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Challenges of adolescence chapter 6
Transition from adolescence to adulthood
Transition from adolescence to adulthood
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The dawn of each day is as unique as each individual person who wakes with it. The predicable, inky black slates speckled with stars are faded out and over taken by the colors of pale splendor. Baby blues, soft roses and creamy yellows dye often the atmosphere while the sun overtakes the ivory orb of night. Other breaks of day burst forth with all the vivacity of a butterfly’s wing, glaring oranges, shocking hues of pink and reds brighter than a single bead of blood chase away the velvet of night in a whirlwind assault to claim their fleeting time of existence. I do not remember the finger print of the dawning day, only a few months of life have whipped my memory clean of that day, of all but a ceremony’s passing. The ride to the school was forgotten. How I wore my hair along with whatever events predeceased the rite of passage are forgotten as well except for what lies behind framed glass. The memory is simply the minutes, moments, heartbeats, emotions and hours of the ceremony that remain embedded in who I am. I cannot bring to mind whether I felt proud for whatever reason the ceremony occurring but I believe I must have been. Like the rest of my class, I was there. At this I marveled in the eerie silence while I sat in a metal chair that, despite being warm from my occupation for well over a half hour, felt cold. With the rest of them I was there. This place, this ceremony, I never saw myself there. Not with my class. Not with any class. This feat was never something I believed would happen to me. This question as to my passing from the isolated realm of high school to rest of the world was not due to my lack of intellect, study habits perhaps, but never intelligence. It was not due to my work ethic, this had never been a pro... ... middle of paper ... ...offer to clean your wounds. My offer you may take and cease your running for just that long before speeding off stumbling along, still holding fast to the advice you were given. Then again you may be rolled off to the side of the road, in the warm grass, tired and broken. I will stroll over and offer my flask, should we be of age. With the honeysweet lighting our throats aflame stories will be exchanged. I am not saying my path of leisure stroll is a path better or wiser than your road of quick pace. You can run towards your goals, for them to be all you dreamed, an illusion of existence or delusion of happiness. You can pass life in a blur and race towards the end, you may get there sooner, you may get there later. I only offer a different perspective in which life will not pass by in a blur, hollow and half missed but rather where it can be taken in and enjoyed.
My middle school’s dean smiles while handing me my certificate. I gave her my best fake smile and stood in line with the rest of my classmates who made the honor roll. I put my medal around my neck, held my certificate in my left hand, and put my right arm behind my back. I can’t believe I left my jacket in my mom’s car.
An impulse of affection and guardianship drew Niel up the poplar-bordered road in the early light [. . .] and on to the marsh. The sky was burning with the soft pink and silver of a cloudless summer dawn. The heavy, bowed grasses splashed him to the knees. All over the marsh, snow-on-the-mountain, globed with dew, made cool sheets of silver, and the swamp milk-weed spread its flat, raspberry-coloured clusters. There was an almost religious purity about the fresh morning air, the tender sky, the grass and flowers with the sheen of early dew upon them. There was in all living things something limpid and joyous-like the wet morning call of the birds, flying up through the unstained atmosphere. Out of the saffron east a thin, yellow, wine-like sunshine began to gild the fragrant meadows and the glistening tops of the grove. Neil wondered why he did not often come over like this, to see the day before men and their activities had spoiled it, while the morning star was still unsullied, like a gift handed down from the heroic ages.
For many people, the early hours of the morning can hold numerous possibilities from time for quiet reflections to beginning of the day observations to waking up and taking in the fresh air. In the instance of the poems “Five A.M.” and “Five Flights Up,” respective poets William Stafford and Elizabeth Bishop write of experiences similar to these. However, what lies different in their styles is the state of mind of the speakers. While Stafford’s speaker silently reflects on his walk at dawn from a philosophical view of facing the troubles that lie ahead in his day, Bishop’s speaker observes nature’s creations and their blissful well-being after the bad day had before and the impact these negative thoughts have on her psychological state in terms
654, line 1&2). The sunlight motion suggesting a “balance of upward and downward, rising and falling” (Harris, J. 2004), resplendent in nature and indirectly influences the reader spiritually and emotionally. Jane Kenyon’s Let Evening Come (1990), uses sunlight to project an image of a slow moving late afternoon sun, which will soon slip into the darkness of night. The light through the “chinks in the barn” (Kenyon, 1990, pg. 654, line 2), gives me the sense of an aging body and soul fading into the darkness.
...t also with acceptance as one of their own, although I never wore a Tallit or Kippah. This was a very peculiar position since I have never been so accustomed to this sort of kindness. By the end of the Jewish service, not only did I respect and appreciate their faith much more, but, in a way, I began to grow a love for it as well. While I felt no negative feelings towards the service, the most positive aspect would, most definitely, be the warmth I felt from everyone inside the Synagogue and from the presentation of the building itself. At first glance, I was not able to fully appreciate the decorations in the room, but the longer I observed I began to realize each decoration represented something significant. Overall, if I learned anything important this day it is that one thing holds true: I can still appreciate ideas and concepts even if I do not agree with them.
As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day.
In the days leading up to her graduation, she was so excited about receiving her diploma for her academic accomplishments, even though she hasn’t accomplished a lot in life by experiencing a little bit of it. She felt like the birthday girl with her pretty dress, beautiful hair, and the presents she received from Uncle Willie and her mother. She felt like it w...
This morning I wake early from the light that creeps underneath my blinds and my bed next to the window. I wake floating on the streams of light, heated, like white wax spilled across the floor, dripping, soft. In bare feet I walk down the stairs, cold on the wood, and find my father in the kitchen, also awake early. Together, we leave the house, the house that my parents built with windows like walls, windows that show the water on either side of the island. We close the door quietly so as not to wake the sleepers. We walk down the pine-needle path, through the arch of trees, the steep wooden steps to the dock nestled in the sea-weed covered rocks. We sit silently on the bench, watch as the fog evaporates from the clear water. The trees and water are a painting in muted colors, silver and grays and greenish blue, hazy white above the trees.
SparkNotes Editors. “SparkNote on Long Day's Journey into Night.” SparkNotes.com. SparkNotes LLC. n.d.. Web. 6 Jan. 2014. .
... thought that maybe we won’t be friends or even know each other in the future. Unexpectedly, we all had these feelings of fondness for a place we a come to despise and couldn’t wait to leave. Why would that happen to us? We all realized that in this moment we’re growing up but are far from “grown up.” Suddenly, there is a flash of light and in that moment I knew that the three of us would be separated for the rest of the day, maybe our lives. The flash brought everything back. It gave us a reason to go back into the hallway and meaninglessly chat with our friends. After we left that room we were still sharing a moment together but in a different sort of way. The picture was there and we had superficial thoughts but the graduation was so much more. It marked a major time in our lives and sent us off into the future. No longer were we the next generation because we were being sent off into the grown up world. Would we all still be appreciated? How is the world going to receive three naive girls who don’t know anything? All these questions were to be asked and to be forgotten because we got caught up in the moment. The picture marks that time in our past and an important time it was.
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every
What do you feel when you see a sunset? Warm, happy, amazed, awe-inspired? The sun rose yesterday, and will again tomorrow, and will again the day after that, it’s not as if the sunrise is a miraculous event, yet the emotions are visceral. It’s beautiful, and this strikes a deep, primal chord inside. John Berger attempts to unravel this mysterious attraction to beauty in his essay, “The White Bird”. The white bird in question is a small, wooden carving of a white bird, hung in the kitchens of certain cultures that experience long winters, such as the Haute Savoie region in France. According to Berger, the birds are an attempt to hold onto the fleeting beauty of nature, and a reminder of the spring to come. “Nature is energy and struggle. It
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her gargantuan skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every morning together
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.
Then, I heard everyone scream “Surprise!” I could not believe my eyes. There was decoration all over the living room, a cake on the table, music and a big bouquet of pink flowers. My eyes start tearing. I was delighted and humbled by how lucky I was to have such an amazing family. I ran up to my parents, my three brothers, and sisters in law and hugged all of them. We started singing and dancing I cannot forget those moments of my life. Then I realized time was running and that I still had to go to my cousin’s house to do my makeup. I rushed to her house leaving my family at home, so they could get ready, and we could later celebrate after the graduation. As, Sandra was putting on my makeup; I was thinking of how I was going to react when they called my name on the stage. I was smiling as I was thinking of the moment of my