I’ve decided to dub Spring the “treasure season.” It’s a season of unlocking treasures — new growth, fresh perspective, rebirth, resurrection, and perhaps the dreaming of places one might journey to during the following season: summer. This time around Easter always sparkles as I remember the spring I was 20 while studying abroad as part of the London Semester at Chico State. Our group of mostly English majors traversed the Atlantic with two professors to study and become immersed in British culture for the first four and half months of the year. It was magical.

Our housing was in South Kensington, in what seemed like the center of the world. My street: Queen’s Gate Terrace. We were surrounded by embassies representing a myriad of countries—it felt like the best neighborhood in central London. Yet the city was resplendent with treasures in all its neighborhoods, and we students would unearth them over the weeks and months that spring.

After arriving in London, one of my goals was to discover a church where I could find community. Not that I didn’t enjoy and appreciate the other students from Chico, but many of them were into partying at pubs and bars and I wasn’t. I was 20 and had bigger fish to fry. Of course, that didn’t mean I would ever turn down a fish and chips lunch at the pub.

No one else seemed interested in finding a church so I set out on my own. Somehow, I stumbled upon a nice looking stone one—it turned out to be a Protestant church — in Notting Hill and I made it to a youth group meeting. A guitar player named Christian, originally from Trinidad, introduced himself to me that evening and he would eventually loan me multiple P.G. Wodehouse books. He and I were in the minority — I was delighted that the majority of church goers were people of color. It was an international church, drawing over 100 nationalities. It was my cup of tea.

I quickly met other regulars, and they soon convinced me to join a Gospel Choir. I resisted at first — I wasn’t a singer and why did they want an American in their Gospel Choir anyway? Well, they did, and I could barely believe it, but my voice actually sounded good with all of them and that choir was a brilliant communal experience.

Our performance transpired on Easter Sunday and as I ruffled through the pages of my journal from 20+ years ago, I found several mentions. First, a more serious one: “Today marked the last rehearsal for the Gospel Choir before we perform on Easter Sunday. It should be quite exciting but we will need the Lord to be with us.” (Isn’t that the truth now for so much of life?) But then the day after Easter: “The Gospel Choir sang beautifully yesterday, and it was wonderful.” It’s funny — going back and reading all those journal entries, I realized: I really like the person I was at 20! And here I am, 20+ years later, but still me.

Before that semester, if you had asked me would I join a gospel choir while abroad — I would have said no. But these new friends whom I grew to love asked me, and I decided to try something new. Something I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at. And yet, it’s important to try new things. At any age. How do I grow if I only do those things I know? Or if I never fail? I’m not that old, but I’ve learned enough to recognize the value in stepping into an arena I don’t feel totally adequate in yet. I’m doing this now as I try to figure out what it means to start a business.

Because of this surprise community I joined, my Easter Sunday that year was particularly significant—two decades later, I can still unearth the treasure of joy celebrating resurrection with my London family that glorious spring semester.

Katie Posey was a North State Voices columnist in 2023. You can reach Katie at teachingbeyondthebooks@gmail.com

Over the year, though, I unlocked a treasure through the North State Voices journey — the renewing power of reflection, gratitude and hope.

Reflection: Refusing to hold offense over what people have or haven’t done enabled me to step more quickly into forgiveness as I noted how bitterness, when allowed to fester, only steals.

Gratitude: Hiking through memories of downtown Chico as a high schooler, my solo travels (past and present), and my former life and work on the East Coast gave me a view of the landscape of my life in a way that engineered what felt like endless gratitude. Wonder and awe greeted me like a shimmering waterfall at the end of that hike. Painting word pictures of these memories positioned me to note all the good that took place. There was difficulty, but the light seemed to always eclipse the darkness.

Hope: I started the car of a parked dream to see what happened. My year included the launch of a nonprofit and the attempt to start a second business, but I was also reminded of a truth: My legitimacy as a person isn’t in my accomplishments or my relationship status or the amount of money or goods I own. Quite simply, it’s in my design — the treasures inside of me that are too big to keep to myself. I carry something unique to deliver to the world around me, and that’s a truth I hope others can pocket for themselves. Lately I’ve been marveling at how people I encounter truly are unique masterpieces and their potential to bring something creative and unique to the world around them is a wondrous thing.

I don’t make a lot of money, but the bio in the jacket of my life’s book would surely peg me as one of great wealth. And that’s not just because of my Strawberry Shortcake collection. I feel rich due to my travels as well as the relationships I’ve cultivated — some of which are in other countries due to my years studying abroad.

If I can make one recommendation to those of college age: Study or work abroad if you can. It will inevitably change your life. It did mine, and I’ll never regret those decisions. Was I scared at first? Of course, but I don’t grow when I remain comfortable and content—it’s about moving forward, even when afraid, and figuring it out along the way.

Writing reminded me that pursuing a deep dream is more pressing than the comfort of knowing exactly what’s around the corner. On October 5th, I shared how the passion to deliver transformative education about the Holocaust in communities stewarded my return to Chico. But after October 7th, that desire has deepened in new ways, and though the times seem daunting, there’s something sparkling about sharing these dreams with you first.

In Circus Mirandus, “The Lightbender” asks the protagonist, “Micah, what do you think magic is?” Micah replies, “I guess it’s what’s inside of people like you. The parts of you that are too big to keep just to yourself.” I suppose NSV is a magic maker of sorts — it has allowed writers like me to share with you those parts that are too big to keep just to myself.

Readers, thank you. What a privilege to have shared with you over the past year and what a joy to have embarked on this journey alongside the other NSV columnists — Dale, Georgia and Maricarmen. As good writing does, their work illuminated different perspectives of the human experience. And thanks to Mike Wolcott, for his role in bringing local news to our community.

As we soar towards the conclusion of 2023, I’m happy to report the last lap has not been as difficult as the opening lap, and hooray for no more shoulder pain! Wherever the snowy owl is now, I thank her for inspiring my flight into this year of writing — a year of absolute delight, discovery and hope.

You can reach Katie Posey at katie@ourstoryconnections.com.

I’ve only visited three times, but I imagine it takes courage to live in Israel, to step into each day, aware of a group’s charter’s clear call to wipe you off the map. But the joy of life in Israel propels them forward, in spite of the toxic hatred from so many directions.

Just 14 months earlier I sat at Esther’s kitchen table, eating my dinner with the family silverware her father brought out of Germany as he was escaping the Holocaust. Extended family members who may have once used that silverware were murdered.

On October 7th I messaged Anne whom I met during my first trip to Israel in 2013. “Any news from Esther?” I wrote. The reply was about her son. He’d been scheduled to work at the Nova music festival with a friend at 7 a.m. Things took a turn when a Jeep full of terrorists started shooting at his car — he was hit by two bullets, one in the kidney and one in the lung. They eventually stopped, got out, and ran through fields to a gas station filled with people who didn’t know what was happening. They turned off the lights, pushed everyone inside a safe room, but the door didn’t really close.

Next, they heard banging and shooting at the door, assuming it was the end. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason the terrorists turned around and left. The group acknowledged the miracle, and later, when Esther’s son was sleeping in the hospital, a rocket hit near his bed. He again survived.

Esther tells me he’s changed since all this transpired. Nine of his friends were killed. Somehow, in spite of the horrors of that day, he has discovered dimensions of grace on his journey. I don’t know the intricacies of those dimensions, but from what I’ve observed over the last month, there’s a beauty in the resilience the Israelis and Jewish people around the world are carrying at this moment.

I can’t make sense of the story of October 7 — human beings can do such horrible things to other humans. And then the silence and indifference of women’s groups around the world. My heart trembles: Can these groups truly be for women, when they ignore horrific sexual violence against Israeli women?

With five higher educational degrees, I’ve always been proud of universities. Now, I’ve become baffled. Some university students are justifying and even celebrating the evil of October 7. I sense something is not working: that mission to equip students with critical thinking skills and moral and logical reasoning. When administrations condone those stealing the security and peace of their Jewish students while lauding efforts to “make all welcome” I sense hypocrisy.

I don’t like the divide between Pro-Israel or Pro-Palestinian groups — I say we unite in our condemnation of evil and agree that terrorist groups who murder and torture should be rendered unable to launch their cruelty on anyone so that the people of Israel and Gaza and the West Bank can live free of fear and violence. Israel’s leadership isn’t perfect, but it’s reasonable to support a liberal democracy’s (the only in the Middle East) right to defend itself from evil we haven’t seen since the Holocaust. The Nazis were intentional about their goal to destroy the Jewish people and eventually move on to other groups. Hamas has broadcasted a similar aim to repeat October 7 a million times, if “necessary”, and even beyond Israel.

It remains: my hope for peace in that country the size of New Jersey, the place in the Middle East where LGBTQ folks have the highest legal rights and freedoms and where Arabs make up 20% of the population. Several months before I visited Israel in July 2022, Judge Khaled Kabub became the first Muslim appointed to Israel’s Supreme Court.

Anne traveled to Jerusalem from France a few weeks ago. She messaged me the other day: “When are you coming?” The answer remains the same since the first time I visited Israel 10 years ago: Soon.

It seems appropriate I’m writing from the U.K. — since I first fell in love with England as a Chico State student during London Semester, I’ve been returning at least once a year for the last 21 years or so. What a thrill to see the world and encounter the people in it — every day delivers something fascinating, if I’m open to it.

Before visiting a good friend in Germany, I took the train to Strasbourg, France, a journey I’ve wished to take for several years, as it holds particular significance for my family.

Seventy nine years ago, on the 25th of this month, this newspaper reported that my grandfather, 21-year-old George Addison Posey, Jr., a graduate of Chico High, had been missing since October 29 on a tactical reconnaissance mission somewhere over France. Coincidentally, I’m writing this column exactly 79 years after he was shot down in his P-51 Mustang by a Nazi flying a captured American aircraft, a P-47.

Some 20 odd years ago, my father had the good sense to capture my grandfather sharing his testimony on video. I marvel at how relaxed my grandfather seemed about the whole experience, especially about parachuting out at 12,000 feet.

Once safely on the ground, he followed a stream bed but froze after spotting a wire across a ravine. Looking up, he saw Germans with rifles pointed at him. Eventually taken to a hospital in Strasbourg, right on Germany’s border, he joined 30 other American prisoners on the 3rd floor. He was taken into surgery, and spoke of playing cards and talking with the other prisoners.

His luck would nearly run out when the Commandant arrived to find him “well” and ranted and raved that he would be going “over the Rhine” to a POW camp. Inspection arrived the next day — if my grandfather’s X-rays were clean, he would be shipped out. He looked at his X-rays: clean as could be. But when the inspecting colonel perused them, something happened. There now appeared a piece of metal about an inch long.

Livid, he ordered my grandfather back into surgery. He wouldn’t be going over the Rhine just yet.

“To me it’s a miracle and God was certainly working it out in some way.” Perhaps you wouldn’t be reading this column if that miracle hadn’t taken place.

Fifteen days passed and my grandfather was again ready to be sent to Germany, but the American forces were on the edge of the city, poised to liberate Strasbourg. Had they waited an extra day, it might have been too late, but several overly eager tanks triggered the Germans to assume the rest were behind. My grandfather, a Second Lieutenant, was one of two American lieutenants the Germans surrendered the hospital to before they left.

My grandfather remarked, “I just kind of liked it there, to tell you the truth.”

Part of my journey to Strasbourg involved uncovering more of why he liked it. The truth is: it’s a wonderful and fascinating city.

His stay in Strasbourg eventually came to an end — one day he walked into the lobby and a 6’10” American colonel called him over, smoke pouring from his 2-inchthick Havana cigar into my grandfather’s face.

“Lieutenant, what in the hell are you doing here?”

“I just liked it here,” the 21-year-old replied. The colonel then “blew his top” and cussed him out, “one side down and out the other.” That afternoon he was on a jeep back to his outfit.

My grandfather has since passed away so I can’t ask him questions about the experience, but it’s an extraordinary and miraculous story. I loved Strasbourg and know I’ll be back.

I’m proud of the contribution my grandfather made in the war effort — 79 years ago many said no to the evil ideology of the Nazis. We find ourselves again opposing such evil as seen in the October terrorist massacre by Hamas in Israel and rampant antisemitism.

And the story continues: My investigation at the city archives looking for the exact hospital in Strasbourg invites me to further research at the military archives in Paris, perhaps a trip in 2024.

Something was crushing my heart and I couldn’t hold in the tears. Maybe it was the stress of my schedule — I was one of the only teachers that didn’t have a co-teacher, and hosted every one of the kids in the library each week, teaching library and digital media classes while managing the library collection.

Later, I realized there was more to my crying. A soft knock on a door in my heart, waiting to be answered, wouldn’t quiet down. An unfolding understanding: My core passion wasn’t being answered in my job. I felt underutilized. There was a part of me that wasn’t unpacked, and I could feel it. I longed for work related to my passion for teaching the Holocaust, and the disconnect between my work and that longing had grown into a horrifying divide — a gap so vivid the tears burst out.

As a young reader I first became intrigued and gripped by books set during the Holocaust. I was awed by the foundation of strength the inhabitants of the Warsaw Ghetto must have possessed to live within those walls and how people could step into the bravery of helping another person even at risk to their own lives. So many stories swirled with courage, fear, resilience, love and grief. I read “The Hiding Place” as a twelve year old about how a Christian Dutch family sheltered Jews, then were discovered and sent to Auschwitz for their rescue efforts. I was astonished by the way Betsy Ten Boom remained within a space of peace and love, even in a concentration camp. How can a person be empowered to extend grace and forgiveness to people behaving in truly evil ways? This was one of many stories that shook me to the core.

My life in Boston became a catalytic point strengthening and silvering the thread pulling me towards a different vision of work. I arranged to visit and share a lesson plan with the 6th graders at my school. I vividly remember one student asking me a question about the fate of a Jewish family and when I responded, an expression of pain swept across his features. I recognized his sense of injustice that humans would do such things to other humans — even those who had lived decades before.

It was during that lesson with that group of kids that I realized: remaining a school librarian was not in the cards for me — it was inevitable that I would shift and pursue a path towards this passion.

I eventually packed up and started my drive across the country back to Northern California, but one of my stops was New York City so I could visit an exhibit on the rescue efforts of Le Chambon Sur Lignon in France where around 3,000 Jewish lives were saved. Those villagers had been offered a call to action by their pastors after the Vichy government began pushing legislation to discriminate against the Jewish people. Every single villager responded to the call — there was not one who decided that wasn’t the right thing to do.

The next summer I would drive with one of my best friends across France to Le Chambon so I could visit the region myself. The mountain air was clear and invigorating — I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in my life. The very atmosphere was tangibly and spiritually rich and I remember thinking: What the people here accomplished, being brave even when they were afraid, the way they welcomed and sheltered all those Jewish people, that way of serving and honoring and giving: That’s who I want to be. And could the way I share Holocaust Education also stir that same desire in others?

I would embark on a path to find out. What that path would resemble and how I would reach it was unclear and uncertain — and definitely not comfortable. Shifting careers never is — moving across the country never is — but when my heart radioed that it was time to move, it was time to move.

I remember how fascinated the kids were with our cameras and how they all wanted to be in our photos. I asked my friend to take a picture of me and a group near the swing set — they all crowded around, jostling to be within the frame. I vividly remember one taller boy pushing a shorter blonde-headed kid away, as if to exclude him.

I remember the twinge I felt — a desire to halt the exclusion and repair what I felt should not be. I stopped the photographer, found the boy, and brought him towards the center. Today, this is one of my favorite photos, now over 25 years old. We’re all beaming, and the boy I brought to the front looks content, as if his being welcomed back settled him. For the rest of the trip when he appeared at events, I made a point to invite him into other photos.

Over the years, I’ve wondered: have I ever unknowingly or knowingly pushed anyone out — not done my part to welcome someone who needed it? Have I ever missed “seeing” someone because I didn’t look beyond the exterior or I was too impatient?

I can’t help but think of a passage from a children’s book by Kate DiCamillo, “Flora and Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventures”:

“Alfred T. Slipper was a janitor. Most of the time (often, in fact) they treated him with disdain. They had no idea of the astonishing acts of heroism, the blinding light, contained within his outward humdrum disguise. Only Alfred’s parakeet, Dolores, knew who he was and what he could do.”

How many times have I walked past an Alfred T. Slipper, missing out on an opportunity to welcome, to understand, and perhaps to be understood myself? Maybe one of the biggest parts of life is about welcoming others, as we live out of our own experience of feeling welcomed.

I think part of welcoming means being open to learning from others, realizing their lives could teach me something. For me, it’s also about the overflow of the shelter of welcome I experience through my connection with God — I suppose those who feel deeply welcomed can more easily welcome others. Perhaps it also means being vulnerable and intentional about going deeper in relationship. That’s not always safe. That can be scary. But to be truly understood, we have to open up. I have to let you see my dreams, hopes, even fears.

We can’t have close relationships with everyone, but I have a hunch there are small ways to reach out to those around us, to thread welcoming into the moments of the tapestry of our days. I ponder too — what does it look like for me to welcome those I don’t agree with — how do I cultivate a connection when my moral compass is oriented differently from yours? People aren’t one dimensional —they’re not just their behavior or their position on a policy. Maybe when we discover that we take the opposite position on an important issue in the community — maybe that’s when we should say, “Ok, let’s meet for coffee and doughnuts and see what happens.” That might not be for everyone, but I think sometimes doing hard things is what brings the maturity we’re built for as humans.

I’m becoming more intentional to “see” those around me — those close to me and those who are only acquaintances. When I slow down and take care to notice, I realize there is an even greater stretching for me to do in this arena. To welcoming, to understanding others and taking the risk to be understood (and yes, potentially misunderstood).

But as Jonathan Auxier says in his children’s novel, “Sweep: The Story of a Girl and her Monster,” “That’s what it is to care for a person,” Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.”

A few days ago while on the phone with my best friend Adrianne (who lives in Central California) I started combing my bookshelves, noting the spines of childhood titles. In October 2020 I cleared out my storage unit of belongings in Boston (the last place I lived before I returned to Northern California in 2018). I donated 75% and shipped the remaining 25% back, including my childhood books.

It was a winning decision — with a burst of triumph I exclaimed, “I’ve got all nine Baby-sitters Club Super Specials! I think I took this one to camp. What about a buddy read?” Adrianne (friends since the fourth grade) didn’t have her childhood copies but that didn’t stop her from checking out Baby-sitters at Shadow Lake from the library the next day. I’m jealous of the fact that Adrianne’s library is open seven days a week while our Chico library is only open four.

Sometimes we discuss fundraising ideas we’d implement if we were in charge. An elegant murder mystery dinner party in the library: women required to wear ball gowns. A pie auction, but each pie is partnered with the pie maker’s favorite book. How about a sleepover in the library? We’d never run out of things to read. Some might think we’re bizarre book nerds but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

So we’re squarely in the middle of this re-read and though planned at the last minute, there’s something incredibly fun and refreshing about it. I’m not the same person I was the first time I read Super Special #8, but re-reading my childhood favorites as an adult is delivering a delightful flavor of summer reading.

The memories of those childhood summers of book swapping with Adrianne are rooted in me — it’s difficult to articulate the magic of those expansive days: the combination of almost endless hours of reading, playing with the cats, golden afternoons of swimming in my grandparents’ pool, fighting with my brothers and beating them at Street Fighter 2, jaunts through Bidwell Park, the delicious sunset scent of the sweet oaks, the toasted soil, and my mother’s rose bushes.

Summer activities in Chico were abundant — swimming, exploring, solving mysteries, eating ice cream, but when we weren’t riding our bikes to my grandparents’ house or being chased by aggressive geese by the lake in California Park, you’d find Adrianne and I sprawled out with books in the cool of the house.

Most of the time we’d be reading copies of the same story, and if not, we would switch when we reached the end. We were series junkies with “The Baby-sitters Club,” “Nancy Drew,” “Sweet Valley High,” and “Choose Your Own Adventure,” but we also entertained elevated tastes with the Bronte sisters, L.M. Montgomery, and some more “adult” works in the way of Rosamunde Pilcher, Anne Rivers Siddons, Agatha Christie, and Anne Perry. I think we both tackled “Gone with the Wind” at 13.

Our routine was to read for an hour or two, take a break and chat about what was happening in our respective books, maybe grab some ice cream from downstairs, and then get back to reading. You don’t need to hire Sherlock Holmes to conclude that we were and are book fanatics.

“It’s strange — the books I remember the most are the ones we read those summers in our tweens and teens. It’s true, isn’t it, that your reading as a young person sticks with you in a way other reading doesn’t …”

She agreed.

“But if the books I have read have helped to form me, then probably nobody else who ever lived has read exactly the same books, all the same books and only the same books as me. So just as my genes and the soul within me make me uniquely me, so I am the unique sum of the books I have read. I am my literary DNA.” ― Susan Hill, Howards End Is on the Landing: A Year of Reading from Home

You can email Katie at teachingbeyondthebooks@gmail.com

No use fretting: My fingers furiously tapping my phone, I requested the option the airline gave me of flying through Warsaw instead, noting I would be forced to pay the hefty difference.

I had spent the previous week in Northern Israel with a friend who was house and dog sitting while I worked on the curriculum project for my master’s in Holocaust & Genocide Studies. Most cool evenings we walked on the beach, not far from Nahariya. Once we watched newly hatched sea turtles reach the sea, buoyed by a crowd of cheering Israelis — and every evening involved Anne securing a diaper on the dog, warning her to avoid drinking too much water before bed. There were cats that hung out on the back patio I would take breaks to greet. These Israelis cat would greet you too, should you ever meet them.

With the curriculum finished I was ready to depart Israel. But a cancelled flight: this can’t be right. A tour of Auschwitz was booked the next day and a beautiful Airbnb reserved. At the airport, the line for the Warsaw flight moved about an inch an hour. I checked my phone, but no confirmation.

My heart started to sink. I looked around, slightly resentful of the people in line, envious of those whose plans had not been muddled with but were pristine, like a crisp dinner cloth napkin, prepped for the perfect meal. I was also sifting through the grief of losing connection with the person whom I would typically have been communicating with about the situation. The weight of that grief was closing in.

Did these people know my heart was about to crack? Would I cry in this cold airport terminal, surrounded by strangers speaking Hebrew and Polish? When you have a physical injury, you can ask someone to call the paramedics — when it’s a cracking heart that no one can see, well, that’s a different story. In the next moments, a few things happened. I prayed — yes, I wanted to get on that flight to Warsaw but first I needed comfort. That’s what I asked God for.

Next, I discovered I wasn’t on the passenger list to Warsaw so I knew Poland wasn’t in the cards for me. I decided to buy a cup of coffee and a pastry, sit down, relax, and pick another European destination. But where? And how? And when? The how was easy: find a reasonable flight. The when was even easier: Immediately. The where was the tricky part.

But coffee in hand, watching the planes, I felt a burst of excitement. Maybe this spontaneous change was a good thing. Maybe the comfort I was asking God to deliver was on the way. Copenhagen, too expensive. Budapest, the times weren’t right. Lisbon, the flight was full. Istanbul, I’d been there twice.

And then, I found it. Naples … the Amalfi Coast. A flight out at 8 that evening and it was as reasonable as if I had purchased the ticket weeks previously. Italy — a country I love dearly and this a region I had never explored. Could it be? Naples instead of Krakow? A break from Holocaust research perhaps? Gelato and swimming in the sea instead?

I booked the flight, found an amazing guest house (also reasonable) in the nearby chill seaside town of Ercolano and it was set. Something wonderful was going to happen. I would arrive that night at 2 a.m., after delays (no surprise there) — where an Italian coast welcomed me with open arms, almost as if the country sensed I needed rest that only a place like Italy could bring.

Sometimes the unexpected cracking of our travel plans is what we need. The process of the cracking may be difficult to navigate and there might be fear and worry at first — but when the smoke clears, sometimes you turn around and realize the place you needed to be the most is where you end up.

I needed a hug that day standing in line at the Tel Aviv airport, desperate to get on a flight to Warsaw. I received it later, as a surprise, in the shape of the Amalfi Coast.

At the beginning of the year, I set some intentions; why not take a moment to rest on the cushion of these past six months and reflect: How did some of those hopes pan out?

One of those was the intention to savor the simple joys within daily life. I recognized that this often leads to gratitude, a powerful force in my life.

Action News Now might not pick this up, but I’m thrilled to report that this savoring is happening and will continue. Sometimes it’s just sitting on my patio in the morning with a cup of coffee and gazing at the surrounding leafy trees. Meeting a cat on a neighborhood walk who bounds over to greet me, perhaps sensing I like cats? Using a blow torch for the first time on the finishing touches for a Toasted S’mores cake a friend encouraged me to bake for a fundraiser. And yes, creme brulee is next!

Then there was my mighty resolution to avoid getting offended. I felt I was doing pretty well at that. Until I wasn’t. Sometimes in the midst of intense challenges in relationships, I think my aim to handle things perfectly doesn’t quite work out.

After a person I cared about wrote something unexpected that hurt me deeply, I responded with a letter that was…well, kind of mean. I justified it with the thought that this person is acting so indifferent towards me he couldn’t possibly be hurt by anything I say in response. I ignored the fact that my intention to avoid offense and process getting over hurt in a healthy way was a fail.

There were probably three things that nudged me to step back out, risk getting hurt again, and apologize.

First, I realized that I’d written columns for this paper that pointed to the power of relationships and forgiveness and avoiding the snare of offense. I’d been a hypocrite, I realized.

The second nudge was while watching episode one of season three of “The Chosen” where Jesus is talking about resolving rifts in relationship and apologizing to those we may have offended as part of his Sermon on the Mount. Truth be told, I immediately thought of my letter. I didn’t feel condemned, but thought, “I think that part in the show was for me.”

The third was a week-long retreat hosted at a Franciscan monastery in the mountains of Malibu. This ended up being transformational for me in the way I became even more grounded in the reality of the main purpose in life: to receive love and to give it. I might (or might not) experience a satisfying career or achieve other types of goals, but when I take a deep dive into the most important dream for my life, that’s it.

I wish I could have spoken to this person and said sorry that way. However, that wasn’t possible. Thanks to technology, I was able to record my apology and send it –sometimes texting or emailing just doesn’t cut it when you need the other person to hear your tone. I can’t say that everything has been resolved in a neat package; what I can say is that I’ve learned a lot and I feel a dozen times lighter for untangling from that burden of offense and choosing to say sorry even when it wasn’t easy and I could have been hurt further.

It’s funny how the people we let in and that we vow we could never hurt are the ones we direct our cruel words towards. So, halfway through the year, I’m reminded: I’m human. If you’re reading this, you probably are, too. But the wonderful thing about our journeys if that even when we make mistakes, we can learn from those and set out to repair.

A Blue Morpho butterfly just fluttered by, large and luminous, as if inviting me to continue discovering awe and wonder in the beauty of the world and people around me — for the rest of the year, and beyond.

You can email Katie Posey at teachingbeyondthebooks@gmail.com.

I still remember the crimson raspberry filling of the Upper Crust cake my family cut for my graduation from Chico State two decades ago. As I meander through my neighborhood, not far from campus, I sense the edges of the celebrations unfolding — the journeys that are ending and also beginning, unveiling divergent paths and opportunities.

Now I sit in the tiny office (brimming with books) of my cottage at my great-grandmother’s desk giving feedback to my online college students for their final creative nonfiction pieces. I’m reminded each semester of the intangible rewards of teaching — of nurturing, in some small way, the journeys of students.

This season of completed (and incomplete) studies and quickly shifting weather led me to reflect on the way the closing of my own journey at Chico State launched me into unexpected but intensely rich adventures. My path didn’t take me where I thought I would end up. In the beginning, I didn’t even plan to go to Chico State — I had aimed for Seattle. I began as a major in English with a minor in French but turned into a double major in both because why not?

Should I ever walk into the cave of time (See “Choose Your Own Adventure,” Book #1) I would deliver a message to that younger version of myself: “Your journey is like no one else’s and there aren’t cookie cutter benchmarks you have to reach. Despite what society says, you don’t have to be married and have 2.5 kids by 35. You don’t have to land a tenure-track job in order to be ‘successful.’ You don’t have to own a house to be an ‘adult.’ You can live your dreams and shrug off the pressure to fulfill these ‘cultural standards’ on a prescribed timeline, because your journey is your own — and that’s the glorious beauty of it.”

No adventure always goes according to plan (See “The Hobbit” and “The Neverending Story”) but there’s something to be said for making the decision to hold fast to the heart’s dreams, to laugh when things don’t work out, to take risks, and to listen to my dad who pushed me to finish my Ph.D. when I said I couldn’t because the grief of a broken dream was tripping me up.

One radiant revelation is the idea that it’s OK not to be certain about what one wants to “do” or “be” in our early 20s. Is there some rule that dictates that the major we choose as undergrads is the area we’ll pursue for the rest of our lives? My passions were stories and travel and history and while I thought being a professor of children’s literature was the golden dream, that’s not actually where I ended up. What I’m doing now feels much more expansive and different than that, but perfect for who and where I am.

If I inserted the map of my journey through the “life program” with cookie cutter criteria, the system goes haywire and starts to overheat. It doesn’t compute. I’m glad.

It would require multiple cups of coffee and blueberry danishes from Tin Roof for me to tell you all that transpired those years after Chico State. I went from living in southwest London to teaching (with some trepidation) community college students as a 24-year-old in Northern California to moving to Pennsylvania for a full-time university gig without ever having set foot in the state, to getting a Ph.D., to teaching English to middle schoolers in South Carolina, to surviving various blizzards in a small vacation cottage on Cape Cod while teaching online (the power never went out!), to running book fairs while working as an elementary school librarian at a Reggio-Emilia school in Beacon Hill, Boston and living for a time in a house outside the city built in 1630.

Chico State set me on this colorful trajectory because Chico State gave me London semester. I fell in love with England, returning again and again after living there twice, and this study abroad sparked a fire in me for exploring the world that hasn’t diminished.

I’m thankful. My years at Chico State set me up for fascinating and life-changing, but unexpected adventures, and I certainly wouldn’t trade those for anything. Not even for what seems to be the “perfect plan.”