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In just a few hours, I will begin the last year of my 20s. I’ll begin the last year of my 20s in my German apartment, sharing a drink with someone I love very much. It looks like the coming year will also include a move to Paris, trips to San Juan, Mexico City, Berlin, and Ireland. There may be some music festivals in there, maybe a publication or two, maybe an application to a PhD program, but my future year is just like everyone else’s though…unwritten until it actually happens.

In this fast spinning world, I am taking this moment to look at what I wanted to do in my 20s, what I’ve done, where I’ve been. I could make a long list of my accomplishments, my regrets, of loves found and lost. But these past ten years haven’t really been about lists, they been about journeys. Like a lot of people, I thought I knew who I was at the beginning of my 20s, I thought I knew what I wanted, or rather knew exactly who I would never be; like a lot of people in their late 20s, I’ve come to realize that I have no idea who I am going to be ten years from now. Along the way I’ve learned a good bit about what matters, about what I am willing to stand up for, about how hard it is to be a person of absolute integrity. I feel lucky to be given the grace to accept the relative state of the universe, most days.

I think I’ve finally understood that unconditional acceptance and caring might just be the way to people’s heart, although I am pretty sure there are a few other ways left for me to discover. I’ve tried to sacrifice control over to the waves of mystery. Most of all my 20s have been a big adventure, with all the incredible highs, and heartbreaking lows of the Harry Potter series, sprinkled with the artful insanity of Sylvia Plath’s diary, and an overflowing spoonful of Prevert’s poetic sensuality.

So here’s to the books we are all still writing with every day, every year, and every decade we have left. Prost!

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