Strawberry lemonade

This is maybe my fifth attempt at writing about my experiences so far this summer. Now I'm a fairly verbose person, at least when it comes to the written word; my problem hasn't been thinking of words to describe my summer; it's been thinking of the right words to describe my summer.

So much traveling has happened during the past three months, beginning with a tri-continental celebratory grad trip and ending perhaps with a quick jaunt to Colorado for a family reunion in two weeks. And in each of the places that I've visited so far, I've left little pieces of my heart.

There's a piece of my heart in a barn in Lula, Georgia.

There's a piece of my heart at the very top of the London Eye.

There are pieces of my heart scattered among the trees surrounding Hume Lake.

And there are big ol' chunks of my heart on the back of an elephant, in the middle of a township, behind that sign at the Cape of Good Hope, all in South Africa.

I have a lot more to say about my summer (I'm hoping my thoughts will float to the surface soon), but for now, I'll leave it at this: all the life I've been living so far this summer tastes like a tall glass of strawberry lemonade with sugar around the rim.

I don't want to overdo it on the strawberry lemonade, but it tastes mighty delicious for now.

Freedom

How do real grown-up adults introduce themselves to each other?

For the past four years, I have introduced myself by stating my name, hometown, major, and which dorm I live in. I'm not totally sure what the adult version of that is.

I was at the airport in London the other day and had a bit of a crisis moment. The woman at the Customs counter asked me what my occupation was because I had forgotten to fill in that section on those little sheets they hand out on the plane.

"I'm a stu---" I began to say before I realized I couldn't actually claim to be a student anymore (I finished my undergrad degree about a month ago). That's when the panic began to set in.

I have absolutely nothing going on in my life at the moment. No job, no romantic partner, no apartment of my own. I don't even have any close friends in the surrounding area. And I really don't think I'm the only recent grad in this position (thanks a lot, recession).

So I had a little bit of a panic attack at the airport before my dad finally answered the question for me.

"She's a writer," he said. "A freelance writer."

Yeah, I'm sure that didn't look suspicious at all to the Customs lady (although she did agree to let me into the country).

The point is that my dad had it right: because I have no claim to anything or anyone, I can be whoever I want to be. I may be at a point in my life in which I am hopelessly lost, but I am also absolutely free.

Did you hear that, other recent grads who may be in this same position? We. Are. Free. And I don't know about you guys, but I am planning to use that freedom to write like the wind about this peculiar stage of life.

So here I am. My name is Rheanna, I grew up in the heart of the Andes Mountains in South America, I majored in English, and I am currently living in South Orange County, CA. And these are my musings on what it means to be a hippie vagabond wanderer gypsy freelance writer. Or whatever it is I claim to be today.

Welcome to freedom.