On Visibility- A Letter to My Local Cultural Council

Good Morning Mr. Benson,

My name is Jennifer Passios and I am a dancer and arts educator in the Greater Boston Area. Although most of my work takes place in the city, I grew up in Lunenburg and still reside here in town.



Students at the American Dance Festival 2016 engaging with faculty facilitators
in conversations about race and gender disparities

With Arts in Education week upon us beginning September 11, I've been thinking a lot about my role as an artist and how my work relates back to elevating the arts in my own community. Until recently, I was supplementing my dancing with work as a substitute teacher and frequently utilized tools from my performance practice in the classroom. Students, even those who I had previously experienced challenges with, reengaged with the material. They left lessons with a deeper understanding of complex concepts and visibly demonstrated more confidence in their learning.  As an artist, keeping creativity alive on the local level is important to me and that spark begins with the students. I'm curious what the cultural council's role is in keeping the arts alive throughout our community, the schools in particular since they constitute such a large breadth of mental plasticity and imagination.

As you may know, Julie Burrows became the Chief of Arts and Culture for the city of Boston on September 23, 2014. This was an exciting jump for those of us with arts professions because her appointment prompted a series of initiatives that boosted arts funding and more importantly, visibility throughout the city. The landscape is becoming one that is more sustainable for artists and, as a result, is helping to bring the entire city together through dance, visual art, music, poetry, writing, film, spoken word, and conversation. I was on the town of Lunenburg website earlier today and didn't come across a tab for the Cultural Council anywhere on the page. I'm curious as to why. I am not single minded enough to think that the town doesn't have a multitude of committees and initiatives that need to be present and easy to find on the website, but it disheartened me that the Cultural Council isn't represented at all.

The first time I came upon Lunenburg's Cultural Council, I was researching the LCC grant program in conjunction with my own work. However, in reflecting more on arts initiatives, it seems to me that I can contribute more to this community in partnership with the Council rather than as a grant seeker. I was wondering if there were any open seats on the council and if so, if you could provide me with some more information regarding present goals, active projects, and time commitment? It is important to me as a young person to represent my demographic and increase access to career paths that are underfunded and underrepresented, particularly in small town settings.

My goal here is to facilitate dialogue. I am curious about the work of the Cultural Council because its work is important to community growth. Being an artist has given me the opportunity to connect to people of the world, to think quickly, to become a voice for positive social change, to show empathy, to create, to advocate, and to spread awareness.

I look forward to continuing the conversation and hope that there is some way I can contribute to your efforts in town this year.

Cheers,

Jen 

< 501: Verb

I sat beside a hay bale on a farm in Vermont and surveyed an open barn doorway lit by twinkle lights and vibrating with the memory of fiddles. The eves dripped, conjuring thoughts of an evening punctuated by skipping through puddles, whooping with the thunder, and carving paths through the torrents with a blue feather. Across from me as the last of the droplets slid down my eyelashes knelt a fellow weather worshiper. Connected by the rain we talked, simple things mostly-

Where do you live?- A yurt in New York, but I went to school in Boston



Moonshine Music Festival (c) TW Collins

What for?- Electrical Engineering

And the ever difficult,

Why did you choose that?

 “I’ve always been fascinated by making something out of nothing”

Simple, but stupefying.

The poetics left me reeling.

Today it is raining again and as I reflect back on this encounter I have realized a truth about why I have chosen to be an artist.

Hold on to your hats- None of that “It makes me feel free”, “I can let out my emotions”, “I can say the things that words cannot”, Hallmark business.

I dance for the same reason that humans are enthralled by newborn babies.  

Confused?

Understandable.

Let me return to farms. I recently watched FarmHer, a PBS documentary profiling women in agriculture. About halfway through the program, the videographer zooms in on a small tray of verdant potted seedlings as a dirt encrusted hand motions gently, reminiscing on farming and miracles. Ten days prior, these tiny plants were encased in a protective coating underground. Cells negotiated and differentiated. Roots spread out. The reaching fingers soaked up water and made a deal with new shoots- I’ll hydrate you if you nourish me. Gametes battled their way towards the light. Shoots wriggled past soil, fertilizer, perhaps an insect or two, and the lucky ones pumped their fists triumphantly through the Earth. Viola. Plant babies.

We are floored by birth, but it’s not the baby itself that is miraculous. The tiny warm thing squirming around becomes a source of wonder because of the processes that brought it there- conception, pregnancy, growth, cell division, development, turning a thought into a creature. Looking at that baby, we don’t see an object, we see all of the actions that brought the baby here. The miracle is that those actions ultimately manifested as a person that will continue navigating the world through yet more actions.

The baby in a parent’s arms, or pushing up though the soil, or stumbling around on 4 legs is the physical manifestation of millions of processes. It is evidence of verbs.

Life as an artist is about being aware of those processes. It’s difficult to understand because the rewards aren’t often tangible. In being this way though, art is miraculous. As a performer, I get to be that newborn, the result of thought made manifest and brought to fruition, of making something out of nothing.

I dance because I am a verb.

(494)

< 501: People

At the age of 3, I was chastised in the produce aisle of my local Shop n’ Save for inviting an old man home to dinner. My disconcerted mother reminded me that I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers. Proudly, I gazed up at her and exclaimed, “I told him my name is Jennifer, so he isn’t a stranger anymore!”

 

Thus began my habit of social networking.

 

Bates Dance Festival 2014- Photo Credit: Arthur Fink

Successful relationship building has been a determining factor in the viability of nearly all of my endeavors, artistic or otherwise.  As I have worked to become a dancer, mentors have encouraged me to build connections with the people I encounter in class, at shows, during auditions, and in other arts saturated settings. I listened, did, and have passed on the suggestions to younger dancers, frequently accompanied by modified renditions of the “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” sentiment.

 

Recently, I have found myself attempting to restructure my interpretation of this phrase.  

 

I've become consumed by the question- How do we choose who to know?

 

I'm not here to diminish the importance of forging connections rooted in artistic commonality. It’s logical to seek out companions in our field. However, in confining our interactions to environments where we are surrounded only by other artists of the same discipline, we lose out on speaking with the folks who have the greatest potential direct us in spreading our artistic influence effectively.

 

How, then, do we strike up a conversation when place doesn’t immediately dictate artistic inclination? I’ve found fearlessness with a healthy dose of empathy typically works. Smiling helps. And yes, my favorite place to meet people is still the grocery store.

 

Whole Foods is my current location of choice since it contains an invaluable relationship building tool- tables. There are never enough to meet the demand of customers hoping to find one unoccupied. I’m thrilled when people choose to sit near me. Fortunately, it happens often. Sitting that close to someone and refraining from at least an introduction makes me uncomfortable. It seems that the people who choose to share tables with me feel similarly.

So we talk.

I have made the acquaintance of a gentleman who works at a homeless shelter and details high end rugs, a 70something local sculptor who also dances, describing Argentine Tango as a way of life, a freelance makeup artist, and a nanny newly in breast cancer remission. I left each interaction with a story and often a business card. These people all enriched my experience as an artist but I wouldn't have met any of them had I chosen to network only at dance related events.

Artists are facilitators, but we are not the only people who make art happen. Yes, we input creative impulses and metamorphose them into visual, tangible, or otherwise sensory products. We indulge in the responsibility of experience translation.

 

But.

 

To reimagine human life, you must collect experiences.

To collect those experiences, you must be human.

Humans make art happen.

(498)

 

< 501: Class

Friday, 7AM.

 My ponytailed head, complete with unbecoming, razor straight, center part, bobs along the perimeter of a sea of blankets. The quilt undulates softly in time with spurts of apnea induced snoring. I weigh my options, decide to go with a poke and softly spoken words. A pillow to the face sounds more interesting, but I opt out.

(Un)fortunately, the poke is enough and my dad wakes up with a start. Bleary eyed, he looks at me, confused.

Holding up my backpack, I eagerly proclaim,

“I’m ready. I want to go to school.”

The night before, my father was inducted into the hall of paternal sainthood- he took me to an Avril Lavigne concert. It was awesome. At 12, belting those lyrics about how Sk8r Bois made life so Complicated was nothing short of cathartic.

My parents had agreed that the late night coupled with my attendance record merited a day off from school.

But I had a test.

There were things to learn.

I was not willing to skip.

Since childhood, I have been encouraged to approach mental cultivation within framework of investigation and enthusiasm. Both my educational pursuits and current professional development (class, writing, observing) have been founded in enriching discovery rather than blasé necessity or cerebral anguish.

In general, I find myself in the midst of a people who indulge in the idea of toil. We are not considered fully invested in our practice unless we are, as the adage goes, bleeding, sweating or crying. Sure, if we dance enough, all of these things will happen, but they will be products of inevitability, not effort. If bodily secretions were actually a measure of professional worth, we would all be better off spending our days in fist fights or donating platelets.

In my community, geographically speaking, the religiously committed class takers seem to be those whose professional inclinations do not fall within the dance sector. Having assigned the ^struggle=^value equation elsewhere, their experience appears less infected by an almost primal need to, as Kendra Portier so aptly puts it, A+ everything in the studio.

How then, can we throw out the concept of chore and reimagine daily practice as a privilege?

I’ve tried to habituate classes into my weekly rotation that meet a series of process bench marks rather than self-assigned (and frankly self-sabotaging) performance goals.

These include:

An uplifting class- for pure physical exaltation

A challenging class- to work on focus and endurance

An easy class- to find nuance

A systematic class- to track progress

A class with friends- for support and accountability

For now, this method suits me.

I view this practice laboratory with reverence. That space loses its luster when suffering overcomes growth. Tenacity is only effective when partnered with purpose, joy and forgiveness.

In accordance, let’s develop a practice that is puzzling rather than painful and commit to working smarter, not harder.

(479)

< 501: Instigation

In 500 words or less, please tell us your reasons for applying, your entire relevant professional history, an idealized vision of your next five years of life, why you think your goals will morph into reality, your favorite color, and your feelings about global warming.

Welcome to the application marathon.

It's my third year out of undergrad and I've started navigating the world both as an independent artist and a graduate degree program hopeful. As you can imagine, this involves spending countless hours drinking too much coffee and selling myself through language to a panel of invisible people tasked with deciding whether or not they wish to meet/partner with/fund me based on my ability to woo them via writing sample. 

Invariably, each application has required a personal statement. Every personal statement has posed at least 4 black hole-esque questions (see above). And, to my simultaneous excitement and dismay, all have included the caveat "in 500 words or less".

The first time I ran into this puzzle, I found myself wavering between an incapacitating verbal inertia and an eruption of words so violent the fallout threatened to bury anything of value beneath a thick layer of idea debris.  

If you're the artsy type, and perhaps even if you aren't, my guess is that you can relate to functioning in an environment where excess of some sort truncates beauty, meaning, and or interest. I encounter the affliction regularly in forms ranging from stage performance to literary analysis to conversational oversharing.

In grappling with this conundrum, I've refrained from posting for a while, wanting to write about a something, but determined not to waste precious words preaching about an anything.

What is pertinent to my artistic practice?

How do these things relate to my community (designation and definition up for debate)?

And how can I forge this discussion without wandering off on tangents or getting caught up in the network of thoughts occupying my headspace?

Thus, I’m challenging myself to apply the 500 word restriction to my writing. In each post under the <501 umbrella, I will delineate my preliminary thoughts on a topic of personal creative interest within aforementioned word limit.

Yes, this process is highly self-serving. If you are unequipped to handle copious ‘I statements’, run now. However, if anecdotes, odd metaphors, and probing questions are your thing, you have come to the right place.

Hopefully, some posts will require further research and fleshing out. Ideally one or two will inspire you to serve up popcorn or brownies and initiate an impassioned debate amongst friends. Should you choose to engage in this sort of verbal volley, please share it with me.

Ultimately, my goal is to utilize these linguistic sketches as points of departure for further conversation. For me, this means within the field of contemporary dance, but I don’t wish to impose limits here-

Aside from word count.

(478)

p(REVIEW) week

What do you get when you mix 380 motivated, caffeinated, over achievers with an infinite matrix of classes, auditions, shows, talks, and callbacks?

The short answer is preview week, but the lived experience encompasses so much more than the packed schedule outlines. Although only in serious action since Friday, we the student body have already celebrated countless triumphs, tested the limits of our endurance, comforted one another through audition related heartbreak, and exalted in sweaty, fatigue sweetened slumbers.  

Whereas some students’ first ADF milestones were discovering their names on a cast lists, mine was a little more mundane, worthy of a pat on the back and perhaps a participation award. I successfully managed to drive one of the festival vans to and from the airport without killing anyone. TWICE.

One of our first active dorm counselor responsibilities entailed ensuring that our charges arrived at Duke safely from the airport. Before student check in, the 14 of us were presented with schedule outlining our rescue missions. Myself and a fellow counselor geared up for the task at hand and strode fearlessly towards the resting vehicles one of which we would need to wrangle in order to transport three students and their belongings. Exchanging sidelong glances, we telepathically encouraged the other person to surrender and take charge of taming the creature. When mental manipulation failed, we tried the innocent sounding "So, who wants to drive the van?” route with an equally non-committal “It doesn’t matter” in response. Loosely translated- "Shit, I really don't want to drive this thing and I'm hoping you'll just do it". No one budged.


Keys in hand, we approached the beasts, each named after a member of Destiny’s Child. We were assigned to Kelly. Upon opening her doors and testing out the driver’s side, we discovered that the pedals were a bit too far from the seat for my shorter cohort to drive. It was my time to shine. I placed my coffee mug in the cup holder and turned the key. Kelly cranked into action. She was surprisingly easy to maneuver. Despite her powerful air conditioning and bumpin’ stereo, I'm sad to report she was still no Beyoncé. Sorry Kelly. 

Let me introduce you to Kelly

Our adventure took us to Raleigh Durham International Airport, home of cheap parking, in search of under 18s and international students. We honed in on our targets with little difficulty but encountered our second challenge of the day in the form of a language barrier. Our new friend spoke limited English and only communication I could offer in return were the Spanish equivalents of:

hello,

goodbye,

thank you,

you're welcome,

1-25

I love you,

library,

bathroom,

and

contemporary dance


Fortunately, the desire to communicate itself got us surprisingly far. By the end of the car ride, I had added caliente, frio, verano invierno to my vocabulary. I am pleased to announce that with my new found knowledge, I am able to relay important messages like "I love hot summer!" and "Goodbye winter, hello contemporary dance!", in Spanish to any one who will listen. The tremendous diversity of the student body has proven to be one of my favorite aspects of summer dance study. I remember standing in a circle at Bates Dance Festival last year realizing that in order to have an adequate conversation, with the people in that group, would need to be fluent in five different languages.

The following morning, once assured that no one had been lost in transit, we paraded in a sea of baggy shirts and backpacks to orientation where the faculty intended us to spend 3 hours listening to important information about the festival. While the attempt was valiant, many of us missed a significant portion of the material, choosing instead to utilize our time mapping out efficient escape routes from the lecture hall. Immediately following orientation, we would have our first opportunity to dance. All 380 of us were hungry for one of 40 coveted spots at the barre in Jackie Villamil’s master class. I tried lying to myself, deciding it was no big deal whether or not I was one of the 40 and that competition was unnecessary. Fyi, I am a terrible liar. As the meetings wore on, I capitalized on breaks as a means to establish myself as sentry of the left door. Having secured a spot, I waited, water bottle in hand, backpack already slung over my shoulders. Tension built as the other students inched closer to the door.

And then the floodgates opened.

Picture the herd of wildebeests that trample Mufasa at the beginning of the Lion King and you’ll have a scaled down image of the 2015 ADF Ballet Stampede. I felt confident as I rushed out the door, wind in my hair and plies on my mind. From the corner of my eye, I watched my partner in crime from the van excursion carve a short cut under a bush through a patch of mulch. As I approached the halfway mark, my shoes began slipping about, causing my pace to slow and other runners to begin passing me. Unfortunately, I had committed a rookie error and worn flip flops to the road race. Naturally, I did as any calm, non-competitive human should- took my shoes off and sprinted faster. Turning my final corner, I watched as the elite runners crossed the threshold of the Ark, the East Campus beacon with floor to ceiling windows marking our finish line. Pulling out my identification card in exchange for a neon orange ticket, I ran my last 400 yards and triumphantly claimed my spot at the barre.
 


With the lovely Jackie Villamil

Mission accomplished!

Jackie, one of ADF’s 2015 Balasaraswati/Joy Ann Dewey Beinecke Endowed Chair for Distinguished Teaching recipients, graciously led us through a glorious hour and a half of contemporary ballet technique. Upon completion, sweaty and euphoric, we exhaled and strode into the sunshine, preparing ourselves for the goliath task of completing the following 4.5 days without burning out.

Preview week used to be preview weekend but was extended due to the sheer volume of happenings and opportunities available. We have a suggestion box in our student headquarters and I intend to propose that the members of the school office sign and frame the first week’s schedule as a relic of organizational genius. On check in day, we were sorted into 6 groups identified by the colors of the rainbow sans the regularly neglected indigo. Once preview classes began, the groups migrated around campus discovering the locations of various studios and sampling 35-40 minute classes from each of 20 faculty members. We were welcome to both take classes and sit along the outskirts of the studios to observe, the end goal being completely informed decision making on class registration day.

In case 20 mini classes weren’t enough for our eager hearts, festival auditions also occurred during preview week. These included opportunities to participate in repertory projects, new works to be presented in the footprints concert, choreography set by the international choreographers in residence, and professional company apprenticeships. Even with the constraints of my job which excludes me from most auditions, I danced for nearly 20 hours, observed 3 auditions, participated in 2, and watched 2 professional company performances. Based on my calculations, the few, the brave, the walking dead, who attended all of the auditions, call backs, and classes accumulated an additional 12 hours, racking up an impressive total of nearly 32 hours of physically and mentally exhausting work.



Although everyone is tired, the sore muscles and spent minds are no match for the fervor washing through the ever humid summer air. If preview week has taught us anything, it is that we are ready. We are ready to learn, ready to grow, ready to conquer obstacles, and ready to do it together.
 

Back In Action

After a year and a half in hibernation, I've decided it's high time to get this blog back up and running. For anybody who has been waiting around thinking "hmmm, I wonder when Jen will post something groundbreaking and awe inspiring", thank you for your patience. There's a good chance you'll be waiting another 80 years or so before I establish the magical neuronal alignment that will allow me to concoct such a post. If instead you're hoping for comical nuggets and some wanderlust inspired anecdotes, look no further.

Currently, I'm stationed at Duke University preparing for the arrival of 300+ students to kick off the 82nd annual American Dance Festival. As one of 14 dorm counselors, it's my job to help look after and enhance the experience for all of the dancers under 18 (aka make sure they make it through the festival alive). We haven't had much to do so far besides sit in meetings and eat some killer burritos but things should pick up tomorrow. I'm looking forward to my first attempt at maneuvering a 12 passenger van in the morning (pray for me).

The last few days have consisted mostly of driving, singing loudly to the people in passing cars, recording absurd license plates, and making space for mental clearing. If you are ever afforded the opportunity to take a solo road trip please do so. On Sunday morning, armed with my tent, coffee maker, and an endless supply of granola bars, I shoved off for the 800 mile cruise from Boston to Durham. I decided to hug the coast for most of my journey allowing myself to move at a leisurely pace and enjoy some surprisingly open highways. Here are some one word state summaries for your reading pleasure-

Massachusetts: Home
Rhode Island: Quaint
Connecticut: Kaleidoscopic
New York: Busy
New Jersey: ...
Delaware: Peaceful
Maryland: Stunning

I must elaborate momentarily about Connecticut and New Jersey. Traversing CT via 95 was a pleasant surprise for me. Although I have stopped both in some of the affluent beach areas and a few less well tended urban spots, I appreciated observing the overall landscape transitions from the road. When I think about stereotypical Connecticut, the first things that come to mind are J. Crew, pastels, and the Stepford Wives. The actual diversity was refreshing.

New Jersey was another story. Oh New Jersey. For anyone who lives there, I'm sorry. Perhaps I have an unfair bias since I traveled down the turnpike, but the only good thing about Jersey was the overwhelming joy I felt when I finally saw the "Welcome to Delaware" sign. The land ever present concrete and shipping containers makes for a drab setting of depressing neutral colors. Fortunately, the brilliant travelers of the turnpike have managed to combat this, choosing to dress only in neon spandex and sporting spray tans in various hues of orange. Even the service station vendors seemed in on the deleterious effects of spending too much time on the Jersey Turn Pike. In order to boost morale and distract travelers from their plight, they refrained from selling memorabilia sporting anything to do with the state-that-must-not-be-named, opting instead for "I <3 NY" t-shirts even though everyone on that side of the highway was traveling South and had driven well past boarder already. Lesson learned: Avoid the turn pike.

I'm pleased to report that I made it through Jersey unscathed and celebrated my victory by setting up camp along the serene Maryland seashore.

Namaste

Assateague National Seashore is an American gem. Appealing to me particularly for it's beachside camping, the park also boasts some spectacular wildlife including a plethora of wild horses a well as countless options

for biking, hiking, kayaking, and general sunshine enjoyment. Upon arrival, I set up my tent in the sand and decided to utilize my remaining hours of sunlight reading and writing on a beach towel. About 30 minutes after I sank my toes into the sand, a large shadow swept across my book, looking up expecting to see a cloud passing by the sun I was instead confronted by the sight of 5 wild horses absentmindedly munching on the plants around my tent. There are signs all over the park reminding visitors to stay clear of the horses because they are wild and do behave as such. The horses on the other hand are rather dismissive of the humans and are unperturbed by accidental interactions.


I retired for the evening along with the sun and awoke to the twitters of red winged blackbirds. Since my feet hit the ground before 5:30 AM, I had the privilege of walking the beach as the first tendrils of  sun reached out over the sand. My feet forged the only set of human tracks, a product of the early hour and the off season. After concluding my stroll, I repacked my car and acknowledged the water for a bittersweet farewell. I wish I had a few more days to spend just exploring the park. It is definitely on my list of locations in need of a return trip.


Soon after my departure from the beach, I crossed into Southern territory. Virginia beckoned me with the tantalizing prospect "Virginia is for lovers". I don't know about lovers in terms of ardor, but if you are passionate about firearms, manners, or a well procured caffeinated beverage, you have come to the right place. Around 10:30, I was on a desperate hunt for a coffee fix when I stumbled upon The Book Bin, a local book store/ coffee shop nestled in the middle of a small plaza along Rte. 13. I walked in because of a giant sign declaring "COFFEE, MOCHA, LATTES" etc, but stayed because of the homey atmosphere and genial company, a group of southern ladies who had just endured a Zumba sculpt class together.  I sipped my drink contentedly from the comfort of a well loved couch, grateful for the WiFi and the barista's expertise. They make one mean dirty chai!

Back on the highway, I encountered a small glitch in my plans when something dense flew off the road and dented my windshield. The glass repair shop was in Virginia Beach though so I can't complain too much. In order to reach Virginia Beach, I traversed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge which spans 20 miles and took nearly 4 years to build. On a clear day, the origin of the bay offers spectacular views of the bends in the bridge with countless opportunities to marvel at both the water and the architecture. Taking a pit stop on one of the bridge's central scenic points, I received my first true blast of Southern heat and longed for the time to lounge on the beach and produce some serious melanin. My windshield took priority though so I compromised by delighting in an apple and catching some rays in the repair shop parking lot about two miles past the end of the bridge.


Cute, eh?

With the crack fixed and my second camping location within an hour and a half, I made my last state crossing into North Carolina which I have taken upon myself to dub The Land of Many Turtles. Seriously, I moved 3 of them off the black top in a stretch of road less than a mile. Every time I stopped, a concerned local would follow suit, kindly checking to make sure I was okay so I abandoned my turtle moving venture and instead adopted the more common custom of driving around the shells and leaving the animals to their own devices.

When I finally reached Lake Gaston, I set up the only tent opposite a sea of RVs. After watching another peace inducing sunset and listening to a teenager hopelessly belting an off key version of Beyoncé's Partition to no one in particular, I settled in to my untethered nylon shelter for another restful evening, or so I thought.

 The problems started about an hour after I drifted off. I awoke in the dark to the sound of the tent fly smacking the tent and something synthetic pushing up against my side. The wind had picked up, and violently. Since I stupidly decided to ignore the signs of a storm coming in, mainly a single flash of lightning across the lake, I neglected to both anchor the tent with stakes and place a plastic ground cloth under the tent. I rationed that wind did not necessarily equal a storm and repositioned my self along the now comically concave side of the tent to prevent the poles from dislodging and fell back asleep. Soon afterwards, my campsite was pelted by rain, the percussive nature of which roused me once again. Deciding not to risk damaging any of my supplies should the bottom of the tent soak through, I rearranged, repositioned myself and fell back asleep. I enjoyed a delicious 45 minutes of shut eye before I was startled by a cold splash on my nose. The bottom of the tent held out just fine but the fly had not been as waterproof as I had thought and scattered leaks began cropping up surrounding the tent's apex. I wrinkled my nose and scowled at the ceiling. In response, a particularly sassy droplet splashed into my eye. I sheltered my journal, backpack and clothes to the best of my ability and flipped the position of my face and feet. From then on, my sleeping bag received the brunt of the droplets. By the time the thunder started I was ready to just admit defeat and stay up the rest of the night. However, the tent makers provided me with the boost of comedy I needed to avoid a grumpy sleep deprived morning. When I rolled over, I caught sight of my tent's ironically apt model name, LIGHTNING staring indifferently back at me. As flashes crossed the sky, I began to silently count the number of seconds before the corresponding booms, sliding into unawareness for a final time.

Despite the multiple nocturnal interruptions, I was up again with the birds devising a plan to dry out my waterlogged tent components before making the final push to Durham. With heaps of damp nylon accompanying me in the passenger seat, I moved one or two more turtles off the road (couldn't help myself) before cruising down the last stretch of highway.

Having reached my final destination, I am grateful for this time to reflect back on my road trip. I'm sad to leave behind the wild horses, sea shore, and carefree attitude of life on the road  but excited to start my next month and a half reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, leaving my sweaty mark on the dance floor, and staying far, far away from New Jersey.