To my adopted big brother, father, friend...

________,

I sit here trying to figure out how to thank you for the past ten years. I want to be witty and charming. I want to start with a heartfelt, yet quirky story--one that screams US--then I want to pinpoint all the moments you've helped me grow, and I want you in tears by the end. This should be easy. But now I'm in tears.

My catch twenty-two is paradoxical endings. They close one moment and open the next. They mark accomplishments or failures, whichever the case may be. They can tear your heart out, or they can inflate your ego. They can scare the living bajeebers out of you or induce the highest high of hope. At the moment, though, I'm feeling a bit sad.

This happens to me at every endpoint of my life: my gut churns into knots, and my heels dig holes in the ground. I don't want change. Ever. At least not right when it's about to happen.

Don't get me wrong. I love possibility and the unknown. So I guess I really do love change. But in the beginning, I am reluctant to give up the comfort, the safety, and the love I found in the last beginning of my life. That would inevitably mean I risk losing part of what made that time wonderful. And right now, I want to bask in this beginning before it ends.

I've always seen change as final, where people leave the moments which marked my last beginning behind and don't look back. Change has meant saying goodbye and hoping with all my might that the next beginning is as magical as the last. In this case, though, I hope I'm wrong. This change won't mean the end for us. In fact, I have a feeling there are many shows and adventures ahead. I see collaborations between our respective schools. I see other theater projects that we have yet to dream. Amid my uncertainties, one thing is sure: we are not finished.

You are an inspiration to me, and in you I've found more than a director and mentor; I've found a friend. I admire your passion and dedication in every aspect of your life--your marriage, your family, and your career. You've shown me that good men are out there, and that I shouldn't settle. You've shown me that you can always dream; you can always grow. Most importantly, you've shown me that silliness, laughter, and play have a place in life, no matter what your age. This is why I love producing shows with you.

How appropriate that we mark this milestone with our second run of Honk! When we began this journey, I was young, awkward, and had little more to offer the shows than my passion for dance and my capability to bellow "5, 6, 7, 8!" But you took me under your wing, gave me room to mess up (and then fix it), and somewhere amongst the madness I grew up. Well, kind of. And now when I'm unsure of the future, when I doubt myself, "just knowing you are out there," that you believe in me, "will help me to get by."

So let's not raise a glass to the end, but to the beginning of something different. And remember--"Different isn't hateful. Different could be swell. Different is just, well, different."

Thank you for everything.