachers. I had a free period; six classes was a full schedule. Time came for lunch. I had sat outside of the choir room for lunch previously, but most of the people I would hang with had graduated. I went there and sat in my old place thinking nothing of the open door and my choir teacher inside. She had started at the beginning of the previous school year and up to then I had physically been in the same room as her twice. The choir teacher before her was never there during lunch, so we ate outside of the room because by the time we had access it would have been a waste to move. I expected nothing sitting on the cold floor, the choir room was the basement after all. Someone came to talk to the teacher. I watched, but still thought nothing of the situation. When they were leaving, she noticed be and asked if it was, in fact, me sitting there. I said it was. She told me to come in and sit on the stage (the room is also called the little theater). I was told the floor was far too cold, and I have to agree. This was a good beginning. One I remember quite fondly now. This is what I try to remember when there are firsts. They can turn out just as well as that one did. Sure there's the possibility of a nightmare, but it could always be the kind of first you cherish forever.

I was on the airplane, seated near the window, next to two other strangers. It was a very long journey, a 16-hour flight. My legs felt numb. I became impatient and nervous. I shook my legs, wondering, "When will all this be over?" I thought, letting out a big sigh. Then, I saw streetlights from the window. I checked the time on the small TV screen in front of me. It was 5:30 in the morning. I couldn't believe I was finally here. I heard the pilot make an announcement, followed by the flight attendant announcing the local time and reminding us about the seatbelt. I felt overwhelmed with happiness. My eyes became wet. I tried my best to hold back my tears.

A land that I had never stepped foot in before. A strange land that I could finally see from above, and for no reason, it felt so familiar. A feeling of longing suddenly emerged; it was so weird. For no reason, I called this place 'Home'. And now, I've been here, making a living in my home.

Nothing but the clothes on my back. No home to go back to. Hours away from what I knew. Everyone who was there was in a similar position. We wanted to help ourselves. We needed to heal and we were making the decision to find the help we desperately needed. Eyes were always on me. Every fifteen minutes, someone would look in on me. Taking control of your life and then relinquishing that control to those who want to help you is a specific kind of vulnerability. It can calm the brain and put it in fight or flight mode. Your safety and healing were the first priority. The healing had to start with you. People could tell you how to help yourself, but you have to take that first big step to start on healing yourself. It does give back your control and lets you find yourself in safety. You learn how to live with yourself and how to live with the rest of the world. They tell you how it is, but it is up to you to understand when to let go of who or what hurts you. You can forgive people but it doesn't mean they have earned a place in your life. This is the hard part about being human, living. With yourself, with others. But always remember to put yourself first when it comes to your boundaries. Nobody has the right to mess with your protections and still have the right to being a part of your life.

Everyday is like the first with you

You cling tight to my arm, our feet marching over the pavement in time, and my heart leaps, accelerating into a thumping, faltering rhythm.

You rush forward, an idea on your lips, your eyes glowing with life and joy, and my heart skips, never to be still again when you're not with me.

You hold me tight, tight, tighter, and everything just dissolves away, your warmth joining with mine.

I wish these first days were my days, for always

Holding your hand for the first time, your fingers weave between mine, that time in the cold on the bench lasting forever, your warmth in my hand, a pledge of something, a tiny shell of warmth in a desert of cold

Gazing up into the stars, your head on my shoulder. Seeing the sky above, the way the lights of years ago carve slices through the darkness, seeking each other's light. Your head slides onto my shoulder. For the first time.

That first kiss, your world blending into mine, a roiling tidal wave of sensations and emotions and adrenaline and something else deeper pumping through my veins, through my whole being, pulling me closer to you, closer, closer. How much closer can I become?

I often wish a moment would last forever

Then I remember these are but the first days

Not the last days

And the smile sneaks back onto my face, and I am full of joy once more,

Like the first day

On the first day of school, everything felt brand new, from the sharp scent of freshly sharpened pencils to the crispness of the unblemished notebooks. It was a day filled with jitters and excitement, where unknown adventures awaited beyond the threshold of the classroom door.

For Emily, a freckled-faced 7-year-old with wild, curly hair, the first day of second grade was particularly nerve-wracking. She had grown taller over the summer and had a shiny set of braces now. Would her classmates recognize her? What would her new teacher be like? These thoughts raced through her mind as she stood by the school gate.

As she walked into the classroom, Emily's wide eyes settled on her best friend, Lily, sitting at a desk near the window. Her heart soared. They giggled and waved at each other from across the room. The first day was off to a great start, and Emily's jitters began to melt away.

Their teacher, Mrs. Anderson, was a woman with a twinkle in her eye and an infectious enthusiasm for learning. She made math fun with colorful manipulatives, taught science through fascinating experiments, and even led the class in a sing-along about the solar system. It was a day filled with wonder and curiosity, as if the classroom had transformed into a spaceship ready to explore the universe.

Lunchtime was an adventure of its own. Emily had brought her favorite peanut butter and jelly sandwich, while Lily had a lunchbox packed with surprises. They swapped snacks, giggled over their secret stash of candies, and even dared each other to trade sandwiches with the boy who sat behind them. It was a culinary exploration that expanded their taste buds and their friendships.

Recess brought its own share of excitement. Emily had brought her shiny new jump rope, and Lily had a hula hoop. They soon gathered a group of friends to join in, and under the golden sun, they jumped and twirled with wild abandon. Laughter echoed through the playground, and the first day was turning into an unforgettable adventure.

After school, the two best friends walked home, their backpacks heavy with new textbooks and homework assignments. They chatted about everything they'd learned, the friends they'd made, and their plans for tomorrow. There was something magical about sharing the first day of school with a best friend.

That evening, Emily's mom made her favorite mac and cheese for dinner. She listened intently as Emily shared her day, mimicking Mrs. Anderson's animated storytelling style. The first day felt like an epic journey, and Emily couldn't wait to see what the rest of the school year had in store.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the classroom became a second home. Emily's freckles seemed to multiply as she spent her days exploring math problems, conducting science experiments, and reading books that transported her to far-off lands. Lily, her constant partner-in-crime, was there to share every adventure.

And so, the first day of second grade became the foundation for a year filled with laughter, learning, and lifelong friendships. Each day was a new chapter, and Emily and Lily were the fearless explorers, ready to dive headfirst into the joys and challenges of growing up. The first day had set the tone for a year of fun and experiences that would shape their young lives and leave them with memories to treasure for years to come.

The window above our bed is open, and there is a hot and salty breeze. Or is it his breath? I open my eyes, brushing the wet ends of my hair out of my face. He is beside me, on top of the covers, and I am underneath the covers and underneath his arms and one of his legs. The top half of his face is warmed by the peeking red glow of the Everglades sun. He looks for all the world like a child— save for the stubble around his gaping, snoring mouth. We were married yesterday evening, an autumn chapel wedding in Florida with family and a few close friends. I am now a wife.

I am 18 years old. I slap a mosquito bite on my arm, then one on my thigh, then one on my chin, then I sit up in bed and shut the window. I feel both matronly and very young, kneeling in my long pink gingham nightgown. He wears just his gray cotton boxers and looks naked and smells like sweat. He is also 18. I want to sit and look at him for a while because he is now my husband, and this is my first morning having a husband ever in my life. And he still is so handsome to me, even today, even drooling on my hair and on our pillow. But he smells like sweat, I smell like his sweat, the room smells like his sweat, and I decide that I will watch him sleep some other time. I want to bathe. I need to make breakfast. And as soon as he wakes I still need to air out the sheets, which will never air out in the sultry Florida air. A fresh new mosquito bite stings on my lip and then on the soft back of my hand.

We are staying for our honeymoon in my great aunt’s farmhouse, and I have only been here once before. The master bathroom has a great big window with no curtains or blinds. I won’t change in here. I will change my clothes in the closet after I make breakfast and then bathe. I splash water on my face and brush my teeth with the toothbrush we share as of last night, since he forgot to pack his. It is the pink toothbrush I brought from the pack in my bathroom at home, my parents’ home. My brother has the purple toothbrush and my sister got the green one. I can taste my husband’s breath. I spit the sparkly blue toothpaste and rinse it down the sink.

The sound of the running water wakes him up, and he calls, “Good morning, sunshine!” My heart flutters like a bird. Through the doorway, he is sitting up and grinning. The sunlight is changing from red to yellow. Hopping back to the bed, I hug my arms to my chest. He wraps me up in his strong arms, kisses my forehead and I laugh. My voice sounds like a little girl. We say nothing else and just sit on the bed. I am so very hungry and have not eaten since before the ceremony because of the butterflies in my stomach. On cue, I hear his stomach growl. My ear is on his chest and I don’t know if I should make a joke or not, and the moment passes, so I don’t. Through the window I see the grapefruit tree and the chickens. I will have to collect the eggs and squeeze the bitter juice for his breakfast. But for now, I close my eyes, listen, and wonder how many of his heartbeats I will have the privilege to hear in this lifetime.

I crave the depths of my own soul.

I know I’m getting pretty old.

But even in my younger days,

I felt the weirding, deeper ways.

This flesh divine in view tastes sweet,

but still the world feels incomplete.

I yearn for curls and turns of love

far below and high above.

The tides of being buffer me

suffering my destiny.

I ride the tip along the edge

of my own sacred, inner pledge.

Perhaps I’m thinking far too small

to truly bear the beck and call

of the spirits held within

all the selves that I have been.

I know that all it really takes,

whether dreaming or awake,

is for me to actually give the nod

as best I can to the idea of God.

A vague sense, common and untrusted

An incandesce fades in, shadows dance

The night sings, in its tranquility

Urging the listlessness to applaud,

We place a ring, on the finger of thought

Questioning the onset of sanity

For, in an instant, it seems illogical

And, our ignorance, shall be willing

To overcome the same effect

And if the night be still,

If only in a sense, to fulfill

Tread light,

For, our adversary walks about

Distant and fake,

To be,

To stand and see,

Are you the only ones here,

Listening to the wretchedness?

The Drive was selective, but not at all particular. Like the difference between focus and attention. Focus was deep not soft. Everything sharp, yet certain things were fitted into the frame only. Others left for another time. Rotated, cycled back again— as data, seductively Mined.

Like in cropping, not gold digging. The synonymous nature of farming and photography, or other plastic arts, and the necessary selection of what bytes would be planted in the field, of vision, this time. The ground must never be depleted. That is where she had made a mistake (another mistake). She blushed to think that she was such a native-tourist.

Riding in the Taxi, looking through her Canon for "good" shots, she had failed to understand focus and attention. She took them both, personally, partially.

On more careful consideration and reflection, she knew, like in a startled flash of realization of high beams, that the Drive did not!! Everything was worth the shot. It was rather a question of recognizing the right angle, and the right timing. Zooming in or out.

The Drive was looking beyond the lens— Mapping it all.