Catherine's Blog

Without water

2010-01-07T20:59:00.000-08:00

A water main in my sister's neighborhood must have burst. After a loud glugging sound, she was stranded with a mouthful of toothpaste. Because I am lucky enough to be spending the night at her house, I get to share in this adventure. The neighbors say this happens every time there's a big snow, but I haven't been here for any of the other occurrences.

About this time last year I was basking on Australia's beaches in smothering heat and, ironically, was also without water. On Christmas Eve, and again on New Year's Day, the water tank at our vacation home ran dry. The lack of rain finally caught up with us and, despite our conservation efforts, yielded not another drop. The family with whom I was living and vacationing had friends bring water from the tank at home. Meanwhile, back at the beach, we drank soda and put off bathing.

Trying to brush ones' teeth with a limited water supply is initially a thoughtful process. But, tonight I realized the familiar effort must have become a habit for me while I was living in Mozambique. Water could not be taken for granted when the supply was only as sure as the rain or as reliable as the infrastructure.

In each of these lands, it took only water to teach me humility. For without it, we are all just thirsty, dirty humans. And there is something refreshing about seeing that clearly, even if only for a moment.

In the time its taken to write this, running water has been restored. Toilets flush. Cups are filled. Faces washed for bed.

Would that every night cap tasted so sweet.

Work to do

2009-02-10T02:27:00.001-08:00

If it weren't for the newspapers, television and radio, which spur conversation even between strangers, you might not know that, across the state, 26 fires are still raging ... unless you caught a glimpse of the smoke-lined horizon. But on a cloudy day, even that is obscured.

I write this to explain that I am in no immediate danger. I write this to confess that, in many ways, I sit as helplessly as any distant observer. And life roars on.

We have work to do. At our office this means phone calls, emails and event planning. But first we pause and pray for those with much, much harder jobs: treating burn victims, identifying bodies, investigating a devastated town now classified as a crime scene for suspected arson.

Emotions reach new depths, from anger at those who chose to destroy, to compassion for those reaping the destruction. Survivors are offered emergency housing, medical treatment, and free legal advice. Donation stands receive canned food, clothes and toys. From counseling to mobile phones, free goods and services spring from a seemingly bottomless well.

And yet, the ache must be insatiable. For the father who saved his house but lost his family, for those that watched the water tower boil as the bush disappeared, for the parents of the teenage sisters who died trying to save their horses, no gift will suffice.

This is so much worse than Australia's typical bush fires, I've been repeatedly told. A co-worker said we should remember that many countries experience this degree of devastation far more often. But, surely, no one ever gets used to it.

Half-mast

2009-02-09T12:32:00.000-08:00

The death toll ticks higher and is expected to surpass 200. Nearly a thousand homes have been consumed. The weather has cooled considerably, but eight fires still rage uncontained.

I know many of you are witnessing footage in your own homes and don't need me to testify to the horror. But, every time I try to send an update to assure you that I am okay, I am overcome by the stories of all those who are not.

At the office, where I work reception, I took a call from a man in Queensland where 60 percent of the state is flooded. He dismissed my concerns about the water, which he said would soon recede. But fire, he said, destroys everything.

He expressed his concern on behalf of those in his state, who have their flags at half-mast, even though the government hadn't asked for it. They are in national mourning, he said. Much like that caller, I feel helpless in the face of what Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has referred to as, "Hell and all its fury."

I continue to be safe but heartbroken. Entire houses disappear in three minutes. Fires jump freeways, scorch paddocks and trap those seeking last-minute escape. Livestock, livelihoods and lifetimes of labor are in ashes. The weight of human loss is immeasurable. The stories of survivors, such as those crouched in a gully and covered by only a wet sheet, are nearly unbelievable.

Fire

2009-02-07T02:36:00.000-08:00

Smoke clouds the sky in my neighborhood, again, but we've received no evacuation notice. A frightful combination of gale-force winds and Melbourne's hottest day on record: (46 degrees) has bred blazing bushfires across central Victoria, where I now live.

In the next few hours the encroaching cold front will bring not only a nearly 30-degree drop in temperature, but also a change in wind direction, which only complicates the spreading danger.

The TV remains on for Channel 7 news updates. Weather maps relay dark-blue zones that would usually mean rain. But instead of relief, the radar is detecting patches of thick smoke. My powerless observation reminds me of tracking tornadoes in the central U.S. and typhoons in Japan. This time I'm monitoring the raging fires that leap several kilometers and multiple in neighboring suburbs.

Although my household appears to be in no immediate danger, I've learned a bit about fire-readiness in the last half hour. I'm hopeful I won't actually have to fill the gutters with water, douse the exterior brick walls or get in the bath tub and cover up with a wool blanket. I really doubt it will come to that. I doubt I'll ever get the evacuation invitation: flee now or stay and fight.

In the nearby hills, beyond the fire trucks' reach, homeowners must defend their property alone, or only with the help of neighbors. On fire-ban days, such as today, some stay home, to be ready in case a spark ignites.

These are the sorts of life experiences and lessons I didn't expect: gaining a better grasp of instant loss, of scorching heat, of flames mercilessly consuming hillsides, houses and ranches.

But I realize that we are not alone in these extremes. The crackly weather prompts the never-distant concern of global warming. News of flooding in northern Queensland and crippling winters in the U.K. and U.S. only deepen the thought.

Perhaps you are in a mild climate as you receive this note. I hope so, but I also know that many of you sent me here with questions about climate change. And, because I am living in a virtual petri-dish of land under an ozone hole, I cannot avoid the topic. I've kept waiting to gain answers so I could offer an explanation. I've only ended up with more questions. But I wanted you to know I've not forgotten. With days like these, how could I?

Hot, hot, hot

2009-01-29T20:09:00.000-08:00

When we first got down to Melbourne, everyone here bemoaned the 35-degree days and asked how we were coping. Coming from inland Queensland, we laughed at their concern. We're not laughing anymore.

In a string of days hitting the mid-40s (45 degrees Celsius = 113 degrees Fahrenheit), you barely have the energy to smile. I'm sure folks in Victoria and South Australia felt the same the last time it was this hot for this long, a hundred years ago.

Some visitors, such as Russian Svetlana Kuznetsova, have tolerated the heat better than the weakness and even whinged (complained) when the roof was closed on the Rod Laver Arena, which paused the Australian Open. Others, such as Kuznetsova's opponent, American Serena Williams, relished the sweet relief.

I didn't get to watch the match myself. But last Saturday I did catch some action on the big screen in downtown Melbourne and traipsed around the arena snapping photos before the heat wave rolled in. Now I've joined the masses taking refuge indoors and thought I'd send a few photos from the week:

Australia Day:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57054&l=3de8f&id=529849074

The Noodle Man:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57408&l=668ab&id=529849074

The Australian Open from a distance:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57409&l=cb25b&id=529849074

A day in Melbourne:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57053&l=b0c25&id=529849074

Brighton Beach Bathing Boxes:
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=1274561&l=79670&id=529849074

Australia Day

2009-01-26T23:11:00.000-08:00

I have a sneaking suspicion that the convicts aboard the First Fleet, which hit Sydney Cove in 1788, had no idea we'd be celebrating their arrival more than 200 years later. But we are, and we call it Australia Day.

Barbecues, cricket matches, thong (flip flop, not swimsuit) throwing, and mini-golf are among the myriad of outdoor activities the Aussies will perfect today. Because I'm living in the suburbs, about 25 kms southeast of Melbourne, I headed into the city to document the fun. Without pretence of somber occasion, the festivities had no higher aim than that. More meaningful moments slipped in seamlessly as about 500 Aussies, from politicians to volunteers, got awards for contributing to their homeland and more than 13,000 people gained Australian citizenship.

My preparation was a bit less taxing: a trip to the cinema to see the movie Australia . Some of the scenes were shot near where I was living in Queensland, and I've been eagerly waiting for months, during which I seem to have maintained my wide-eyed, not-from-around-here wonder. When the kangaroos were bounding across the outback on the big screen, I still felt more like the awed Nicole Kidman than the chuckling Aussies sitting in the seats beside me.

Last week marked my fifth-month in Australia. As one might expect, I've accumulated quite a "Miss List" by now. Much like I miss all of you, I am already starting to miss the new friends I've made along my journey here and resumed missing an old one. I miss walking the main street of Gayndah and waving to familiar faces in passing cars. After two and a half months living with the Hampson family, I miss the daughters' family-tight hugs. I miss the summer-heat solidarity, as we'd puddle our bodies on sofas or melt flat on the wood floor and chat about work at the cafe. I miss weeks at the beach where we'd empty liters of sunscreen on already tan skin and later slather lotion on the burns. I miss clearly seeing my toes a meter under the ocean. I miss catching the pink hues of a sunset taunting me to come home from a long walk and daring me to describe such a scene in words. And that was just Queensland.

Victoria, with it's state motto: "The Place to Be," will have a list all its own, which would have to include stone fruit (peaches, nectarines, apricots) tender upon purchase. Or maybe I should start with mangoes, just as ripe, from the market. I'll miss neighborhood runs and pausing to bury my nose in the roses, dangling over picket fences. I'll miss the blanketing warmth of day and the refreshing cool of night.

All this and more I'll miss when I leave Australia, six months from now. Till then, the list grows with each train trip into the city, a hub of international cuisine, massive markets, riverside cafes and no end of fun, Australia's specialty.

This year Australia day happened to fall on the beginning on the Chinese New Year. For those lucky enough to be in Melbourne that meant an even more delightful offering of events, from antique car show to noodle-making demonstration. Soon I'll post photos of the eclectic day, complete with Bollywood dancing and fencing. For now, I'm off to bed, but to those a calendar day behind, I wish you a happy beginning to Australia Day and the Chinese New Year.

Tropical heat wave

2008-12-19T15:12:00.000-08:00

Customers trickled in all morning, but, because of tonight's Mardi Gras celebration, which will consume the entire main street, I'd say the cafe will be slammed. The rest of the staff would say "flogged" or "flat out." Any way you phrase it, A Little Different will likely be busier than opening day, two months ago. So, in a few hours I'll repeat my toasty trek down the sloping hill for my last night of work.

Tomorrow I'll head to the beach to join the family with which I've lived, cooked, slept, and worked my entire time in Gayndah. They have graciously absorbed me into every part of their lives and are now including me in their holidays, too.

But with the new year comes more than resolutions. I'm leaving tropical Queensland and heading south along the coast. My companions for this road trip are sisters, one of whom is my future housemate at our final destination: Melbourne, where I'll spend my last seven months in Australia.

The past few weeks of 39-degree-Celsius days have made Christmas seem as far away as America, and, therefore, I've only just realized this is my last chance to send out a holiday greeting. Due to a somewhat secluded beach location and upcoming travel I won't be checking email frequently the next few weeks. My apologies in advance for any delayed replies. Once I settle in Melbourne, in mid-January, I'll be back in touch.

Rainbows of fruit flavor

2008-08-16T05:10:00.000-07:00

The north shore continued … we made it to Matsumoto for shave ice. The long line builds anticipation and gives you time to pick your flavor and decide if you want to add ice cream, beans or condensed milk, none of which we selected.

What followed was equally colorful and just as sweet. A double rainbow carried storm clouds over us as we ended the day resting on the beach before sunset.

The Lost TV tour

2008-08-13T05:05:00.000-07:00

The big news: They're going back to the island. The bad news: They took down the tents on the beach, a major disappointment for tour-goers. The rowdy band of Macedonians on our van demanded a discount.

If you too are itching for the next season, here are some photos to tide you over:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=31629&l=5bab4&id=529849074
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=31632&l=7b6fa&id=529849074

Like flies

2008-08-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

Even the locals might not know that Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve is closed on Tuesdays for upkeep. The buses won't take you there on Tuesdays, but you can still show up in your own car to be turned away. Be advised, the guard posted there might accuse you of "attracting other people" if you linger to chat.

We found a fantastic runner-up beach, next to Bellows Air Force base. Eye-catching five-helicopter sightings while sunbathing.

Ten percent

2008-07-09T05:12:00.000-07:00

Ninety percent of the world's population lives in the northern hemisphere. I'll soon be in the minority.

Next month I'm moving to Australia. Now that I have purchased my plane ticket, I can say this with confidence. For the cautious among you, don't worry; this isn't as sudden as it might seem. Last May I responsibly completed my master's program before applying for a 12-month Work and Holiday Visa, which took weeks to arrive. But really, this migration is far more premeditated than that.

FAQ
Why Australia?
Why not? Most folks who have asked this question would themselves like to go. I probably want to go for many of the same reasons they do, and I've had my mind set on it since childhood, which is slipping further and further away.

What will you do there?
Live, work and play. I plan to make my way down the east coast from Cairns to Melbourne and write about my adventures. Along the way I'll work to enrich my experience and fund my existence. My visa allows temporary work, meaning six months or less at one job, but the selection is up to me. I have some intriguing and functional ideas brewing, but I'm also open to suggestions.
*See below.

Why a year?
National Geographic Traveler advocates "slow travel," and so do I. Of course, my travel will be so slow it could be considered residing. Months of unrushed living tend to offer a fuller, deeper perspective on a land, people and culture that are new to me.

Will you go anywhere else?
But of course. On my way to Australia I'll stop off in Hawaii for 10 days to meet up with a couple of friends. I'm also planning on spending some quality time in New Zealand but don't yet have set dates.

And now, I invite more questions:

What do you want to know about Australia?
I'll do my best to answer these questions as I go. Ask away.
If I get too many, I might have you vote on your top 10.

Suggestions?
Know someone in Australia that I should contact?
Anything I must see, must do or must try?
*Adventurous or unusual job ideas?

Live together. Die alone.

2008-04-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

I’m no Jack, from Lost, nor do I want to be. But, I wouldn’t mind his company on my next Oceanic Airlines flight. He’s a little busy these days, what with the filming and all, so I decided to secure my own rescue skills, just to be safe. After all, no woman is an island. We live, work and travel in a sea of people, and sometimes those people need help.

After all, you never know when your plane will be a thousand miles off course and crash on an unidentifiable island, or more likely, a passenger will choke on the snack mix and complimentary beverage. The universal sign for choking might come naturally, but knowing how to help might not. Enter Emergency First Response training.

Certification only lasts two years, which means mine had expired. Admittedly a bit fuzzy on the breaths to compressions ratio, I was lacking the essential "confidence to care." So I signed up, read up and showed up for CPR and AED (Automated External Defibrillation) class.

By chapter one of the manual I was hooked. It had me from "Hello." Not only was I learning emergency care, but also people skills. Locke could have seriously benefited from this course. That mandatory introduction, "Hello, My name is John Locke. I'm an Emergency Responder. May I help you?" could have radically improved his street cred and fostered more friendships than his suitcase full of knives.

When I got to our class, I lunged for the baby model. Pretty good odds that one of the crash survivors would be pregnant, birth the baby, and then need to know infant CPR. If Jack's gone to fetch water or find his father, it could be up to me. Chances are a real baby won't make the handy clicking sound to indicate the ideal chest compression depth. We probably won't have a metronome to pace the repetitions either. And what about my sanitary mouth guard to place on the victims face before giving two quick breaths? Even Sayid can't whip one of those up in time.

But it turns out I might not need one. Then, on March 31, the American Heart Association changed the rules. Forget mouth-to-mouth if the patient experiences sudden cardiac arrest. Alas, was my training in vain? No, only if you actually see the patient suddenly collapse do you nix the breathing and go straight for compressions, hard and fast, 100 per minute.

This newsflash might have greater repercussions than some realize. It could be a clue. What happens the next time someone on Lost needs CPR? If Jack doesn't give breaths, it must be a flash forward. Unless they're still on the island, and they just haven't heard the news. Watch closely, Lost viewers, to unravel the mystery. Who knew the American Heart Association could influence the making of Lost?

Then again, the best approach could be sending Juliet for an AED. I bet the Others have one, maybe even two or three. She might as well pick up some gloves and protective mouth barriers while she's at it.

All in all I feel better prepared. The only life-threatening problem we didn't address was the time-traveling Desmond syndrome. Although equally hazardous, his plight didn't make it on the list with heart attack, cardiac arrest, stroke, complete airway obstruction, serious bleeding, shock, and spinal injury. Who are we to argue with what's on The List? I suppose if my neighbor in seat 13B gets a nosebleed and claims to be back in the '80s I'll just have to wing it. Too bad the barrier kit only came with gloves and a face guard. Where's a constant when you need one? Ultimately, it always comes back to people helping people. I suppose Jack said it best: Live together; die alone.

Sunday

2008-03-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

For my roommate's actual birthday we opted for the classic, Cake Love. Aptly named, it serves up trendy cupcakes, such as chocolate with peanut butter icing, and slices of the real deal, my roommate's choice, mud cream. Layers couldn’t look better on the fashion runway.

The new location in Shirlington, VA, seems to suffer the same malady of fame as Just Cakes: having to hand it over cold. Supply and demand can breech even the strictest code of baked-good ethics, which hang on the new establishment's walls: serve cake at 72 degrees. The remedy hangs on the adjoining wall: Let cake sit at room temperature for 15 minutes. It's well worth the wait.

Two hours of The Other Boleyn Girl didn't put enough of a dent in our stomachs to handle any more dining out, so we went home. Later that night, in our own kitchen, I did whip up some chocolate chip cookies and a pan of brownies as a nightcap, a feat I never could have pulled off in a hotel kitchenette.

My roommate seemed pleased with our in-town adventure, and I'm glad we didn't end up traveling. But I made a discovery nonetheless - a staycation and a vacation are equally exhausting. The weekend left me needing a nap and craving a pick-me-up, perhaps something sweet and chocolate.

Saturday

2008-03-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

Recovering from our malt-shop hangover, although the stiffest drink we'd encountered was vanilla extract, we didn't leave home till the next afternoon. A breakfast of indulgent leftovers tided us over for a non-food venture, a visit to the Pope-Leighy House, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Conveniently, the Usonian construction fit our weekend's theme of efficiency, compression and release. Frank had applied the principles to architecture, but they also held true for dessert consumption. Walking away under the sun-dappled branches leading to the 1,200-foot work of art, I thought of the wintry mix coating New York and smiled.

Deviating from a strict diet of cake and ice cream, we were on the road again in search of a decidedly different delicacy at the Dairy Godmother, in Alexandria. Containing more fat and less air than the formerly prized, ice cream, frozen custard won my vote for new favorite. Unfortunately, we picked the wrong time to institute our Split Rule. Even before we'd scraped the bowl for lingering traces of, yes, plain-old-chocolate custard, we knew we'd be back. My roommate assured a fellow patron of our guaranteed return just before we walked out the door in quest of real-food fortitude.

We found it at the Afghan Restaurant. Truth in advertising, we got just what we expected: kabobs, naan, yogurt sauce, and a side of cozy family feel. Leaving the table was like getting up from a holiday meal. We were stuffed but confident we could squeeze in another round of sundaes.

The Dairy Godmother's sour cherries are the redemption of fruit topping. Maraschino cherries must have at least started out as real fruit, before finding their destiny as the candied peak on whipped cream. A single cherry substitution spawned an additional trip to the counter and a side dish of the natural wonder, which I worked into my hot fudge topping and then pried back out when I realized I'd have to abandon the final stages of dessert bliss. I simply didn't have it in me, or rather, I already had far too much in me.

Friday

2008-02-29T21:31:00.000-08:00

Prioritized by a 6 pm closing time, our first stop was Just Cakes, a 15-minute walk from the Bethesda, MD Metro stop, or 30 if you start off in the wrong direction. The place was packed with 8-year-old girls and their echoing excitement. My roommate was not the only one turning a year older, but this cooking class party appeared far superior to any sleepover.

Ignoring the bakery's name, we both ordered brownies, bricks of frosted chocolate sweetness. Fresh from the fridge and too cool to be fully appreciated, the remnants made their way into my roommate's trunk as the first of our confectionery collection. A red-velvet cupcake kept them company.

Wisconsin Ave., or Ice Cream Row, stretched for miles before we entered Georgetown and spotted Thomas Sweet, the next on our hit list. We slipped in for a dinner recommendation, out to line our bellies with Five Guys burgers and fries and then boomeranged back to the homemade ice cream parlor for a tasting extravaganza. Bittersweet chocolate, mint chocolate chip - minus the artificial green coloring-, malt, and peanut butter were so strong for our spent taste buds that we opted for plain ole chocolate. That's also when we created the Split Rule. Sizing up the insurmountable scoops, we acknowledged defeated, regretted not sharing and requested to-go containers to store in our dessert mobile.

A birthday staycation

2008-02-28T21:25:00.000-08:00

We were bound for Niagara Falls. My roommate and I had never been, and this was her requested birthday celebration. Expedia pinpointed a hotel ensuring our comfort, just north of the Canadian border. Yahoo and Google both calculated the drive time at less than 8 hours, although the sites were still at odds regarding the route from our home, just outside Washington, DC.

Still to do: charge the camera batteries, pack a pair of jeans and one wool sweater. Surely it would be cold, but a quick glance at the weather forecast froze us in our tracks: Winter snow advisory for the entire Northeast. Impaired visions of weighted-down windshield wipers and sealed-shut car doors chilled our revved-up plans. The perfect storm was toppling our last-minute birthday getaway.

Crestfallen we dove deeper into the World Wide Web to find a toastier weekend vacation and turned up plenty of thrifty deals all north of the Mason-Dixon line. An extra hundred dollars could land us in sunny Florida, Jacksonville, that is. The prices increased as the latitude decreased. Two days in Key West cost more than two weeks in Zurich.

Admitting defeat at impromptu traipsing, we hung up the mouse and went to bed. My roommate would have to settle for cake and ice cream sans waterfalls and Canada. Reality settled in overnight, like a silent snowfall, and I awoke with a revelation. Washington, DC is a destination for travelers. Why not make it one for residents?

But travel was my roommate's first love. Chocolate was its only rival. If museums and politics were the meat and potatoes of DC, then we would partake in the capital's desserts.

Within seconds, Google, versatile mapping agent that it is, identified our top 10 picks for frozen dairy delights. Nothing says frosty creamy goodness like a winter storm warning.

In keeping with birthday tradition, cake also crept onto the radar. Strategy became imperative. From Friday afternoon to Sunday evening we'd take in the tastiest of DC's calorically dense desserts. My roommate was confident she could subsist on sugar alone, but I required additional sustenance. We'd have to find that along the way.

To have and to give

2007-10-22T11:41:00.000-07:00

Almost every day last summer I ventured down the dirt road leading out of my village. One particularly dry Sunday morning I met Aventina on that path. She, her husband and two of their sons were fetching firewood. Curious how far she had to go, so I asked if I could join her. She consented.

She could have made an excellent preschool Portuguese teacher. She spoke slowly and enunciated every syllable. She was the embodiment of patience as I assembled questions in Portuguese. She repeatedly called me her friend and seemed delighted that I was going with her to gather wood. I didn't realize at the time that we would be gone for three and a half hours.

We hiked along the dirt road, through corn fields, across a dry creek bed and up a hill she referred to as the mountain, dotted with skinny tree stumps. She started chopping with the axe her husband had carried. I offered to help. She laughed and refused. Perhaps it was hospitality. I suspect it was my wimpy arms. She hacked away at the stumps for an hour, until the family decided it was time to go home.

Aventina, as perky as ever, hoisted the wood on top of her head. I couldn't resist asking, in broken Portuguese, why her husband was not carrying any wood. Oh, no, she didn't want him to do that. She respects him, so she carried the wood. Apparently, this was women's work.

I had not cut nor carried any wood that day, I reminded myself as we journeyed the hour back. I shouldn't be so tired or thirsty, but I was. I couldn't even force conversation with the natural-born preschool teacher.

She insisted I visit her home, meet her daughter who was my age, and her grandson. I lacked the energy to refuse. We didn't go inside her reed-walled hut, but sat in plastic lawn chairs on her dirt yard. She had her son bring a shallow tub of water to wash her hands and her infant grandson's face. Then she tied the baby to her back and took me to meet her brother. He was in a car accident a few years ago and is paralysed. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him. We just stopped by to say hello.

She knew the family with which I lived and was intent on walking me home. But first, she took me by a small market and bought me a cold drink. I tried to decline, but she was insistent. She could have bought the cheaper glass bottle of Fanta orange, but she opted for the can. She didn't get one for herself. I thought of a million other ways she could have spent that money, but she seemed pleased to be treating me. It was hard to swallow.

She reiterated her joy that I was her friend, had met her on the road and gone up to the mountain to get firewood with her. I couldn't figure out why she was so delighted. She had lavished herself and her money on me.

She accompanied me all the way to my cement block house. I was suddenly starkly aware of how much wealthier my family was than hers. But as she left I saw how freely she gave and how much I received from one poor woman I met along the way.

Solidarity ain't easy

2007-09-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

For the past few years I have toyed with the idea of chucking it all and moving to Africa, selling my possessions and giving everything I have to the poor.

Funny, I never realized that if I actually did that I would become poor myself. I was just looking for relief from the tension of having amidst people that have not. Well, I discovered that I can easily become poor, but I am much worse at it than any other poor person I met last summer. For starters, I worry.

I worry about when I'll eat next and how long I'll have to wear dirty clothes. I worry about stretching my money and not knowing what expenses will come next week. I worry about justifying the money I do spend and then end up feeling guilty about it. I worry . . . a lot . . . about me, and I wish that weren't the case.

I'd like to think of myself as caring about others, serving them, giving to them. This makes me happy. But this summer I had little to nothing to give.

I am white and not from Mozambique, so the assumption was quite the opposite.

Children, teenagers and adults asked me for money, for food, for beer. Some asked with a sense of entitlement, others asked with the practiced, pitiful pleading.

When I had food I shared it, most of the time. (If I had only one granola bar and 15 children I usually didn't pull it out.) And I wondered, am I rich to you? I am sure they assumed I had a job, a house, a car. I had flown all the way over there so surely I must be wealthy. But I am not.

I didn't have enough money to sustain the life to which I am accustomed in the U.S., and I lacked the skills to live the typical Mozambican life. I didn't belong among Mozambicans or ex-pats. I'm what the development and aid workers call "self-funded" which means volunteering without pay. This was a novelty there. Most "volunteers" have an income, however meager.

And thus I began to question: What am I doing here? What good does it do to give all you possess to the poor if you become poor in the process? Is this solidarity? Because it feels like stupidity. How can I help you if I am equally if not more concerned about the next paycheck and loaf of bread.

I wish I could say I had a breakthrough, that mid-way through the summer I suddenly realized that God would provide and I really didn't need to worry. Sure, there were moments, flutters of that reality, but it never sunk in and stayed.

I read the words of Jesus, that we are not to worry about what we will eat or drink or what we will wear because he clothes the lilies of the field with indescribable beauty. Aren't we worth more than flowers and won't he take far better care of us?

And then I spied holey shirts with shoulders peeking out. I saw women layering thin swatches of fabric around their chilled bodies, numb from the cold. I spotted a little boy with one hand rolling the rim of a bicycle tire and the other tugging at the shot elastic waistband of shorts that repeatedly slipped and exposed his bottom. Was this more beautiful than Solomon in all his splendor?

But I suppose Jesus didn't actually say we wouldn't miss a meal or wear thread-bare skirts. He just said not to worry. And he's right. The worry doesn't add one hour to our lives. In fact it likely eats them away.

So, what if we are hungry? What if we are cold? What if we are dizzy from thirst and two hours away from water? What if we are weak with malnutrition and live next to the woman selling her tomatoes? Maybe she will give us one, we start to think, hope and dream. She has so many, and I have none, and no way of getting one, unless she gives it to me.

Maybe the Mozambicans I met don't think that way. Maybe these are just my thoughts because I am bad at being poor. I hoard and covet and stash an extra orange in my bag for later.

I don't know what good it did for me to share in their poverty. Then again, I never truly did. I knew I had a ticket out of there at the end of August. Yes, I would be leaving new friends and a simpler way of life, cooler weather and a more accurate worldview. But I was eager to get home, to finish a degree and get a job, to provide for myself. I didn't like being on the receiving end and hated having nothing to give.

A time to tell

2007-09-01T17:43:00.000-07:00

There is a time to observe and a time to report, a time to ask questions and a time to be silent. There is a time to listen and a time to respond, a time to see and a time to tell.

Since I've been back from Africa almost everyone I've encountered has asked me how it was. I wasn't prepared to respond.

"It was African," I'd reply. Then I'd deflect, ask about their summers, let the conversation shift to lighter topics.

The few times I have started talking I've discovered the source of my exhaustion the past two weeks. There's a lot stirring inside. I don't know what to make of it.

I stayed too long. I took in too much. I lost sight of what I wanted to know before going. And now I am supposed to remember the two-months-ago version of me and answer the questions I am no longer asking. This is tricky.

I had dinner with my family the night before last. They were still waiting to hear from me. I realized how little I'd told about this place and time that have significantly changed me. I shall now attempt to do so.

Re entry

2007-08-24T10:07:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how the astronauts do it.

Maybe they, like me, sit at the kitchen table before dawn, sip strong coffee and read a three-day-old newspaper.
Maybe they, like me, marvel at the feel of carpet on their bare feet and a warm shower on their backs.
Maybe they, like me, get overwhelmed by dozens of unopened email.
Maybe they, like me, can't find the words to describe the other world they experienced.
Maybe they, like me, have learned that the hardest transitions take place on the inside.

I'm back in the northern hemisphere. I got back two days after graduate school started back. Nothing like showing up at the last minute, or, rather, after it.

I saw rain only twice in the past two months. Once in Mozambique and once in my short stay in the Netherlands, I mean Cape Town, South Africa. And now it's raining here, in Columbia, Missouri, a land of grass and paved roads, Starbucks and Target.

Friends and family have asked me if I feel guilty for the excess in America.
Strangely, I do not.
Maybe I am too busy feeling grateful.
I'm sure I'll take it all in stride soon, too soon.
Till then, I'll head back to the kitchen to fill my cup with cold filtered water from the refrigerator and I'll realize what a gift it is.

Big-mouthed bass

2007-08-06T21:54:00.000-07:00

Early tomorrow morning I will fly up to Chimoio, farther north in Mozambique, to see Habitat's other main build site. I am eager to experience another part of the country, both regarding terrain and people. I have heard that the poverty is greater there. At least in Massaca the children are not malnourished.

I don't even know where to begin telling stories. I have so many they are fighting for airtime like the big-mouthed bass at Indian Beach greedily gaping for smelly fish pellets. (I imagine only my immediate family will get this reference, unless you've actually been to the amusement park in Monticello, Indiana and seen the spectacle of over-fed fish at the lake's edge. I found it fascinating as a kid ... more disgusting as an adult).

I continue to be healthy and safe and in good company. I have finished my time in Massaca and moved out of the home where I was living. I am currently in Maputo, will spend this week in Chimoio and then my last week back in Maputo to somehow enter on a computer a fraction of what has entered my heart and mind these past six weeks.

I'll leave Mozambique early Friday, August 17 and head down to Cape Town, South Africa to visit a couple of friends who have just moved there. Then I'll head back to the U.S.

Corps desires

2007-07-14T18:59:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't describe most of my days in Mozambique as leisurely, but I did get to stroll along the shore of the Indian Ocean this morning. Yesterday I came into Maputo for a Habitat lunch at the fish market and have stayed for the weekend to get a feel for ex-pat life here.

Juliet, a former Peace Corps volunteer who lived with the family with which I now live, is putting me up. This equates luxurious living: a hot shower, Internet access and Nutella. This also means a chance to meet more former Peace Core volunteers who can't seem to return to the U.S. Their stories are better than any pirated DVD we could buy on the streets.

Africa has surprised me in many ways, not the least of which is the ex-pat community, come to save the world, or at least their little corner of it. Relief and development organizations and agencies abound, and batches of globally minded, college graduates rotate through. Landing here feels like checking into a backpackers' hostel - a common ground to swap stories and be inspired, educated and warned about the beauties and hazards of such a life.

Divisions exist within this community of acronyms and good intentions. Highbrow office jobs and rural overcrowded school rooms lead to differing perceptions of the people of Mozambique. Considering the vast majority of the country is rural, the fast-paced Latino-African feel in Maputo is not necessarily an accurate representation of the country as a whole.

City life brings a mixture of relief and tension, a reprieve from latrines and copious amounts of reddish dust, but an eye-squeezed-shut-tight fear riding shot-gun in a chapa. I think I will be good and ready to return to Massaca tomorrow. Until then, I am off to a good-bye party for a Peace Corps volunteer who actually is going home. And I am looking forward to hearing a few more tales.

Trendy

2007-07-14T02:33:00.000-07:00

It's all the rage. When I started telling people of my good fortune to go to Mozambique a friend replied, "I can't believe how popular Africa is right now." Another friend said she thought Africa was just taking its rightful place on our radar.

Perhaps I am here partly because Africa has become trendy. But without the trend of my twenty-something, thirty-something-year-old friends shipping off to this mysterious land I doubt I would have thought of going myself.

We tend to notice life when it touches us directly. I'd seen others' power point slides from Liberia and Ghana and read stories about people in Zimbabwe, Malawi and Rwanda, people I'd not met. I wanted to do away with the degrees of separation.

For better or worse I seem to do my best learning when I can see it for myself: the undeveloped coastline, the gender gap, the ready supply of fresh grapefruit, the thinness of those afflicted with HIV/AIDS. Surely if I see it with my own eyes I will have a better understanding. What I am gaining is a better grasp of how little I know.

Trash collection

2007-06-30T02:53:00.000-07:00

The trash here is burned or left to decompose on the sidewalks, in ditches and along highways. After polishing off a package of cookies, just drop the package out the car window.

Indoors is another problem. The absence of waste baskets in our guest houses was frustrating. Where does one throw the plastic wrappers, used tissues and scrap paper?

We came from a land of plenty, plenty of Hefty Cinch Sacks and Rubbermaid trash cans, of garbage trucks and infrastructure.We arrived in a land of litter.

I confess I noticed the annoyance of, "Where do I toss my Q-tips?" more readily than I did the mounds of decaying cans, fabric and corn husks that lined the highway. One member of our church group couldn't get over the trash. It stumped him. How on earth were the people of Mozambique going to get rid of it?

In the U.S. we set our trash by the curb and someone, hopefully someone well-paid, comes by and takes it away. It gets buried in a landfill or, for the environmentally concious cities, recycled.

Our job is to take it to the curb. Not hard. If we do that, our trash gets taken away forever. But if we fail to put it out no one comes knocking on our door asking for our trash.

God wants to take our trash from us, the group member said. But we have to carry it to the curb.

Lord, give us grace to call our trash what it is and let you take it away.

One church

2007-06-24T04:22:00.000-07:00

African American churches might be known for their audience participation, but this was my first African church experience. Caught between an uncontrollable desire to join in the dancing and self-awareness of my lack of rhythm and grace, I swayed and clapped and barely noticed that three hours had passed.

The Missouri United Methodist Church has a covenant church relationship with Malhangalene United Methodist and its members are more than aware of this fact. Our visiting group of 11 were the personification of the church's financial, logistical and prayer support.

We were the recipients of lavished hospitality and gratitude. Some churches in the U.S. take a few minutes to greet guests and make them feel welcome. They might be asked to fill out a visitor registration card or stop by an information desk for a complimentary coffee mug. Not here.

Several dozen women gathered only a few feet in front of us and danced and sang their hearts out in welcome. You'd have thought we were their long-awaited family. Then they lined us up in front of the church to bestow gifts. Onto our shoulders they hung hand-woven basket bags. The men received woven straw hats. The women were wrapped with capallanas, meters of fabric that serve as a skirts, shawls, baby carriers and limitless other possibilities. And we all received two-cheeked kisses.

After the service the church provided lunch, for the entire congregation. Beans, rice, shima (a porridge of extremely thick grits), cassava, chicken and stewed greens filled the corner of a back room. Dozens of glass bottles of soda lined a guest table where we sat. Everyone else sat outside, in chairs lining the church's walls. I wondered how recently the congregants had eaten, and why grown women held out weathered wrists and unashamedly asked for the fluorescent bracelets we were handing out to the children.

There were not enough bracelets, t-shirts or necklaces to go around. There was not enough nourishment to last the week. But that wasn't why we had come. This was one meal, one trinket, one visit to remind us that we are one church, one faith, one hope, one Lord. Still, I can't help but feel we got the better end of the visit.

Nail polish

2007-06-23T03:50:00.000-07:00

We left Missouri on our longest day of the year and arrived in South Africa on their shortest day. By the time we stepped off the plane in Maputo, Mozambique I'd lost count of the hours in transit.

We had passed from light to dark, from the smothering heat of the Midwestern U.S. to the brisk cool of southeastern Africa. The eleven of us, Volunteers in Missions from the Missouri United Methodist Church, descended the stairs into smoky sea air.

We cleared customs, retrieved luggage and exited the airport to the welcome sight of the cross and red flame on the side of a white minibus. We had left the parking lot of a church bearing the same symbol nearly two days before.

Clunking over potholes and dodging missing pieces of road, Telmo, our trusty driver whom we would come to know and love, transported us to the Maputo guesthouse for the first two nights of our two week stay in country.

Scents of savory beef and chicken soup met us as cordially as the staff, which hauled our luggage atop their heads, up the stairs and down a hall into our bedrooms.

We spread out- only two or three to a room. Our beds had sheets, blankets, bedspreads and folded towels and family-sized bars of soap. This was not what we had expected. I wouldn't need to unpack my sleeping bag.

Heads leaned into the bathroom trying to learn how to work the shower. Mini water heaters on the shower heads had been installed in the last two years. We had braced ourselves for cold and found not the last of many surprises.

On the knob of the mirror in the back bathroom was a sticker from a bottle of OPI nail polish, "We're Not in Kansas Anymore ... Red." It brought a smile, in spite of the sopping wet floor and troublesome toilet situation.

We weren't supposed to flush it? Throw the tissue in the waste bin and pour a pitcher of water where? In the tank? In the stool? Jet lag might have been contributing to the confusion, but floating toilet paper ensured I was not the only one who hadn't mastered this new system.

Long time gone

2007-06-18T08:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged in a while, which might be a bit of an understatement. Someone could have birthed two children in the time I've been away. But at long last I am returning out of necessity. These next two months I'll be in Mozambique, a country of about 20 million, on the southeastern coast of Africa. Blogging seems the likeliest chance of consistent communication while I'm there.

Tension

2006-01-14T16:11:00.000-08:00

I don't know any better way to describe it.
There is this prevailing tension between comfort and denial, between gratitude and outrage.

We had friends visit about a week or so ago and I had the honor of bunking with my roommate to make space for visitors.
My roommate possesses the world's coziest down comforter and I got to share it.

Except that by the time I crawled in bed that night, or rather in the wee hours of the morning, my soul-searching, heart-wrenching thoughts climbed in bed with me.
Why should I be allowed this luxury of warmth?
When millions around the globe and thousands within my city limits were not afforded anything close?

I don't know.
I don't know why.
And it plagues me.
Not so much the lack of a down comforter, but the lack of a meal,a house,a job,a friend.
Why am I so blessed and others not?

I know that we can misperceive blessing and sometimes I even long for the freedom of the possession-less . . . but not for the nights without a comforter.

Friends have encouraged me to "enjoy" what I have.
I find that challenging.
Instead I ascribe to a more Puritanical view: Self-Denial.
Solidarity?
Guilt Reduction?
Clarity?

To give it all away, sell my possessions and give my money to the poor, leave father, mother, sister, brother and go to those in need.
And this, this extreme, would certainly eliminate the tension, right?

It's been a beautiful day.
I've talked on my cell phone.
Driven in my car.
Eaten at a coffee shop.
And now I will gather with a group of close friends, to laugh, play games and "enjoy".

Somehow this all fits together.
The enjoyment, and the tension.
I'm just still not sure how.

A Leveling Ground

2006-01-11T18:30:00.000-08:00

Divorce, disillusionment, despair.

Crisis is the ultimate leveling ground and in many ways I crave it.
All else is stripped but necessity.
The superfluous dissipates, survival remains.

Raw honesty stands unapologetically.

I remember the clarity with which I lived, shortly after the death of my father.
I had found the truth- life is fleeting- the vast majority of it is not nearly as important as I make it out to be.

I spoke with a hurting friend tonight, in a place of despair, loneliness and questioning.

I spoke with a mother of two, in the process of divorce, striving to resurface after being dealt an unimaginable blow.

Both struggle to keep their heads above water. Both are entitled to honesty. Both are confronting the ice cold truth:
We surround ourselves with illusions of safety.

Crisis strips those illusions away.

I appreciate the hightened security in the airports these days, particularly the removal of shoes.
There we are, businessmen, grandmothers, lawyers and leaf-blowers slipping off our boots, sliding them through the scanners and waiting to be cleared.
Inches of height and hundreds of dollars are taken away.
For a fleeting moment we all stand with a bit of us laid bare.

Crisis allows no room for false appearances, eliminates the very desire for such efforts.
It invites connection.
Requires it.
I suppose life could be no more fully lived than meeting in these moments- finding connection when all that separates us no longer stands.
And in the truest moments, we realize we are not standing alone.
And indeed, that the One who is with us wants only one thing: to love us.

Flying Home

2006-01-04T06:50:00.000-08:00

They stank terribly.
They cursed profusely.
They talked loudly.
They were flying home.
I spent three fourths of the plane ride trying not to breathe through my nose and tuning them out, wishing they would pipe down so I could concentrate on my reading.
I spent the last moments of the flight fighting back tears of unbridled gratitude and regret.

Last night I joined the masses of weary travelers re-routing to get home after the holidays and landed in the back row of a tiny plane with a handful of soldiers returning from Iraq.
They had been traveling for three days.
They will be home for two weeks.
Once I finally wised up enough to engage them in conversation the cursing turned to family plans, spending time with their wives and children, and rave reviews of the Nashville Zoo playground.

I asked how they felt about being home for such a short period of time.
"Right now it's great. In a couple days it'll be awful. Cause our buddies are out there freezing their "tails" off and we're here at home."
Not every soldier shared that view, but I hadn't anticipated any of them feeling that way.

Before really striking up conversation I had muttered a heartfelt but singular, "Thank you".
Just before landing the flight attendant made special notice of these men, who give of themselves, and daily risk their lives for us. Applause rang out and I was one of the sparse few that got to see their faces and catch their response.
They were surprised.
Something in their eyes revealed a deeper knowing.
"They have no idea what it's really like," they muttered to one another.
This is why none of them will be watching the news while they are home. It is a false reality to them, grounds for fury.

They stank because they hadn't showered in three days, had been sleeping on the floors of numerous airports and were holding out to get home.
They were rowdy because they were eager to see their families.
They were harsh and crass because that is the world in which they live.
They are protecting us, defending us, risking life and limb for us.
And we think we've had a long day after a few extra hours of domestic travel . . . to see our loved ones.

We landed, taxied and deplaned.
I watched as the soldiers politely ushered everyone else off before themselves.
One woman insisted they go first, "You've waited long enough," she stated.
I followed them out.
The youngest soldier, father of a six year old girl, made a bee line for the smoking lounge and for the first time in my life, I wished I was a smoker.
I longed to follow him, to listen to him, to stand beside him, a brave, crass, life-giving man.
It took me a while to pull myself together.
In many ways I hope I never do.
To all who serve: Thank you.

Between Scents

2005-12-08T16:55:00.000-08:00

Upon my arrival in Japan, my friend Caroleann graciously gifted me with a bottle of Bath and Body spray. Being a humid and largely un-air conditioned island, Japan can definitely benefit from such a gift.
Much like the oil in the lamp that never ran dry, that spray has lasted me all the way home and into the winter months of the mid-south. But alas, the time has come.
The bottle is on its last few sprays and my nose is ready for a new scent.

Long ago, I remember one of my sisters reading in a Bride's magazine that you should carefully select the flowers for your wedding, for everytime they are in bloom, wedding day memories will come flooding back.

The power of scent.

I've historically altered my "scent of choice" according to the season of my life and am intrigued to realize that time has come again. The bottle of coconut lime verbena could probably hold me a few more days, maybe a week even, but its time has come.

A dear friend gifted both Caroleann and I with some Body Butter as a welcome home gift, some months ago. Now that the heat has gone and taken the humidity with it, I have pulled out the Mango Body Butter and am putting it to good use. It's not a full size container, which means soon I will be here all over again, between scents, investigating options and settling in on the next season.

Rice Cookers and Crock Pots

2005-12-06T22:43:00.000-08:00

You need to stir the pot, before it starts sticking.

I have been waiting for such a time as this and I think it has finally come- a pot stirring time.

I burned every soup and chili I ever attempted last year, cooking with gas in cheap cookware.

I finally found a means of cooking in Japan that was reliable and burn-proof: a rice cooker.
Yes, first I started off with mere rice, but oh, how things went from there.
Soon I was adding tomatoes, beans, taco seasoning (all imported from the States, of course). Dump it all in the rice cooker, push the magic button ( I only trusted one button- to this day I have no idea what the characters beside it actually said) go for a run, shower and dinner is served. Perfect, every time. No matter how long your rice sits, it never burns in a rice cooker. It is a wonder worth the marvel.

I'm only in my current abode for a limited period of time and must confess I don't really want to invest in all that it takes for meal preparation. Last night, in a fleeting moment of familiarity I dumped rice, beans, and tomatoes into my roommate's crockpot and left the house.
I eventually returned to a healthy but most disgusting and burned meal.

Bottom line:
A rice cooker just isn't a crock pot.

He makes the common Holy

2005-12-05T16:37:00.000-08:00

I've heard more than once that it depends not on our ability, but on our availability.
Usually, that seems trite.
Tonight, it seems true.
Meeting in the Parish hall, with masking tape on the lights above our heads and wheels under the legs of the communion table, I saw the common and was reminded of the Holy.
Availability seems all I have to offer and it seems like a bit of a cop out.
Yet what I have I give him . . . give my heart.
So I am doing my best to not get in the way, to not make things happen of my own accord, to not stir the pot.
These are the ramblings of availability, seeking assignment.
These are the ponderings of faith in the winter, when it takes intentionality to go out into the cold, for surely no one would exit the warmth of their home just for the sheer fun of it.

Waiting

2005-12-04T14:12:00.000-08:00

While we are waiting, come; while we are waiting, come.
Jesus, our Lord, Emmanuel,
While we are waiting, come.

The question is not of his coming, but of our waiting.

The former is not in doubt, while the latter often is.

We wait not.
Forgive us, Oh Lord, and teach us to wait once more.

Dark Chocolate

2005-12-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

As a kid, I always wondered why they made dark chocolate.
Clearly no one liked it.
And then they had to go and get rid of it- be sneaky and slip in into the mixed assortment bags of Hersey's miniatures.
So why did they ever make it to begin with?
I now sit with a giant "Special Dark" chocolate bar, a gift from my roommate, and laugh at my childhood innocence.
Some things you grow to appreciate with time.

Work. Work. Work.

2005-11-28T10:35:00.000-08:00

This truth arrived in my mailbox today:

In the midst of God continually changing our hearts and molding us to be more like Him, He also wants us to learn to rest in His sovereignty. Too often, we neglect to view our relationship with Him as restful and rather 'work work work' toward what we think He's called us to do. Let us not labor in vain for something that He's already set in motion.

Fishing

2005-11-27T08:12:00.000-08:00

If you give a man a fish . . .
You probably know "the rest of the story" . . . he'll eat for a day.
Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime.
It's a great idea- easy to get your head around.
Might even make you want to give fishing lessons.

But who owns the pond?
The same guy who runs the city. And he decides who comes on his property.
He decides who fishes in his pond.
Suddenly the idea gets infinitely more complicated.

Oppression can be defined as not having power, while others do.
Oppression is only one of the causes of poverty.

Last night I sat in a borrowed building in East Nashville and learned about "reconciling diversity". At first listen, this rubbed me the wrong way.
Diversity, in my opinion is one of our strengths.
After a year without any diversity, I have grown to crave it, to feel a very real need for it.
But I listened.
Diversity is also what keeps us apart.

Racial and economic diversity.
"The City Church of East Nashville exists to reconcile the diversity of East Nashville by enjoying and displaying Jesus Christ through worship, teaching, and city-focused communities to, for, and from Nashville to the nations of the world."

It's a tall order.
But then again, I know of no other church with that particular aim.

It took me the whole service, sitting in the YCAP building, spying the first lit candle of advent, to reconcile within myself why we were all there.

The pastor offered four causes of poverty and simutaneously reminded us that the son of God was born into "abject poverty". Not just meeting the government qualifications for "poverty level" for a family of three with a $16,000 annual income, but more like the folks who live within the neighborhood, making about $4,300 for an entire year.

This is what Christ was born into.
A Jewish baby, born in a dung stall in the Middle East.
It's hard to get my American mind wrapped around it.
A rough equivalent of delivering your firstborn in the trash dumpster out back of the very building we sat in.
This is not how we like to think of the first Christmas.
In all honesty, this is not how we like to think of Christ.

But that was precisely the point. We don't like to think about it.
We don't like to think about what makes us uncomfortable- what separates us.

Poverty comes from a lack of knowledge, not having the resources of knowledge to break the cycle. It comes from oppression- when those in positions of influence fail to use that power in appropriate ways. It comes from personal sin-our ability to set ourselves back- our undeniable need for deliverance from ourselves. Poverty also comes from a lack of material things- it doesn't matter if we secure two jobs for income if we don't have the transportion to get there.

I don't write this because I have stumbled upon some grand conclusion or new solution.
I write to invite and involve you in the asking, in the addressing of what is true and what is truly uncomfortable.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

2005-11-26T07:51:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big fan of dogs, as my family can attest.
My brother has a dog, a Ridgeback, I believe. A good dog, as far as dogs go.
I used to like dogs, begged my parents for a puppy, the whole nine yards.
But something happened along the way of growing up and now I find myself on the other side of the fence, shifting my weight to stay out of range of roaming tongues and dirty paws.

So it is with great resignation that I recognize my utter likeness to the creatures.
Unfortunately it isn't their undying devotion or zest for life with which I identify, but their eagerness to bolt.

Running in my sister's neighborhood today I passed an owner, with dog in training.
He held the dog close and repeated, "Stay. Stay. Stay."
I smiled as I ran by, but didn't speak a word, determined not to disturb the process.
It's hard to stay; this I know.
I found myself wanting to help the poor dog obey, since I too felt his readiness to take off.

I suppose it's just where I am these days- with the Master close at side, methodically repeating, "Stay. Stay. Stay."
And it's hard to stay, it's a discipline to do so.
But I vaguely remember something about God disciplining those he loves. So I'll do my best to stay, to watch the world running by and sit, obediently, at the Master's feet.

The Dukes of Hazard and Humility

2005-11-22T20:39:00.000-08:00

I was driving to meet up with a good friend of mine, her whole family actually.
We had arranged to meet in the parking lot of a guitar store, at a shopping plaza.

I've never been a good driver. Fair at best.
I don't think I typically make my passengers particularly uneasy or anything, but neither do I give off an air of tremendous confidence and control.

And so it was that music cranked, heater blowing I peeled into Guitar Center parking lot and circled around looking for their family vehicle.

Aha- there they were.

Now I know you aren't supposed to pull straight through a parking spot. I think it might be one of those mini-laws you study when cramming for your driving test. However, on this cold November night, already ten minutes behind schedule, I saw no need for concern.

Plenty of space to get through- a speedy assessment and Whala!

Dukes of Hazard. I was airborn.

For some unknown reason, unlike every other row of parking spaces in the entire lot, there was a two and a half foot cement median between these parking spots and I had just propelled myself over it, directly in front of my friend, her husband and their two children who now sat, doubled over in laughter, scarcely able to catch their breath.

The car is fine. Only my ego was wounded.
Humility is a good thing. However it comes.

Love

2005-11-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Love, with flesh and blood on it- so we can touch it, feel it.
It makes a difference.
Incarnational Grace.
Jesus did it, and now, he asks us to do the same.

Change of Plans

2005-11-19T21:14:00.000-08:00

I showed up this morning for a women’s retreat, but somewhere between brewing a pot of Breakfast Blend and House Decaf it became apparent that I needed to be in the Choir Room and not the Bride’s Room. I ended up in a meeting about Southern Sudan.

This isn’t surprising considering the twists and turns my life has taken over the past several years. Recently returning from a year in Japan, extensive travel in Southeast Asia and two months on the Hill in Washington D.C., I find myself changed, left with questions that can no longer be ignored.

Perhaps this is how I ended up in the St. B’s Choir Room, surrounded by representatives from the Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army (SPLA), Austin Peay State University (APSU), doctors studying HIV/AIDS, St. John’s and St. B’s Episcopal churches, the Jieng, Acoli and Nuba communities, the South Sudan Youth Connection, the Lost Boys Association and many more. I was honored to be invited. All I brought to the table was pen and paper and an open heart.

Apparently there have been 22 years of ongoing war in Sudan. The current Comprehensive Peace Agreement between the North and South is fragile at best. This meeting took place to announce an upcoming conference regarding the emergence of a new political party, the Sudanese Peoples Liberation Movement (SPLM). The new president of Southern Sudan, Mr. Salva Kiir Mayaardit, will come to APSU in Clarksville, TN in March for the SPLM Post Conflict National Development Conference of North America. A government is newly established. A political party is in the making. These are exciting times, pivotal ones.

I learned that USAID is contributing on a national level, and President Kiir has recently visited Washington D.C. with the very folks at this meeting, as well as with the State Department. On a local level, APSU is planning how to train and equip the Sudanese in Nashville to return to leadership roles in their home country.

Everything about the morning intrigued me, from the Washington D.C. visits with President Kiir, to stories of ground-up glass in food and poisoned bottled water. This was not a movie. This needed no Hollywood elaboration. This was reality and I was sitting in the midst of it.

So I sat down with a few questions and rose hours later with dozens more. Most importantly, how had I been at St. B’s all these years without ever attending a meeting like this and now how can I become more involved?

A Tube of Toothpaste

2005-11-15T23:29:00.000-08:00

I stocked up on toothpaste in Thailand nearly a year ago.
Good toothpaste is hard to come by in parts of southeast Asia, but I managed a couple of tubes of what I firmly believe to be Colgate original flavor.
I can't read Thai, but I feel confident this is the same product.

This afternoon, as I spied the floor of my new "home", I noticed my Thai toothpaste scattered between a half-unpacked suitcase and a National Geographic entitled "Africa, Whatever You Thought, Think Again".
I smiled.
It couldn't have been a more accurate representation of my present life.

I've recently returned to Nashville, TN, home of country music, Pancake Pantry and Radnor Lake. But more importantly, home to me.
I've come home to pursue my passion and as of yet, no one has faulted me for that.
It sounds noble, to follow one's dreams, but it feels largely irresponsible.

My dream is of writing.
My interest is the world.

I suppose I should narrow my scope a bit, but I am in no real hurry to do so.
I am at a time when April feels like long-term planning and limiting myself to a "Top 5" list of "countries-to-visit" is challenging at best.

Fresh from Washington I am grasping to hold on to a more global perspective.
I recently attended a press meeting with a blogger from South Dakota.
Apparently, the entire state's population is about 750,000, less than the one million in the city of Nashville, less than the one million who died in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda.
It's hard to know just how all these facts fit together and even harder to know how my daily life must change because of them.
My heart and mind are spinning like a top, trying to keep the balance of near and far.
I struggle to know just how to walk in the midst of it.

And so I find myself here again, living in the questions and sharing some of them with you.
Many of you have asked to know "the stuff you don't put in the email".
Tonight, I'd wager a guess they are one in the same.

Going Home

2005-11-08T20:19:00.000-08:00

Going home.
First semester, freshman year of college- our assignment: write an essay on Home.
I waxed eloquently on the nature of a temporal home and the need for One Constant.
Little did I know how that truth would carry me.

These are my last few days up here- final moments- tying up loose ends.
I struggle to complete the ever-present stack of data-entry that piles up on my Intern desk and gave my last Capitol tour today.

My bed is stripped and my drawers empty. My suitcases stand at the foot of my bed.
I’ll be leaving soon.
Everywhere my life speaks of the change of a season. The golden leaves fall off the trees in torrents these days. At last.

Folks came in droves to see the Indian Summer, the fall foliage- New England in Autumn. I fear they were all disappointed, as things have just now reached their peak of beauty. For a while there I thought “Indian Summer” was another term for “freezing cold” or bore a close resemblance to a “snipe hunt”. But at last, the trees have turned, the weather warmed and running in shorts once more, I find that this is what it was all about.

It’s hard to leave- but exciting to be going home.
I have to remind myself that there are gorgeous trees in Nashville and moments to be had there as well. I must not need too much reminding, as I can’t help but smile when I speak of where I am going.

I’m going home- to all that is familiar . . . to chase a dream wildly uncharted.
Of all that I have done these past years and all the places I have traveled none seemed so full of potential as this one- home.

The Comforter

2005-11-07T18:58:00.000-08:00

I gave my comforter away just now, complete with matching rug.
Gave it to Rebekah, an angel that has inspired and encouraged me and made me laugh in the midst of life's looming indecisions.
She was the precise recipient for what I can only describe as God's provision.

TMH, Thompson Markward Hall, (the women's dorm in which I currently reside), provides a basic bed-covering- a rough equivalent to what you'd find at a budget hotel.
It does the job.

My first week here, my devoted friend Lea ventured forth with me to Target and there, lo and behold, a matching rug and comforter found their way off the clearance shelf and into my shopping cart. They have brought me much delight and warmth these last months as a daily reminder of God's lavished love- providing more than is required- more than we could ask or imagine.

Since Wednesday the problem of "What to do with my comforter and rug?" has plagued me. And then tonight- in an instant- resolution.

She came to my room to record her email address and I sent her away with a rug and a comforter. I instucted her to do the same, when she goes.

No one stays at TMH for too long; they can't- they don't allow it.
It's a great place to live, but it is more of a way-station than anything.
Not unlike my comforter- supplied for such a time as this and no more.

I've passed it along now- and my room seems sparse once more.
It's nearing time to go and the room depicts it.

The West Wing

2005-11-06T23:53:00.000-08:00

CJ was nowhere to be found, and rightly so.
We were touring the actual West Wing of the White House, no Hollywood reproduction for us.

I'm still pinching myself to believe it, but it's true.
On this surreal Sunday afternoon several friends and I were able to tour what I can only describe as a serene and respectful place- the West Wing of the White House.

I was struck by the peaceful feel of standing on the White House lawn, or rather, just next to it.
Onlookers paused on Pennsylvania Avenue and peered through the fence at us.
We marveled at being on the other side.

The Oval Office, the Rose Garden, the Press Pool, we saw it all and then some, right down to the Presidential M&Ms.

I have heard that this administration strives to restore the highest degree of dignity and integrity to the White House, the West Wing in particular.
I'd say they are succeeding royally.

Every swallow on the grounds is accounted for.
Every tree perfectly placed, the lawn neatly manicured.
The same holds true inside as well.
Dozens of fragrant roses adorn the desks and coffee tables.
Well- lit paintings tell the stories of our past.
Candid photos line the walls, capturing the moments of our present.

Nothing about our experience was unplanned or haphazard, and the intentionality put us all at ease.
There is no higher authority, no greater security than is felt walking through the halls of the West Wing of the White House, home to the leader of the free world.
We found ourselves not only delighted but unexpectedly at rest.

There is a painting in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, depicting George Washington resigning his military commission to ensure this country would be a democracy and not a dictatorship.
Great strides have been made throughout our nation's young history to promote and maintain that democracy.
All this I was born into:
A gift, at great expense to the giver.
Freedom, at the highest price.

Many things happen in Washington because of who you know.
The same can be said for our visit to the White House.
We had done nothing extraordinary to be admitted in, but we got to go because of who we knew.
Someone with the necessary authority made a way for us to enter and invited us to do so.
And we stood grateful and amazed.

Would that I could live each day like this, aware of the magnitude of the invitation, given at the highest price, from the greatest Authority.

Mystery

2005-11-06T11:08:00.000-08:00

There are some things which require no explanation.
It dies in the explaining.
It is art.
It is beauty.
It is mystery.

The Pearl Lady

2005-11-05T19:19:00.000-08:00

I've been to Beijing- but I've never seen anything quite like this.
Hundreds, if not thousands of women, well-dressed, cups of Starbucks in hand, flocked from near and far- to witness for themselves the phenomenon of The Pearl Lady.

She comes from China once a year with a stash of pearls so grand no woman can resist.
Set up in a townhouse flanked by the turning leaves of fall trees, photos of presidents line the walls and strings of pearls cover the tables.
Prices were a bit higher this year than last- at least one woman flew up from the deep south with a long list- an order from her friends and family back home- conversations laced the counters as thickly as the jewelry.

Women lined up in the kitchen sharing mirrors and swapping advice on size, shape, coloring and style. "Oh, those look lovely on you!" was heard more than once to be sure.

Pleasantries and English were probably what surprised me most.
Certainly the prices were higher, but the company was also notably different.
"Pardon me."
"Excuse me I'm just going to slip around you."
"Oh, no problem, please do!"

Not at all the sort of shopping I had done in Beijing, on a warm and dusty day at the flea market.
But a cultural experience without a doubt.
One not to be missed, and I am glad to say I didn't.
I have the pearls to prove it.

Two Weeks Notice

2005-11-02T19:16:00.000-08:00

Just before falling into bed, I stop to consider the day's accomplishments:
Declining the opportunity of a lifetime, to pursue the greatest desires of my heart.

It was a defining moment today, to walk out of a Congressional office and boldly step into an unchartered future.

Two weeks from today I will be home.
I'll be living once again in Nashville, TN and savoring all my favorite things in life, family, friends, community and of course, Radnor Lake.

I'll also be risking like I've never risked before- investigating my passions and seeing where that takes me.

Although exhaustion has set in, I feared I might forget the flavor of this momentous day and it is something I truly hope to remember always.
So I have paused to record a fleeting moment- residing between relief and anticipation, between saddness and delight.
These are not my everyday occurances; but they are today's occurances and so I find them worth recording.

And this much I hope to be true: Delight yourself also in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart- words that linger in the middle of my Bible, on a card given years ago by my father.

Questions??? Options!!!

2005-11-01T19:45:00.000-08:00

Years ago on a spring break missions trip my very wise campus minister spoke profound truth to me.
I still have the well-worn notebook paper with his two word advice for my life:
Questions??? Options!!!

Get comfortable living in the questions and considering all the options.

It isn't always necessary that we attain the answers we desire,
but I think it essential that we ask the questions and examine the options.

A good friend recently reminded me of her father's keen insight:
There are lots of good things out there. But they aren't all for you.

These thoughts and more race through my mind this evening in my less than 24 hour decision-making process.
Job offers have been coming in and the clock is ticking to determine the outcome.
Few times, if ever, in my life have I faced such uniquely honoring difficulty.
What began as a grand but temporary adventure has turned into a potentially more permanent position and I find myself at a crossroads.

I take solace in the fact that tomorrow night, no matter the decisions made, I will be celebrating at a local Mexican restaurant with the friends who have faithfully journeyed with me through this time.

And so, with lots of good thinking under my belt and the sincere wish for a good night's sleep I find myself at the same place I started:

My soul finds rest in God alone . . .

Trust in him at all times, O People;
Pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.

Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him.

Rosa Parks

2005-10-30T14:22:00.000-08:00

Streams of people, dressed in Sunday best, with long woolen coats and smiles on their faces.
A woman walking with a single flower, stem wrapped in tin foil.
A father instructing his children why they had come, why they would wait in line for hours.
They had come to pay their respects; they had come to pay homage.
They had come for Rosa Parks and what she had come to mean to each of them.

Suddenly aware of my own aimless running, I felt sweaty and unkempt, and vastly ignorant of the stories that carried them here.

I longed to join the crowd, to stand in line and become a part of the family forming on the West Central Front of the Capitol.

Instead I politely parted my way through the crowd and struggled to finish my run, to hold in my tears, to return to the safety of my dorm room.

I was witnessing something greater than I could understand and they were gracious to let me through.

Perhaps they had come to mourn, but it seemed to me they were celebrating.

And when all is said and done, I don't imagine we could long for anything more than that.

A perfect day

2005-10-30T13:17:00.000-08:00

This is what I imagined living in D.C. to be.
A perfect cloudless day.
I wake up, go downstairs to the dining room of my women's dorm and am warmly greeted by not only the ray of sunshine serving up a hot breakfast but tables of young women with a wide array of plans.
We linger over styrofoam cups of hot coffee, catching up on each others' weekends and brainstorming possible churches to visit.
I've risen to return my tray when a new Canadian friend, a Sikh, suggests the National Cathedral.
Aha, the day begins.

Due to the Marine Corps Marathon, the Metro buses are delayed and I arrive at the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul well after the service started.
No matter, I step into the building and outside of our borders.Instantly transported to another land, I am fairly shocked to hear the priest speaking English, for the very architecture surrounding me speaks of another time and place.
Though the sermon is in English the message is clearly an international one, appealing to all who have come, from near and far.
Beautiful and grand, but not quite home.
Some folks stick around for a 12:30pm tour, but I choose a long walk back to the Metro subway station.
Lots of thinking to do and the perfect day for it.

I've come up here for an adventure and no doubt every day here offers that.
But these are the times when I must decide when this adventure ends and the next one begins. They are exciting times, but demanding ones.
I've become well-acquainted with the adrenaline rush of an interview on Capitol Hill and the inevitable exhaustion that follows.
I've repeatedly promised myself to send out no more resumes only to chase down yet one more intriquing job lead later that same day.
Soon, maybe very soon, decisions will be made and the adventures continue, either here or abroad.

In the meantime, I seem to have the best of both worlds, daily dining with friends from many lands.
Tonight we head out for Ethiopian fare- an intriguing first for me.

But for now, its back outside, to catch the tail end of the daylight, to run once more past the monuments and through the crowds -catching snippets of languages, and glimpses of tourists.
Another chance to remember how good it is to be alive.
I wish the same for you today.

"The Blessing", concluding today's service at the National Cathedral:
Remember the poor, visit the sick, pray for peace, and work for justice; and the blessing of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be with you today and for ever. Amen.

U2

2005-10-21T23:29:00.000-07:00

Last night, my Nashville-now DC resident friends and I experienced the rare phenomenon of a U2 concert.
After living on Capitol Hill for over a month it was both refreshing and shocking to attend such an event.
Refreshing in that we all felt more like we were in Nashville than DC, shocking in that there is no escaping politics.
I watched the world renowned Bono strut and sing and woo and win the hearts and minds of hundreds of thousands of cheering fans, packing the MCI arena.
In the words of Spiderman, “With great power comes great responsibility.”
And in the words of a much older source, “To whom much is given, much will be expected.”
I dare say Bono is neither ignorant of this truth, nor lackadaisical about living it out.

A Bit of Silliness

2005-10-16T00:08:00.000-07:00

A bit of silliness really.

My first real night up here, even before moving into my cozy dorm room, I stayed at a friend’s house and watched “Finding Neverland”, a story about Peter Pan, littered with truth. At one point in the tale, Peter, a young boy, is called to account for his writings of his adventures and casually dismisses them as “just a bit of silliness, really”. As the story unfolds, the viewer finds the truth in the silliness and the desperate need for it.

Last Friday afternoon, after hobbling over rain-slicked cobblestone streets to yet another “good interview experience”, I sat in a conference room with the leadership of a media research organization. Dripping wet and exhausted from a long day, I laughed in response to his smiling question, “And what do you want to do when you grow up?”
“I don’t,” I replied grinning, “I don’t want to grow up”.
I quickly followed with an honest and idealistic explanation of my desire to write, and then listened to the Executive Director advise me to chase my dreams. It is not everyday one hears this in an interview, no matter the organization or the town.

It is a bit of silliness really, the relaying of dreams, the restoring of hope, the retelling of truth in a way that makes it readable, almost as if for the first time.

But the more I travel and the wider the scope of lives and jobs I take in, the more I see it all as just a bit of silliness really.

Sitting in the gallery of the House of Representatives, watching the Speaker of the House slam down the gavel and repeatedly attempt to gain the attention and order of a floor full of chatty Congressmen- I see the silliness of it all- our attempt to bring order to chaos, when we are the very cause of that chaos.

Answering ceaseless phone calls from constituents voicing their opinions on upcoming legislation, I see the silliness of it all- as if one person’s thoughts could really make a difference.

Collecting faded Coke cans and old cigarette butts in an effort to clean up inner city D.C. schools, I see the silliness of it all- how could we possibly make a difference by our meager efforts?

But that silliness is essential. It is our lifeblood and without it we will surely fade- fade into something void of the very silliness that bears truth, that maintains justice, that restores hope.

It IS just a bit of silliness really. And I’m so glad it is.

Falling in Love

2005-10-12T17:10:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday a funny thing happened.

I stepped out of Longworth House Office Building and proceeded down the steps to the nearest crosswalk, directly across from the Capitol Building.
The sun was casting shadows across the back of the Capitol amidst a bustle of "staffers" and "members" all on their way home.
(Contrary to how this first sounded to me, neither of these terms have any reference to Country Club membership or employment, but rather to that of the U.S. Congress.)

But on this particular day there was an extra bounce in my step largely due to the familiarity of my walk home.
Elements of the work place have grown slightly more comfortable.
Even the Security guards had greeted me with in the late afternoon with a "welcome back" as opposed to simply a nod or smile.
And yet the air of familiarity has dulled none of the luster of living here.
Quite the opposite, in fact.

As I stole a glance of the capitol before crossing the street, the reality of my present "home" caught my breath.
Could it be?
In such a short period of time?
But yes, it seems true.
I have found myself falling in love with this place.

Yes, love is in the air, along with the lack of humidity, the lushness of the trees, the beauty of the people that flock to this one city from all over the world.
In many ways it feels like world travel brought to my doorstep, yet I still get to speak English to ask for directions.

I am living in a tourist destination and in stark contrast to the last year of my life am now impeding the view at which many are staring.
It is a refreshing change to live among people whose eyes are intently fixed on buildings and statues and not at all on me.
At long last I have exited center stage and become a part of the backdrop and I must say, it feels good.

A Bad Haircut

2005-10-10T16:52:00.000-07:00

Its amazing how the simplest things in life can completely level us.

No matter that I daily interact with some of the most powerful folks in our government, or have cracked jokes in the office of the Consulate General of Japan, or made my way through foreign lands in which I couldn't translate the most basic of human needs.
No, apparently, none of those scenarios hold a candle to getting a bad haircut in your home country, half a block from where you live.

At the end of an otherwise marvelous Columbus Day, I swung into Bubbles, the hair salon recommended by friends, in close proximity to my current digs (Thompson Markward Hall- a women's dormitory).
It was a risk, a risk I wasn't sure I was even willing to take till I found myself wrapped in a cloak and seated at the sink, ready for a shampoo.

Darryl was a jovial fellow- kept me in stitches with his hair-rescue stories, declaring he wanted to follow some women home and rid their house of every pair of scissors, to keep them from trimming their own bangs!
"Then they come to me and say, 'Fix it'.
Time's the only thing that can help you now.
I can't do anything to fix it."

I laughed at the tales, not fully recognizing the truth of it in the moment.

I was in and out in about 15 minutes and immediately suffering Hair-cuttee's remorse.
I looked like a bush, a bush that desperately needed trimming.
But I had told Darryl what I needed; and he seemed to know what to do.
Yet the result seemed disastrous.
Well, not quite disastrous, but certainly not beautiful.

I wallowed in my self-pity for the next half hour before finally marching myself back down the block, up the steps and into Bubbles for the second time that evening.
Darryl was gone and would be gone the next day as well.
So I scheduled a "Redo" session with Ginger, the competent appearing woman to Darryl's immediate right.
I felt certain I would have been better off going with her from the start.

Tomorrow turned into today and by evening I found myself once again cloaked and explaining my hair trauma to the astute Ginger.
She took her time doing her "investigative work" only to finally and firmly conclude that I had in fact received a very good cut.
My hair just needed to grow.
Cutting any more would only exacerbate the problem.
In the words of Darryl, "Time's the only thing that can help you now".

It has come to my attention that I am an impatient being.
Not in a humorous way, nor a 21st century, "Why won't my computer go to the next web-page more quickly?" kind of way.
I am not patient.
And as I read only this morning, but all day failed to understand, Love is.
Love is patient.
Even now I struggle to leave it just at that- Love is patient.

There are seasons of sowing and seasons of reaping, seasons of allowing the earth to lie fallow. There is a time to plant and a time to harvest . . . and a time to wait in between the two.
Living in the city, in a dorm, no less, where my meals are prepared and served and the ties to agriculture virtually obliterated to my human eye, I don't see a lot of growing these days, at least not in the fields.
In truth, about the only thing I'm waiting to grow is my hair, and we see what a struggle I've encountered to embrace that truth.

What appeared a grand misfortune, a risk gone ary, even a possible injustice, was, in fact, a pruning of sorts.
My eyes saw a "bad haircut" and my heart would not accept it, till I learned the truth.
Time's the only thing that can help sometimes and Love is patient.
I pray Love is patient with me as I learn to make room for time.

What's a Blog?

2005-10-02T20:32:00.000-07:00

A Blog, by any other name is an online journal, an interactive email archive, a personal GPS for your adventurous friends.
A Blog can be whatever you want it to be.
But one thing everyone hopes their blog will be is Well Visited.

A Blog allows technology (a sometimes obnoxious if not impersonal aspect of life) to foster community- an international, multicultural, albeit online, community.

My single favorite feature of this blog is the opportunity to hear your voice.
I confess I have not tried it myself, but it looks like all one must do to get started is click on "Comments" just under the original post.

I encourage you to try it out.
You may be new to Blogging (as I certainly am) but I hope you'll try it all the same.

And Yes, I still have and will maintain my current email account, but will be posting the vast majority of my adventures here.

It's an experiment. Thanks for trying it out with me!

Its a Blog!

2005-10-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

After months of eager waiting, it's finally arrived!
In order to better document "Where in the world I am" I have decided to have a blog.
Birthed from a couple of friends in southern Japan, this idea is sure to grow with me as I journey near and far on trails yet unseen.
As many of you loyal readers may already know, I am currently basing myself out of Washington D.C., to get better acquainted with "my homeland".
There is truly nothing like living and traveling abroad to make me starkly aware of how little I know of my own country.
I hope to rectify that here.
Not sure how long I'll be staying, but anticipate some changes in the near future.
Hope this has piqued your curiosity and will leave you coming back for more.
That is the one thing I can guarantee to offer: more.
Happy Trails to you . . . until we meet again.