I lived on an island for a year.
I'd recently graduated from college.
Decided to leave behind a few things.
3 tumultuous years of Tibet.
A doctor who refused to listen to me and would scribble out prescriptions instead.
Memories that refused to erase.
And the uncertainty of what I wanted to do with my life.
So I went to this island.
Worked as a waitress and a home school teacher.
I didn't forgive myself there.
On that island.
But I did reconnect with myself.
I drank and smoked.
And cursed at tv's with men and women from South Africa and Scotland and Canada.
Spent hours each day at a cafe.
Eating chocolate biscotti; drinking free refills of Lavazza coffee.
I stupidly stopped taking my medicine.
But engaged myself in life.
I rode my yellow bike everywhere.
Visited the beach every day.
Would sit and read on my back porch with a rooster who was in dire need of a wrist watch.
Would let people into my room.
I took few pictures.
Instead, memorized everything around me by staring hard at the sun.
I forgot to shop for clothes for a whole year.
Because life was very simple.
Wore old jeans and t-shirts.
My iPod stopped working, so the sound of the waves and the chatter of Caymanians was my soundtrack.
I faced the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named memories.
Realized my worth.
Experienced a few new crushes.
I let myself fall in love with writing.
And also with the idea of letting it be my lifelong act.