Find your Waylon.
I was 13, here, or barely 14–I’d skipped a grade and moved to Vermont and didn’t know anyone and was living at a (to a kid) big weird Buddhist center in the middle of the woods…in the middle of…nothing. Just cows and rolling hills and dirt roads and I missed my friends and I couldn’t skateboard on the dirt roads or play ball or go the the arcade or do anything “normal” kids did, in my mind. Even worse, I was a straight A student and the kind of nerd who’s proud and insecure at the same time.⠀
Only a year later I had a bunch of friends and loved the rolling hills and the cows and didn’t feel so isolated and the old boring Buddhists at the big retreat center where I lived had (mostly) stopped yelling at me for being so rambunctious and I loved St. Johnsbury Academy, my school, and the little old town, and the white icey winters, and the fly-ridden mud seasons, and the hot lazy summers leavened by swimming in Harvey’s lake or playing hoops against the old red barn. And I loved my teachers, and girls, and Colorado was mostly forgotten.⠀
A year after that I fell in love, for the first time, and it hit me like a tidal wave, and life slowed so hard it stopped moving, nearly, all of life was slow motion mixed with butter and gold and honey and romance and watches stopped working and when you fall in love for the first time you fall in love with this life, and our world, for the first time fully, too. And everything was new and timeless.
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