Merry Christmas

When I sing in my head, I sound just like Shawn Colvin. Or maybe Emmylou Harris. Or Lucinda Williams. Some strong female lyricist who cuts straight to the point with a clear, bluesy twang. Where the heart is palpable. The pain not so far away. The solution perhaps still unclear. But the power and strength of her voice is undeniable. Unshakable. And it’s been a while since I’ve shared my thoughts with you, my big bad intraweb world. And mainly because I haven’t been sounding right in my head. The words I type, the songs I sing, it all comes out wrong. Flat.  Missing something.  And definitely nothing like Shawn. Or Emmylou. Or Lucinda. Because I haven’t really had the time to just stop. To sit. To absorb.

It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t get over how un-Christmasy I feel. The glow of the tree is sparkling in the reflection of the computer, the shiny presents stuffed under the boughs and stockings bulging with fun, secret little packages and bundles. These are the moments I wait for all year. The only time of year I love turning off all the lights but the Christmas tree, and just sitting. Watching. Thinking. Being thankful. And it’s all so beautiful, pain-stakingly so, that it makes me feel even less connected to it. Excited by it. Moved.

At the risk of sounding down-right depressing, this has been a pretty rough year.  Among my worst, I'd argue.  This has been one of those years that has tested my faith, stretched my skin, and challenged my assumptions. My faith that it all works out. My belief that everything happens for a reason. Which I still believe, but perhaps now with greater suspicion; without the same reckless abandon I once had for my silly not-so-serious life.

At the start of the summer, by best friend was diagnosed with a serious medical condition. We spent weeks processing what it meant for her. I went to her doctor’s appointments with her. We cried together. I got scared for her, taking on some of her burden, which is what we do for the people we love. We share more than just the good times. Not too soon after, I ended a relationship with a man I loved deeply. I spent weeks crying. Not eating. Feeling like the whole world had been taken away from me.  And I've spent months trying to convince myself I'm better off without him, something I'm maybe just now starting to believe.

Then in July, my father was diagnosed with cancer. CANCER. A scary, mean, dirty word. A word that makes the hair on your arms stand up. And no matter what they tell you, no matter how small or big the diagnosis, positive or negative the prognosis, you can’t help it. You cry. You freeze. You curl up in a ball and decide he’s dying. Or, rather, assume he is. You decide it’s over. (And considering this came on the heels of probably the most significant break-up of your adulthood, you double-time fall the fuck apart.)

And then after you’ve had a good ugly cry (underline that), and about 3 bottles of wine, and half a pack of cigarettes, you sort of sit up and ask yourself: What am I doing? You wonder why you’re laying on the deck at midnight and wearing sunglasses in the dark (which I was) and where the time went. You immediately feel guilty for being so self-absorbed and so unbelievably fragile. He has the cancer. Not me. And break-ups can't kill me.  Then a few days later, after thoroughly beating yourself up, you ease up on yourself and decide maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all to get stupid drunk and cry and hate the world. Or to worry yourself sick. And it goes on, thus and so, until you have more concrete answers. Until you know more. Until a treatment begins. A surgery happens. A test comes back from the lab.

And when the answers come back, “bad but not deadly”, “significant but not life-shattering”, “advanced but treatable”, you take a deep breath and pray to any and all gods you find available. You have one of those deep cleansing breaths. And you wait. And you pray. And you think happy thoughts and you dig yourself deep into your work and your schoolwork and you do everything you can to keep from going back to that place you were in just a few weeks ago, drunk, on the deck, wearing sunglasses at night.  But you never really release that worry; that anxiety that something could go wrong at any minute. Something could change everything in a matter of minutes. And in order to survive, you just tunnel. And become so heavily immersed that you actually lose yourself. Like legitimately. Because its all you can do.

And such has been my life for the last six months. And my best friend has all but been cured. My heart has all but mended. And my dad has survived. And he’s living, perhaps more now than ever before. Because that’s what surviving cancer makes you do. And the tests are coming back clear; those dumb-ass cancer cells unrecognizable. And you don’t realize how much you’ve been carrying it in between your shoulder blades and underneath your belly and behind your heart until all of the sudden it’s gone. And you feel a strange sense of relief. A spiritual release you didn’t anticipate. And you look in the mirror and you hardly see yourself anymore.

And then, because it’s just the way the world works, you start it all over again. And a million times in between. Because when you’re in this space, everything takes twice as much work. Each breath takes twice as much oxygen. And bad things never happen in isolation. One after another the bad luck trickles in, partially because you’re not exactly feeling so optimistic to begin with, which is like an open invitation to the dark side of life, but partially because I think this is just the way it’s meant to happen. It. Life. Cascading. Spinning. Rushing.

Just last week, my step-father had triple bypass surgery. Another quick, scary diagnosis that knocked the breath out from under me.  How quickly a little chest pain translated to a majorly invasive surgery.  Last Friday they split open his chest, drained his blood, stopped his heart and repaired it. They warmed him back up, gave him back his blood, and sewed him up. Put him back together again. Like Humpty. Or Dumpty. And two days ago he met me in the driveway at the end of a long drive south, made even longer by a temperamental rain storm and holiday traffic. Standing. Breathing. Smiling. Walking. Alive.  Slower.  With greater caution.  And with wounds yet to heal, but alive.  Perhaps more now than ever before. Because that’s what procedures like that make you do.

And somehow here I am on Christmas Eve. Nearly six months since my last post, feeling some mixture of happiness and content, depression and fear.  Sitting in the living room with my mother and stepfather. Listening to Nick Drake. Watching the lights twinkle. Napping with the dogs. Writing this. Wondering how it all works. Feeling so lucky to have life. To have health. To have the great blessings we have. And questioning what it has to do with Christmas. And wondering if my lack of Christmas spirit is actually a real, honest Christmas spirit that has little to do with the materialism and the false sense of joviality, but more to do with the magic and the miracle. Less about what I’ve spent and what I’ve bought and more about who I’ll see in the coming days. The boiled-down nitty-gritty parts of Christmas we rarely take the time to see, or acknowledge. The parts where we sometimes have a broken heart that isn‘t easily mended. The parts where we get scared. The parts where we don’t always know what happens next.

Wondering how these cells in our bodies are connected to our bones and our muscles and our hearts. Our spirits. Our families. Our friends. How one little cell can create such a ripple. One blockage. One group of clots. One tiny virus in our bloodstream. And thousands of tears. Nights of sleepless angst. Days of worry. Countless reactions.  One small moment.  And boom, it all changes.

How small things really do matter when you’re scared and feeling helpless. That friend who called. That card that was sent. That hand squeeze under the table that let you know you were loved. Supported. Protected.

How it’s great to love what you do, and to find solace in your work, but that you have to love yourself, too. And you can’t lose yourself so much that you can’t find yourself again when it’s time.

How much it matters to just be present. To take time to sit. To listen to music together. To hear each other breath and know it’s the most important noise on earth. The noise of being alive. Of sharing space.  Because our time together is limited. 

And maybe my Christmas take-home message is that none of us have all of the answers.  And that life is never easy.  Maybe I’ll never quite understand the year I just survived, or the one my father, my step-dad, and my best friend survived, too.  Maybe years from now I’ll look back at this moment, these collections of moments, with a clarity that helps me understand. Helps me grow. Helps me heal.  But maybe I won't, also.  And maybe that's okay.

And maybe we can’t control what happens to us, but rather we only really control how we react to what happens to us.  And how gracefully we allow ourselves to fall apart.  And come back together again.  Like Humpty.  Or Dumpty.  How long we leave the cracks in before we fill them with new stories and new ideas.  How much we allow ourselves the capacity to be alive.  How often we ask our loved ones to stand a little bit closer.  To hold hands.  And to love each other harder.

So this Christmas, which doesn’t really feel so much like Christmas at all, I wish for all of you (and myself) the great gift of compassion. Of understanding. Of time for healing.  And family.  Of great friends.  And good health.  And good food and wine.  Of life.   

May we all have grace, humility and strength.  And most of all, love. 
Merry Christmas.

Gratitude

This is one of those weeks that is always difficult for me, as it is for many Americans. One of those moments in American history that none of us will forget, assuming we were old enough to understand what was happening.  9/11 happened just three weeks into my freshman year of college.

I was asked to share a remembrance of 9/11 at my alma mater and place of employment this afternoon.  One of the great things about working in higher education is that we place great value in processing experiences. In sharing our stories. And though these events are often targeted for our students, those of us who participate find ourselves thinking and weeping and learning right alongside our students. Which is a great blessing.

I spent the latter part of this week trying to figure out what I was going to talk about. How I could even begin to stand in front of others and talk about this moment that has changed my entire adult life. My 18 to 28 years. Because 9/11 infuriates me. It makes me incredibly sad. It confuses me. It makes me feel uneasy and sick to my stomach. Still. 10 years later. And not just because it happened. But because of the decade that was born out of these attacks. A decade of fear and polarized politics and racism. A day that forever changed our definitions of words like “security” and “terrorism”. A day that would change virtually every practice we had in traveling and entering and departing public spaces. In our assumptions that we were safe here. Always. And a day that would forever impact the average American’s perceptions of “other”.

And yet this was a day that our whole country stood united. That everyone stopped. And watched. And grabbed the hands of those around them for support. For some security that we were indeed safe. And we built communities inside communities inside communities, like tight concentric circles, made of human hands and warm embraces and candlelit vigils.

Here’s what I remember: I woke up on a Tuesday to a beautiful clear morning. Unaware that I should watch the news, I didn’t. I dressed and walked to class. Finding the academic buildings mostly empty, I walked back towards my dorm, confused about what holiday I had missed or what time change I had failed to make, and found a small group of people standing near a television. I stopped to watch an unbelievable scene on the television. The eery silence of the academic quad began to make sense. Though I couldn’t quite make out what was happening yet, or just how significant it would become, there were billows of black smoke and people running in fear. Alarms and noise and chaos. Buildings were crumbling in flames and chunks of concrete and bodies jumping from windows. I watched, with my heart in my throat, never expecting to see New York City in the background. And later, the Pentagon.

What I remember most clearly, however, was that there was an immediate community in that group of people. And an immediate and overwhelming sense of patriotism, fear and anger. A loss of words. A numbness that overcame us all: Was this really happening? Could it be true?

Within the next hour, the whole campus was awake. We had found ourselves in small huddled groups all over our wooded campus. It felt like everyone was crying. All day. Our shoulders heaving in unison, hands holding each other tight. Two of the girls on my floor had parents in the towers. Almost a whole day later we’d learn that they had actually not gone to work that day. Others weren’t so lucky. My dear friend Devita lost her brother, Romeo, in the Pentagon. Others lost family and friends. It seemed everyone knew someone in New York or Washington. And all of us knew someone who had been affected. Someone who had survived. And sadly, someone who hadn’t.

Keep in mind, this was my freshman year. I was nearly twelve hours away from my home in the deep western mountains of North Carolina. Just three weeks in to my first year of adulthood, I suddenly questioned if I should have ever left my beautiful blue-green valley. Or its deep purple hills that would have protected me from these planes and these loud noises. But that morning confirmed that I was in a place that would quickly become more than just my school; this place became my home. The rest of the day quickly turned into weeks and it was all a blur from there. What events I attended, how we found the strength to go back to class or to take anything else seriously; I can’t remember.

In reflection, I now can say that 9/11 was the first time I was able to place the word “gratitude” in my adult vocabulary. It was the first time I acknowledged my Americanism. My privilege. While it seemed like the whole world was falling apart, I had landed in this small community of thoughtful people. Of people from different places and backgrounds and cultures. I felt safe here that Tuesday. And so lucky. Like so many communities across America, we became one campus that day. One body of grieving souls. One community. For which I remain grateful.

Here’s where it gets hard for me. At this point, I can’t always dissect my life experiences from one another. 9/11 was an integral part of my first year of college, but moreover an integral part of the emergence of my adulthood. That same year, I lost a grandfather and a dear friend, David. I met hundreds of people and made thousands of mistakes. Over the next four years I'd travel abroad and meet thousands more. I'd watch a friend succomb to suicide and another battle with serious mental illness.  I'd begin and end (and begin again) relationships that would teach me the capacity with which I was capable of loving.  Over the last ten years, I’ve lived a lot of life in a short number of years. This community has been the backdrop for most of that life and in this space I’ve learned how to process the things that don’t make sense. To grieve. To grow. To laugh at myself. And those first weeks, and those first relationships, have remained so significant.  Perhaps because this was how we started.  This was my very first big thing.

In my ten years in this community, we’ve watched towers fall and gasped as two wars have been declared. We’ve protested and rallied together. We’ve learned how to define big grown- up words like “community” and “justice” and “inequality”. We’ve watched presidential elections and debates. We’ve heard the voices of famous politicians and policy makers. We’ve debated controversies and we’ve shared great stories. We’ve laughed until we’ve cried. We’ve listened to world-renowned musicians and held small, intimate conversations in our rooms and classrooms and offices. We’ve struggled through moments of ignorance and misunderstandings together. We’ve grieved losses and shared humility with each other. We’ve been outraged by each other and ourselves. And we’ve helped each other process it. And though we don’t always agree, we celebrate the freedoms of academia.

And for me, this day of remembrance is a remembrance of all the things I’m thankful for. For this community where we have the freedom to think critically about issues like social justice and kindness and humanity. For the grace and courage to ask hard questions. For the multitude of opportunities we have to learn about ourselves and the world. And how to make it a better place.

I’ve always loved that our College seal references First Thessalonians, chapter five, verse two: “Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.” I find this fitting because this is what our students have always done so very well: ask questions, dig deeper, challenge the status quo, seek solutions.

On this day of remembrance, I’ve challenged myself to have deeper gratitude. For my work. For my students. For my family. For my experiences. For the ability to dig deep on the issues that I care about. For the freedoms I have to learn as much as I can and to share that knowledge back out with my community. An endless ebb and flow of knowledge seeking and information sharing.

For our greater community, I challenge us to transform a decade worth of confusion into action. To allow our anger to motivate intellectualism and compassion. To allow our discriminations to motivate democracy and justice. Our apathy to motivate empathy and civic engagement. That we move into the next decade not discouraged by our lack of progress, but encouraged that there is still great work to be done. Motivated that we are the dreamers and the thinkers and the activists and the policy-makers for the next generation. And that we all have the ability to do something. To be a part of it.

Keep on, keepin' on

I’m sorry my last few posts have been so heavy, but it’s been a heavy couple of months.  And what have I learned from these months?  Too much.  That growing up sucks.  That a hot bath and a bottle glass of wine can temporary relieve anything.  That family supersedes everything.  That life can be unfair.  That bad things happen to good people.  That keeping busy is a great way to move on but it takes time and space (and vodka) to truly heal.  And that bad television is a great distraction from real life.

One of the hardest lessons to learn in life is that you can’t avoid living it.  It.  Life.  You gotta wake up every day and do it, no matter how impossible that feels.  And sometimes, despite your best efforts to be a good person, to look both ways before you cross the road, and to pay your taxes, shit happens.  It just does.  And when it does, you have two main choices: crumble or live through it. 

The good news is that most of the time, when you choose to live through it, you learn an awful lot about yourself.  And the people around you.  And on the occasion that you choose to crumble (which doesn’t necessarily guarantee tragedy), you still learn something about yourself.  And the people around you.  Because that’s the way it works.  It.  Life.

Sometimes you get these feelings in your gut.  The ones that dictate what you do and don’t do.  Not because they’re logical, or calculated, although sometimes they are, but because they feel right or they taste good or they look nice on your feet.  And sometimes the choices aren’t great choices, but they’re choices nonetheless. 

And under most circumstances, we all survive.  Good choices and bad choices.  The sun still rises the next day.  And it generally works out, even if it doesn’t seem so just yet.  Even if what happens is the last thing we’d ever thought might work.  Cliché though it may be, we emerge on the other side of things stronger, wiser, and perhaps with better judgment.  Bruises, cuts, and all.  Better jokes.  Longer stories.  More poignant punch lines.

And when we’re in the middle of the storm, it’s hard to keep perspective on how we’re ever going to come out of it.  Or when.  Or in what shape.  But we forge forward with the faith that we’re strong enough to take it.  Knowing we’re strong enough to survive.  Even if we don’t entirely believe it.  Even if we doubt it.  Because what else are we going to do?  What other choices do we really have?  We wake up and do the damn thing.

And eventually, one day, out of nowhere, it’s over.  The hurricane goes to sea.  Our heart stops aching.  Or the worry goes away.  Or the grief dissipates.  The virus dies.  The symptoms disappear.  The cancer is gone.  The bad people eventually stop knocking on the door.

Because that what it means to live.  That’s what it means to be real.  Like the Velveteen Rabbit.  If you’re real, and you’re human, it can’t always be easy.  It can’t always work out just right.  Sometimes you gotta get all your fur loved off and get shabby in your joints.  Because that’s what life, and love, will do to you.  And I suppose you haven’t really been living if you haven’t had the breath knocked out of you yet.

Lately, I’ve been convincing myself that your mid- to late-twenties must be simultaneously the best and the worst years of life.  And perhaps also the most confusing. Which of course is easy for me to postulate because these are the only years I’ve lived through so far, and they’re by and large the hardest and most confusing years I’ve yet to live (that I can remember, let alone intellectualize).  For every amazing, awesome, life-changing thing that happens something equally devastating, unexplainable, and gut wrenching seems to happen.  A constant yin and yang of joy and sadness.  But I suppose this “with the good comes the bad” thing is fundamental to life; is universal for all people, of all ages. 

And though it has felt like the whole world is against me, and my people, I remain hopeful.  Because I have to.  I have no choice.  I still wake up each day thankful for the breath in my lungs and the carpet at my feet (even if I'd rather it was hardwood and hand-tufted wool rugs).  I continue to be humbled by the opportunities I have to do the things I’ve been granted the freedom to do everyday.  That I have a job I love.  Students who keep me balanced, mindful, and hip (mostly).  Family who loves me unconditionally.  Friends who support me.  Experiences that root me.  And a dog who thinks everything I do is amazing.  And always right, no matter what.

The best part about life is that each day is a brand new day.  Which isn't always easy to remember.  But everyday is a new chance to fix something that isn’t working.  A new sunrise to wash out whatever mistakes might have been made in the dark.  A new opportunity to reflect on where we’ve been, where we’ve come from, and where we’re going.  

To keep on, keepin' on.  Because what else are we going to do?  What other choices do we really have?  We wake up and do the damn thing.  And if we're lucky, we blog about it later.

Change Gonna Come

It would be a lie to say that these last two weeks have not been a complete and total mindfuck.  And though each day my heart gets less achy, and I have stopped irrationally bursting into tears over mundane activities, what’s left is a lot of questions, and a busy brain, and a lot of picking things up and putting them back down again and not knowing what to do next.  And an abnormal amount of anxiety.  Which I guess is normal. 

The hardest part has been the adjustments to my routine.  The not looking at my phone a thousand times a day in anticipation for his calls or his texts, and the adjustment of my disappointment when indeed there is no message waiting for me.  The going to bed and waking up alone part, and knowing its not just a week apart or a business trip.  The eating meals solo part.  The not sharing of all the funny and weird things that happen in a day with someone part.  All parts that suck.  All parts that are messing with my head right now.  Which is just something I’ve got to get used to again.

And to complicate matters, in the midst of all of this, I’ve changed jobs.  Same location but with a new title, a new supervisor, and a new office.  And lots more responsibility.  Over the week, I’ve kept myself distracted by packing up my books and files and trucking across campus to settle in somewhere new, to learn new routines with new office-mates, new procedures and protocols.  Try and pick up where someone else has left off and wondering all the things you worry about in a new job—Will I like this?  Will I be good at it?  Can I do it?

And to even further the disruption, I’m moving to a new apartment to be closer to work in a little under a week, to give the dog a fair chance at being able to pee at least every 8-10 hours with my new schedule.  So my house is a disaster zone of cardboard boxes, newspapers, and cleaning supplies.  And I’ve unearthed things I had forgotten I owned.  And have found dust bunnies the size of full-grown antelope hiding under bookcases I haven’t moved in two years.  And little corners of “gems” covered in dirt and dog hair, nestled in with 45 million pairs of shoes, some random dried-out art supplies, and a magazine (or nine) about food or cottage-style decorating.  I’m all of the sudden feeling like an episode of Hoarders.

Sidenote: I also have three papers left to write for a class that ends on the 22^nd of the month and I just made the choice to scrub the top of the refrigerator with bleach over writing a paper due on Tuesday.  Can we say, avoidance tactics?

I’m 100% overwhelmed.  All the routine changes.  All the stress.  All the must-dos but have-no-energy-or-time-to-dos.  Oh and the just-don’t-wanna-dos.  Like at all.  All the gross piles of dirt and dust and dog hair.  Blech.

And thus my second avoidance tactic (besides the compulsive cleaning and the previously unmentioned, but not to be forgotten friend, vodka) to all of this change has been to put on my softest, oldest, cut-up t-shirt, remove any clothing articles that are binding and/or restrictive to my fat rolls and/or lady parts, and to get under the covers and hide.  And to watch depressing television.

Which, for the record, hasn’t helped much either.  Because I choose shows like Treme and Intervention, which provide temporary relief, as I always think, “well at least I’m not addicted to heroin, have three crack-addicted babies, and/or am recovering from a natural disaster.  And furthermore,” I think, “at least the police aren’t corrupt and there aren’t entire groups of people in Baltimore being ignored because of their race and class”…oh wait.  Nevermind on that one (and damn you, David Simon, for thinking of all the things that make me angry, anxious, and disgusted and making it into yet again another highly-addictive HBO series). 

I’ve blogged about this show before.  And I can’t say it’s the best show on television, but the scenes of jazz fest make me smile and the music makes my heart swell.  Despite the often cheesy storyline, it didn't stop me from watching 11 episodes over the last 4 days.  There are these great scenes with New Orleans legends and they all make me pine for home and for the South.  The Mardi Gras Indians give me goosebumps and I get so goddamned hungry watching the food.  So it’s been a good distraction, albeit a depressing one.

And the whole lying under the covers hiding from the world gig makes me want to go home.  To my mountains.  I lie in bed and wish for the ability to take off on a whim and just escape it all, and to not risk failing a class or losing my job in the process.  To roll the windows down, take the long, windy road home, and sing Gillian Welch until my voice cracks and the sound of cicadas and the river wash me out.  To yell all of my anxieties and worries into the thickets of honeysuckle and wild blackberries, knowing nobody is gonna yell back.  Or judge me.  Unless it’s a black bear.  Or a wild turkey.  And they’re not judging.  They’re just hoping I don’t have a gun.  I crave home and the comfort of the mountains.  The smell of my childhood.  And though I’ve worked hard to surround myself with artwork and pictures that substitute home, it’s just not the same. 

One of the perks of packing up everything I own over the last few days has been that I’ve found pictures and objects that comfort me, things I haven’t looked at in years.  I’ve found sweet cards written to me from my nephews and pictures from high school.  I’ve read ridiculous comments in my yearbooks and remembered all the good, and sometimes sad & hard times I’ve already been through in this little life of mine.  I’ve also managed to squeak a few more days of life out of my previously dead and ancient laptop and dig through the thousands of songs I’ve uploaded over the years.  What a joyful surprise it was to try one last time to plug this sucker in and for it to actually work.  To find the playlists I made for my last breakup and the ones from college that I made for falling in love (and for getting drunk).  The ones I made for when I needed to feel like a real liberal-arts college feminist (oh, Ani).  The ones I made to gain street cred from my students at my first Baltimore City middle school.  The country songs, the bluegrass songs, all of it.  It’s been over a year since I’ve been able to turn on this computer, let alone listen to any of my music.  And I’ve found good company with these old friends. 

I’ve always identified myself as part artist.  But when asked about my medium, I never know what to say.  I’ve played music over the years—a couple years on a piano, a few more on the saxophone.  I sang in a few choirs.  Did musical theatre in high school.  I’ve painted.  I write this blog and some bad poetry, too.  I’ve woven a basket or three.  I’ve thrown pots.  I can knit.  If there were an arts & crafts showdown, I’d take home a prize.  I’m all over shrinky-dinks.  And collages.  But an artist artist I am not. 

I do, however, have a special love affair with music.  Music has magic in it.  And healing power.  And I’m lucky to come from a family of musicians and to have had real music in my life since the day I was born.  It’s been a constant source of energy in my life and the first place I turn to when I can’t figure something out.  Most of my best childhood memories involve live music—or food—or both.   Which is why good live jazz can give me goosebumps and bring tears to my eyes.  And classic rock and roll puts me in a quiet, peaceful state of mind.  And zydeco and bluegrass wakes up that little rhythm monster inside of me and I can’t sit still.  I have to dance.  Or I hear the sound of African drums and I immediately sink low into my hips and begin to rock.  It’s a reflex.  Like blinking.  Or breathing.

So it makes sense that through this grieving process I’ve hardly had a quiet moment. Today’s playlist has included a lot of Allison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, Nancy Griffith, Patty Griffin, and Gillian Welch.  Music that allows me to close my eyes and transport myself to Western North Carolina.  To a living room with my sisters and their babies.  To a kitchen with my mama.  Music that returns me to my roots.  To my foundation.  The same voices that coached me through my hardest teenage years, nestled in with those who kept me awake for those all-nighters in college, are right here.  Sharing their secrets and revealing their souls.  They’ve been right by my side encouraging me, strengthening me, and keeping me in check that there’s always somebody else worse off (thank you, country music) and that I should probably stop whining. 

Reminding me that there are things that are unshakable in my soul.  Parts of me that will never budge.  No matter how much the world changes around me.  No matter how much life hurts.  That home is inside me, no matter what.

And the world spins madly on...

This week my boyfriend and I decided to end our nearly 9-month relationship. It was a mutual decision, made over one of the hardest, most real conversations I’ve ever had about who we are, what we need, and what we deserve. Despite the healthiness of this break-up, it didn’t prevent my heart from thinking someone had decided to start beating it with a baseball bat. Or that my face might completely fall off from crying for so many hours. Or that someone had just completely knocked the wind out of me. And frankly all of this has left me in a bit of an emotional blur this week. I even cried at Starbucks yesterday. The barista failed to add vanilla to my soy latte, and when I asked her to re-make it, a tear rolled down my cheek and I’m sure she thought to herself, “holy shit this lady is crying over a vanilla latte.” Oh if only we could wear t-shirts that shared what we were going through, so strangers couldn’t pass judgment.

Because I loved this man. And he loved me. But we needed different things from life, something we rarely actually acknowledge when we’re in relationships. How quickly we fall into patterns. Patterns that can be wonderful and fulfilling, but patterns nonetheless. Repetitive motions that might not be really coming from our hearts but rather from our brains, because we’re humans. We like patterns. We like waking up, making coffee, and turning on the shower. Making the same jokes about the morning news. Ironing our clothes and checking our Blackberrys for our first morning meeting. Coming home. Kissing each other on the lips and asking, “How was your day?” as if any of us could really capture what happens in 10 hours in a 30 second bit. Patterns that make us comfortable and safe. But patterns that can start to feel like chains. Like heavy burdens. Routines that make your stomach twisty and uneasy.

I’m a child of divorce. My comfort level with the topic is probably unnaturally high. I come from a true modern family, with all kinds of half-, step-, ex-step- relationships that make sense to me but baffle others. When you’re born into it, you learn to make it work. They’re all my family. They just don’t all necessarily share genes with me. But my definitions for relationships are probably a little different than most. And I think as a way to accommodate all of this chaos, I’ve become someone who is not always the most traditional person. I believe love comes in a thousand forms. I believe that marriage, albeit important and very beautiful, is entered into far too lightly. And for the most part, people do it when they’re too young to know who they are. I like to think I’m not jaded, but I guess that part is semi-unavoidable. I’m just less fascinated by the fairy tale; I’ve never known the fairy tale to exist.

And I’ve spent most of my twenties convincing myself that I’m not entirely sure I ever want to be married. That it’s an archaic institution that plays on some heteronormative Christian value that doesn’t really apply to most humans in 2011. But that’s just my liberal educated pretention talking. What little girl doesn’t at some point dream of her wedding? What angst-filled teenager doesn’t cry herself to sleep because the boy (or girl) she’s convinced herself she’ll marry takes someone else to see the new Superman movie? On some level, we all want the love and security of monogamy. Of marriage. Of family. But the questions becomes when. And where. And how.

Because if my life has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you don’t know who you are until it’s too late. And sometimes that doesn’t end so well. And so you should really make sure you know who you are before you enter into such serious relationships. You should understand your own check-list. But we’re the worst at taking our own advice. Sometimes the things we know the best are the last to make it to our tongues.

My relationship with R. was amazing. We met online. On our first date we talked for hours. We ate food. We laughed. We had so much to talk about. And our relationship was a lot of that—laughing, eating, and talking. I ignored the timeline of his recent separation and impending divorce. I didn’t listen when people in my life suggested things we’re happening too fast, “especially for a divorced man”. Hah. Listen folks, I’m an expert on divorce. I’ll make the calls.

I was loving and being loved and it felt too good to challenge. I got to know his kids and fell in love with them almost immediately. Just one of those relationships that just happened when neither of us expected it, probably against both of our better judgment. And we had a connection that just worked. Chemistry that neither of us could quite explain. The patterns started working and before I knew it I was knee deep in the children’s section of TJMaxx and starting to enjoy washing the pizza stains out of his son’s t-shirts. One Saturday morning, not too long ago, we were all piled up in the bed. R., his 2 kids, my dog, and me. We were laughing and singing and telling stories. My heart almost stopped beating. It was one of those moments people build an entire lifetime around and here I was borrowing it. It felt so strange and yet so entirely normal. And simple. But breathtaking. And significant. And my palms got sticky with anxiety.

I’m a nurturer and a giver. He’s a protector and a provider. I think the patterns got too simple. Too easy. We both lost sight of who we were in it. The patterns spun themselves even when we didn’t want them to.

And in truth, when we’re really honest with each other and ourselves, we want very different things from our lives right now. He’s a good man. He’s a kind man. But you can’t force timing. You can’t force patterns. Which is why we’re here in this space. Sad. And confused. And spending time a part. Regrouping. Healing. Repairing. And wondering if we’ve made good decisions. And hoping to God we’ve respected each other.

And when I share that I’ve just broken up, everyone asks, “What did he do?” with an assuming tone that says, “men are assholes.” And I fight back the urge to shout. “He didn’t do anything, you assholes!” We stood up for ourselves. We asked for more. We didn’t settle. We decided not to hurt each other. We were grown ups, for once.

Last week I spent the entire week with a large portion of my family. My two older sisters and their families, my mom, my step-dad, an aunt, an uncle, some cousins. A funny combination of halfs- and steps- and ex-steps-, but somehow, a family. On the beach. Oblivious to our titles for each other. Building sandcastles with my nieces and nephews and feeling so damn lucky I could burst. And wishing R. was there to share it with me. And that his kids were there, to complete the circle. But I had this nagging suspicion from somewhere inside that it was just a dream; that there was something looming in my heart. I spent most of the week knowing things were not great with R. Anxious that I knew I was coming home to a big talk.

And I did. And we did. And here we are. And I’m thankful for the words we’ve shared with each other. For the last nine months. For the loving we’ve done. For the clarity I’ve gained. For the things I now know I want that I didn’t know before.

And I’m baffled at the way the world works sometimes. At the ways in which we’re taught our biggest lessons. And how despite a heart feeling like its never going to heal, how the world goes on without you. Life continues to happen. Expectations don’t go away. Flowers still bloom. Grass still grows.

In the time I’ve been dealing with all of this, my brother-in-law’s father has passed away; an enormous oak tree fell at my dad’s house and totaled 2 cars, damaged the horse pasture, and the roof; my childhood best friend’s great-uncle passed away. My best friend is sick and fighting a virus out of her body. My aunt is sick again and a baby has been born. I move to a new apartment in two weeks, started a new job on Friday, and am in an intensive summer class where I’m already a week behind in paper-writing and reading. Life happens. Overwhelmingly so.

As a reminder, I think. As a reality check. That we’re constantly moving, constantly evolving, and perhaps not as cut out for patterns as we think.

a wish list of sorts

I attended a retreat conference on Monday that asked us to reflect on the last few months. As we closed, we wrote out a wish-list. Since I've been on a bit of a sabbatical from this blog, I decided to share my scribbles. Perhaps this will inspire me to start writing again. Perhaps.

Here goes.

6.13.2011
I want.


For the whole world to wake up. Especially us. Because it seems like everyone is sleeping through the most important parts.

I want.

For us to seek justice, not revenge. To seek solutions, not more questions. Even though questions help us feel better. Questions make us seem more important.

I want for us to help people, not because it makes us feel good or because it’s something we should do, but because it’s something we must do. Without a thought. Without a hesitation. Because our actions affect others. Always.

Justice. Humility. Grace. Community.

I want.

I want us to acknowledge our differences. To accept diversity as a reality. As a standard. The way the heat makes my hair curl but maybe not yours. The way the sun makes my skin pink and freckled but yours gets deep, rich, and dark. The way we may not agree always. That we maybe haven’t recovered from the past just yet. And to be patient about that. Because we all need time to understand ourselves. And the injustices we're born into. The chances we have with the choices we're given.

To acknowledge we share different faiths. Share. Not compete.

To admit we speak different languages but that we all giggle in the same tongue and wink eyes in the same mischief. Energy and space between skin can be electrifying. That love is universal. And anyone can be family.

Knowing that some times all we need to know is that someone cares about us. That someone notices the things we do. That some people love us, even if some people don’t.

I want.

To practice what we preach. To understand that we all need time to reflect. To heal. To recover. For restoration. Before we can go back out into the sunshine. A delicate balancing act of living, breathing, risking, and wishing.

I want.

Patience.
Tolerance.
Humility.
Peace.

Early Awakenings

It’s been a while since my last post.  Lately my inspiration has come from the darkness of the early morning, before the rest of the world wakes up, to have some QT with my bubbling brain.  Time to think before the blackberry starts buzzing, the way-too-pretty news lady starts touting the day’s tragedies (or Charlie Sheen’s latest tweets) and traffic jams, and before my inbox starts piling up the days’ crises I’ve yet to solve.

I woke up this morning with words on my mind and have settled in with a massive cup of coffee, a big goofy 80-lb dog at my feet, and a happily slumbering BF who is seemingly unstirred by my click-clacking on the computer.  A symphony of snores and hums and early-morning musings from the outdoors are all around me, the loudest source coming from the four-legged princess at my feet who provides a wide range of musical gifts in her sleep, and seems to believe she fits quite comfortably in the bed with us (although she doesn’t, really…but shhh….don’t tell her).  The muted television is darting shiny lights and colors across the mostly dark bedroom and I find myself feeling strangely content and happy.  My little bubble of happiness within the compounds of this queen-sized bed.  Which is a great way to wake up today.  Especially since it’s my birthday.

I’m 28 years old today.  A lot has changed in just the last few months and certainly in the last few years.  Among these changes, a new relationship and some new changes at work on the horizon.  Today, however, I’m thankful to wake up to a new year.  28 is both a wonderful year and a scary one, too.   Two years closer to “thirty-something” and eight-years further away from “twenty-something”, and I’m still wondering why the hell no one talks about how stupid-hard and perplexing and challenging and wonderful and awesome and terrible these years are for us.  How utterly insane these years can make you feel.  It seems like another lifetime ago I was turning 18, living in the mountains of North Carolina, and trying to understand the journey ahead of me.  Thinking I had come through the worst of it, trying to make decisions about college and boys and “what’s next”.   What issues I cared about and what things I felt the need to be passionate about.  Recycling.  Poor people.  And chick-fil-a.  Check. Check. And check.  Flash-forward to now and I barely feel as though I've begun to scratch the surface of what this life is about for me.

And there are days when, despite my self-awareness that I’m not really that old, I start to feel pretty cantankerous and geriatric (working with Baltimore City schoolchildren and college students simultaneously everyday can do this to you, no matter your age).  And not to mention really out of date.  Not only does MTV baffle me now (what happened to the music!?) but I can’t seem to win for losing with technology.  As I was recently reminded by my BF’s son, “You don’t have games OR songs on your cell phone??  You must be SAD!”  And I thought I was a part of the technologically-savvy generation.  I guess I was doodling in my notebook during those classes in elementary school (yeah, a paper notebook…you know, the kind with a spiral?).  Plus I drink water between my glasses of wine.  I guess age has taught me something.

For the last few mornings I’ve been awake too early.  Perhaps it’s my own body’s response to my own private new year’s day celebration or perhaps the bubbling anxiety that seems to be more and more present on my mind and tongue:  “What am I doing with my life and where am I going?  Am I happy?  Am I fulfilled?  When should I have babies?”  The questions we all ask ourselves as we creep into adulthood and fall into silent and beautiful patterns with ourselves and our loved ones.  And, “did I feed the dog last night?"

Some mornings I wake up so early, and with so much purpose, that I wonder—what is my body really trying to tell me?  There’s a reason I’m not sleeping.  Maybe something is wrong.  Maybe I did forget to feed the dog last night and she’s having dreams of different ways to “accidentally” knock me off.  I nervously admit that she drags me towards the steps with a tad too much vigor some mornings.

I’ve always found it mildly flattering that my birthday just happens to coincide with International Women’s Day.  Which is ironic because I’ve spent the bulk of my 28 years on this earth negotiating just exactly what my womanhood is about and where I, as a woman, fit into the world with my ovaries and womb and big, thick hips.

And I’ll freely admit that I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding the word “feminist”.  I was insistent that I didn’t believe myself to be a feminist and that I couldn’t identify at all with the movement.  I associated the word with angry teeth-grinding man-haters who took any opportunity possible to mock women with children or women who didn’t work outside of the home.  And men who identified as feminists?  Yeah, no thank you.  I thought these women (and men) felt the need to demonize domesticity as if it were the enemy.  Domesticity was the anti-Christ of feminism and represented everything that prevented the women’s movement from marching forward.

I believed (and believe) in the power of women.  I thought I had some radical idea to save domesticity (like the endangered species or the trees).  That somehow we were at risk of losing our femininity when we became a part of the "women's movement".  I believe strongly that women have an important role to play: we are healers and nurturers and providers of life and nourishment.  I believe that we’re supposed to have thick hips and natural curves because we’re supposed to give birth and provide warmth and safety to our children and families.  And while many argue that this kind of attitude is SO turn of the century, I guess I don’t find this behavior archaic—I find this behavior critical for survival.  And I didn’t hear the feminists sharing these values with me (which was mainly because I wasn’t really listening).

Particularly in college, where I found myself deep in a liberal-feminist-recycle-mania, I felt a need to defend the women out there who clung to domesticity for safety.  I felt the need to cling to that domesticity, too.  I felt like I needed to offer support to the women who let their partners open the pickle jar and pick up the heavy things.  Who didn’t want careers but instead wanted babies and mini-vans and houses with finished basements.  Growing up in the south, I found familial structures like these, even though they didn’t necessarily reflect the home I grew up in as a kid, as a source of comfort.  Like a country song.  Or buttered toast.

And what I know now is that what I was clinging to wasn’t so much the hetero-normative domestic bliss of the 1950’s, but an idea that we all have a role to play in raising our children and our neighbor’s children and our neighbor’s neighbor’s children and that a woman's work is truly beautiful.  And I’ve learned, with age, as with most things, that I was largely wrong with my assumptions about feminists.  To have thought that these values didn’t have a home in the word “feminist” was myopic and naïve. 

I look around at a world in crisis, especially for women.  As I get older, I’ve become more aware of the overwhelming pressures we put on ourselves to be a certain kind of woman—to be successful, to be thin, to be pretty, to be likeable—pressures that perhaps are greater than any pressure we get in the classroom, the board room, or the senate floor.  The way we interpret the world as women is just as scary as the way the world has been interpreted for us.

I’ve become keenly aware of the harshness of public spaces—the way we all worry about how we’re dressed and how we share a communal fear of being violated, to the point that we no longer trust strangers to be good people, when offered a choice.

I’ve been working with kids for as long as I can remember.  Sadly, I can no longer keep track of the number of children I’ve met who were missing mothers (and fathers, too, but that’s another post for another time)—either physically or emotionally—and I can’t stomach what it does to a child.

But I also have spent months of my life in places around the world where women are treated quite differently than they are here.  My friends and family in Ghana have taught me so many things about what it means to be a woman—the roles and responsibilities that come with being of this gender, and the joys of this gender, too.  I know everyone wants to hear that in developing West African countries, women are hidden and abused, but I have to argue something quite the opposite.  While, yes, the freedom of women (and men, too) in places like this looks very different from our man-made American ideals on the subject, women are celebrated and revered for their sheer womanhood.  Women rule the roost (although their husband don’t always know it).  

As I sit here in the quiet of the early morning, I can freely admit that I love being a woman.  I love my curves.  And though you may not believe me (or want to know about it), I’ve come to respect my monthly menstruation; a biological reminder of my true femininity and my purpose as a woman.  I love wearing high-heels and feeling pretty.  I love wearing dresses in the summertime and when I know I’m having an awesome hair day.  And I love that I know my kitchen inside and out (and could take on any potluck dinner request with no fear).  I’m a baby whisperer.  It concerns the BF to no end how loudly my womb can talk; how naturally I take to mothering and how organically babies just seem to land on my hip (and how little I protest).

But I also love my work.  I love being respected for my intelligence and my abilities.  I actually prefer to work hard and like being recognized when I know I’ve really contributed something important to a project or a plan.  And I’ve learned that in this place we live, you can’t always have both worlds.  You can’t always blend the two so organically.  And why?  Because we still have a lot of work to do.  Which I might not have said ten years ago.

Yesterday, an article was featured in the Huffington Post, “The Trouble with Bright Girls”.  The article explores what it means to be a girl and what it means to be a smart girl and how this impacts your life as a woman.  Near the end, the author asks: “How often have you found yourself avoiding challenges and playing it safe, sticking to goals you knew would be easy for you to reach? Are there things you decided long ago that you could never be good at? Skills you believed you would never possess?”  I found myself silenced at these questions.  Because the answer for me is yes.  I was a bright girl and I am a bright woman and sometimes these things can be crippling, in the face of the culture we live in right now.

So on this International Women’s Day, and my birthday, I ask you to challenge yourself.  Ask for more.  Stop playing it safe.  Stop forcing yourself to be something (or someone) you’re not.  Stop listening to Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil and all the morning shows about diets and surgeries and exercise and do the things that make you happy (not the things a doctor on television said would make you happy).  Choose hobbies and careers that fulfill you.  Don’t be so afraid to eat butter or bread (believe me no one really cares if you gain five pounds…you’re the only one who noticed).

Don’t be so afraid to take big, giant steps.  Listen more.  Be present in your life.  Choose to be alive.  Laugh more.  Enjoy your children.  Be willing to love yourself.  And your big hips (or small hips, or no hips, or giant hips).  Celebrate yourself. 

"In Her Own Words: In Celebration of International Women's Day 2011" was created to share and celebrate the experiences of women from many walks of life. All day Tuesday, March 8th Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person will feature posts written by a collective of intelligent, passionate and opinionated women bloggers from the United States and the United Kingdom. We encourage you to comment and create dialouge as well as visit their respective blogs. The conversation starts here, but it does not need to end here. Be sure to stop by Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person throughout the day to read all of the posts in the series. For more information about International Women's Day, visit www.internationalwomensday.com.

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Banner: Joshua Gomby

Coming Home

Now I know what I’m supposed to be doing.  I’m in graduate school and I have a paper due tomorrow.  And naturally, because I basically work two full-time jobs, am owned by a loyal dog (who also deserves more time...and athleticism...than I ever have), and a drinking problem social life, I’m starting said paper the night before it’s due, after a long Monday at work, and an even busier weekend (albeit intellectually unproductive).  I’m in that dreadful stage of feeling simultaneous guilt and disappointment in my own lack of self-motivation, whilst also fully acknowledging that this paper is likely to be incomplete by the time class rolls around tomorrow afternoon.  And wondering if the first assignment of the class was really the best one to fuck up?  Probably not.

Somehow it never fails that these moments of sitting with my laptop amidst open books and notes inspires me to do nothing else but think about what I’d write if I were blogging instead of writing something intellectual, researched, and/or grammatically correct.  Oh and to think about things that have nothing to do with “education”, “at-risk youth”, or “best-practice”.

It’s been a while since I’ve dedicated much time and effort to this blog and I'm not entirely sold that I'll be posting more than one or two posts per month for a while.  And it has nothing to do with not wanting to write.  It just hasn’t been happening.  Which is partly a result of the day-to-day of my life and partly a result of the amount of processing I appear to be doing about my life and my future and all the things you think about when you begin the steady approach to the end of your “twenties”.  Most of which I'd rather not share with the intrawebs, for now.

And I keep going to Africa.  Which just disrupts everything.

I started this post the other morning at the ass-crack of dawn (I was still experiencing jet-lag), and am just getting around to finishing it (and posting it).

I'm awake early. Again.  I just want to sleep.  And not just the act of sleeping, but the other parts, too.  Where your body slows down and your shoulders relax and you sink deeply into the bed and take a deep breath.  That’s what I want, too.

As much as I labor over getting ready for these trips, and spend hours shopping and packing and evaluating my color-coded and coordinated lists, coming home has become the hardest part of these adventures.

The first time I went to Ghana, it took me months to "recover".  Within a week, my sleep had returned to its normal pattern, but there are other things, deeper things, that can’t possibly escape your system that quickly or that easily.  Things you can't shake from your psyche immediately.  And each trip, I expect it will get easier.  And for the most part, yes, the emotional readjustment has become more manageable.  Now a culture-shock veteran, I know what I need to do to feel better when I get back.  I know what to avoid; which conversations to ignore; places I shouldn’t go within three weeks of coming home.  I know how to take care of myself.  But I can’t help but cling to the experience for as long as possible and feel overwhelmed by everyone and everything. 

While we were traveling, I wrote a few letters to my students.  I followed the blogging tradition of so many of my "mommy blog" idols and wrote them letters that contained bits and pieces of my own experiences over the years, mixed in with some motherly advice and some suggestions on how not to panic.  I know it sounds unbelievably nauseating to think that I wrote a group of eighteen adults “mommy letters” while we were traveling, but you gotta understand a few things about how emotionally draining these experiences can be; how utterly exhausted one can get while simply trying to experience everyday life, let alone process it in any intellectual capacity.  And how much I really can't help but mother the shit out of anyone and anything I encounter.

A few nights before we left I wrote them this: 
As we come to a close, take the time to absorb what you've seen and felt and heard and smelled. Bring it all home with you. Unpack your suitcase slowly. Save some of the dirt.  Don't try to make sense of it too quickly. As best you can, allow yourself some space before you jump back into real life. 

And I’m finding myself struggling to take my own advice.  Unfortunately, the reality of my life mandates that I re-immerse myself as quickly and efficiently as possible, despite my own natural resistance to such nonsense.  Despite my hostility towards this place I call “home” where everything seems unnecessarily large and shiny and clean and the food tastes bland and sweet and like chemicals.

It's almost become comical with my family and friends.  They've learned to handle me carefully in these tender weeks, knowing that I'm at risk of crying or bursting into laughter, or some insane combination of both, at any moment.  Almost to the point that I feel mildly abandoned.  Why aren't they calling me!?

And while I work hard to not be too obnoxious about the whole thing, I’m just not sure there is anything I can really do about it.  At this point, this place has become a part of me. It's in my blood now.  Literally.  The Red Cross won't even look at me.  What I've seen and felt and tasted and explored in Ghana and Benin is an inescapable part of who I am as a person.  I've been traveling back and forth to these places since I was 19.  The person I've become at almost 28 has most definitely been shaped by my experiences abroad; by the people, the food, and the customs.  

Despite my love of using words to describe impossible situations, I can rarely find the words I need to describe these trips.  Sure, I could (and probably will) tell you stories about football games where riots break out and feeding monkeys bananas and walking to waterfalls that are enormous; I can share experiences about feeling overwhelmed by my own identity as a white American or the way that my curves are celebrated, and not feared, by the locals, but without knowing the sting of the pepper sauce on your pounded cassava or the way the heat seeps into your bones as you sink low into your hips and dance and sweat until you can barely breathe, I sometimes find it requires too much explanation.  The quick exchanges in the market; the expressions of strangers that sear into your heart; the small hands of children exploring your face or hands or arms, curious to see if you feel as different as you look.  These are the experiences I can’t quite name.  I can't put these thousands of moments into simple enough terms to truly do any of them justice for just how meaningful they all become as you begin to unpack your suitcase.

So my desire for sleep is deeper than a REM cycle.  It's about really resting.  Really absorbing.  Really transitioning back to life in Baltimore.  And though several days have passed since I began this post, and my sleep pattern has returned to normal, I still have those moments where I don’t really even believe the things I was doing two weeks ago.  Where I say, "Hey, I was in Africa last week."  Where I can’t even make sense of the things I'm doing from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep because it all seems so mundane and routine in comparison to where I've been and how alive I felt.  And it's more than just answering the "how was your trip" question.  It's bigger than that.

Tonight I met with a large group of our students who have just returned from being abroad for a semester and I couldn't help but feel at home with this group of "displaced souls".  Resonating with their stories about being uncomfortable and unaware of the silent social cues of a new culture.  Listening to them share stories about foods they'd kill to be eating from the dining hall again or people they wish they could see again.  This room full of young people who have just found themselves and lost themselves all over again.  Who have just tested their boundaries more than they had ever imagined to be possible.  And lived to tell the tale.  Well, if they could find just the right words to tell it.


And I could see the bags under their eyes, because I have them too.  The lack of "sleep".  The resistence they had towards the "routine".  The hesitation in their voice when they answered that question we all ask with, "it was amazing.  Really."  Not because it wasn't, but because it's just too hard to explain.

Why Dogs Smile in Africa

It's true. Earlier this week, it occurred to me that every dog I've ever seen in Africa has been smiling. Or at least it's my interpretation of a smile. I guess it is hot, and perhaps they're all merely panting and thus their mouths curl upward with just the slightest grin, leading one to believe that they are indeed happy. As if they know something we don't. As if they're on the best walk of their life, minus the leash and the pedantic owner.

Something I've always loved about the three places in West Africa I've spent the most time--Ghana, Togo, and Benin--is the way the animals just roam around at will. I get great amusement out of the chickens who run in and out of restaurants and the small pygmy goats who wander across the road--sometimes even looking both ways and baying to their kids, "DON'T DO IT! OBRONI (universal word throughout most of Ghana for WHITE PERSON) BUS COMING!" The clusters of sheep and cows who all look hot and miserable. The small, sickly looking cats who seem to linger a bit too long at your feet while you eat. And at times, even a monkey or two ballsey enough to sneak a bite of whatever you're eating. And there is a casual nonchalance about it among the locals to the mere chaos these animals bring to the atmosphere. The layer of absurdity that three baying baby goats can add to a scene. Or a chicken who can't contain her squawks.

And I'm assuming that this statement could be interpreted as shallow or insensitive to the plight of the third world. Didn't you know? Only developed countries are allowed to use fences. And pastures. And cages. How could I have been so ignorant!?  And of course I know these animals are here because they serve a purpose--something Africa seems to have gotten right (as most things here appear to serve a practical purpose rather than a frivolous, superficial one).  These animals provide food and nourishment, fibers for clothing, and a rudimentary system of currency (I'll trade you three goats and a chicken for a cow). But I can't help but giggle when I see goats climbing to the top of a building or when chickens interrupt my dinner. Particularly when my dinner IS chicken.

The title I've given this post even has me giggling. Having now made this journey many times, I'm become just a tad sensitive to the topic of "fill in the blank here in Africa", like "mission in Africa" or "study abroad in Africa", which are phrases many people use and almost everyone interprets differently. (Newsflash: Africa is a massive continent with many, many countries. All different and unique). And I'm certainly not suggesting that I've become an expert, or that I travel "the right way", but I can't help but cringe when I overhear comments in the international concourse en route to somewhere on the continent or even sometimes in my own workplace about "fill in the blank here in Africa".  Where are you going?  What are you doing?  Let's be specific here, folks.

There are three huge mistakes people make about traveling to Africa. And let me be clear, I'm guilty of all three on some level and have only learned from my own privileged, American stupidity. First, the largest carry-on item we Americans bring with us on these trips is pity. A massive bag full of pity that we've packed specifically with the intention of leaving it behind before we re-board for our flight home. That we'll share with all the locals who don't have McDonald's and TiVo. The clothing we'll leave behind that we bought on triple discount from the store that keeps the developing world busy with orders for more cheap clothing for people who don't want to spend what thread is really worth.

The second mistake comes in the form of assumption; in assuming that everyone we encounter in Africa is hungry or desperate. That the kid on CNN with the flies in his eyes (who does exist, somewhere, I'm sure) is EVERY child on the continent. And that all these kids want is to have YOUR life. And YOUR iPod. Well, okay. They probably do want your iPod. I want your iPod, too.

The third is embedded in the second mistake, and requires that you assume that the people you encounter are also less intelligent than you. That you've bought in to the message that because our education system has better infrastructure, that we're smarter. That because we practically have the internet streaming through our eyeballs, that we have more information. That we've somehow figured it all out. And the reasons theses places can't make progress is because they haven't "figured it all out". Which is crap.

I secretly think dogs smile in Africa because they've actually figured it all out. They know all the secrets. And they're fully aware of what idiots the rest of us truly are.

Over the last few days, I've watched my students stumble into the realities that exist here. Hunger has a horrifying face. Third-world poverty translates to sights and smells you've probably never encountered unless you've been here; a mixture of rotting fish, human feces, hot urine, and the unidentified smells of burning trash. Watching children urinate in the street, not because they want to but because they have to can be a thirty-second life changer.  All of this probably sounds really horrible, and unfortunately it truly is until you know this place. Stepping over piles of trash because no real waste management infrastructure exists. Crossing streets jam-packed with cars and motorbikes, fumes and smoke clouding the air, because this is what rush hour in the developing world looks like. No amount of romanticizing what this experience is about can negate these facts.

But then there is the contrast. This delicious contrast that can leave you feeling shaken and confused.  There is something alive in the air here.  These are communities who are inclusive to each other and who function collectively, raising each other's children and supporting each other emotionally, physically, and financially.  People seem to be more passionate and joyful.  And then there is the music and the dance. Intricately beautiful dances that are truly so embedded in life that barely-walking toddlers are better than I am at the fluid, organic movement. And a constant, chaotic throbbing of music in the background. An endless pulsing of drums, bells, horns, hip-hop, synthesized noise, and reggae.

And I've watched them battle the pity in their suitcases. Trying to intellectualize their choices and emotions. Trying to make sense of what feels like a bleeding heart or an infected cut somewhere that they can't reach. Also trying to understand what feels so perfect about this place.  And what seems to work, in the middle of so many thing failing.  Trying to understand the difference between helping or learning, saving or teaching, fixing or listening. Trying to understand where they fit: Am I here to DO something or am I here to LEARN something? And is there really a difference?

When I was little, I watched the movie Sabrina over and over again. I dreamed of being like Sabrina and going to Paris and finding myself the way she did. And when I traveled to Europe for the first time, I tried to figure out how I was going to have that experience. And when it didn't happen, I just assumed it would happen later.  In Paris.  I never realized that my "Sabrina" moment would happen right here in Ghana, in a developing country, with no small cafes or endless cappuccinos or Harrison Fords. But that's the thing about life. It just happens.

I completely found myself on this continent. And in this country. I've learned, and continue to learn, so much about what it means to be a human from the people I've met here. To be a woman. To be alive. When I'm in Ghana, I find myself smiling more for many of these reasons. Make no mistake about it. These trips are exhausting. I sometimes crash into my bed at 9 or 10 o'clock at night so exhausted with what I've seen that day and so overwhelmed with what my brain is processing that I have no other choice but to sleep, if I can. If the images of something I've encountered in my day don't keep me awake. But there is a freedom that I feel here that I rarely feel at home. It's an escape (an escape that I fully acknowledge as a condition of my own privilege). For many, this place is far from an escape. But perhaps far too few locals can see the forest for the trees; far too few know what blessings exist here and how rich this society really is.

And as I've led this group of undergraduates all over Ghana for the last two weeks, I've learned just as much as they have.  I've been tested everyday by the questions I'm asked and the experiences I'm having.  I continue to stumble into things I don't understand, languages I don't know, and situations that have no words.  And I'll be honest, I'm almost ready to go home.  To fully re-charge.  To return to the things and people and spaces that I love and that bring me comfort.

I'm astounded by how much I learn each and every time I come here.  By how much I grow.  By the things that become crystal clear with distance, like love and what's really important. 

And experience has taught me that many of these lessons can't possibly begin to make sense if you're too busy thinking about how broken everything is first. If you can't see that there is a richness to what lacks. A beauty to what seems ugly and unwanted. A light in a person's eyes that I hardly ever see at home, a warm hum that fills the grey, over-stimulated void of not playing enough. Not laughing enough. Not dancing enough. For packing your suitcase with pity instead of walking shoes. With assumptions instead of sunscreen.

For seeing the dog with the shit-eating grin and not winking and saying, "I know, buddy. I've figured it out, too."

Lucky, by Fiona