I arrived in August with open arms and wide eyes. It was my second year at public school and I had fallen into the swing of a larger school last year. This year would just be a repeat of the last, I was sure of it.

But I soon realized that was not the case. The class were more difficult, the work was hard. Teachers expected more and orchestra started requiring practice. I started having to study and those straight A’s that I had been so proud of started slipping to B’s.

By October my my life was completely different than from the beginning of the year. I was no longer putting things off till last minute or prayin’ to pass a test without studying at all. I feel into a different pattern and–as my science teacher would say–adapted.

Eventually I figured out the year was going to be great. I fell in love with scientific notation–Go Mathletes!–and found my old love of poetry.

In seventh grade I learned more things than I imagined I could have or would have Linear equations, my love of poetry, and that 26 letters really can make a difference.\

I’m proud of this year. And as this year comes to a close I realize that I’m proud–not only of this year but of myself. My grades might not always be perfect, my attitude might not always be the best; but I try and that is what matters.

If I had to do it over again I would study more, work harder, and be the best I can be. If I could give any advice to incoming seventh graders: find a subject you love and excel. Perfectionism isn’t always the way to go. Simply putting you effort into things and trying is how you’ll accomplish your dream.

At the end of the day it’s your life. Not your parent’s, not your teacher’s, not your friend’s. Yours. So you better make the best of it.

Darkness is the contrast of light,
Bad the contrast of good,
Love the contrast of hate,
Health the contrast of pain,

Nothing is as it seems to be
At least not completely.
There is fault in everything,
And questions that bring answers,
That only bring more questions.

Nobody’s perfect, or as my third grade teacher had written on the board: Pobody’s nerfect. A simple way to laugh at the fact that we’re so imperfect, we couldn’t even spell that correctly.
I never did like that sentence. Sure, nobody is perfect. That’s what we’ve always been told. Even Hannah Montana use to sing about the lack of perfection in everyone.

I still strongly dislike that mantra. We all have flaws; yes. We all have little imperfections and traits we simply despise. But what if it wasn’t that “nobodies perfect”, but that everyone is. Before you roll your eyes—hear me out. Those imperfections are what have built and created: You.

Wouldn’t it simply be easier, and make even more sense, if everyone was deemed perfect. If instead of pointing out the flaws and realizing that we can never be perfectly perfect.

We realize that perfection is in fact attainable. And in all honesty, has already been attained. The simple act of existing and being you; is also the act of being perfect. You don’t have to change your hair/eyes/clothes/body to be perfect.

Everyone is already imperfectly perfect. Just as there is good in bad and hate in love there is imperfection in perfection.

And perfection in imperfection.

How would you like to get hypnotized?
Stare deep, deep into my eyes.
Now you’re getting drowsy, falling deep
Deep, deep, deep–asleep,
And I have you in my power.
Mow the lawn for half an hour.
Shine my shoes, trim my hair.
Wash out all my underwear.
Do my homework, scratch my back,
Cook me up a great big stack
Of pancakes, and go wash my plate.
Get some nails and fix the gate.
Now wake up and open your eyes.
Wasn’t it fun to be hypnotized?
{by Shel Silverstein, Hypnotized}

When I was younger I fell in love with Mr. Silverstein’s poems. Being a poet myself, I always enjoyed and admired how he made them all rhyme–as that isn’t my strong point at all. I’d read his books day in and day out. This poem is definitely an old favorite and use to always make me laugh. My brother and I would try and hypnotize each other with an old clock or snap of the fingers. Never did work. But Mr. Silverstein’s poems seemed to hypnotize me. Enchanted me, and inspired me to write poetry.

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{my picture}

I remember, when I was 4, my parents got my brother and I swings. He was given a green frog swing. While I, I was given a beautiful, blue, butterfly swing. And instantly fell in love.

Some people had dolls, hot wheel cars, etc. Me? I had my swing. I would swing everyday—every chance I got. Back and forth and back and forth. I would beg my daddy to push me higher, higher, HIGHER. I dreamt of touching the sky. Soaring on my prized butterfly; all the way to the clouds.

It was my own personal diary. As silly as that sounds. When I felt overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, I’d fly—swing—till all was better. I’d think everything out, talk everything out, figure everything out. Whether I needed to calm down or take a break from reality—my swing was there.

An inanimate object that meant so much to me. And up until last December I swung daily. As you can see from the picture: my adored butterfly has a “broken wing”. Nearly 10 years old, it’s a wondered it lasted so long. When it broke I remember feeling a deep sort of sadness. Not the kind of crying-Icantbelieveyoubrokeit-Youmonster sadness. The deep sort that pulls at your heart. I looked sadly at it and thought: I’m going to miss you.

Though nothing can compare. I know I used it for some great years. And I’m internally greatful for that little escape. My favorite toy, that meant more to me then anything, had flown away to the clouds like I use to dream of. And I know I’ll be okay with out it.

The Live Music capital of the word, the place where crazy is great and our normal is your “weird”. Austin, Texas. Probably the nicest place in the world, full of crazy people who know how to make some great noise.

Despite, what you might think, in Texas we don’t actually ride horses to school or play “count the tumbleweed” in our free time. We visit and explore the city—or at least I do. There are so many great things. My favorite is probably Town Lake. There is a running trail you can take. I do the 4 miles—six is just too many—with a few friends or simply just my dogs. You can have such a great experience and the whole atmosphere is just lovely.

On those days when running is the least thing I want to do, I go downtown. Grab some fro-yo, watch the street performers, take pictures beside all the beautifully decorated “graffiti walls”. I’ve fallen in love with the people and art this city has. Each block as it’s own special thing. I personally love the “Frog Wall”. It’s a giant green way that’s been graffitied on and above it’s head says,”Hi, how are you?”. It’s the cutest thing and just represents the Texan-loving attitude.

Whether you love to run, explore, or just eat fro-yo to the voices of the street preformers: Austin is the place for you. It has so much to give and you’ll never get bored while roaming the streets of the “Live Music Capital of the World”. It simply is the best place to live.

One chance. One opportunity.

I’ve done loads of sports. Basketball, volleyball, equestrian, track, tennis—you get me, I have done lots of sports. But swimming is just…different. I don’t do it because I like it. Honestly, I hate it.

I do it because I couldn’t imagine my life without it. So I guess I do sort of like it—love hate relationship. When it comes to swimming it isn’t like volleyball or basketball of even equestrian. Everything is in your hands. If a teammate messes up—or even just a horse haha—it doesn’t affect you.

It’s your opportunity to win and only yours.

It’s the sport where your only opponent…

…is the clock.

When I was seven,
My best friend was the sand
That pressed against my toes
And stretched for miles down.

The sea was my backyard.

When I was eight.
Daddy’s job took us far
Far far away.
To the city lights and “zoom-zoom” cars.

And the buildings became my backyard.

Now I’m ten,
And I haven’t seen my best friend since,
Haven’t felt it pressed against my toes
Or see it stretched for miles down.

City lights
“Zoom-zoom” cars
That don’t stretch for miles

They are my best friends now.

My fingers tapped
Tapped to the song of my nerves.
Frantically, nervously, quickly.

My heart raced
Raced to the song of my fears.
Uncontrollably, anxiously, rapidly.

My knees shook
Shook to the song of my distress.
Hysterically, apprehensively, silently.

Anxiety chocked my sanity.
Tugging me away from the logic and the ease of life.

Fear pulled at my heart.
Ripping it apart from the seams.

Distress drown all my inner peace.
Pulling me away from all that I knew as true.

My fingers tapped,
My heart raced,
My knees shook.

AnxietyFearDistress

Breathe.
Exhaling the Anxiety
Exhaling the Fear
Exhaling the Distress

And inhaling the Strength.

“What’s the weath—”
“Then I was at—”
“I can’t be—”
“Why would to—”
Interrupting is quite annoying.

First of all, interrupting causes you to lose your train of thought. When you begin to interrupt someone they focus on what you’re saying. Then when they get back to their conversation, they look like a complete idiot. Do you really want your friend to look like an idiot? Rhetorical question. You don’t. All in all, interrupting is just plain distracting.

Even worse then looking like a complete idiot is feeling like one. Interrupting makes you feel like what you’re saying isn’t important. There I was, giving my speech and this guy turns to his “buddy” and starts discussing sports. I felt like a complete idiot and nobody cared about what I had to say.

Patience is a virtue. Unless someone is on fire, what you have to say can wait. Interrupting bothers people and hurts their feelings. Be patient.

My heart pounded into my ears, beating so fast I thought the arteries would burst. My knees trembled as I read through the speech for the thousandth time–I couldn’t mess this up. Nervously, frantically, I skimmed through the speech once again. The words seemed burned into eyelids–for I knew them by heart.

Cold sweat dripped from my forehead, trickling down like a stream of nervous feeling. Applauds rang through the building. But I was too busy reading and rereading. Always rereading.

Making sure that everything was perfect–perfectionism and OCD at it’s worst.

Making sure not a period out of place or a misspelled word. Simply because I was in no mood to trip on my words and mess it all up. This was my moment of glory. My moment. The president motioned for me to go. And go I did.

Stepping out in front of the stage.

Heart racing as though I had just run a marathon. Legs trembling. Hands shaking and threatening to drop the papers.

Arteries pounding blood. Faster, harder, louder.

Stage fright filled my body all the way through my bones. Putting the paper on the stand. I spoke.

But as I spoke. The crowd was gone. The voices were quite. I was all alone.

Reading my speech. And pushing past the

stage fright.