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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”
C.S. Lewis . . .I chase after time as desperately as I chased the falling maple leaves in my backyard as a child. This tree began as a sapling that my great-grandfather planted in 1957. It grew into my home’s stoic shelter. Its winding branches slowly breached the barriers of my neighbors’ yards. For decades, it was the largest tree on the block. We, my grandparents and parents, never tapped sap from it. I don’t know why. However, the grand Maple selflessly offered other seasonal gifts. Its branches gifted shade in the summer for patio cookouts. Its trunk and roots served as first base in fourth-of-July wiffle ball tournaments. The fly balls my cousin and I hit into the Maple’s outstretched arms were always returned.
Every autumn, our strong and playful Maple tree released thousands of amber yellow leaves. They fell in bursts and trickles, swirling in the same formation as their helicopter-shaped seeds in the crisp wind. As a little girl, I accepted this invitation wearing a purple fleece jacket, jeans, and thick-toed Keen shoes. I sprinted from one side of the yard to the other. I circled the tree countless times, chasing the leaves as they spiraled down. I giggled in delight as I dove for my next amber gift. The leaves slipped through my fingers every time. It appeared the Maple would win the game. But I tied the score when it was time to rake the leaves. Mom and Dad would divide and conquer the yard, piling the yellows into vibrant piles that burned like fire under a clear sky. Then came my favorite part. My parents gestured me to the starting line across the yard. They put a stray stick down on the lawn in front of the aisle of arborvitae evergreen bushes that shaded pesky weeds Mom pulled every humid summer. I lined my feet up behind the stick and bent my knees as I had seen Olympic track runners do. I imagined the cartoon cloud of dust building up around me as I revved myself up for the sprint. The sun broke through the maple’s apertures and illuminated my path. “Ready, set, go!” my parents announced. I skipped with glee on the first step before gaining my footing. I ran into the fire with a blazing smile on my face. I flung my arms around the pile, squeezing the leaves close to smell the dirt and wet grass. The stems poked through the fleece that covered my arms. The pointed edges gently tickled my neck. Mom and Dad joined me, throwing up the leaves above my head, so I had another chance to catch them. I caught some leaves that time. Others got caught in my short platinum blond hair. The stems were braided together to form a crown. I felt like an autumn princess. I was the champion. I am determined to capture one more amber leaf — one more memory. Each one has its storyline written out in the venation. The beginning, middle, and end are plotted in its patterned veins. So each reunion that falls through, each cancellation is a potential memory slipping through my fingers. It is a loss of something I never possessed. When I was little, I brushed off the loss of a leaf. But now, I mourn the loss of potential. Playing with time is a game. Unlike leaves, time will never stop, drop, and pile at my feet. It is forever moving. Time offers a continuous chase. Well, that is until the time is up. I am worried that I will run in circles, chasing memories until it is too late.
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The school cafeteria in the primary school in La Pedrera, Uruguay
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This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. The last week of August was my first “normal” week in Maldonado. The bright blue sky and newly familiar coastline welcomed me back after a long weekend in Montevideo. Glancing out the hazy bus window, the reflective waves of Punta Ballena winked under the glowing sun. “Keep your chin up, kid,” they whispered.
For the first time in months, I felt rejuvenated. The previous three evenings commemorated Noche de Nostalgia and a friend’s 24th birthday through festivities lasting late into the night. An 11:00 p.m. bowling match melded into a 1:00 a.m. pool tournament, in which I properly learned how to play. (My previous knowledge of the game stemmed from rudimentary solo pool matches in my uncle’s basement at annual Christmas parties. Hint: I did not use the pool cues). Evenings concluded at 3:00 a.m. for carpool karaoke or at 4:30 a.m. for a last-minute McDonald’s run. Although my sleep schedule took a brutal beating, I woke each day hungry for a 1:00 pm breakfast and more time with my chosen Montevideo family. After almost two months of living more out of a backpack than my closet, I found closure in celebrating convivencia —co-existence or togetherness— with my people. It did not matter whether we ate greasy pizza or lavender-vanilla-dulce-de-leche birthday cake with edible glitter. It did not matter whether we wore nostalgic costumes or every day sneakers. It did not matter whether we were crowded around a pool table, on bowling lane seat cushions, in the corner of a bustling neon dance floor, or in the backseat of Mono’s car. What mattered was that we were together. I found peace in our laughter; randomized YouTube playlists on a living room television; Río de la Plata card games (that expanded my Spanish vocabulary in multiple directions); and the secrets and makeup brushes passed on the floor in front of a portable heater. They lifted the cloud of exhaustion. They gave me space to exist in their embraces, so my words could finally be free. Thanks to them, I arrived in Maldonado ready to assemble the chaotic puzzle of August. 
Casa Pueblo in Punta del Este, Uruguay
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This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. July passed in stark chapters distinguished by swaying emotions, celebratory milestones, and sorrowful struggles. I bid farewell to too many friends and community members in Montevideo. My parents visited for two weeks, and we strolled the streets and sights of Buenos Aires and Montevideo. I turned twenty-three while moving to a different province, starting over again, again. I cried in frustration after exhaustedly running through cycles of trial and error. I laughed in the sanctuary with new friends and mentors on the foggy coastline. I felt myself gain strength on long runs at sunset and problem-solving victories. And gradually, after relearning to ride the go-with-the-flow wave, I began to feel at home—again.
It is July 22nd when I write this introduction, and I am living the conclusion of the sixth chapter: starting all over again, again. In two days, I will return to Montevideo, again, to begin the seventh chapter. However, this post already takes up ten pages in my Google Doc draft document. To alleviate pressure to meet an imaginary, self-imposed deadline to publish a monthly reflection, this post serves as part one in a two-part July series reflection. As I write these reflections, I laugh at their ever-increasing length. My life story in Uruguay only becomes more saturated with experiences. There is always more to write about, reflect on, laugh about, cry about. Writing is my therapy, as I often relate to you all. But as the months pass, time grows more fleeting. I find myself more reluctant to attend regular therapy sessions on my soft living room couch. In the end, the fear of forgetting triumphed over apprehension. So, without further ado, I present July: the month of starting all over again, again. 
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Happy New Year!
This post serves as my reflections on 2023 and wishes for the upcoming year. I hope 2024 brings you opportunities, challenges, self-discoveries, adventures, and revelations! 
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With the school year only a week away, it’s time to announce my plans as a transitioning teacher (as much as I would like to ignore the “Back to School” ads and classroom set-up videos).
I will be working part-time as a substitute teacher!! You read that right. I will not participate in classroom set-up and professional development meetings. However, I will still gain valuable experiences in classrooms around my city. This fall, I will take my first solo flight as a teacher, managing students across grade levels, environments, and demographics. And as we stay in teacher lingo, my bucket of teaching strategies will fill with each day. 
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Coffee Talks
Through these refreshing posts (hopefully paired with your favorite caffeinated beverage), I share anecdotes, fun facts, and reflections from my life away from the classroom. So, imagine we are sharing a conversation over coffee (I’ll have an iced chai with oat milk) – you choose the place. I’ll provide the topic. (Although I am categorizing this post within the "Coffee Talks" series, it deviates from that label as well as the tone and style of my traditional blog posts. I felt this essay's thesis and message applied to the current political climate, and I wanted to share my reflections as an emerging writer. And finally, I just thought it would be fun to attempt my literature review since high school!) “For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind a single voice.”
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own Oh, this takes me back to high school. Junior year, AP Literature. A semester of the classics - Pride and Prejudice, Invisible Man, The Sun Also Rises – excruciating timed essays, and rushed thematic group projects. Unhinged analyses, covered in highlighter ink, the side of my left hand burnt by ink, color-coded tabs decorating the pages in rainbow formation. Frantic late-night SparkNotes and Cliff notes deep dives for self-consolation before the exam. Reading, rereading, committing dates, names, and facts to memory to forget them when I received the menacing packet. And in the biweekly finale, the culminating essay, featuring the stressful clickety-clack of old keyboards in the computer lab.
A bit overdramatic? Perhaps but my (Ivy-league bound) classmates hopefully will vouch for me. However melodramatically dreadful I recall literature review essays, I always felt an affinity towards the analytical process. Digging out quotes, assessing figurative language, and, recently, deciphering the style and syntax. A book is a puzzle that my brain is fit to disassemble and mend. So, I am ready to give the literature review another go, but with a personal twist (aka a social commentary). The subject: Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. 
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A couple of weeks have passed since my most recent existential crisis. And in those fourteen (or so) days, I noticed a lack of motivation and creativity; I entered the post-existential crisis enervation or fatigue. I trudged through a busy schedule to balance work and social events before my friends' impending farewells. These simultaneous battles for normalcy and against change left little mental space for spontaneous creativity.
Instead, I spent my free time outside and watching comfort movies on my soft bed with the twinkle lights on – my go-to comfort activities that usually guarantee a moment of quiet in an otherwise fast-paced world. I am surprised at my struggle to find the motivation to write and reflect during this existential crisis. Usually, writing is my release, but this time, the thought of sorting through my mixed feelings around continuously sudden change felt burdensome. As a person who prides herself on finding (and often, creating out of necessity) motivation, I had none. As I am writing this post, the words still flow less smoothly than before graduation -- perhaps due to the absence of deadlines, predictability, and milestones. Before, writing seamlessly fit in when I needed a liberating creative outlet, but I now perceive it as work in the absence of required tasks. Time is no longer measured by deadlines, meetings, or graduation. I rely solely on hours, days, and weeks, which seem to go by much quicker than I expected. (Wait, what’s the date again?). (I plan to investigate the reasoning behind my faltering intrinsic motivation, but that is a mission for my personal journal.) Therefore, to reignite my intuitive writing spirit (and to add structure to the foreseeable future), I will share a few updates from the past weeks. 
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I am still in shock! “Dear graduates: it’s OK, really…”, a commentary I recently wrote, was published in today’s StarTribune paper!
Excerpt “College graduates, I write to you in this period of darkness and dismal isolation as a fellow 20-something struggling to forge her own path after four years of protected guidance. I write to you as a friend. However, I also write as a scared young girl who is just trying to paint on a face of confidence every day. I am here to tell you that you are not alone; I remind you that it is OK to not be OK, especially through this kind of existential crisis.” |
AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
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