the reason I got married

Graduating from college and not finding a professional position is enough to knock both feet out from under anyone. I fell flat on my back, completely disconcerted and eventually depressed.

Living in Buffalo, most of my friends lived 900 miles away and most of my family lay 700 miles farther than that. I cut my world into strips and tied them all around Zach. Whenever he left on a long weekend for his job, my world fell to the floor like a pile of rags. I had an unhealthy dependence.

On October 21st, 2009, Zach received an email from his boss, stating that I needed to move out immediately. Zach worked for a church, so it makes sense. Obviously a woman couldn't live with the youth minister unless they were married. I should have expected something like that.

In good light, that email was written out of sincere concern for the kids in Zach's youth group and the example he was setting. But turn off the lamp and you can see the shadows (of judgment, condemnation, and meddling in people's personal lives).

The day after the eviction notice via email, we got married.

It started out with a "we're stickin' it to the man" sort of energy and ended up with me sobbing out my vows at the courthouse in Cleveland, Ohio. I love Zach. I have never regretted marrying him. But I still cringe when people ask me why we got married after only dating for six months.

Last week I had a long conversation with a good friend of mine. He works for the biggest peace lobbyist on Capital Hill. He has dedicated his life to peacemaking, creating a fair and balanced world, serving those in need, and working to end poverty. He is one of the people I admire most in life.

This friend of mine got engaged in July and a month later, when he was still glowing with happiness about his engagement, he received a phone call from a church apostle. His priesthood is under review by the presidency of the church. Waves of anger and sadness washed over me when he told me this. I knew the only reason he received that call was because of the gender of his fiance. My mind started screaming, "Oh really? Well, great! Of course now that they know he's in a balanced, supportive, and loving relationship, certainly they would question his ability to minister to people. His sexuality obviously invalidates all of his Christ-like qualities. Why didn't I think of that?"

I'm just so done.

Done with politics,

the condemning emails and phone calls,

the "Priesthood Club" for exclusive members only...

If people believe in a loving god,

why don't churches reflect that?

five women

Once upon a time
five women ran.

Up
down
around
Green hills on a golf course.

Nothing between
their skin
and the moonlight.
Chains of society
stashed under a tree.

Once upon a time
five women danced.

Bare-skinned.
Beautiful.

Some felt nervous
others felt shy...
Soon the fear melted.

All twirling and singing
loving and being

no judging
no hating
no condemning
no scrutinizing
no rejecting
no I'm fat
no worrying about size or shape
no lying about beauty

All loving sisters
teaching lessons
about how the world should be.

Sharing skin with the stars
and joyfully enfolding
the universe in a bear hug.

Once upon a time
five women became

ancestral journey

Last time my brother was in Oregon, he stole a box of cassette tapes from my dad's closet. Twenty-two tapes which contain the voice of my grandfather from an interview done by my father when he was 18. The tapes were lost for years. When the box finally re-surfaced, the astronomical cost to convert the tapes to digital files made the project impossible.

My brother wanted to do it for my dad's 50th birthday on October 29th but he didn't have the tools or the funds for it. Fortunately, at this wonderful establishment of higher education where I work, in a small corner of the library, a mac lab sits with all the equipment necessary to convert the tapes- for free!

So here I sit, tucked away in a quiet corner, listening to the stories of my grandfather's life. Hours walking hand-in-hand with this deep gravely voice, re-living the life of a man who died six years ago.

It makes me feel somewhat insignificant. This man's death seemed to shatter the world for my family. My dad fell apart in a way I've never seen. Two thousand one hundred and nineteen days have passed since he died and the story of his life doesn't get told very often anymore. And that makes sense. You can't use all your time sitting around and thinking about the lives of the people who have already died. You have your own life to live!

I don't ever tell the story of the man who was my grandfather's dad. I didn't know him. He has never directly affected my present moment. For some reason that makes me feel extraneous. Within two generations, almost everything about my life will be completely inconsequential. Sometimes I feel like that matters and sometimes I feel like it doesn't.

Right now I'm at the part in the story where my grandpa's plane got shot down right outside of Munich during WWII. He was free falling through the clouds when the 9th tape ended. I didn't have time to record another hour but I listened to the first five minutes of the next tape. He pulled his parachute and when it opened, it snapped his boots clean off his feet. The wind blew him over a few smaller German villages as he lost altitude and he began to see Germans running after him with pitchforks and clubs. I absolutely had to leave right at the point that he hit a tree, fell to the ground, and could see men, women, and children through the woods, all spread out in a line looking for him.

I have embarked
on an ancestral journey
with a man whom I loved
but am just beginning to truly know.

His stories enchant me.
His country accent and grammar enamor me.
Understanding him helps me understand
my father
and maybe
parts of myself.

I am a woman.

Today I am flat-out fed-up with women.

I usually like to paint myself in colors of:

fair

understanding

impartial

tolerant

open-minded

forgiving

receptive

nondiscriminatory

but today I am not those things.

Today I am sexist.

How many roommate conflicts have I (or my student staff)

had to resolve since September?

About twenty-five.

How many of those conflicts were between men?

Zero.

Sure the guys sometimes pee in the elevators.

Or put on their rollerblades and play hockey in the hallways.

But I would take those things any day

over the mountain of women

clawing at each others hearts

shredding each others self esteem

ripping up each others door decorations

bashing each other on facebook

screaming in each others faces

and talking behind each others backs.

I know I'm being unfair.

Out of the 200 women who live in this building,

the 25 loudest voices fill my ears

the 25 most angry emails fill my inbox

the 25 worst insults are repeated

by sobbing women

who fill my office chairs.

I am a woman

and my heart breaks for us.

At least once a month we act like crazy people

and get angry or cry for almost no reason at all.

We feel hurt by things that were never meant to be hurtful.

Emotions move underneath us like the ocean,

we rise and fall helplessly.

Today my well went dry.

I lowered the bucket

and it came back empty.

I used my last few drops of compassion

but I needed more.

I became angry

and wrote angry things

about angry women!

My words dissipated my anger

and the spaces in between formed compassion

that rained down

and filled my well.

I am a woman

who allows herself to feel anything

but always hopes to arrive back

at compassion

love

understanding

and open-mindedness.

detox

I have been detoxing from religion. Sometimes I experience withdrawal when I look at photos of people who were in my "church family" or like today when I wanted to paint something meaningful. I spiraled out of control after an hour of creative process and ended up crying. It used to be so easy when I believed that there was this loving creator being with an unknown purpose for my life... now I can't even paint anything without questioning my own purpose.

Is life just about finding things that make you happy and surrounding yourself with those "happy" things? Or is life some sort of selfless crusade to make others happy, to give food, clothing, shelter, or education to people who need those things? The way I should live my life waits with answer to those questions.

I think I like to pretend it's the second, that selfless crusade, but when I look at my life, I don't actually do anything to show that I believe those things. I'm all talk.

I know people have always had questions and religions have always had answers. At some point, questioning God and religion became so painful, I had to stop thinking about it in an act of self-preservation. But where am I now? No active pursuit of anything beyond the physical here and now...where's the depth?

I tried to paint something today, but I didn't want to paint something meaningless. I ran circles in my head and ended up not painting anything at all. This usually happens when I try to make art a mode of communication. I don't speak that language. I need printed words not paint or colored pencils! How long has it taken me to realize this?! I'm a writer, not a painter!

Last time I blogged, I wrote about things that I have deemed meaningless and ever since then, I have imagined the people in my life reading it and being hurt by it...for example my aunt who loves her dogs like they were her own children or my friend Zoe who just got married this summer (diamond ring included) and a new puppy or Zach's mom or almost every married or pet-owning person I know... words can be swords. Why would I ever use them as such? It hurts more to hurt other people than for me to be hurt myself. Should I just go around saying agreeable things for the rest of my life? I can't. Should I go around pretending I'm the one who deems what is meaningful and what's not? No!

I've been looking at classes to take next semester. All along, I planned on taking Spanish, so I can get into a Latin American Studies Master's program, but now I'm thinking about writing classes.

This made me feel better today:

http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed.

Nobody has it all figured out.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed

by all the questions I ask myself

about life and meaning

but at least I'm not just going through the motions,

eating spoonful after spoonful

of whatever the last few generations of people

decided to mix into the goulash.

A hint of this,

a dash of that

and fifteen cups of traditions and social norms.

Ugggh!

I could say I'm tired of being fed that slop

but truthfully, it's even more tiring

to make something from scratch.

I question things like wedding rings.

Thousands of dollars spent

on something that just sits on a girl's finger.

It doesn't do anything good for the world at all.

In the Congo, $2,000 could send three kids to school,

for 12 years!

Then they would get better jobs,

be able to afford sending their own kids to school,

and generations of people would be changed.

$2,000 can change the world

but alas,

people spend it on wedding rings instead.

I question things like pets.

$41 billion dollars spent
in the United States in 2007
on food, medical care, and toys for pets.
When did we start valuing animals over people?

I question things like church buildings
that sit vacant 75% of the week.
Bouquets of flowers
that sit in vases slowly dieing.
Candy and soda
that have no nutritional value.

I question my questions sometimes.
Wedding rings and puppies make people happy.
Why can't I leave it at that?
People trade their hours for paper with numbers on it,
Who am I to decide how they spend that paper?

When looking at the imbalance of the world
with some people starving
and others eating themselves into obesity
some people buying jewelery
and others can't afford food, housing, or medical treatment,
at what point do I say something?
Do we belong to each other?
Should we feel responsible for the well-being
of anyone but ourselves?
I don't know.

I don't want to be judgmental.
I don't really care if people love luxuries
in fact I think it's wonderful that not everyone
is a replica of me.
But something isn't right.
Can anyone else see that?
Am I some crazy person,
pointing fingers and placing blame,
for some imaginary concern?

I don't have a religion to answer my questions.

4 Minutes and 8 Seconds of Peace

Two days ago I found something that swept me away, plopped me into a rocking chair on the top of a mountain, and left me to sit lost in thought and in awe of the world.

I felt upset about something work related and decided to look at videos on KarmaTube to feel better about the world. I watched a few before I found this. The images and sounds of this video wrap me in peace.

http://www.karmatube.org/videos.php?id=1980

In the last two days, I've watched it at least ten times and listened to it probably thirty.

Where I'm From

I'm from piles of bodies.
Carpet-burned knees, smashed faced, tangled limbs.
Rolling,
Shoving,
Body-slamming
and laughing.
Never give in,
even when your brother has been sitting on your head for five minutes.

I'm from playing tag for an hour
up and down the stairs,
around and around
the kitchen island,
then the table,
then the couch.
Mom
laughing the whole time from her recliner
with her happiest face,
then we descend
and tickle her happier
until no one can breathe.

I'm from this bratty,
controlling,
has-to-have-it-her-way,
red haired,
angel.
Who slips in before the sunrise and sticks her cold little piggy toes
right between my thighs
and asks in a small voice if it's time to get up yet.

Every day home is like a Christmas present
because this crazy red-headed girl,
who says, "But I want to sit next to Allie."
and cries every time I leave,
loves me fiercely,
like peanut butter loves jelly,
for no reason at all.

I'm from a curly-haired man who makes my sun rise every day.
Ears that hear more than I say,
Eyes that see more than just who I am in this moment,
but who I've been and will be,
and a heart that's big enough to fit all of me.

I'm from a Rush Limbaugh lovin', hard workin',
ice cream makin', Fox News watchin', family man.
He has punctured my heart with his words
over and over
but I still can't convince myself not to adore him.
He's my hero.
I call him Daddy.

I'm from people,
family,
ties that bind.
Old church hymns and campfire songs.
I'm from standing in my itchy tights by the fireplace
next to Grandpa before church on Sunday mornings.
From potlucks and baby blessings.
Bible school and church camp.
From the Lord is my shepherd and never wanting anything more
until I did.

I'm from hitchhikers,
on busy interstates and lonely mountain roads.
All sat next to me,
with different looks,
smells,
stories,
all pieces of who we are.

I'm from naming Nicaraguan babies,
crying over malnourished children
while they sit on my lap and play with my bracelets,
death due to toothache because no doctor was near.
From sweaty hikes to rural houses,
orange juice that gives you diarrhea for a week,
smiles and brown faces that stay in my mind always.

I'm from cliff diving,
Jumping off the roof just because we can,
and high places that terrify and exhilarate me.
From exploring coyote dens and climbing cliffs,
From pulling porcupine quills out of a buffalo's nose,
From watching a calf being born and a pig getting butchered.

I'm from tree fort building,
arrowhead finding,
old Indian sweat lodge exploring
and filling my shirt with baby turkeys.

From a giant blue sky framed with pine trees and mountains.
Every day filled with adventure and discovery,
never questioning my place in the world
or at least that's the way I remember it now.

Searching.
Learning.
Thinking.
I'm from those places too.

The place I'm from holds a million memories,
indescribable feelings,
different understandings of truth,
sadnesses,
fears,
joys,
and hopes.

I'm grateful for that place
because it's the road
that brought me
here.

Me and the littlest one :)

Parenting

My little sister can be a complete brat sometimes: eight years old and knows it all; famous for farting on my friends' faces and throwing giant fits that get her what she wants. I don't envy my dad or step mom for their jobs as her parents.

I used to get highly frustrated when she was allowed to eat two pieces of dessert instead of dinner or when I would ask her to do something and she would walk away without comment. "No respect!" I would yell in my head. Then I put myself in a different frame of mind. If someone my age pretended not to hear me when I asked them to do something, that would be extremely offensive, but she's only eight. I can see she has yet to learn the value of respect. Getting angry about this fact doesn't help anything.

I've realized that not everybody learns all the niceties of our culture. Not everyone had good parents and a loving community to support them while they grew into healthy, balanced, understanding people. It is not my job to teach every person every lesson there is to learn. There are endless amounts of lessons on respect, justice, truth, peace, how to treat people, how to love people in ways that allow them to feel your love, how to see a situation from the other person's perspective, why we don't always get what we want, etc. I am not the teacher of all things. Many times (maybe every time) my job is to teach people how far love can reach, despite all the lessons they've missed. My job is also to learn the lessons of patience and understanding that rude people teach. It's easy to be patient and nice to respectful people. Our real test is how we react when the sky isn't raining gumdrops and roses.

My sisters (ages 8 and 17) are flying in to visit for 17 days during November and December. I couldn't be happier! I'm also nervous. I don't know which lessons I'm meant to teach my littlest sister. It's not that I feel I need to be her teacher, but isn't that who I am inherently as her older sister? Shouldn't I be mindful of the things I'm teaching her?

On a selfish note, I have a fairly peaceful life. Giant fits over ice cream for dinner and when bedtime starts aren't really conducive to my inner calm. I'm definitely not ready to have children! Despite everything though, I know it will be wonderful to have that little girl sleeping in our guest bedroom for two weeks.

I hope I don't react to her anger with anger
because she has not yet learned
to harness and tame
the emotions that run wild within her.

I hope I don't mistake her fearful actions for disrespect ones.
because she is so young,
how can she know
where her actions are coming from?

I hope I don't take away even one ounce of her confidence
because she doesn't have a lot
and she needs it all
to survive the people who don't love her like I do.

Sand Castles

Laughter like an explosion.

Instant, involuntary, all-consuming hilarity.

A yell-laugh that surprises and sometimes scares people.

This is my mother.

Things that might make someone else smile or maybe even chuckle quietly, send my mom into giant fits of cackling that she is incapable of stopping. Her laughter starts unexpectedly and usually continues for three times as long as is necessary. When she realizes she's been laughing too long, it embarrasses her and causes her to laugh even harder! Once I received a voicemail from her with no words, only laughing. It was four minutes long.

My mother's laughter was the bane of my existence for many years of my childhood. No matter where we went, from movie theaters to supermarkets, my mom would find something funny and yell-laugh for ten minutes. As her extremely shy and unassuming daughter, I often found myself mortified.

Within the last month, Zach and I have had two visits. One from our friends Jurgen, Cory, and Brett and the other from my brother Evan. Both times I found myself in public places with them when something funny was said and I laughed my mother's laugh! This giant boisterous laugh spewed out of me while everyone around me looked startled. This made me laugh even harder, which made me think of my mom when she laughs, and all was lost at that point. In the end, I found myself in happy tears over something not even that funny. What has my mother done to me?!

That episode was like a chugging a giant glass of perspective. Sometimes the most embarrassing things about our parents or ourselves, turn out to be the things we love the most. I called my mom today to apologize for ever being embarrassed of her beautiful laughter.

This morning Zach and I went to a coffee shop to read, write, and think. I read a passage from "The Prophet" by: Kahlil Gibran.

"All things move within your being in constant half embrace,

the desired and the dreaded,

the repugnant and the cherished,

the pursued and that which you would escape.

These things move within you

as lights and shadows

in pairs that cling.

And when the shadow fades and is no more,

the light that lingers becomes shadow to another light."

That thing which I used to find so offensive, I now cherish. How amazing that understandings constantly evolve. All my thoughts and feelings, all my truth, are castles made of sand. Time swirls the ocean up around my walls and they crumble, change, become one with the beach.

I hope I never take myself too seriously.

My Six Siblings

I have six siblings.

Three brothers.

Three sisters.

One of my brothers

just got baptized

into the Mormon church.

I feel so happy for him!

He has found a community where he belongs

and a truth that gives him hope.

How beautiful!

One of my sisters

has a family

and likes to smoke weed.

I love that!

Her life is filled with sippy cups and diapers

and an alternative method of relaxing.

How interesting!

One of my brothers

nurses others' ailments

and gives his money away.

What a good man!

He spends hours doing things he doesn't enjoy

to earn the freedom to be generous.

How admirable!

One of my sisters

constantly weighs her options

for changing the world.

This blows my mind!

She spends hours thinking, plotting, and planning

Some people never think about this once.

How inspiring!

One of my brothers

owns a business

shoeing horses and building fences.

Tell me more!

He has a thousands skills I will never have

and even competes in national rodeos.

How fascinating!

One of my sisters

has wild orange hair

and transforms into a cat when she's embarrassed.

I can't get enough of her!

Her hands are busy practicing cursive and playing video games

and her world is built with blankets.

How blissful!

I have six siblings.

Three brothers.

Three sisters.

This is family:

Deciding to love

despite the differences

or maybe because of them.

Broke the Cage

I used to be caged by my fear, specifically the fear of telling people that I don't believe in God. I think it's because I didn't want to be attacked. The years I spent struggling over faith and religion were excruciating for me. I don't need to be thrown back into that fire by people judging me, trying to convert me back, or saying hurtful things.

Anyway, I thought that fear was gone from my life last summer, but it returned when I moved here. When people asked where Zach and I came from, we told them about our transition from Oregon, to Iowa for school, then to Buffalo for a year. Almost always they asked why we went to Buffalo and the answer to that query is that Zach got a job as a youth minister there. People then made a lot of incorrect assumptions about us. I've never had so many invitations to church before. All those invitations and assumptions caged me in again. I felt afraid to share the deeper parts of myself, like what I really think and believe.

Thankfully I broke through. After living here a month, I shared with my colleagues that I'm probably more Buddhist than anything. Freedom! I can't even explain how good it felt to not have that part of myself as a secret anymore.

I struggled again when it came to the student staff here in the building I'm in charge of. Most of them are actively Christian. I don't want to threaten them with my alternative beliefs but I also want to be sincere. When you work in Residence Life, it's different than sitting next to people in cubicles. My job is to support my staff, through personal and academic issues, and aid them in supporting their residents in whatever issues they have. It gets personal and there's no way around that. I wouldn't want to go around it anyway. I think being personal is what's real. I don't want imaginary brick walls around each person that sensor what's safe and acceptable to share with others.

I've realized that this is a year of listening. It's not about telling my stories and explaining what I believe. I want to be a quiet creek that people can sing their life songs to, without some boombox sitting on a rock, blaring, and competing for sound space.

Buried Alive

This week I felt like I was actively being buried alive. Every morning, I woke up and more fresh scoops of dirt had been piled on top of me. All day I spent clawing to the surface, trying to dig myself free, but each time I got near, it felt like a wheelbarrow full of soil landed on top of me.

One of my former selves worked obsessively. Her sense of self worth came almost directly from doing, doing, doing. She ran from class to work to class to meeting to whatever, only sleeping four hours a night, always needing to do a thousand things with each minute. This lasted two years until at some point, I realized this wasn't the best option for a healthy and happy existence.

This week, a shadow of that former self haunted me. I worked constantly and spent over 12 hours a day in my office. Once I finally sat at home on my couch, I brainstormed, made more lists, and planned things. My to-do list grew hands and seemed to strangle me each time I thought about relaxing. This is not what I want!

I know my job will not always be this way, that's why I'm still sane. Three hundred emails and a pile of deadlines all came at the same time. These aren't the things I love about my job. The things I do love could fill a notebook, cover to cover.

In other breaking news, we sold our car! The Honda Element that zipped us all over Buffalo last year now belongs to someone else. It's sort of an experiment. The socially normal and obviously convenient thing is to own a car. Well, what if we don't? It would be better for the environment and better on our wallets if we could survive without one, so we're trying it.

We've made some pretty good friends here in Kirksville and one reminds me of myself in college. I used to always leave my car doors unlocked with the key under the seat. About ten car-less people knew this and would use it when they needed to. It worked out nicely. When our friend Max heard that we didn't have a car, he gave us the spare key to his Jeep. I like that. It reminds me that when you try to do something good, there are always people waiting on the edge of their seats to help you.

Fear

My phone rang at 1:01am two nights ago. I picked up to the sound of my boss's voice saying, "Hey Allie! Welcome to your first middle of the night phone call. Now, get to the basement and take everyone you can find with you. The sirens you should be hearing mean a tornado has been sighted." Immediately I was overwhelmed with a desire to run out into the storm, get soaked by the rain, and feel the wind thrash my hair. At any other time in my life, that is exactly what I would have done. Instead I attempted to drag Zach out of bed (he refused), so I went by myself to the main stairwell and found a huddled mass of people, for whom I unlocked the basement door.

During elementary school, I remember having tsunami and volcano drills but never ones for tornadoes. I guess the ocean and the mountains in Oregon are more of a threat than the wind. During the worst lightning storm of my life, my dad drove us to the top of a butte near our house because he thought the radio tower on top would get struck and it would be a crazy sight to see. I remember getting bashed side-to-side (as we drove up the rocky side of that mountain in what was clearly more of a river than a road) and trying desperately not to touch anything metal. I felt pretty sure we might die. Of course we didn't and that storm was one of the most beautiful/exciting things I've ever seen.

I'm not big on fear. In my opinion, it's a detriment to the quality of ones life. I don't want to walk around not doing things or not saying things because I'm afraid. Did you know, in the time period of eight years, the nation's murder rate decreased by 20% but the number of murders covered by network newscasts increased by 600% (The Culture of Fear by:Barry Glassner). Fear sells! Tragedy captivates! Why are we so easily enchanted by the "truth" the media spikes our drinks with?

True; tornadoes are dangerous. Also true is the fact that tornadoes are fascinating, beautiful, exciting, and awe-inspiring. A person can tippy toe through life, focused on self-preservation and fending of possible tragedies, or you can enjoy the storm. You only get so many days and I would rather spend mine any place other than huddled on a basement floor. Maybe this is foolish but I'll own it either way.

I am not completely fearless, despite all my statements to the contrary. A fear I thought I had eliminated last summer has bubbled to the surface again. A few times I've stepped just inside the door to the basement. Other times I've stood at the window, watching the wind and rain. I haven't quite been able to throw myself into the storm and face my fear. Hopefully I will someday soon...

First few days in Kirksville

Hardly fifteen days and Kirksville already feels like home. Hours and whole days rush by like drops in an ever flowing river. I am here. The present moment has grown larger than life. It fills the landscape from the far reaches of my peripheral vision on both sides.

This place is thick with Amish friendship bread and sunny bike-riding days. The people I work with smile easy and listen well. Every day feels like a warm hug. The wind blows softball games and Saturday markets into my life and likes to whisper, "This is it!", while I smile.

On the fourth of July, Zach and I bought a bunch of seeds, pots, soil, and fertilizer. He planted lavender, spearmint, lettuce, spinach, and cilantro. I planted sunflowers. Our sun-filled patio plays perfect host to the army of fledgling sprouts that have burst up from the soil. My sunflowers tower three inches above all the others. Today I had to transplant them to bigger pots because they were blocking the sun to all of Zach's plants! Even though long-term we plan to live in Central America and live a fairly non-traditional life, Zach and I (for the present moment) have willingly succumbed to domestic happiness.

Central Oregon Photos

The girls walking along the trail at the bottom of Smith Rocks.

Racheal standing on top of the cliff.

We promised never to show her mom this picture.

Peacock Seduction

Shake those tailfeathers!

Days Two and Three: Powerful Moments and Peacocks!

The first few nights of our trip, only four camping chairs sat around the fire. Jurgen, Rachael, Zach, and I filled the forest with laughter, poured it out the windows while dance-partying down the highway, and spilled it into every space in our beings. Some people have a special, un-nameable quality that makes you feel good when they are near. It has something to do with spunk, attitude, humor, and sincerity. My three friends definitely have that quality and it felt wonderful to simply sit around the fire with them.

Rain woke us the next morning, or maybe it was that early train on the tracks we foolishly chose to camp next to. We packed up and headed to Multnomah Falls, which is the tallest falls in Oregon at 620 feet. All I have to say about this place is: Multnomah-Shmult-foam-ah! It wasn't nearly as beautiful as Eagle Creek Trail and there were five times as many people swarming everywhere (including at least two buses of asian tourists and three dozen young parents with babies strapped to their backs and others toddling along beside). I will admit the falls there were beautiful but I prefer unpaved trails where you can walk completely immersed in nature. Multnomah Falls has too many distractions that slap me back to the reality of our overpopulated globe.

After the hike, we loaded our damp selves into the “burban” (my father's navy blue, diesel suburban which faithfully hauled us all over the state) and headed out along the Columbia River Gorge. We drove through the town of Hood River and took Highway 35 over Mount Hood to Central Oregon. I love the transition from lush, jungle-like forests, densely populated with trees and undergrowth, to the high desert with sagebrush and sparse growing Juniper trees. Breaking through the clouds into the sun feels good too.

That night we slept at my parent's house in Redmond. My red-headed little sister, Faith, monopolized the dinner conversation by monologing about cat warriors named Mousefur, Rainwhisker, Brokentail, and One Eye. Despite her bossy-ness and love for farting in my friends faces, I adore her.

The next morning, we met up with my cousin Hollie during a peacock mating ritual at Peterson's Rock Garden. That poor male peacock had his feathers fanned out for twenty minutes at least and the she-bird didn't even look up once. He kept strutting forward slowly and then, turning around to flap his tail feathers at her. I don't think I've seen anything more spectacularly hilarious in my life.

Next we picked up my 17 year-old sister, Kendra, and hauled the whole crew to a rock climber's paradise: Smith Rocks. Instead of taking Misery Ridge Trail, we followed the river trail along the base for awhile, and then cut off towards the top, zig-zagging our own way to the seemingly untouched peaks. I love trying to run up the 45 degree angle, half sliding every other step on loose gravel and sandy soil. Arriving at the top, thoroughly dusted and dripping sweat, feels so good. You can see for fifty miles in any direction and also 300 feet down the cliff you just conquered.

I feel overwhelming gratitude for these moments with these people. Sitting on top of a cliff while dangling our feet over the edge in reverent silence wraps us all thickly in the now moment. Some moments aren't punctured by distractions and those are the kind I treasure.

A Few Day One Photos

Here we stand, dangling 100 feet over the river, after we rocked all 3.3 miles to High Bridge.

Zach, Jurgen, and Rachy standing in the middle of the river.

Officially the smallest flowers I've ever seen.

Day One: Eagle Creek Trail

My mind has never been blown to pieces so many times in one day. After we set up camp at Viento State Park, we drove a few miles down the gorge to Eagle Creek Trail. Honestly, I felt like I was on Pandora from the movie Avatar. Every ten feet Jurgen stopped to photograph something while the rest of us kept hiking with our mouths hanging open. I have been to a lot of gorgeous places but this topped them all.

Picture yourself walking through a forest with ferns spilling over into the path, moss in shades of lime and sea foam green cover the rocks and hang from the trees, on your right water splashes downstream towards the Columbia River. Slowly the grade gets stepper and through a break in the trees you see a meadow filled with tie dyed flowers with pink fading to blue, vibrant orange, glowing yellow, and white all painting the side of the mountain. The river is now at the bottom of the cliff you are walking along the edge of as you carefully make your way around a waterfall. Across the canyon you can see tree covered walls growing straight from the creek to the sky, the tops are almost beyond your view.

At any distance this trail held enough to captivate me for hours, just standing in one spot. Once when I stopped to take tally, I found four different types of ferns, tiny daisy-like flowers (small enough to fit 15 on my thumbnail), eleven varieties of leafy plants, vines, moss-covered rocks and tree trunks, two different types of white flowers, yellow and orange flowers, a few beetles with red ruby-like bodies, and clover. If I shifted my gaze a bit farther, I saw rays of sunshine breaking through small gaps in the trees and the expanse of a canyon, stretching out as far as I could see to the left and the right. At times, the soil on the trail was black, other times it had orange tints, and still other it glowed brilliantly red.

We passed countless waterfalls but we found the largest one when the trail opened up to a rocky shore next to the river about 2.5 miles in. Moss-draped cliffs towered above us as Jurgen (our friend who came to camp with us all the way from Germany) made his way out onto some rocks in the middle of the water above the falls. From that vantage point, you can see around a cliff to an even larger waterfall called Punchbowl Falls. He couldn't get over the beauty and declared, "We've reached the end of the earth. This is it! I could die now a happy man because we've seen the most beautiful place on earth."

This hike was day one of our ten-day camping trip. What a long list of adventures we've had! Obviously I wasn't able to blog from the depths of the wilderness but I'm back now and I'll spin you all my stories over the next few days.

Oregon At Last

From where I sit, forest fills the frame of every window. How nice to be in the middle-of-nowhere Oregon again. Right now, I snuggled up on a couch at Zach's mom's house in Sweet Home. Zach is rolling around on the floor with a beautiful brown dog named Max. Some things I like about Max are: he doesn't smell terrible or drool on me, he doesn't stick his nose in my private places (usually), he doesn't bark, he is smart, and his head/ears are really soft and pleasant to pet. I understand why people love their pets. And the more love in the world- the better, right?

During our trip to Washington D.C. and NYC we ate Indian, Tai, Burmese, Italian, and Brazilian food. How lucky am I?! Everything tasted delicious except the sour vegetable dish Stephen ordered at the Burmese place. After one bite, the spices latched onto my lips and burned like crazy. I probably couldn't tell you where Burma is on a map but I can say that most of their food speaks the language of my stomach. Yum!

New York reminded me a lot of Barcelona but without the beautiful architecture or the romance of the Spanish tongue filling my ears. About three seconds after we stepped off the bus at Penn Station, I glanced at an old man wearing very short shorts and noticed three non-public body parts hanging out the leg holes. Shocking! Next a man, with half of his face swollen and appearing to hang two inches lower than the other half, started yelling about the newspapers he was trying to sell. People pressed on every side and when we finally made it to the corner, Zach says, "I don't think I like big cities."

We ended up having a great time exploring New York though. Time Square swarmed like a beehive and Little Italy definitely reminded me of the real thing but the best parts were the hole-in-the-wall Tibetan shops, musicians in the park, and reconnecting with our friends. Most of the time I just walked along, marveling at the mass of people whom I will never know.

The last thirty minutes of our drive, from Buffalo to Kirksville, it sounded like we were driving through a terrible rain storm. Turns out it was just the bugs hitting our windshield. Some were glow bugs, which left nickel-sized splats that glowed neon for a minute or so. Others left giant dollar-bill sized splats. The windshield wipers were covered in wings, legs, and goo. We had to turn the music on full blast and sing along to drown out the noise. When I mentioned this to my brother, he told me he made the mistake of driving his motorcycle that time of evening and that his entire body was plastered. I'm definitely only riding my bike during daylight, non-bug hours when I live there.

On the plane from Missouri to Oregon, I sat next to the creator of "Sally", a character in the movie Cars. He's an animator who works for Pixar and we talked through the whole flight. I love hearing other people's stories. I love plane rides too. You throw a bunch of people in a tight space together and you know at least a few are going to have a good conversation. For those non-claustrophobic types, it's good because it makes the world a bit smaller and instigates the feeling of connectedness.

In Transit

Here I sit, on the top level of a double decker bus somewhere between my nation's capitol and a city named after the state I've lived in for the last year. My mind keeps skipping, like a stone across water, from one idea to the next until it sinks finally back into the present moment with the squeeze of Zach's hand on my knee or snippet of sound from the people surrounding us.

I could say that we are homeless but that statement would be like adding water to ketchup and saying it's suitable tomato soup. Sometimes we twist and stretch things too far. The book we bought yesterday at a social justice and peace themed bookstore has been whispering to me to make the present moment my home, then I will never be without one. This sounds very wise to my ears but my mind likes skipping rocks too much. I think I could succeed at this if I got serious about meditation so I will. I'll let you know how it goes.

Back in Buffalo, we said goodbye to our friends, packed and cleaned our apartment, and fit everything we own into our car. The last thing we did before driving to the airport happened in the empty lot we tried to conquer behind our apartment. Though it did not become the perfectly pruned and planted community garden we had envisioned, at least it's not a garbage dump anymore. With our last few moments we scattered thousands of wildflower seeds into that jungle, without any idea if even one will survive. That is hope. You plant something, even if you don't have the water or the time or the ability to make it grow, and expect that something beautiful will bloom. The world would be a better place if we all believed in our own handful of seeds.

Almost gone

I'm sitting at a railroad crossing and before me moves a very fast train. Each railroad car is a person that I get to glimpse for just a portion of a second and then they're gone before I have time to fully focus my eyes. Four months I've been trading my time for this paper stuff with numbers on it and spending no longer than fifteen minutes talking to hundreds of different people. 

I'm a waitress and the person who might drive you to the airport in the Holiday Inn shuttle van if you happen to stay the night before your flight. Filling your tummy and giving you a ride are things I would do for free but some silly people like to pay me to do it. I don't actually care about the money except for the potential it has to be converted into something loving for another person. It is that premiss that has kept me trading so many hours the last few months.

During my work hours, I've met many people. I remember a couple of Venezuelans who let me practice Spanish with them. The biggest tip I ever got as a van driver was from a woman and her very sick looking son who were going to Seattle for testing on a new kind of cancer treatment and the same morning I got no tip from an air traffic controller who told me he makes 100,000 dollars a year.  I remember a very nice man who sold mechanical equipment for raising turkeys and chickens. He was flying to do a sales pitch with Foster Farms. I was astounded that someone from the factory farming industry was sitting right in my van, telling me all about how automated everything is now and that their sales are quadrupling yearly in European countries. I've met many doctors, pilots, families on their way to Disney World, international school teachers, the man in charge of iTunes for all of Canada, a couple writers, two women on a road trip from California to Maine, and many newly weds on the way to their honeymoon.

I don't have anything profound to say about all these people;  it's been like brushing past a hundred strangers/friends on a crowded street. I could see them fitting into my life as my sisters, best friends, neighbors, annoying cousins, co-workers, teachers, mentors, or wise grandfathers but I know they won't only because of geography and time. But I see that potential and it makes me feel kind and friendly feelings for them. 

Not everybody I met was nice to me but I won't hold that against them. I like the Buddhist idea that emotions are clouds passing in front of the sun. An angry person isn't acting as their true self. The sun will come out again and it is good to be patient and understanding until it does. 

I also like the idea that happiness is internal. If I could stay balanced enough and plugged into that internal power source, I wouldn't be as vulnerable to getting hurt or having my day ruined when somebody treats me with anger or rudeness. I usually respond to anger with sadness, which de-escalates the situation (instead of escalating it by matching anger with anger), but I still wish I could stay impartial.

Yesterday I packed my first box and went to my first dance recital (fyi-babies in poofy dance skirts are adorable). Tonight I work my last shift here in Buffalo. Oh what a weekend of firsts and lasts. 

Leaving Buffalo

We leave Buffalo in four days. Somehow it feels like it snuck up on me, like a death in the family or a sneeze. I want to say in a small voice that I'm not ready but I know that I am. 

I haven't been here long enough to cause any tears when we drive away, except for maybe my own. I can see all my beautiful moments in Buffalo start to fade like a stack of old photographs. My sadness about leaving a place comes from knowing that these faces will stay exactly the same. I will always know my friend Sam's twenty-five year-old face. I'll miss all the wrinkles of thirty, forty-five, and fifty. The only memories we'll share will be from the few months I lived in Buffalo when we were both twenty-five. It's the same with my friends from high school. I only know their teenage-selves.

And this is okay. This is definitely normal. We don't have space in our bags to carry every person we meet with us. There is room for a few still shots but not the ever growing pile of diaries and home movies that is another person's life. 

I always try desperately to expand my bag and carry more with me but it doesn't work. When I do that, I just end up being a mediocre friend to a many and not an especially good friend to anyone. To love people in the way they deserve to be loved takes a mountain of effort, time, patience, and persistence. You can only spend so many mountains of that stuff before you're worn out.

I spoke with one of my girlfriends from university yesterday. She's graduating tomorrow and I can feel her sadness about the end of a beautiful four years. I remember that sadness. It's a similar sadness to what I feel now. 

We leave Buffalo in four days and I'm wondering, when am I going to start feeling excited again?

Some Truth

Life is like trying to put together a puzzle the size of a football field. You spend about eighty years making connections, finding what pieces fit next to each other, and working out the truth about our existence. Sometimes we forget that other people might spend their whole lives working on a section of the same puzzle but on other side of the field.

Maybe you have learned that family is the most important thing, stealing is wrong, and drugs are bad. Others may have been abused by their family or never had one at all. They may have learned that stealing was the only way they ever got ahead and that selling drugs is what puts food on the table. Who is right? Maybe it is even less clear when it comes to gender roles, religion, politics, appropriate behavior in public, or even appropriate eating habits or hygiene. 

The tricky part comes when we try to communicate about what this giant puzzle is all about. Sometimes we clutch so tightly to our little section that it is impossible to see the truth of other peoples experiences. Might I suggest, taking a deep breath, setting down everything you think you know so far, take a short walk to the top of the bleachers, and looking at what a beautiful thing we are all working on together. I'm not asking you to give up your opinion. I'm just asking you to see the life experiences of others with the same validity you see your own. It's time to look at the big picture.

I've been reading this book and I want to share with you what I've learned.

Not because I think my lifestyle is "more right" than yours.

Or because I want to convert you to anything.

Or to make you feel guilty about your choices.

I want to share these things with you because I believe they are true.

You cannot have an opinion about their truth

unless you hear them first,

so I'm giving you that opportunity.

An man named Jonathan Safran Foer wrote a book called "Everything Is Illuminated." It's about a vegetarian American who goes to Ukraine and meets a bunch of hilarious characters. That was me last summer! I had never heard of the book but a friend sent me a video clip from the movie (which was based on the book) and I laughed forever about it. When I got back I checked the book out from the library here in Buffalo. It was powerfully written and so, when he wrote another book called "Eating Animals," I took the bait and checked that one out too.

The reason he wrote "Eating Animals" is because his wife got pregnant and he began to reflect of the things he would be teaching his child about life. Having been a half-hearted vegetarian for years, he began to consider what he would tell his son about eating animals. "There are thousands of foods on the planet, and explaining why we eat the relatively small selection we do requires some words. We need to explain that the parsley on the plate is for decoration, that pasta is not a "breakfast food," why we eat wings but not eyes, cows but not dogs. Stories establish narratives, and stories establish rules."

Sometimes I feel apprehensive about sharing about my vegetarianism. This hesitancy derives from the number of times I've been burned. I like the way Mr. Foer put it, "There is something about eating animals that tends to polarize: never eat them or never sincerely question eating them; become an activist or disdain activists. These opposing positions--and the closely related unwillingness to take a position--converge in suggesting that eating animals matters." This is the reason he spent three years researching the meat industry in the United States.

Now, I'm not an animal rights activist or a member of PETA. I actually don't even really like animals. This disdain probably comes from sharing a house as a teenager with five untrained little yippy yappy dogs who barked at everything and peed on you when they got too excited And then some large outside dogs who stunk and liked to smell me in uncomfortable places. It also comes from my knowledge that Americans spend enough money every year on pets (36.3 billion dollars just in 2005) to end world hunger and yet they spend that money on animals instead of people. Awesome. 

So, my non-meat diet doesn't come from my animal lover tendencies, as I'm sure you can tell. It started with a few facts I learned and couldn't get out of my head. To fully understand my decision, I would request that you read "Eating Animals" but since most of you won't, I'll share with you some of the things I highlighted in my book (well, up to chapter seven). I'm just throwing them out into the universe for you to poke through, and if it changes your eating habits--fine. If not--oh well. I just feel like you should know these things, so you can make informed decisions.

"In the past fifty years, as factory farming spread from poultry to beef, dairy, and pork producers, the average cost of a new house increased 1,500 percent; new cars climbed more than 1,400 percent; but the price of milk is up only 350 percent, and eggs and chicken meat hasn't even doubled. Taking inflation into account, animal protein costs less today than at any time in history...For each food animal species, animal agriculture is now dominated by the factory farm--99.9 percent of chickens raised for meat, 97 percent of laying hens, 99 percent of turkeys, 95 percent of pigs, and 78 percent of cattle...(page 109)."

"I don't have any reverence for suffering. These factory farms calculate how close to death they can keep the animals without killing them. That's the business model. How quickly can they be made to grow, how tightly can they be packed, how much or little can they eat, how sick can they get without dying (page 93)."

"Needless to say, jamming deformed, drugged, overstressed birds together in a filthy, waste-coated room is not very healthy...Scientific studies and government records suggests that virtually all (upwards of 95 percent of) chickens become infected with E. Coli (an indicator of fecal contamination) and between 39 to 75 percent of chickens in retail stores are still infected....Chlorine baths are commonly used to remove slime, odor, and bacteria.

Of course, consumers might notice that their chicken doesn't taste quite right--how good could a drug-stuffed, disease-ridden, shit-contaminated animal possibly taste?--but the birds will be injected (or otherwise pumped up) with "broths" and salty solutions to give them what we have come to think of as the chicken look, smell, and taste. (A recent study by Consumer Reports found that chicken and turkey products, many labeled as natural, "ballooned with 10 to 30 percent of their weight as broth, flavoring, or water.") (page 131)" 

"Journalist Scott Bronstein wrote a remarkable series for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution about poultry inspection, which should be required reading for anyone considering eating chicken. He conducted interviews with nearly a hundred USDA poultry inspectors from thirty-seven different plants. "Every week," he reports, "millions of chickens leaking yellow pus, stained by green feces, contaminated by harmful bacteria, or marred by lung and heart infections, cancerous tumors, or skin conditions are shipped for sale to consumers (page 134)."

Have you stopped to consider how readily available meat is here in our country? Think about the meat section of your local grocery store and consider the sheer number of animals it took to stock just that store. Then consider how many grocery stores there are in your town, your state, the entire nation? Try to imagine how many chicken nuggets or burgers McDonalds sells daily. Where is all that meat coming from? How are they selling it for so cheap??? Do you think when you buy a burger for a dollar that the company you're buying it from can afford to grow, kill, package, and sell anything of quality? We are paying a price for not paying enough for our food.

Well, this is definitely the most depressing blog post I've ever written. Now at least you know the truth, though if you choose to believe these things or change your lifestyle because of them is up to you. No pressure here. I'm perfectly willing to accept (almost) any decisions you make. 

Oh, and here's a link to the video that started it all and got me hooked on Jonathan Safran Foer. It's the one about the vegetarian American in Ukraine. 

Click here for a clip of "Everything Is Illuminated."

the book I'm reading

It's my second attempt at reading this book. I've actually made it past the fifth chapter this time. My first try took two months, three different renewals at the library, and sadly ended just before chapter six. I finally bought it online. 

There are many reasons for me to read this book. I read and loved the other two books the author has written, it's extremely well-written and interesting, it holds information that will seriously influence my lifelong values, and it's about things that are important to me and the world we live in. 

There is really only one reason why I struggled to get through it the first time: I suffer when I read it. 

When I sit down with this book, many times I end up in tears. If not tears, then at least slightly depressed and in a funky mood. Several times Zach has said, "You've been reading that book again, haven't you?" Am I really that transparent? My feelings usually do scrawl in bold letters across my face. 

I remember doing research for an English paper my freshman year of college. I chose the topic of poverty in Haiti and since I didn't own a computer, I sat downstairs in the library with tears streaming down my face for several hours. The things I learned about the conditions in Haiti felt like a stabbing pain. I sat shocked and appalled by how oblivious I'd been my whole life. My mind suddenly filled with terribly sad things that I couldn't un-know and it wrenched, twisted, and tore my heart. But I didn't want to un-know them. I didn't want to hide from the injustices and tragedies of the world. I didn't want to pretend that they didn't happen or pretend my perfect American world was all there was or all that mattered. I wanted to know the truth. I let myself feel deeply the pain of others and I used that pain to motivate me to take action to help them.

This is the way I feel about this book. It's not about poverty or Haiti but it's about something important. I've re-read the first five chapters and the only reason I'm making it through this time is because I keep thinking about blogging about it. Instead of reading these sad, horrifying things and feeling helpless to do anything about them, I feel like I can share what I now know (and can't un-know) with you and maybe it will do some good. 

Unfortunately I don't have the time or energy right now to actually tell you what I want to tell you. This is not an attempt to be dramatic or to leave you purposely at a cliff-hanger, it's more motivation for myself to finally write it. In February and March, when I first tried to read this book, I thought about sharing what I was reading with you several times but conveniently never got around to it. Now, I can't back down. Please be patient and wait for me to find a way to share with you these very important things. It will be within the next few days, I promise.

Empathy

A couple times I've experienced extreme crisis (all in my mind of course) over meaning in my life. It happened my senior year of college when I had to create a lot of studio art and I questioned the value of those artworks. My sincerest of passions all fall into the "helping people" category and I had never made any art that helped anyone. I panicked over choosing the wrong major and not realizing it until my senior year. Eventually, I made myself get over it...for a while.

I panicked again when student teaching in Spain. I spent hours creating a lesson about drawing fruit and vegetables; hand picking produce at the market, hauling it home on the metro, drawing several examples, and then it flopped. Who gets excited about drawing produce? I felt crushed because I didn't want to be a teacher who just teaches skills without meaning and yet that's who I had become. Sigh. I couldn't see at the time that skills are important even if they don't seem "meaningful" at the time of learning (or teaching) them. I'm extremely grateful to the people who taught me how to read, write, and use the internet because now I get to do this thing called blogging that fills me with joy.

Anyway, I continued to struggle with the art thing. To this day, when I read something that excites me, I can't wait to write about it. I start forming sentences in my mind for the opening paragraph. My religion major man Zach, in the same situation, will hop on the computer and design something or paint what he's excited about. When I realized this, it felt like a revelation when it probably should have been fairly obvious. Sometimes our passions walk around like masked men until we gain a new pair of eyes to see them with and until we let go of what we think we "should" be passionate about.

Back in Spain, I interviewed for an assistant teaching position at the international school for the next year. It was for a pre-school class. Part of the interview was planning a lesson for a first grade classroom. Of course, I even struggled with that. It was the same old story: I couldn't find anything "meaningful" to plan a lesson around. Finally, I settled on "Empathy."

I started with asking them if they knew what empathy was. I gave them my simplified definition and told them it was feeling what other people feel. Sharing happiness and sadness with another person. It's about stepping into another person's shoes and walking around a bit to see what it feels like. Having gathered about ten different pairs of shoes, ranging from big old clunky work boots to fancy lady shoes, I told a story about the person who owned each pair of shoes and let one kid walk around the classroom and then tell us how they would feel if they were that person. Their enthusiasm still spreads a grin across my face. Everybody wanted to talk about how they would feel or one time when they did feel that way. I almost couldn't get them out of the shoes. I don't know that I've planned a more successful lesson!

Today, Zach and I watched a video that brought me to tears, filled me with an enormous amount of hope, and reminded me how important it is to learn empathy. It also gave me new ideas for the school we want to eventually build down in Central or South America. Check it out:

http://www.karmatube.org/videos.php?id=1720

I truly believe in the oneness of humanity. The things that divide us aren't what is real. Empathy is a tool that can be used to see the truth and gain greater understanding. I think we could all benefit from the mindful practice of it.

The Attraction Vibe

I won the title of "Woman of the Year" my freshman year of college. It's actually kind of embarrassing to admit that now because it was only recognition of what a big flirt I was. Closson Hall (a floor of about 70 men in an all male building) chose a "Woman of the Week" to serenade and present a rose to every Tuesday. I won that several times and then, won the whole year title.

Having been a chubby, mortifyingly shy girl most of my life, I finally began growing into my own skin my last year of high school and when college rolled around, I felt more confident than I'd ever been. That first semester I spent more time in the all male residence halls than I did in my own all female building. I remember shamelessly wrestling in the hallway, bravely instigating licking fights and prank wars, and making eyes at a dozen different guys. I was a HUGE flirt but it was all innocent. I had no follow through. I dated one guy for a month (my first boyfriend!) and kissing was as far as we went. I just loved the attention; that "I'm attracted to you" energy you get from guys made me feel really good about myself. 

I wasn't serious about any of it. I didn't see clearly who I was or the reasons I acted the way I did back then. I know that I tread on several hearts as a self-centered, self-esteem boost junkie. Maybe I'm still something similar to that but I just realized the absence of my flirtaciousness. A few days ago I realized that attraction energy makes me angry now.

We hadn't done laundry in a few weeks and I didn't have anything black to wear for my shift at the restaurant. Well, except for a short cocktail dress that I wore when I sang at my friend's wedding. Even my tights and leggings had traces of boric acid on them (stupid ants!) so I went bare legged and boy, was that an uncomfortable night of work. My co-worker Sam greeted me with, "Well, hello legs!" Which of course, was a great start. I definitely got that same reaction from at least two different guys throughout the evening and it made me want to yell in their faces, "STOP LOOKING AT ME!?!?!!! I'm not interested, thank you!" I don't want anybody wanting my legs but Zach!

One of the lovely ladies I work with dishes out that, "I'm attracted to you" energy to just about every even slightly attractive guy within ten feet of her. The bartender, the men who drink at the bar, the chefs, and of course the male customers, all get a fair amount of her playful smiles, suggestive comments and the lucky ones get a least a few sexual innuendos. She's a gorgeous single girl, so why not?

For me, it's an extremely interesting thing to observe. The way she interacts with all of them reminds me of how done I am with that whole scene. Of course it was fun at the time, but I'm so over it now. There is a woman in my life (whose identity I cannot share without being extremely disrespectful) who is married, has three children, and yet she has not lost that love for flirting. Ever since I've known her she has laid it on thick with everyone from a random male waiter, the cashier at the grocery store, to the fathers of my childhood friends. As a younger person, I felt very angry about this (and especially that parts when it went farther than just flirting) but now, I able to observe in a detached, non-emotional way. Mainly, I wonder why things changed with me when I married Zach and why they didn't change for her?

It's really nice to be where I'm at with my best friend. Whenever I put out that "I'm attracted to you" energy, Zach giggles like a little school girl. It's nice to be the woman of his life, which is a title I value much more than any stupid thing I won in college. 

Shopping Trip

I went shopping a week ago. It was the first time in a year (other than two items I bought last summer in Ukraine and the suits I had to buy for my interviews in February). I got home and tried the clothes all on for Zach. When I was thinking about it later, I felt silly. Like some kind of paper-doll with interchangeable outfits. Does it really matter what you zip your body into? What type and color of fabric drapes off of your waist? How many buttons? How shiny? What brand is showing? Gosh! The clothes "made me feel pretty". Why do I need clothes to make me feel that way?

I'm reading this book called "Eight Mindful Steps to Happiness" by Bhante Henepola Gunaratana. It talks about lower and higher levels of happiness, which is a concept I wasn't previously familiar with. The author explains that indulging the senses (by eating something tasty, possessing new clothes or a nice car, seeing something beautiful) is called the "happiness of favorable conditions" and thus is only temporary and fleeting. You love your new dress until you spill spaghetti on it or you gain a few pounds and it "makes you look fat". Or you enjoy the view from this hillside on a sunny day until it starts to pour rain and a grizzly bear comes running at you from the forest. Or you enjoy that piece of cake or case of beer until it makes you feel guilty or sick afterward. 

There are happinesses beyond just indulging your physical senses. I really like this idea. It makes me conscious and mindful of the fact that I should pursue things that will bring a deeper level of happiness to my life; a happiness that is more sustainable. 

According to this book, one higher source of happiness is the "happiness of renunciation" which is the happiness that comes from letting go of your perceived ownership of things. Generosity is a powerful example of this. When we share generously what we have, we feel happy. Letting go brings a sense of pleasure and relief. 

I have a perfect example of this. The other night I was hosting at the restaurant. One of the large tables shorted the server thirty dollars so she just bit the bullet and made up the difference with her tips. As a host, I'm supposed to get "tipped out" from the servers and I make 3% of whatever food they sold that night. She tried to hand me the twenty bucks that she owed me but I refused and told her that she was a good person and deserved to be treated like one (which is not the way that table treated her). She cried right there on the spot. 

That twenty dollars filled my heart with way more happiness giving it away than keeping it for myself. I wouldn't have any significant memory of where I spent that $20 if I had taken it home but instead, I now have a beautiful feeling and memory to reflect on. That memory will also encourage my practice of generosity for future times in my life.

The next part of the book lists a few more higher happinesses. "Higher than the relinquishment of material things is the "happiness of letting go of psychic irritants." This kind of happiness arises naturally when we work with the mind to quickly let go of anger, desire, attachment, jealousy, pride, confusion, and other mental irritations every time they occur." I definitely need to work hard on this one. Mastering your own emotions is one of the most difficult tasks a person can take on.

Ultimately, the highest form of happiness is the bliss the comes from reaching enlightenment. In all honesty, I'm not ready to make an attempt at this. I'm too attached to Zach, to our dreams and plans together, to the happiness that I get from being a great lover to friends and family, to being generous, to people, ice cream, you know, life stuff. What I love about the way this book is explaining Buddhism is that it's a choice. It's totally fine to seek whatever level of happiness you're ready to. The author, Mr. Gunaratana states, "For those of us who cannot see beyond the happiness based on worldly pleasures, (Buddha) offered sage advice for avoiding worldly troubles and for finding optimal worldly happiness, for example, by cultivating qualities leading to material success or a satisfying family life...whichever kind of happiness we are seeking, we can make use of the steps of the Eightfold Path." 

Reading Buddhist books feels so peaceful and right with my soul. It's not being shoved down my throat. I'm not required to do all these things or believe all these other things. I get to figure out what fits with my life and my truth. I've felt so anti-religion the last few years, having been locked in a tiny box for years, it's nice to be free. 

Maybe in a few years I'll be at a point where I want to pursue enlightenment, or maybe I'll be Hindu by then, or a Scientologist (not likely)! My spirituality is free to develop in all the most beautiful and wonderful ways. What a great feeling...

Confession

I was walking to work and beating myself up about eating a cookie and not making myself work out today. Yes, that is as lame as it sounds. 

Sometimes I give myself the opposite of a pep-talk and belittle myself for not having enough self-discipline or self-control. During the midst of my bash-fest, I had a revelation. When I talk down to myself it's like I'm shredding this beautiful tapestry that hangs inside my chest. I'm sacrificing something much more important (my mental health) for something definitely not as important (the appearance of my physical body). I am not this body. Why do I let myself care more about this body than my beautiful true self? Why do I slash at my self-esteem, stab my confidence, and demolish my sense of self-worth in an attempt to force myself to eat better and exercise so I will be "more beautiful"? 

Yes, physical health is important but, according to Joe at the Jewish Community Center gym, I only have 18.7% body fat. That's three percent less than when we moved here. I am definitely healthier than I was but for some stupid reason, I want to be skinnier. I could blame society but I want to take ownership for this. Honestly, I don't want to be that stick figure of a girl with bitty arms and legs, who can't climb mountains or win my brothers in wrestling. I don't want to be that model-thin girl but I do think she's beautiful. I want to fit into my own definition of beauty. No, I want my definition of beauty to change and fit me. The media and fashion experts aren't the only ones who get to define beauty.

I love running, rollerblading, racquetball-ing, volleyball-ing, football-ing, tag-playing, hiking, canoeing, and a multitude of other active things but I want them to remain things I do because I love them, not because I need to change the shape of my body to be beautiful. I would rather be strong than beautiful any day but it's my life and I don't think I need to choose. I want to be both.

Most days I feel great about everything I am. I love this person that I get to be everyday. This is the truth! Sadly, some days (usually around that time of the month) I decide to care about stupid things and talk to myself in a way I would never talk to anyone else because it would be so rude and hurtful. I don't want to hurt myself with negative thinking anymore. Hopefully, now that I'm aware of it, I won't anymore.

Confessing these things is so freeing. I feel like it's a step toward healing the wounds I've caused myself and not inflicting anymore in the future. I hope the women (and men) in my life can be gracious and understanding with themselves in a way that I am only just learning how to be.

The Girls

So here is the trio that came and surprised me at work.

I took them on a photo shoot around Buffalo

and the photos turned out spectacular!

I shot over 200 and Zach edited a few for me.

Yay for having a husband with sweet Photohop skills!

Ant Invasion/Surprise Visit

Ants have invaded our apartment. These are not your ordinary ants! They are the giant, black, longer-than-your-thumbnail, make-me-wanna-scream, carpenter kind. Part of me feels this desire to coexist and live peacefully with them but that part died when I woke up to them crawling around in our bed with me. Or maybe it was when I got to work and found one in my hair. Or when one crawled across the screen of my cell phone while I was texting my sister. 

Last week I was just scooping them up with sheets of paper and setting them out in the stairwell. When they returned with reinforcements, I had no choice but to go on a horrifying killing spree: rampaging any and all ants in sight and creating devastating massacre. Of course, an hour later more were back so Zach bought ant poison and I set out nine traps. For two days, bottles of sugar water mixed with boric acid lay on their sides, enticing our unwelcome guests to a hopefully painless death. Unfortunately, this just seemed to draw more of their friends to join the party. This morning, Zach ditched the bottles and just poured the acid (in powder form) all around the perimeter of our apartment. By this evening, all the ants crawling around were coated in white dust, which at least made them easier to see against the wood floor.

I feel like we're up against Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator ants. Is there any way to win? They've lost at least two hundred and without any casualties on our side, I'd say our odds are pretty high...right? 

Tonight I took out the garbage, dripping sugar water and boric acid all down my legs. Awesome. I ended up running back up to wash off, change, and finally arrive late to work. If I ever need to make a case for karma, this will be a great start. 

On a different note, we leave Buffalo in 19 days! An insta-smile fills my face when I think about our future. I also feel sad to leave. It's always the people for me. It's so hard to leave and know that relationships that will never be the same...but thus is life. The growth potential for a plant in a forest is much higher than one in a small pot. I've definitely transplanted myself many times and the growth I've experienced is incredible. I want to spread my branches to the sky, feel the wind, experience the death and re-birth of the seasons, and drink the rain. I don't want to sit on a window ledge, safe and protected from big change, and things that cause pain. I want to live!

Tonight, three girls from Zach's youth group came to surprise us at work. One drove over two and half hours! I worked a triple shift and Zach worked a double so coming to our places of employment was really the only option. It makes me cringe when think about leaving the kids in the youth group here. I love them all and they deserve to have someone wonderful like Zach as their youth leader. I know we have made a good choice in leaving but it just sucks when making a choice that is best for you doesn't feel like what's best for others. Though, ultimately, making the best choice for yourself is what's best for others as well. Plus we're sorta Buddhist so maybe they wouldn't want us as the youth leader anyway...

So, the girls ate dinner at my restaurant and I'm pretty sure I glowed all night because of it. Them surprise visiting felt like so many things I did in high school. I remember picking up a carload of friends and driving hours (sometimes over five!) to surprise other friends, attend school plays, graduations, and other random youth events. I remember breaking down late at night on scary mountain roads, playing "Slug Bug" and "Beemer", picking up hitchhikers, trying to get every trucker to honk, and singing as loud as possible to every song until we lost our voices. Seeing those girls together felt like seeing somebody I used to be. What a beautiful feeling.

I try so hard to give others the feeling those girls gave me tonight. It's that you're-worth-all-this-effort-and-more-because-I-see-your-beauty-and-I-love-everything-that-you-are sort of feeling. I don't know if it was their intention to make me feel so loved. I don't know if they know how much it meant to me but I hope they could tell from the way I shrieked, ran across the restaurant, and embraced them. 

I feel so lucky to live this life of mine/ours. And by ours I mean yours, mine, and everyones. Erasing the lines of separation and feeling each other's joys and sorrows as our own is a beautiful thing. I wish we all made each other feel as loved as we deserve.