When I hear the word "reflection," I think of watching a moving cloud in the surface of a glassy puddle, of watching a tree's upside-down twin ripple gently. Until now, my reflections have always been like this cloud, this tree: superficial, but with the potential to become deeper, more meaningful. Reflecting on junior year - more specifically, the second semester of junior year - isn't like that. It's like splashing through that puddle to rip the cloud's reflection to shreds. It's like diving into that rippling tree and seeing how long I can hold my breath under the burden of everything that's started to come crashing down on me.
It's impossible to reflect on first semester - not because it's too hard to think about, but because I honestly have very few memories of those months. Second semester has eclipsed not only first semester but also almost all of freshman and sophomore years (oh, freshman year... to be able to go back to that naïve girl who had no idea what awaited her). Tests? Plenty of those - and still many to come. Essays? I think I've written as many essays for WISH as I have for AP Lang - including the AP test and the 3-essay practice period. Project overload? That's what AP classes are for, I guess.
And despite the amount of stress I've been under these past months, there have been so many good moments that it's easy not to be too overwhelmed by the pressure. I've been accepted to the summer program for WISH and will be going to NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston for a week this summer to work with NASA employees and other girls from across the country, designing Mars rovers and competing for the best design. I have an SAT score that I'm pretty proud of even as I wait for the College Board to list my most recent score on the website. I've worked to edit, and been published in, this year's book for Creative Writing Club. I've gone on amazing trips with my Venture Crew, from backpacking up Montebello to biking around Angel Island. I haven't done very much that I regret, which is in itself something to be proud of: to make it through a time without making any serious mistakes.
That's not to say that this semester - this year, really - hasn't, and won't, be marked by sadness. Two of my neighbors, in addition to one of my former teachers (Mr. Naylor), have passed away. Many of my friends will be graduating in less than three weeks, heading off to various states to continue their education in new environments. My final project for WISH is waiting on the computer for me to put on the finishing touches and submit it before Tuesday night, at which point this semester-long space course - probably one of the most informative programs I've ever been a part of - will come to an end, at least until Texas.
As if those aren't enough emotions, there is one more: anticipation. Anticipation because, by this time in three weeks, we'll be seniors. Anticipation because in a matter of months, we'll begin sending off our college applications, and those of us who apply for early action may already know where we'll be going. Anticipation because one year from now, we'll all know where we're going to school, and we'll be done with the last AP tests we'll ever need to take, and another chapter of our lives will be coming to an end.
Anticipation because, just over a year from today, it'll be us sitting in the bowl in black graduation gowns and mortar boards waiting for our names to be called so we can claim our diplomas.
But for now? We've all made it through another year. We've survived the stress, the sadness, and the joy. We can survive one more year and help each other through it before we're forced to split off into the different paths of our futures.
As a final poem, I hope many people will be able to relate to this one: not necessarily the literal interpretation of the poem, but rather what it implies: the ebb and flow of memories, as we reflect on what we've done to pave the way for new experiences to take the place of the past.
Ocean Whispers
the ocean writes whispers in my ears,
speaking softer than ever,
telling the story of its waters
through the hushed waves
that carve away the face of the beach.
every sound details an event:
a shipwreck, the cries of the lost,
an oil spill, the deaths of oil-streaked otters,
a hurricane, abundant destruction,
impossibly more tales
in the history of an ocean
older than life.
i hear these stories
as my feet pad down the beach,
all these and more,
as the ocean whispers gently,
incoming,
receding,
an impossible mass of water
never to die
but determined to educate visitors
of its tales
before it is once again flooded
with whisper-stories.
~Becky Hill
