The Stars At Night...

I had forgotten just how beautiful a clear, cool night in Texas can be. Away from the city lights, the stars and moon illuminate the earth below, and memories of evenings spent staring up at the sky, time spent searching for some peace of mind, come flooding back. I have been wanting to see the stars...really see them...for some time now. For some reason, I find comfort in seeing the vastness of the universe spread out before me.  It reminds me of my own insignificance and all my problems (not at all as bad as it sounds...a little perspective sometimes is a good thing).  It speaks of places yet unseen. And, it makes me marvel at just how impressive the world we live in truly is.

Homeward Bound

I am headed home tomorrow. It sounds strange to say it that way considering I haven't lived at 'home' for over five years. Still, when everyone asked me what I was doing for Christmas, the words came naturally--"I'm going home." At first, I said this with hesitance, perhaps even a bit of dismay. Here I had a perfectly good week of vacation time where I could go anywhere, do anything, and I was heading to the small town of Marion, just outside of San Antonio, Texas, revisiting a past that, if I remember correctly, I was more than eager to leave behind.

As the weeks drew closer and life seemed to be getting more confused and hectic, the sound of home wasn't so bad. My parents are in Texas. My grandpa is in Texas. One of my best friends is in Texas. So is my sister. They alone are worth the trip, right? Quite simply, yes. Because even if I were able to embark on a fantastic trip in some far off land, I would be missing out on time with them, something far more valuable to me than even the greatest trip I could imagine.

Home is complicated for me, which is one of the reasons for my initial hesitance. I have many fond memories of Christmases past, and I have some Christmases I wish I could obliterate from my memory altogether (those were the ones that resulted in yelling, tears, and so much anger). But for the most part, I look back with a great deal of nostalgia.

The festivities always began Christmas Eve, where it was off to church for the Children's Mass (when I was younger, I would be a part of the pageant. As I got older, I acted as a sort of assistant music director). I still go to this Mass, and I still love singing "Silent Night" during communion and belting out "Joy to the World" at the end. After Mass, we would head over to my grandparents and open gifts from them and have dinner. For awhile, we would get things like dolls or tea sets from my grandma. During Christmas, my grandpa was given an allowance, and he would go out and buy jewelry he thought we would like. I still have a lot of that jewelry, many of it still in their original boxes. (He meant well, but his taste is eclectic.) After the gifts had been opened, we would head home and open one gift under the tree, usually the gift from my grandparents here in KC. Then off to bed so Santa could come. We would leave cookies and milk and a few carrots (you cannot forget the reindeer!).

Christmas morning for the first several years was the four of us. Now, it is just me, my mom, and my dad. And while I would be lying if I said the presents weren't important, it was more the small rituals we had on Christmas morning that made a difference. My sister and I would wake up early, but we never bothered waking my parents right away. We would usually take a look in our stockings and asses the presents around the tree, then watch television quietly until a decent hour arrived. My dad would usually be the first up, and he would make up a batch of scrambled eggs (a welcome change to the cereal we were used to). By the time they were ready, my mom would be up, and with painstaking slowness, we would eat. Then it would be time to open our gifts, where inevitably there was some genuine excitement mixed in with the feigned appreciation.

Often, depending on the gifts, my sister and I would change and head outside. (Something I never truly appreciated about Christmas in Texas--more often than not, you did not have to worry about weather getting in your way of enjoying your new toys.) Usually, it was the toys that elicited the most excitement that would be most quickly cast aside, and the present initially overlooked that would bring lasting entertainment. My sister and I often got joint gifts, which meant I spent a good amount of time watching my sister play with it. And yet, I never minded. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was family.

Eventually, we would wander up to my grandparents' place and enjoy Christmas dinner. I cannot recall any of the foods really beyond the sugar cookies that my grandmother, sister, and I (and sometimes my mom) had rolled out and decorated a few days before. They were always in this large plastic Santa cookie jar, that looking back was kind of strange looking. But then again, my Grandma Tanner had a lot of strange Santa things in her house (she collected them), so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. While the adults talked and my sister did her own thing, I would often sneak away to the den, where laid out on the coffee table was the Christmas village.

Made up of houses of all different shapes and sizes, the village was something I enjoyed setting up each year, and when I could, I would make up stories for its residents. Perhaps the strangest thing about the village, though, was the HUGE nativity scene at the end. The manger itself was huge, at least twice as tall as even the biggest house. Mary and Joseph and all the rest were giants, looming over the houses. The wisemen had a few scrapes and bruises (one had an unfortunate accident that deprived him of a hand), and the animals looked a little more worse for wear. Let's just say that triggered the more imaginative (and perhaps blasphemous/irreverent) part of my brain, and it would be safe to say there was never quite another village like that one. And although we have a Christmas village here, it is nothing like the one from Texas. One of the many things I cannot recreate.

After dinner, and after we had exhausted our interest in our new toys, the day would wind down, and we would all settle in to watch either tv or movies. There was never a particular movie...we didn't always watch "It's A Wonderful Life" or "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" or anything. What I do remember is hot chocolate and British comedies. Not sure why that is...

Christmas at home isn't quite like the Christmas of my childhood. Sadly, my Grandma Tanner isn't around to share it with--I haven't made those sugar cookies in years. My sister isn't really around to share my gifts with, and she certainly isn't there to take them away from me so "we" could use them together.  After being harangued by my mom for a few years, Grandpa now gives money instead. I kind of miss the jewelry, to be honest. We still do the hot chocolate and tv/movie thing. A few years back, my father stumbled upon this strange old movie with Rupert the Squirrel  and Jimmy Durante, and we watch that together instead of British comedies. My dad still makes sure to hang the Christmas lights, particularly the star that has been in his family for years. And most years, we have a tree. We may never had a conventional Christmas, but I cannot imagine how they could have been any better.

Writing this reflection helped me realize something. I am fortunate in so many ways. I am grateful to have such fond memories, I am fortunate to have a place to go, a place I WANT to go. And I know that not everyone out there has this opportunity, and for those of you out there, know that I wish you and your loved ones all the best. For those who can be with family, enjoy them. Have fun. Try to overlook the things that make you most frustrated and focus on the good stuff. Wherever you are, whatever you do, may this holiday season be a good one for you, and may you always find a place you can call home.

Something to Smile About

Tonight, I had the most unexpected conversation, and I am still smiling about it. One of my favorite students from my year of teaching messaged me on Facebook, and it was amazing to hear from him for several reasons. First, I never really expected any of my students to reach out to me, particularly since it has been seven years since I taught them. But more importantly than that, I was so very happy to hear that this particular student is only one semester away from graduating from college with a B.A. in Music with plans to pursue an master's in library science soon. 

So, I am not really sure how much I have ever shared about my time at St. Greg's, but a bit of background will help to explain why I find this so exciting. St. Greg's served a special purpose, providing students who had fallen through the cracks a chance at receiving an education that might prepare them for a future after high school. As harsh as it may sound, it was apparent college was not an option for the majority of the students, and even our best students faced a long road to getting into college and finishing a degree.

 During my brief stint there, I did my best to teach English to freshman, sophomores, and juniors without inflicting any permanent damage to their language skills. (To all you teachers out there, I have no idea how you do it. You are amazing!) This particular student was probably the hardest working of all of them, and it showed as he was always one of my top-performing sophomores. His writing was always thoughtful, his contributions to the class always productive. He never missed turning in an assignment, and he never complained. Really, he was a dream student. And while you may think he sounds like a teacher's pet and that he would elicit the ridicule of others, that wasn't really the case. Something about him was so earnest, so honest, that even his peers recognized it. Perhaps it was because his dedication to all things carried through onto the basketball court, where he may not have been the star athlete but was always the one everyone could cheer for. I still remember one game where he was called out to play, and he managed not to make just one basket, but several. Those of us in the stands were on our feet celebrating with him, and his teammates were right there along with us cheering their hearts out. Like all of my students, he was someone special, and to hear what he has accomplished since then is so exciting. 

When we were training for our year of volunteer service, one thing that was drummed into our heads is that in we were planting seeds. It could take years before what we did would ever take root, and even then, the likelihood that we would see it was minimal. Especially being fresh out of college, I was, naively, expecting more immediate results. I quickly learned to scale my expectations back significantly, and in recent years, I hadn't even really thought I would hear from any of my students again. I was content with having done what I could, knowing that I did the best I could.

So, yeah, that flashing bar telling me I had a message on Facebook made my night. It transported me back to that time where I learned so much more than I ever taught. Gosh...my time at St. Greg's really deserves a lot more than a single blog post because it was such a amazing, complex, wonderful experience, where I met some of the most dedicated educators I have known and some of the sweetest, most charming students ever, but there is SO much to share, I never know where to begin. I am so grateful that this student gave me a way to share something about my time there, and I hope that his success is representative of several of my students. He mentioned that one of his classmates (and another one of my sophomores) is studying exercise science at the same university, which is another piece of good news. Now, my curiosity is piqued...I wonder what some of my other students are doing now.

Have you ever had an unexpected conversation like this, one that leaves you happy for the person you just talked with? 

Is It the Weekend Yet?

The one drawback of taking a whirlwind weekend trip where you get little if any sleep is that it eventually catches up with you. It seemed to hit me full-force today. At least that is going to be my excuse for being a little less rational and far more emotional today. If I were to admit that all the stressers at work were finally wearing my defenses down and I was succumbing to all the angers, frustrations, and fears I have been sublimating...well, that would be a sign of weakness, right? And, dang it, I am not weak!

I noticed that I was pretty close to the brink today as I found myself blinking back tears as I made what had to be the fifth Excel spreadsheet to request certain updates for the website, trying to think how poorly I must have communicated the changes the first four times that a fifth request was needed. I realized also that while this particular request would take care of one section of the content on our website, several other areas may have the same errors, so I would have to verify that those, too, hadn't been incorrectly updated. It wasn't as bad as I had feared, but there was a need to create spreadsheet number six.

I apologize if the paragraph above doesn't make a whole lot of sense. To be honest, it makes little sense to me. The way in which I do my job should be much simpler. I am not sure if I am the one who has made it as complicated as it is by 1) not asserting my boundaries or my abilities more clearly or by 2) not having the creativity or insight to think of a better process with the technology/tools we have available. And while I would like to believe that up until this point, I have managed pretty well in my job, I doubt even that. With every update I request, I feel like my grasp on things is slipping. If I were doing my job well, I would be contributing to a positive consumer experience. Instead, I feel like all I do is add noise to the site. 

I occasionally voice some of my frustrations to my very patient and understanding co-workers, but I am not sure I do not convey just how insane this makes me. There are some days I cannot look at the website because I know that the second I lay eyes on it, I will immediately find three things I have done wrong.  Seriously, at the end of a day like today, I am convinced that it would be better for everyone if I walked away, leaving it all behind, maybe taking my around-the-world trip I have been dreaming about for so long...or at least finding a job that I wouldn't screw up so badly.

Am I really as incompetent as I feel today? If I were fair to myself, I would say no. Indeed, I would say that on a good day, I do my job well. My greatest frustration comes from the fact that in NOT doing my job well, I feel as if I am not holding up my part of the business. I am not providing the support to my co-workers that they deserve--this year in particular has been stressful, and despite challenges outside of our control, they have created some amazing product. The last thing I want is to do something that would prevent the consumer from seeing their efforts, and in turn, prevent making that sale. I don't want to contribute to an already stressful situation with my incompetence. 

Will tomorrow be as rough as today? Probably not. I will come in, foolish optimism renewed, thinking that this time, everything will fall into place, and that maybe, just maybe, this time we will all be able to effect some kind of change. Because if I stop trying, then I really will be letting my co-workers down. In truth, we all just need a break. It feels like we have been running on near empty for so long now, that soon we will just stall altogether. (Know that this is probably my projecting onto others...I have never asked them directly how they feel nor do I pretend to speak for them on this. It is just my impression of department morale.)

Of course, maybe all we need will be the between Christmas and New Years. A little over a week, and we all will have a nice, long break from it all, time to spend with family and friends, doing whatever we please. I'll be in Texas, visiting my parents and grandpa, and also seeing a good friend from high school.  That should be a huge help. Until then, I will just count down until tomorrow evening so I can have just two days :)

Good Times

I think most people have a friend in their lives who, no matter what, can make life a lot of fun. She is the friend that helps you forget all your crazy hangups, who encourages you to lower your inhibitions, and who always manages to make even the most mundane things memorable. This weekend, I headed north to Minnesota to visit her (and to celebrate her 30th birthday), and I have had more fun than I have had in ages.

Carrie and I first met during freshman orientation in college. We were in the same freshmen seminar, and while I don't remember all the details about our first real conversation, I swear it had something to do with getting lost in one of the university buildings and trying to navigate our way out. While not the most auspicious way to meet (FYI: getting lost in random places would become a recurring issue for us), it didn't prevent us from becoming good friends. Carrie has the kindest heart, the biggest smile, and the most fun-loving spirit of just about anyone I know. (You can also include smart, talented, funny...) And, most amazing of all, Carrie is one of the few people in this world who can convince me to do crazy things. Nothing dangerous or stupid mind you (well, most of the time), but things that I would never, ever do on my own--dance in public, sing out loud in random places, go to a frat party (okay, this only happened once in college and never again). 

This weekend was no exception. At her party, I didn't stand to the sidelines, an idle observer. Instead,  I jumped in, playing all sorts of Kinect games (I am fairly good at ping-pong, fall flat on my back when trying to long jump, and am absolute rubbish at volleyball).  I think we probably provided the most amusement when Carrie and I played one of the dancing games. Well, Carrie was good at it. I did my best to follow the moves, but that usually meant being about two steps behind and moving as if my muscles were permanently tensed. Still, instead of giving up after the first song, I kept at it, forgetting how absolutely ridiculous I must look and just had fun. After she beat me soundly in our little dance-off, we each grabbed a beer and headed upstairs to chat a while about old times. 

As we sat there just talking, I wondered why we didn't make more time for this kind of thing more often. And while I had first dismissed the idea of even coming--I mean, it is a six hour drive north and heaven forbid I ever do anything to change my routine--I couldn't believe I had ever considered not being there. We are all so busy in our lives that we forget to take that time to nurture our relationships. Life gets in the way, it is inevitable. But sometimes, our priorities get so skewed in the process that we forget that we won't starve if we put of getting groceries for one more day or that the world will not fall apart if you bow out of other obligations every once in a while.  It is a hard habit to break, but doing so can be so very liberating. Carrie has always been the best at reminding me of this, which made it all the harder to leave this morning. I am not only leaving her behind, but it was like I was waving good-bye to the part of myself, the part of myself so few people have a chance to see but I suspect many people would like (probably far better than the part of me that I usually show to everyone else). 

Is it possible not only to miss someone but also the person you are when you are with them? Perhaps it is a sign of great dependency, but I often find this to be the truth in regard to how I relate to my best friends...but perhaps that is best left to explore at a later time.

So Many Reasons

Even as a person more prone to seeing the glass half-empty, I cannot deny that in my life I have been so very fortunate, that on even a bad day, I have so much more going for me than I can even begin to fathom. Beyond the basic necessities (food, clean water, shelter, clothing, etc.), I have so much more than I deserve.

Top on my list is a loving, supporting family. Throughout my life, I have never doubted that my parents were my biggest supporters. While we have encountered some challenging times (and quite frankly, still do), without their trust, encouragement, and guidance, I would not be where I am today. They challenged me to do my best, they allowed me to follow my own path. The taught me the importance of honesty, integrity, and compassion; hard-work, dedication, loyalty. Because of this, I feel free to take trips to places like Kazakhstan. I dare to dream of a life that doesn't fit into any mold. I know that love is the greatest gift we can share. I know that I will always have a place that I can call home.

Now, I have to give credit to a few other members of my family...actually, quite a few. I look back on my childhood and realize that I didn't just have my parents looking after me, but a whole slew of aunts and uncles (even great-aunts and great-uncles), not to mention both sets of my grandparents. We are a weird bunch, one that I often question how it is even possible that we function in the real world, or how we work together for that matter. But, we do. As the majority of us were gathered around the table (sadly, my parents were unable to join us) enjoying a delicious feast prepared by many capable hands, there was no complaining, no whining. No one jockeying for the last bits of dressing or criticizing the quality of the gravy (not that it was in need of criticism). I am so fortunate that the rifts in our family our so few, and I pray that at some point everyone experiences the same sense of love and belonging. To belong to a family with so many whom I would love and respect even if they were not my relatives is rare. For them to treat me as a friend as well is my great fortune.

 

I have to give a special shout out to my grandmother, the one with whom I still live, and my grandfather down in Texas. My dad's mom has the best humor and luckily doesn't take herself too seriously...I think it has allowed her to survive her five sons AND the abuse she receives from her granddaughter. (Considering how many of my co-workers think she spends her days plotting her next liquor store robber, perhaps I am the worst offender)

As for my grandpa in Texas--while I may dream of some fairly ambitious things, he encourages me to take it one step further. Whether he is encouraging me to buy a motorcycle to drive cross-country or to make my way down the Mississippi on a small raft (he promised me he would pay bail any time I was arrested for stealing chickens), my grandpa has always believed I could do anything I wanted...even rule the world..with a little hard work and dedication...and if I became an accountant.

Without my family, I would have never learned what it means to be a friend. And without my friends, I would lead a boring, miserable life. I have such a diverse group of friends that I cannot even begin to describe how each one adds color to my life. I can say this though about each and every person I call my friend. They are intelligent, compassionate, witty, and fun. They all possess beautiful souls and are so incredibly generous and humble. They all in some way help me to be a better version of myself, challenging me to stretch and grow. I often think I take far more than I could ever give, and even in this, they seem not to mind. It gets harder to maintain friendships as you get older, and I admit that some of the people about whom I cared greatly are disappearing into the background. That doesn't lessen my gratitude for them because even those who are a part of my past have given me so much to help me create my future. 

I am thankful for my job. As frustrating and challenging (and occasionally monotonous) as it can be, it is still a company that recognizes the importance of its employees. It recognizes the value of its consumers. It gives generously to local non-profits, promoting education, the arts, the food pantry, and so much more. Even better, I get to work with some of the most creative minds in America. Daily, I am astounded by the genius that surrounds me, particularly my little group of co-workers in our department who never fail to make smile. Goodness knows what it is like to go to work with people you don't care about on a day-to-day basis. I am not sure if I could do that for very long...

And I could go on for so very long with the remaining things I am thankful for, but I will try to make the last few things quick:

• Health
• Financial Stability
• Books (particularly mysteries that keep me up way past my bedtime)
• Libraries
• Bread and Cheese
• The ability to travel just about anywhere I want
• Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (not particularly, but just checking to see if you were paying attention still)
• Wales and all the amazing people with whom I studied while over there (Dw i eisiau mynd i Gymru!)
• Laughter
• My stuffed rabbit
• So many wonderful memories

Okay...that is it. I have run out of steam on this. And I know that this entire post has been one big cliche, I don't care. Because, the truth is I want people to know this. I want my friends to know how much they mean to me. I want my family to know that I recognize just how crucial their love and support has been. And I want the world to see that I am only who I am, at least the very best of who I am, because I have been so very fortunate. 

One of Those Days

Or, maybe one of those weeks...one of those months? I don't want to go so far as to say it has been one of those years, but it has been a bit rough lately. I feel exhausted. You would think having come back from a trip, I wouldn't feel so lethargic, but I find myself struggling to get my head back in the game.

At work, it is hard to reengage. Every day I go through the motions, doing just enough of what is necessary to keep up with what needs to be done, but my mind is floating somewhere off in the clouds. I try hard to focus because the last thing I ever want to do is a bad job, and so far I think I am managing. But, I am noticing small things, details that others may not see, that suggest to me that my grip is loosening, that all I have worked toward is starting to unravel. It makes me angry at myself for losing control, it makes me sad for those whom I may be letting down, and it makes me wonder how much longer I can hold on until things fall apart. Perhaps I have just reached a bit of a slump, that once I make it past this small lapse of attention, the situation will improve and I will feel invested in my work once again. Right now, I am clinging to this notion, that there will be a time where things go more smoothly, that every day doesn't feel like a battle. All that said, I still strongly believe in my partners, the people who make the wonderful product I do my best to categorize, organize, and the like. Without them, their good humor, their passion, I would find it very difficult to find a reason not to walk away.

Family life seems to be following its normal trajectory, currently on one of its downswings, if I were to be honest. My mom is sick again (she was admitted to the hospital on Friday); my sister is still recovering from surgery about a month ago, so she isn't quite back on her feet again. As always, outwardly I seem rather indifferent to it all...when people being in the hospital/getting surgery becomes the norm rather than the exception, I think it is one way to prevent yourself from becoming a perpetual nervous wreck...inside, waves of worry wash over me. There are also mixed emotions of frustration and helplessness. I never know what the right thing to do is any more. When talking with my mother, it sometimes takes all the patience in the world to keep my mouth shut...really, all she wants is for someone to listen and take her seriously. With my sister, I always get off the phone with the distinct impression that all she wants from me is a check that includes at least three zeroes in it. Sadly, sometimes to assuage my ever growing guilt, compliance is the easiest solution. At least until the next time it happens, some three to six months later.

On a positive note, there are lots of good things in my life, too. (Slightly obscured by the not so good.) First and foremost, I am healthy. I am fortunate to have good friends who care about me, even when I keep them at arm's length or longer. I have the time to pursue things I enjoy, whether it be baking cookies, reading a book about art thieves, or researching upcoming travel locales (I am currently debating: South America in February, Italy in late May, or, dare I say it, both?). Despite an increasing sense of despair, the rational side of me knows that I have the power to change it all. While I have no control over what others may do with their lives (and no control over how their decisions may or may not affect me), I can control what I do, and experience has taught me if I the choice I make isn't the best one, it doesn't prevent me from making another choice.

I just need to remind myself this over and over. So, if you pass me by, and I appear to be mumbling incoherently, it is probably me repeating this to myself. Whatever works to get through the rough times, right?

Back From Half Way Around the World

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled what seems like halfway around the world (over 8,000 miles) to Almaty, Kazakhstan. I went to visit my good friend Lauren, someone with whom I have had many grand adventures in the past, be it traversing Cornish bogs or climbing Welsh mountains. And this time around was no exception.

However, our adventures weren't necessarily on the same scale as before, and I think that is why I am just now getting around to writing about them. Kazakhstan is different from anywhere else I have ever traveled, a place not really regarded as a must-see tourist destination. That isn't to say there is not plenty to explore and experience...even just walking around the city was an adventure in some ways. But, there wasn't the typical sense of wonder and awe that have accompanied my past travels. I found this trip challenged me more on an nintellectual level, a truly intercultural experience in which I could barely find my footing. It was daunting coming to a country where visitors are often met with suspicion from the outset, and my normal manner of coping with the situation--a quick smile imbued with the apology for my overwhelming ignorance--was quickly dismissed. For once, I found it easier to get through by maintaining a cloak of indifference, not seeming overly interested in what others around me were doing. While it made it easier to blend in (if given a quick look over, I guess I can pass for someone of Russian descent...one of the more interesting things about Almaty is its mixture of peoples found in the area, a remnant dating as far back as Stalin's rule and his penchant for exiling people to as remote of places as possible), I found it discouraging. I had hoped to have a few more encounters with Kazakhs, to be honest. A naive thought in hindsight.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that everyone was unfriendly...I just found that the people of Almaty were far more reserved from what I am used to, a feeling confirmed by Lauren and the other non-Kazakh people I had the pleasure of meeting in my short time there. It takes time to break down the barriers that you encounter, so a quick five day trip doesn't allow enough time to establish any kind of rapport. And I want to note that there were several people who were friendly to me during the trip, it just was the exception rather than the rule. (One man, Kidur, sticks out in my mind. He is one of the guards at the international school my friend teaches at...we went to the construction site of the new school building, and he was there, smiling the biggest smile I had seen since arriving. It made my day, actually.)

Still, being able to walk the city, visit its parks, its markets gave me a glimpse of everyday life in Kazakhstan. There is an interesting mix of East meets West meets Soviet. (I am not really sure how to categorize the impact that being under Soviet rule has had on Kazakhstan, the country's identity, and its enduring culture.) As part of my exploration, I visited one of their malls. It was populated with several brand name stores found in any of your more upscale shopping centers in the United States, yet it felt like simulacrum of the real thing. Even now, I cannot put my finger on what gave it that feeling of artifice. Indeed, many of the more recent updates to the city feels a bit like that...as if in an effort to make its exterior more appealing to the outsider (which, I believe, is one of President Nazerbaev's goals), instead of building something authentically Kazakh, they have constructed a facade that they believe will appeal to the tourist.

It doesn't take long, though, to get beneath the facade. The moment you step on a bus, you are hit full in the face that this is NOT like any Western country you have ever been in. The more people who can be crammed into a bus, the better. No need to worry about maintaining a respectable amount of personal space...it does not exist. At the same time, if you find your backpack jamming its way into someone else's back just as someone's hand draws precariously close to your face, it is all part of the experience. No one gets angry, it is all just taken in stride. (Try that here and if the bus wasn't pulled over for being overcapacity, I do not doubt that there would be some kind of commuter rage that would spark small fights all over the place.) And, having endured the joys of the bus only to find the place you were going to go has been randomly closed (no warning, no real explanation) clinches it...it makes you want to hike the several miles back through the utilitarian concrete buildings littering the landscape back to your room, where you can close out the dirt and the grime for a little while (but only after taking a ride on an elevator so small, four average-sized adults have to strategically place themselves to fit while maintaining the right balance to prevent it from scraping its way up the shaft). It feels as if there is a blanket of unspoken oppression hovering above the city still. Lauren says that, even after twenty years of freedom, the oppressive force of Soviet rule still permeates and that as a result, few people have hope. While I would not go as far as to say that, I admit that something certainly is lacking, so much so that an outsider like me felt it the first day I was there.

As I write this, I notice that my words seem laced with negativity, and I can only say that comes from my level of discomfort and a little bit of disillusionment. I wasn't sure what to expect, but despite having few preconceived notions, I feel a bit let down. BUT, there is an amazing amount of beauty to be found there. A stroll through President's Park is enough to make anyone gape at its beauty, particularly with the trees blazing in all their fall glory in brilliant shades of gold, the Tien Shan mountains rising in the background. The fountains in this park alone prove a fair rival to those found throughout Kansas City (a mighty feat for those not too familiar with the KC area).  The level of pride expressed in the war memorials found in Paniflov Park resonate with anyone who knows the tragedy of war. The incongruous brightness of the Cathedral found just outside of Paniflov provides a contrast to the seemingly drab surroundings. Driving above the smog-line to be closer to the mountains reveals beauty incomparable, a true gem of natural beauty that few outsiders have ever had the opportunity to see.

I debated for a long time as to how I would answer people when asked what it was like to visit Kazakhstan. I still don't have the best answer. It was not quite what I had expected, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. No, I didn't go traipsing about the mountains or sit down and discuss world politics with the locals over a few shots of vodka. No, I didn't indulge in local foods, haggle at the bazaar, or anything like that. But I did get to witness, observe. I went somewhere that few others have ever thought to go, and I was reminded that what to us may seem so far in the past is still very much a reality for others. Reading about Kazakhstan and experiencing it for myself are two very different realities. And this is yet another reason to travel...it isn't enough to read about somewhere to understand it. The levels of complexity in experiencing somewhere new cannot be captured in words, no matter how skilled a wordsmith you happen to be. It also reinforced the reality that my world view is only one in a multitude and that I really do not know anything. I can travel to every country in the world, read every travel guide, and meet hundreds of people and not seen even a fraction of what is out there. Doesn't mean I won't keep trying though. 

Early Morning Nerves

It is about 4:15 a.m., on my day of departure to Kazakhstan. My bag has been packed and repacked several times in the past 24 hours, I have run through my internal checklist many more times than that, and yet my mind remains restless, certain that there is something I am forgetting. I did get some sleep tonight, a solid three hours. I might be able to sneak in a couple more if I lie down again in a few minutes, but the likelihood of my getting some actual rest is minimal. Still, it is hard to pinpoint what exactly I am nervous about. It isn't so much the act of flying (rarely ever occurs to me that it can be even remotely dangerous). I think I am more worried about moving myself around from place to place--getting to the right plane, having enough time in between, missing connections, the like. All things that are for the most part out of my control. But still I worry. I wouldn't be me if I didn't. 

Still, the more rational part of me recognizes that whatever happens is not going to be the end of the world. I will get where I need to go, even if it may be a bumpy ride to get to that point. I am fairly certain that in a week's time, I will be back here, beginning to document all the exciting adventures I experienced with my friend, Lauren, and I will be planning my next great escape to somewhere just as far-flung as Central Asia. (To be honest, I have already begun doing some of the research to find out where I want to go next.)

Five Years of the Very Best...

Okay, so perhaps not the best play on words with this post's title (there is a reason I am not employed as a writer or editor), but I must admit that five years into my career at Hallmark, I am reminded just how fortunate I have been. Considering how when I submitted my resume all those years ago, I never thought I would get a call back let alone a job, I have done pretty well. Fate, fortune, or something like that seems to have conspired in my favor, allowing me to move from an on-call position to a permanent, full-time job that allows me to work with some of the most intelligent, talented people I have ever met. They also happen to be some of the funniest and kindest, too. If I could, I would describe what it is I do, but I have learned from past experiences, trying to explain the strange alchemy of metadata, Excel spreadsheets, and Hallmark.com often results in my audience falling into a trance from which it is hard to rouse them. Best not ask for details, and just know that I have been reassured numerous times that whatever it is I do is working, and since nothing has imploded, exploded, or failed miserably, I will go along with this assessment.

But really, I do not want to talk about me or my specific job. Instead, I wanted to shine a light on my awesome co-workers who made me feel like what I do matters and, more importantly, that perhaps I matter. (Yes, my insecurities run that deep. I came into my current position completely overwhelmed, and it has taken me about two and a half years even to think that I have a grasp on what I am doing...and it has taken me almost as long to get to know my co-workers better. If I were to be honest, they still intimidate me a bit. Not in a bad way--it is more like the kind of awe one experience's when encountering someone who seems to know anything and everything...but I digress.) So, anyway, there was a little party to celebrate my anniversary. I had requested cupcakes and celebration that was to be low-key. I am not one for much attention, and I was freaking out even thinking about having to stand in front of the cupcakes as my manager Jen handed me the Crown pin and card. I kept telling myself that people were coming for cupcakes and cupcakes alone. Still, it was nice to see my friends from my old department as well as those from my current department gather round, chatting with one another. When the moment came, there was no speech, no embarrassing spotlight placed directly on me. Instead, Jen simply handed me an envelope with a completely different kind of surprise.

Inside there was a passport, filled with warm wishes and pictures of my travels with my co-workers superimposed onto some of my favorite memories. It was amazing. I stared at it in shock and found myself blinking back tears. Even now, I do not know if I have conveyed to my co-workers why this gift was so touching. It isn't just the fact that it is an awesome idea that does a good job to reflect my personal interests, but that they took the time to think of something so perfect and then took the time to mock it up, adding their personal touches wherever they could.  That they would take the time to do this for ME is more than I can fathom. I am not used to having something like that done for me, (I can only think of one other time, and to this day I am embarrassed by how I reacted to that...but that can wait until another blog post) and since I had thought I had done everything possible to become one with the background while at work, that my friends at work still noticed blew me away. I meant it when I said that the best part of coming to work each day is my co-workers.

Throughout the day, I had several others congratulate me and tell me what a good job I do, some of whom I would never have thought noticed what I do. While I cannot vouch for the actual veracity of their statements (I try my best, I really do...but I cannot help but wonder what I can do better), I can say that it made me feel like I belonged. And, to be honest, that is often something I long for. Probably something we all long for. I just wish that I had been better able to capture what it meant to me in this post...sadly, this long rambling missive does a poor job conveying what I wish it could. I don't know why I have had this opportunity to work with the very best (tying in the title yet again), but I am grateful for the opportunity, and no matter where the next five years take me, these five years have meant a lot to me.

One Rabbit's Journey

It was Easter, twenty-two years ago, that I received the best present from my Grandma & Grandpa Tanner.  At the time, I am sure they did not realize what significance this small stuffed animal would acquire over the next two decades, and to be honest, I do not think my six-year-old self could have fathomed the many things she would be a part of. Back then, she just happened to be an adorable gray bunny dressed in a pink shirt and denim overalls, complete with a small hole for her faux-cotton tail. I fell in love instantly, and Peta became a constant presence in my life. 

I was a strange child, as many of us undoubtedly were, and as such, I needed to create a back story for my new friend. Looking to her attire for inspiration, I noticed that emblazoned on her shirt was the word Greatland (at the time, the store brand from Target). In one of my more fanciful throes of imagination,  I decided that this was name of her home planet. The planet itself was not all that exciting, one filled with animals of all kinds of crazy colors (my pink cat...aptly named Pinkie...also hailed from Greatland). Peta was a prominent leader there, but her insatiable curiosity led her to explore other lands, and she eventually found her way to me. I felt lucky that she stayed with me for so long. She would go on to own a restaurant, lead a few coups, and star in a few of my clumsy childhood stories. She had her own voice (which sounded oddly like mine, but with a higher pitch and a bit of a quaver) and often engaged in conversation with my other stuffed animals. To their credit, my parents and sister were quite indulgent in all this, never discouraging me from creating this exotic, sprawling fantasy world.

More importantly though, Peta has stuck by my side through some pretty difficult times. Whether it was a debilitating migraine (of which I had more than my fair share even at the age of six), recovering from sinus surgery, or even when trying to cope with things I couldn't quite grasp at the time (my mother's injuries/disability, my sister's emotional issues, etc.), I had her for comfort. When I felt so sick, just having her in my arms made me feel one hundred times better. Holding her in my arms while I cried made it a bit easier to gain perspective, to take control of my emotions and move on. And it is clear that I turned to her more often than I can ever quantify. Her once lustrous coat is now worn away to the point that she looks almost bald. There has been more than one occasion when her left ear has required surgery, and her glassy black eyes now have cataracts. In all honesty, I am surprised that she hadn't met the fate of the Velveteen rabbit considering how many germs she has come in contact with over the years...thank goodness my parents would have never done that and had deemed a couple hours in the dryer on high heat would suffice.

As I grew older, I turned to Peta less and less. She still was (and is) a constant presence in my room, staying on my bed throughout high school traveling with me pretty much everywhere.  However, I was beginning to feel slightly silly to be so old and still have a stuffed animal with me. She became less of a companion and more of a symbol of my past. She reminded me of my grandparents, my childhood. No matter where I went, as long as she came with me, I had a small piece of home. And for me, that is something I have never outgrown. Despite how conflicted I can feel about Texas, it shaped me more than I can say, and Peta is a good reminder of that.

What is really interesting is how Peta has become an integral part of my family's bigger story. My Grandma Hayes bonded with her over the course of a few years (she is not the one who gave me the rabbit), and in a way that only family can, we have decided that Peta has grown into a bit of a troublemaker. My parents go along with it as do several of my aunts and uncles. My Grandpa Tanner (who gave me Peta in the first place) still asks about what she is up to lately.  As I have grown and evolved, so too has the rabbit. Where once she was a source of comfort and support, she has become a bit wild. No longer burdened with the responsibility of easing the emotional woes of a young girl, Peta has embraced life, and her antics have become notorious. Something broken in the house? Peta did it. Empty cans of beer or bottles of liquor strewn about the house? The rabbit did it.  String of robberies throughout the city? She was the mastermind.  Are we nuts?  Perhaps, but only in the way that all families have their idiosyncrasies, right?

One Wild Night

Anyway, my Grandma Hayes is the one who suggested I started taking pictures of her when I travel (you can check more of them out on my facebook page...more pictures to come in a few weeks after we visit Kazakhstan). At first, I was embarrassed to carry a bunny around my backpack and pull her out in front of large crowds of locals and tourists alike. My friend Lauren helped me through this with her enthusiasm for the idea.  It was this that made me realize why there is no reason to be ashamed of it. Yes, I am twenty-nine, and I still have a stuffed animal. So what? I also have lots of fun memories and great pictures. And for those willing to listen, a great story that remains unfinished.

Crater Lake -- Me: Age 25, Peta: Age 19. She looks a little worse for the wear.

Landmark Booksellers

Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the baptism of my best friend's second daughter, Anna. I had been fortunate enough to have attended the baptism of Anna's older sister, Becca, almost four years ago, so it was nice to continue this tradition. I was happy to spend the time with my friend and her and her husband's family, and I was glad to share a celebratory brunch with them all. Still, several hours of this left me drained, and as we departed the restaurant, I knew I needed some time to refresh. (I also wanted to ensure they had plenty of family time together because I know how very important that stuff can be.)

It was rainy that afternoon, the kind of downpour that encourages one to stay inside, curled up with a good book. When, however, all that awaits you is a serviceable but sterile hotel room, exploring in the rain doesn't seem so bad. Luckily, I had an idea in mind. 

In preparing for my visit to Tennessee, I had done some research on Franklin (the town south of Nashville where my friends live), and the one website I kept returning to was one for an independent bookshop, run from a gorgeous older house on the main street of the historic downtown area. Like libraries, bookstores cast a spell over me, luring me in and making it very hard to leave without something new in my hand. This store in particular, though, was imbued with a special sort of charm, no doubt one reflective of the owner.

My arrival was announced by the jingling of the bell above the door. The owner immediately greeted me, an older gentleman with broad smile on his face and a welcome drizzled with the honeyed-accent of the South. He explained the layout of the place and then left me to explore on my own. 

It was strange at first, wandering through the rooms of this old house. It was definitely a far more intimate experience than one ever feels at even the nicest of large bookstores. Each room held books for a particular genre, and in each room, there were a few places to sit and browse through the massive collection available. I imagine if I ever leave my book lust unchecked, my house would look very much like this. Bookshelves covered just about every inch of wall space (outside of the bathroom, which had its own unique decor). The books that filled the shelves were not the standard mass paperbacks found in your local Target. They were first editions, signed copies, books with their own histories beyond the ones captured between their covers.

If I may indulge a bit of a Romantic notion, this place reminded me why a complete shift toward digital books would be a huge loss for society. Not so much that the stories of each book will be lost, but the stories that are often shared with the book. How can you tell how well-loved a particular book is if you do not have the worn, tattered cover and dog-eared pages? How can you replicate that strange connection between you and a previous owner when exploring his marginalia? How can you ignore just how powerful it is to be in a room filled with books, books that hold within their covers promises of knowledge, adventure, love, life? Sigh...

(Stepping off my soapbox now.) I slowly made my way through each room, browsing the different titles, not really looking to buy anything but to get a feel for what was there. When I finally made my way back to the front of the store, I had to compliment the owner on the store. I asked him about what compelled him to begin this business, particularly with the challenges facing independent bookstores. Quite simply, it boiled down to his and his wife's love for books and their desire to do something together. For the next ten or so minutes, we shared our mutual affection for what books are and how integral they have been in our lives. Both of us had an older relative who encouraged our reading from a young age and both of us saw that a book is more than just a physical object. He shared with me a few of his favorite books--an entire section dedicated to books about books and bookselling...there were a lot, and many of them looked like an interesting read. I had to settle on just one.

I had to ask how the current trends in the economy in general (a shift to the internet commerce) and how digital technology are affecting the store. He admitted an uncertainty about how long he and his wife can keep the business running, but while there was a tinge of disappointment, there was not rancor in his words. He expressed a level admiration for how digital books will transform the industry and seemed intent on embracing it as well. And he found some silver linings--fewer trees being cut down, information made more widely available in no time at all. The part of me that desires instant gratification finds this appealing, but it still saddens me that some of what makes books what they are is fading away. 

In a world that is increasingly becoming digitized, I find comfort in the physical. The ability to hold a book in my hands, to flip through a few pages, or to start reading wherever I choose are pleasures, as simple as they may be, that I enjoy when at the library or bookstore. Thankfully, we are still several years away from a completely digital world, I am sure. And until then, I will enjoy the joy of discovering places like Landmark Booksellers, where those who still believe in the magic of books can share their love and make memories that imbue said books with even more value.

Nashville

The past week, I had been counting down the days. Not only was there a three-day weekend on the horizon, but I was heading southeast to visit my best friend and her family in Nashville. It also happened that this was the weekend her second daughter was to be baptized, so I had the privilege of sharing that with her and her family. But all the flurry of activity did not prevent me from having some time to explore the city, and while it was a cursory tour at best, I definitely was impressed by the rich mix of history and culture to be found in Music City.

Were you aware that in Nashville, you can stroll along in a park only to find, looming before you, an exact replica of the Parthenon? Built for a world exhibition at the end of the 19^th century, this homage to Ancient Greek culture dominates the beautiful landscape of Centennial Park. The park grounds are simple but lovely, and I would have stayed a little longer if it were not so oppressively hot. Summer still has its claws firmly in place here (while I hear that in Kansas City, fall is making a quiet entrance), and there is nothing that puts a damper on my adventurous spirit than excessive heat and humidity.

Still, not being completely dissuaded, I headed further into the heart of Nashville, looking to explore a bit of the city center while having my heart set on one destination in particular—Nashville’s downtown library. I had not read anything in particular that made me seek it out, but noticing it on my map, I felt drawn to find it. And, eventually, I did.  However, the directions I had received from Google Maps had failed to take into consideration the fact that a good number of roads were shut down for some kind of festival over the Labor Day weekend. Being at a disadvantage already for not really knowing where I was going, I found myself circling around blocks a few times through, stopping once when I happened upon the Farmer’s Market. (It has nice facilities and some intriguing permanent stores, but I would argue City Market in KC offers more variety of goods and produce. Still, I was able to sample some delicious sour dough bread and some decadent chocolate peanut butter cheesecake. Cannot complain about that!) Eventually, I inadvertently stumbled upon my destination, only recognizable by the sculpture of a stack of books in front of this massive neoclassical building.

Nashville Public Library

My endeavors were worth the effort. From the copper engravings on the front doors to the enormous, airy atrium that greets you upon entry to the three jam-packed floors, I was enthralled. I took my time walking the stacks on each floor, observing the layout, the services offered and the like. Part of this is a professional hazard. More of it, though, was just this sense of appreciation for a space where people can come to read, research, relax even. The number of windows, facing all sides of Nashville’s downtown area, added to the beauty of the surroundings, instilling it with a certain character and charm that helped soften the imposing elegance of its particular architectural style.

While the books were my initial draw, I also discovered that the library has several of its own little art galleries. The one I walked through was a collection of portraits featuring those arrested during the Civil Rights era, the backgrounds of the portraits dotted with ephemera from the era capturing their supposed crimes. Each work seemed imbued with a sense of strength, beauty and sadness. The history of Nashville had not made an impression on me until then, and yet I know  so much more waits to be uncovered. It will be those things I explore on my next visit, when there is a little less chaos and a little more time. 

Cymru

In my last post, I mentioned the waves of nostalgia that wash over me this time of year. When I noticed the date today, I realized that it was on this day nine years ago I arrived in Heathrow Airport for the first time. The memory of the trip over itself is a blur. I vaguely recall leaving behind a hot Texas summer, a short layover at O'Hare, and a long flight where sleep proved evasive. All around, I heard variations of the English accent I had so much loved, and that alone was enough to make me smile. However, it took me asking the passport control agent three times to repeat herself before I could answer her questions (her accent was quite thick, and my head was a bit fuzzy from the lack of sleep). Still, once that little hiccup was resolved, I collected my two suitcases (I would argue that since then, I have managed to fit all my necessary possessions in two suitcases or less), and I spilled out into the arrivals area. (I'll try to keep my asides to a minimum, but I have to say watching the opening scene of Love Actually always reminds me of my second trip to Heathrow, when I wasn't emerging a complete stranger actually had a couple of friends there to greet me. I'll save the harrowing trip I took to get to Wales for the spring semester, but all the struggles, worries, and frustrations were immediately erased by smiling, familiar faces.)

Back to the initial arrival: Since everyone was arriving at different times throughout the morning, the bus that was to take me and my fellow study abroad students to Wales wasn't scheduled to leave until 12:00. It was only a little after 6:00 when I arrived. Having two large suitcases made exploration a bit tricky (I was on my own at this point, so no one to watch my bags), and I was little more than concerned about how easy it would be to find the others.  The novelty of being in England was waning, and I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I needn't have worried, as a couple hours later, I saw a familiar red object in the air. It was the folder each student had been mailed weeks earlier in preparation for their time abroad. Even more surprising, the folder was in the hands of an acquaintance from my home institution (Greg, who I had met a few times through campus ministry and through my friend Matt...Greg played quite an interesting role in a surprise birthday party now that I think about it. I forgave him that, though...). I quickly moved toward him, relieved to see a familiar face. Soon, there were lots of us, exchanging life histories, travel plans, and the like. I didn't know at the time how much an impact these people would have on my life, but the newness of it all renewed my enthusiasm, and I couldn't wait to get out of the airport and explore.

My fellow travelers, St. Govan's Head

Still, there was a three plus hour bus ride west to take us to Carmarthen (Caerfyrddin in Welsh, which translastes to 'fort of Merlin'), and we had yet to meet the man who would become our intrepid leader on so many adventures. Indeed, we would have to wait longer, as it was his trusty sidekick, Mike, who met us at the airport and directed us to our coach. Our bus driver (whose name alludes me at the moment, which aggravates me!) was a bit gruff, and I admit, if I thought the accents I encountered at passport control were difficult to comprehend, I hadn't been prepared to deal with the Welsh accent. Still, we were able to load up and get on the road in no time at all.  

My eyes remained glued to the window for much of the journey to the place I would call home for the next few months (I had come to Wales intending only to stay for the fall semester), marveling at the lush greenery, rolling hills, and how everything was just so British. I will admit that when I had signed up for my semester in Wales, it wasn't my first choice of country, but it was by far the best deal. I first saw it as an entry point to explore England and Ireland and the rest of Europe. Little did I know then how deeply it would permeate into my soul.

Most everyone else quickly fell asleep, letting the exhaustion from hours of travel to overcome them, but I couldn't sleep if I tried. In a bout of inquisitiveness not usually of my nature, I asked Mike all of the questions that came to mind, probably trying his patience more than was fair of me to do. Still, I wanted to know as much as I could about what I was seeing, where I was going, and anything else I could learn. (I had already read all of the recommended reading, so I wasn't completely ignorant, but as Mike was an American who had done the same program years earlier and was living in Wales while getting his masters, I figured he would have a lot more insight that one could not glean from a book). As I watched the scenery pass before my eyes, I could not wipe the smile off my face, not knowing how to if I tried. I was making a dream come true, and the elation I felt could not be dimmed for anything.

We finally arrived on campus after having picked up the few students (one of whom, Ginny, was celebrating her birthday, so a shout out to her today) who had opted to do a home stay. The campus was small, even smaller than TLU. It was a good mile away from the town center, on top of a hill (this would make for many a long trek back when coming back from the grocery store or getting caught in the rain). We were given keys to our rooms, told to take some time to unpack and explore, and then given the option to have a welcome drink at one of the many pubs in town, Dri Eog (Three Salmon). There isn't much more to say. I enjoyed the evening, getting to know the others while nursing a Diet Coke (while only 20 at the time, the legal age is 18, but I still felt a little weird about the whole alcohol thing...). I vaguely recall wondering how we managed to get back to the college without getting lost on the winding streets (not the last time I would find myself wondering this, either), and I couldn't recall having ever felt so tired (I was running on about two hours of sleep for a forty-eight hour period, which leads to a little haziness even in the best of us, I think). But I was in Wales, and I would never be the same.

Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me reflect on memories of old. Actually, I am fairly certain it has something very much to do with the beginning of a new school year...even though I have been out of academia now for two years (since finishing my masters), I still find myself feeling that the end of August/beginning of September is meant to be a time of new experiences, transitions, change, but feeling the distinct absence of change, I look to the past to remember what all I have done.

It was around this time eleven years ago that I officially became a TLU Bulldog (complete with an orientation that mercilessly had on repeat "Who Let the Dogs Out"...there were some things I could have done without!). While there, I would meet my best friends, encounter great professors, and refine my interests, perspectives and principles. I also learned just how far a metal slinky would stretch before it would no longer retain its springy shape (about the length of a dorm hallway, if I remember correctly), how not to argue for the defense during a mock trial (it is not encouraged to make your 'jury' run up seven flights of stairs to prove a point), and how to avoid going camping with honors students at all costs (intelligence and practical knowledge are not always guaranteed to show up together). 

About halfway through my time at TLU, nine years ago, I found myself hopping on a plane to London, convinced that a semester in Wales would sate my ever-growing wanderlust. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh at such naive thought--that one semester would ever be enough to 'see the world'. I embraced the experience, forging fast friendships and throwing myself into what it meant to be an American abroad. Within three weeks of immersion in the land of missing vowels (tell me how you would pronounce the following: twydd, gwlyb, heddiw), I knew one semester wasn't going to do it. (I distinctly remember being on a train from Munich to Wurtzburg in Germany, watching the Alps zoom past, when it struck me that I couldn't go back to TLU that January. I blame this revelation for making the mistake of my travel companions and me getting off at Wurtzburg South. Note to future travelers--they are NOT the same place.) Good thing I stayed, otherwise I would have never had the chance to get hopelessly lost in a Cornish bog, sing in a Welsh choir, or make a brief cameo on the local television news (it was a walk on role, and really, my friend Lauren hogged the spotlight...). I became a much more confident, independent person during my time abroad, and I often think if I had a chance to revisit any part of my life, this would be it.

Seven years ago, I moved to Chicago for a year of volunteer service with Amate House. Having packed all I would need for the next year in two large suitcases and an overly-stuffed carry-on, I boarded my one-way flight to Midway, and I began my life in a convent with eight other volunteers. Not that I was a nun. Or any of the other volunteers for that matter. Far, far from it.  Nuns did live above us though.  My housemates taught me so much about what it meant to be socially aware, passionate, loving. While there were times I hated living in community just for its occasional claustrophobic grip, I couldn't have made it without each of my housemates. Their humor, their compassion, their love. I miss them more than I know, really, but in many ways, I know that they all are making a huge difference wherever they are today, and seriously, I am not sure how I ever got to be a part of such a wonderful group.

Beyond the interesting living quarters, my time with Amate House was perhaps the most formative in learning how different life can be for those who did not have the benefits and privileges I had growing up.  I taught English to high school freshmen, sophomores, and juniors during my time there. I was in over my head in not knowing how to control my classroom or be an effective teacher, and it was the first time I had ever been confronted with a challenge far bigger than I could handle. That didn't stop me from loving my students dearly and pushing myself constantly to do the best I could do for them. I learned just how difficult a career teaching is...that the good teachers out there share not only their knowledge but their hearts, their energy, their time...everything, really. But there was something about the community at St. Greg's that was more like a family. I never missed a boys' home basketball game. I helped out with the girls' softball team. Thinking back to my students, I cannot help but smile. By now, all of my students should have graduated from high school, and hopefully, some of them were able to attend college. I started out my year with the intent of changing the world through my students, and brashly dismissed the idea of planting a seed--I was going to do so much more than that. But as is always the case in these situations, I probably came out the better. 

And just like that, I have already written so much, and I have barely scratched the surface of these memories. I should stop now, lest this post become even longer. One day, I will come back, flesh out some of the more entertaining memories (for those of you who have been part of the journey all along, you will find I am repeating myself, I am sure).  But until then, what do you think of this time of year? Were you like me, excited by the prospect of new classes, new friends, new experiences? Or did you want the summer to linger that little bit longer?  What are some of your fondest memories, the ones you revisit time and again?

Doormat

There are some days that I swear if one were to look up the definition for "pushover," there would be picture of me as an example. I have the most difficult time saying no to certain requests that I would rather avoid. I often acquiesce to the desires of others over my own because previous experience has proven that is the path of least resistance. The few times I have taken a stand, the results were rather embarrassing and not at all effective in changing the outcome.  By now, I am so used either to being taken for granted when needed or overlooked when no longer useful, that I tend to take it in stride. However, as I get older, I admit that it really shouldn't be like this. Still, old habits die hard...and I am not sure if I am anywhere near changing this.

I began thinking a bit about this as a result of what happened last Wednesday. About a month ago, I made a long-deferred doctor's appointment with a new physician (my previous one having moved away -- just as the one before him had done).  When it finally rolled around, I made arrangements for time away from work, mustered the motivation to go in the first place (I loathe going to the doctors having spent too much time in their company as a child), and  arrived the designated fifteen minutes prior to the appointment.  Almost immediately after handing over my insurance card, I found myself shuttled over to the scheduler. My appointment had been "bumped." In an apparent 'oversight,' I had not been informed of said cancellation. The next available appointment for this particular doctor was not for another month. Stunned by the sheer frustration I felt, I accepted without much thought.

If I had been able to articulate what was running through my mind, I would have questioned how I had not been made aware of this before dragging myself away from work. I would have asked why there wasn't anything available sooner considering I had already been waiting for over a month for this particular appointment. (While it was meant to be a routine checkup, I had also been hoping to discuss the headaches that have been pretty much plaguing me every day this summer.) I would have made it very clear that it was unacceptable not to communicate cancellations like this considering how many arrangements sometimes need to be made to free a couple of hours during the day (I am lucky in that I have a manager who is flexible about such things and I do not have anyone dependent on me for their care). I would have...I don't know...demanded justice or at least an acknowledgement that they screwed up. Basically, I would have done everything BUT what I actually did--meekly accepting the proffered appointment with an uncalled level of gratitude, doing my best to mask my frustration and confusion. I barely managed not to storm out of the office and kept myself from crying.

When I got back from my fruitless little trip, I bent the ears of two very kind friends at work pointing out the injustice of it all. But really, I wasn't frustrated with the doctor's office. I was mad at myself for not taking control of the situation. There were better options available to me at the time, yet I couldn't find the words to say or do anything, and because I never like to act out of emotion, I just let it happen. A recurring theme in my life sadly--where I sit back and let things just happen. While there are clear instances of when I have mustered the strength to do what I want, most times, I just go where someone else points, doing what I am told. It happens all the time with my family and it happens on occasion at work. I do as I am asked because I know nothing better, and really, I seem to work best doing what others tell me to do.

Has my life been adversely affected by this path? Not particularly as far as I can see. However, if I don't start looking out for my own interests, my own passions, they will get further lost as they are subordinated to the whims of others. But how does one truly go about that? I guess my reticence comes with walking that fine line between assertive and arrogant as well as the line between the line between supportive and submissive. I don't want to come across as arrogant or rude or selfish, but I am sick of feeling powerless especially since I am the one who has put myself in that position. Perhaps I just need to find the one thing about which I will not compromise...maybe that will help. But until then, a doormat I will probably remain.

(Just as a quick author's note--there is some exaggeration here. I am fortunate to have friends, family, and co-workers who do not exploit this weakness of mine. And while it does happen that I feel used or taken for granted on occasion within those groups, it is often a matter of my perception mixed with a negative mood...no fault on the parts of others.)

Dusting Off the Cobwebs

It has been a couple of weeks since my last post, and for once, it wasn't so much from a lack of material but rather from a lack of focus. There have been several potential posts swirling around my mind, from discussing my culinary adventures with my cousin Patrick (age 11) to celebrating the recent baby boom among my friends (two of my best friends had daughters within 8 days of each other...factor in about five other babies born during that week, and it makes me wonder what was in the water last September) to acknowledging (begrudgingly) my 29th birthday. Yet, every time I sat down to type something up, there was a distinct lack of coherence.

So, here is an attempt to dust off the cobwebs in my mind and from this blog :)  I won't get to everything to day (I am not that cruel), but at least there will be something new for you all to enjoy. First up--Patrick and his pie.

Patrick was born 11 years ago, a mere three days before my 18th birthday. I had been anxious for him to arrive as he was the first child for my Uncle Chris and Aunt Susan, people who I am so fortunate to have as friends as well as family and who had provided a great deal of support and encouragement as I grew up. I didn't get to meet him right away (I was in Texas still), but receiving new photos of him or hearing about his exploits were always welcome, and no doubt, all of my friends in college heard more than they ever wanted to know about this brilliant, adorable child. (He is the child who used "beverage" instead of drink at age 2, the one who instructed his kindergarten teacher on several topics, including how to distinguish between different types of insects. It's scary how smart he can be, but we have to remember not to tell him that too often, lest he get an even bigger head than he already has--he is a bit of a know-it-all.)

Fast-forward to last week, where this still brilliant (but admittedly less adorable) boy asked me to show him how to make pie crust again. (He is entering the phase where sarcasm and snark make up much of his vocabulary...nowhere near as charming as he was several years ago) He also mentioned wanting to learn how to make bread of some kind. With this in mind, I suggested that we attempt pizza dough as well as pie crust. Plan in mind, we scheduled some time to make the dough and crust with a long-term plan of using both to prepare a meal for our family as a way to celebrate both of our birthdays.

During our two sessions (the dough and crust making & then the creation of calzones and apple pie using the previous session's efforts), I was reminded that it isn't easy teaching someone else how to cook, especially if you are as impatient as I. There were several times I had to bite my tongue to prevent my criticisms from coming out as I watched Patrick measure and mix, knead and flatten. While frustrating, it was also endearing to watch him, seeing the way in which his unpracticed hands couldn't quite get the kneading motion down or the awkward way in which he grasped the spatula as he tried to fold ingredients together in a rather graceless manner. Things are a bit more challenging at 11, and I am sure that I, too, displayed that level of clumsiness in my first cooking endeavors.

I also learned that sometimes, cooking/baking is as much an art as it is a science. Trying to explain to Patrick how you know when the dough has been kneaded enough, whether or not the timer has reached the cookbook-suggested 10 minutes, or how the pie dough is supposed to look when the butter has been cut in properly wasn't easy. These are things I have just learned to recognize over time, and being asked to quantify it perplexed me. How does one explain that recipes are often just guidelines, that you learn and adapt as you go along? That cookbooks are not always the end-all authority.

These are things that really one can only impart by allowing another to observe. Patrick isn't quite at that stage yet, but I hope that he wants to continue learning, and I hope that he allows me to work with him in the future.  Because, seriously, when everything finally did come together, we put on one heck of a meal.

The chef proudly displaying his creations.

The first piece of birthday pie

The calzones were delicious (we offered cheese and pepperoni/sausage varieties), and the pie phenomenal. I don't think I have ever tasted a better homemade apple pie (I am old school and made him prepare the filling himself. With my grandma's help, he peeled and sliced the apples, cooked them down and then added them to the prepared dough.)! I am fairly certain everyone left our little dinner party pretty satisfied.

In the Details

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if (God forbid) one day you were found lost without any clear form of identification, unable to say who you were or where you were from?  If the only hope of figuring out who you are came from the possessions you carried with you? For some strange reason, I find myself doing this on occasion, and while I admit it is a bit narcissistic to dwell so much on myself (should these solipsistic exercises really seem so shocking?), it is interesting to think about how I have decided to construct myself every day. 

I always start to think about the few things that are always there. What would they think about the ring on my left hand, encircling my middle finger? A band of seven cherubs, all of whose features are no longer distinct through years of wear. Would they discover that it was a gift from a high school friend, someone who saw me as a better person than I ever was? That I wore it to remind myself that in spite of all my self-doubt and insecurities, there were people out there who truly cared and who really did think I was a good person. That sometimes, I thought through wearing it, I could actually live up to those perceptions and be a better person; to act as a guardian angel for others, guiding and supporting when they most need it. As the years wore on, I let this friend down, probably numerous times. And while the distance has become significant, the memories are still very important. 

On the other hand, a Claddagh ring, a souvenir from my second trip to Galway, bought in a tiny jewelry shop just off the path from the open market. The small hands hold not only a heart, but hundreds of memories of a year abroad. Bike rides, long hikes, walks in the rain. Nights at the pub, the frenetic pace of the disco, the mornings after. Different language, different culture, a world apart. A time of growth and discovery and a time of challenges and frustration.  It is worn with the heart facing out, according to tradition, to indicate the heart is still free. In all honesty, purchased with the hope that one day it would face inward. (There was a particular man in mind at the time of purchase, but as the years have elapsed, he is not much more than a shadow, and while his influence is still there, it is more the idea of him that I cling to than the actual person. Ah...unrequited love; a power stronger than many of us can honestly fathom for something that is mainly generated in the mind.) Almost ten years later, the heart is still free, and no real sight to that changing.

The only other piece of jewelry (if you can call it that) is a simple watch. The date is perpetually set to the 26th. Something with the mechanism broke within a year of buying it. However, it still manages to keep the time, and really that is all that matters. The watch may seem a bit of an anachronism for someone my age, an outdated piece of technology replaced by the ubiquity of cell phones and their precise, satellite-driven time. Indeed, the lack of a cell phone on my person would probably seem strange. What 20-something (okay, almost 30-something) does not have a cell phone somewhere within hands' reach? I own it out of necessity, but I rarely, if ever, carry it with me. It sits forgotten most days, ringer on silent, hidden in the bowels of whatever purse or bag I have used for the day. You would not learn a whole lot from it. There wouldn't be any incoming call history (no one ever calls the phone) to check, and the outgoing calls would list only one number, a number with a Texas area code that hasn't changed in over 28 years and will always be, in some way, home.

Moving beyond the simple accessories, a quick assessment would show a woman of inexpensive tastes. On any given day, you will find me wearing at least one article of clothing from Target (if not the entire ensemble), supplemented by pieces picked up here or there on clearance from other major discount chain retailers. The style is basic--vaguely professional in that what is worn is a step up from jeans and a t-shirt, but nothing that calls attention to itself either. Colors tend to be neutral, cuts classic. It is possible that some of the dresses are a bit more feminine, but never really blatantly 'girly.' The shoes will most likely be a pair of flats, worn down from excessive use and long, drawn out walks during lunch. I don't bother with make up, and my hair is allowed to do whatever it feels. While I do care what others think about my appearance as much as I don't want to be dismissed as slovenly or tasteless, I don't make much more of an effort than that. If it's clean, matches, and comfortable, then it will suffice.

The Travel Bug

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I received my new passport in the mail. Little did I know that flipping through its clean, crisp pages would get me thinking about my next big adventure. Surely, having just come back from Croatia, there was no need to jump on a plane for another trans-Atlantic flight. Besides, over Labor Day, I am heading to Nashville. Shouldn't that quash any need to venture far and away?

But staring at those blank pages felt like a challenge to begin filling them again. My last passport (which I received in the mail yesterday, holes punched in each corner) had stamps from all over Europe--England, Germany, Italy, and Greece just to name a few. While not completely full, it still reflected the great adventures I have taken these past ten years, and it made me wonder how will I begin these next ten years of exploration. If I had been my normal practical self, I would have put my passport away until next year. But the urge to go somewhere soon gnawed away at my mind these past couple of weeks. Add to that conversations with my good friend Lauren (my most dependable travel companion), and a destination became clear. Perhaps a bit unorthodox in nature, and clearly not high on the list of must-sees on anyone's list. But, in a lot of ways that makes it all the more appealing. I admit I would have never gone here if Lauren wasn't currently teaching there, but that is what makes this perhaps my most adventurous trip yet. Sick of me not naming the country yet? Wait no longer...in late October, I will be hopping on a plane to Kazakhstan.

Located in Central Asia, Kazakhstan is probably best known (if it is at all) because of Borat. Having never seen the movie, I am not sure what preconceived notions it has created in the mind of its viewers, but as I read more and more about it, I am fairly certain what I will experience will not be like that. It will be interesting to visit the ninth largest country (in area), to see the Tian Shan mountains, to experience the vestiges of the USSR, to see a mix of East and West. Compared to the other countries in the area, Kazakhstan is quite stable and has a strong developing economy, mainly based on the rich natural resources that remain fairly untapped (i.e. natural gas, oil, minerals, etc.), and it enjoys good relations with the United States. I will still have to go through the whole visa process, which is also new to me, but outside of jumping through hoops, I should have no trouble attaining one. And I guess I should start brushing up on my Russian :)  What excites me most of all is that doing this will be just the beginning to many more unorthodox journeys...I just know it!

So, if you were to jump on a plane now to somewhere completely off-the-wall, where would it be?

A Few Steps Forward

So, in an attempt shake things up a bit without throwing my entire world off-kilter, I decided earlier this week to turn in a volunteer application for the local library. Today, I met with the volunteer coordinator, and it looks like pretty soon, I will have my chance to work in an actual library. (After I mentioned I had my masters in library science, she looked puzzled and asked several times during the very short interview why exactly I wasn't working in a library. It was not the easiest question to answer.) Assuredly, you will hear more as this whole thing develops, but I am looking forward to this new challenge.  All that I have to wait for is my background check to clear (I am pretty sure there are no felonies on there...), and I should be meeting with someone to begin the training process.  Hooray!

And in another bit of happy news, my renewed passport came in the mail yesterday. It was weird not having my passport for the past month and a half. I didn't realize how much I valued the idea of being able to book a last-minute flight somewhere overseas and not have to worry about proper documentation. The feeling must attest to some greater need of not being "trapped," I guess. While I have no plans to leave the country quite yet, there have been some discussions of an upcoming trip abroad (some plans have not been so serious--a quick flight over to Italy for some authentic Sicilian cuisine--while others are truly being considered dependent on how schedules all work out for the friend I intend to visit). I do know, though, that it is looking pretty certain that come Labor Day weekend, I will have a quick jaunt over to Nashville to visit my best friend and her family. In doing so, I will get to meet her new daughter (yet to be born, but her birth is imminent) and visit a new city. I am already counting down the days.

Other than that, not a whole lot new in my world. I am looking for some inspiration to writing more intriguing blog posts, but for now, a weekly update is all you are going to get!

Lazy Days

Outside, the sun blazes down, edging the temperature ever higher. The thick blanket of humidity adds another layer of warmth, making any venture from the comfort of air conditioned climes feel a bit like a slog through the rain forest. The height of summer has arrived here in Kansas City, and with it, a slowing of time and a diminishing sense of urgency. It is just too hot to rush about with a crazed need to check fifteen things off one's to-do list in under an hour. Whatever there is that needs to be done will certainly get done in time. 

I, for one, am inclined to remain holed up inside my house, a rare foray into laziness that I am quite enjoying. I started the morning with an accustomed level of busyness, making breakfast, prepping meals for the week, etc. Yet, once I sat down to enjoy my breakfast, I realized I had no desire to do a whole lot else today. I read the paper, completed the New York Times crossword, and decided that if all I achieved today was sitting back with a tall glass of ice water and enjoying a good book, I would consider it a success. No need to take a long walk that in this heat would leave me drenched in sweat, hot, irritable, and exhausted if I don't really want to. No reason to feel guilty for hiding away from the abundant sunshine for the day. Every reason to embrace this lull and allow myself some time to recharge for whatever may come these next few days. I hope each of you, too, enjoys a day of peace, a day where you do just as you please to prepare for the week. Here are to the lazy days of summer, of which there are plenty more to come.

All Good Things Must Come to an End

Or so the saying goes. And in reality, it is true. Knowing this doesn't make life all the easier, particularly after a week spent in a beautiful country enjoying the company of three great fellow adventurers and challenging myself both mentally and physically. So, in my typical fashion, I began mourning the loss before things were even over. And it is with this post I bring my musings on my trip to an end, leaving my memories behind for the time being and moving forward to wherever life takes me next...

The final day of our tour was to be the most challenging hike (at least it ended up taking the most time of all the other hikes and I at least was running on fumes energy-wise) up to the top of Mt. Ucka. I wasn't ready to move on. Partially, I knew saying good-bye put me all the closer to returning home, back to a reality with which I had been struggling a lot previous to my trip. I still had two days of travel ahead of me (my solo trip up to Slovenia), but the heart of my vacation was about to end. I also knew that in some ways, as Marty, Tom, Davor, and I went our separate ways, the spell would be broken and the friendship and camaraderie we had experienced during this week would be challenged by time and distance. Would we remain in touch as we had promised or would our time together transform into nothing more but fond memories we share with whomever is willing to listen? Previous experiences had made me skeptical, but I remain encouraged that this will not happen this time around.

Our Final Destination

So, while I began the day with a smile on my face and ready to face the world, the higher we climbed, the bleaker my attitude became. Despite enjoying cherries pulled directly from the tree and wild strawberries full of flavor, a bright blue sky, and majestic views, my attitude gradually soured. My head was filled with thoughts of looming decisions, unresolved issues, and letting go. I found myself lingering, falling behind the group to put more distance physically between myself  and the others in some twisted attempt to add distance emotionally, convincing myself doing so would make it easier to get on the train the next day.

(Some of you may have noticed this, but I hate saying good-bye. If given the choice, I would head out unnoticed without any acknowledgement or fuss. There have been several times in my life that I have left without so much as a word, telling only a few select people, and then slipping away.)

I didn't succeed in making myself tangential that day. It really is hard to do when there are only four of you, and even in this short time, the others recognized something was bothering me. As we hunkered down atop the peak, trying to find some shelter from the chilling wind, we talked about the next steps in our journey. For Tom and Marty, it was a trip to Split to visit with their son and then down along the coast to Dubrovnik with stops along the way. For Davor, a day's rest before embarking on his next tour. For me Slovenia, and then, who knows? I had mentioned my current quandary regarding what I was doing with my life, and their kind words and support about what lay ahead were almost enough to make me cry (I really was a bit on edge this last day...and their compassion made me realize just how much more difficult it would be the next day).

So, I vowed as we descended to stop my foolishness and to embrace the time left instead of shutting myself completely down. I admit to falling behind yet again as we climbed down, but this time instead of unbidden thoughts about what was to come, strains of music flooded my mind in an attempt to distract myself from my seemingly inevitable slide down the mountain. Of all the hikes, this was the steepest downhill path, and I was quite nervous...scared even if I were to be honest. I have to say, singing to yourself works wonders!  I got down without falling once, and outside of a few blisters (my first of the entire trip), I managed to emerge unscathed.

Still, at the end of the hike, I was sad. It was pretty much over, and while the others had a lot to look forward to, I wasn't feeling quite in the same position. Slovenia beckoned, but its call wasn't as alluring as it had been when I first booked that leg of the trip. (This was perhaps my first inclination ever that traveling by oneself can indeed get lonely.) And too soon after that, I would be back in Kansas City and then heading to a quick trip to Texas that I was dreading. Reality loomed far too heavily in front of me, but somehow, I managed to push it away from my mind that evening. Our last meal together was another delicious offering, and I indulged in a couple of beers to celebrate a week's worth of successful adventures. For once, I was focused on what was, not what was to come.

While Marty bowed out early that evening, Tom, Davor, and I lingered at the table, and even sought out somewhere else to go after dinner was finished. Strangely enough, there is not a whole lot open (ok

I was up early (no surprises there), and I was packed and ready to go in no time. I tried to kill more time before heading downstairs because I had the feeling I would be alone for breakfast, but I couldn't focus on my writing or anything else, so I made my descent. My instincts proved to be accurate, so I ate my meal alone. I waited for about 45 minutes to see if anyone else would be along, and when that didn't happen, I went upstairs to check I had everything for about the tenth time. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of anxiety and sadness on my part. I felt silly feeling so emotional, which in turn made me adopt the distant air from the day before. When the others had finished their breakfasts, and we had loaded into the van, we drove to Rijeka.

The bus station was our first stop. Tom and Marty were buzzing with energy, their excitement to see their son not at all inhibited by the prospect of an eight-hour bus ride, and amid their enthusiasm, it was impossible not to smile for them. Before they made their way to the ticketing area, though, they made sure to get a picture of all us together. And then, in a flurry of activity, there were hugs and promises and perhaps a few tears, and it was time for them to go. These things always seem to happen so quickly it takes me a long time to process what had occurred. I hopped back into the van, not looking forward to the next good-bye either. I had even considered asking Davor which direction to head and offer to walk instead of being dropped off to save him the trip in order to endure yet another good-bye.

When we did get to the train station, I found myself unsure what to say. With Tom and Marty, I had taken a moment to write a short letter expressing just how much it meant to me to share this vacation with them. I couldn't find the right words to do the same for Davor, and despite my hopes that I would suddenly be blessed with something to say, I made a muddled attempt to express my gratitude and appreciation for everything. I don't remember what I said, but I have the distinct impression it was garbled and awkward, and I felt a little embarrassed by it. I wanted it over as quickly as possible, so with a final smile and a quick hug, I grabbed my bags and headed into the station. Another chapter closed, and I was back to being super-independent solo traveler, but with a little more hesitance in my step and questions in my mind about the value in being SO independent.

And here, I close the chapter to this year's big adventure, returning to my quiet, unexciting life of spreadsheets and proofreading, books and blogs, solitary evenings and weekends. After a month of this, I am feeling the urge to shake things up. Stay tuned...perhaps things will change.