The One With The Island Girl.

Dear Lover,

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 snorkled.

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.

Love,

Me.