The board of education lives above a cut-rate shopping mall. The back hallway off the loading dock towards the elevator smells of cigarette smoke and conjures hazy memories of snack bars.

The elevator lifts you to an unusual greeting once you reach the third floor— it smells of hay. My mind always travels to horses and other farmyard animals as I step into a sterile environment. Occasionally, the murmurs of extra-curricular classes fills the halls.

Further on— you reach the open room with all the board of education staff. A mess of desks, dominated by various wires and printers, folders, and lock boxes creates a chaotic picture. There’s an order enforced to it all— but you have the feeling it’s one foul step from disaster.

I sit at my meager portion of a desk— the rest dominated by a laptop, folders, printer, and myriad of cables— and sip an coffee as I wait out the hours before I slip back out the building.

Today is my mother’s birthday— but I’m a day ahead of home, so I won’t call with my well-wishes until tomorrow. Instead, I’ll practice Italian and watch the Women’s World Cup as I stretch out my it band in a embarrassingly long quest to sit with my legs crossed (without tension). A master of yoga or flexibility, I am not.

I’ve got a little over a month until I visit the west coast. A month in which my international drivers license will expire and I’ll be walking-bound. The snorkeling forays will see a steep decline— and I wonder what other queries my curiosity will lead me to.

I spent a healthy amount of time over here not understanding how to process a lifetime requirement I had set for myself, but did no favors in providing a through path for.

I had this almost inevitable pull to leave the states. Feeling I had to prove myself by living abroad. Compelled by a notion that I’d be unsatisfied— untested if I didn’t. But as with everything in life— it wasn’t clean cut when I got over here. Hell, half the time in preparation I was making my peace that I was going in with a near blank slate in terms of expectations for what this would lead to. No goals, I told myself. Better to let them show themselves naturally.

Not great advice I’m going to admit, if you’re stuck on a rural island in the middle of fuck all. Then it’s a decent time to have a rough outline of where you’d like to go next or how much gas you’ve got in the tank for this particular adventure.

All the while, life unfolded in a spectacular way. Not uniformly bad or good— but spectacular in the range and depth of unexpected events. Without a goal, it felt like subbing in last minute for a punching bag without the proper warning. As the venerable Mike Tyson said, with his soft lisp and hard hands, “everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” and by god, any half-formed plan went out the window.

Until the blows stopped landing— or rather— until I started bobbing and weaving. Getting the hands warm to send my own set of strikes back. I kept asking without success, “what’s your ideal life?” Something I had a block on. I couldn’t see the path out of the island, but I knew I didn’t want to stay here.

It wasn’t until I asked what I always saw in my wildest dreams— my lottery answers. The over the moon, best case scenario answers. As always, for me, it was a soccer field.

I love many, many things in this life. I love curiosity, learning, friends, family. I love spending the wee hours of the night reading. I love writing in my cribbed scrawl as I think of ridiculous stories of my own. And I love— and have always loved— soccer.

I always thought excessive wealth would see me have my own field at a house. Indoor or outdoor, that specific didn’t matter. But it was always a field.

The more I thought about it— the more it seemed that I wanted easy access to a field in which others could also play. No reason to horde a resource like that— I just wanted first dibs.

As a kid, I’d go to all of my parents indoor soccer games. I’d sit on the old wooden bleachers painted a dark green— and watch them play on the turf that sat over an ancient roller rink. The place smelled of sweat and leather. It carried the sound of footsteps across the buoyant wood underneath the carpet outside the rink.

I wanted to play— but couldn’t until I was twenty-one years old due to the co-ed league rules.

First time was my twenty-first birthday. No goals, no assists. But I did vault the side wall to run to the ballroom to throw up. The pizza I had earlier in the day wanted a surprise appearance. I got a yellow card for the field exit and a shellacking by my dad before he realized I’d been sick.

I had my tenth birthday at that field as well— so I guess that would have been my real first time, but it didn’t have the drama of an unnecessary admonishment and throwing up.

But it does underline that I’ve gravitated towards that place at all hours in my soul. More that I wanted my own version of it.

That became the through line— the goal that realized itself in a simple manner. The soccer coach that always wanted their own field? Hilariously straightforward. Proving again that it’s less about searching than it is about listening. Seeking the quiet moments to see what cycles through your heart and mind.