The Game Plan

I'm leaving Colorado tomorrow for the next four months. 2009 has thus far been the Year of the Roadtrip, but now I'm venturing off by means of buses, trains, planes, kayaks, and most importantly, my own two feet. In lieu of a travel blog (I'm unplugging for the majority of this journey), I'm just going to write a tentative itinerary in case my journals meet premature ends.

August 25-Fly to Boise to see Cory. Get to see Ashley, who is also randomly just passing through Idaho the same day as me. Gotta love the AmeriBubble!

August 26-Greyhound to Portland. Staying with Cash Money herself, Amber Cash.

August 29-Bus to Seattle. Possibly seeing Amanda, Ashley, and Danae.

August 31-Start Outward Bound. 11ish days of sea kayaking in the San Juan Islands, 11ish days of mountaineering in the Northern Cascades

September 21-Return from Outward Bound, explore Seattle. Possibly check out Vancouver.

September 24-Fly to NYC

Sept 25-Visit Mirana in Albany

Sept 26-Go to Jones Beach with my mom and possibly Dottie, Adrienne, and Bob

Sept 27-Aunt Karen's Golden Jubilee

Sept 28-Catch a bus to Maine to see Kristina and watch the leaves turn

Sept 30-Down to Boston. Might see Lindsey

Oct 1-Fly to Sioux Falls

Oct 2-Gail and James' wedding

Oct 5-Bus to Madison, WI to see Sam

Oct 8-Somehow get to Michigan. Grand Rapids to see Gerry and/or Detroit to see Nia

Oct 12-Go see Dan in Chicago

Oct 14-Fly to Costa Rica to WWOOF and volunteer with rainforest conservation efforts

Nov 7-Turn 21

December 20-Back to Colorado in time to see Alex and Kalie who are coming for the holidays

I plan to come back older, wiser, tanner, stronger, with longer hair (if I can stand it), and healthier in mind, body, spirit, and soul. And also, I'll be only three states from my goal of 50 by 25. It might be the first long term goal I've followed through on, which is huge for me.

Characters, Part One

What is a character?

Someone larger than life who is comfortable in his or her own skin. Fascinating. Interesting. Memorable. You preface stories about them with a "you can't make this up" disclaimer, though it still seems unreal. One walks away from an encounter with a character much richer from the experience.

I've been on a road trip with my friend Michael and we've been collecting characters. Random people who are changing my life one conversation at a time. What follows is the story of O.C. and Quentin, straight from the pages of my journal.

Last Saturday, Michael and I started walking back to the car after a wonderful day at Audubon Park in New Orleans. Suddenly, the sound of tuba caught my ear, drifting across the grass and the parking lot and down to the river where we walked. Then drums kicked in. Followed by trumpets. And trombones. Yep, it was the unmistakable sound of a brass band randomly marching through the park with a hundred or so people clustered around them marching and dancing. Did I mention I LOVE this place? I recorded a video and started snapping pictures to try to capture the energy when two gentleman sitting on the back of a pickup asked what I was taking pictures of. I answered something to the effect of, "Life and the city I love." I half-jokingly offered to take their picture. The taller one said no, but I got a shot of his shorter friend. We made introductions. The tall one's name was Quentin. And his friend, O.C. And then the conversation began. 

We talked for ages about what an amazing place NOLA is. The guys hailed from Jefferson Parish, born and raised, and were only gone from the city for a couple weeks after Katrina (a rarity down there). Quentin grabbed some cups and ice and O.C. poured Michael and I each a brimming cup of the Wild Irish Rose wine they'd been working on. Southern hospitality goes beyond etiquette. It stems from a genuine love of people, which ran deep in Quentin and O.C.

They were probably in their fifties, though they didn't let the age difference get in the way of our new friendship. Quentin has a son my age. Both men were so close to their families--the kind of familial ties that brings a relative to share an opportunity with the rest of the family. Quentin's cousin worked as a stagehand for the Superdome, so he got to be backstage for the Broncos/49ers Superbowl. He also saw the Rolling Stones and met Mick Jagger without knowing who the Stones were.

We started talking life and how to make a difference in kids' lives, whether being a temporary positive influence can make a true difference. They asked me how I got to be so broad minded, a phrase I'd never heard but liked a lot. We talked about dreams and following them. When Quentin retires, he's going to school to study psychology or hospitality (perfect for a people person like him). O.C. dreams about his weekends. Family and work fill his week, but Saturday, he can call up the friends he's known his whole life and something as simple as a bottle of wine and the park means everything.

It got dark and the cops were coming around. I was swept up in their kindness and generosity and didn't want it to go unknown how much our time with them meant. My wine-loosened tongue thanked them and I told them they were good people. O.C.'s eyes got serious, but with a gentle smile he corrected me. "I know you don't mean anything by it, but there is still a lot of racism down here. Someone could take it the wrong way. Next time, all you gotta say is, "You've been good to us."" I apologized because O.C. was right. Words like "people" have been tainted by bigotry. I told them they had been GREAT to us. 

O.C. and Quentin, to me, ARE New Orleans. Cities are made up of people. And people reflect the collective personality of a place. Some go beyond reflection--They are the human embodiment. That's what those two gentleman meant to me. And I know whatever its problems, I will love New Orleans, O.C., Quentin, and all the other characters (Eric, Will, Sydney, Al, Patrick, Byron, Carol Carrington, ad infinitum) unconditionally.

Belly of the Beast

I've often wondered if emotions and habits can be contagious.

Call it empathy.

Or mirror neurons. 

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/sciencenow/video/3204/q01-220.html

I'm certain feelings are communicable, but what I wonder, and hope, is there a certain point we are able to turn "that which makes us human" off.

Is communication an empathy fueled vehicle? There's a quote I rather enjoy: "Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating." Putting it into this context, it makes me think about how much conversation occurs outside the realm of dialogue. Vocal tones. Facial expressions. Body language. Touch. Eye contact. Where does the real conversation take place? Through words? Or emotion? 

Have you ever tried scolding a dog? "Dawson! No! Bad dog! This trash is not for you!" Next time you get a chance, use the exact same tone and say something completely unrelated: "Dawson! That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!" The dog will react the same way. It was a game I used to play to amuse myself growing up....I might have told my dog a lot of strange things in praise and punishment.

A similar thing happened to me in New Orleans. Carol Carrington changed my life in a lot of ways. She's a homeowner in Broadmoor whose home we worked on second round. And Carol has an accent stronger than titanium. In the beginning, I could maybe pick up every third word Carol said, which, given how Carol talked non-stop for eight hours straight, made it really difficult to stay verbally involved in the conversation. How can you ask follow up questions when you're not entirely sure what was just said? So, I just mimicked her facial expressions. Carol smiled a lot, so I found myself smiling. And then, the more we talked, the more I started to understand the rhythm of her speech. And I picked out more and more words. And eventually I figured out what Carol was talking about. Most of her stories were nothing to smile over. But Carol smiled through her pain as she recounted her life. Unfortunately, I too was smiling, unknowingly at her pain. It was a terrible realization and I felt awful. Though I'm really glad Carol kept telling me her stories because my life feels richer for having been able to spend that time with her.

I think emotion is the first thing we perceive when communicating with others. And to perceive it we must be able to feel it. And it's the initial feeling that stands as the skeleton on which we add the muscle of context, the flesh of dialogue. Many conversations stay with me, but time has a way of eating away the details. It's a strange concept to remember the impact of a conversation without recalling the conversation itself.

I guess I've just talked myself into seeing the necessity of emotion in communication. But here's my dilemma, what started this meditation:

I'm going to go take care of my dad for most of this week. And I'm excited to get to spend that kind of time with him. And help him. I don't doubt my ability to stay strong and help him during my time living with him, but I am a little concerned over how I'll be able to separate myself from his illness when I'm relieved of my duties.

Am I ready to carry such a heavy emotional skeleton? Am I ready to go confront my own ghosts? And is empathy the best way to help or is it more beneficial to be happy and allow for emotional vampiricism? Drink my happiness, may it help you recover. (I wish I could phrase that better)

Or to put another spin on it, now that we got the skeletons, ghosts, and vampires out of the way, let's go for/attempt science. Meteorology. Let's pretend happiness is a high pressure system and depression is the low pressure system. The air molecules in the high pressure system fill the gaps between the molecules in the low pressure system. So...though, I'm inclined to reject this theory, on some level, I think this might explain the transference of emotion. Certain emotions are high pressure, others low. And if whatever one feels resonates as an opposite pressure of another's emotions, something is going to transfer between them.

Eh...It was a limb....I went out on it

More things to ponder:

If it were possible to make a vaccine against feeling others' pain, would the people who received it be in a better position to help others, without the fear of burnout? Or would they lose the motivation to help in the first place?

What limits are we putting on communication through communication technology? Context is the only way we get emotion from the written word, the human element is out. Are we really advancing?

Unplugging

Sometimes the only way to stop feeling disconnected is to disconnect. And reconnect in different ways. 

I think I'm way too overstimulated. 

My attention span is shot. 

I know way too much about all my friends' lives. 

And acquaintances' lives.

I can't stand that in the middle of the day, hours before I'm going to be near a computer, thoughts pop into my head for Facebook status updates. I shouldn't be trying to describe my life in a sentence or two and then shouting it into the deceptively bright darkness of Facebook and hoping someone might care or be amused. This new level of freedom of expression is the most liberating ball and chain I think any generation before us has ever carried.

I've been thinking about doing a tech purge for months, but I'm terrified to. I don't think I can do it. Which is EXACTLY why I need to do it. There is nothing in life that we should not be able to go without for a mere week.

I remember I used to love the internet because I could IM all my friends while learning about random things. I'd read articles. I'd learn about music (this was in the days of dial-up, so I could only read about artists without hearing their music). And I'd type things I wanted to know more about into search engines and then peruse the wealth of knowledge at my fingertips. Simple multitasking. Though now that I've put that into writing, it doesn't bode well for my attention span. I guess it's been 8 or 9 years of overstimulation. There were quite a few exceptions last year, but in five months, I've made up for all the lost time of being tech-free. Maybe it's this state. Though I think it's just coincidence that I do a fair enough job of unplugging when I'm away from CO.

I'm rarely learning anything like I used to when I got online back in the day. And when I do learn something, I move onto the next thing so quickly, nothing sticks and I'm no wiser for having read an article. Or watching an educational YouTube video. 

And with Mac, all I have to do is open a ton of screens and hit F9 and all my activities of the last day are open to me. I can jump to Yahoo and Facebook and WorkAway.info and last.fm check each of them in three seconds and not even have to wait for the internet to load the page.

What finally gave me the courage to do a tech purge was this:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/TECH/ptech/04/14/twitter.study/index.html

A study found that Twitter and other social networking sites have numbed our sense of morality. I scoffed at the headline. But it makes sense. We're so inundated with updates on EVERYTHING that there's no time to process or really feel any emotion. The news used to outrage me. Or make me depressed. Or inspire me. Now, for the most part, I feel the same way about reading nutrition facts as I do about reading the news. How easy it is to forget that when we're staring at a box of pixels, human lives are usually attached. People. Real women and men and children. Pixels form letters, form words, form stories. Or pixels form videos and pictures of people. How easy it is to forget the realness. 

How do we respond to cries for help when we're face to face? I usually sit down and talk about it. I give hugs or even just a hand on the knee or shoulder. And I make eye contact. Always. And the most important. I listen. I care. And what about on Facebook? For me, it's rather pathetic. And I'm ashamed. But I'm going to hope it's enough of a universal experience that I don't have to put my reactions in writing for you to know what I'm talking about.

So I think that's enough to explain the first part of my tech purge: no internet, whatsoever. Which will be hard because I need to get emails for my work...I'll figure something out. Hoping for a really good friend to help me out.

Second part of my rant on unplugging...Texting. Here's something embarrassing. And shameful. I can't honestly remember the last time I invited someone to do something and actually CALLED them up to do it (one exception: my best friend doesn't do technology, so I have to call her). But for all the rest of what's been a very social time in life, I've used texting and Facebook to set up events, gatherings, even simple acts of hanging out. 

Only within the last couple years did I start texting. And less than a year ago did texting surpass phone conversation as a means of communication. But only within this last week did I start examining the implications of text invites. And, though I never intended it, what the text might be saying on another level:

Text: Wanna watch movies later? Possible side effects: I'm too busy to find out what's really going on in your life, but if you wanted to share something, you could come watch the movies and THEN I'll give you the time of day.

I don't like the way I've been treating my friends. And I don't like how overstimulated I've become.

 So I'm going to change it.

One week. No internet. No computer. No texting. Phone calls to set up face to face contact, but only that. Ack! I hate that I let it get this point where that seems like a big deal. All the more reason to do it.

The Story Of My Life

I felt

pangs of jealousy

when people 

started new chapters

in life

For me

new chapters

never started

Only

new stories

Until now

Woven together

the collection

of short stories

come together

Connect

Sometimes

the writer

checks out

Story suspended

in time

But

With 

each 

push

    forward

the momentum  carries    it     further

***Don't drink and blog. Otherwise, poetry happens.***

Motivational Statement

Today, while working on an application for ERT, I was asked to write a motivational statement for why I wanted to join. I guess I do well with writing prompts because I rather like the second half of this little snippet:

On March 24, I hopped online to check my email. I pulled up the Yahoo page and saw a picture of sandbags, rising water, and hundreds of people clad in more layers than I thought possible to wear while doing such physical labor. Fargo was flooding and everyone in the community was working on building sandbag dikes. I was on spring break that week, and since spring break should be all about sand and water, I called up my Fargo-based teammate from AmeriCorps NCCC and asked if he needed any help. By morning I was on the road, perfectly caffeinated for the fourteen hour drive from Denver to Fargo. I spent the rest of my break moving and filling sandbags in a race against the rising waters. And when it came down to the waiting game, when all the sandbagging was finished, I helped clear a family's belongings out of their basement, just in case. It was the best spring break ever!

There is something beautiful about road trips. The road is far enough away from daily life to allow for true reflection and when the radio reception cuts out, I feel like I have tuned into a perfectly clear frequency of epiphany. On the drive home, I realized this: I love doing disaster work. When a community experiences a devastating event and a major break from regular life where an all-consuming uncertainty washes away normalcy, what's left is the core of people's true nature. Last year, I was with FEMA after the Wisconsin floods and Red Cross after Hurricane Ike. I saw the same thing as I did in Fargo: most people, when all is said and done, are good people. Many are so willing to help others, sometimes even before helping themselves. There is something truly empowering about a group of people working incredibly hard to pursue a common goal of good.

Not bad for having to write something on the spot...I usually panic in that situation. And I've been meaning to reflect in writing upon how much the Fargo trip impacted me. I'm glad in taking the next step, I had to look backwards.

Sands of Misinformation

I remember when I was in sixth grade outdoor ed, there was a haze about the air wherever you looked, especially the sun, which appeared to be draped in an orange veil. The counselors told us there were wind storms in Mongolia that had blown sand and dirt into the atmosphere and it was circling around the world. Prior to that, I thought people were the only interconnectivity between the continents. Our technology and transportation were the only things shrinking our planet.
I've never verified that fact. I think about it too much to want to find out if it may indeed be false. But I do know for a fact volcanic ash travels the world. Krakatoa's ash cloud made the weather in Europe so gray and dreary that it inspired Mary Shelly to write Frankenstein. So it's entirely possible that during that week when I was twelve I was washing Mongolian dirt off my face after a day hike.
Whether or not the sand fact is true, misinformation is a lot like the grains of sand. And we're the wind that spreads it. I personally feel like a gale. The things in life that I best remember are learned conversationally. And I can't really verify those facts. But I still love sharing them with other people I happen to meet along my journeys. And I know they get passed on as well.
When I was in Fargo last week, I was sandbagging in a line with a bunch of funny and jovial guys. Somehow, I was able to throw out into the conversation that Jamie Lee Curtis is intersexed, that she was born with both male and female sex organs. I know this is an urban legend. But I remember a genetics teacher telling me about it and I've heard it asked as a question at pub trivia. So misinformation or not, it's prevalent in our pop culture, and I did my part to bring it to Fargo. I remember I told the guys that little bit shortly after sunset and right until we called it a night at ten, they asked every passing person, "Did you know Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite?" I feel like I'm behind an epidemic against Ms. Curtis. Rumor, fact, or misinformation, I watched "knowledge" spread like wildfire over the span of three hours.
I think about the places I've been, the random conversations I seem to fall into, and the sea of facts in my head where the trivia leaps out like dolphins. As much as I feel like a grain of sand caught in the wind, I'm made up of more wind than sand and I'm blowing grains around the world.

Two Hours In My Head

On a whim, I bought a tiny notebook today after seeing Benjamin Button at the dollar theater and decided to try to write down every tangible thought as it occurred during my trek back to my apartment. 

-Indigo child becomes indighost adult

-Empathetic to a fault breeds numbness in defense

-Faced with apathy I will take action

-I wonder if we're attracted to the idea of people before we're attracted to the people themselves 

-Is true love the realization you love someone more than the role they fulfill?

-Do I feel my own pain ever or is it easier to just carry others' and make it my own?

-There was a man in the movie theater today who twice answered his phone to tell the person who called that he couldn't talk because he was watching a movie. This made me sad and angry. No one has even three hours to give to themselves anymore. Or to everyone else around them who is physically present. Human contact has become pixelated or solely auditory.

-Spring has never looked so foreign. The budding trees are oddly unwelcomed this year. I preferred the trees in their skeletal state. I like watching the sky.

-Cities feel more urban on gray days

-I hate the loneliness of being a non-smoker

-Dad's love-style is "The Provider". Last night he kept refilling my water glass. It was really sweet

-I don't think I can ever go back to MY New Orleans. When I go, it will be a new city

-The more I get out--words, emotions, thoughts, sweat--the less empty I feel

-If I don't go for a run today I'm likely to explode

-Apathy and hesitation are reactions to repeated disappointment

-Young love happens between two people uncorrupted by heartbreak ready to dive in without a second thought

-Trust can be regained with time

-Delayed honesty breeds doubt

-I feel really hurt by my mom's actions last week and wonder how long has this been going on? Could I have ever seen it when I was a kid? How deep into the rabbit hole are we now and how much further do we have to fall?

-Remember: it's not your fall to take. You don't have to fall, too. Do what you can, but you cannot leave the sidelines without making this worse. Yup. You're grounded, Missy. Says who? Yourself

-I feel like I've aged a decade in the last two months

-I have to be the most stable person in my life. Our closest most stable friends will only seem as stable as we ourselves are

[I have terrible handwriting and tend to cluster letters together li kethi s sometimes. That's relevant for the next thought]

-Ass table! Haha!! I will always be thirteen

-We are every age we've ever been. 1-19 never really went away. Sometimes I feel like some of the ages to come are already here

-Late at night my face looks like a real life Picasso painting--eye droop, slanted smile edged to the left, etc. The longer I study it, the less it feels like my own. I get the same feeling when I try to examine my life. Perhaps some things are best viewed in fleeting glances

-I think I believe in symbolism in real life. Or at least that it's worth taking note of if I ever write a fictionalized memoir. A lot of things have broken or been lost lately. My take is that they are all symbolizing a break from the past, moving on, and new directions. Or possibly just absent-mindedness. And sentimental pack-ratism has expiration dates for the products involved

-Urban Apathy: Learned numbness after repeated exposure to blatant pain and suffering

-My bicycle is my most valuable form of transit. It's finally surpassed my car. Sorry Olga.

I'm not always this dark. But I can't pretend like it's never there. And I think there were some interesting thoughts lurking in my brain during that walk and bus ride home. I'm glad they're here too because I give myself I week before I lose or accidentally destroy the mini notebook I bought today.

The Key To Happiness

I have found the key to happiness. Actually, I've suspected it all along, but this last week I've been feeling it with enough certainty to commit it to writing. Ready for it?

Hindsight.

Sorry if that came as a let down. Doesn't do much for the present does it?

I've noticed that the best times of my life occur simultaneously with the worst. And then those times are broken up by fugue states where my mind is focused on recalling the times before and the ones to come. Kind of a less memorable span of life where reflection is essential. But when it's all over, we have the ability to pick the lenses through which we wish to view our past. And which memories we're going to file at the front of our brain. And it gets better--we can adopt a more positive hindsight view. 

Our current experiences can change the way in which we view the past. I think this is one of the reasons I work with kids. It jogs the happier memories of my childhood, many I thought I'd permanently forgotten. I guess in a way it's life therapy. 

What's A Drink Or Two? Or Three?

Someone very close to me told me today that she's going to start going back to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. We had dinner the day before and it was after that evening she decided to seek help.

I don't think rock bottom has to happen to decide to make things better. Not everyone waits  until they're diagnosed with cancer to quit smoking.

But still. She had a few drinks before dinner and then two with the meal. Not terribly impaired afterward and after all, it was a stressful day. And I'd grown up never really thinking twice about that kind of thing. Okay. I lied. In a high school psych class alcoholism was defined as something to the effect of not being able to go without alcohol. I thought about my dad taking martinis with him on a backpacking trip and an accusatory lightbulb went off in my head that shined on everyone around me. But then, when I left school, I noticed the way a lot of twenty-somethings drink. And I stopped thinking about it.

This person had done AA before, but edged out of sobriety eventually. Never really seemed a big problem that she was drinking. Then again, I only learned a few months ago that she'd done AA before. And another reason not to worry is that she's always been high functioning. Never lost a job because of drinking. Might have fallen behind on a lot of deadlines, but that could've easily been attributed to a lot of life factors. I've known a lot of high functioning alcoholics, to use the diagnostic jargon. So nothing seemed too abnormal.

Thoughts are running through my head. I'm proud of her for taking this step again. And maybe this should be reason to stop worrying, because things are getting worked out. But I can't help thinking that I should've been worrying before. And guilty that I wasn't. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty because this isn't about me.

Since I left this persons house today, the thought has crossed my mind several times that I'd like to talk to someone about this. First, I think 'I don't really know who I'd call.' But then I think 'There's nothing to talk about. "Person" drinks. We know. "Person" is seeking help. This is fantastic. So what's there to tell?' 

Last week, I felt more emotions than words, so I melted crayons in my oven and used them to put the emotions onto paper. And I fingerpainted with watercolors. Today, hard as they were to get out, I'm glad I chose to use words. This is an event I need to revisit and it's better to leave something less abstract.

Looking

I walked into a store the other day. It doesn't matter what store because this happens a lot and could easily be any store. I wander around for a few minutes before a salesperson comes up to me and asks:

Are you looking for anything in particular?

No. 

It's an honest answer. So why am I in there in the first place? What could I possibly be looking for in a store when I don't even have my wallet with me?

Later that afternoon, I come home to my apartment, read a page of a book, and then head to the kitchen. I open the fridge and scan the shelves. I peek in the freezer and open up the cabinets. I even sift through the fruit bowl. But I'm not even hungry. I go back to my book and a chapter later, I'm back in the kitchen. A couple of grapes find their way into my mouth, but they weren't what I was looking for. I knew that before I popped them in my mouth. I even knew that before I got up off the couch.

Night falls and I go to work. After I put the kids to bed, I roam my client's home, ducking my head into each room. Maybe I'll pick up a toy or fold a blanket, but I know that's not what I was really searching for. 

Some days, I ride my bike around the city. Other days I run. But however I'm traveling, I'm rubbernecking every step of the way. But I never stay any place long. And neither do my eyes. They keep scanning.

It's a long path to finding what you're looking for by using process of elimination. That seems to be all I'm going off of these days.

And all this looking must be leading somewhere. What the hell do I keep looking for?!

Answers?

Myself?

Perhaps I'm just looking for the sake of looking.

Sympathy For The Sole

I remember a time when I boycotted footwear altogether and would roam the halls of my high school barefoot. Occasionally, a security guard would bark at me and I would pretend to reach into my bag as if looking for shoes, turn the corner, and keep walking with nothing between my body and the linoleum. I felt connected to the world. I intimately knew every surface I walked on and felt like the earth was imparting its wisdom onto me.

Later, after I'd been kicked out of many establishments, I came to a personal compromise of sandals only. Chacos to be specific. I figured that feeling the wind on my toes was still feeling something. Take the texture out and temperature still prevails.

I had to compromise even further when I entered the working world and all of a sudden, closed-toe and closed-heel footwear was required. My podalic freedom was further stifled by government issued steel toes. I'd gone from the free-footin' life to a rigid and binding one of thick wool socks and above the ankle stiff leather boots.

Today my flip flop cracked. I remember when I bought these flip flops. Last summer in New Orleans, I branched out from Chacos when I realized that the look of a dress with Chacos wasn't how I wanted to go out clubbing. So I bought this $2 pair of brown flip flops. I soon realized I could shower in them, avoid fungus, and they'd be dry ten times faster than Chacos. So I kept them. 

Today I broke out the flip flops for the first time since I've been back in Denver. It was strange how I could feel the spikes on my bike pedals through the rubber. When I crash landed at the bike rack, the toe portion of the sandal cracked and by the end of my first class the thong threw in the towel and died. I put both sandals in my bag and went about my day.

It wasn't long before memories of sensations came flooding back to me.

Asphalt is hot.

The tar strips feel like walking on Swedish Fish.

The grayish white sidewalks still remember the cold from the night before.

One pebble is painful. Many pebbles are not.

Grass in winter feels nothing like summer. It has a crunch of seasonal rigor mortis.

Linoleum feel stickier in shoes than it does barefoot.

Those who may notice the lack of footwear don't acknowledge it. I highly suspect that most people don't even look at the feet of others moving in crowds.

The muscles and bones in the feet are amazing to watch as they curl around each step on a flight of stairs. It's visible balance and forward momentum.

I rode my bike home during my three hour break between classes. What I thought I felt of the bike pedal through my sandal was nothing like pedal against callous. It's painful, but once a rhythm is established, it becomes tolerable. The arches are the worst if the foot slips, but it's better just to keep the bike moving forward. More pressure needs to be applied to gather momentum, something I hadn't thought about until today.

I'd like to make a public apology to my shoes. I'm sorry I stopped thinking about everything I put you through. Thank you for protecting my feet. Though I still do enjoy going without you, I'm grateful for your existence. And how fortunate I am to own not just one pair, but several.

Today I feel connected. To the earth. To my feet. To my former barefoot self. And to my shoes. It's been happening a lot lately, but a lot of good comes from broken things.

Real Artists Have Single Digit Ages

Recipe for Epiphany:

Two kids-Will, age 8 and Elle, age 5
Two large pieces of cardboard
Brushes
Tempura Paint
Colored Cotton Balls
Colored Pencils
Dot Paint
One nanny-Lena

Combine all ingredients in one room at 70 Degrees Fahrenheit, cover, and let stand for several hours. Remove nanny, stir, and enjoy!

I babysat for a family recently and the mother had left two large pieces of cardboard so we could do an art project while she was gone. I gathered all the art supplies in the house and Will, Elle, and I plopped down on the kitchen floor and started making mixed media masterpieces. Will started painting a large diagonal purple stripe across his canvass and Elle was painting large colored circles in a row. Elle assigned me the task of doing a pattern with the dot paint and then gluing cotton balls on top of the dots. It wasn't long before Will played the big brother card.

Your painting is ugly, Elle.
No it isn't!!!
Hey, Will. Do you know who Leonardo DaVinci is?
Yeah.
Well, he thought that ugliness and beauty were pretty much the same thing, that ugliness was just a variation on beauty. He used to follow people around who he found incredibly ugly or beautiful. He would follow them all day long until he knew every curve of their ear, every wrinkle on their face and he would go home at night and draw them from memory.
Wow! That's really cool! What else do you know about art, Lena?

[I rattle off facts and stories about all the artists and pieces floating around in my brain. I explain how the use of line affects our perceptions and how complimentary colors enhance each other when placed side by side. And then I say certain colors make us feel different emotions.]

How?
[Five year old Elle steps in]
Purple is passion. Red makes me angry. Blue is sad or sleepy. Yellow is happy. Green is life and I've also heard green with envy....
How do you know that?
Yeah, Elle. That's pretty much spot on. How did you know that?
It's just how they make me feel.
[I'm blown away. She's five years old and already has this innate knowledge of art]

-----------------
There's more to come on this. I called their mom the other day and she's sending me the gallery descriptions we made for each piece. I need to do this event justice because it feels like it's a very significant piece of the puzzle of my life and where it's going.

-----------------

The Gallery Descriptions

I called Will and Elle over to the computer as the project was winding down and had them give me a title for their piece as well as an artist's comment. I asked them to tell me about the painting, what it means to them, how it made them feel and how they went about the creative process. Their answers were profound, creative, silly, child-like and honest. Here is a retyping of the gallery descriptions....

"Sun, Earth, Sky, and Sea"

Will, Age 8

Born 2000

Mixed Media, Tempura Paint & Colored Pencils on Cardboard

Artist's Comment

"It is a piece that calms the mind. It shows balance in nature. Different elements bond together to make nature. I started with a purple stripe and then I added green dots and red lines. Then I added a sun. Next I added the grass, a tree, a leopard, a balloon, and a storm cloud. It also has a part of the sky with clouds and birds. This painting shows what is in the world around us. It also has part of the sea with octopus and fish."

"The Stripes of Spots, Arts, and Crafts"

Elle, Age 5

Born 2003

Mixed Media, Cotton Balls, Dot Paint, Tempura Paint, & Colored Pencil on Cardboard

Artist's Comment

"I first did the dots and Lena helped. I saw what I needed to do and I worked on my painting. I put the cotton balls on and thought what I should do for my painting and what would make it look good. And that's how I made it. My painting makes me feel different things with each color and helps me with all different kinds of stuff. My favorite part is the outside because it's all colorful and rainbowy. I feel like it's a friend of mine."

Life Changing Words

I felt like revisiting several quotes that have changed the way I view the world over the years. So without further ado, Lena's words to live by:

Age12-16
"Why try? Trying is the first step towards failure."-Homer Simpson
Age 16-18
"It's only after we've lost everything that we are free to do anything."-Chuck Palahniuk
Age 18-19
"It's never too late to be what you might have been."-T.S. Eliot
Age 19
"Faced with apathy, I will take action. Faced with conflict, I will seek common ground. Faced with adversity, I will persevere."-AmeriCorps NCCC Pledge
Age 19-20
"The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others."-Mahatma Ghandi

All of these words came to me when I needed them most. They have been my friends, my lovers, my reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes I wonder if this is what religious texts like the Koran or the Bible feel like to people. It marvels me how mere words can express ideas so powerful that they tap into an inner strength and enable us to conquer anything.

One of the reasons I began Maieutic Journey was so that I would never forget the people or events that have impacted me. I tend to chronicle my life through music and pictures, but I'm beginning to feel my brain getting full, so it's time to put the memories into words.

Today I'd like to share the story of how my most recent words to live by found me.

I was slipping into a dark place of uncertainty. My time in AmeriCorps was winding down and soon I was going to have to leave the life I loved and go back to the real world. I despised the idea of having to reassemble the pieces of knowledge I'd gleaned from my experiences into a fathomable life path including education and career. I'd entered the program looking for answers and I was about to leave with more questions than I had going in. A tsunami of big decisions was crashing into shore and I was still trying to figure out that eternal question, "Who am I?"
Things were moving fast. I felt like I didn't even have time to breathe.

Floods and gutting in WI, sprained back, lots of pain pills and whoa, I'm back in Maryland.

Week in DC with the person I was in a relationship with at the time (ex is the term, but doesn't seem fitting), sight seeing and enjoying a hotel. The first space that was our own. We watched Gustav and Hanna on CNN, ready to volunteer for deployment should the storms hit the way we feared.

Break's over. Down to Biloxi. Team diaspora. The "family" is missing several players and everything feels off.

All the negative energy that had been building came to a head during that two week span.

A day after arriving in Mississippi, the Red Cross asked for a ton of teams to go to Texas to help with relief efforts. Hurricane Ike, the third most destructive hurricane in US history, had passed onto land in the middle of the night. So the day after Ike hit, I found myself on a plane headed for Dallas, through Atlanta, to join a composite team.

The Red Cross provides disaster volunteers with a pre-loaded credit card that budgets $33 dollars a day for food. After living on $4.50/day this was like winning the lottery. During the layover in Atlanta, I celebrated my wealth by purchasing some trailmix and a bottle of pomegranate-blueberry juice. On the next flight, I tried to mentally prepare myself for what was to come and mentally recover from what had been.

I was lucky to have a window seat. I hope I never lose that child-like wonder of viewing the world and the clouds from 10,000 feet. Even in that moment of mental exhaustion, I was able to appreciate the way the sun shone on the cumulus clouds towering above what I think was Louisiana. I had the perfect song playing, but even if I told you what it was, it wouldn't sound the same outside that moment. Even now, I hear it differently than I did then. But in that five minute span, with my thoughts amongst the clouds, the song was perfect. Exactly what I needed to hear.

I reached into seat pocket in front of me and took out my bottle of pomegranate-blueberry juice. I sipped it in between riff and then, in an uncharacteristic gesture, I glanced down into the bottle at the inside of the label where I found the words:

"The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others."

I was lost. And I was on my way to serve. Everything was going to plan, exactly how it should be. And I didn't need answers to go do what felt right. All of my anxieties floated away into the cumulus clouds and I found peace with myself.

I spent my deployment immersed in my work and the people I was working with and for. I found connections everywhere, depth and significance in every seemingly trivial moment, and every conversation layed another brick on my life path.

Fuel

I'm listing things in my brain that I'd someday like to expand upon. This is fodder for future blogs.

By not acknowledging something, can you doubt its existence?

The only way to become selfless is to truly know yourself.

Dreams are goals without plans.

Imagination precedes reality.

Self inflicted pain. Scars vs. muscle. The damaging of tissue and the reformation of it alter ones appearance. The formation of muscle is viewed as a healthy act, where as scars are not. The difference lies in intentions. The causes of scars are intentional, where as muscle is incidental.

I feel grievously misinformed by my father's favorite quote, "90% of life is showing up."

Fortune Telling iPod

I've played this game of sorts with myself for a while now. It's like a Magic 8 Ball, but more vague. Or bible dips, if you've ever read Running With Scissors. I get a question in my head, put my iPod on shuffle and see what it tells me. Shuffle has also given me some hilarious coincidental descriptions of my life.

Some of the funnier (haha funny and also peculiar) ones in my time:

Today I went ice climbing. I got in my car, turned on the iPod, and "Ice, Ice Baby" starts playing.

While driving home from a date one time, I asked my iPod is this relationship worth pursuing. iPod comes back with "Ain't No Good" by Cake.

Once I asked, "When will I figure my life out?" And I found myself listening to Built To Spill's "The Wait".

I believe it sometimes. Mostly when it confirms something I'd already been thinking. Sure there have been plenty of non sequiturs:

What am I hungry for? "Terrible Canyons of Static"- godspeed you! black emperor

Or the incredibly cruel Where should I live? "Candy Land"- CocoRosie

But I start to consider my foolishness for wanting to believe in truth outside myself when I have an answer in mind and the iPod gives me the opposite.

Should I get a dog? I want "Say Yes" by Elliott Smith and instead Phish plays "No Dogs Allowed"

The Way Home

I found a dog tonight wandering by the side of the road. I'd just left a client's home in Wash Park and the flurries were starting to fall. I pulled over and watched her from my car as she explored someone's front yard. The husky sniffed the ground and hovered around the bushes, looking for something. The kind of scanning motion you'd expect from a metal detector on the beach. Sometimes she would lift her head and glance up and down the street. It was odd, but her demeanor more than the harness on her chest told me she was lost. 

My car's thermometer read 28 degrees. Husky or not, I don't want a domesticated animal to have to spend the night in the cold. We've muted their instincts and owe it to them to look out for them. 

I slowly climbed out of my car and she didn't notice me until I closed the door. 

Ghostly blue eyes cast their stare at me, and a sudden jolt coursed through her body--the kind of startled jump a child might make if caught reaching into the cookie jar. She held her ground and her body never showed any signs of trying to run off.

Hands out, palms forward.

Chin up, eyes set on the tip of her left ear

I took three slow and deliberate steps toward her, all the while explaining my intentions. 

I want to help you.

Let's find your home.

I'm not going to harm you.

The adventure has warn off and now it's scary being lost.

Let's get you back where you belong.

Two more steps.

Left.

Right.

Uh oh...I looked in her eyes. [Happiness] I've lived a good life [Confusion] I don't know where I am or who you are [Trust] I know humans! I'm going to like you!

Please don't attack me.

Even after gazing into the most honest eyes, that thought always remains. 

Please don't attack me. 

I'm wary, but she approaches me. A slow stroll and then she's bounding towards me. It's my turn to hold my ground.

She sits at my feet. I let her smell my hand. We're connected now. I have to get her home.

I pet her and make sure she's okay with my touch. Then I walk my fingers along her collar until I find her tags. I try to use the glow of my cell phone to read them, but name, address, and phone number are pretty worn down. Also, my husky friend is awfully squirmy and wants to lick my face.

I've known you mere minutes.

My husky friend rolls onto her back and gives me her belly. She really does trust me. I rub her tummy and then try again to read the tags:

******si

10** * **lliams **

303 796-2***

I feel like I'm on Wheel of Fortune. 

Okay Lena, solve the puzzle!!!

Um, Pat, I'd like to buy a leash.

I can't.

So I lean over and grab her harness and walk toward the 1000 block of S. Williams St. It's five blocks away, but the best bet I have without having to call a shelter.

My husky friend leads the way but doesn't pull me. It's like an Ouiji board. The closer we get to Williams Street the more certain her steps become, the less her eyes wander. There's no need to search familiar surroundings.

We arrive at the 1000 block with a light dusting of snow on our coats. It's freezing but her fur warms my exposed hand. We walk on to porch after porch. I just have a feeling she'll let me know when she's home. 

Sometimes there's a hesitation to leave a porch.

But then I hear the scratching of a dog on the other side of the door.

The further down the street we move, the faster her pace becomes. 

We're close, she tells me.

A couple walks out of a house across the street.

Excuse me! Are you missing your dog?

No.

Do you know of any neighbors who own a husky?

Oh! Yeah, the people in the brown house over there own one. Try there. [He points east]

Thanks!

The doors slam and the car takes off before I realize that in the darkness most houses look brown. Well, my husky friend, at least we just narrowed this down.

One more house.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Close, but no cigar. We'll find it soon.

We're three-quarters through this street. I decide to check the tag again by streetlight. 

1071.

I think.

We skip all the porches and walk to the end of the block, but 1071 doesn't exist.

I'm sorry I just wasted your time, my husky friend. I shouldn't have wasted your time.

Starting from the opposite end.

One.

Two.

Three.

Three?

Three!

My husky friend won't leave this porch. I knock on the door.

Home! I know this place!

No answer. Two minutes. I knock again.

The door opens and a red-eyed twelve year old answers. She's wary of me. There's no light on the porch. All she sees is my silhouette. I take my hood off.

Is this your dog?

My husky friend bounds into the house.

Yes! Duh!

Oh my gosh! You found her! Thanks.

No problem. You might want to get some new tags, hers are kind of worn down.

And I put my hood back up and head back to my car. I make it to the end of the 1000 block.

Hey wait!!!

The twelve year old bounds out of her house and I see green paper in her hand.

Oh no. I hate this. Leave money out of integrity. Or kindness. Actually I don't know what it is that drives me to do these things. I don't want to offend you by refusing but seriously, I'm not going to take it. 

Look, kid, I'm happy to bring your dog back. It's too cold of a night for her to be on the streets. Give the money to Every Creature Counts and someday if you're in a situation to help, don't walk away from it.

This whole incident left me with many questions. 

Is home a place or a feeling? And what makes it so?

Why do people insist on offering money to someone who helps them out? Is that the only way we know how to show gratitude? Has the phrase "thank you" lost its meaning?

Why are some dogs so trusting? And are they always so? 

A Frosty Divergence

Certainty is a peculiar notion. It's something we so desperately covet, yet once acquired, we take it for granted.

From the age of twelve I knew what direction my life was going to take. I completed my list of top ten colleges to apply to before I entered high school, having stayed up many nights carefully examining every school in the Fiske Guide to Colleges. I became obsessed with the idea of college. However, junior year rolled around and I barely made it to my SATs. And senior year came and went without a single application submitted. I didn't even attend prom or graduate with the people I'd grown up with. How did I abandon the dream so completely?

It's funny how certain we are about things sometimes. And sometimes, when those things don't happen, it feels as though a part of us dies. But, as J.M. Barrie said, "To die would be an awfully big adventure." And through the death of ourselves, we connect to a phoenix-like spirit hidden deep within us.

So how did I get here?

I started out instinctively walking into that forest of life, letting my feet lead the way. Then my brain and heart both tried to take over and in the melee, I ended up on an entirely different path. When the battle smoke dissipated, I found myself in a clearing, and blissful as it was, it felt stagnant. Life was meant to move forward. I needed to get out of the clearing, so I built my own trail. It was tough going at first, removing the rocks and trees that stood in my way. Then I learned how to read the landscape and in a way, let the path choose its own course. Certain trees were meant to stand and ended up enhancing the now curvier trail. And sometimes it was better to use the rocks to build stairs, rather than riddling a slope with switchbacks.

Recently, my path intersected with the one I'd followed to the clearing. I'd become so invested in my own path that I was beginning to forget the existence of the original path. But here I was standing on a common ground that felt so unfamiliar. It's perplexing. Do I walk back the way I came? Do I keep blazing a new trail? Do I try my luck again on the original path? And if I do, do I go forwards or backwards and how can I tell the difference?