emily grace and the yellow suitcase

Just Paint.

2011-10-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

This morning, as I got ready for work, I glanced in the mirror and noticed two giant streaks of oil paint running across my forehead. That hasn't happened to me since college.

It's not because I've become significantly neater over the years, it's because I haven't been making art. If you know me, you might be confused by that statement, so I'll clarify that I draw a sharp line between art making and things like illustrations or crafts, the latter two being as mindless for me as microwaving canned soup.

There have been a couple of run-ins with art here and there, mostly a handful of semi-involved illustrations I threw together twice when I was asked to participate in various art shows. But this art-for-deadlines business is not the real stuff, not my raison d'être, not a risk.

There are several unimpressive reasons for this dearth of creative work, among them lack of money, lack of time, lack of brilliant ideas. But the truest thing I can say is that I'm just really great at making excuses for myself. One of the biggest excuses is that I thought I needed to spend lots of time processing my past and figuring myself out, and defining my values and priorities before I stepped out into the wider world. But can anyone ever really answer all those sorts of questions?

I was one of those shy, sensitive, homework loving kids, so you might rightly guess that I have lots of confidence issues lingering beneath the surface. In the last few years, as I've been "processing" them, I was really just letting them fester and boil and run over the surface of my life into places that ruined my present experiences and my productivity, creative and otherwise. I began to see myself in some sort of a pit, and the only thing I really let myself think about during those years was how awful pits are, and how I might go about getting out of mine. Then I would get on with my life. But the funny part is that the more time you spend thinking about something like that, the more real it becomes.

What I've realized pretty recently is that what I really needed to do if I wanted to paint is just... paint. Profound, right? So this year, 28, I've resigned myself to painting in that pit. To writing in that pit. To building a portfolio of design work that can hopefully connect me to more great companies like the one I've been working with in Uganda. All from the depths of the pit. And even just a couple of months in, I'm realizing that the whole thing is just silly, and what really matters isn't the "processing," it's the painting and the writing and the portfolio building.

If this sounds even vaguely familiar, I wanted to share a couple of things that really helped me in getting to that point. The first has been conversations with a good, observant friend. You know the sort. They tell you the truth about yourself and it hurts a little but you kind of love it. Next were two books by Steven Pressfield, called the War of Art and Do the Work. Books say different things to different people, but I'm pretty sure Pressfield was shouting at me. He basically just stepped out of the pages and into my studio, rolled his eyes at me, and said, "Seriously, Emily? Stop whining about everything and just start moving."

Painting is hard. And not just because I don't have an idea or because I'm not as good at it as I am other things. It's that sometimes I work for weeks on something, tirelessly, and its just awful. And other times, it's amazing and little pieces of my soul are dried into the brush strokes, and then I have to sell those little pieces of my soul because I need money to buy more paint or because I can't keep everything I ever make when I live in a shared apartment.

Writing is hard because sometimes I don't feel like writing, but I have to do it anyways otherwise I'll find an excuse not to feel like it everyday, and then I get rusty and start writing really bad things, like this blog post.

And making a portfolio is hard because I have only a couple of pages to present myself to the world, and I know it is the tool by which potential business partners and employers will first judge me, and that's a lot of pressure.

But these are the things that are really worth chasing, the things I feel I was put on earth to do.

And on that note, I'm probably going to wrap this thing up. And let you know that you can find me more often at emilygracesuitcase.tumblr.com It's full of things I wrote, places I went, and work that I admire.

And hopefully, soon, some real artwork.

Learned Behavior.

2011-06-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

My parents are getting ready to sell their house and move to another state, and yesterday I helped them decorate and rearrange after a "stager" walked through and left three pages of directions on how to make the house more sellable. I always get really sentimental in moments like those and find myself being especially observant of the ways we interact with each other and the projects and objects in the house.

In the past couple of years I've become more and more aware of the number of small quirks I've inherited from my parents, like never completely finishing one project before moving on to the next, or saving EVERYTHING. Just in case. Many of these aren't that uncommon, I suppose.

Yesterday I encountered a really odd one. Whenever I walk to the faucet to get a glass of water, I drink all but the last few sips, then pour the rest of the water in the sink. Even if I'm getting a refill. I became conscious of this a couple of years ago, and never thought much of it. But yesterday, after a particularly strenuous few hours of work, my mom and I were both standing at the sink drinking our glasses of water, and almost simultaneously, we flicked the last few sips into the sink and set the glasses on the counter. The moment caught my attention, and I guessed that the reason I throw out the last bit of water in the glass was because I'd observed my mom doing the same thing.

I mentioned it to my Dad later in the day, and he noted that he'd always done that too, until he became conscious of it fairly recently and trained himself to stop. "When I was a kid our water was pretty bad and had lots of sediment in it," he explained. "You'd drink down to where the sediment had settled, then throw the last bit out."

Procrastination = Bad. Or, How I Got this Red Sweater.

2010-12-28T19:59:00.000-08:00

You know those times when you really ought to be productive, but certain things keep coming up? Like maybe you should sort out your sock drawer and get rid of all the ones that can't make a pair, even though you never really wear socks anyway. Or maybe you should alphabetize all the books on your bookshelf, because even though you only have about forty since most of them are still packed away somewhere, alphabetizing things just makes them easier to find. But work? Be productive? No. Never.

So today I was supposed to be unpacking from Uganda, and also getting some work done, but I walked into the hallway and saw an air pump and thought, "Hey! I know work is important, but I should re-inflate my bicycle tires right now! I don't have any plans to go anywhere, but you never know."

And so I found myself kneeling on the back patio attaching a tire pump to my deflated bicycle tires, dragging the hem of my cardigan through a rainpuddle of mud. I stretched it out across a patio chair to dry, and turned to go back inside. This should have been just the first in a long string of procrastinations today, but when I tried the patio door, it had somehow managed to lock behind me. It's a sliding glass door, so to this day (well, hour) I'm still not even sure how that's possible.

Fortunately, I had gone to get the mail earlier, and was 98.9% certain I'd left the front door unlocked, so I figured I'd just call someone who lived close by to see if they could walk through my house and let me in. But this is a new phone (Uganda ate my other one) and I don't have anyone's phone number anymore.

The next plan was to try and get the next-door neighbor's attention. The ones I've met weren't home, but the newer ones on the other side had a car in the driveway. I thought about hopping the fence onto their back patio and asking them to let me through the house, but I also thought about how creepy it would be to look out into my backyard and see a stranger, so I temporarily decided against that.

What sounded like a much better idea was to pick up the stack of little plastic flower pots I'd amassed over the last year and start throwing them at their patio door to get somebody's attention. It was at a weird, around-the-corner angle, so I found that the best I could do was just to throw them in the general direction of the front door, and hope for the best. After ten flower pots and no luck, I decided that knocking on somebody's front door and saying "Hey, sorry, I just threw a bunch of flower pots into your patio" was maybe even weirder than climbing the fence and being seen on their patio, so I thought I'd just climb over, get the flower pots, and then climb the next fence into the alley.

Unfortunately, after I jumped down to the other side and started picking up the flower pots, I looked up to notice my neighbor standing on the other side of the patio door. I wasn't sure if he'd seen me, so I knocked on the glass and pointed toward my house and gestured for him to open the door. I explained my predicament and he didn't seem all that amused, but he let me through the house.

I walked toward my own front door, relieved, and found that against all odds and past habits, I'd locked it after retrieving the mail. I tried to break in through the front window, but it's not really possible when it's locked. And only one of my roommates is in town right now, and she was at work. And I didn't have my jacket anymore, which is unfortunate in even San Diego "winter" when you've just come back from three months at the equator. Plus I needed to use the bathroom. I remembered that you can call our cell phones from the front gate, and the two out-of-town roommates had their numbers listed there, so I called one and asked her to pass along the message that I was locked out.

Then I sat in the front yard for a good half hour thinking about how unfortunate my day was going to be and making a mental list of things to whine about when I remembered that I needed to go pick something up at the Make Good store in South Park. Sophia was working, and saved me with a red sweater from the "rescued"/vintage rack. And my roommate called and said she'd be home in the early afternoon.

So I eventually got back inside, five hours later. The good news? While I was sitting waiting to be let in, I won all kinds of fake money playing "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" on my cellphone. And it's a very warm sweater.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-23T02:42:00.000-08:00

It's been a bit of a whirlwind the last few weeks, finishing up training on the new designs, checking the homework from that training, and running a miscellany of other errands- not to mention my own work. But the funny thing is that I amidst the business, I still find myself with all sorts of free time to read, write, and get to know some of the incredible people that are living in Uganda, both native and otherwise. It's probably the lack of constant internet access, to be honest.

A few nights ago, we had a group of the women from Acholi Quarters over to the guest house where we are staying. They were the top scorers for the training sessions, the ones who made each and every new piece with a minimum of errors. If you've ever come across that paper bead necklace where everything is just perfect: every bead evenly shaped and smooth, and varnished to a flawless smooth shine... chances are good that one of these women made it. Their work ethic is impeccable, and they've got a talent to match it.

I spent the day cooking up a pseudo Thanksgiving dinner, their prize was an "American" meal, and outside of hotdogs and cheez-whiz, I'm pretty hard-pressed to figure out what that might be. I ended up with stuffed chickens (I don't think a turkey would fit in our little oven), roasted butternut squash with apples and cinnamon, green beans, rosemary bread dinner rolls, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a pumpkin pie for dessert. Ugandans aren't well known for their culinary adventurousness, so I was pretty impressed with everyone's willingness to try new things, and even more surprised to find that they liked most everything but the gravy.

Next we went up to the roof to sit and Esther, (you might recognize her from here: http://emberarts.com/2009/11/meet-mama-esther/ ) broke the relaxed silence when the mood to dance suddenly struck her. I wish everyone could meet each of these incredible women, but Esther is definitely at the top of that list. She's hilarious.

Afterward we had pie and talked about the things we were each thankful for, and am only too grateful to have had an opportunity to express my thankfulness for them. I don't know if I could every fully explain to them how inspired I am by their hard work and determination, and how much I appreciate all the work they've done to learn the new designs. Particularly the six women that were there that night- they never seem to rest or slow down.

But I'm more convinced than ever that it's opportunity that the world needs: opportunity to do what you dream of or in the case of these women, the economic opportunity to see your own dreams as something tangible. And as long as we're talking about Thanksgiving, this Thursday and always I am exceptionally thankful for those of you in my life that have breathed the words of encouragement that have helped me to see the possibility of my own dreams.

Butternut Squash

2010-10-22T01:24:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I awoke to the sound of rain outside my window, splashing softly into muddy brown puddles and softening the rush of cars on the nearby road. Gathering the essentials (a novel, toasted rosemary bread and butter, and coffee), I walked two flights of stairs to the covered roof and sat to watch the rain over the hills and treetops of Kampala.

We spent a few days with the beadmakers, watching them sort the new order, and I'm surprised to find how comfortable it feels, a bit like being home. I've never come back to a place I've traveled to before, and the familiarity of everything is wonderful.

The first part of this trip has been about slowing down. It's hard to re-learn to sit patiently and enjoy the calm when the past two or three months have felt so rushed and busy. But while loose ends are being tied up for the last order, and the varnish to finish the beads needed for training won't show up for a couple more days, there is nothing to do but wait. To take the time to read, write, bake, walk, think, and be. It's funny trying to rebuild a connection to all the things I used to be so proficient at.

But patience is necessary.

The other day I ventured off by myself to a new market, or anyway new in the sense that I'd never been there. But there was a rumor that they had butternut squash.

To get to the market, I first walk a little over a mile to get to a main intersection where the mutatus (minivan buses) stop. Next I stand at the side of the road awkwardly mispronouncing "Nakawa" as two or three mutatu conductors correct your pronunciation and try to guide you into their overcrowded vans. Inside there are four rows of bench seats with a fold-down seat at the end of each row, and another bench up front with the driver. Ideally, these would seat 15, but they always manage to stuff a fourth person in the front row, and there are usually babies and large pieces of luggage, and sometimes a chicken.

The roads are full of potholes and bicycles and motorbikes, and mutatu drivers seem very proficient with last minute swerves and narrow misses.

The market is stationed behind a giant mud patch at the side of a main road, next to the Shell station. The first part of it is booths and booths and booths of used clothing. One man tried to convince me that I needed a pair of pleat-front men's dress pants.

Past the clothing is a row of small restaurants, cement stalls with a roof and a couple of gas burners. Next there was a row of people selling cabbages and tomatoes. Then two aisles of matoke (green bananas), and then cages and cages of chickens. Then some more matoke, and then another row of restaurants.

I finally got through the restaurants and found a row of onions, which I needed. Six onions for 500 shillings, which is roughly 25 cents. Next a row of mixed vegetables, where I bought six tomatoes, two green peppers, and four big carrots for 1,000 shillings. Then three aisles of bananas, then another row of restaurants. By the third row the smell of cooking food won me over, so I stopped and bought an enourmous plate of rice and beans, which the women here make with some kind of magic, because I've never had rice and beans this good before Uganda.

Then there was another row of bananas. (You might gather than people around here really like bananas, both ripe and cooked from unripe).

Past that was a section of cassava, a starchy root vegetable. In the midst of cassava was a moat of muddy water, with a log bridge leading across it. At the other side of the log bridge was a shed, and inside that shed there were eggs. 1,200 shillings (60 cents) for a half-dozen.

The last thing on my list was a butternut squash, and so I drew a picture of it to show the egg seller. "Do you know this?" I asked. "The taste is similar to a pumpkin, but it is shaped like this [point at the drawing], and has the color of eggs [they're mostly brown here]."
"It is like a pumpkin?"
"Yes, but it is shaped like this, and is the color of eggs."
"It is shaped like this?"
"Yes, and the taste is similar to a pumpkin, and it is-"
"It is the color of eggs."
"Yes. Can I find it here?"
"The taste is like a pumpkin?"
"Yes. Do you know it?"
"What is its name?"
"In English it is called a butternut squash."
"Bah-tanah squash?"
"No. But-ter. nut."
"Butter NUT?"
"Yes."
"It is butter NUT?"
"Yes."
[Pause while he laughs about the word butternut]
"Okay, so can I find it here, at Nakawa?"
"Butter NUT?"
"Yes. Butternut."
"Let me first ask that one."

"That one" turns out to be the man at the tomato booth next door. He returns holding my drawing.

"It is like a pumpkin?"
"Yes, but it is shaped like this, and is the color of eggs."
"It is shaped like this?"
"Yes, and the taste is similar to a pumpkin, and it is-"
"It is the color of eggs."
"Yes. Can I find it here?"
"The taste is like a pumpkin?"
"Yes. Do you know it?"
"What is its name?"
"In English it is called a butternut squash."
"Bah-tanah squash?"
"No. But-ter. nut."
"Butter NUT?"
"Yes."
"It is butter NUT?"
"Yes."
[Pause while he laughs about the word butternut]

"You wait here."
I wait there.

He returns in a few minutes holding a wrinkled bright-green mystery fruit that is vaguely pear-shaped.

"Is it this?"
"No, the shape is the same, but it is much bigger, and it is like a pumpkin inside. And the color is brown like eggs."
"Brown like eggs?"
"Yes."
"And it is like a pumpkin?"
"Yes."
"I think you cannot find this thing here. Maybe you can go to the supermarket. I think it is there."

I share this story not out of frustration but of amusement- after all, at the end of the day, I'm the strange one, schlepping though a muddy market, waving around a crude drawing of some strange bit of foreign produce that tastes a bit like pumpkin and is the color of eggs. And the vendors wait patiently while I sketch and explain something they've probably never seen before, and they very helpfully do their best to bring me all the vaguely pear-shaped things the market has to offer.

And anyway, the man was right. I went to the supermarket, and it was there. The butternut squash. It only took me three hours to find. And what was also there, at the supermarket? A fresh ball of mozzarella cheese, which turned itself into homemade pizza this afternoon.

For some reason the formatting on these pictures is weird and I can't figure out how to write captions, but these are some of the women and their children on the first sorting day before the order ships out.

Layover in Dubai

2010-10-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

The flight landed in Dubai after what seemed an eternity. Four films, two meals, and eight fitful hours of restless sleep under a synthetic starry sky.

The first impression Dubai presents to a traveler is heat, a balmy 89 degrees, just before 8 p.m. Next is the opulence. It is decided that the airport looks like the mall in heaven- but only for whatever heaven is reserved for Las Vegas casino moguls. Sparkling white pillars, 50 feet high, marble everything, and a faint choir of angelic music humming in the background.

After a brief wait, a shuttle transported us to our complimentary hotel. I expected a narrow springy bed, seedy artwork, and a dingy vinyl bathroom with flickering fluorescent lights. I know about complimentary. But instead I walked into one of the nicer hotel rooms I've stayed in, beautifully tiled, air conditioned, and modestly yet tastefully furnished.

After check-in we opted for the 2-hour night tour being offered by a somewhat persistent woman at a small desk near the marbled and pillared entrance of the Millennium Airport Hotel, and 9:30 found us sitting on the bench seats of a warm, uncarpeted van, whisking us down the wide lanes and smooth pavement of this desert metropolis.

The city is indescribable, it's as if Las Vegas were thoroughly sanitized, stripped of it's casinos, extremities of tackiness, crime, and seedy night life, and then inflated to 100 times it's original size. There are 8 million dollar vacation homes, man-made rivers, islands built to look like palm-trees, an indoor ski slope, and hotels where a one night stay costs an average American's salary. It is home to the tallest building in the world, the largest mall, and a whole host of other world records that can only be conquered by bottomless pocketbooks and copious amounts of marble and cement.

Because it sprang up virtually overnight (25 years ago it was nothing but desert), everything is clean, modern, and efficient. Gas is 45 cents a liter, and no sales tax or income tax manifests itself, among other things, as a constant stream of new and impressive cars lining the roads. A requirement for living here is a job, and after 12-hour workdays, Dubai's industrious citizens are too exhausted to commit many crimes, and thus it is safe to walk around the city, even at night. Our tour guide, a mildly good natured man from Bangladesh, reminds us of this fact several times throughout our tour.

But even he, fully employed, does not belong in this shining city. As a foreigner, he can never become a citizen. Instead, he commutes into town from a more affordable city, separated from Dubai by desert sand and a fair stretch of highway.

The roads are spotless, the shopping malls are spotless, the man-made beach is spotless. But something there unsettles me, it's hard to walk the balance between appreciating the ingenuity and interesting architecture, and just feeling a little ill.

In the morning, jet lag woke me far too early and I stumbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth. A small cockroach, scuttling across the immaculately polished counter, paused to greet me with a wag of his antennae, then hurried away from the light. Upon closer inspection, the beautifully tiled shower, though scrubbed clean, suffered from a fairly serious case of black mildew in the crevices of the caulking.

On the way to the airport, empty cans, bottles and plastic bags littered the crevices of the city. Dry and dull and tan, coated with sand stains and dust; under the blistering desert sun cement cracked, paint peeled, and the air stagnated above bleak and grayed roadways.

I suppose we all have our dark secrets, buried under the surface. In Dubai, they've just opted to encase them in gold.

workplace hazards and purple knees.

2010-05-19T22:00:00.000-07:00

Working at preschool is a lot more hazardous than you might think. The most treacherous part, overall, is that all the furniture is approximately 18" high. And the part where such diminutive furniture becomes especially dangerous is when your knees are also about 18" high, and you aren't particularly graceful before finishing your morning coffee.

I made this horrifying discovery yesterday morning at approximately 7:53am, when my right kneecap collided with the corner of this beastly thing. (please note: this is not the same table, but you get the idea). I was out of commission for at least a few minutes due to the shock of the pain, and had a few conversations that went something like this:

small child: "Miss G., Aaron has two dinosaurs, and he's only supposed to have one dinosaur."
me, grimacing, hunched over, trying to make sure my kneecap is still attached, obviously in severe pain: "I can't hear you right now. My knee is broken." *it's not*
small child: "But he has two!"
me, much the same: Go tell the other teacher. I can only hear pain right now. I can't hear you.
small child: "Oh. MISS G! AARON HAS TWO DINOSAURS!" *screamed into my ear*

My knee is purple, and there has been much swelling, limping, alternate applications of ice packs and heat packs, and general complaining. Fortunately, I'm rather fond of purple, as far as colors go.
__________________

Last week, after a two mile walk to the AjA project office, I joked about the deterioration of my transportation options over the years.

First, I had a car. Then that was out of the picture, so I got a scooter, and learned to be content with that. Then that broke down, so I started riding a bike, and learned to be content with that. Then someone stole it, so I borrowed a bike from a friend, and it was easy to be content with that, because it is so much easier to ride than my old one. Then the chain broke, and I didn't have the money/time to get a new one. So I started riding the bus, which I do all the time and am perfectly content to do as well. Then I was broke, so I trekked over to the office on foot. "Well, at least you can still walk!" someone noted. I should've knocked on wood.

So you'd think I'd be upset right now, but I haven't had the chance yet. Because today I was offered three rides and a set of borrowable car keys. I'm reminded of the importance of community, of finding people to live life with, to share triumphs and difficulties and transportation with. I don't always want to do this, especially when people get a little complicated or confusing. I generally prefer to hide in my room with a pot of tea, a book, and a pen and paper. But I am grateful to have friends and roommates who draw me out of that from time to time, who invite me into life and remind me about generosity and taking care of one another.

So thank you.

And watch out for tiny tables.

Plastic Bag Swamp

2010-05-04T15:11:00.001-07:00

When I first started working with plastic shopping bags as an art/craft material, it was generally not about being environmentally friendly. It was about being broke. It is time consuming, to be sure, but it is also free. I have some spare time, but not as much spare money. And anyway, I enjoy the challenge of making something beautiful out of garbage.

But as I've continued to work and learn more about the influx of plastic everywhere, I've been a bit shocked. For example, did you know that there is a patch of swampy plastic goop out in the Pacific ocean the size of Texas?

I was working on cleaning/folding/prepping this month's stash of bags (collected from about five people), when my roommate wondered aloud what it would look like if I dumped them all out onto the floor. And so I did.

The pile is about 2 feet high, and 5'x8' wide, if you can't tell from the photos.

That's a lot of plastic bags. I would imagine that the average American uses about twice this many per year. And we're not the only country on the planet with this plastic problem.

So perhaps you might say that the green side is winning me over. Or I'm realizing that we are not being very good stewards and caretakers of the planet that was created for us. Either way, get yourself a reusable shopping bag. And if you do wind up with a handful of plastic bags, make sure they don't end up in a landfill somewhere.

Or you could always send them to me:

Dear San Diego friends...

2010-04-21T00:55:00.001-07:00

Go here:

Fly.

2010-04-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, I startled myself by doing what I had long considered to be the most terrifying thing in the entire world. Perhaps the universe. I'll spare you the details, but in all honesty, it went in quite the opposite way of what I had hoped.

What I'm trying to remember, though, is that I worked up the nerve to try something scary. And I survived.

I am (unfortunately) prone to intense bouts of moping and feeling sorry for myself, but I'm trying something different this time. I'm consciously choosing to be proud of myself for confronting something that has always intimidated me, and finding that life just works better that way.

I'm grateful to know a handful of very genuine, supportive people; people who've often gone out of the way to help and encourage me, sort of like a safety net. And there are lot of things that I should be doing- that I know I'm perfectly capable of doing. Yet somehow I've always let the fear of falling keep me from trying to fly. I don't want to be that sort of person anymore.

So I'm making attempts, wings spread, eyes closed. I'm about a month away from taking a whole-hearted stab at the jewelry design project. And I've started signing LOUDLY again, even when I know my roommates can hear. Perhaps karaoke is finally on the horizon.

Anza Borrego

2010-04-10T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's wonderful to stand completely still in such a quiet place. Where the vast empty desert-scape seems to drink sounds from the air and swallow them into the soft, grainy sand. Only the wind is allowed to roar and sing across the cloudless blue sky, and the grasses dance to its somber tune.

At first glance the land sprawls slowly into the distance with a serene sameness; mountains and hillsides strewn with boulders, sage and creosote dotting the empty brown patches in the spaces in between.

But hidden close-up and underfoot are wild desert lupine and sunflowers, golden poppies and small patches of red, violet, yellow and snowy white. The cacti bloom pink and fuschia, and here and there jeweled hummingbirds dart from bloom to bloom among the red-tubed flowers whose name I do not know.

I am seeing my world through new eyes these days, finding the moss-filled cracks in the sidewalk, the quiet gestures, the flavors and smells. And this is true of so many things; we cannot see what is really there until we slow down and look.

Waiting in JFK: the list

2010-03-11T11:19:00.000-08:00

I'm back from a nearly month-long trip to Uganda, and I'm sure that as my thoughts settle and I re-read the journal I kept, I'll have lots to say about the things I learned and saw.

Here are the pictures I took, anyway:

http://bit.ly/9oNdqT

But I also got stranded in the JFK airport for 26 hours while waiting for a blizzard to pass so that airplanes could fly safely in and out. You might wonder what someone would do for 26 hours, sitting in an airport. I certainly did, and so I wrote it down as it was happen. You know, just to find out.

3:15pm Landed.

3:30pm-4:30pm Brought bags through immigration.

4:30pm-5:00pm Located the proper terminal and called ATT to reactivate my cell phone service,

5:00pm-6:00pm Found my flight had been canceled because of a blizzard, got two free meal vouchers, moved to terminal 4, called mom and cryed because I was really tired and just wanted to be either back in Uganda or home. Also because I was nervous that I might miss the wedding of my lovely all-four-years-of-college roommate, which I was flying back a bit early specifically to attend.

evidence of the offending blizzard.

6:00pm-7:00pm Moped, ate dinner.

7:00pm-3:00am Slept on the floor in a little hallway behind a video arcade. Was grateful that I had a small blanket. Woke intermittently to find more and more people crowded into the little hallway sleeping. Occasionally glared at another traveler who was standing inches from my head, looking out the window. There were plenty of other windows.

3:00am-3:30am Washed my hair in the airport bathroom sink. If you haven't showered in two days, washing your hair really does help you feel better.

3:30am-4:45am Decided to stop moping. Sat on the floor listening to Bon Iver and writing.

4:45am-5:00am Breakfast.

5:00am-6:30am Found a cushioned bench! Napped.

6:30am-9:30am Writing + coffee + Fleet Foxes

9:30am-10:00am Checked in baggage. Glimmer of hope! Moved to terminal 2.

10:00am-10:30am Edited photos.

10:30am-11:00am Went for a walk, ate a snack.

11:00am-12:30pm More writing.

12:30pm-1:30pm Noticed that new departing flight was one of the only ones not yet canceled. Dared to hope. Nervous eating, miscellaneous waiting.

1:30pm-4:30pm Held my journal on my lap as if I might write in it, but mostly just stared back and forth between the window and the announcement screen. Allowed hope to grow into expectation.

5:00pm Boarded plane...

5:15pm ...which took off seconds before the blizzard blew back in.

So as you can see, it was pretty boring. I'm glad you weren't there, for your sake.

airport survival kit: pen, paper, coffee, Fleet Foxes.

Haiti

2010-01-13T21:44:00.000-08:00

Haiti has been on my mind a lot lately, especially as I just finished reading Mountains Beyond Mountains. If you haven't, please do.

It's the story of Dr. Paul Farmer, and the medical revolution he is staging amongst the poorest of the poor around the world. Especially in Haiti. If you'd like to help with the relief efforts in Haiti, his organization, Partners in Health, strikes me as the sort of organization that will make sure your money actually goes where you think you're sending it.

There is a quote in the book, a Haitian proverb, that has been sitting with me for weeks now. "Bondye konn bay, men li pa konn separe." Or, "God gives, but doesn't share." That latter part is our job.

I hope that Haiti has not suffered (again) for nothing, but that this earthquake will set the world's eyes upon it, and that we will share and share and share until the years of injustice and staggering need are replaced by opportunity and hope.

2010

2009-12-31T12:16:00.000-08:00

I'm hoping this year will be a year of realizing who I actually am and adjusting my goals accordingly. Think of it less as giving up, and more as coming to terms with realities such as these:

1. I am hopelessly messy.

Great at cleaning and organizing? Sure. But not maintaining it. I want to find a studio space where I can be hopelessly messy to my heart's content. A place where I won't have to shove piles of things to the floor every night so that there's room to sleep on my bed (or more truthfully, shove them to the side of my bed and sleep within a 1.5' wide column of mattress space). This studio will also have a bigger desk, or several, to accommodate the mess.

2. I should not be my own boss.

I am 95% certain that I could be financially supporting myself with my design work. I've learned a lot about how retail works in the last couple of years, and I'm also reasonably certain that I know all the steps to take to get there. But I'm not doing them. And who could say why? But if somebody else asks me to do something, it will get done, and probably quickly. So I'm looking for a boss, somebody to whom I could send an email of all the things I need to finish in a week, and who would call me at the end of the week to make sure I finished them. Somebody who could even sound slightly disappointed in me or maybe even a bit angry if I didn't finish them. I am pretty broke, so for now I would pay this person in handmade whatnots, or the occasional baked good. If you are or think you know such a person...

3. I am terrible at consistently updating my blog.

There are dreams that every afternoon, I will photograph all the jewelry I made the previous day and post it to Etsy. Or that when I am at an event or trunk show, I will come home and post pictures and a witty review of the event... nope. Because this involves remembering to bring my camera, pulling photos off the memory card, shrinking them, uploading them, writing about them, etc. So I made a tumblr blog, because I can update it instantly, from my phone. I almost always remember to bring my phone.

This blog will still be here, and about once a month or so, I'll post an 80 page musing about whatever happens to cross my mind, just as always. But there will also be this:

http://emilygracesuitcase.tumblr.com/

Where I will post stuff that I made and creative things I saw on the internet. Also pictures of the things that my neighbors leave in the alley behind my house. Just because.

Gathering Thoughts.

2009-12-21T15:27:00.000-08:00

It may be a couple of days. But first, read this:

http://bit.ly/5GhSeu

Let the Shopping Begin?

2009-12-07T13:43:00.000-08:00

On November 27, 2009, I lifted my nearly year-long ban on Christmas music in anticipation of the upcoming holiday. To everything there is a season, I just like to take mine one at a time, thank you.

And with Christmas comes the inevitable yearly influx of shopping. I celebrated black Friday by staying home to make something. Truth be told, I can't stomach a trip to the mall any day of the year, let alone in the midst of that madness. That's because in the past couple of years, I've learned a lot about a several topics that had never previously crossed my mind. Things like business and consumerism, and how our monetary interactions with the companies around us really do impact human beings all over the world.

Before I lose you with all of that, let me remind you that I'm the sort to spend a free afternoon baking cookies and drawing cartoon monsters on the inside of empty cereal boxes. If I can handle this, so can you.

There are a lot of things I wanted to talk about, but for now I'll just explain the driving concept behind what I'm doing with Bake it Forward and the project I want to introduce you to, Choicemob.

Basically, what we buy matters. When we buy products from companies that use slave labor or sweatshop labor, or dump millions of dollars of toxic chemicals into the ocean, what we're saying with our purchase is, "I'm okay with slave labor and toxic chemicals, as long as I can have this shiny new plastic thing." But on the same note, when we buy from companies that value things like fair labor practices and avoiding a negative impact on the environment, the message we're sending out into the world is that we also value fair labor practices and respect for the earth. It's kind of like voting.

That's why I'm so excited about Choicemob. Choicemob is a project that seeks out companies which value fairness, compassion, and respect for the earth and then rallies a group of people to buy from them and give them a boost in sales to reward their work and send a message to companies with similar products or services about what our values are.

The first round of Choicemob is to support Better World Books. They sell used books to keep them out of landfills and ship with carbon offsets. More importantly, they work hard to support literacy projects around the world. So get some Christmas shopping done, support literacy, and start making the choice to think about what you're voting for.

And then post this as your twitter/facebook status: http://bit.ly/bwbchoicemob
;)

Quote

2009-12-01T05:48:00.000-08:00

Lisa D. handed me a book to read, Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman, insisting it was me, in book form. For reasons I can't verbally express, it's quite true; though the author would probably have a great time picking apart my grammar and punctuation. It is after all, a small collection of essays about books and words. I highly recommend it.

There's a passage that had me laughing to myself for several minutes at the bus stop, and I was really afraid that someone would ask me what I was laughing at. Because then I would have had to read the passage aloud, and I doubt that anyone else would find it funny. So who knows why I'm writing it here;

It has long been my belief that everyone's library contains an Odd Shelf...
My own odd shelf holds sixty-four books about polar exploration: expedition narratives, journals, collections of photographs, works of natural history, and naval manuals... I should mention that all of the above explorers [Ross, Franklin, Nares, Shackleton, Oates, and Scott] were unqualified failures. Not coincedentally, they were also all British. Americans admire success. Englishmen admire heroic failure...
Who but an Englishman, the legendary Sir John Franklin, could have managed to die of starvation and scurvy along with all 129 of his men in a region of the Canadian Arctic whose game had supported an Eskimo colony for centuries? When the corpses of some of Franklin's officers and crew were later discovered, miles from their ships, the men were found to have left behind their guns but to have lugged such essentials as monogrammed silver cutlery, a backgammon board, a cigar case, a clothes brush, a tin of button polish, and a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield. These men may have been incompetent bunglers, but, by God, they were gentlemen.

Today.

2009-11-26T07:33:00.000-08:00

I am blessed. Immeasurably.

And to write a list of every opportunity and person in my life that I am thankful for?
That list would take all day.
So I'll spare you.

But when I stop to think, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

Let that gratitude be more than a warm fuzzy sentiment that stops at me.

Let it manifest itself as love for the broken, and a courage to step outside of my own "needs" and into the lives of anyone who truly knows the meaning of that word.

Happy Thanksgiving.

miscellaneous.

2009-10-30T22:21:00.000-07:00

I need to write something.

The problem is that it's been too long since I've had time. And now there are a hundred ideas running around in my head, crashing into one another and exploding into little pieces and branching off and combining with one another and going in a hundred more directions. And they're taking up so much space that I don't have room to remember the small things like eating the last half of my breakfast in the mornings or blowing out the candle before I walk to the grocery store.

Perhaps I'll make a list of them, in hopes that it's easier to catch an idea if I can remember what it looks like first.

Charlene

2009-10-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

This is beautiful Charlene.

We met recently through a mutual friend, my roommate Lisa, who explained to me that Charlene dreams of working in the fashion industry some day. Charlene is well-spoken, bright, and enthusiastic, and with enough support I think she may one day reach that goal. For the last couple of Sunday mornings, Charlene and I have been talking jewelry design and sewing, two things I love to do. She recently made a four pieces of jewelry, and I'm helping her set up an Etsy store to get started selling things as she makes them. She has a daughter whom she hopes will one day follow her own dreams, and by taking this small step into the design world, Charlene hopes to give her an example of what that might look like.

She really is just like most other moms I know, except unlike most moms I know, Charlene lives on the street. She's been here in the San Diego area for about three years now, and is ready for the next phase of her life.

"I'm so tired of doing the same thing, everyday," she says. And to prove it, she keeps herself busy by reading newspapers and teaching herself new activities like Pilates and tennis. "Right now, it's just me and the wall," she laughs. "But I don't want to spend another winter out here." "I want to be done with this. I don't want to forget it, I've learned a lot, but I'm ready for the next phase of life." I really want to support her as she works toward whatever this next phase will be.

Lisa has been helping Charlene put together a resume so that she can start looking for a job, but in the meantime she's working to design a few pieces of jewelry each week. I'm hoping that having a creative outlet will encourage her to continue pursuing her goals and give her a little something to look forward to each week, especially now while the bigger issues are still unsettled.

I've set up an Etsy site for her under the name Soul Rebel, and I'm hoping that we can get her off to a good start by selling all four pieces of her jewelry this week. Please check it out, buy something, follow Soul Rebel on twitter @soulrebeldesign ... Sometimes we just need somebody to believe in us, let's be that somebody for her.

Thanks.

Fluff. Best dinner EVER.

2009-09-11T19:22:00.000-07:00

Well, best dinner in a long time.

I promise to spend some time this weekend collecting my thoughts about the Idea Camp and the other 50 things I have going on right now. But I'll procrastinate with a recipe.

The other day, grapes were on sale at the store. It's been a really long time since I've had grapes, so I bought the most beautiful, crisp looking bag of grapes I could find. Unfortunately when I got home and started picking through them, I discovered that the lovely outer grapes were just hiding some pretty mushy ones in the middle of the bunch. More than half the grapes.

I hate throwing food away (I do love my job at preschool, but lunchtime there makes me ill, to throw that much leftover food in the trash). Usually, my solution for almost-but-not-quite-bad vegetables is to make soup. And almost-but-not-quite-bad fruit gets baked into some sort of dessert. But I'm at a loss when it comes to grapes. Fortunately, there is google. I stumbled across a recipe that was originally a sauce for chicken, but since I don't eat chicken and didn't have some of the proper ingredients, I got a bit creative. So I present to you:

Sauteed Eggplant and Mushrooms with a Red Grape and Balsamic Vinegar Reduction

Trust me. Serves 4.

5-7 large mushrooms, halved
1/2 medium sized eggplant, peeled and diced
1 cup chopped onion
olive oil
2 cups seedless red grapes, halved
1 T salt dissolved in 1 cup warm water
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
2 T sugar
fresh ground pepper
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme
2 T chopped tarragon

Heat a little olive oil in a saucepan on medium high heat, then add eggplant and mushrooms and cook until browned on all sides. Remove from pan.

Add a little more olive oil to the pan, then add the grapes and onions and cook for about 10 minutes. Add sugar and stir for a minute or so until it's caramelized. Add vinegar and salt water and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat to medium and simmer until liquid reduces to about half. Add herbs, mushrooms and eggplant. Cover, reduce heat to medium low and cook for about 10 minutes.

I recommend serving this over rice.

I cannot for the life of me find the original recipe that this is modified from. If anyone stumbles across it, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due. Yum yum.

Sleepless in San Diego

2009-08-27T00:27:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to get to sleep for two hours now as I need to be up by six tomorrow. But every ten minutes or so, I pop out of bed to add just one more item to my little yellow suitcase, or to write something down onto the a.m. to-do list.

Not sure if this restlessness is excitement or too much tea.

I'm headed to DC for the weekend, for the Idea Camp, http://theideacamp.com/ , a "collaborative movement of idea-makers." There will be many thoughts to follow, I'm sure, but for now I just wanted to tell the story of how I get to go.

I was blessed to attend the inaugural Idea Camp in Irvine, CA last spring, though at the time felt a bit overwhelmed to be surrounded by such amazing innovators and thinkers. But as my own ideas have been growing and taking shape over the past few months, I started looking forward to DC and the opportunity to have some incredible people help me sort through my long list of thoughts and questions.

Cue the financial distress of the young idealistic artist/perpetual volunteer that refuses to work more than part-time to leave space for the rest of life's grand adventures. If I were supposed to be there, money would just kind of fall from the sky. Or that was my reasoning, anyway. I decided not to go, because I didn't have the money for a plane ticket, and I refuse to borrow it or use credit. More on that later.

But my amazing roommate insisted that I needed to be there, and proceeded to buy half a plane tickets worth of jewelry from me. And a last minute babysitting job took care of the other half when the mom was two hours late getting home and paid me far more than I deserved for rocking and singing songs to a darling baby girl. In the same day that I had decided not to go, the money sort of... fell from the sky.

So tomorrow I fly.

I don't know what to expect from this weekend, but I know that once again, I'm blessed to be going, and perhaps only just now tired enough to sleep.

New Jewelry!

2009-08-08T00:52:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I've updated this... Good excuse, though. I moved! Again. But I've also been busy finding new ways to use that fused/recycled plastic. Here are some of the results. These used to be your grocery bags! You can see more on my etsy site.

I've also entered these pieces in a competition through a company called House of Gems. http://www.flickr.com/groups/featuredartists/

It would be great to win, they have some wonderful things on their site!

Sesame Parmesan Bagels

2009-07-17T06:36:00.001-07:00

Make these. You will not be sorry!

INGREDIENTS
2-2 1/2 cups flour
1 (.25) packet active dry yeast
3/4 cup warm (110 F) water
1 1/2 Tbl white sugar
1/2 Tbl salt
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese (get the real stuff, not from a can!)
3 Tbl sesame seeds

DIRECTIONS
1. Dissolve the sugar and salt in warm water. In a separate bowl, mix together half of the flour and the packet of yeast. Add to the water mixture, then beat with a mixer at low speed to combine. Turn mixer to a higher speed and beat for three minutes.
2. Slowly add the remaining flour and half of the parmesan cheese until the mixture forms a fairly stiff dough. Knead on a floured surface for 10 minutes until the dough becomes elastic, then cover and let rise for 20 minutes.
3. Cut the dough into 8 pieces and roll each piece into a ball. Make a hole in the center of each piece of dough using your finger, then shape into a bagel. Set bagels aside, cover, and let rise 20-30 minutes.
4. While bagels are rising, fill a large cooking pot with water and a tablespoon of sugar. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat. After bagels have risen, drop a few at a time into the simmering water for three minutes, flip, then boil three minutes more. Drain bagels (but do not dry them) in a strainer or on a wire cooling rack. Preheat oven to 375 F.
5. Grease a baking pan and then arrange bagels in pan. Mix together remaining parmesan cheese and sesame seeds, then sprinkle each bagel liberally with the mixture. Bake for about 30 minutes.

Yum, yum.

Fireworks

2009-07-05T10:07:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was a marvelously relaxing day involving a sandy afternoon at the beach, burritos, a backyard barbecue, wonderful people, watching fireworks as the waves crashed in at my feet and thousands of people throwing marshmallows at one another (thanks, Ocean Beach. That is why I love you).

And I'm glad to have had a good day, as I really have mixed feelings about Holidays at this point in my life, especially the American ones. I grew up in a very patriotic family and as a child harbored grand illusions of my country as a sort of white knight in a world of evil. The God-blessed America of my youth has been shattered by travels outside of our borders and pouring through books and experiences that take me deep into the history of our interactions with the world. And I found that we are a corrupt and self-serving nation just like anybody else, sometimes more so than anybody else.

This isn't to say that America has done no good in the world, or that there are no good, kind American people. These we have in abundance, and I've been blessed to meet and work alongside so many in my life. But I suppose I do not attribute these beautiful moments of goodness and truth with the star-spangled roots of this country, instead I see them as glimpses of God's kingdom. And this is something that knows no borders.

Perhaps I'm too cynical.

Right now, I live in a neighborhood that looks nothing like the America of my youth. There are Muslim women in colorful scarves and mariachi music blasting from our neighbor's window at 8 o'clock in the morning. It's easier to find a tamale than a hamburger. I don't always feel safe here, and I never feel completely comfortable. And I like that. I like that because it reminds me that there is a bigger picture than housecarcareer2.5kidspicketfence. I want to dream bigger than suburbia, and for me the easiest way to do that is to stay out of it.

I was standing at a bus stop the other day, and next to me were an Ethiopian woman, a Mexican woman, and an old Karen (a tribe from Burma) man. The old man pointed at the bus stop sign and asked "siete? seven?" in what are likely at least his fourth and fifth languages. Another woman walked past, lugging a pull-cart of groceries and chattering on her cell phone in Russian. And I was really struck by the beauty of it.

Let me tell you a story.

A student I work with at the AjA Project was asked to tell the story of her "old country." It begins in a small Karen village, with Burmese soldiers pouring in with guns and fire, burning homes and killing indescriminently. The people fled, running up into the mountains with nothing to find safety. "And then I was born," she writes.

Her story is not entirely unique.

When we move on to "new country," the stories shift. They speak of feeling overwhelmed and shy, to be sure, but they also speak of safety and of food to eat. Of education and future dreams. And this is the America I can get behind, a place of sanctuary and hope. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" If this country can be about anything, if we take pride in anything, I hope it can be stories like these.

Waking up.

2009-06-30T05:48:00.000-07:00

I feel as though I'm on the verge of something, in terms of creativity. This vague mental place where cultural expectations and my own hesitations disappear and I can just make things, like breathing. I was reminded of Salvation Mountain last night, Leonard Knight's masterpiece in the desert. These prolific folk artists- outsider art, they call it, like Howard Finster or Bill Traylor, just making/creating/building because some inner force directs them to do it. I forgot how much I loved them. Or the quiet little girl in my preschool class who sits at the back table each day and draws and draws and draws while the other children are playing with blocks or hiding under the tables.

What a dangerously beautiful world this would be if we all gave ourselves over completely to the things that made us come alive. The things God designed us to do.

Every time I'm almost there, something crashes/crushes/distracts. This round? Broken camera, broken scooter (yes, again), broken bank account, renewing my lease or not... I can't afford to stay here on my own, not sure if I can find a roommate, not sure if there's somewhere for me to go.

"Maybe it's time for you to get a real job," or so I've been advised. But I'm not ready to give up on this almost-there.

Life: Part Three.

2009-06-06T06:22:00.000-07:00

This was, perhaps, the beginning of a complex thought process about creativity and its role in my own life. Or at least the first time I can recall expressing it aloud. But like most challenging thoughts, it was tucked back away in my mind somewhere. My thought process is abstract, rather than verbal, so I really do have to set aside time to sit quietly and think about things if I don't want to get lost in the whirlwind of life.

It's funny the things that will get my mind back on track.

I've challenged myself to average a book per week in 2009, so that by the time New Year's Eve rolls around I'll have polished off at least 52. Sometime in May, I realized I'd been reading largely fictional fluff. Beautiful, poetic fictional fluff, but still. I thought it would be good to try something a little more substantial, like history or a biography of some sort. In the biography section, my eyes immediately fell to the words "Einstein." I'd seen the same book sitting around my friends' house in the previous weeks and flipping through the pictures had realized how very little I knew about a man that revolutionized the way many people look at the world. And so Einstein and I have been bound together for 357 pages thus far, with a couple hundred more to follow.

I'm finding it to be very readable. Einstein was an entertaining man, and the author (Walter Isaacson) does a great job with both relating his life and breaking down some pretty complicated information about the workings of the universe so that someone like me can stand to read it. I'll admit, though, that some parts were a bit confusing for me as I've never taken a physics class. I've never considered myself much of a math/science person, and I've tended to avoid that realm of thought. But physics, you might say, were a very important part of Einstein's life, and I felt that I'd appreciate the book more if I had at least a basic grasp of the terminology. So I checked out a physics textbook from the library and set to work. And the interesting part is that I get it.

As I continue to read, I'm really struck by the way Einstein's curiousity and internal need to solve the questions that came his way would take overtake him as he forgot to eat and neglected his own personal life. And I have that same curious nature about me, but I never allow myself to exercise it. Why is that? There are probably a combination of factors... sometimes the usual; laziness, disinterest, fear of failure. But most often it's a desire to remain in the realm of mediocre, to go unnoticed. (Insert whining childhood-related psychological analysis here).

So I often just don't try.

I feel guilty, or convicted anyway, after acknowledging that. Whenever I have to think really about anything, I often just don't (as I mentioned before). But how different would my life look if I did pour all of my creative and mental energies into something? I feel as if I've been wasting precious God-given gifts all these years, mostly out of fear.

In the past few years I've been all over the world and experienced all sorts of new things. I'm left with a pretty intense curiousity about the bigger picture of world history and issues, global economics, development work, food sources and nutrition, all of that. Curiousity about what we buy and where it comes from, and how our purchases and policies impact the people involved in the process of creating and delivering them. These are new interests to be sure, and I suddenly have hundreds of questions that there are no immediate answers to.

I'm still interested in art and creative expression, though, and probably always will be. In the past these two worlds seemed to be so at odds with one another. Though I still have questions, I'm finally starting to see how they fit together. And it's not as immediately obvious as I originally thought... patching up websites and taking photos for the brochures of organizations that are doing the "good" work. Lately, as I've been given the opportunity to creatively interact with Acholi Beads, and just be introduced to and observe lots of small development projects and see how creativity has played into those. Through this I feel as though I'm finally at the beginning stages of finding my fit, both in terms of skills and ideology.

So maybe I've finally figured out what to do with my life, in the broad sense, though I'm not entirely certain of the next step. I do know that I have a lot more to learn about how the world works, things that are going to stretch my brain in directions that it's not used to going. And I need to quit being afraid of pouring my energy and creativity into something 100%.

I'm certain that God has placed me where I'm at for a very specific reason. It's true that I'm among the wealthy, but I'm starting to understand that generosity and stewardship extend far beyond the realms of finances... I need to recognize that I'm also nearly drowning in freedom, creativity and access to knowledge, and to start taking advantage of that. And perhaps this is where things will get complicated, which is what I tend to shy away from. For those of you that know me well, I hope you will be persistent in intruding upon my life and challenging me, and making sure that I'm challenging myself.

I think the second, independent part of my life was largely about noticing the rest of the world and learning to live with less in order to give more, of developing my own ideas regarding love and faith and how we ought to interact with the world. And though I'm sure that phase will never truly be finished, I also find myself at the beginning of part three, of figuring out how I fit into all of that.

And the Desert to the East.

2009-06-05T20:44:00.000-07:00

A month or two ago, I had my mom's car for the weekend and planned a fabulous roadtrip out to the desert to see Salvation Mountain- I've been wanting to go since high school and for various reasons have just never made it out that way. It ended up being a bad weekend for everybody to go, and I have to admit that I was severely disappointed to see the trip that I've been hoping to take for so many years get so close and then disappear.

I didn't sleep well that Saturday night, and woke up in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I wasn't quite sure if I would go all the way to Salvation Mountain, but as I started driving I figured out that I was headed there. I've stared at the map so many times that I didn't need directions. And just before I hopped in the car to head down the road, I wrote this:

"I had decided to stay home today, to take this trip some other weekend when its brilliance could be appreciated by an audience greater than just myself. But it's 4 a.m. and I cannot sleep. Perhaps it is the voice of the desert calling me to itself. And so I go, racing toward the sun. Soon we will meet, in some as yet unknown point on the eastern horizon."

And along the way I twittered this:

"Awoke at four. Can't sleep. Fine then, I'll go for a drive, maybe race the sun toward the top of the mountains."

"Sunrise over a mountain lake. And then east toward the desert."

"And higher up, the sunrise spills rainbows across a desert valley."

"After eight years, I'm finally at Salvation Mountain, outside of Niland, CA. And it exceeds expectations."

"Climbing through some amazing wind-carved caves along the 8."

"And home."

And photographed this:

Moonset/sunrise. Lake Cuyamaca.

Sunrise part 2, overlooking the desert.

Early morning Anza Borrego.

And the desert blooms.

The long-awaited Salvation Mountain. Better than I expected. I will be back.

Painted jungle.

Inside.

8 West toward home.

Desert from above.

Boulder cave.

Life in the Gutter

2009-06-05T19:45:00.000-07:00

I've been riding a borrowed bicycle to and from work each day, 12 or 13 miles round-trip. Before you are too impressed with my sudden interest in strenuous physical activity, I have to confess that this is really my only option right now.

I have learned several important life-lessons on my daily bike rides through the sketchy neighborhood surrounding the elementary school where I work. Perhaps the most valuable insight I've gained is that creepy middle-aged men who sit on their front porches around noon find me especially attractive when I'm wearing a helmet and covered in sweat. Who would've thought?

Anyhow, as I was riding home on Monday, I passed a gorgeous red lily lying in the gutter amid a a small stream of suburban sprinkler runoff. It looked so intact and fresh lying there that I assumed it was fake, but upon closer inspection realized it was very much alive. I'm all about picking up cool things that I find on the side of the road, but something made me leave it there. It's been there for five days now, and looks the same as it did at the beginning of the week.

As the water from several blocks of automatic sprinklers makes its way downhill each day, the flower's position in a constant river of water keeps it from drying out. Despite its unfortunate lot in life it is thriving, as well as any cut flower can. There's a beautiful metaphor in that, I'm sure, but I don't have any applicable thoughts at the moment.

Some stories, one about cupcakes.

2009-05-21T23:21:00.000-07:00

This day started off with a mild disaster.

I was invited to speak about Acholi Beads at a Rotary Club meeting, and after an hour's bus ride there, realized that I had remembered to bring everything except the beads. How does that happen? Honestly...

Fortunately, the Rotary folk were a very gracious bunch and forgave my absentmindedness, and we made due with some photographs and the strand of beads I had around me neck. Disaster averted. Well, perhaps not averted but at least survived.

After that, I deserved a delicious pastry, and so I popped in to a little bakery on the way home and picked up one of these beautiful messes of sugary goodness;

(image from laconchabakery.org)

I have some pretty profound things to say, I promise I do. They're welling up in my mind and need to be let out sometime.

But for now, here is the story about cupcakes.

I work at preschool. And honestly, I love it, even during those times when the kids are driving me crazy. Except at lunchtime, when quite literally half of them drop their sporks onto the floor.

The initial drop is usually accidental, somebody opening their little plastic packet with a bit too much gusto, sending napkin, straw and plastic utensil soaring through the air.

"Miss Miss Emily. I dropped my spoon."

And I roll my eyes and open a new little packet, stabbing the white plastic prongs into the plate of mystery meat with a twinge of annoyance that I just can't hide. And this is funny to them, and so it happens again and again...

"Miss Emilyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. I dropped my spoooo-oon," a long, drawn-out whine.

"Emi. Drop my poon."

Or a tug on my sleeve from the quietest of them, then a finger pointing to the floor below.

And so we march back and forth from the cafeteria to the kitchen to restock, and I grumble about all the wasted napkins and straws, and try to convince 4-year-olds that it's okay to eat chicken nuggets with your fingers.

But one day, I'd had enough.

"If you can all go just ONE day without a single person dropping their spoons, I will bake cupcakes," I yelled.

"I didn't drop my spoon," one child notes.

"Yes, but somebody else did. It has to be a whole day where NOBODY drops their spoon."

I figured this was a pretty safe offer to make, one that I'd never have to follow through on. And as the days went on and those three-pronged cafeteria mainstays dropped steadily to the floor, I kind of forgot that I'd said such a thing in the first place. Until Wednesday.

"Miss Emily, nobody dropped their spoon today. Do we get a cake?"

"I don't think so," I said, stunned. "Let me check."
"Hey, M____, did you have to give anybody a new spoon?"
"No, not today."
"Hey, Mr. Z_____, did you have to give anybody a new spoon?"
"No."

Huh. They did it.

And so I stayed up until 11:30 tonight, baking lemon cream cupcakes. And then until midnight writing about it.

But I guess the lesson learned today is that you can never underestimate small children, especially when there is sugar involved.

a thought about a story about shoes, and some questions.

2009-05-13T05:21:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, and I'm not sure that I have answers.

I don't need sandals. And if I'm buying something I don't need, I should at least hope my purchase is creating a positive impact on the world.

So what is that balance?

As someone who makes a living by creating and selling unnecessary luxuries (jewelry), what place do I have to say to people, "you ought to buy this?"

Is it enough that I'm thinking about environmental and social impact in the creation of these items and in the supplies that I buy, and that with the money I make I'm trying to live a life focused on the bigger picture?

There's something within me that drives me to create things, just as other people are driven to run or swim or write. Or even to breathe. I stop functioning properly if I can't create. And I believe that this is part of what it means to be made in God's image; in the beginning, He created the heavens and the earth.

But how does that drive manifest itself in my day to day life? And how should it?

a story about shoes.

2009-05-12T21:15:00.000-07:00

The past few years of my life have included an interesting process of stepping away from cultural values and norms and figuring out where my priorities really ought to lie. It's difficult in a society so driven by consumerism. For that reason, I'm pretty proud of myself for being female and only owning five pairs of shoes (two of which I made myself).

I don't have any sandals, though, so I saved up some money to buy them. I looked EVERYWHERE for some that were not flip-flops and would fit me and cost less that $50, but the only place I could find them was at bargainpricedsweatshopshoes.com. I've been trying so hard to buy ethically produced things and there's an obvious problem there. But I was getting impatient in my search, and so I died a little on the inside, felt terrible for the sweatshop workers who made them, promised to never do it again, and clicked "add to cart" on the website. I could have waited, could have done better research, but I fell prey to that "right NOW" part of me that I'm trying so hard to get past.

The shoes showed up today, and I was so excited for something new. I opened the box to find... two lovely pairs of new shoes in size 5. I believe in bigfoot, he is alive and well and a very dominant member of my gene pool, so size 5 is not what I want to see when I open a shoebox with my name on it.

I brought them back to the store and was informed that there is nothing left in my size on the website to order, and nobody is really sure why I got the wrong size in the first place. I got a refund, and left the shoe store empty handed. I hate to say that I was devastated, but I kind of was. Shoe shopping is always such a frustrating process for me, and I didn't really know where else to look. And anyhow, I felt bad about supporting a company like that, especially since my purchase was impulsive, driven by impatience and the desire to own something that I don't technically NEED.

But it's funny how things work out sometimes.

Tonight, when I got home from dinner, I followed a link on somebody's facebook feed and was introduced to Sseko, a socially proactive business that provides jobs and hope for a university education to four young women in Uganda by making... sandals. Please take a moment to check out the blog and see what they're up to, it's a beautiful thing.

I sent in an email to explain my large-footed plight, and was delighted to find that it's possible to special order a pair of sandals in my size, if I'm willing to wait. So I will muster up the patience that I didn't have before as I eagerly await what I should have been holding out for in the first place.

I'm looking forward to wearing a pair of shoes that tell a good story. That were handmade and provide hope and meaningful work to a creative, talented human being who deserves hope and meaningful work.

It's hard to be patient when we live in a society where almost anything we want can be tracked down and purchased in just seconds. It's easier to just ignore what we know and click "add to cart." But the fact is that I do know, and now it's my responsibility to act accordingly. "How then shall we live?" it says on my arm. I hope I'll never stop asking myself that question.

Whirlwind

2009-04-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

I thought that this month of vacation from work would drag on forever and ever, but it's been much more of a whirlwind than that.

I've moved into a new place, taken a couple of pretty big steps toward working for myself full-time, and all kinds of other good stuff. I also took a really refreshing day trip on my own last weekend, and have a lot of pictures to share from that.

But my mind is lost elsewhere today, so I'm having trouble putting it to words. Instead, I'll show you the following:

These pieces are from a collaborative project between myself and Acholi Beads. I've had the opportunity to reuse extra Acholi beads to make some custom pieces with sterling silver components. The beads are made of recycled paper by women living the slums of Kampala, in East Africa. They're gorgeous, and it was great fun to work with them!

See more photos here.

Not a recipe for Strawberry Chocolate Dessert Bread

2009-04-05T15:05:00.000-07:00

I don't use a lot of milk, so I don't buy it unless I'm planning ahead to make a recipe that calls for it. For that reason, I keep a bit of powdered milk in the cupboard in case I happen to need it suddenly. If you keep powdered milk in your cupboard, do not put it in a small jar that looks the same as the small jar that has a bit of leftover flour in it.

If you do, don't accidentally mix flour into a cup of hot chocolate- it will not taste good.

And definitely don't try to salvage the chocolate by stirring in more flour, an egg, some strawberries, baking powder and some sugar; then baking the whole thing at 375 degrees for 55 minutes. Because this doesn't make anything except a sticky disgusting mush.

Vegetarian Phở

2009-03-21T22:17:00.000-07:00

a bowl of Pho with broccoli and tofu

fresh basil, bean sprouts, and lime to garnish the soup

This soup is fairly simple to make and doesn't take much time to cook at all. I'm sure my version isn't as good as the real stuff, but it works. If I would've bought another box of Pho bouillon cubes (there were four cubes in a box) and some more broccoli, limes and tofu, the total would've been about $15. Then I would have enough ingredients to make about 15-20 bowls of soup. As it is, I have more basil, rice noodles, and bean sprouts than I know what to do with. This would be a great recipe to serve to a larger number of people.

Vegetarian Pho (serves 5)

2 cubes Pho bouillon (if you can't find this or don't have a local Asian grocery store, you could use vegetable broth, though it will taste different)

6 cups water

1 head broccoli, cut into pieces

1/4 package rice noodles

1/4 large onion

1 lime, cut into 6 wedges

2 cups mung bean sprouts

several sprigs basil

1/2 package firm tofu, diced

2 T vegetable oil

Soy sauce (optional)

1. Place rice noodles in a bowl and cover will boiling water. Cover and let soak until noodles are tender.

2. Meanwhile, boil water and Pho bouillon to make a broth.

3. Fry tofu in oil in a small skillet until lightly browned.

4. Place a scoop of noodles in a bowl and add tofu and broccoli. Cover with hot broth.

5. Place beans sprouts, basil, and lime on a serving tray.

5. To serve garnish with bean sprouts, basil, and lime juice.

Potato Rolled Tacos and Black Beans

2009-03-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

These are great to make in large batches and then freeze for later use. Kind of like a microwave dinner, minus the microwave. I love running to the local taco shop, but it's usually 3-5 dollars for a plate of rolled tacos and black beans. That same amount of money can make 5-8 portions! These are also healthier because they're not deep fried. Still fried, though. So just a little bit healthier.

Potato Rolled Tacos (serves 5-8)

1 bag of fresh corn tortillas (24)

2 potatoes, peeled and diced

1 tsp salt

1/4 tsp pepper

shredded cheese (optional)

avocados as needed

1. Boil potatoes until tender. Mash and mix with salt, pepper, and any other favorite seasonings. Let cool. If desired, stir in 1/2 cup shredded cheese to cooled potato mixture.

2. Lay a tortilla flat on the counter, and spread a small spoonful of mashed potatoes across the left 1/4 of the tortilla. Roll tightly and place in a parchment paper lined baking dish. Continue until all 24 tortillas have been used.

3. Place baking dish in the freezer, and once rolled tacos have frozen solid, remove them from the baking pan and store in a plastic gallon-sized bag.

4. When ready to eat, heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in a skillet, and fry 3-5 rolled tacos, turning to cook all sides, until heated through.

5. Serve with black beans and mashed avocado.

In southern California, you can get a bag of fresh tortillas for about $1.50 or $2.00. The potatoes and seasonings will be about 25 cents total, so each taco will cost about 10 cents to make, plus the avocado.

Black Beans

1 small onion

3 T olive oil

salt

1 lb dried black beans

1. Soak black beans overnight in a bowl of water. The next day, boil until tender, then drain and reserve water.

2. Mash black beans, then add portions of the cooking water back into them until the texture is smooth but not runny.

3. Saute onions in olive oil until thoroughly browned and even slightly burnt. Stir into black beans and add salt to taste.

My friend Maria told me this recipe. I'm not sure if I remembered it correctly, but I like them this way! It makes a huge pot of beans that you can eat throughout the week, or freeze and eat later. The black beans cost about $1.00 a pound, and the onion about 30 cents. With the other ingredients, it's $1.5o for a giant pot of black beans. You can also use these beans to fill the rolled tacos.

Mashed Potato Soup and Potato & Chickpea Ginger Curry

2009-03-21T21:17:00.000-07:00

There's this fantastic myth out there about eating well; that those on a tight budget can't do it. That said, I'm going to try and be more consistent with sharing some of the recipes I've been making lately, and why they're inexpensive. They're not gourmet meals by any means, but they're far better than Ramen...

Mashed Potato Soup (serves 6-8)

6 potatoes, peeled and cubed

8 cups water and 3 bouillon cubes (or 6 cups vegetable broth)

4 large stalks of celery, sliced 1/4" thin

2 T olive oil

1/4 large onion, diced

3 large cloves of garlic, peeled and diced

2 T ground cumin

1 tsp salt

1/4 tsp pepper

1. Cover the potatoes in cool water and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer until tender. Drain and mash lightly, leaving large chunks of potato.

2. Saute garlic and onion in the olive oil until tender, then at water and bouillon cubes (or vegetable broth) and bring to a boil.

3. Add celery, cumin, salt, and pepper, and cook until celery is tender.

4. Turn off heat and stir in mashed potatoes.

I keep things like salt, pepper, bouillon cubes, and cooking oil around, so that won't figure in to the price. But I often see 5lb. bags of potatoes on sale for $1, and six potatoes from that bag is less than half, so 50 cents. The celery was also $1, I used about 1/3 of it, so 33 cents. That's also about 25 cents worth of onion and garlic... just imagine if you grew these things in your garden! But basically, $1.08 worth of vegetables, $2.00 if you include the oil and such. This made enough for about 8 regular bowls of soup, or six generous ones, and at 25-33 cents a bowl... Even serving a family meal with bread and a simple salad wouldn't put this at more than $1 per person, per meal. If you're living on your own, make a big batch and then freeze portions of it.

Potato and Chickpea Ginger Curry (serves 1)

1/4 cup dried chickpeas

1 potato, diced

1 T olive oil

1 thick slice onion, diced

1-2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 T curry powder

1-3 T water

1" cube ginger, peeled and finely chopped (optional)

1/2 cup rice

1 cup water for rice

1. Soak the chickpeas overnight in a bowl of water, then drain, cover with fresh water in a saucepan, and cook until tender.

2. Bring one cup of water to a boil in another saucepan. Rinse rice under cool water to wash away excess starch. Add rice and turn heat to low. Cover and simmer until rice is cooked.

3. Meanwhile, saute onions, garlic, and potatoes in olive oil until potatoes are cooked and crispy on the the outside. Stir in ginger and chickpeas.

4. Whisk together water and curry powder to make a sauce, then stir into potato mixture.

5. Serve over rice.

I made this the other day when I didn't really have any food left in the cupboard. It actually turned out to be quite good! A potato from a 5lb. bag (on sale) will set you back about 10 cents, as will the chickpeas and the rice. Find dried chickpeas and rice in the bulk bins at your grocery store if you won't use more of them later on, but I like to prepare a big batch of beans at the beginning of the week and then keep them in the fridge to use throughout the week. They're kind of a pain when you have to soak them. Back to the recipe, add another 30 cents for the portion of olive oil, curry powder, onion, garlic and ginger, and that's about 60 cents for a meal. Compare this to one of those frozen dinner rice bowls. You could actually make a bunch of this all at once and freeze it to make your own microwave meals.

Step One.

2009-03-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

I think it's appropriate that in writing this blog post, I can't even think of a good sentence to begin with. Or maybe even what comes after that...

Two summers ago, I found myself living in Novi Pazar, a large Serbian town nestled in the tumultuous and ancient beauty of the Balkans. I leave pieces of my heart wherever I travel, but that was an especially severe case. Mid-way through our stay, my team and I came across a group of Roma (gypsies) living in squalor on the riverbanks in the middle of town. They are displaced and largely despised by those around them. And something there really struck me. I wrote about them, but at the time, that was all I knew to do.

And I can't stop thinking about them. It comes in phases, certainly, but I find myself in these week-long intensive mental spells where nothing else can really take root in my brain. I look at grant applications and the language seems completely foreign to me. And then it seems easier to push the thoughts back out of my head.

But I know the life I am called to live. And after the Idea Camp last weekend, I have Zach Hunter's words rolling through my mind as well, "you are the someone and today is the day." And if I don't do this, I doubt that anyone else will. But do what?

I've thought about building a microeconomic development project. I have a friend with experience in that sort of thing, and he's willing to go with me... which seems like a good start. And I don't know what we would make, something recycled, but the Roma strike me as very creative and resourceful people to get by with what they have. And they live in a junkyard, with huge piles of stuff all around. For me, this is the equivalent of sticking a chef in the middle of an enormous market and saying "make something." Easily done.

But would this be welcome? Is it the best solution? There's really no way for me to know unless I go and ask. And it could turn out that this is a massive, miserable failure. And that's the risk with any experiment, I guess, but I'm willing to give it a shot.

So for now, the only thing I can do is to identify step 1, which is two airplane tickets. Any suggestions?

Idea Camp 3: Another "what if?"

2009-03-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

In her book, Walking on Water, Madeleine L'Engle explains her belief that creative ideas are a gift to us from God. When we question their possibility, or our own ability to bring them to fruition, we are not saving the world from the risk of our failure, we are depriving it of something that God intended for it to have.

What if we lived as if this were true? What if it is?

Let's try and then learn from failures. Let's try again and then watch the world change when ideas take flight.

I was reminded of this last night:

Idea Camp 2: Church

2009-03-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

Exciting things I saw this weekend:

-God glorified through recognition of his influence over our lives, hearts, and IDEAS

-A celebration of creativity

-Discouraged people offered advice, support, and encouragement

-A love for orphans, widows, the poor, and the downtrodden

-Discussions that left me something to think about for weeks and weeks

-The gifts of hundreds of people put to use and shared

-A forum to express the ideas that excited us and make us come alive

-A wealth of intellectual and experiential resources poured out for the benefit of those who were lacking

-Shared meals

-An excitement about incorporating new knowledge into our "outside" lives

-A way to stay connected with one another's lives and concerns throughout the week (when you're not geographically close, there's twitter!)

What if we did THAT every week, right where we live. What would the world look like?

Idea Camp 1: Manufactured Moments

2009-03-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

This first thought is peripheral, but still interesting to me.

It's been awhile since I've been in church, though at this point in time, my life is rich in the Church, the ecclesia, and I love it. I burst into song when the mood strikes me, when the flowers look just so in the early morning light or when a hillside explodes in green. I am that girl that sings while walking down the sidewalk past your front door. I am not crazy, and someday I might have the nerve to sing louder. Prayer finds me when I least expect it, and I see God in places and moments and people in a way that I never have before.

This weekend at the Idea Camp, I was a bit startled by my re-entry into "The Worship Experience." Lights blue purple fog shadows video BIG sounds. Computers and powerpoint and mood. Push a button in your mind to get to worship mode- perhaps it even has an on/off switch. And I can stay outside and watch this sudden transition as if it were a film, or I can turn off my mind and step into it myself.

I talked about this on the way home, about the use of architectural space, music, modern technology, lights, etc. to manufacture a mood and create an almost virtual experience. Because they do. When I am in a magnificent cavernous sanctuary, I feel small because it is big. And this reminds me of God. And when the lights are dim and the music is sweeping and hands are raised, something changes and we forget the traffic and the weather and the to-do list at home and feel something. But I'm not sure at this point whether that is an authentic encounter with God, or just artistic experience. I cry in sad movies, and my tears are real though the emotions have been summoned by camera angles and clever storytelling techniques.

"It's interesting to hear that coming from an artist," said James. "Because I always thought that was an artist's role." Create a mood. Or summon an emotion. To evoke a response.

And the answer is yes.

And I would even go so far as to say that perhaps the most beautiful piece of art is one that draws the viewer closer to God.

I fell asleep and woke up wrestling with the contrast.

Here's what I can put into words at the moment. When I take a walk outside, when I scroll through the Wooster Collective blogs, when I take a bus through the high-rises of downtown, I do not go with the expectation of encountering God, or having a worship experience. Perhaps I should, but I do not. And so when I hear him speak loudly in graffiti or moss in the cracks of the sidewalk or the smile of a stranger, I am taken aback, awestruck, and remind of His glory, and worship stems from that.

Art is an intensely personal process for me- it is a safer way to communicate emotions and words because they are hidden behind the paint and graphite and fabric. And when someone comes along who can see through the layers, there is something beautiful and raw in that experience, because they are feeling what I feel.

I don't like Thomas Kinkade or Hollywood Blockbusters, for example, because they work in reverse. Painting light because people want to feel cheery. I guarantee that Thomas does not always feel cheery. Or happy endings, because people don't want to walk out of the theater feeling comfortable or challenged. But not me. I prefer authenticity in the long run, even when it gets messy.

Modern "worship" is an intensely creative effort that incorporates visual and musical talents on a sometimes very impressive level. But I would question its authenticity because it is built to meet an expectation, the expectation that God will be encountered in that 10-15 minutes time slot on Sunday mornings. And so we are feeling what the worship leader has hoped we will feel, that intense and sweeping connection to God. Not that this bad, I just think we would do well to be aware of it. I'm all for feeling connected to God, but I think that to some degree, it builds a subconscious idea that a powerful and worshipful encounter with God requires guitars and spotlights and a proper sound system. I feel that I can say this with some degree of authority because having stepped away from those things, it took awhile before I could convince myself that I didn't have to miss worship. Because the opportunity is still here. What if when we gathered together, we sang when we were inspired to rather than when we were scheduled to?

Or anyway, that's what I can come up with this morning. I would be really interested to hear some thoughts.

A Little Perspective.

2009-02-05T17:47:00.000-08:00

Check this out.

Justice (part 1)

2009-01-24T01:31:00.000-08:00

More thoughts on this to come. But I'm stunned that I've been around for 25 years and am just now having the sorts of discussions that I find myself in the midst of right now.

I know the magic rules about context, but it still follows that this is the heart of the God we serve, kings or not. Read this:

Jeremiah 22

13"Woe to him who builds his house without righteousness
And his upper rooms without justice,
Who uses his neighbor's services without pay
And does not give him his wages,
14Who says, 'I will build myself a roomy house
With spacious upper rooms,
And cut out its windows,
Paneling it with cedar and painting it bright red.'
15"Do you become a king because you are competing in cedar?
Did not your father eat and drink
And do justice and righteousness?
Then it was well with him.
16"He pled the cause of the afflicted and needy;
Then it was well
Is not that what it means to know Me?"
Declares the LORD.

There are over 30 million google results for "how to know God." Thousands of books written, pondering and questioning and proposing spiritual theories and meditation exercises.

But it would seem that this is one question that has already been answered for us...

Church (part 2, experiments)

2009-01-15T07:06:00.000-08:00

Suppose two men moved unexpectedly to a foreign country. Both understood upon coming to this new country that the people there were doing something right, living peacefully and happily, and that to learn their ways would be immeasurably good.

The first had a goal of fluency, and spent hours a day reading textbooks in order to learn the language. He confined himself to the house but for a few short walks every now and again, figuring it might be rather difficult to get by in a place where he didn't understand everything. In his limited interactions with the neighbors, a few hours each week, he continued to live as was familiar to him, thinking to himself, "once I can speak the language, I'll be better prepared to understand why they do what they do, and I can start to change the way I interact with these people."

The second man spent his time interacting with anyone he laid eyes on, watching what they did and imitating their habits and gestures. When new situations came about, he observed their reactions and followed along. He walked around town each day, visiting shops and listening as the people spoke to one another. He imitated their speech, taking note of the response of the shop owners, and learned that certain phrases elicited a laugh and a handshake, and others things like groceries or clothing or postage. It didn't always make sense, initially, but he decided to experience life in this new country, no matter how strange and different from his old.

Which man do you suppose came to a fuller understanding of his new country?

In many ways, embracing our faith is like moving to a foreign country. Christ speaks of life in a new kingdom, the kingdom of heaven. In fact, it is one of the subjects he most frequently speaks of. And we know that to live in that kingdom would be immeasurably good, he tells us in Matthew 13:44 that "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field." Something so wonderful that it's worth everything I have, no hesitations?

But to be honest, I'm still struggling to come to a very thorough understanding of what the kingdom actually is. There are glimmers here and there, and I know that it's something good and worth pursuing. I've even gone so far as to look up and read every single reference made to it. I spent four years of my life at a Bible college studying and learning and analyzing these words that have been given to us. And to approach them that way is a bit difficult. They were written in another language, to begin with, and what we read is a translation. They were also written to another culture, in another time. To a people persecuted by the empire that had overthrown them, and to the outsiders, the Gentiles who had never before been a part of them. There were no cars and no Wal-Marts, there were sheep and donkeys and fields, and the analogies reflect that.

Though it's still valuable to read and reflect and think (in fact, we are instructed to do so), should we not conclude that it is also extraordinarily valuable to imitate? To live in the ways we are asked to live, whether we understand them thoroughly or not? To respond as those more familiar with the culture and the implications of those teachings have responded? Perhaps you might disagree with me, but if that thought resonates, read on.

Acts is a fascinating book, because it shows us appropriate responses to the great news of this vague yet wonderful thing called the kingdom. Christ left his disciples with instructions to go and preach the good news of the kingdom, and they did just that. And in response to that good news, people began to change the way they lived.

Acts 2:42-47
"They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."

Acts 4:32-37
"All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had. With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and much grace was upon them all. There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles' feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need."

As people came to a greater understanding of this good news, they devoted themselves to fellowship, common meals, and prayer. They sold their possessions, their homes, and their land to take care of one another and those who had need. They met together daily, and they praised God. And God saw this as an appropriate response, he "added to their numbers daily." For the past couple of years, I've begun to think that if I'm not inspired to react in such a way as those early Christians, perhaps I don't really understand the "good news" as fully as should. And this is now my greatest pursuit.

Sometimes, that has involved living in such a way that doesn't always make sense to me, and striving to follow Christ even in places that don't seem quite logical in American society. But I find that as I try to live in this new way, I begin to understand a little more fully both the reasoning behind that lifestyle, and the great news of the kingdom. It may seem very unsettling to some to do that. We want to understand before we do. But a friend pointed out to me last night that most of us have been living in a way that doesn't quite make sense for our whole lives. Our society, our culture, comes with a certain set of norms and rules and values that are ingrained in us from childhood through the media, through our friends, through our parents... Many of these things don't make sense. Things like trends and traditions and what we ought to value and own. And many of us spend our time pursuing these senseless goals without batting an eye. It's just what we do, though most of us can clearly identify that our society's desires are often rooted in selfishness and evil. And if we choose this new kingdom, this new way to live, and know that its goals are things like love and hope and all that is good, should we not be more inclined to imitate its ways, even when they don't make sense?

Christians I know are usually pretty accepting of ideas like understanding, prayer, praise, common meals, and fellowship (though fellowship is so much more than a fifteen minute coffee and donut break between Sunday School and the main service). But as I begin to talk about living together, selling possessions and homes, and proactively seeking to meet the daily needs of one another, I'm usually met with blank stares and something along the lines of "well, that sounds nice, but it wouldn't really work in our modern culture." But it wasn't exactly normal back then, either. Prior to hearing the good news, people apparently had possessions and homes and land. But the news they heard was so good, so compelling, that these things seemed worthless to them.

And though there are exceptions, what I see and have experienced is that the traditional church model I grew up in is often a hindrance to some of those things. How can we truly fellowship with one another if we only see each other once or twice, for a few hours a week? Especially if there are hundreds or thousands of us. How can we concern ourselves primarily with the needs of the poor and hungry when we are also concerned with rent and electric bills and Sunday School materials and sound systems and staff salaries? How can we truly love our neighbors when we only interact with them a couple of times a year during service projects?

For a long time, my comfort zone was pews and worship bands and the donut table in the fellowship hall, and I hoped to find ways to incorporate Christ's commands into that structure. But I think what I'm more interested in now is stepping outside of that structure so that I can follow Christ's commands, and letting the rest just fall into place. That may not be the answer for everyone, perhaps you've found a church that is wrestling with those questions and looking at life and faith in a radically different way. And there's nothing wrong with sermons and worship music, they can be great. But they're not the point, and I've personally had to remove myself from regular participation in that environment to live in a way that reflects my own convictions.

It is true that we live in a very different society, and there are no specific guidlines for "what to do in 21st century modern America." But we are given a set of principles by which we ought to live. And I figure we ought to start responding accordingly. I've recently been introduced to the idea of actively experimenting in these areas, as there's no better way to find out what actually works and what doesn't. So here are a few of mine. I'm not holding them up as ultimate truth, or what you ought to do, but based on my own knowledge and experiences, at the moment I'm considering this to be an appropriate way for me to respond.

1. Hawthorn House. I met this group of people in my neighborhood who live together in three houses/apartments that occupy the same piece of property. They share meals, vehicles, chores, and life, and have an ear wide open to the needs and concerns of our community. There is no Sunday School for their children, they live it every day and converse frequently about Christ and how they ought to be living in the neighborhood they occupy. With just a small group of about 20, they've recently begun pooling their money and giving it to those in need: paying the rent of a church in Nepal, helping a struggling family in Brazil, sending a hard-working underpriveledged student to his first year of community college, etc. On Sunday nights in particular, they open their home to anyone who will come to share a meal and discuss issues of life and faith. And some of them still attend church services elsewhere. But because they live life together, they struggle together, learn together, and ultimately grow together. I'm over there whenever there is opportunity, and am learning so much.

2. Community of Communities. The folks at the Hawthorn House have initiated a series of discussions for those who are interested in starting communities or house churches. And the groups that are emerging are as different as night and day in their locations, religious roots and ultimate goals. But the idea is that once a month or so, all of these small groups will meet together to share stories and lessons and rejoice in what God is doing in San Diego and to be a resource to one another in every sense of the word. Imagine if all the churches in San Diego... Presbyterian, Catholic, Baptist... got together regularly to do the same?

3. Creative Action. Some friends and I have been meeting together weekly to discuss what we call "experiments in creative action." For me, what this means is looking for needs, and experimenting with creative ways to love and serve the people who have them. Just to get out and do something, rather than sitting in a building discussing what we ought to do. And I've found that as I go out into the community and proactively look for ways to help, things come up. We've been sharing those ideas and experiments with one another, asking for help and advice where those things are needed, and again, learning a lot.

So this is my understanding of church right now, my ekklesia, my gathering of believers. For now, I am thrilled to be a part of each of these things. And perhaps as you read this, none of these things seem particularly compelling to you. But I hope you will at least begin to examine this idea of how we ought to live and interact together as believers, and that if your answers surprise you, that you would have the courage to live accordingly.

Church (part 1)

2009-01-14T08:36:00.000-08:00

Where is your church?
What church do you go to?
Are you ready for church yet?

None of these questions may strike you as particularly strange. In American society, they're actually pretty commonplace, and the way I was raised, I wouldn't think anything of them. But lately they leave me unsettled, because they don't make sense anymore. I've been putting a lot of thought into the idea of "church" for the past few months, and on a lesser scale, for the last eight years. And the conclusion that I'm coming to is that somewhere along the way, we've made a grievous mistake.

I think that most people I know have a general understanding that there is a difference between the church building in which we sit on Sunday mornings and the Church of which we are all a part, as the body of Christ. This morning, I looked up uses of the word "church" in an online Bible, and then found the Greek translation. Again and again and again, the word is ekklesia.

I learned at a meeting at the Hawthorn House a few weeks ago that the English word "church" comes from the Greek word kuriokos, a word not really found anywhere in the Bible. Kuriokos refers to a physical possession of a ruler, such as a building. The word ekklesia means "public assembly," and early Christians used it to refer to those who had been called out by God and joined together in his family, "the Lord's assembly," or "the body of Christ." A global community, the gathering of believers.

Let's look at those questions again.

Where is your church?
Where is your body of Christ?
What church do you go to?
Which body of Christ do you go to?
Are you ready for church yet?
Are you ready for the body of Christ?

There is but one body, and it is worldwide, wherever there are believers. You don't prepare for it, you live in it every moment. If you are a believer, you are always called out, always a part of God's family. Next time you read your New Testament, read it a little differently.

One of the families I know from the Hawthorn House has a very smart seven-year-old daughter who has been raised outside of the traditional pew and hymnal setting. Over the holidays, she was at her Grandma's house, and was shaken awake early one Sunday. "Time to get up and get ready! We're going to church." Confused, she asked her grandmother, "how can you GO to church? Church is people."

_________________________

I think the damage we've done with a such gross misunderstanding of this word is terrifying, frankly. Let's suppose a family within my congregation was so poor that their water had been shut off, and they lived miles and miles from anything. They lived near a small pond, so they resorted to hauling in buckets of water as needed for baths and drinking. The whole family was growing more sickly because of the dirty water, suffering from things like diarrhea, and was in dire need of medical attention. Their youngest, a baby, became so severely ill that he died. The music pastor, during this time, was at a worship leader's conference in Chicago. The church had payed for his plane ticket and room and board for the week he was there. He came back very inspired by some of the new worship songs he'd learned, and proposed that the church purchase a guitar, a keyboard, and a drum set to replace their organ and "move the church into the 20th century." The cost would be about $5,000, which we had in our budget.

Should we upgrade? Or should we pay the medical and water bills of the family among us who had just lost their child?

Later that year, another family was devastated when a local gang broke into their house, killed the father, raped the mother and teenage daughter, and cut the hands and feet off of their young son. The daughter became pregnant. The intruders stole the TV and the car, and then burned the house to the ground. There was no media coverage, and the police wouldn't even show up to assess the crime scene or interview the victims. We'd just completed a $200,000 building campaign to raise money to update our building, which was looking a little too "80's." We had been planning to renovate everything, and then launch a major city-wide ad campaign to make our neighbors aware the new changes. There were a few glitches in the zoning laws and tons of paperwork and red tape, but an attorney within the congregation had volunteered to sort things out for free.

Should we go ahead with our building project? Or should we redirect the money to taking care of this family, and our advertising and legal energies to seeking justice for them?

I should hope the answers are obvious.

And the truth is, though these things may not happen in our towns, they happen to our church, our ekklesia. And so often, we choose new carpet and a better sound system. We choose our buildings over our people.

The lines we draw between us.

2009-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

Since the 70's, Border Field State Park/Friendship Park has been a place where people could come to spend time with friends and family on the other side of the border without having to go through the hassle (or sometimes impossibility) of security and checkpoints. Some friends of mine are part of a small group that goes to the fence every Sunday to share communion with our neighbors to the south, reminding us that God's family isn't bound by borders or nations.

Citing illegal immigration and drug smuggling concerns, the federal government has, under the radar, begun building a massive double border fence through this state park, This fence will eventually go all the way to the water with a field of dead space in between the fences that will block any sort of contact between people on either side of the fence. I went this Sunday to participate in communion and document the end of an era.

I've seen photos of the fence, but to approach it in person is an entirely different story. Due to "construction," we were unable to visit the monument at the top of the mesa overlooking the ocean, so instead we walked about a mile over a dirt trail and then south down the packed wet sand of a desolate and serene beach. The fence loomed dark and jagged in the distance, a row of metal beams that separate here from there before fading into the shoreline. The tide was so low that people gathered on dry ground along the end of the fence for an unobstructed view of the U.S.. A few children tentatively pranced back and forth from nation to nation.

As we neared the fence, it became not just a wall, but a living web of hands and faces and voices. I spoke to a few people on the other side, some from Mexico, some from the U.S. just visiting, and others who had been recently deported. Angel, 13, a thin boy with a hesitant smile and piercing eyes has an arm through the fence to greet visitors. "You could probably fit right through!" somebody joked. Angel smiled, but stayed on his side.

A young man crouched to the sand and used his palm to smooth out a flat place on either side of the fence. To the south, he wrote MX and to the north US. I took a photo of his work and he stood up and smiled and did the same.

John, one of the ministers present, gathered the crowd and spoke alternately in English and Spanish as he broke bread and served communion through the fence. Christ said, "do this in remembrance of me," and this is just the second time in my life where the request made sense. The second communion that will ingrain itself into my memories for years to come.

We waited on the beach while a small group headed up to the monument to share communion in the usual way with the larger crowd that had gathered up there on the Mexico side. The border patrol consulted a few higher ups to determine the line in the sand past which we might be cited, and those who went to the monument went with that (or arrest) in mind. After the second service, paying no heed to the empty threats of citation by the Fish and Wildlife department, they returned unscathed... too many cameras perhaps, or no protocol for such an event. And we walked back across the sunset glow of the beach.

I'm left with many thoughts about the experience that I can barely begin to put into words. It's strange, because to look at the fence, the U.S. certainly occupies the more ominous side; miles of empty beach surrounded by a barren desert wasteland where mud cracks and dries in the hot sun. And the afternoon light casts deep, long shadows onto the sand, more than doubling the visual space occupied by the looming metal barrier. The Mexico side is warm and sunny, brightly colored condos line the water's edge, churro vendors and the scent of their hot sugary wares compete with the salty scent of the ocean, and small children play and splash in the waves.

But it's clear by the the direction of the gazes passed through the fence that our side is the desired place to be. None of the Americans strain to get a glimpse of what lies south. It's strange, this wall. I can cross at my leisure, so long as I re-enter the country through the appropriate channels. I know it isn't meant to hold me in, it's meant to keep "them" out. In my mind, such borders and barriers only serve to enforce the the idea of "us" and "them," this mysterious other which must be contained and separated from us. And as faces peer through heavy metal bars, they appear to be imprisoned. There's something very disturbing in that imagery.

There was a time when the border was an invisible line, still enforced, still patrolled. But what it is becoming with all of this new construction is an solid metal illustration of the division that exists between us. It's symbolic meaning is far more powerful than it's physical purpose.

And I don't think that's quite right.

I want to stand behind symbols of unity and cooperation, which is what the park once was. The more I study and learn and love and travel and pray, the more I realize that I am not to be defined by America, but by Christ. And such a wall does more than mentally divide nation from nation, it divides a spiritual family, and often physical ones as well.

And such a division is something I can't seem to find justification for in Scripture. I read something yesterday morning that keeps springing into my mind, a section from Paul's letter to the Gentiles in Ephesus.

Ephesians 2:13-22

"But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ.

For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, by abolishing in his flesh the law with its commandments and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new man out of the two, thus making peace, and in this one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household..."

Shall we stand for division or for peace?

_____________________________________

To see more photos, click here.

Look down.

2009-01-08T22:00:00.001-08:00

My favorite color is green, and I really enjoy interesting lines, so perhaps you can understand why I might dedicate an entire post to moss growing through cracks in the sidewalk. I think it's lovely. Today, I was going to take a bus to a friends house to get my hair cut, but once I started walking towards the bus stop, I decided to just keep going, taking pictures along the way. Four hours, three pit stops, and five miles later...

2008, A visual review of... (part 1)

2009-01-07T13:36:00.000-08:00

Because I was bored (again) and feeling nostalgic, here is a photo review of my 2008, just for fun.

JANUARY

Woke up on the streets of Pasadena and watched the Rose Parade.

Had fun, but decided that I'll probably NEVER do that again.

Packing Party at the IC warehouse.

Got really good at assembling cardboard boxes.

FEBRUARY

Took waaaay to many pictures.

Mostly because the clouds were awesome.

Practiced my flight skills.

Launched Spring Tour!

Visited the tree people at Berkeley.

Stranded in Berkeley/SF.

Still stranded.

Pit-stop in Chicago to eat at Earwax. Yes.

Finally made it to DC. S4S conference and Lobby Days.

MARCH

Drove back from DC along the southern route. Nashville, Dallas, Phoenix.

Gave Lisa, my family's German exchange student, the grand tour of L.A.

And to Disneyland.

Went to Point Loma with the IC interns...

...to watch the sunset.

APRIL

Drove kids from the Sudanese community center...

... to a soccer field to hang out with APU students.

MAY

Walked (most of) the length of University Ave. with James, Lindsey, and Waverly...

... and stopped for dinner at an Eritrean restaurant.

Spent a lovely day with the roadies at the ocean.

Made amazing snacks in Idyllwild.

Fond farewell to IC. With Joel P. West, of course.

2008, A visual review of... (part 2)

2009-01-07T09:48:00.001-08:00

JUNE

Sat through the longest graduation ceremony in history.
Launched my baby sister off into the real world.

JULY

Flew to Nasville and headed out to Lake Junaluska, NC.

Met some amazing kids at Lake J.

Checked out the fabulous costumes at Comic-Con with Kristin and Amy.

Stumbled across a zombie walk.

AUGUST

Went for a walk outside.

Met some space robots at the roadie house.

Got a tattoo for my 25th birthday.

Showed my tattoo to my mom.

SEPTEMBER

Rode a bus to La Jolla for this:

Made it to Texas. Neglected to clean camera lens.

Woke up to this:

Learned how to two-step in the cowboy capitol of the world.

Hung out by the river with Kristen, Betsy, and Bacon.

OCTOBER

Experience cupcake bliss in Austin, TX.

NOVEMBER

Tasted just a teensy piece of Dad's turkey.

Had the coolest Thanksgiving dinner EVER.

DECEMBER

Made some cookies.

Married off another one.

Aja Project reception.

Ate way too much sugar.

Played with preschoolers on the slide.

Wore a fabulous paper crown on Christmas.

Learned how to cook collard greens.

Temporary Insomnia

2009-01-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

I can't sleep. It's only 11, so most of you haven't even tried yet, but I'm a firm believer in early to bed, early to rise. Or that's how it usually works out for me, anyway.

Today, I had another conversation with somebody about how to spend not a lot of money on groceries. I don't usually spend more than $20/week on groceries, and usually it's a lot less than that. I thought it might be a good idea to write this down for people who really are interested. So because I'm bored and sleepless, I present you with the official how-to guide!

This is assuming you currently have no food and don't usually shop or cook this way (from scratch and vegetarian), so there's a lot of initial investment in staple ingredients. Maybe I'll make more menus later. Who knows...

Can you tell I'm going through a food phase lately?

Eat. Live. Grow.

2008-12-27T15:18:00.000-08:00

My favorite part of life in Serbia revolved around food and the people who introduced it to us. From small restaurants where we knew the waiters by name to neighborhood grocers whose limited selection removed the stress of choosing the "right" brand. Each day, on the side of the road or outside the shops, a fresh selection of local produce was readily available. A rural family could come to town and earn a small income selling the fruits of their labor on the street corners. We did not stockpile food- the fridge was too small, and besides, there was no need. Rarely did anything go to waste, because we were never really inclined to buy more than we needed. Places like Costco would not be well recieved there, and I think that is as it should be.

A few times a week, we also headed to the zelena pijaca (green market) to select from a wider variety of fresh produce for our week's meals. There's something so refreshing about wishing a good morning to the person who grew your vegetables.

I've been overjoyed to find that there are plenty of farmer's markets and small grocery stores in San Diego, and for the last couple of months I've been building a new Saturday routine that involves both of them. There are a lot of reasons for this. First of all, I'd like to support local businesses, and get to know some of the people who are running them. And sometimes it just makes sense logistically... the average fruit or vegetable travels around 1,800 miles to get to our supermarkets. This makes no sense for those of us living in the south, where food can be grown year-round.

For standard things like eggs and lentils, I've been frequenting a little store that boasts not four, but FIVE small aisles of odds and ends and groceries. I forget the name of the little store, but it's right across the street from the post office in City Heights.

Each week at the farmer's market, I get the standard fruits and vegetables that make up my diet, but I also look for something new or unusual to try. Last week I bought turnips, which are double the fun because you can roast the turnips with some carrots, potatoes, and garlic for a great meal, and you can steam the leaves and serve them with sauteed butter, salt, and garlic for a side dish. For some reason, I'd never made the mental connection that turnip greens come from turnips, but the growers are full of great advice about how to best enjoy their produce.

colorful radishes at the City Heights farmer's market

vendors at the market

bunches of turnips

This week's experiment was a cherimoya, a bland-looking fruit that looks even worse as browns and ripens. But inside, the white flesh tastes like... AMAZING. There's really nothing to compare it too, except to say that it's as if all of the colors and tropical flavors of South America have melted together in the sun.

a very, very ripe cherimoya
inside of a cherimoya

One of the very first times I visited the farmer's market, I stopped by a booth manned by the Backyard Grower's Association and an organization called Food Not Lawns. They encourage people to grow food, rather than... lawns, and enticed me to do so by offering two free packets of seeds, maestro peas and swiss chard.

I promptly scootered myself home and stuck them into a pile of dirt in the backyard, along with a few sprouting cloves from an old bulb of garlic. Against all odds, these things are still growing, and at Christmas, I raided my parent's garden shed for some old pots to transfer them to.

garlic

maestro peas

swiss chard

I've also started an herb garden in the kitchen windowsill, housed in an eclectic assortment of thrift store dishes and flower pots that my Mom gave me for Christmas. Do not be too impressed, they came pre-grown.

thyme, cilantro, parsley, peppermint, oregano, sage, and taragon

peppermint

oregano

wild sage from the canyon near my parent's house

taragon

It would be dishonest of me to pretend that it's easier or more convenient to shop and eat this way. I spend the better part of each Saturday morning cleaning, chopping, and cooking pre-made meals for the rest of the week. But I'm trying to make decisions based on impact and not on convenience. An anyhow, this tastes better.

Christmas

2008-12-27T14:27:00.000-08:00

I'm still trying to put together some thoughts about Christmas in light of the things I've been thinking about lately, though I can say the following with certainty:

A year from now, I will not remember the things that showed up under the tree. But I will remember taking an early morning hike with my youngest brother Jared and our dog Conan through a little section of empty land by my house that my family has always called "the canyon."

Rain awakens this desert life, and if you look closely, everything is in bloom.

We jumped over impromptu streams, formed just that morning, and explored the once dry space make verdant by rainfall. Jared has a stunning command of knowledge about nearly every species of native vegetation, and I now know what to eat should I ever be stranded in the California wilderness. Lately, we've gone on several small outings together, and from these moments a flow of conversation has steadily grown. This is a piece of my brother I don't often see, for various reasons we are guarded and don't often show the soft underbelly of ourselves to one another.

He apologized for not buying me a Christmas present, but we dug up a wild sage plant which now lives in a flower pot in my kitchen windowsill. And whenever I look at it, or taste it in a fresh pot of soup, I'll remember a blustery Christmas morning outside together, and that memory is a gift greater than anything I could carry home with me at the end of the day.

AjA Project

2008-12-20T21:31:00.001-08:00

Lately, I've been volunteering for this amazing organization called AjA Project. Once a week, a handful of us meet with a small group of students who are recent immigrants or refugees relocated to the United States. There are classes at several local schools, and my particular group consists of high schoolers from Mexico, Cambodia, Burma/Thailand, and a few other countries. The students are learning to tell their personal stories through photography.

On Thursday, there was a reception at the Children's Museum downtown to showcase their work for the semester. I had to leave early because I was running a fever, but the bits I did catch were pretty awesome. I'm also obsessed with this museum, and need to borrow someone's children soon so that I have an excuse to hang out there.

Here are a few images of people enjoying the evening:

Of raincoats and hole punches.

2008-12-19T19:40:00.001-08:00

"Why don't I have a hole punch? I need a hole punch," I thought to myself the other day, having stumbled across an unruly stack of Haitian Creole flashcards I'd made (long story) floating loose in a drawer. Nevermind the disastrous state of the rest of my room, first and foremost the flashcards must be holepunched and secured on one of those handy metal rings.

The thought crossed my mind to use scissors to poke holes through each of them individually, but the jagged holes I imagined in my head could not compare, visually, to the clean round edges of a hole punch, and so I set off to the store. I have a job now, and for the first time in almost two years, the wiggle room to impulsively buy small things like hole punches. I went to the first store, and everything was well stocked for Christmas. Every shelf and wall-hook brimming with cheap Chinese imports. Every wall-hook, that is, except the one where they store hole punches. I walked up to a salesperson and asked if there might be any in the back, and she directed me to the front counter. The front counter directed me back to the parking lot, empty handed. Across the street, the same scenario. The only empty space in the office supply aisle seemed to be the hole punch rack. I headed out the the parking lot again, ready to take off down the street to a third store, when suddenly a voice echoed in my head, "do you really NEED a hole punch?" And I had to admit defeat. No. I don't need a hole punch.

Riding home, I had to laugh to myself as I recognized the ridiculous nature of that particular errand. I've learned to live relatively simply in these past two years. But what I thought were ingrained behaviors were in fact just a very practical and necessary response to limited finances, and at the first opportunity to revert, I did so without a second thought. I think this is a very American response, to see a minor "need" or aesthetic inconvenience in our lives, and run immediately to the store to fill it.

I've been thinking and reading a lot lately about economics, America, and our impact on the world through what we buy. Much of it goes over my head, but what I can say without hesitation is that the current system is not working- perhaps we are running toward some sort of apocalyptic disaster. At the moment, I'm not sure what my response should be, or how I should spread that information to others, but sitting still while I figure things out is probably the worst thing to do. So I'm experimenting with personal solutions.

There are a number of reasons for living simply and considering our impact, and for me, they span such diverse categories as faith, environmentalism, morality and human rights, and practicality or logic. These are discussions for a different day, but I'm finding that each time I explain my reasoning to someone, most can't help but agree. The disconnect between idea and action, then, is not disagreement but a lack of practical "how-to steps." It sounds silly, but I've been thinking that for those of us firmly cemented into a culture that proclaims consumption as the cure to all that ails you, we really may just need to be reminded of the alternatives. I certainly do, and the hole punch incident proves that.

I've made myself a little shopping guide that I'm going to try and run myself through each time I think I need to head to the store. So far, so good... so I thought I would share.

1. Do I really need it?
YES. Go to step 2.
NO. Stop. Or consider the impact. (I'm all for buying things, such as hand-made goods, that directly support and empower individuals and provide their livelihood. And not just because I count myself among them).

2. Do I need to own it?
YES. Go to step 3.
NO. Borrow it from a friend.

3. Can I find it?
YES. Look around your house for objects with similar qualities, or go for a walk with eyes open. (Get over your fear of perfectly good things that have seen the interior of trash cans... at least those things that can be sanitized).
NO. Go to step 4.

4. Can I make it or grow it? (hint: growing takes planning ahead)
YES. Dust off the sewing machine and hot glue gun!
NO. Go to step 5.

5. Can somebody that I know make it?
YES. Commission a friend or neighbor to exercise their crafty or handy skills on your behalf. Trade them for something you can do.
NO. Go to step 6.

6. Do I need it right now?
YES. Go to step 7.
NO. Advertise on craigslist, or ask around. (You'd be surprise at what people are willing to give away if they feel that they're being helpful.)

7. Can I buy it used?
YES. Check yardsales and thrift stores first and foremost. The idea that everything we own must be factory fresh is a bit bizarre.
NO. Go to step 8.

8. Think about it. Okay fine. Buy something. But before you do, know where it came from. Who made it? Were they paid? Were they paid enough? What impact does this product have on the world an the people who made it? How far did it have to travel to get to me? Can I buy it locally? (The truth is that this part takes research. But you'll find that when you really sit down to do the research, the information is out there, if a bit difficult to find. I have reason to believe this will start changing soon, but in the meantime, exercise your googling skills. It's worthwhile to start reminding yourself that things come from somewhere.)

9. Buy.

I find that certain items, like toilet paper and eggs, pass fairly easily through to step nine. At least while I'm here in the suburbs. But what I realize is that most of the time, I skip straight from noticing the need to number 9. That is my instinct. I want to retrain my brain to include the thought process encompassed in 1-8, so that I don't have to print this out and run through it every time I think I need to buy something.

And I'm finding that it's not as difficult as I'd thought. On Monday, it rained. And not just Southern California's sad version of rain, but RAIN. I absorbed at least 1/3 of all the rain on earth as I road my scooter home from work that day, and decided that I NEED a rain coat. I found myself pondering step 4. Yes, I am well aware of the water repellant characteristics of trash bags, but some small bit of vanity within me seriously despised the idea. But it was still raining, and I didn't want to go to the store to get a rain coat, because that would involve absorbing at least another 1/3 of all the rain in the world. I'm sure there are crops somewhere that need it more than I do. So armed with scissors, packing tape, and three trashbags (plus a small plastic "thank you!" bag from my wallet-making stash), I crafted a fabulously tacky raincoat, complete with sleeves and a hood. And truthfully, my co-workers were a bit amused by my ensemble when I showed up at work on Wednesday, but the rain made it to the ground, as it should. My clothes were dry, and I felt free to resume my love-love relationship with rainy weather.

Today, when I opened my Christmas presents from students and co-workers, I found myself staring at a lovely and highly water-repellent rain poncho.

I'll try to remind myself of moments like this next time I find myself scrambling to solve earth shattering problems like free-floating flashcards. But in the meantime...

Does anybody have a hole punch I can borrow?

Quote.

2008-12-03T21:24:00.000-08:00

"Economics, moreover, deals with goods in accordance with their market value and not in accordance with what they really are. The same rules and criteria are applied to primary goods, which man has to win from nature, and secondary goods, which presuppose the existence of primary goods and are manufactured from them. All goods are treated the same, because the point of view is fundamentally that of private profit-making, and this means that it is inherent in the methodology of economics to ignore man's dependence on the natural world.

Another way of stating this is to say that economics deals with goods and services from the point of view of the market, where willing buyer meets willing seller. The buyer is essentially a bargain hunter; he is not concerned with the origin of the goods or the conditions under which they have been produced. His sole concern is to obtain the best value for his money.

The market therefore represents only the surface of the society and its signigicance relates to the momentary situation as it exists there and then. There is no probing into the depths of things, into the natural or social facts that lie behind them. In a sense, the market is the institutionalization of individualism and non-responsibility. Neither buyer nor seller is responsible for anything but himself. It would be 'uneconomic' for a wealthy seller to reduce his prices to poor customers merely because they are in need, or for a wealthy buyer to pay an extra price merely because the supplier is poor. Equally, it would be 'uneconomic' for a buyer to give preference to home-produced goods if imported goods are cheaper. He does not, and is not expected to, accept responsibility for the country's balance of payments.

...To be relieved of all responsibility except to oneself, mean of course and enormous simplification of business. We can recognize that is practical and need not be surprised that it is hgily popular among businessmen. What may cause surprise is that it is also considered virtuous to make the maximum use of this freedom from responsibility. If a buyer refused a good bargain because he suspected that the cheapness of the goods in question stemmed from exploitation or other despicable practices... he would be open to the criticism of behaving 'uneconomically,' which is viewed as nothing less than a fall from grace. Economists and other are wont to treat such eccentric behavior with derision if not indignation. The religion of economics has its own code of ethics, and the First Commandment is to behave 'economically'- in any case when you are producing, selling, or buying."

-E.F. Schumacher
"Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered

Fog People.

2008-11-11T12:10:00.001-08:00

"There are your fog people & your sun people, he said. I said I wasn't sure which kind I was. He nodded. Fog'll do that to you, he said."

This came to my inbox this morning, courtesy of the good folks at storypeople.com. I count myself among the fog people, and maybe I can know this with certainty because I live in the sun. Fog lends an air of mystery and magic to the world, and bathes the dull and familiar landscapes with a sense of the unexpected. I think it's visually delicious.

It's funny how I can't apply that same love of mystery and magic to my life. For the past five months or so, things have been changing constantly, and I'm never sure what to expect. Every time I think I've finally made sense of the things going on around me, and felt at peace with them, they change. Sometimes this is good, and sometimes it's not. I haven't been sleeping well, 3-5 a.m. and I have long since become bitter new acquaintances, and I've lost my appetite. If I tell you I'm okay, I might be lying, but I'm also not entirely sure why that is- I guess it seems unfair to toss that sentiment out there with no discernible options for its resolution. I desperately need something stable, and it's taken me this long to realize that the stability I seek can only come from God- taking comfort in the fact that I know He is there and He is constant. But there is an indefinite adjustment period between making this realization and trusting it. I think this is the lesson I'm supposed to be learning right now, and it's a difficult one.

One thing that is consistent is that on Monday afternoons, I ride my scooter down University Ave., up Highland, and across El Cajon Blvd. This is a drive filled with sound and color, the smell of fresh tortillas, and small corner markets with bins of bright produce open to the air and sun. I pass women in vivid headscarves, men gathered round a van selling tacos, and a hundred tiny shops and restaurants with foods and wares from around the world. City Heights seems so vibrant and alive, it does not need fog to bathe itself in magic and mystery.

This drive brings me to the little red door of the Aja Project office. Here, an amazing group of photographers and support staff gather to build a program that teaches photography to local refugee and immigrant students. A chance for them to practice English and tell their stories. Four of us volunteer (along with a teacher from Aja Project) with a group of 18 loud and rambunctious high school students from around the world. Mexico, Cambodia, Burma/Thailand, East Africa... the list goes on. I get only small glimpses into their transitioning lives- from stories about their weekends and photos of their families that invariably sneak into each roll of film that they take. I remember the strange uncertainty of living in Serbia and not knowing the language, and wonder about the transition from life in an IDP or refugee camp to modern, industrialized America. As the kids laugh and joke, I can see and greatly admire their resilience. I love Mondays.

I've been coming back to the idea of photography lately, after a long absence during which I sought only to take pictures rather than create art. But something makes me incredibly nervous about picking up the camera with such a bold intention.

But there is a deeper dialogue of which I long to be a part, something I was reminded of last weekend at the Museum of Photographic Arts in Balboa Park. David Scheinbaum- a wonderfully talented photographer, gave a tour of the current exhibition, showing the work of Nancy Newhall, a brilliant photographer and writer, and her circle of friends and mentors. David worked under the photographer and preeminent historian, Beaumont Newhall (Nancy's husband), for a a number of years, and continues as the co-executor of his estate. My afternoon was filled with stories about the lives of the photographers, and some incredible images from the pioneers of American photography as an art form, Alfred Seiglitz, Ansel Adams, Paul Strand, Edward Weston...

In the middle of the lecture, an old man began his story with the words, "I used to intern for Minor White," referring to another photographer whose work lined the walls. Suddenly, the room disappeared, and I found myself caught in the words and stories, overwhelmed by a deep desire to be even just the tiniest and most insignificant thread in this beautiful tapestry of human history. I need to be creative, and thank God that He instilled that in me, and gave me the means to accomplish that.

I don't know what all these pieces mean, really. I currently lack the motivation to get up and rush toward any of them. But I could use your prayers... maybe that's the most discernible option toward resolution of whatever this internal fog may be.

Stars.

2008-10-15T07:49:00.000-07:00

Akela Flats. Gas Station and...

San Antonio River Walk.

Hey Cupcake! Cupcake stand in Austin.

Hidden Valley Ranch. Hilltop view.

Toy Joy. An amazing toy store in Austin.

I just spent about a month in Texas. I rode out there with my friend Betsy, who I met through Invisible Children, and stayed with our friend Kristen and her husband Matt. It was an amazing trip. I've been so busy and frazzled lately, and I really just needed to step away from my life for a while and relax and reconnect. I saw art and read books, sat in the rocking chairs on a porch and listened to Iron & Wine, explored Austin and San Antonio, saw lots of good friends, new and old, and drank in the rivers and forests and sunshine. One night, Kristen, Betsy, and I were lying on a blanket at Matt's family's ranch, looking up at the sky. I haven't seen stars like that since I was very young, visiting my grandparents on Drummond Island, off the coast of Michigan. They lived in a small house, and so while we were visiting, I slept on a cot in the garden shed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and needed to go inside to use the restroom, but the stars were so heavy and bright that they scared me. Sometimes, confronted with something vast like the desert or the oceans, I get a taste of how small I am in comparison, and am overwhelmed by the feeling. But the stars that night somehow compacted the feelings of all the deserts and oceans into something far greater than my 8-year-old mind could handle, and I ran inside with my head down, hoping not to be seen in my small and fragile state.

This is one of my most vivid memories, and it came flooding back to me that night in Texas. Only now I tend to relish the feeling as a chance to remember that it's really not about me. There's something comforting in that realization, and I spent the rest of my time in Texas wrestling with the things that had been causing me to focus on myself and my own agenda, a putting myself back into the bigger picture of what God is doing in the world right now, and how blessed I am to be even such a small part of his work. And I feel recharged, and so excited to be a part of everything that's going on here in San Diego.

From Texas with Love

2008-09-28T07:13:00.000-07:00

My experience with small country churches has thus far been limited to the slow, sun-drenched novels of Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor. I'm strangely drawn to the pace of such stories, where life and faith are steeped and filtered through dirt roads, farms, and railroad tracks. Tonight, crowded in a small house-turned-sanctuary, I got my first real-life taste. This place is so foreign to me, people sing and dance, and "praise Jesus," "Hallelujah Jesus" with tambourines and clapping until the roof threatens to cave in. In my Baptist days, worship seemed to be about seeing who could stand the stillest.

After the sermon, the pastor asked us to come forward if we needed prayer. And I was so compelled to go, but stayed glued to my seat. Yet he picked me out of the audience and walked up to me, took my hand, and began to pray. To pray for the burdens that I've been carrying lately, and pieces of my life that I've long kept to myself. Nobody knows, nobody outside, anyway. And yet he knew my story, and he prayed. It was all I could do not to weep. We came because I thought it would be strangely entertaining, and yet God knew that it was exactly where I needed to be tonight.

We also came to listen to the teaching of the father of a new friend. And though he yelled and Hallelujahed like the fire and brimstone preachers of my imagination, his message was one of love, of living simply, and of always being ready to go wherever God might send you. And he is living it, having foregone the sprawling hill country estate and instead settled his family in a small trailer home on a modest plot of land. He declared that our deeds are more important than our words, and asked how we should live? As I looked down and ran my finger along my newly healed tattoo. "How then shall we live?" I think this phrase will become far more pertinent to my life than I had ever imagined.

He moved on to challenge us to get ready now for the journeys God will ask us to take. Whether that be spiritually ready, financially ready, or free of any other of the things which might hold us back. My largest burden is financial. Student loans and credit debt amassed during college is overwhelming me right now, and I've given up or sold almost everything that I possibly can. I've reached the point where I literally don't know what to do anymore, and have released my grasp from the side of the sinking ship, hoping that I can at least enjoy the light dancing across the surface of the water as I drown.

We all hit rock bottom in one way or another at some point in our lives, and lately I've been there- spiritually, emotionally. I've tried to seek my own happiness in relationships, in comfortable living, in adventure- looking for the thing that will fix me or complete me. But until I can honestly look at my life and say that nothing and no one are priorities above God, I will never be content.

And I've been so confused lately. While I have learned so many lessons, God has been silent when it comes to the direction of my life, and the help I need to get there. I can honestly say that I'd be okay with giving away everything I have and moving to the other side of the world if I felt called to go. "Here am I, send me," doesn't scare me anymore than blinking. But still, I have these bills and loans hanging over my head, and I am bound to them and their demands. And so I've set up these little deals with God, "If you provide financially, then I will go." "If all of my bills are paid off, then I can serve you." And I've suddenly realized that as I sit here waiting for an answer or a resolution to my problems, life is passing me by.

I've been wrestling with God a lot on this trip, and have come to realize that it's not our calling to serve God and focus on him when x, y, z, happen, we are to do it NOW. And when I am broken, at wits end, I can choose to melt down, or I can look for ways to serve him out of my brokenness, to praise him in the storm. I am poor, but to many, I am rich in comparison. I have $5 to my name right now, but I have food and shelter, so I have $5 to give. I am exhausted and torn, but through my sorrow, I know that many are worse off. I have some small ounce of joy to give. If I am being called back into the art world, I can't sit around waiting for things to get better, for money to show up so I can build new wood panels or a pair of wings. Of all the people on this earth, should I not be able to make something out of almost nothing? I am called to go, and I better start moving now, with whatever meager resources I might have.

These days the sight of the ocean overwhelms me...

2008-09-11T23:16:00.000-07:00

This past week, I've twice had the opportunity to sit by the ocean and watch the waves roll in and out along the shore. I don't like the idea of "going to the beach," with its towels and umbrellas and coolers of Pepsi and gritty sandwiches. But I am captivated by the ocean, by sitting still to contemplate its vastness while drinking in the blue of water and sky. And the silence around me vanishes in the crashing collision of water and sand.

Over the past month or so, my mind has been flooded with ideas and information, and I'm starting to wonder how it's possible to learn and change so much in such a short amount of time. But I'm surrounded by people who are doing the same, and it's amazing to watch and listen as friends across the country ponder the same things. My friend Karl in Seattle shared the following quote in a blog a few days ago, and I'm really very struck by it.

"You who are God’s servants are living in a foreign country, for your own city-state is far away from this city-state. Knowing which is yours, why do you acquire fields, costly furnishings, buildings, and frail dwellings here? Anyone who acquired things for himself in this city cannot expect to find the way home to his own City. Do you not realize that all these things here do not belong to you, that they are under a power alien to your nature? The ruler will say you do not obey my laws, either observe my laws or get out of my country, Take care lest it prove fatal to you to repudiate your own laws. Acquire no more here than what is absolutely necessary. Instead of fields, buy for yourselves people in distress in accordance with your means."
-Hermas, 140 AD

Having lived in a foreign country for a summer, I was very convicted and challenged by this statement, especially as I've been trying to downsize lately.

In Serbia, I lived off of only the bare minimums in clothing, cookware, and art supplies. This is because I knew I would be returning home after a couple of months, and it made no sense to accessorize or fill my life with things that would have to be left behind after a very short while. And I lived out of the contents of a single suitcase, and never once missed the things I had left behind. Why is this so difficult to translate into my everyday life, if I truly believe that am not a citizen of this nation, but rather the kingdom of God? I'm wrestling with that question right now, as I look around my small bedroom at the piles of junk accumulating in every corner. Untouched.

There are many things to consider about the way we live and interact with this world, and I'm realizing, again and again, how different my life will look once I can begin to believe the things I've claimed to believe for most of my life. I was reading through Luke some more, specifically the parable of the sower in chapter eight. This is a story I've heard a thousand times, a staple Sunday School favorite. I'd always been taught to think of myself as the seed in good soil, after all, I had accepted Jesus into my heart, had I not? But when I'm honest, I can relate more to the seed among the thorns. I have heard, but the words are choked by life's worries, riches, and pleasures. And as I've been continually seeking to rid my life of the later two, I seem to have completely forgotten the first. Choked by life's worries.

These are the days when I am so surrounded and captivated by my struggles with finances and doubting my own abilities or worth, when friends encounter trials and difficulties and I can sit for hours and worry about their sinking spirits, when I am lost in the overwhelming swell of work we have set before us. Jesus has instructed us not to worry about tomorrow... how then shall we live?

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do no labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?" or "What shall we drink?" of "What shall we wear?" For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
Matthew 6:25-34

How then shall we live?

Shade.

2008-09-06T23:54:00.000-07:00

From a journal entry, 05 August 2008.

I'm lying under a pepper tree, listening to God breathe. The wind moves in the branches and the cool green grass around me. I can go weeks without taking the time to sit and notice the outdoors, but when I finally do I alway regret having waited so long between intoxicating doses.

There is not much to say, or rather, so much to say that I cannot possibly write it down at the moment. My life these days exists in the constant juxtaposition of intense joy with deep sorrow. But summers are made of moments like this, of patches of sunlight that dance with the shifting of the leaves.

Fear

2008-08-31T21:59:00.000-07:00

I often get sentimental around my birthday, thinking back over the past year of my life to search for themes or radically significant events that can define the 365 day period. Age five was about being outdoors and imagining, age thirteen is the year I went to Peru and caught the travel bug, and so on.

Inevitably, another year brings another bout of reflection, and I'm prepared to announce that twenty-four was, for me, a year of learning to let go of fears. I get frustrated by finances, sure, but they no longer terrify me. I've seen God be faithful far too many times to doubt that I'll be okay. Three months on the road knocked the feet out from under public speaking, and I've finally conquered the concept of manual transmission to the extent that I'm puttering around town on the scooter now, away from the confined safety of my little cul-de-sac.

As I head into this next phase of life, I want to be ready for anything. To go anywhere I am called, to play any role I was designed for. A large part of readiness is willingness, and I hope to be a person who always follows the call to go. One of my biggest fears has always been myself, in the since that I never trust myself to succeed. "Someone else could do better," has so often kept me from even making attempts at the goals I most want to pursue.

About a month ago, I made a list called "Things that Terrify Me (That I Want to do Anyway)." And I'm currently in the process of checking off the boxes beside all seven of these items. I want to prove to myself that it's okay to be afraid of things, but that fear shouldn't stop our attempts to do the things we're called to do. Fear should remind us that we are not in charge, rather that God is the one who controls the situation.

So here is my list:
1. Dance in public.
2. Act in a play.
3. Sing in public.
4. Send a short story to a publisher.
5. Finish a body of work and show it to an art gallery.
6. Get a tattoo.
7. Stay.

It's funny because a number of these things are newly developed phobias, I feel as though I grew up on a stage to some degree, between plays and choirs and youth group worship bands. I don't know where these fears have grown from, but I'm tired of being weighed down by the feeling of not being able to do the things I want to (and can) do.

Number seven is being lived out as we speak, and my brother Justin and I are going to be working on number three... it's been a long time since he's performed, which is a shame because he's such a talented musician. We're planning to start with cover songs- he plays, I sing, but he'd like to move on to writing his own.

And last night, I conquered number six. It wasn't so much the idea of pain of a tattoo that concerned me, rather the commitment to an idea or imagea. I've been pondering this for a few years, and known that I just wanted simple words. But choosing a phrase has been difficult. There are lots of good things to say, but once something is permanently attached to your body, it becomes not just a cool quote, but a personal statement or mantra. And all the things I could think to say would commit me to a lifestyle I wasn't sure I would always want. One that wasn't comfortable and predictable.

"how then shall we live?"

This phrase has popped into my head on numerous occasions throughout the past few months. As I learn about Jesus asking us to love our enemies and take care of the poor, and as I see poor and broken people across the world, I have decided that I want to do more than just watch. And this tattoo is meant to remind me of that.

When we learn of atrocities or tragic incidents, we can respond with a sympathetic, "that's sad," and move on, or we can live our lives in such a way that the frequent occurrence of these crimes against others are diminished. When we learn of sweatshops and unfair labor practices in the garment manufacturing industry, we can choose to look the other way for the sake of our own convenience, or we can research what we buy and change what we wear accordingly.

I want my life to be a series of reactions to the things I learn and see, I never want to walk away from an experience unchanged. So as I read the words of Christ, and see what's going on in the world around me and in the lives of my friends and community, I want to learn and grow, and live in such a way that that I'm looking at the world around me, and then stopping to ask myself, "how then shall we live?"

And the greatest of these is love.

2008-08-29T23:56:00.000-07:00

I've always been afraid to love people, as in my experience they're often rather transient, drifting in an out of my life like restless vagabonds. Only recently have I realized that I am the drifter, 23 moves in a similar number of years. And so I've been asking God to teach me about staying and about love, not just toward those close to me, but to extend my concern to the brokeness of strangers both here and on the other side of the world. I don' want to be the person who turns off the TV and goes back to my dinner. I used to be afraid that if you truly cared about anything, you'd have to care about everything. The answer is yes.

I was researching the word "agape" as part of a small project I'm working on, and stumbled across a little page online about the types of love used in the Greek language. Put me on the bandwagon with those who mourn the vague nature and overuse of the word in the English language. For those who have forgotten their Sunday School lessons, let me remind you of eros, philia, and agape. The first and second are fading, romantic warm fuzzies, then brotherhood and friendship. But agape is this:

...not limited to being held hostage by its environment and someone's perception. The reason why agape can soar above these is because it is based upon the commitment of a decision. It entails the decision to proactively seek someone's well-being. Since it is not a knee jerk reaction nor just a responsive feeling to how I've been treated, agape is capable of acting in a hostile environment where there are no warm fuzzy feelings.

These are things I know, it's funny how you can hear something a hundred times without ever finding the meaning in it. But I feel as though this time the lesson has knocked me over backward. I've been very slowly and intentionally making my way through the book of Luke, and am very struck by the passage in 6:27-36, where we are called to love our enemies. To lend to them without expecting repayment, to do good to them, and to love them. And this love is agape. To proactively seek the well-being of our enemies.

What a different world this would be if we lived in such a way? I'm reminded of the story of the man who bought dinner for his would-be mugger. I'm reminded of Christ.

I stumbled across this quote the other day, from a book I now think I should read:
(e.t.a. that I was just informed that this is a series of talks available on audio)

We must learn to move beyond ourselves, to say no to instant gratification, to set limits on our own needs and somehow to meet somebody else's needs.

That's why Jesus commanded us to love.

He didn't suggest it. He didn't say when you get healed, love; when you grow up, love; when you get it together and have dealt with all your mother/father/husband/children wounds, then start loving. No, the commandment for all of us is, love.

(Richard Rohr, Letting Go: A Spirituality of Subtraction)

And this may take a lifetime to learn, and I still think I will never get close. But I've spent the first 25 years of my life doing things my own way, and it's time to try something else. I'm coming to realize that my life is not my own.

And so I ask for things like compassion and discomfort, to live in the world with eyes that are not truly mine. I cry a lot more these days, because everything seems amplified, both sorrows and joys, fears, frustrations, and the beauty of sunsets and crawling snails.

This morning begins with fog and tea, two of my favorite things. I love the mystery of fog, how it hides the distance and shelters the familiar present in a strange and unsettling calm. I can't help but think that this is an appropriate beginning to whatever is about to happen. I have no idea what this next phase of my life is going to bring, but it is filled with good friends and boundless hope, and only the best adventures begin with jasmine tea.

Solitude, something best experienced in monkey slippers.

2008-08-24T16:53:00.000-07:00

I’ll very shortly be living by myself again, Bryan is back home in Seattle, and Hadessa is going off to the desert for a couple of weeks to drink and dance in the neon glow of lights and bizarre costumes at Burning Man.

It’s strange to live alone, especially when you’re retired. Some days, the silence is so loud that it threatens to swallow me whole, and so I blast the stereo or television in order to avoid the constant temptation of conversing with the cats.

Other days, when there are no people to see or errands to run, I realize that I don’t actually have to get dressed, because no one will see me unless I am playing the stereo too loudly and the neighbors start peeking through the windows to watch me dancing, in all my uncoordinated glory, across the kitchen floor. This is the best and most entertaining way to wash dishes. But the neighbors are not that curious, and so I must convince myself to shower and iron and put on a pair of earrings that match my shirt. Because if I don’t make this small effort, someday it might be easy to decide that I don’t really have to get out of bed until noon- I can still type and make earrings while reveling in the 100% cotton comfort of pillows and sheets. And then noon becomes one becomes two becomes three four five six seven eight nine... and suddenly I and the mattress are indistinguishable, that same Ikea grey. And we can’t have that.

So I invent schedules for myself, mundane tasks like “brush teeth” and “sort plastic bags by color” and “read chapter seven.” These schedules are listed on scrap paper, next to small check-boxes, so that I can experience the thrill of filling the page with red x’s while still accomplishing nothing extraordinary.

And then there are the actual extraordinary moments, when I am drawing or designing or creating for one of the many projects swimming through my head. These moments do not get check-boxes. They are too valuable and do not need to be listed or remembered, because they are always at the forefront of my mind. But in the evenings, when my energy is winding down, I find myself returning to simplicity of “eat dinner” and “read chapter eight.” They are comfort food, like buttered toast or french fries.

We are not designed to live alone.

I am excited about City Heights, excited about community, about learning to live and laugh and cry with others. This is more manageable in smaller doses. Fifty two people becomes less about living and more about hiding, about finding quiet places under trees and behind doors.

For now, I am trying to come to terms with the silence, to learn to listen as God speaks more loudly than ever. Before this, my life had been on fast forward since my it first collided with Invisible Children, and I am only just now stopping to catch my breath and look back over all of the places I have been.

Displaced Seattle. Dancing with gypsies in Serbia. The inspiring people of the cornfields of Middle America. Banksy and ParkeHarrison and the revival of my creative soul. Extended stays in San Francisco. The exhausting rainy void of DC. Fido’s and tea in Nashville. My life upside-down for the 50th time in North Carolina. Learning to walk like giants in San Diego... I have changed unspeakably since last January, and had been afraid to stop and survey the damage for fear that I might have to accept that fact that my life is no longer my own. But I have been forced to slow down, forced to step back into solitude and reflection. And though I would have never chosen this place for myself, now that I am here, I know that I could never go back.

Everything looks different when the light changes.

2008-08-19T09:39:00.000-07:00

From journal entries, August 12, 2008 - this morning.

Today begins with foggy morning walks. Flowers and trees that I have seen a hundred times- but everything looks different when the light changes. I could stare at the same tree for the rest of my life and never remember it all. These are the things we miss in cars, and I can't help but wonder if the speed at which we move these days strips time away from us, rather than saving it.

The words of Joel P. West filter in and out of my consciousness as I lose myself alternately in the visual world around me and the music streamed to my eardrums via iPod and headphones. "We are blessed, we are cursed, in our abundance. We are pressed to have worth, in terms of tangibility. We are blessed to be settled without worry. We are cursed to forget we are in need. We are blessed, we are blessed upon our knees."

One of the greatest myths America believes about itself is that it is blessed. We equate wealth with favor, and we have grown complacent in our abundance.

I talk about simplicity a lot, and for the past few years, have been on some strange journey that I refer to as "unliving the American dream." But however far I may seem to have traveled, it is just beginning. For the past seven years, I've been wandering about the country and the world, with a suitcase equivalent of clothes, some basic furniture and art supplies. And I am satisfied.

But the other day, I remembered my safety net. In these seven years that I've been mostly away from home, my bedroom sits unused, filled to the brim with books, trinkets, tea cups, old cameras, vinyl records, and sweaters that have not left the closet in nearly a decade. I do not miss them, but I can't make myself send them on their way. Am I so strongly driven by nostalgia, or do I really just need to know that those things are still sitting there, should I ever feel the need to run back to them? I think I'm finally ready to let it all go.

I'm trying to break myself free from the safe and comfortable, because we are not called to be safe.

I've been so fascinated lately with the idea of kingdom. Throughout the New Testament, the kingdom of God is one of Jesus' most frequent topics of conversation. And yet it's probably the part of the Bible that was least taught about, in my experience. I was reminded the other night of the following passage, in Luke 18, "Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." I always thought that was talking about getting to go to heaven, or anyway, that's what I was frequently taught. And most people just didn't have an explanation to offer.

My friend James tells a story about a very literal "mountain top" experience he had in Ethiopia, reading the blessings and woes in Luke 6. He noticed that Jesus is talking to his disciples when he utters those words, they are spoken to the people who are already following him. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Woe to you who are well-fed now, for you will go hungry. And I don't think is talking about the future, I think it's talking about now. About what it means to follow Jesus in this life.

Wealth breeds the desire for more wealth, and how can we live in God's kingdom when our new car or bigger better television could have been food or medicine for someone truly in need? How can we be satisfied when there are so many who hunger now? To truly enter it, we must make ourselves willing to go hungry, to go without, for the neighbors who have always done so. And they will be blessed.

I found this quote the other day,
"Jesus dared to announce the present Reign of God. He dared to say, 'you can live the new reality right now.' Now that's most extraordinary.
The word for living that way, living in the in between times, is faith. Get rid of every thought you've had about faith, if that's possible. Forget for the moment about believing in the Immaculate Conception or the pope. Those are fine, but they're not what Jesus is talking about.
He's talking about the grace and freedom to live in God's dream for the world now- while not rejecting the world as it is. That's a mighty tension that is not easily resolved."
-Richard Rohr

And so this is where I am left. In tension. Where I waver between wallowing in my own self-pity and being knocked to the floor in awe of the bigger picture. Where I weep for my own small heartaches, but struggle to summon empathy for the great tragedies of others. Where I want nice things and comfortable spaces, but know that what small wealth I do have would overwhelm someone on the other side of the world.

We are blessed, we are cursed, in our abundance.

Walking on Water

2008-08-03T08:44:00.001-07:00

I just finished reading a book called "Walking on Water," by Madeleine L'Engle. If you're an artist or creative person of any sort, even if just in secret, I would highly recommend it, certain parts, anyway.

I wanted to share a very small piece of the book, a piece which I think will be carried with me for the rest of my life. "I have a point of view. You have a point of view. But God has a view."

As soon as I read that line, an image of myself peering through a little tiny hole in a brick wall appeared in my head, and then everything panned outward and backward and farther into space until I was staring at the universe in my mind.

Sometimes we find ourselves in situations where things don't make much sense, and it's hard to know what will come next. Those are the times to remember our limited perspective, and to trust that there is a bigger picture that we cannot see.

And in spite of my own insecurities, something in that makes so much sense. And I am excited for the tomorrow that I cannot see.

Rootless and Restless.

2008-07-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

I often describe myself as "rootless and restless," and if you've known me for any extended period of time, you know that I can't stand the question, "where are you from?" San Diego is going to be my first experiment in staying anywhere for an extended period of time, and to be perfectly honest about it, I'm a bit nervous.

In the meantime, I decided to make a list of where I've lived, and how many times I've moved. I call it moving if I've gathered the contents of my life, transported them elsewhere, and readjusted to life in such a place (new job, new school, etc.). And maybe I'll make another list of where I've visited, just for good measure.

LIVED
August 30, 1983-? Gaithersburg, MD
?-1985 Somewhere else in MD...
1985-1986 Grand Rapids, MI (grandparent's house)
1986-1988 Mallory St., Wyoming, MI
1988-1991 Wyoming St., Wyoming, MI
1991-1992 La Presa Ave., Spring Valley, CA
1992-1995 Los Alamitos, CA
1995-2001 Poway, CA
August 2001- May 2002 Horton Hall, Biola, La Mirada, CA
May 2002- August 2002 Poway, CA
August 2002- May 2003 Horton Hall, Biola, La Mirada, CA
June 2003-August 2003 Cupertino, CA
August 2003- May 2004 Horton Hall, Biola, La Mirada, CA
May 2004-June 2005 Fairvilla House, La Mirada, CA
June 2005- August 2005 Poway, CA
August 2005- December 2005 Ephraim, UT
December 2005- January 2007 Poway, CA
January 2007- June 2007 Big Blue, Spring Valley, CA
June 2007- August 2007 Serbia
August 2007- September 2007 the Shire, Spring Valley, CA
September 2007- October 2007 "Ron" the black IC van, Middle America
October 2007-May 2008 the Villa, La Mesa, CA
June 2008-now, South Park, San Diego, CA

In my head, I count each of those as moves. So that's 23. There are 18 separate buildings/houses/vehicles that I've referred to as home.

Here's where I've been (I'm not going to count the states I've driven through and not spent a good amount of time in).

Arizona
Arkasas
California
Colorado
Georgia
Idaho
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Maryland
Michigan
Minnesota
Missouri
Nebraska
Nevada
North Carolina
Ohio
Oklahoma
Oregon
Pennsylvania
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
Virginia
Washington
Washington, D.C.
Wyoming

Mexico
Peru
South Africa
Malawi
Serbia
Bosnia
Croatia
Montenegro

On Hospitality.

2008-07-22T09:55:00.001-07:00

It started in Malawi. I flew halfway across the world to "make a difference," and left feeling as though the trip was more for myself than it had been for any of the people that I "helped." But in all of our inadequacy, I felt welcomed. They were overjoyed because we came halfway around to see them. And to show their appreciation, they danced, they sang, they spoke words of gratitude into the lives of a handful of disoriented Americans.

In Mexico, I was blessed time and again by meals from people who had no meals to spare. And yet they fed us with joy, serving their best, because we were there.

In the Balkans, both Serbs and Muslims welcomed us into their homes to share meals with their families. We were never without a friend and translator, for haircuts, shopping trips, or an evening out.

And then there were the Roma, the gypsies. They lived in junkyards on the edge of a polluted river, a refugee camp for one of the world's most infamous groups of outcasts. Here I saw poverty in it's extreme, and learned the true meaning of outcast. And even they sat down with us for tea, stirring sugar and brewing leaves together on an outdoor stove, while I waited patiently from my perch atop an old, broken TV set.

Again and again as I travel, I'm struck by the degree of hospitality of complete strangers, to whom I am just a tourist, a temporary figure in their sphere of reality. Over the past year, I've begun to be convicted by the lack of welcome we show to people here in our own country. An estimated 80% of international students never set foot inside of an American home during their stay in the U.S.

I was reading Leviticus a few months ago, and was really struck by some of the information in Leviticus 19. "9 When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. 10 Do not go over your vineyard a second time or pick up the grapes that have fallen. Leave them for the poor and the alien. I am the LORD your God." And "33 When an alien lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. 34 The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the LORD your God." I can't help but think how against the grain of common American thought these verses run. Defend OUR borders. Protect OUR jobs. Speak OUR language. But who is this "us" of which we speak? I must remind myself that my allegiance is not political, rather I am to live as a citizen of the kingdom of God. Throughout the Bible, God tells the Israelites that they don't need a king, that he is their king. But they insist, and he lets them have their king. Christ refuses political leadership, and ushers his followers into a "kingdom" that crosses political and social boundaries, of which he is the head. This is a difficult paradigm shift for me, as people across the globe become my countrymen and deepest concern. My world is redefined.
__________________________________

With these thoughts stirring in my head, I learned about the refugee community here in San Diego. It's one of the largest in the country, and is slated to take that title within the next five years as international conflicts continue to chase people from their homes and livelihoods. They come from Somalia, Iran, Ethiopia, Eastern Europe, Afghanistan, the former Soviet Union, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, and more. Some are farmers, some are doctors, some are political refugees, some were persecuted for their faith, all have lost many things and suddenly found themselves in a place where everything is different and strange. Some have never lived in houses, paid bills, or taken the bus. A friend of mine in Vermont shares the story of a family that came from living in a hut somewhere in Africa, they showed up at the airport in the dead of winter wearing flip-flops, and didn't even know of the existence of snow. The world is coming to us, and we roll our eyes and wonder why it didn't bother to learn English.

It's tough to venture out of my comfort zone, into places in the city where I am clearly the minority, and my firm command of the English language will do no good. But I am not called to be comfortable. And so this fall, along with a handful of good friends, I'll be venturing into the heart of the refugee community in City Heights to simply be a neighbor. I hope I have opportunities to help, but what I'm really expecting is to learn.

27 million.

2008-07-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

I recently had the distinct pleasure of meeting a 16-year-old named Zach Hunter who has spent the last four years as an abolitionist, starting off by collecting "loose change to loosen chains." At twelve, he was shocked to learn that slavery did not end in 1865, as history books would have us believe. In fact, it has grown worse across the globe, and America is no exception. There are more slaves today than there were in four centuries of trans-Atlantic slave trade with Africa.

27 million.

Sometimes they are hidden, locked in factories with barbed wire pointing inward, as if to keep people from escaping. The answer is yes. Sometimes they are out in the open, making bricks in India. Sometimes they live here in San Diego and speak Russian and not English, because they were promised a modeling job in far-away Mexico, their passports were taken, and now they're in America illegally, believing their families to be at risk of death should they chose to flee this new life of forced prostitution.

And there is more.

They're making your shoes.

They're on the internet, on streetcorners across the world. Especially in San Diego.

Most prostitutes aren't there by choice. Many are children.

And there is more.

“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” Isaiah 1:17

What if God was serious when he spoke this through Isaiah? Silly question. How then should we live?

I don't know all of the answers, and I am still trying to regain my footing as I step into a new world where I cannot be the same, because I know. What to do with clothes, furniture, shoes. What to eat? Where to shop? Should I shop at all?

Slavery is one of the most heinous crimes in human history. It strips people of their dignity, and of their right to be... people. Or to be at all. It particularly disgusts me when it involves sex trafficking and forced prostitution, I am broken when it involves children.

Bombay, India, has the largest concentrated red-light district in the world, and many of its offerings are children, brought from Nepal. In Nepal, her destitute family had the choice to watch her starve to death, or to sell her to "work." Maybe they knew, maybe they did not. Maybe in India, there is hope for a future other than death.

Sometime in the near future, some friends and I hope to travel to these places to document the story, offer hope in Nepal through development projects, and turn up the spotlight on the heartbreaking filth that exists within Bombay. To show love to the madams of the brothels, who themselves were once slaves and know no other life. To share their stories with the world.

I don't expect everyone to go with us, nor to I expect you to throw away the entire contents of your closet. But I expect you to know, and with knowledge comes great responsibility.

Here are two great ways to start:
1. www.coopamerica.org
(scroll over the “Programs” tab, and then click on “Responsible Shopper”…then click on “learn”)
2. Tell this story.

Humming.

2008-07-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

From Tuesday, July 15th.

I went for a short walk today, to an unexplored trail that's right near my house. I didn't get very far, as there was an enormous shrub with tubed yellow flowers at the head of the trail. I'd never seen anything like it before, and so I stopped to stare, memorizing its branches and leaves and vibrant color.

From the stillness there came a hummingbird, and I watched intently as it darted in and out of the bright flowers, coming within inches of my face. All the while, this complex serenity fought for recognition against the growing roar of traffic lining a nearby freeway.

How can such quiet beauty and such disheartening noise exist in the same space? And then I was struck by the parallels of my own heart. I've experienced the full range of highest highs and lowest lows this week. And as the quiet beauty of God's truth battles the disheartening noise of human experience within me, I trust that He will prevail.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Lake Junaluska, North Carolina

2008-07-18T19:30:00.001-07:00

In the midst of green mountains, morning fog, thunderstorms, caterpillars, coffee, front porches, rocking chairs, and fireflies, God breathes. And His most gentle breath is a powerful wind that sweeps us to our feet, and together we will learn to walk like giants.

You are beautiful

2008-03-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

As dawn broke in the mountains surrounding Camp C*, we hit the ground running. In that sanctuary for children and adults with physical and developmental disabilities, patience was not just a virtue but absolute necessity. You could not rush someone through putting their entire being into walking across the room or learning to hold a paintbrush for the very first time. And so we watched like hawks as children stumbled across hiking trails, safety nets always ready, but never thrown out until the very last minute. You cannot learn to fly unless you crash to the ground a few times before finding the courage to get back up.

Working there was a last minute decision- they needed the help and I needed the money and a place to live. But the things I learned all those summers ago completely wrecked me, and broke my heart right alongside my stereotypes about the disabled. I am only just now finding the courage to write about some of the things I learned.

One of my strongest memories is of sitting at a staff meeting as a counselor recounted the story of a girl who saw her annual week at camp as an escape to a sanctuary of sorts. For her, life in the outside world was about working hard to assimilate, about appearing “normal,” adapting herself the best she could in order to blend in. But camp was about breathing. “I love it here,” she said through tears as the week drew to a close. “This is the only place I can go where I feel like it is okay to be myself.” At that week’s talent show, a group of girls belted out a soulful rendition of Christina Aguilera’s song Beautiful. “I am beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can’t bring me down.” What I had previously seen as a tacky and overplayed pop song suddenly took on a new life. Something in those girls had learned those words as truth that week, and in their voices was a call for the rest of the world to see it too.

Amid the chaos of that place, there lie an abundance of true beauty, especially in the quiet places like the eyes of Janey. Janey was in her mid-30’s, immobilized by severe cerebral palsy, and had endured a lifetime of dependence on others. I say endured, but the truth is that she accepted thankfully every bath, every changing, and every spoonful of blended food. In those first weeks at camp, I felt very incompetent and out of place. I am not used to bathing grown adults, or lifting old men onto the toilet. When I first encountered these things, the awkwardness of needing to pretend they were commonplace often overwhelmed me. One day at lunch, I helped a frazzled counselor by spooning miniscule amounts of mashed carrots into Janey’s mouth. My hands are always shaky, and on one occasion I dropped an enormous blob of the orange stuff onto the poor woman’s face. As I apologized profusely and frantically sorted through the contents of her bag to find a napkin, Janey looked me in the eyes and whispered, “I love you.”

Serving others isn’t always about what you can do for them, but in how you accept their efforts to do things for you. In one simple gesture of grace, Janey gave more to me than I could offer in a lifetime of “doing.” I will probably spend the rest of my life learning the lesson she taught. And perhaps she has no choice but to accept help- she could not survive otherwise- but the attitude with which she accepts it turns her into a creation of extraordinary beauty.

Summer Memory # 1

2008-01-28T23:42:00.000-08:00

------------------
This story was written for the February 2008 issue of Public Bread Magazine. Be sure to check it out!
http://publicbread.blogspot.com/
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I can’t remember the first time I was introduced to the Roma, or gypsies as they are more commonly known. They are a fixture in the Balkans, as are trees and grass and sky. And until you really stop to look, they are just as easy to glance over. I can remember the first time they entered my sphere of reality, at a sidewalk cafe in Novi Pazar, a small city in the southern part of Serbia.

The summer heat is all-consuming in the Balkans, draining a traveler’s energy and even absorbing the sounds from the air. Afternoons stiffen and slow in the deathly silence, punctuated only by the passing rumble of cars. Seeking shelter in the shade, I had stopped for a cold drink with a friendly local who had taken my group of friends under her wing as we passed through the city. Our lively conversation was interrupted by a child’s dirt-stained hand, and the soft mumble of “dinara, dinara,” money, money. “Just ignore them and they’ll go away,” our friend interjected- and she was right. They do.

Others had given us similar advice in neighboring cities, but as we settled into the feeling of being foreign and overwhelmed, questioning such advice became a more viable option. As this questioning eye develops, it begins to see that the Roma are everywhere. On street corners, pulling horse carts down the road, and wading in the filth of the polluted rivers to counterbalance the exhausting heat.

On an exploratory walk, two of my fellow travelers discovered a Roma settlement across the riverbank on the other side of the town. In other parts of the Balkans, the camps that they live in are equipped with running water, sanitation, and basic necessities. The Roma here mysteriously have not received any of the humanitarian aid from the UN that was intended for them. They live in squalor, with no running water or basic shelter. People have pieced together meager homes from tents, car parts, and trash. Children run around naked and barefoot, with open sores and matted hair. Crowds of children fight and spit on one another, and one boy even carried around an 8" hunting knife, waving it at those who irritated him. They are truly the outcasts of the region, and cars that drive past their camp seem to pick up a little extra speed despite the poor quality of the dirt road.

With the permission of the lone English speaking man we could find, we returned to the camp as a group. I remember being swarmed immediately by children who saw our cameras, shouting "slika, slika!" hoping to be photographed. I took dozens of ill-composed family photos as mothers and older sisters dragged me around and assembled their families into little photogenic clusters. The adults didn't seem to notice when we told them we couldn't speak the language, and continued to express their frustrations with the problems they face. Placing scabbed and half-naked babies in our arms and removing socks to show off infected sores on feet and ankles. Others dragged us into their homes to seat us on old buckets and broken televisions to serve tea to the first guests they’ve had in a long time. Amid the overwhelming tangle of filth, hospitality, and humanity, we danced. We sang with the children, chased them, blew bubbles for them, told the girls they were beautiful, and watched joyfully as they posed in front of the camera in their dirt-stained dresses and bare feet. The most striking was Casandra.

In her territory, the worn down junkyard of the gypsy refugee camp along the river, Casandra is a princess. She reigns over the piles of stripped cars and canvas tents, and laughter and dancing fill the space around her. The shy smiles give way to a supermodel in front of the cameras of strange American visitors. She preens and struts like a peacock, feathers of blue eyes, dyed orange hair, browned skin, and tattered skirts, looking sideways over one shoulder one moment, hands on hips the next.

There is another Casandra with the same burning blue eyes, but the fire has gone out of them. These eyes never make contact with the faces of another human being, blankly staring at the floor as if they saw nothing at all. In the cafes and restaurants that line the streets of a town that refuses to see her, she begs for spare change in a haunting, hollow voice. If her parents looked for a job, to spare her this existence, no one would hire them.

There are no easy solutions for problems like this, no ways for me to erase fears of hunger and poverty with words. Perhaps some day I’ll be able to return, or to find someone who will. In the meantime, for those who do travel? I challenge you to look.

See more pictures from the Balkans here.

Rain.

2008-01-28T23:39:00.000-08:00

From January 7, 2008

Fog lends an air of mystery to the morning landscape, erasing the guarantee of distant hills and cities beyond my own. Cars drive off into the nothing, and from it they emerge, haloed in rings of headlights and misty atmosphere.

I am called outside on days such as these, when the wild wind stings my ears and nose and nullifies any efforts I have made to comb my hair. The dry land sucks the mist out of the sky to nourish the seeds that have long dried solid into the parched earth. Weeds, grass, and wildflowers consider the brief window of survival and come rushing out of the ground furiously during these few days when the murderous sun tucks itself safely away in the grey skies. Patches of brown clay earth come alive in a carpet of fresh greens and tiny foliage. My heart is heavy today and the brilliance of new life contrasts sharply.

Today is for "Amnesiac" and good coffee.

To those who were displaced.

2008-01-28T23:35:00.001-08:00

From May 2, 2007

This past week, I experienced something that affected me so profoundly that I can hardly begin to describe it. 67,871 people across the country abandoned their comforts for one night to sleep cold and hungry outdoors. They came to make a statement to their friends and neighbors and government about something that has been my entire world since January.

"Ten years ago in a failed effort to protect its people, the Ugandan government forcibly evicted its Northern citizens from their homes—giving them 48 hours to relocate into camps that lack adequate security and insufficient provisions for survival. Today more than 1.5 million Northern Ugandans remain far from secure, suffering nearly 1,000 deaths per week due to the inhumane living conditions."

67,871 voices have united to say that this is not okay with them. They have been more than just ears and eyes, but hands and feet to do something and make change.

And even still, there are those who were not merely participants, but the very heart and soul of this movement. To those few in Seattle who spent countless hours working alongside me to make Displace Me a reality- words cannot express my gratitude. Thank you for seeing me through my own doubts and frustrations, for being friends and encouragement when I needed them most.

And to the volunteers, who abandoned sleep and comfort to make that night a reality for over 4,000 participants in Seattle- how can I begin to thank you? To those who spent hours in parking lots, under tents and behind tables, glued to a patrol area... you are Displace Me. To see you sacrifice your own experience so that others could have a cardboard box or find somewhere to put their car is inspiring- as are you.

A wise volunteer from Chicago sent this to the staff of Invisible Children:

"I simply wanted to thank all of you for letting us be a part of the work that you are doing through Invisible Children, and to encourage you in your efforts. I am sure that many of you have faced criticism from parents and peers for spending these critical years of your lives with Invisible Children instead of developing your own academic and professional careers. Seeing all of you work as a cohesive unit of passionate individuals, gives me the confidence to say that all of you are exactly where you are needed most. I honestly believe that God wired a few of his children differently, having them find completion and fulfillment as they empty themselves for others; let the rest of America be blessed in their lives of normalcy (the very normalcy that you are fighting for in Uganda), but for those of you who have dared to lose many things to be a part of something greater, I ask, what is a profession if nothing more than the use of our gifts and talents in the greater mural of humanity?"

I want to think of this when my actions puzzle those around me and I start to question my own sanity.

To truly follow Christ we must permit ourselves to be refined. The process is not gentle or comforting- I watch as all the things I have so carefully placed around me are chipped away, things which do not compliment the work God has created me to be. Just six years ago, my tarnish was impenetrable as the things that I wanted for myself stood like a barricade between my life and truly living.

My old self craves normalcy: a well-decorated apartment, a predictable job, spending money, a place to paint and read, and mindless entertainment to fill the empty spaces in between. But something deep within my soul is being taught that such normalcy can lead only to apathy and draining restlessness. Will I let myself hear this? God calls me to jump in, and each, time, I find the water is far deeper than I had expected. All the things that I had planned for myself are fading, and I don't really know where I'll be just three weeks from now. This is both uncomfortable and amazing...

And yet it is still a process, and I am not anywhere near the end of this strange journey I've been dragged into. Will I even remember this feeling in a month?

I hope that all of us who have found ourselves wrapped up in this story of mixed suffering and hope will continue to let it affect us.

This movement is all about amplification- about giving a voice to the voiceless and making their stories our own. You've tasted the suffering now, you've lived cold and hunger and weariness- so tell somebody. Do not retire your white flag or your passion, and when I become disillusioned, remind me to do the same.

Six hundred fifty one point six two

2008-01-28T23:32:00.000-08:00

From April 4, 2007

Six hundred fifty one point six two miles to Eprhaim. Six hundred fifty one point six two miles of highway, six hundred sixty two includes becoming disoriented in the sprawling mess that is Riverside.

I buy coffee at the gas station, and a map to navigate the tangled web of construction-scrambled freeways, then stand in line. "He's next, you know," sputters the attendant, pointing to the man in front of me. I look up from the lid of my coffee, startled. "He's been waiting in line," she spews impatiently. I mumble a word of acknowledgement, confused, and stare back at the lid of my coffee cup. Five servings of french vanilla creamer make anything taste heavenly. Except coleslaw.

Back on the road, gas prices skyrocket as stations grow fewer and farther between. $4.10 justifies nothing more than a restroom usage. There is also the purchase of a bottle of apple juice as the woman behind the counter rolls her eyes in the direction of a sign reminding us all that restrooms are for customers only.

California disappears quietly, getting lost somewhere in the mountains and barren landscape. Some unseen force vacuums the sandy terrain through the sky, and dust storms and wind work relentlessly to push cars off the road. Suddenly, Sin City appears on the horizon, crawling across the desert floor like a neon rash. Halfway.

Nick Cave and Colin Meloy make their best attempts at entertainment and companionship, but six hundred fifty one point six two still feels like a lonely mistake. I drive through miles of vast emptiness, through places where the sky threatens to swallow you whole.

Virgin River Gorge, Red Rocks, and one blinding snowstorm later, Ephraim finally appears, and the streets become familiar once again.

This time is different, things have changed and I am no longer woven into the fabric of the lives of those I visit. I spend hours with Ashley and Stephanie, reconnecting and hearing about the lives and misadventures of old friends.

The Solid Rock Cafe is a flurry of activity, something great is upon them. It strikes me that my world no longer includes that place. I make meager attempts to help but find it easier to slip back into my California life, which fits neatly onto a 12 inch laptop- so long as there is an internet connection available.

On Friday morning, Stephanie and I walk through the streets of the town, capturing front porches and pictures of houses. We climb stairs, dance across streets, and stare at the peeling paint on the doors of Ephraim's half-crumbled architecture.

The adventure ends too quickly, much before its time. And so I find myself on the road again, back to California, back to sunshine and stucco and the things that I suddenly realize cannot so easily be left behind.

The bleaching summer sun

2008-01-28T23:31:00.001-08:00

From January 30, 2007

The bleaching summer sun washes out the stretch of the 67 from Poway to El Cajon, and in that summer sun imprinted itself on my mind as the most melancholy place on earth. Heat and dead grass echoing silence that drowns out the radio. Brown hills and harsh brown shrubbery grasping at brown skies.

To this commute I had resigned myself, each Monday morning and Friday evening as I make my way to and from Spring Valley. But it's funny how the light changes, and creates majesty from the muck. The harsh and angled morning sun paints sweeping shadows that dance among the boulder speckled hills, and sets the grass ablaze in shimmering gold. Cold mornings and closed windows drastically improve the accoustics in my car.

And on that weekly afternoon, the distant hills fade to greys and violets, while the rocks and hills burn a bright orange, and the sun sets pink and hot behind the clouds.

It's strange to be back here, the hills and steep winding roads of age eight, of my first impressions of California. I pray my tires will cling to the sloping drive that slides too quickly down to this second home, itself digging toes into the side of the hill to stay put.

I found my old house the other day, fifteen years of absence and I still remembered the roads that led to it. Shiny condos litter the hillside where we once built forts and reigned over the bugs and lizzards.

I live in my car sometimes. Its hard to transition back and forth between lives every three or four days, and Sunshine is my only constant. And thus my dresser, my cupboard, my stereo. There are no weekends, there are no days to breathe. But I am content, because I am a part of something so much bigger than myself and life makes so much more sense in relation to that.

Also, it rained today. I really like rain.

Mourning the dove.

2008-01-28T23:28:00.000-08:00

From September 30, 2006

I'm going to Portland in two weeks, and I'm excited. I'm going to get in a car and drive, with friends and music and highway wind, and I'm going to drive further north in California than I've ever been (Redding), and keep going until its not Calfornia anymore. My only fear is that I'll fall in love with the place and never ever want to leave. I don't know if that could ever really happen, there are just so many things I want to see, so many people I want to meet, and so many pictures just waiting to be taken.

Speaking of taking pictures, I found this in a book that I read over the summer.

[Photographs] help people to take possession of space in which they are insecure. Thus, photography develops in tandem with one of the most characteristic of modern activities: tourism. For the first time in history, large numbers of people regularly travel out of their habitual environments for short periods of time. It seems positively unnatural to travel for pleasure without taking a camera along. Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had. Photographs document sequences of consumption carried on outsid ethe view of family, friends, neighbors. But dependence of the camera, as the device that makes real what one is experiencing, doesn't fade when people travel more. Taking photographs fills the same need for the cosmopolitans accumulating photograph-trophies of their boat trip up the Albert Nile of their fourteen days in China as it does for lower-middle-class vacationers taking snapshots of the Eiffel Tower or Niagara Falls.

A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it- by limiting experience to a seach for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, a souvenir. Travel becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs. The very activity of taking pictures is soothing, and assuages general feelings of disorientation that are likely to be exacerbated by travel. Most tourists feel compelled to put the camera between themselves and whatever is remarkable that they encounter. Unsure of other responses, they take a picture. This gives shape to experience: stop, take a photograph, and move on.

From On Photography, Susan Sontag

I wonder to what extent this is true. Some of it is really familiar, when I was in Malawi some of the most uncomfortable moments were aleviated by the presence of a camera. Moments of being without friends or family in a foreign country where everybody was speaking a different language and crowding and singing as smelling as if they had never showered. The camera became my friend, my translator, my familiar.

What part of me travels just for the sake of the pictures I can take? And what part of me really wants to step away from the familiar and into something new? Probably a much more significant portion than I realize.

I love driving, going to see new things. Sometimes when I say that I want to live in an RV and keep going for the rest of my life, there's a large part of me that's very serious about that. I've become something of an expert at going, and staying is where life really seems awkward and unpredictable to me.

But driving isn't always fun. I ran over a dove two nights ago, like this:

A mourning dove, to be precise. Someone at work pointed out to me that doves are also a symbol for peace.

I was driving home and saw it walking down the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes and looked out my window, waiting for it to walk past or fly away. But I didn't see it, didn't see it, didn't see it. The cars behind me were growing impatient, so I assumed that it must have run off to the right, as I had been looking left. And so I inched forward slowly, but not slowly enough, because there was a bump in the asphalt, a bump that isn't usually there. I pulled to the side of the street to wait for the other cars to pass, and then drove back to let my eyes confirm what my stomach knew.

Sometimes a car feels so swift and agile, roaring around mountain curves at high speeds floating across the lanes of highway. But next to such a small and fragile thing, a car becomes a lumbering monster, obliterating something so tiny and beautiful as if it were nothing at all. It made me cry a little to see that bird laying there smashed, and I missed the agility of being on foot when such events can be so easily avoided.

I took my dog out running in the park the other night. I usually hate running, but as I watched the blades of grass blur into stripes beneath my sprinting feet, the thrill of moving so fast on my own hit me for the first time. Its a different kind of moving, cold and wet night-grass on bare toes, burning lungs, twisting and jumping to avoid being tangled in the leash. I tried again a few hours ago, to see if I could get that same rush of energy, but to no avail. I still hate running.

Beginnings. Malawi, Africa.

2008-01-28T22:47:00.000-08:00

From Monday August 7, 2006

Everything in Malawi is red. The dust along the roadside is red, and when it settles in the wake of passing cars it paints the trees, the grass, and the houses. In the evening when the sen sets, it too is red, and everything and everyone is bathed in its light.

We began each day by becoming red ourselves, driving down the bumpy roads with clouds of dust sweeping through open windows, coating our faces and choking our lungs. On the first day, the bus finally came to a halt, and we had not been sitting even half a minute before being swarmed by smiling faces. Awash in the utterly surreal, we followed a chorus of women and children dancing and singing their way down the village road toward an area where the people had set out rows of mismatched and precarious looking chairs.

At the moment, it was all I could do not to burst into a flood of tears. But not because of the horrifyingly tattered state of their clothing, not because of their dirt streaked faces, or the babies with running noses and flies perched on their cheeks, the telltale copper hair of malnutrition, distended bellies, or tiny straw-roofed huts. I wanted to cry because they were beautiful. I have never seen such bright eyes and smiles in all of my life.

We were ushered to our seats as the singing continued, and it too was beautiful. If you have seen films about Africa and heard the joyful harmonies as the camera sweeps over the African landscape, then you have heard a fraction of that day. One by one, the village chiefs walked by and shook each of our hands. One of them made a speech, and then wanted one from us. They were almost comical, though each wore clothing as mismatched and torn as the rest of the people, their outfits were completed by a suit jacket and the occasional fedora.

After the greeting, we sang our way down to the newly plowed field over about a half-mile of trails. To their diet of bananas, corn, goat's milk, and eggs, we added tomatoes, onions, mustard greens, beet root, green beans, papaya, orange trees, and watermelon. Sometimes I wondered why I was there, why I couldn't have just sent the money to buy plants. But those plants weren't really the point, it was more about the guesture. The act of valuing their source of livelihood- and them- enough to go. To go, and to work together.

While we planted, some of the boys had come down to the field to play their homemade instruments. One was a large drum with a long wooden neck and single string, played by plucking and sliding a small glass bottle along the length of it. There was a set of two drums flanking a panel nailed with flattened bottle caps, and a three-stringed guitar made from a square tin can and a weathered 2x4. The sounds were amazing.

Why did I go halfway across the world to sit in the mud and plant gardens? Because of Christ. We are to love people as he loved us. But loving people means caring about them, understanding them, and becoming involved in their lives to the degree that their goals and concerns become my own. As I make meager attempts to do that, I often find the people I'm attempting to serve have given me so much more than I've given them. You cannot teach there, you can only learn.
(Check out this guy, from whom I learned the most: http://www.mmp.soe.vt.edu/bio_Chinkhuntha.htm )

Lately, its been put upon my heart to reconsider the way I'm living, to stop accumulating useless things and pursuing worthless goals. I want to do something with myself and my time and my resources that is really significant, to be part of something that is much bigger than myself.

See more pictures from Malawi here.

Hospitality.

2007-10-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

This crazy trip across the country is, for me, turning into a story of hospitality. That is what I am struck with, continually.

I had begun to think that it was fairly dead, that people just milled about their lives without bumping into one another, or at least trying to avoid it. I've always been obsessed with the way Truman Capote strings his words together, and in Music for Chameleons, there's a little treasure called "A Lamp in the Window" in which an old woman- a stranger- takes him in for the night simply because he needed a place to stay. I used to read that story and mourn the fact that we can't or don't do things like that anymore, and wish that there was some sort of place where a small thread of commonality still tied people together.

I'm finding that it still exists. From friend's stories of couch surfing, to travels in foreign countries, to road trips across America.

Last night, for example.

We're in Minnesota, and I've been hit by pneumonia and 40 degrees all at the same time. 40 degrees is cause for deep concern if you've spent the last couple of years in southern California.

We showed a film at a high school in the morning, before school, and nearly 200 kids showed up an hour early to watch. If that weren't crazy enough in and of itself, the staff, finding that we had no place to stay that night, contacted the Brother living at the Catholic residency attached to the school, and we immediately had a place to sleep.

My own space, a bed to myself, blankets instead of a sleeping bag, my own shower, my own sink, a lamp to myself. How unfamiliar it is to be able to choose when I am ready to go to sleep and to be the one to turn off the light. To have free reign of the kitchen for breakfast, and company while we ate. It's mornings like these that I am really coming to treasure.

To the college girls who took us in without even knowing about Invisible Children, just because a friend called them and told them we needed somewhere to sleep. The moms who make us amazing dinners. The guy that saw our van and gave us the $5 in his wallet and told us that we're "doing good work." Macaroni and cheese, college cafeterias, free trips to Italian restaurants, high schools kids who drop everything and raise money to help kids in Uganda- on the other side of the world- that they've only met in stories and pictures.

This is the America that I'm meeting for the first time, and I like it.

Saturday morning in a basement.

2007-09-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

I don't have much to say.

I posted a comment on someone else's blog, and my name popped up automatically with a link. I thought that maybe I had one and didn't even know about it! So I got excited, and started thinking about all the things I could post on it, and then I realized that it was just linked to my google account somehow. But then, to fight my disappointment, I just decided to go ahead and make one anyway...

For the first time in two weeks, I've been alone. For almost four hours. David is getting the oil changed on the van, Andi is off to Florida for awhile, and I'm sitting by myself in the basement apartment of the wonderful family who is letting us stay with them for the day.

It's strange to be traveling this way, to be depending on the hospitality of others for simple things like food and a place to sleep. It's very humbling, in a way. There's a part of me that never wants to settle, that wants to pack my entire life into my fabulous yellow suitcase and never look back. At the same time, I would love to have a big roomy house, and to share my resources with foreign exchange students, broke college kids, and weary travelers. I like to cook dinner for people.