Paper

The other day, I taught a 13-year-old some basic origami. She was thrilled. Beyond thrilled, actually--borderline ecstatic. She told me "I didn't have a childhood growing up--I'm getting one now!"

This was a 15-minute lesson on folding paper, but apparently, to her, it represented a lot of what she missed out on while she was growing up. She danced around the room, showing off her creations. It was very sweet. And sad.

We all have goals and dreams, things we wish we had or could achieve one day. Some are grand; I would love to travel. Others simple, such as paying the bills. But I can't think of anything that would make me as happy as that piece of paper made that girl. To realize a dream forgotten by a difficult childhood--that's amazing. I wish I had known sooner; I would have started off the shift with it. But as it was, we made every single thing I could think to make. And was so happy and so excited.

When people hear about my job, their response is almost always the same: "Wow! You must see some crazy stuff!"

And I think about that girl, and the children like her, little things so easily delighted by parts of my life I just take for granted, and I smile.

"Sometimes," I answer. "But for the most part, it's the most amazing job in the world."

And that's my truth.