Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes:

Glancing westward, I observe a picturesque sky reflected through a front door laced with fingerprints. The perfect shade of pastel blue, an immaculate backdrop against which the green and yellow leaves of a tree that is somehow flawlessly curved into the first letter of my name gently shake, the movements unpronounced yet still evident. A fine wind conducts a silent orchestra that somehow manages to have profound amplitude. Several birds chirp. Though I do not know what they sing of, I am nonetheless captivated by the elegance of their song. Not even two months ago, at 8:30 in the morning, I was either still asleep or just getting up. At that moment, I realize the difference between who I am today and who I was sixty days prior, and it comes in the form of one word: "action". It has two syllables and only takes a second or less to say, but it rings loudly in the human consciousness. Our spirit is drawn to it, stimulated by the promise it holds of a better tomorrow, but not everyone realizes that it is a doing word. We cannot throw it into the blender of our lexicon and use it thoughtlessly, the same way people have diluted the word 'legend' to such a degree that it no longer carries the same weight it once did in describing people, places, things and stories of renown. It is a word we activate through the decisions we make. At least for the moment, my life has been activated. Being in my thirties, I feel I have started to 'unlock' confidence I once lacked, as though it were a secret item in a video game. I have become more comfortable with myself, less irritated with the bells people ring. But the transformation did not begin overnight, and its conclusion will not be realized until I too am gone. Only two weeks after my mother passed away, the wheels of fate were turning, and drove me to a destination I could not have anticipated when I received a fateful phone call from Evelyn Falconer, the executive director and founder of the Boca Raton Achievement Center--though to I and the rest of the staff it's BRAC for short. As best as I can tell it, my mother's former employers had relied on a connection to one influential person, who in turn reached out to another person of influence, who called me on a luminescent Saturday afternoon to set up a meeting with me at my house. That meeting was the beginning of a partnership that continues to this day, as Evelyn has worked tirelessly to facilitate my transition from a place I've called home for more than half my life and a way of life within the confines of that place that has been the norm for nearly a decade. As of the time I write this I am not even two months into my current position as a front desk volunteer, but have already borne witness to another sort of transition: one longtime BRAC teacher was released as a result of extenuating circumstances, and another teacher--one whose courses had been taking place directly adjacent to where I work--ended up inheriting his classroom. The day on which I write this piece of the story is an interesting one, not only for that reason but for how busy it has turned out to be. Evelyn certainly gave me fair warning when she mentioned it on the way here. A young man and his parents took a tour of BRAC, and a student who had been 'missing in action' for a bit made a most unexpected, and certainly welcome, comeback! While the atmosphere has already become a little bit quieter in my cozy little corner of this floating rock, I'll miss hearing the laughter of the students who have moved over to the new classroom; the old one will be repurposed as a conference room (which, ironically, is the purpose it originally served when BRAC opened its doors). For what little it's worth, I can turn my music up a little bit louder...my mood shifts from jazz to rock, depending on whether I'm looking for some extra sonic motivation or simply want to relax a little bit. Just as the songs testify to lives well lived for the musicians who made them, I seek to justify myself too.