Yesterday, Catherine, an FDR librarian, and I left to meet the taxi for our ride back to Miraflores. As we stepped outside, Catherine pointed to some clumps of golden brown hair near the doors. It was as if someone decided to get a drastic haircut before entering the library.
"It's an interesting ritual," Catherine explained. "When a boy at school gets accepted into college, his friends tackle him to the ground and someone cuts his hair." The haircut marked his passage into a new world.
I experienced my own passage June 15, 1994. I stayed in the same house, kept the same husband, tended to the same child. But that day I sat at the card table on my screen porch with a pen and yellow pad, and made the decision to be a writer.
My family's clothes still needed washing, meals continued to be cooked, and bills kept getting paid. But from that late spring day on, I greeted each morning differently because I was living my passion. I was living in a new world.