What I Learned in Boating School Is...

College is weird. Growing up is even weirder. You’re expected to know what you're going to do for the rest of your life at such a young age. You are encouraged to have a plan for your life. Graduate high school. Go into college knowing what path you want to take. "Study medicine, business, or become a lawyer," they'd usually say. Graduate college and find a high paying job. Work your way up. And if for some reason your life doesn't go according to plan, you are no longer worthy of being looked up to.

I never wanted to grow up. I'd hear all my classmates in third, fourth, fifth grade beg for time to go by faster. Middle school was full of "I can't wait for high school." High school was jam-packed with "I hate high school, I just want to get out of here." I didn't want any of that to end. I knew there would be an end to all of it, but I avoided it for as long as possible. I pushed the limit of how long it was socially acceptable for me to play with my toys (I stopped after seventh grade, to be exact). I never thought twice before climbing up a tree, even at 16, 17, 18 years old. Growing up wasn't on my agenda (and I tend to keep a somewhat organized, quite thorough agenda). There's a difference between maturing and growing up. I matured fast enough to shock my parents, but I took my time growing up, enough to have my classmates question me about it. I never understood why everyone wanted life to go by faster. And here I am, naming this one after quotes from Spongebob at 21 years of age.

So, what did I learn in Boating School? And can I be excused for the rest of my life? By Boating School, I mean college (this can even pertain to the school of life). I've learned a lot, I mean a lot. For the purpose of keeping this concise and to the point, I will only mention one or two things and branch out from there.

The things you learn during your time in college aren't always taught in a classroom. In my experience, the things I've learned outside the classroom have impacted me more. The things I've learned outside the classroom have actually changed the way I perceive life.

Arguably my biggest dream, one of my greatest ambitions, the one at the very top of my list of most favorite things I've learned during my time in college is that of travel. My love for travel, for the world, for the people and the abundant amount of cultures in this world, has grown faster than Bella's daughter in Breaking Dawn: Part 2. I went as far as learning the entire map of Europe; no really, I can draw the entire map and outline each country along with (most) of their capitals. Asia and South America are (hopefully) coming soon. Travel has taught me so much more than geography, however.

I love a lot of things about travel, but, today, I want to talk about one thing in particular that is a part of my perception of life.

I don't remember how old I was when I flew in a plane for the first time, but the first time I did, I created a game for myself. Watch the city as it gets smaller; think of it as a staring contest, you break eye contact before it naturally disappears into the clouds, you lose. At 19 I flew to London, which was a first for me on two accounts: my first time in Europe and my first time losing the staring contest.

For the least captive audience ever, you try and tell me what to do in case of a water landing. I put the frequent in flyer—collecting rewards, which really only amount to flying more. Gazing out my rounded rectangle, I never miss the take-off. The slow zoom as things bigger, then you fade smaller and smaller until they become so distant that I can't even squish them between my fingers anymore. Imagine how a bird must feel the first time it swoops down to land on the ground and thinks "That house is much bigger than it looks, I like it better up there." Where you're the first to know the weather, suspended between time zones and atmospheres. I get aquatinted with the clouds, fall deeper in love with the cotton candy sky. Cheating death and gravity for $449 plus tax.

From up there, I see where roads begin and end. And I want to cheer on the cars, "You're almost there! It's just around the corner! You just can't see it yet."

From up there, I see small clusters of light, reminding me of brainwave activity scans. And I think, A city is perhaps a synapse of God's brain, lighting up where connections are being made: with the almighty. It leads me to think that it makes sense why the Earth gets to be so dark.

With the seatbelt sign turned on and the nervous unaccompanied minor in the aisle seat next to me; I remind her that no plane has ever crashed from turbulence. But if we had the choice, don't you think most passengers would give up before it passes? What if on the ground we had no choice but to strap in and wait it out. How many unabandoned children would there be? How many unsigned divorce papers? How many unread suicide notes? How many of us would stick around if we knew that what is turbulent is ultimately harmless? And that, though annoying, the change fee is necessary. Because change never comes free. And I'll gladly pay the price if it will get us where we're going faster. But we fail to recognize that, if your name's on the suitcase, it's just gonna come around again and again until you grab it. The turnstile of life keeps kicking back what you refuse to pick up. In other words, we all have to claim our baggage before we can move on.

From up there, I can see all that. And from down here, I (more than often) catch myself using my time to look up, wishing I could fly.

Strap in and trust God. Whatever is going on right now is merely turbulence. And remember, no plane has ever crashed from turbulence.