A Year On Other Things (YOOT)

Week 2 in Photos, Mazunte

2012-02-17T17:56:00.001-05:00

First I went to Mazunte...

My suburban companions from Oaxaca to the coast.

Then I went to the meditation retreat. Then I escaped and went to Balamjuyuc where I watched the sunrise. I vowed to watch it everyday, but only got up for two.

The sunrise from Balamjuyuc Cabanas

I had Nikki with me for 36 hours, and together we made the most of Mazunte...

Nikki enjoying breakfast on the beach

Mazunte, and much of the coast, used to have an economy largely based on the selling of turtle gear and meat. The government cracked down on that practice, so now the towns have taken on eco-tourism projects galore. In Mazunte there is a turtle center that helps educate the public on turtles and preserve endangered species. I happen to have a collection of over 100 turtle figurines from my childhood, so I felt right at home.

Below was my first beach beer after the retreat. There is beauty in not drinking and cleansing your body of all things toxic. There is also beauty in the moment when you drink a cold Mexican beer and watch the waves roll in.

Michelada (beer, chile and lime) on the beach

In Mazunte, there are beautiful beaches that may not be the safest for swimming, but are basically empty and offer great photo ops. I took to spending my sunsets on these beaches.

But I enjoyed my first sunset in Mazunte at Punta Cometa, the place where most of the town congregates to salute the sol.

While in Mazunte, I also took to saluting the moon, which hovered around full moon status for most of my stay.

I liked to salute the moon from the front yard of my first beach house.

Sometimes when I got sick of being on top of the hill, I would walk down and watch people on the beach.

And at the end of everyday, I made sure to watch the sunset.

Spiritual Dust

2012-02-14T23:32:00.000-05:00

A temazcal isa traditional Mexican sweat bath that stems from the Aztecs. It is a practicethat has been used for centuries to cure physical and mental ailments as wellas for cleanliness. Throughout Oaxaca I have seen signs for temazcals and wasplanning to do one when I got back to Oaxaca with my friend Nikki. However,sometimes when traveling, things find you before you find them.

The place I stayed in Mazunte doubled as both a place tosleep and a place to heal. The owner was trained in many massage techniques,though I never got a massage. He recently brought on an apprentice, Samira, whohailed from Austria, and was clearly of another realm. Together, they presenteda powerful team of healing energy.

When I first arrived, I noticed an abundance of herbs ontables. They seemed to be amassing each day. On Tuesday, I was complaining ofsome stomach pain to Samira. She gently looked at me and told me that I shouldjoin them in the temazcal that evening. It would help me a lot she said. Ofcourse, I agreed.

That night also happened to be a full moon adding to themajesty of the event. At 7pm a group of 10 of us gathered in a circle and builta fire together full of logs, sticks, herbs and stones. Once it was stoked,Emiliano blew his conch shell and said prayers to the four directions andmother earth. The night took on a life of its own as people sang, shared theirintentions and feelings, danced, and beat drums. Even the sky decided to jointhe fun. For the first time in years, and maybe ever (according to Emiliano),it stormed in February. The rainy season is not supposed to happen til latesummer.

Once the stones were thoroughly heated, the 10of us squeezed tightly into the temazcal.

Burning hot stones were placed in thecenter, and the heat and herbs filled the air. As the spirits stirred, the sweat dripped. Having been in many saunas, Iwas expecting a similar sensation. I was wrong. Yet, I lack the words toexplain exactly why. What I do have is a poem I wrote after the 4 hour ceremonyand sweat lodge experience. I think it speaks for itself.

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My body is full of spiritual dust.

Look closely and you will see.

Little fairies are flying out of my ears.

My skin glistens with stars that have filled my insides.

When I breathe deeply, shooting stars sneak out.

Roses grow in my armpits.

Spring showers have become my morning breath.

I create gardens with a kiss.

My feet drip with honey and lavender.

My fingernails are painted with the sun.

The moon has kissed my face, leaving craters in my cheeks.

The wind blows melodies through my voice.

The sunset shares its paintbrushes with me.

The sea fills my sentences.

I sweat love.

My hugs are made of wool.

Embers sparkle in my heart.

Do not worry.

This is not just in me.

Look closely within yourself.

It is all there too.

B.A.D.

2012-02-12T12:27:00.002-05:00

It has been a little over two weeks since I left the states. The two weeks mark is significant. It is similar to Day 4 in any biking trip I have had. It is the point at which you get a little sad, loneliness sets in, the cultural differences get irritating, and being home starts to sound nice. Most people would refer to this as culture shock, but those words do not really resonate with me, at least on this trip. I am not feeling "shocked" by the culture.

Instead, I have renamed it Being Away Depression (B.A.D.).

Description of Ailment
B.A.D. usually comes in spurts and most often appears at night time. It can have physical symptoms such as exhaustion, head aches, diarrhea. It can result in a lack of motivation. At times, when experiencing B.A.D., you may question why you are even away at all. Doubt about the way you are spending your time can arise, often manifesting as fear that you are not doing enough.

With proper treatment, the ailment has a positive prognosis.

Treatment

Let yourself feel BAD for a little bit. Be lazy, cry if you need to, talk to people from home.
Take care of your basic needs. Eat, drink water, get sleep.
Go watch a sunset.

When not experiencing B.A.D another common ailment that can set in is Fear Of It Being Over (F.O.I.B.O.). Both are normal and will pass with time.

Week One in Photos

2012-02-11T20:34:00.001-05:00

I know it has been said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Photos take a long time to upload here in Mexico. So, I am not sharing my experience very visually. I am trying little by little to upload some of the best. These are photos from my first week in Mexico in Oaxaca.

I arrived on January 26 to the city of Oaxaca. On the 27th, I started to explore.

The first thing I was struck by was the art everywhere.

No caption necessary.

Art installation by a Mexican artist showing the emmigration of people from his village

Mural in Nikki's backyard

Mural in front of Nikki's apartment

Next it was the architecture and history of the streets

Typical street in Oaxaca

Above windows on my walk to Spanish school

Museum de Santo Domingo

The music and dance poured out onto the streets.

San Jarocho

Traditional dance from a surrounding community

And of course the food, which will be getting its own post one of these days...

Tlayudas and guacamole

Homemade salsa

Homemade breakfast

I only started to scratch the surface of day trips possible from Oaxaca.

Arbol de Tule- possibly the world's oldest tree

Maybe I need to get this car, so I can take more day trips to explore the surrounding mountains.

My fantasy

Receding sun over Oaxaca

I am at the beach now. I just finished a week in Mazunte, and am settling into Zipolite. The coast is teaching me so much, but I do look forward to exploring the city more when my ears get too full of sand to receive more lessons from the waves.

Part Three: Bienvenidos a Paradisio

2012-02-09T16:17:00.002-05:00

In the city of Oaxaca, I was staying with my dear friendNikki. Before I left for the coast, she told me there was a good chance shewould venture to the beach for the weekend as well. She had wanted to go withme, but with my commitment to the meditation retreat, she saw it as anopportunity to go on a trip by herself, something she had never done. My firststep to retreat from the retreat was to see if she actually decided to come tothe beach. If she did, then I knew I would have a friend on the other side. Ifshe did not, the escape was going to be trickier.

So, after the man selling tattoos walked away, I pulled mycell phone out of my bag. The fact that I brought the cell phone was anindicator that I was fixin’ to break a rule. I hid the phone with one of myhands for fear a fellow retreater would see me and I texted my SOS, “I amtotally breaking the rules, but I am ready to quit. Did you come to the beach?”I laid back down and waited for a response. Nothing.

As I relaxed into the rhythm of the waves, I began toexperience anxiety about having to go back up. I envisioned how much fun Nikkiand I would have on the beach. So, before returning to the retreat center, Itexted, “I just want to be on the beach with ynu.” I am still getting used tousing my Mexican phone’s texting capabilities. I then walked back to the centerfeeling sullen. No response either meant she was in the mountains on her wayhere or that she had talked herself out of it. I decided it was probably theformer.

When I got back, I showered and prepared myself to go in forthe afternoon session. I debated whether I would still have the guts to leaveif I did not hear from Nikki. I stopped back into my tent to put on my flowypants and t-shirt and secretly checked my phone one more time. I had one newmessage from Nikki, “I am on my way to Mazunte! Where should imeet u!?”

If there had been any doubt about following through onleaving, the text wiped it away. I was determined. Still feeling tied to therules of the retreat, I could not bring myself to text her back. I hurried intothe meditation hall for the afternoon sitting as I tried to figure out whatapproach I should take to actually leave. For some reason, I did not feel likeI could just tell them I had to go and walk out of there.

There was a pile of scrap paper in the back of the hall. Ifwe had any concerns or questions, we were to write them on the scrap paper andgive it to the retreat monitor, an experienced meditator who was guiding all ofus to stay on track. I had been watching her watch us over the past two days.My fellow struggle buddies who had fallen asleep while meditating would returnto their mats with little notes that said, “Dear love, If you are feelingsleepy, please stand up or open your eyes a little bit. I hope this helps.Love, the monitor (signed with hearts).” A part of me felt accomplished that Ihad not yet received a note, but a greater part of me knew it was not acompetition and I probably should not have read other people’s notes.

When I entered the hall, I grabbed a paper and wrote this,“I am feeling an immense amount of pain in my back. Do you have any suggestionsto help that? It is definitely distracting my ability to meditate.” Just as Iwas going to give that note to the monitor, another woman got to her first. Shehad a long note, so their exchange took a bit and then it was time to meditateagain. So, I went back to mat number 26 and did my best to meditate.

At the first break, I decided to rewrite my note. The firstone was not empowered enough. It felt like I was letting her make the decisionfor me. So in the next note I wrote something like this, “I have beenexperiencing immense back pain. I had not been aware of the accommodationsprior to arriving, and am feeling like I will not be able to withstand this for10 days. I think I might need to leave. I am at a bit of a loss.” I gave thenote to the monitor and waited for a reaction. She read it, looked up at me andgave me the first eye contact I had had in 2 days. Then it was time to meditateagain. I watched her set the note aside and re-enter the zone. So, I decided Iwould too.

The next meditation went better. I had started to take thepower into my hands to leave. But, why hadn’t she written me back? What was shethinking? I knew the way that I wrote the note had given her the opportunity totry and help me stay. Did she want me to stay? Did I want to stay? After about30 min, I started to realize that if I was going to leave, I would have to justsay it. During the next break, I wrote another note, “I have decided that thebest thing for my body and soul is to leave. I feel only positivity [may havebeen a slight lie] toward this place, but I have decided it is not thehealthiest thing for me.” I was ready to give it to her and pack up, but shedid not stop meditating during the whole break.

I went down to my tent to find several messages from Nikkiand realized that she must be wondering if I was coming. I snuck out anothertext, “I am coming but it might take me a bit to escape. Tell me where to go.”I then returned for my final meditation.

This meditation was one of my best. I had my note readycontaining my declarative statement that I would be leaving. I had told Nikki Iwas going to meet her. I was free. And, I found myself becoming freer in themind as well. I really saw the embers of my heart. I thought about living withan open heart. I took notes. I was present.

Finally, the afternoon session came to a close. The monitoremerged, and I was ready with my note. She read it and shook her head. Shewrote me back a note encouraging me to stick with meditation and yoga. That ifI stayed, they could help heal me. At this point, I had made my decision, soher response only made me feel defensive. I shook my head no. She took back thenote and wrote, “Of course if you want to leave, you are free to go.”

I wrote that I was sorry for the disruption to the retreat,but I knew this was the right thing. I gathered my things from the meditationhall and went to my tent to pack up. As, I was packing, one of the owners ofthe center approached me. He was not in retreat, so we could exchange words. Hesaid that if it was a matter of accommodations, they had a dormitory I couldstay in. Had someone told me that 3 hours prior, I may have been convinced tostick it out a little longer. But, now, I was done. He tried a bit to convinceme to stay. He related that he has led many retreats and that often peoplestruggle with the things coming up inside their heads in the first few days.That it pushes people away. At that point, my survival mentality flared, and Ijust stubbornly said I had to go. This was not a matter of being afraid of thedark thoughts of my inner soul, no, this was something else. He understood. Andhe graciously left me with this, “It’s ok to leave. I left on day 3 of my firstretreat.”

So, as the sunset, I loaded my stuff onto my back andtrudged down the driveway and onto the main street of Mazunte. My heart wasbeating fast as I walked down the road, past the turtle center, past thetiendas, not even sure where I was going. I was saying over and over to myself,“Holy shit, I just quit. I really just quit.” There was a mixture of excitementand fear and doubt and happiness overcoming me. I called my friend Ari in the states for a quick bout of emoting. I had made it 48 hours. I did not fail a 10-day retreat, I accomplished a 2-day one. I called Nikki who was on herway toward me. I felt grateful I had a friend to help me know it was ok.

Together, we walked toward the beach and up a steep hill toa place she knew about that overlooked the water. She had tried to comeearlier, but the owner was not there. Just as we were arriving, Emiliano, theowner, was getting in a car to leave. He jumped out to greet us as if he hadbeen waiting for us to arrive. He was laughing and speaking quickly in Spanish.He said he had seen me in Pochutla a few days ago, and at that time told hisfriend that I would be coming to his place. As he walked us to our cabana, heglowed with a sense of pride that he was right. I noticed the big sign thatsaid, “Paz y Amor.” We asked him how much it would cost and if I could possiblystay the whole week even though Nikki would only stay a couple of nights, hegave us a low price, but quickly told us not to talk about money at night. Tojust settle in, relax and enjoy. Money was for the morning. He swung open thedoors to our cabaña, filled his face with an endearing smile, and said,“Beinvenidos A Paradisio!”

Part Two: The Retreat

2012-02-08T21:20:00.000-05:00

The meditation retreat was in the Hidraya style. That meansmore than I really know. But, according to the website of the center:

“Hridaya means Spiritual Heart, or more simply understood, the divine nature of our beings. HridayaMeditation and Yoga starts from the premise that traditional ideas about theSpiritual Heart can and should be applied in a very concrete and practical way.The Heart, seen as an organ of direct knowledge, can and should be trainedconstantly in order to increase its purity, and its capacity to Love, toWitness, and to Surrender.”

One reason I was compelled to go was that the main techniqueused in the meditation is that of Sri Ramana Maharshi. One of the most authenticspiritual experiences I have had in my life happened in 2007 when I wasstudying abroad in India. A few friends and I went to the ashram of RamanaMaharshi per the suggestion of my friend Ari’s dad. None of us were reallyexpecting much. But at some point while circumnavigating mount Arunchala, Ifelt something that has remained with me to this day. Ramana Maharshi’s pictureabove the retreat leader became one of the few things that kept me going as thehours passed.

Below is the schedule of the day.

07:00-09:00 Meditation: The revelation of the Spiritual Heart,Atman. This meditation will begin in smaller segments (for example, with shorthourly breaks), building to one continuous, deep meditation session.

09:00-09:30 Light breakfast buffet

09:30-10:45 Relevant lecture teaching

10:45-12:00 Hridaya Hatha Yoga

12:00-12:30 Meditation

12:30-15:00 Lunch buffet and rest

15:00-18:00 Meditation: The revelation of the Spiritual Heart.This meditation will begin in smaller segments (for example, with short hourlybreaks), building to one continuous, deep meditation session.

18:00-18:30 Time for personal practice.

18:30-20:00 Lecture, Q&A and last evening meditation

20:00-20:30 Dinner buffet and rest

On day 1, I spent a lot of time thinking about where I wasgoing to sleep, whether other people were really meditating or just pretending,how much I missed Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights, how intricate thetattoos on my neighbors back were, who I am, translating thoughts in Spanish,missing being out in Mexico, pure consciousness, pure bliss, who I am, whetherI was going to make it through, my back, who I am, the clouds, the clear bluesky, growing up a Unitarian, questioning God, how to surrender and have visionat the same time, doubt, who I am.

It was the guided meditation where we bared witness to ourthoughts as they floated by, noticing that each one had a beginning and an endand none of them alone defined us that I found my calmest mind. I also enjoyedthe meditation technique of reviewing the day in your head, always asking whoyou are as you do it. It reminded me of an amped up version of my childhoodnighttime ritual with my dad, favorite things. Though in our version, we namedall the things we loved. In this version, I was learning to detach from theday. I took note that maybe some combination of the two could be a good way tomake a new ritual for my kid someday.

On day 2, I spent a lot of time thinking about the knife Iwas sure was sticking out of my back, the tent I was sure would not keep mefeeling peaceful for 10 nights, who I am, missing Mexico despite being there,how to write the note that I would give to the monitor telling her I was in toomuch pain to be there, who I am, the things that gave me peace besides the momentI was in like biking and cooking and eating and love, that it was not working,who I am, the embers of my heart, if I live with an open heart, how the retreatseemed to be closing my heart with every minute, the girl who fell asleep inevery meditation, the girl who started writing in the last meditation, how Iwas not supposed to notice those girls, who I am.

Despite learning a lot about meditation techniques and feeling moved by many of the ideas,something was missing. As the hours went by, I was not connecting. I wasspending about 50% of my energy focused on how my back would not be able towithstand the 10 nights in the tent paired with 8 hours of sitting. In the past few months, I have been having a lot of back pain, and I'm sure the suburban ride did not set me up for success. 20% of mewas stressed about how 60 people could comfortably remain in the smallmeditation hall and use the two-eco friendly bathrooms without the whole placecrumbling. Another 20% was making deals with myself about when I could startbreaking rules and conjuring up plans to leave. So, I really only had 10% leftto be present with the content. And in that, I was not convinced I reallyenjoyed the approach of the guide, which was making it hard for me to listenwith an open heart. That was kindof a problem since the whole retreat was about living with an open heart.

On the first day, I did not leave the hilltop retreat center.I was afraid if I went out into the town, I would not know how to stay silentand centered. But, by the second day it was driving me nuts that I could seethe ocean, but I had not yet touched the water. So, during the break time, Iput on my bathing suit and ventured out into the world.

The minute I was on the beach of San Agustinillo, I felt apeace that had been lacking for two days. I smiled and even danced a bit. Iwalked down the beach and a woman said “hola!” I had to turn away to preservemy silence. I got my feet wet and felt the warmth of the Pacific Ocean. Itbeckoned me in without hesitation. I did not even need to tip toe; the waterwas warm like a hug from a good friend you had forgotten you missed. I doveinto the waves. I ran away from the big ones. I felt companionship. Then I madea little place for myself and laid down. A couple of boys came up to me to askthe time. I held out my wrist for them to read my watch while my brain wasscreaming, “son las dos!” I desperately wanted to practice my Spanish and tell them the time. Which is strange as prior to that moment, I was usually looking for ways not to embarrass myself speaking Spanish. I told myself I was being silent for a reason andrelaxed into the beach.

Just as I was drifting off, contemplating the bliss of themoment, a man came up behind me speaking in Spanish. I had just reached thatpoint when I was completely looking in, feeling that I was the only person inthe world. When he spoke, I jerked up and gasped. Seeing that he startled me, he immediately startedapologizing, “me desculpa, me desculpa.” He said.

I see that he had simply come over to sell henna tattoos. Ilooked at him and tried to tell him it’s ok with my eyes. Thinking that I justdon’t understand him, he started backing away from me saying in English, “I’msorry, I’m sorry...” a few more steps and he says, “Wow, you are tense.You need to relax.” Then he takes a few more steps and his parting words to mewere, “I guess that is why you are here.”

I think to myself, “I thought so too.”

So, it took the tattoo selling beach bum to convince me that if I am meant to do a retreat, this was not the one. I had to leave the retreat. And I had to do it before nightfall.

Part One: The Initiation

2012-02-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

I am going to start at this present moment and then go backto the beginning. This is going to be a story in multiple parts.

I am currently sitting outside of my own cabaña at Balanjuyuc Cabañas in Mazunte,Mexico. My cabaña sits atop a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There is anearly full moon obscured by a cloud. Waves are crashing into a rocky shorebeneath me. A long stretch of beach flows to the left. To the right is PuntoCometa, a long natural point with the best views of the sunset, where I justreturned from my choir practice. As of this evening, I am a temporary member ofEl Coro De La Cometa, a group led by a French man who plays Roma music and hasdecided to give singing classes every Mon, Wed, and Fri at sunset on the point.When he asked how long I would be staying, I said I did not know. He said I’dbe here a month then.

But, how did I get here?

For over a year now, I have been flirting with the idea ofgoing on a 10-day silent meditation retreat. I know it is somewhat of asurprise that I would be interested in such a thing. I love talking. I loveeating. I love a good beer. I have barely succeeded at meditating for 10minutes. I love taking action and planning. I love a lot of things that do not coincide with 10-days in strictsilence. Still, I am always interested in finding more ways to stay calm andless stressed in my life. And raised as a Unitarian, I have a questioningspirit. In the past, I have found spirituality in my intensive figure skatingpractice. Then, I connected with a new level when I biked across the country. Ibelieve committing to practices that push your limits and force new patternsinto your normal way of being are incredibly important to grounding and growingone’s self and spirituality. Part of the YOOT is developing practices andself-knowledge that can help me maintain a more balanced life moving forward.So that when I go back to law school and the intensity of the goals I commit toin my professional, scholastic, and personal lives, I will also maintain arhythm that is more sane and healthy. I know it is a lofty ideal. But, it isworth striving for now.

So, with the time to try a meditation retreat this year, Iset the intention. My initial plan was to do a Vipassana Retreat outside of Chicago. I have many friends who have completed Vipassana retreats,hence giving me confidence it would be a positive experience. I signed up forone in January, but then my best friend, Zacahariah, from Colorado College who has spent thelast year and a half in the Peace Corps in Moldova had an interview in NYC. Icould not pass up the opportunity to see him.

So, I forewent the meditation retreat and decided I would dothe one I had researched in Mexico.

Prior to the New Year, I e-mailed the place to inquire aboutboth their meditation retreat and yoga retreat. I heard back and they said toget in touch after the New Year to confirm, but that it would be possible forme to come. So, on January 2, I e-mailed. I heard nothing. Two weeks later, Ie-mailed again. Still nothing. Another few days, I sent another e-mail. Iscoured the website for a phone number, but found none. Still, I was notdeterred. My friend had a friend who spent a month there and assured me itexisted and was legitimate. I decided to just show up. The website said itbegan on February 3^rd, so I decided that I would take a Suburban (abig 12 passenger van) out to the coast on the afternoon of the 2^nd.

Sitting in seat three between Jaime, a fisherman from thecoast who spoke some English and loved the Beatles, and another older Mexicanman, I braced the roof of the vehicle for the 6 windy, mountainous hours ittook to get from Oaxaca to Potchutla. When the discomfort overwhelmed me, Iwould picture the ride as an extended roller coaster, better than even those atCedar Point. Or, I would imagine Jaime, my other neighbor, and me playing thatgame where you squish the person on the end every time you go around a bend,screaming and laughing together. But, that was inside my head. On the outside,I smiled and apologized when I’d accidentally bump into them, which happenednearly every 2 minutes. So eventually, I just smiled.

When I arrived in Pochutla, I got a taxi to Mazunte. My taxidriver quickly became my friend. He was the best Spanish teacher I have hadyet. He would listen to me struggle and then speak slowly back to me in Spanishwhat I meant to say. I wish I could have rode around with him for a week. Ithink I would be nearly fluent after that. I explained to him that Iwas not sure if there would be a place for me at the retreat. I asked him towait for me when we got there so I could talk to the people. He said he had aplace to take me if it did not work out. He offered to take me there first.Maybe I should have said yes.

Instead, I arrived to the retreat center just as dinner wasstarting. I met Ana, the organizer, who looked shocked and a little rattled to see me. She wasn't exactly emitting the zen-like energy one would expect from a retreat center. But, she was organizing, and I know how that can be, so I decided to not react. They had justfinished the mandatory orientation, and she had just given away the last tent.Hmmm… tents are the accommodations? I took note. Still, she was determined notto turn me away. So, I reluctantly bid my cab driver farewell, and decided tosurrender to this experience.

As Ana hemmed and hawed about how to accommodate me, afellow retreater approached us. He offered to let me use his sleeping bivy forthe night. That would give her time to get me another tent from her house tosleep in for the rest of the retreat. So, I spent my first night on a terraceoutside of the meditation hall, zipped up in a bivy with a mosquito net cover.I slept relatively peacefully as long as I avoided imagining the sacksuffocating me which would instantly result in a brief breathing panic.

The next morning, I awoke to a terrace full of meditatorsand a gong. The silence had begun. I shuffled my stuff down stairs, grabbed myjournal and joined the morning worshippers. I wrote my 3 morning pages to prepare my mind for what was to come. Soon, I was sitting on a yogamat and a pillow at station 26. The room was full of 32 women and 24 men.Together, the nearly 60 of us were to exist in silence for 10-days with thefollowing rules:

No talking, eye contact, communication of any kind
No reading
No electronics
Abstinence
No touching
No caffeine, drugs, alcohol
Vegan, healthy food

Here is the first reflection I wrote after the first twohours of meditation:

“I am feeling stressed about my sleeping conditions. Allthis time to meditate, and be still. I am reminded of whoever that was—the hierarchyof needs. It is hard to reach a higher state of peace without food and sheltertaken care of. I arrived late—after the orientation, and the orientation wassupposed to be mandatory. So I wonder, maybe I should not have been let in. Maybethey should have said no. But, they didn’t and there is a reason I am here.”

So, I ate my puffed grain, fruit and coconut-almond milk.And I tried to have trust that everything would be just fine. I took notes. Ilistened intensely. I looked in and asked “Who am I?” I bared witness to mythoughts without reacting. I gave everything to that day, and settled into myfirst night sleeping in a tent on a hilltop.

Yoga en Espanol

2012-02-02T11:30:00.000-05:00

Last night, I went to my first yoga class in Spanish. It wasin a tiny room in a little building off of a tiny side street. Surrounded by 9other people, Laurie, the teacher, began by leading us in relaxation. Of courseall I understood was to close my eyes, inhale and exhale. Luckily, those arethe most important components. As the class proceeded, I tapped into myexisting yoga knowledge allowing me to follow with relative ease. The tightnessof the space was illuminated when during one pose, my feet banged against theopen door spurring a minor giggle fit. The tight space aside, my inner peacewas most rattled every time a new Spanish word was used as I desperately tried to place it. Achieving at times, and at other times, reminding myself to let go and be present with the yoga despite my insufficient vocabulary. During the entireclass Laurie was talking about doing something to our “hombros,” It was in thefinal pose when she used that word and all my peers proceeded to do a shoulderstand that I realized hombros meant shoulders. I may have missed a few cues torelease the tension in my shoulders, but at least I had learned a new word. Ihave been taking Spanish classes all week, but I cannot really imagine a betterSpanish class than yoga, at least for human anatomy.

While it may not have been the most centering or challengingyoga class of my life, it would have to be among the top. When my mind woulddrift to worldy tasks or the frustration of not understanding would seep in, Iwould look up and see that I was in a colonial building with colorful walls.That there was tranquil music playing and incense burning. That behind Laurie, steel gate doors were open onto a courtyard full of lush plants. That there was abeautiful bouquet of flowers perched on the shelf to my right. That when Laurieasked, “Donde tu mente?” I understood what she was asking, “where is your mind?,”and I was instantly drawn back to my intention of this trip repeating those words over and over in my head,“donde mi mente, donde mi mente…” That this was my life. Learning Spanish in ayoga class in Oaxaca, Mexico. It could be worse.

Today, I am going to follow that bliss. In a few hours, I amboarding a “Suburban,” what I understand to be a big van, to Mazunte. When Iarrive, I plan to go to a retreat center and be silent for 10 days. There is somuch more I could say about that plan. Yet, it somehow does not feelappropriate. So for now, I will leave it at that.

Son Jarocho

2012-01-31T18:07:00.002-05:00

Wearrived 25 minutes late, but it seems that we were actually an hour and a halfearly. Nikki has been explaining to me the constant struggle she has withtiming her arrival. We did much better in our second engagement of the day whenwe arrived at 4 for a 2 ‘o clock party. The first engagement was to be a Son Jarocho gathering. Son Jarocho isa traditional music from the Veracruz region of Mexico. It consists of smallguitars called jarana jarocho and other percussion instruments. One of Nikki’s friends gets together with a group ofpeople every Sunday to practice. The musicians were dwindling in one by one,chatting as they came, stopping for coffee, and generally approaching thegathering with an ease rarely seen in the states. When it was clear we would bewaiting a while for the music to begin, we walked down to the organic market.

Atthe far end of the market, Sandro and his wife had set up their kiosk. Sandrois an Italian man and his wife is Korean. They apparently met in India and nowmake their home in Oaxaca. They were also at the market we went to yesterday.Their food offerings, a mix of Italian, Korean and Mexican, stand out in aselection of mostly corn tortillas with beans and vegetables and meat. Havingtried quite a few Mexican delicacies in the past few days, I decided to trySandro’s eclectic mix. So, for lunch I had dumplings with ricotta cheese andtofu and cellophane noodles and salad. Hardly the lunch I was expecting on aSunday in Oaxaca. But, at the same time, I am coming to learn that Oaxaca seemsto be a place that attracts the unexpected, the alternatively minded, and theeager do-gooder alike.

Aftereating our dumplings we walked back to the big tree where sixwomen and a Cuban artist Gabriel were now gathered. Instruments were startingto come out. A few chords were being strung and exercised. Two ladies werechanging into clog-like black heals. Gabriel took some people into his nearbystudio to grab a wooden platform to allow the dancing to resonate as a drumbeat for the guitarras. Slowly, each person began to turn away from their dogsand their conversations and commit to the music. First the guitars, then thevoices, one by one taking a verse at a time, then the dancers started to joinin. For one more layer of percussion, Gabriel contributed by playing the jaw ofa cow skull, called a quijada.

Gabriel, clad in high tops, stripedcolorful pants, a black t-shirt, and a woven striped scarf had face wrinkles indicating he had spent most of his life smiling.He greeted me with a smile and cheek kiss. He is one of those largepersonalities who clearly writes many of his own rules in life. At one point,he left the music circle to climb up the nearby power tower that he was usingto dry his laundry. It was fitting that he was playing a cow’s skull.

For the first song, Nikki and I satand listened to the sounds weave together in perfect harmony. I was impressedthat the musicians were mostly women. As I listened to them jam, I was remindedof Flamenco music. My college boyfriend had been a Flamenco guitarist, thus Ihad had the good fortune of spending many nights around musicians and dancers.In those crowds, I had never seen a female who played the instruments. In thisSon Jarocho circle, the women were doing it all. I’ve heard Oaxaca is famousfor a lineage of strong women. This gathering proved no different.

Soon, the music and dancing were infull swing. Gabriel, not one to leave anyone out, retreated to his studio foranother cow jaw and African drum. He proceeded to teach both Nikki and I toplay the quijada, and between the three of us, wecreated quite the rhythm section. Sitting with my red baton, and jagged teeth,I felt like I belonged for one of the first times since arriving.

Any othertime I have been in a group of Mexicans, I have been the clear outsider. Notspeaking the language, I have mostly been smiling and nodding and doing my bestto connect when possible. But, with a cow jaw in my hand, I felt like one ofthem. As the songs continued, I found myself modifying the rhythms Gabrieltaught me. Up, down, up, bang would turn into up, down, up, down and then maybea little, down, bang, down, bang. I was adding my own unique flavor. Every oncein a while, I would get self-conscious and retreat. Instead of banging andbrushing with confidence, I would bang meekly looking to Gabriel for approval.That never worked out. I’d soon lose the rhythm and the feeling that Ibelonged. So I would go back to stroking the teeth as if I was born doing it. I never said more than hello, how are you and goodbye to the people I was with, but through music we found another language altogether.

Watch a video here:

Estoy Aqui!

2012-01-27T16:01:00.002-05:00

Somehow while I was preparing for this trip, two things slipped my mind. The first is that I am allergic to black beans and black beans would be virtually everywhere in Oaxaca. The second is that my Spanish is terrible and everyone would be speaking Spanish.

With regards to the first, I decided to do a test run in Chicago last weekend. I know how I work. I knew that upon arriving, I would look at the delicious beans and decide that I probably wasn't really allergic anymore and go to town on them. So, I went to Xoco last saturday night and ordered a sandwich slathered with black beans. In my defense I did not know it would come with black bean slather, but confronted with the option, I decided to risk it. I enjoyed half the sandwich immensely, and took off the bean covered bread for the second half. As I left the restaurant, I began to feel itchy. As I waited for the bus, I started to cough. As I rode back to my friend's apartment, my eyes were burning. Two benadryl later, I was done for the night. So... I guess I am still allergic. Thus, I have been practicing how to say "soy allergica al frijoles negros" over and over again in my head. I don't even think that is the right way to say it. But, here I am at a cafe, and I was able to order the Oaxacan specialty sin frijoles negros with ease. So, I am going to be just fine.

The Spanish one is a bit harder. I have traveled in plenty of places where I don't speak the language, but it has been a while and it is rare that I am mostly alone while doing so. In the last 24 hours I have had to accept the reality that I seem like a total idiot to most people I meet. Today, I purchased a Mexican cell phone and I had about 4 employees trying to explain the phone to me. Luckily, we all laughed at how little I was understanding and made it through. I am researching Spanish schools and plan to start a school on Monday. Also, I am staying with my friend Nikki. She is fluent and fully connected to Oaxaca. So, I am not totally alone. I really could not be happier to be here with all the travelers discomfort in tow. Thankfully, I have two months to explore and digest the food, the language, the culture, and the beauty.

Backwards and Forwards

2012-01-24T11:01:00.000-05:00

I have completed the first trimester of the YOOT. Here is the recap with a few lessons learned.

September: Best friend from childhood got married. Studied for the LSAT. Watched a lot of Friday Night Lights.

Locations slept in: Chicago, Cincinnati
Lessons:

Studying for the LSAT will make you lose your mind, fully.
Living with Mona Yeh is truly amazing.
Coach Taylor (from Friday Night Lights) could inspire a wet blanket to play great football.
Always make lists when you leave a place.

October: Took the LSAT. Bike tripped with my dad. Personal statement writing at the cabin. Kept watching Friday Night Lights.

Locations slept in: Wisconsin, Minneapolis, Ringrock (Ely, MN), Chicago, Ann Arbor
Lessons:

VFW hall karaoke bars have corrupt politics. Pay the DJ if you want to sing.
Southwestern Wisconsin is extraordinarily beautiful in the autumn.
When transitioning, always bike.
A cabin and a brother are the perfect writing companions.

November: Moved to Cincinnati. Worked for my dad. Applied, applied, applied. Shadowed juvenile judges. Occupied Cincinnati. Celebrated Thanksgiving GG style complete with live action 60th birthday celebration, "Al-The MusicAL". Finished entire series of Friday Night Lights.

Locations slept in: Cincinnati, Hudson
Lessons:

Network when planning next steps. Those in the field are the best guides.
Cincinnati might be a better home in 10 years.
Cincinnati activists speak a unique truth resonating with major city concerns and also connecting to Appalachain roots.
A psychic told me I needed to fast from television...she was probably right.

December: Finished applying. Finished working for my dad. Family time in Minnesota. Moved away from Cincinnati.

Locations slept in: Cincinnati, Chicago, Cleveland, Minneapolis, Ringrock
Lessons:

Always pack less than you think you will need. It will still be too much.
Eating Indian food twice a week for seven weeks will affect one's body.
Working as a law clerk was a smart call, but ultimately I do not like being the least knowledgeable in an office even if my dad is the boss.

January part 1: Cabin fun. Visited Friends. Started hearing back good news from schools. Feeling ready to adventure.

Locations slept in: Ringrock, Chicago, Boston, Amherst, Brooklyn
Lessons:

Winter in the U.S. is not very travel friendly--plan a trip to Mexico if you do not have a home.
While cabins appear to be the best place to retreat and reflect, this is not true during the holidays. But, you will play lots of games.
If your friend chronically rolls her ankle, never let her hold the groceries on the walk home.
Ladies' nights are always a good idea.
The LSAT does not wholly determine your law school admittance.
New York City is still magical for a girl from Ohio.
If you find yourself in a room full of artists and nude figures with live music, draw.

I could go on and on with lessons learned, but I think they are still seeping in. And right now I am mostly looking forward. At 1 am on January 26th, I am boarding a flight to Oaxaca City and I will not be back until the end of March. I have loose plans including some meditation and yoga time, some Spanish studying, some exploration of the organizations and issues, and some travel, but nothing is in stone. I do have an amazing friend with an apartment for me to stay in and the willingness to answer lots of my questions.

I have been YOOTing for over four months now, but a lot of that time has been full of logistics and deadlines and dependency. It has been great, but also really hard. There have been lots of questioning moments about whether I did the right thing. I left a city I love, a job I love, and so many people I love to follow some vague plan and transition into some vague place. Am I crazy?

2012 has brought a welcoming shift. Going to Mexico will bring a nice change of scenery. The world I am opting out of does not seem to be going anywhere for quite some time, so I might as well get away when I can.

Changing Paths While Staying on Course

2011-10-16T17:30:00.001-05:00

Plans. I consider myself a planner. Full on. I like to put everything in my Google calendar to the minute. When I launched my Year on Other Things, I bought butcher paper to make big visual lists of all the things I need to do; I have to give credit to my sister-in-law, Meredith Hicks, for inspiring me to bring butcher paper into my personal life. Before deciding to quit my job, I made a Google doc titled, "quitting my job," with a complete run-down of how I would get health insurance, what professional projects I could stay involved in and what personal projects I could expand to. The list is two pages long and during the last two months since quitting my job, I have referenced it maybe once.

But, that is just it. The plan is not the action. There is a reason that it is so impossible to follow a plan precisely. When you plan, you are setting out the intention of what you would like to do. If while you are doing, you are constantly looking at the plan, you are probably not following it and you are probably not achieving its goals. For example, when I would plan for a session with my students, if I followed it step by step, the goal of fully engaging student voice would be lost as I would not be looking around me and responding to the needs of the students in that moment.

I used to think the points of plans were to map out your exact course, now I am beginning to see that they are something else. They are the thing that give you the confidence to take the first step. The second and third steps may not be in line with the plan, but it is hard to start walking if you do not have confidence you can get where you intend to go.

The bike trip got me thinking about this because, as it turns out, we did not sleep where we intended to any night of the trip.

This was the final route we took: Madison to Madison
295 miles (less 10 miles that Rose drove us during our mechanical mishap)
Day 1-Madison to Barneveld
Day 2- Barneveld to Soldiers Grove
Day 3- Soldiers Grove to La Crosse
Day 4- La Crosse to Reedsburg
Day 5- Reedsburg to Madison

This was the route we planned to take: Madison to Madison

285 miles (less 0 miles as we did not plan to have any mechanical issues)
Day 1-Madison to Spring Green
Day 2- Spring Green to Ferryville
Day 3- Ferryville to Sparta
Day 4- Sparta to Baraboo
Day 5- Baraboo to Madison

The only thing consistent about our two plans are the start and end point, Madison to Madison. Despite changing paths as we went, our goals were certainly met. We visited Taliesin in Spring Green. We rode all day in beautiful weather as the leaves turned around us. I left the LSAT behind. My dad left work behind (for most of the day). We reflected on next steps and past accomplishments. We listened to Radiolab and This American Life episodes to occupy our minds when the hills got too tough.

Thus, we may have changed paths, but we never got off course. This realization that many paths can lead to the same destination is nothing new. People have discussed it for centuries. Still, it struck me as I pedaled through Wisconsin. I knew that my dad and I could not have set forth on this trip without knowing it was possible to bike from Madison back to Madison in 5 days. That is what the plan did for us. It told us it was possible. But the plan was not the trip. Our intentions, our goals, our worn out bodies, and the too-busy roads that forced us to reevaluate are what ultimately guided the way.

As I set forth on this nontraditional year, I have felt the discomfort people (including myself) have when I cannot exactly say how it will all fall in place. I do not have dates for my travels. I do not have much nailed down concretely. But I do know what I want and why I am where I am. I have a course with many paths and the confidence I can reach my destination. Biking around Wisconsin taught me that is all I need.

And...I always have my Google doc.

Bicycle Capital of the World

2011-10-16T17:16:00.002-05:00

Day 4 is always an exhausting day (written on 10/6/11).

10/15/11
That is all I was able to write on the 6th prior to passing out. I hate to leave a post unpublished. Thus, I will revisit this day if for nothing else but to recount the one and only severe mechanical hiccup we had.

We had just stopped in West Salem, WI for breakfast. The "Immediate Seating" sign indicated we would get in and out, but the only thing immediate about the restaurant was the seating.

This could perhaps be due to the very important meeting happening right next to us. The only thing I could name it would be the Southwestern Wisconsin Retirement club. Sally was home sick that day with strept. Al came late and ordered an egg sandwich. Joan was clearly the ringmaster. We learned they had a healthy budget and they would be funding members to go to an exciting conference in Wausau, WI. The meeting started and finished with perfect adherence to Robert's Rules of Order before we got our two omelets and Belgian waffle to split. We were biking.

As we biked away on the LaCrosse River trail, I pondered Robert's Rules of Order. Robert was one powerful guy. How many small town retirement organizations and big corporate boards are successfully meeting in an orderly fashion due to his rules? We do not thank him nearly enough. Though, I was pleading with my dad that we ought to be able to incorporate icebreakers into his rules. They are a bit dry as is.

And on we biked... thump... thump

"Hey Jess, why don't you get off and see what is stuck in my wheel," said my dad more as a statement than a question.

I obediently followed his direction only to find the thing to be the wheel itself. It appeared that our front tire had grown a tumor between West Salem and the two miles we had managed to bike. My dad immediately got on the phone to our on-call bike mechanic in Cincinnati. As he was explaining the problem, a leaking, whistling surrounded us. Before we could really make sense of it...

BAM!

The tire exploded, leaving a sad flap and a useless tire. Our Cincinnati adviser could not save us from this one. But Rose could.

Rose and her husband own Speedy's bike shop in Sparta, WI. My dad called them after our explosion and 30 minutes later Rose and her pickup truck met us at the picnic shelter in West Salem. Rose was tight-lipped, but plenty accomodating. My dad interviewed her about her childhood on a dairy farm, her three sons, the bike shop business and Sparta as we drove. Perhaps the most interesting nugget learned is that Sparta, WI is known to the locals as the Bicycle Capital of the World.

As we biked into Madison the next day through their extensive trail network, it was hard not to chuckle. Sparta did not have a single bike lane. They had one bike shop. Most people in town were not avid cyclists or commuters. They were deemed such a title due to their central location between the 100 miles of four connected bike trails going from Reedsburg, WI to Trumpelo, WI. These trails include the famous tunnels of the Sparta-Elroy trail pictured below.

I do not discount the beauty of those trails nor do I discount Sparta's central location. I just might scale back their claim to perhaps the Bicycle Capital of Southwest Wisconsin.

Guest Post: A Word From Dad

2011-10-05T21:52:00.002-05:00

Her crumpled dollars emerged from a Junior Mints box. Jessica's friend was a tiny grey haired lady who sadly explained that the downtown stores in Viroqua had almost all closed. She savored the little dollop of whipped cream on her pancake as she talked. Another character to add to our list. The day started in Soldier's Grove and we climbed steep hills on a beautiful county road on our way to Viroqua. We reached the Mississippi in late morning and made our way along the river to meet my cousin Mike Holler for lunch at his favorite restaurant in LaCrosse. He seems like a great model of energized retirement. The sun performed for us from our box seats in a park on the riverbank near yet another war memorial. Wisconsin has done a great job of building monuments to commemorate those who have died in wars (one monument even listed a soldier who died in the War of 1812). On to the Sparta -Elroy Trail tomorrow. More diners. More characters. More adventure with my daughter!

Click here to see our progress so far (points D-G were today).

Truth Against the World

2011-10-04T18:41:00.002-05:00

The family motto of the Lloyd Jones family (Frank Lloyd Wright's mother's family) was "truth against the world." Our tour guide cited the reason for this motto to be that their family was progressive for their time and thus needed to fortify their principles with the concept that their ideas were truthful and worthwhile despite the lack of agreement among their contemporaries. While, this may be true, the motto seems a bit arrogant. Though, it was clearly fuel for the Frank Lloyd Wright fire and a foundation from which he was able to create over one thousand buildings.

For hours after visiting Taliesin, my dad and I debated the merits of having a family motto, what exactly a motto serves to do and then what the Gingold-Gerhardstein motto might be. We arrived upon themes of service, commitment, boldness, impatience, but have yet to coalesce them into a tidy motto. Motto creation is a healthy exercise I would recommend to families far and wide. Though, you may arrive at the decision to hire a consultant to figure it all out.

Other things learned today include:

When Frank Lloyd Wright was 17 he changed his name from Frank Lincoln Wright to Frank Lloyd Wright to honor his mother, whom he sided with in his parents' divorce at the time.
Frank Lloyd Wright had three wives. The third of which, Olga, was a devout follower of the Greek mystic, George Gurdjieff. Her devotion led her to believe many ideas, one of which was that 99% of people are sleepwalking. I plan to research him more for guidance during my year on other things.
Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright's home for 47 years, was built just below the top of a hillside, hence the meaning of the word taliesin which means "brow." He did this on purpose as he felt if you build on top of the hill, you lose the hill. All of his buildings attempted to respond to the nature around him. He was using the word organic far before the hipster-hippie movement of today.
In any tour group, there is always one finnicky person who grates at your happiness. Such an event proved true today when one lady mocked the Taliesin literature demarcating their 100 year celebration after we completed our tour. We are all happy and inspired, settling into the shuttle that will take us back to our bike when the lady assumes a high-pitched tone harkening back to the teasing of junior high and says, "100 years for Taliesin, isn't that nice, oo la la..." I guess she did not like the tour.

In addition to time with Frank, we enjoyed the enchanting countryside of southwestern, WI. We changed up our route several times throughout the day, each time finding ourselves pleasantly surprised with the sheer beauty of it all. I was slightly convinced that Wisconsin planned it all out for us in preparation for our arrival. The blue sky, the rolling hillsides of autumn hues, the windy roads with barely a car in sight. This was a perfect day. All 73 miles of it from Barneveld to Soldier's Grove.

Day 1: Madison to Barneveld

2011-10-03T20:28:00.004-05:00

"How was the ride?" asked the guy at the bar who had clearly been there for more hours than we had been riding and had not seen us on our bike.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"You have the look. That refreshed look." He responded.

Maybe he is right, though I have to admit that after only 35 miles today, I embarrassingly feel far from refreshed. Granted, I began the day with sore muscles. It could have been the return to ice skating I embarked on Wednesday night or the pickup kickball game I threw together to celebrate the completion of the LSAT or the insane number of hours I have spent sitting and studying. Regardless, I was sore. And 35 miles later I am still sore.

But, the soreness is not the overarching feeling inside of me. Neither is the pool of fat from the meal at the only restaurant to be found in Barneveld, WI (Half a fried chicken, iceberg lettuce with cheddar cheese, steak fries, and a cheese curd appetizer). No, the feeling that is triumphant is gratitude.

This is my fourth multi-day ride. The third one on the back of my dad's tandem bicycle. I know that most people consider this type of adventure to be insane and hardly a vacation. While I (more specifically, my body) can understand that perspective, this is my bliss. On every trip, I understand my dad more, I gain clearer perspective on my life and my goals, I eat a whole lot of crap, I drink good beer, I experience parts of this country that most urban dwellers never set eyes on, I meet an old person who enjoys life to the fullest, and I am inspired.

The plan for tomorrow is to ride 80 miles and go see Taliesin on our way to the Mississippi River. Hopefully, I will retain that refreshed look as we explore what Wisconsin has to offer.

Click here to see the progress so far.

My bed

2010-09-10T22:34:00.006-05:00

No matter how decadent the Best Western, how ornate the Bed and Breakfast, how grand the continental breakfast of Comfort Suites... there is nothing that matches the warmth and security of my own bed.

So here I lie. 320 miles of bike riding from my parents stoop to my bed. I am a lucky woman. I cannot recount the number of times men we have met have shook their heads hearing about what my dad and I do, "ooee, I wish my son/daughter would do something like that with me." But, I am the lucky one. There is no one else I would rather bike 320 miles with. I honestly do not know if I could bicycle tour without my dad. I feel like such a child even writing that. But, bike touring is dangerous. Trucks come close. Potholes appear out of nowhere. Tires are flattened. I am reassured by the fact that my dad is there. I shared this sentiment with my dad, who of course assured me I would be totally fine on my own. I'm still not so sure of it, but if my dad says so...

Today was the final day on the road. It was a hard day. We only went about 55 miles, but we drove on very busy roads with very small berms. There was some point while biking through Gary that I was really considering stopping. I was just going to get off the bike and obstinately insist that we go no further like I was still a 10-year-old girl refusing to leave the barbie section. But, I am actually a 24-year-old woman so I biked on.

When we hit the south side of Chicago, we felt an ease overcome us. The south side is often painted as a sort of war zone. But, compared to the war zone of Hwy 12, the Chicago south side was a Shangri-la. As we biked up Ewing Ave., one woman looked at us in our matching outfits, and said to her friend, "oh, that's cute." Biking past a small catholic school, a young boy shouted out, "cool bike!" The city beckoned us into it. We stopped on Promontory Point and took in the view. We stopped at my office for a warm hello. We were heading on to our last stop before home, the bar.

1.5 miles from the bar, what do we hear? BUMP, BOOM, WHOOOOOSH. Flat tire. That is right. The first flat of our trip, 1.5 mile from beer. In 15 minutes, it is fixed and we are on our way. Beer has never tasted so good.

Thank you dad. Thank you tandem bicycles. Thank you trucks in Gary for not killing me. Thank you body for not giving up. Thank you Indiana for giving me bike paths at the moments that I most needed the respite. Thank you bed for being hear at the end of this journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy Bikers at The Map Room (photo: Chris Brunn)

Oh yes, this day...

2010-09-09T19:22:00.002-05:00

After three full days of biking, that fourth morning is tough. As I eased onto the seat to start the ride, my butt literally rejected it. It bounced up and floated in the air above the seat for a few seconds looking below at the taunting triangular black sliver that clearly had no give and no concern for my pain. I tried to settle in again. This time, the reaction was a bit less harsh, but I still wasn't ready to be fully planted. I started to empathize with my mom's claim that if she had a sofa on the back, she'd gladly bike, but the seat as it is just won't work for the way we are built. After a few minutes of riding and readjusting, my butt and the seat had finally found their groove. But on day 4, that routine happens every time you dismount and remount. Your legs also start to rebel. And the exhaustion catches up; there was a moment today where I actually thought I might be able to sleep and bike at the same time. I made sure not to relate this feeling to my dad, but I spent a solid few minutes contemplating how it could work.

On this day, you also start to forget things. At a stop where we were reassessing our location I dropped our headphone splitter. This is a prized possession. It is the device that allows us to simultaneously listen to the same book or music. This is crucial during the long afternoons full of headwind that we tend to encounter. I remember looking down and noting it was dropped. About 10 minutes later we decided to listen to our book. We looked in the bag and of course, no headphone splitter... Turns out I only psychologically picked it up. On this day, you most certainly do not turn back. What is passed, is passed. This also applied to a moment later in the day when we were searching for our motel. Just a mile down the road we realized that we had passed it. Did we turn back? Of course not. We biked an extra 10 miles to another hotel. You just cannot go back. Miles gained are miles gained. (In full disclosure, we also probably didn't turn back because the place was called "Al & Sally's Motel", and we have been on high alert for bed bugs)

That being said, this day is the best. It is the day when you really realize you are pushing the limits of your body. It is the day you most face yourself and prove to yourself you can do it. I think our society does a lot to divorce people from their bodies and nature. This is evidenced in the place we are currently plopped. We are at the Best Western in Chesterton, IN. The hotel is by the freeway because there is no place to stay in the heart of town. To get to the K-Mart (where we went to try and find a new splitter...no luck), you have to cross the highway. There is a stop light. There is no crosswalk. This was probably the most dangerous moment of our day. No one walks to K-Mart.

I have to admit that if I had a car here, I probably would have driven--I'm that tired. But, that is what I mean; this experience forces you to be with your body. I feel so fortunate to be exhausted to my bone. I am full of mediocre Italian food, delicious Dairy Queen Blizzard (now available in mini-size!) and a caramel that my dad said "accidentally dropped" into our Walgreen's bag. I have biked another 70 miles. I have touched lake Michigan and looked out at a silhouette of Chicago. From this angle, Chicago looks more like an island of jagged rock formations than a major metropolitan city. It is nice to see it dwarfed by nature.

Tomorrow we bike into Chicago. We will indulge in good beer and good food. We will have reached our destination. But, as I answer my many work e-mails and commute to the office in the coming week, I will not forget this day.

Discovering Indiana

2010-09-08T19:36:00.003-05:00

From I-65, Indiana looks rather dull. I have seen Indiana from this perspective almost exclusively. I know the exit with the Wendy's and Starbucks well. I always enjoy passing the wind farm. I regularly mess up when going through Indianapolis, and welcome the scenic rolling hills that usher me into Cincinnati. However, this trip has taught me that Indiana has much more to offer than what can be seen from one of its main thoroughfares.

We began our day in Marion, and soon found ourselves on the Sweetser Switch Trail, a modest 3 mile trail, but full of civic pride. Little placards decorated the tree lined trail. It was clear the community valued this path, and we felt it as it energized us for what would turn into the most beautiful day of biking yet.

From the first little trail, we found ourselves traversing county roads that hadn't seen cars in days. The soy bean fields, tomato groves, fluttering wheat smiled as we passed. The wind had not yet picked up full force. My dad hypothesized that when it is cooler out the wind is less harsh. I was not convinced, but then he brought up some argument about the different temperatures between the air and the ground. Knowing neither of us had any facts on the matter, I let his reasoning stand, and felt blessed to not be battling the wind. Instead, we settled into more of a flirtatious dance with it. Right as the wind picked up, we hopped onto the Nickel Plate Trail.

The first person we met on the path was a man in an electronic wheelchair with two American flags waving from each arm, and a veteran ball cap. As we approached we saw him joyfully popping wheelies. We did the obligatory nod and smile. As we rode away, he jokingly said, "don't break the speed limit." Those little moments are just the fuel I need to keep going. We got a bit too immersed in this beautiful trail, ending up beyond the google maps directions. That is where I have to give my shout out to GPS smart phones. Yes, that's right. I love it.

The phone helped us chart a new route into Logansport that took us along the bank of the Wabash River. This might have been my favorite part of today. The river on one side. A windy road that actually had a few hills. Horses and cows decorating the other side. Lush forests. It was truly divine. The strip malls of Logansport and the semi-trucks carrying supplies for them were a harsh awakening after such a delightful interlude. I was ready to just get lunch and go. My dad's bike cleat had other plans...

We rolled up to the diner. I dismount, my dad has his left foot out, but his right foot is literally stuck to the pedal. He had to untie his shoe and pull his foot out leaving a rather ridiculous scene. It seems one of the bolts had come out of his cleat, and the clip out function of his cleat was shot. But, not to fear, Jim rolled up on his motorcycle ready to save the day. I have a theory that there is a special bond between touring bicyclists and motorcyclists. Our experience with Jim definitely added data. It seems we had our malfunction directly in front of a "bike shop." I put that in quotations because this bike shop was really more of a guy's tinkering garage. But this guy, Mark, was one hell of a guy. Mark and Jim made it their personal mission to fix our problems free of charge. They accomplished their mission and when we offered money, Jim refused telling us to just pay it forward.

So we biked on. We found ourselves on a busy road we did not like, and went to find an alternative route when we accidentally happened upon the final bike path of the day, The Panhandle Pathway. This took us all the way to our final destination, Winamac, IN.

In Winamac, we went to the local pizza joint, strapped a pizza to the back of the tandem. We then rolled across the street to the grocery store and picked up a bottle of wine we stuffed into one of our paniers. And we rode 3 miles to the Tortuga Inn. The Tortuga Inn is owned by two artists who are clearly artists first, and then B & B owners. Everything is a little rough around the edges, but there is character here. It sits on the Tippecanoe River, and we could sit outside to enjoy our celebratory feast.

I will never again judge Indiana by the views from I-65.

Back in the saddle

2010-09-07T21:23:00.003-05:00

On Thursday night I was in Boston reuniting with my good friend Ari. On Saturday night we were in New York City where we giggled/cried/therapized late into the night. Sunday night I was in Cincinnati "ooing" and "ahing" at what is quite possibly the best fireworks show in the world (an unbiased opinion of course). Three cities, spending time with loved ones does not necessarily add up to sleep. Having agreed to a five day bike trip from Cincinnati to Chicago starting Monday, I was looking for a way to delay.

On Sunday evening, I sheepishly mumbled to my brother Ben (who would be joining us for just day 1), "maybe you and I could just hang out in Cincy on Monday, and Dad and I can leave for our ride Tuesday..."

"Aha, dad said he was worried that you might say you would be too tired. We aren't going to have it. We leave tomorrow," Ben replied.

I had made my bed. I had to lie in it. Or ride in it.

So, Monday morning came, and at 6:45am, I was rubbing my eyes, pulling up my spandex and getting ready to ride. We drank coffee, lots of it. We ate eggs, fresh from Kathy's farm. We packed up the bikes and we left our home. No loading bikes into cars or planes. This trip is a door to door ride. My parents' home to mine.

We set off. Dad and daughter reunited on the tandem bicycle that had previously carried us from Mobile, AL to Cincinnati, OH. Big brother riding solo. Never mind that tickle in my throat. Richmond, Indiana was calling for us. The ride was beautiful and serene. Apparently, not many people leave their homes on Labor day, making the roads clear. The weather was ideal. We barely broke a sweat. We rolled into Richmond around 2pm with 62 miles accomplished. A short day for us, but it was day 1.

After eating a gluttonous Italian linner (where the lunch portions could feed two), Ben left us and I died. The four days of flux had truly caught up with me. Stuffed up, feverish, lethargic, I laid down in my bed and breakfast bed (dad was scared of bed bugs, so we splurged) and slept from 4:30-7:30. I awoke and filled myself with drugs, we perused the maps for a good hour, and I was back asleep.

This morning I had the expected crusty nose and itchy eyes, but the worst had certainly passed. And so we rolled on... 80 miles to Marion, IN. Today was truly a treat. We spent the majority of the day on the Cardinal Greenways, soon to be the longest bike path in Indiana. Parts of the path we were treading were freshly paved, making it seem as if we were the inaugural riders. The path is beautiful. The tree-lining protected us from the terrible winds we encountered briefly as we rode between Gaston and Jonesboro. We expect a duel with the winds tomorrow. We found our rhythm on the bike, we began listening to the ever-so-popular Girl with the Dragon Tatoo, and we talked to strangers (or at least my dad did).

Now, we are settled into the Comfort Suites. We considered the Economy Motel across the street, but when I called the Comfort Suites man, he warned me that the Economy Motel was "basically a crack house." Obviously the source is tainted since he was talking about his competition, but my dad and I decided not to risk it. We made a night of Marion's offerings taking in the local steakhouse and the 5 dollar movies. I am thankful for this bed and my dad's heavy breathing in the bed next to me, but I am also thankful to be moving on across the state. There is something to biking through less than compelling towns--it keeps you moving.

On we go. Man, it feels good to be back in the saddle.

One of those days

2010-07-12T21:44:00.002-05:00

It strikes me that most days can end with the sentiment, "It's just been one of those days," yet we never really define what those days are. I just looked it up. One of those days means a bad day. Why is it that we have defined "one of those days" negatively? Do we have a universal saying for when it's been one of those fantastic days? When someone tells you, "oh, it's just been one of those days," you nod knowingly. We can all connect on the shit in life. Yet, we don't have a similar phrase that is met with the same deep knowingness for one of those damn good days. It's like we are afraid to celebrate life. You wouldn't want to look like you were showing off.

If someone asks you, "how are you?" One is expected to say, "fine." If you say that you are not so well, that elicits sympathy and concern. If you say that you are doing great, the other person may smile, but likely is thinking, "who the fuck does she think she is?"

I think today was one of those days for me... but it was not bad. It was full. It spent most of my emotions to the limit. I began the day with the simple pleasure of deck coffee and homemade granola. I spent the day engrossed in ideas, planning, meeting, doing, coaching and deciding. I saw a good friend and processed, I dealt with a hard situation of one of my students. But the moment, the moment that is the most vivid lasted only 5 minutes.

There we were, Leah and I, sitting and talking. Debriefing from the various emotions that one of those days holds. Unweaving the complexities of urban, young professional life. I was listening intently, but found myself distracted by these two little twins running around the park with their parents in tow. The twins were excited by EVERYTHING in sight. True delight is hard to avoid staring at.

Eventually, the little girls came close to us. Their full smiles were infectious, halting Leah and my conversation completely. As they approached and retreated we attempted to maintain our trains of thought with little success. Then, then the moment happened. Little Sarah (I later found out her name) approached with a sly smile. She stumbled her way through our bags, leaned in toward me and gave me a huge hug. She then turned around and plopped down in my lap.

Her dad looked at me apologetically. As adults, we see this kind of behavior as completely inappropriate. But, I smiled back at him assuringly. This is just what I needed. My little friend returned to hug me several more times. She also showed me how neat grass is and how one should definitely not eat it. We laughed and sighed. It occurred to me in our interactions that she did not yet understand the concept of "having one of those days" or holding back your own joy. She brought all the joy in the world to every interaction and I didn't react by thinking, "who the fuck does she think she is coming around here all happy and shit?"

No, no. I smiled back. I hugged back. I forgot about my day and joined her in hers. There is a lot we can learn from 1-year-olds.

Doing Biking

2009-06-03T15:39:00.003-05:00

So... I'm currently not doing Chicago. I'm doing Alabama, then Mississippi, then Tennessee, then Southern Illinois, then Kentucky and finally Cincinnati. I'm doing this on a tandem with my dad for civil rights. It's going to be pretty rad, but I'm not going to write about it here. I'm going to write about it here. I know I haven't been that active in my blogging as of late, but if you've been missing it, now's your chance to reconnect!

Awareness

2009-01-21T22:15:00.000-05:00

I ended 2008 with a bang. Quite literally. The bang of my helmet hitting the concrete. Just when you think you’re invincible… Not to worry though, the whiplash has healed up nicely, and I have a renewed commitment to healing my body. Thus, I took the crash as an excuse to finally go see a chiropractor, you know, to get aligned for the new year.

After going over an elaborate model of a spine, closely examining my X-Rays, and discussing possible ways chiropractics could even help my infamous knee pain, my doctor (chiropractors are referred to as doctors for all you skeptics out there), leaned over to me and said, “Awareness is the first step to healing.” He was referring to awareness of my body slumping while typing at a computer. He had me assume a ridiculous position with chest out, shoulder blades squeezed, palms open and upward, and chin awkwardly pulled back into my face. This is the position that can apparently help resist the bodily damage resultant of constant typing, sitting and gawking. But, his comment struck me a little deeper. Awareness.

I got to pondering if awareness really is the first step to healing. I wanted to jump on his bandwagon with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” But, I also felt the devil advocate’s whispers. She murmured in my ears, “Sometimes isn’t it better to not know? When you know there is a problem, can’t the awareness of it only serve to magnify it?” My mom is one of those people who can greatly overlook any bodily pain. She rolls her eyes as I elaborate on my back, my knee, the stabbing sensation in my right temple. For me, my body and mind are intimately connected. For her, the body is just there. Am I creating problems for myself in part simply because I have such an awareness of my body?

Perhaps, but I think there really is something to Dr. Joe’s statement, not only for the healing of bodies, but also of minds and societies. It is of course a privilege to be able to dig into ourselves and the world around us. It takes time and energy to be acutely aware. And being aware without the conviction to heal may actually be more harmful. If I was just aware that my shoulders were slumping creating chronic back problems, but never took the advice of Dr. Joe to perk up and reset, the stress of knowing I was messing myself up could probably only compound the initial problem. Thus awareness is only the first step if you are willing to take more steps after. So awareness is not an end, but a means. Or maybe it is part of the end, but only if the end is also mixed with understanding, commitment and action.

I want to harness my awareness of this world. My brother and I were commenting last night that in the post-Bush world, there is such opportunity to harness the energy that we used to expel bitching and use it for good. I challenge everyone to take a moment each day to just notice the good, touching, ugly and unjust around us. But then take one more step after noticing it. That step could be just telling someone else about the moment. That step could be writing. That step could be something grander. Whatever you do, keep marching forward.

The Family Band

2008-12-27T15:13:00.004-05:00

I grew up in one of those families that valued music and knowledge of music, but had very little auditory and rhythmic skills. We were the kind of family that put all the kids in piano lessons, only to watch each child successively find his/her way out. I’m not sure how my brothers did it. But my technique consisted of taking candy from the piano teacher despite not completing my 3 consecutive weeks of practice, of cursing the busts of famous pianists that I had on my piano when I got the lowest award possible at my first piano competition, and finally just storming out of my piano teacher’s house when I could not for the life of me get my two hands to do different things while playing the politically correct piece, “Little Indian Boys.” Still my parents did not relent. Perhaps they read a parenting book prior to our births that informed them to keep us in musical lessons for all of childhood regardless of the skill we presented.

Ben took up the clarinet. He actually was pretty good at it. The several Christmases of him playing, “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire…” while our dog whined along were priceless. He even got good enough to be first chair in the Wind Ensemble, only to have his clarinet lessons in college be his only B he received in all four years. We haven’t seen the clarinet since. Adam on the other hand took on trumpet… then harmonica… then a brief interlude with pots, pans and bottles…then a stint in a musical… then a rap group… I moved onto flute from piano as any little girl should. But, I never really loved it. I never excelled, and I always hated my flute teachers. I also had some time in my childhood where I thought I could sing. I even starred in my 5th grade musical (a Rock and Roll version of Little Red Riding Hood). Still, none of our talents were sustainable. It seems the Gingold Gerhardstein soil was not rich enough for the musical seeds my parents tried to sew.

We degenerated into a family of camp songs. The kind of family that never sang in tune, and when we couldn’t remember the words we’d simply rewrite them to suit us. In our bubble we’d pump up each other’s egos. I’d say, “Adam I really like how you held out the low note of SEEEEAAAA in the Titanic song” or Ben would compliment mom for reaching a note no other human has ever even approached. But on our own, we floundered.

I think this failed attempt by my parents to make us into musicians resulted in me looking for music in my potential mates. Thus, I have dated lots of musicians. My first love had a family band that played surf music at bookstores throughout the city. All I ever wanted was to be in the band… but the best I could seem to do was date the band. That is until this Christmas.

This Christmas we lazed around, skied, played games and ate the standard Swedish meal, but then the unexpected happened. My aunt Carla brought out poppers wrapped in musical-note paper. She announced that in these small poppers, an orchestra was contained. We all skeptically grabbed a popper and rolled our eyes as we pulled them apart. Much to our surprise, each of us was left holding a blow-chime (I’m not sure if there is a real name for the instruments we had) of various sizes. Not only did we have our own individualized instruments, but we also had musical note crowns. Adam was quick to grab the conductor’s baton and the eight of us got in order around the couches.

I was #2 also known as Re. My Uncle George exclaimed his excitement of being number 6 when he said, “I’ve never been first chair number 6 in my life!”

We each filled with pride as we perfected the one sound each of our instruments could make. My mom had trouble holding her instrument, often covering the hole with her finger. Adam informed her that she really didn’t need to use two hands to hold her 1-inch instrument.

After sufficient warm-up, we were ready to go. Adam held the sheet of paper with the musical scores, held up the baton and pointed at George, #6. “666 666 68456 7777766 66655658,” also known as Jingle Bells. When pointed to, we blew. We stopped blowing when the next person was pointed to. The synergy was amazing. Next came O Come All Ye Faithful. This one started on my cousin Andy, by far the least excited about being in the band, but still he blew. We all blew. We did several songs, each one getting better, each note getting stronger. Talk of going on the road was abuzz.

On the 26th we decided to reconvene the band in order to perfect our performance. More family was coming up on the 27th, and we wanted to give them a show. This practice was not going as well. The pep seemed to have been lost in our notes. Perhaps our first problem was we had branched out to the non-Christmas genre: London Bridge is Falling Down, Can-Can… we squeaked them out, but not without some serious roadblocks. Namely, number 3, my mom. Her blowing had become erratic, airy, and uncontrolled. There were murmurs of replacing her. But we were soon distracted by an obstinate number 4, cousin Andy. Every time Adam pointed at number 5, 6, 7, a peep was heard out of number 4. It was clear that our egos were taking over. It was no longer about the band. Carrie, number 1, reminded us that, “there is no I in BAND.”

As our spirits began to fall, it was up to the conductor to bring us back together. Adam held his baton high and said, “This one goes out to baby Jesus,” and he pointed at Carrie. “112143 112154…” The beauteous song we all know and love emerged from our flutes, “Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Jesus, happy birthday to you.”

Just one of those days...

2008-12-23T23:42:00.001-05:00

12/22/08

6:30am. It was one of those mornings that seemed to come way too soon. I got up when my alarm went off, but was quickly drawn back to the warmth of my bed. 15 more minutes. No luck. My body seemed pretty determined to stay put. Sometimes my body insists it is sick just to allow my mind to stop fighting the responsibility of the day. Despite the thermometer’s lack of support in my conclusion of illness, I made a deal with myself. Stay in bed, sleep it off, and go into work for a half-day.

11am. I’m showered, have a lunch made, have snowman baggies full of spiced pecans I made for my coworkers. I’m ready. I go out to my snow and ice covered car to do the big dig. Normally I would take the bus, but I had a few Christmas errands to run and needed to get the car unburied for my journey to Minnesota. So, I dig, scrape, kick and chisel. The car appears to be free. I sit down and ignite the car. It starts. Good sign. Then I attempt to move. After three separate attempts, I begin to realize this is a fruitless venture. I then try to turn my car off and get the keys out only to realize I can’t get the car started again, and I can’t remove the keys from the ignition. So, I’m stuck in ice, my car won’t start, and I’m supposed to be at work. I go inside to call AAA. After explaining the situation, they inform me that they can be there by 3:15, hopefully sooner. So, I resign myself to one of those days of sitting around waiting. I get some loose ends done, but mostly I sulk.

4pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for about 30 minutes and they inform me that it will be 30-45 more minutes. In the mean time I realize that my parents are planning to drive through Chicago on their way to Minnesota that night. I begin to wonder why I am planning to venture on my own the next day… I check the weather and see that a wintry mix is coming in the next day. I start to wonder if I can really even make it to Minnesota the next day.

6pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for 30 minutes, and they inform me that it will be another 30-45 minutes. In the mean time I decide that I should probably leave that night with my parents to go to Minnesota. Though, my mom insists on needing her own car, so we decide to caravan. (My parents realize when they are en route to Chicago that they forgot all of Christmas in Cincinnati—it should arrive tomorrow via Greyhound). I then pull into damage control mode. Having taken the day unexpectedly off work, I was feeling like I needed to go in before leaving town…

7:30pm. 8 hours after the initial call, AAA arrives!! And here I am going to admit the really stupid thing that I have in fact admitted to no one until this moment of ultimate confession. It turns out that my car was not stalled. I had simply left it in reverse when I turned it off, and thus it wouldn’t turn on or let me take the keys out. I know. Let it sink in. Stupid. But, still, I was legitimately stuck in the ice. The lovely tow-truck man shoveled me out 3 times and directed exactly how I move the wheels until freedom was had.

8:00pm. Kinko’s. One of my tasks for the day was to pick up some last minute presents I had decided to make. Thank god for 24 hour stores… If only the post office were so convenient. I made two different calendars (very good gift idea for pretty cheap!). I get to Kinko’s and they accidentally made an extra of 1 of the calendars, and not made the other. They tell me it will only be 10 minutes. So, then I go to my car to wait only to realize the calendars they did complete were all for 2008. My heart sank; I certainly needed these calendars before leaving town. So, I rush back inside in panic mode. They promise to get them done within the hour.

9:00pm. A good old fashioned use-up-everything in the fridge omelet sufficed for dinner. Everything was packed and ready to go. I make my first trip out to the car with skis and suitcase. Oh shit. No I didn’t. Yes I did. I left my keys to my apartment inside. Locked inside. No roommates home, I start buzzing all my neighbors apartments. Buzzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Nothing. This is when I had that, “this is it, it’s time to stop” moment. Finally I find someone to let me in, and luckily I had left my apartment door cracked. Coffee in hand I make the final sweep and head out.

9:15pm. Calendars are good and I drive to work. At work I am able to distribute my spiced pecans to co-workers’ mailboxes (very important), and I look up another 75 mammogram patients that have constantly been a constant pressure (no pun intended) on me over the past week. While I don’t complete the entirety of the task I am able to assess where I am and what I need to do upon return.

11:15pm. Parents show up, and the caravan to Minnesota begins.

1:30am. Asleep to the sweet sound of my mother's snoring in the Baymont Inn in Janesville, WI.

As I said, it was just one of those days.

(Disclaimer: I realize this story of my bad day may not be so entertaining, but it was one of those days I felt like I needed to write out. Now that I have written it out, I realize it wasn’t nearly as crazy as I had made it out to be in my mind, and I therefore will no longer hold onto it with such stress. So thank you for being my audience.)

Yes We Will

2008-11-19T23:02:00.008-05:00

Refusing to let that night die.

I have clearly taken a hiatus from the blog world. If in that time you have felt compelled to stop reading, I get it. There is a lot of media out there, a lot of interesting intrigues to choose from. “Interesting intrigues” is probably redundant, but I like it. That is maybe why I did not do so well on my GRE I took last weekend. I like redundancies. But, I am not going to use my blog to vent about that experience. I’ve got back up plans; all will be well.
What I really want to write about is Tuesday, November 4th. It’s crazy to think that day was only two weeks ago, yet so quickly we have resumed our regular lives. I admit that it feels a bit forced to be writing about that night now, it is old news, right? But I am sticking to my commitment to myself to write of that night for the very fact that it shouldn’t be old news yet. We need to be rejoicing in the spirit of November 4th for more than a few hours or days, it is on us to keep it alive.
I was lucky enough to be one of the million who gathered in Grant Park to see Obama accept his victory. That night epitomized why I love partying with liberals. Prior to attending the festivities there were several murmurs of fear. What if Obama loses? There will be massive rioting no matter what! That many people downtown will just be chaos…
But I assure you; it was the calmest crowd of a million to ever gather. We stood for hours in a huge park with limited visibility and watched the news on a big screen. Never once did I hear people grumble as their toes were stepped on and shoulders rubbed by complete strangers. When one person cheered, everyone cheered. It didn’t even matter what we were cheering for specifically, there was simply a wave of positivity that we were all riding. One stranger gave me a piece of pizza he couldn’t finish. Another offered me his extra water bottle when he overheard me discussing my thirst. And then there was the moment. The moment that Obama was declared our president-elect. I remember bending over in a loud relief filled yelp, grabbing for whoever was close and holding on tight. That moment will forever be locked in my mind, body, and soul with no words to ever do it justice. So he won, and still we were capable of continuing to stand peacefully together watching the news. We listened to a terrible rendition of the Star Spangled Banner without a single boo. We danced and sang along to classic oldies songs. And we sporadically broke out into gasps, shrieks, yelps, and yippees.

When Barack Obama took the stage a stillness overcame the crowd. There was only a handful that could actual see his face, but his presence permeated throughout the crowd. My friend’s boyfriend lifted me so I could see his figure on the stage. But I think what is remarkable about Obama, is that he is so much bigger than his body. He brought together 1 million people in a public space to be there with him in that moment. He gets it. We got it. It was beautiful.

After his eloquent speech, and lots of waving, people slowly ambled out of the park. There was no stampede. Simply a leisurely walk out onto Michigan Avenue. The street was closed, and the happy crowd filled it in celebration. Cops were everywhere, but their presence was not oppressive. People were taking pictures with them and petting their horses. My friend’s and I walked up Michigan Ave., breathing it in as deeply as possible. A short eccentric man walked up to me and hugged me, saying. “Hugs for Obama.” No other time would it be ok for a stranger to walk up to another stranger in downtown Chicago and hug her.
So, as times get rough. As the economy looks bleaker and bleaker. As George Bush does his final damage. We must remember to keep the night of November 4th alive. Prior to that night we were chanting, “Yes we can.” On that night we chanted “Yes we did.” We did get him elected, but our work is not done.

Becoming a Foodie

2008-10-19T22:58:00.009-05:00

I used to think that food was a passion for everyone. The moment of clarification came in my final college class. We were discussing “self activities,” those activities that are vitalizing and allow an even greater fullness to life. My professor explained that studying philosophy was one such activity for him… so much so, that if he is out to a fancy meal eating the best food in the world, but also having the most stimulating philosophical conversation, it is the words he will remember, not the flavors. I was stunned to hear this, but figured he was just a quirky philosopher man, and that most people would for sure be more into the flavors tantalizing their palates. He then asked the class to raise our hands if they felt food (cooking, eating, and sharing) was a passion of ours. Mine sprung up, excited to see the reinforcement of my classmates. As it turned out only about a third of us had our hands up. This was the moment that I realized that I could legitimately identify as a foodie.

Now, I can’t claim elite foodie status, and I’m not sure I ever want to. But I am enjoying stumbling along the path of food passion. I grew up in a house that cherished social justice, olive oil, Italian sausage, mashed potatoes, cheese, French toast, aldente pasta, and popcorn. While my dad claims that he now feels his cooking is inferior to the pursuits my brother’s and I take on in the kitchen, his passion for the foods he cooked is what ignited our drive. But it is true; I am exploring things in the kitchen that I never ate in my childhood home.

In the past couple months I have traveled to Greece, Italy, India, France, Thailand, Mexico and beyond just by sitting down at my (or a friend’s) kitchen table. I have two favorite explorations thus far. First would be my trip to the Mediterranean when I made spinach pie and curried couscous.

This meal was based on recipes from the Barefoot Contessa cookbook. Both components were relatively simple, but extremely tasty. I would argue that simple and tasty is the best combination, especially when living the high- paced city life. It is nice to come home from a long day and still achieve fantastic flavor within an hour’s time. But, those times when more than an hour is put into cooking can be even more rewarding, especially when there is a partner in the journey.

This leads me to my second exploration. I have on two occasions attempted Southern Indian cuisine with a friend and neighbor. We have been working on perfecting the creation of sambar. Sambar was the staple of my household and every household in Bangalore. Both times we have undertaken this culinary adventure I have caught myself momentarily drifting back to the neighborhood of Rajajinigar (contact me if you would like to know how to pronounce this). There I am with an Indian family of six, sitting on the floor of our two bedroom house anxiously awaiting the cuisine of my host mom and sister, trying desperately to remember all the proper etiquette, watching some Bollywood music videos on the TV that sat in the corner underneath the Tweety bird stuffed animal hanging from a ceiling hook… Until I awake to remember I am stumbling around a thoroughly American kitchen with a fellow non-Indian most definitely ill equipped for such cooking, but we choose to brave it nonetheless. I think in both attempts we ended up using not exactly the right dhal or at least not the right amount, and most likely one or two of the desired spices were left out or improvised. But, in our second meal we definitely came much closer to that memory of my Indian family’s living room/bedroom/dining room.

Bowls of Sambar
(Photo Chris Brunn)

(Oh and we threw in a little non-indian farmer's market goodness as well. Brussel sprouts are my new favorite green vegetable!)

Brussel Sprouts, Spigariello, and Red Onion
(Photo Chris Brunn)

I think that I love food so much because of this expansive world it taps into. It isn’t just about the flavors hitting my taste buds. It’s about the intellectual, emotional, sensual experience as well. They say that our olfactory senses are the most connected to memory. When I cook, I feel myself transported to kitchens of times past. When I eat something amazing, I get excited about sharing that meal with others in future moments. I truly believe that food is perhaps the most universal element through which we can connect.

So here’s to being a foodie… and all the adventures it brings.

Obama Magic

2008-09-30T23:00:00.002-05:00

On Saturday morning, I walked into the North side Obama headquarters in Cincinnati with three fellow Chicagoans. We were eager to be in a place that needed us. We arrived an hour early due to a communication glitch in the well-oiled Obama internet machine, so we sat around HQ reading material on Barack’s positions, digesting the debate (that we watched with a group of neighbors at my house the night before), and getting pumped to go talk to voters. It was finally time. Several Cincinnatians (including by coincidence my elementary school librarian that I had not seen for over a decade), a group from Louisville, KY, and the four of us gathered around the campaign workers to get the “training.” Training is a generous word for what actually occurs. Nonetheless, the sporadic and blunt 5-minute explanation suffices. After the speedy overview we were given our canvassing assignments. Tylar, the out-of-state volunteer coordinator handed us our packets, and said, “You’ll be going out to the West Side.”

For those of you who don’t know Cincinnati, the West Side is the republican stronghold. It is white, middle class God-lovin’ country. It of course has its diversity, but my experience has led me to believe it is few and far between. So with little hope of finding many on our side, we set off.
Johanna and I approached the first door with caution. A young blond woman answered.
“Hi, my name is Johanna, and this is Jessica, we’re here with the Obama campaign. We’re just walking around the neighborhood talking to voters to learn more about where you are at with the upcoming presidential election. Have you decided who you are voting for yet?”
The blond girl grinned and let out an enthusiastic, “Obama baby!” as she reached her hand in the air and gave us each a high five. I suddenly had a feeling I was in for quite a surprising day…

We walked on to the next house. Just as we picked up our fists to knock, a young middle class white male opened the door. He jumped back a little, startled to see two young women standing on his porch on a Saturday morning. This time I began our spiel. He seemed less excited to see us than our previous encounter, but still he reluctantly agreed to speak with us for “just a minute.” Ten minutes later we were still talking. He told us he was a big Hillary fan, but he’s just not sure about Obama’s experience. “If Obama would have chosen Hillary as a running mate, It’d be a lock.” “I’m just so mad he didn’t choose Hillary.” “I’m a teamster,” he said as he pointed to his worn out teamster t-shirt emblem, “my union supports Obama… but I’m just not sure.”
We tried hard to reassure him that Obama is smart and that Hillary will definitely play a prominent role in his administration. We told him that Obama and Hillary are very much on the same side with their policies. The facts didn’t really seem to matter. He just “wasn’t sure.” I don’t want to speculate on what he wasn’t sure about, but I could tell that while what we said may not have mattered so much, the fact that we stood on his porch for 10 minutes and listened to him spout meant something. Though he did let us know when he was done with a kind and suggestive “I was actually on my way outside to find the sports page…”

From an enthusiastic supporter, to a hesitant voter who will likely come our way, to our next house—a 35 year old woman who was not registered and had never voted in her life. We’ll call her Sara. Sara was on her way to take the garbage out when she found us ringing her doorbell. She wasn’t the listed owner on our list from Obama, but we decided to chat with her anyway. We asked her if she was registered to vote. Slightly embarrassed she admitted that she wasn’t as she sat the garbage down by her side. Johanna pressed on. She told Sara that we could register her if she wanted. Sara reflected for a moment and said, “I think it is too late. I promised myself that I would pay attention this year and vote for the first time. But I haven’t been following it, and it is just too late.”

We reassured her that there was still over a month to research and learn about the candidates… That she could at least register and research and decide later about voting. At this she sat down on her stoop. We followed. She clearly wanted to be a part of this election. She admitted that she had watch Obama’s acceptance speech and was deeply moved by it but just didn’t feel empowered to vote. It became apparent why she was disempowered when her mother came to the porch. Her mom cracked the door open. We asked if she was registered to vote. The mother responded in a gruff tone, “NO, I don’t want to vote!” and slammed the door. A far cry from the parents I grew up with.

Sara recentered her attention on the two of us. She told us she really cared about the poor. As she began filling out the registration form she raised her head and meekly asked, “Which party is it that cares about the poor?” This was a woman who had never been encouraged to engage with our political system, and here we were giving her the first steps toward participating. She gave me her personal e-mail address and I agreed to send her links to sites with information about the presidents and the issues she cared about when I got home. Perhaps most telling was when I sat down to do that task. I put the links to both Obama’s and McCain’s websites in my e-mail to her. Then, I put the link to the part on Obama’s website where he addresses poverty and how he will fight it. I looked for a similar link on McCain’s site and found nothing.

Finally we knocked on the door of a more traditional West Side family with the American flag flying on their porch. The mother of the household answered the door. We explained our mission, and she hesitatingly agreed to chat briefly. This too became a much lengthier conversation. While her and her husband were on the books as independents, they had mostly voted republican as that is where their values were aligned. She told us quite frankly that she wished the whole thing could just start over.

“I really just don’t like any of my options. I don’t even want to vote. But I know I have to vote because it is my right as a citizen. If I don’t vote, then I can’t complain. But I don’t know what to do,” she said with an extremely troubled look on her face.

Johanna and I shared her concern as empathically as we were capable of, and then we brought up how strongly we feel about Barack Obama. Our words were echoed by the woman’s 5-year-old daughter lurking in the background who muttered, “B-aaa-rock OO-B-a-m-a.” The woman listened to us. She shared that she was scared about McCain’s age, that she had gotten excited about Palin at first, but now she keeps hearing how “she’s saying lies and stupid stuff.” She expressed her concern with the economy and simultaneous fear of socialized medicine and awareness that something must change in the health care system. I tried my best to explain that Obama’s health care plan was not the oh-so-sensationalized “socialized medicine” republicans discussed. She listened. At the end of our conversation she got serious and told us, “I will vote, but I don’t know for whom. And really the bottom line for me is this: whoever wins, its God’s will.” To this I responded, “Well I hope it is God’s will that Obama wins.” While her vote may ultimately go to McCain, I couldn’t help but feel that a woman like that would not have given us the time of day 4 years ago. Now, now she is listening. Something has changed.

After introducing my Chicago friends to Skyline Chili we set back out for an afternoon of canvassing. This time I was paired with a fellow Princeton Fellow, Sanhita. We were having some success and hopeful moments going door to door, but our most special interface came unsolicited. Two people were driving down the street on which we were canvassing. Just as we were approaching our next house we heard someone yell, “are you registering people to vote?” While registering voters wasn’t the main mission of the day, we certainly were open to it. So we replied, “of course!” The couple in the car proceeded to pull over and register. The gentleman eagerly announced, “I watched a special last night and realized that I needed to vote.” He didn’t only want to be registered to vote, but he also signed up to volunteer for the campaign.

The final story to relay is an important one. It was our last door. The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with me and I was secretly hoping there would be no answer. But alas, a man came to the door. He explained that he wasn’t registered to vote because he had a previous felony and wasn’t allowed to vote, but he took information for his girlfriend. He was clearly bummed by his disenfranchisement, and desperately wanted to vote. Sanhita and I did not think his perception was accurate, but neither of us had a clear idea of the laws in OH. We gave him a registration form and told him to look into it more. He seemed very excited that there might be a possibility that he could vote. As we walked away from his house we couldn’t shake the feeling that this man should be voting. So we started calling people who may have the answer. Without finding a firm answer, we ultimately decided to go back to the man’s house, get his filled out registration form, and go for it. We told him, that if he gets a registration card in the mail, he could vote. Later that night I asked my dad to clarify. It turns out the as long as the individual is not in prison, s/he has the right to vote. So, this man who thought he would never be able to vote again in his life will be getting that card in the mail letting him know he can cast his vote for Obama. It is scary to think how many other previously convicted felons may have misinformation about their voting eligibility. In fact, notifying ex-prisoners of this information is a project that my dad’s prisoner rights nonprofit organization (Ohio Justice and Policy Center) has taken on.

I got home that night feeling extremely energized and hopeful about this campaign. Something unique is happening in this country. I was one of thousands of people out in neighborhoods talking about Obama. My brother had equally uplifting stories about his day in Virginia. I have friends in New Mexico, New York, and Colorado out talking to people. This is a movement. While I have never lived by this rule, societal etiquette would indicate that it is best not to talk politics with people, especially with strangers. But, this time around people want to talk and engage. While of course I want people to be gung ho for Obama, the many undecided individuals who are engaged with this election equally uplift me. I believe that Obama’s campaign is affecting the social fabric of our society. His campaign and presidency has the potential to combat the “Bowling Alone” syndrome that Robert Putnam writes about. I encourage everyone to go be part of this magic.

Can't Life Just be one Long Glorious Weekend?

2008-09-22T23:30:00.001-05:00

I’m experiencing somewhat of a weekend to weekday culture shock today. I had one of those weekends that just gelled. On Friday night a lovely cooking journey into Southern Indian cuisine with a friend led to a spontaneous bike ride to the new Woody Allen movie with a not so inspiring title (VickiChristinaBarcelona), but a very alluring plot and cast. Saturday morning I slowly emerged from the womb of my bed, made a gourmet egg sandwich, and then went to Wicker Park (the park two blocks from my house) for some morning time reading. By noon I was stretching out my body and push the limits of my will power in my favorite yoga class at Cheetah Gym (though there are still many more to try). While I realize that being a liberal young adult living in a hip part of Chicago is pretty much synonymous with saying “I do yoga.” But as cliché as it is, I am so happy for the first time in my life to be consistently practicing yoga, not just saying how much I wish I could get into it. I feel my body thanking me. My knee rarely hurts during or after yoga and my mind is forced to stop creating, organizing, and completing to-do lists. I just have to stop, breath, and hope that I can make it through the hour in one piece. Luckily, I always do, and come out feeling stronger and healthier. I’ve only been able to skate once since being in Chicago, but it was an amazing experience. I felt more in shape on the ice after not skating for months due to the yoga and biking I’ve been doing. I hope to integrate skating back into my life in some capacity, but I am thankful that I have found some more convenient pastimes for my body to engage in.

Saturday afternoon found me eating good veggie eats at the Handlebar “biker” (cyclist) bar near my house with a good friend from college and strolling through Humboldt Park. Saturday evening commenced with roommate bonding where we all pitched in to cook a delicious meal followed by a fabulous gathering of some random friends my roommate and I have acquired. After a rather late night, Sunday became the day of grocery shopping, errands, and also a little more reading in Wicker Park. Spending time in Wicker Park is similar to spending time on a college “quad,” though the mix of people is a bit more diverse. The park is definitely a social center of the neighborhood. On any nice weather day people are guaranteed to be sunbathing, playing random lawn games, tossing a Frisbee, playing pick-up soccer or softball or basketball, picking fights, grilling out, sitting in a circle of friends surrounded by a circle of all their bikes… It’s a lovely place. The weather here is changing oh so slightly, giving a little nod to fall. I got to wear sweats and a sweatshirt in the park Sunday evening, and found myself getting a little chilly. Oh, how I love seasons!

So my action packed weekend gave way to Monday. Monday has been fine, but I seriously have felt myself somewhat disoriented by the transition of weekend to work week. I put in my first long day at the office—10 hours! I’m working extra so I can leave early on Friday to go canvas for Obama in Cincy this weekend. It was rewarding to get a lot of work done and feel my creative juices flowing as I get more responsibility, but I am a little too high from my weekend to get descriptive about quality assessment of health care. I do promise to muse on my work life in the near future, but for now, I am pretty pleased to just relax into the fall breeze that seems to be bringing a heartier social life my way.

Getting the Whole Picture

2008-09-14T22:53:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I wish I could telepathically transmit my thoughts into words on a page. There is so much I want to write and share. I want to paint stories for you. I want to draw adventures. But, I am so tired. I get energized in my mind, but my fingers are fatigued. I’ll do my best to give a flavor of this past (glorious) week, but I fear my eyelids are sagging a bit too low for brilliance to come forth.

The Skinny: This past week was really wonderful. Work began to fully coalesce. I am starting to grasp what my role and purpose is and envision more autonomy as I move forward. My social life was rich with meeting new people, bringing together old friends, eating tasty Indian food on Devon Street, cooking tasty Mexican and Mediterranean food to share with my roomie (Nora), and taking in art and architecture with my parents who visited for the weekend. I am feeling so energized by this city. Mind you, I am saying that after living through the rainiest day in Chicago history. So yes. I am happy.

The Fat: I want to focus in on a conference that I got to attend for my job this week. I went downtown on Wednesday afternoon for the Consortium to Lower Obesity in Chicago Children (CLOCC) conference. The subject was school wellness. It was an amazing experience. I sat in a room that held people from every major stakeholder group that could care about childhood obesity. There were city officials, school officials, teachers, doctors, health care administrators, members from the Chicagoland Bicycle Federation, policy people, community organizers, etc. It was so inspiring to see an issue being faced with such a holistic approach. I felt the community spirit in the room. So often problems are faced unilaterally, and ultimately little is solved. It really seems the only way to affect such a pervasive issue (a crisis) as childhood obesity is to tackle it holistically. If schools integrate comprehensive wellness programs (which is nearly impossible with funding and time restrictions in public schools), it will mean nothing without communities also involved. If kids don’t have consistent care from a primary care physician, it is hard to monitor health in the clinical setting. One study showed that kids most trust their doctors on health information. If they don’t have a consistent doctor they are missing one of their most trusted advisors. But, if doctors, schools, and communities are all on board, it will often mean little without the faith leaders of the community also preaching that message. I have created a Venn diagram in my head to show what I envision is necessary for sustainable social change. I can't figure out how to paste my diagram into this blog... SO, imagine it with me. There are three inner overlapping circles, and then one grand circle around them all. The three inner circles are education, health, and faith. The outer circle is community.

It is both so overwhelming and so exciting to look at issues in very comprehensive ways. There is a way toward change, but it requires an extreme amount of cooperation and will from everyone. We need a shift of consciousness. We need Obama. I have so much more to write and reflect on, but that will have to be for next time.

#4

2008-09-07T21:46:00.001-05:00

Hopefully the final entry solely focused on this transition period (but no promises)!

Work. Adjusting, adjusting, adjusting. They say that time is all you need. I believe them. I am feeling that time is on my side. While, I’ve certainly had some terrible restless nights searching for my city-life, working-world orientation, this weekend settled me. I am learning SO much. In fact, I think I’ve been so preoccupied pining for the return of my academic life that I have ignored or refused to cherish the learning that is taking place every moment of my life. I realize that statement contradicts my last blog… but contradiction is only a sign of learning. It seems in politics people are always criticizing the changing of the mind. But, isn’t that what life is all about? Constantly changing the mind. So, yea, my mind is swaying, and I’m seeing the value of the glorious and the mundane. I’m understanding that while I may not be infused with passion for my new life yet, I am learning so much from how to analyze why people aren’t getting their flu shots to whether I want to be in a desk job long term to the Chicago transit system to the best dive bars in Wicker Park. All very important lessons in their own right.

I spoke with a friend recently who is very involved in the Obama campaign. Her life is on fire. She breathes, laughs, cries Obama. She is so happy and purpose driven. After speaking with her, I was very disarmed by my own state of mind. I wasn’t crying out with joy for how much I love what I am doing. She told me to quit my job, move to where she is and join the movement. After all, this is a critical moment. I was tempted. I cried about it. I asked myself, “Am I missing out on being part of something that I will forever regret?” “Is it cowardly to pursue this life when I know there is this other more exciting and relevant one out there?”

Grappling with this temptation forced me to really define why I am here, and what the hell my purpose is. I think that is the most important thing that has come out of this weekend. For a while, I have felt like this world was just happening to me. My goal was just to stay afloat. That is no way to live. Now, I am above water. I have accepted that this is a different world that is exhausting and sometimes lonely, but there is really nowhere else I’d rather be. I need to be in Chicago figuring out what direction I want to go with my career path. I am passionate about finding my passions. And, I am passionate about Obama, thus I will serve his campaign from the place I am in. But, I would have to argue the cowardly thing for me to do right now would be to run off from this life that I have hardly given a chance yet.

And there is a lot of good in this life. My latest routine includes weekly yoga, and…. Belly dancing! My roommate is a belly dancer, and our gym just started a class. On Saturday I did an hour of yoga followed by an hour of hip popping, snake arm swaying, and Egyptian walking. The instructor kept insisting that belly dancing is one of the most natural dances that exists. As I stood before the mirror trying to keep my butt tucked in, chest open, and shoulders back, I was not convinced. But after an hour of strutting across the floor, shakin’ my thang I understood how great it is to be a woman. It’s these little realizations that make all the difference in the world. So, yea, I’m adjusting. Adjusting my attitude toward my new life. Adjusting my technique of making friends (I exchanged numbers with two women this weekend… making friends in the real world is more stressful than dating!). Adjusting the physical capacities of my body with downward dog, biking, and now a little Middle Eastern dancing. While, I sometimes wish to be on some grand adventure around the world, I am slowly realizing that this adventure I am on right here in Chicago has the potential to challenge and teach me as much or more than have my many travels.

Finding my Footing

2008-08-30T15:29:00.001-05:00

The Working World

Wow. I get it now. I am no longer a student. Sure, I’m a “student of the world” and there are “learning opportunities in every encounter.” I do truly believe in these mantras real worlders throw out there, but the truth is there is something distinctly different about operating without the structure of academia. This realization occurred to me at about 2pm on Monday.

My first week of work (last week) was overwhelming, but also really exciting. I was meeting new people at every turn, learning about the goals, vision, and work of the organization (www.accesscommunityhealth.net), and diving into the wonders of post-its and paperclips. No one really expected me to do any real work that first week… as was made evident when I was paid for a day of work on Friday that included meeting up with the quality team at our boss’s house in Forest Park and then going to the zoo! I work in one of those rare non-profit organizations that is so giant, it has to be run like a business, bureaucracy and all. Thus, things like “team-building fun days” are a must.

My first post-work week weekend rolled around last weekend, and I felt utterly exhausted. I still managed to have some fun at a few ultra hip non-profit benefits, do some yoga, and eat a meal with my mom as she drove through Chicago on the way to MN. I learned during this past weekend the wonders of having no homework. It turns out, when the work week is over, one can just forget about it until the next Monday. It is quite a handy mechanism for getting through life in the real world.

Nonetheless, this past Monday happened, and I imagine that I felt similar to how one would feel if a gentle earthquake was shaking the ground. That is, I had no grounding. I sat down to work on one project given to me by my supervisor, but soon after was called in by my boss and given three more projects, then I went to a meeting where I was given all the old interns’ projects, and then one of my co-workers kindly approached me with a two page document that she would just love for me to fax to all fifty health centers before the end of next week. WHOA! It’s not that any of these projects are too hard for me or even too time consuming; it was just that I had no idea how to organize myself around them. This was the moment I realized that my whole life I have been grounded in being a student, a pretty good one in fact. Now… now I am an employee of Access Community Health Network. I no longer just need to know how to use excel for the occasional chart making, but it is a daily application of my work. I don’t get to discuss and analyze all the intricacies of the projects I am given; I just have to do them. This is a different world.

After learning about the task function in Microsoft Outlook from my wise office-running father, I got to work on Tuesday and set out on rearranging my footing, on grounding myself into the work world. I feel that the earthquake has quelled, and I will ultimately manage this transition just fine. But, I’m not going to lie. There is a small part of me wanting to go get my PHD right about now.

Settling into New Realizations

2008-08-17T15:25:00.000-05:00

Life In Chicago: Week 2

The apartment has begun to feel more and more homey with each passing day. My original painting from Zambia has taken a prominent position on our living room wall. The kitchen has just about any-sized pan one could need. My bedroom has a brand new queen size mattress and frame, a lovely Pier One chair, and 100 dollars worth of quality thrift store furniture. Many thanks to my go-getter father whom wastes no time when in set up mode. It kind of felt like Batman visited me this week. He jetted through in his Volvo station wagon, solved every annoyance I was having with the moving process, fed me good food, and still managed to not fall too far behind saving the world in Cincinnati. My friend Zach, who was also visiting proved to be one hell of a Robin. If anyone needs moving help I recommend enlisting these two fine gentlemen.

With the immediate pressure of moving out of the way I am able to more fully settle into my Chicago life. Realizations I’ve had in my first two weeks here have been many. But to list a couple…

1) Cars are lonely death boxes. Coming from places of less than adequate public transportation, too many hills, and impatient drivers has led to a mostly driving lifestyle. In just two weeks here I have fully embraced the biking/public transit lifestyle. The bike lanes make the car anxiety greatly dissipate. In fact, it seems during high traffic times, biking is not only the healthier, more environmentally friendly way to get around, but it is the fastest mode of transportation. I have gotten in a car accident, but am still bike accident free (I am knocking on wood as I write this). Oh, and perhaps the best part is the biker nod. When driving around the city, fellow drivers do not happily nod at each other acknowledging the beauty of the city by car. No… it is more of an everyone for themselves mentality. In fact, I am convinced that the assholeness often associated with big cities emerges from frustrated drivers. For it is impossible to be a kind driver in the city and get anywhere in a timely manner. Conversely, bikers have a camaraderie on the road. There is this friendly nod followed by a knowing smirk of slight pretension, but mostly of happiness to be outside, going places, and being safe. Bikers don’t angrily creep up on each other’s tails, but if they do get a little too close, they are able to actually say something face to face. There is humanity in travel outside of cars that may have more transformative potential than we realize. Writing this, I know I will still be using my car. Sometimes I’m lazy, sometimes it is still faster, sometimes I want to say “forget humanity” and crawl into my air conditioned box, and sometimes I want to go places far, far away. But, it is nice to feel this shift within me, to feel the peace of biking, to feel the friendship possible on a busy road.

2) “Gay bar” does not translate to an escape from patriarchy. In an adventurous excursion to Boystown with two male friends of mine, I was hoping to dance the night away void of groping hands and sexist comments. My friends and I began dancing to the techno grooves as best we could. Then, midway through a back bend move of mine I got a tap on my back. Next thing I knew, a man had grabbed my bag and ripped me away from my circle. He pulled me close to him and whispered, “I’m straight.” He then began gyrating against my body and said, “Let’s make them jealous.” At this I invented a creative spinny move out of his arms and politely said I would like to dance with my friends. I snuck back between them and managed to create the stereotypical gay bar dancing fantasy of most girls. But it was definitely tainted by knowing that not even at a gay bar was I immune from the ever-present chauvinism of men in dance clubs.

There are more realizations to tell, but I fear overloading my blog entries into indigestible rants. Therefore, I will stop here and allow for digestion. My job begins tomorrow. I can only hope I continue to think, learn, do, grow, and that I find the time and words to share these experiences.

Be Yourself

2008-08-14T21:33:00.000-05:00

8/9/08 Life in Chicago: Week 1

The other day I was walking down Milwaukee Ave, a major thoroughfare of my new neighborhood Wicker Park. I was late for a Millenium Park concert because I didn’t have cash for the ‘L.’ Not to mention… about an hour earlier I had been fully discombobulated when I was rear-ended by an absent-minded driver. In this frazzled state I had no time for anything but my stress. I took some deep breaths to collect myself and constructed a way out of my frenzy. The plan was to go to the Seven-Eleven near the ‘L,’ purchase a bottle of wine for the concert and get change for the train. I was on a mission. And of course, just at the moment of clarity I walked by the neighborhood hippie. Standing with her guitar, dreads, and raggedly self-sewn clothing, she kindly looked me in the eye and asked, “Can I play a song for you?” Any other time I may have said yes. But, not now, not when I was running late and a little fed up with the city. So, I gave an appreciative nod and said, “Sorry, but I’m running late,” expecting to walk on in my same hurried, frantic state of mind. Before I could get out of earshot from my new friend, she apologetically smiled, and in an enlightened slightly drugged tone of voice, said, “Don’t be sorry, be yourself.”

And so, that’s just what I’m doing here. Here in the city where street performers double as prophets, and bicyclists have the right of way, I’m feelin’ pretty good. It seems I am living in the neighborhood that recently got too hip for school and thus people both resent it and love it. I went to a gallery in Pilsen with my friend last night. The gallery owner, who prefers living in the rough artsy part of town, smirked at me when I said I was living in Wicker Park. It is funny moving into a place full of stereotypes and “locals” knowing that someday I, too, might feel like “Wicker Park just isn’t what it used to be,” as a kind woman recently let me know at a dinner party. But for now it is good for my naïve soul. Sure, there is a bit of an overtly obvious Bobo (bourgeois bohemian) flare by day and an anything goes party vibe at night. But, the fact that the hipsters, the hippies, and the frat guys can all get down here has served to make me feel all the more secure in my own unlabeled personhood. I don’t feel like I have to convert to an only organic, local, vegan diet (though if I want to, it is here) and wear only Chuck Taylors. And those that I have met who do ascribe to that lifestyle have given me nothing but warmth.

In fact, on the whole, I would say Chicagoans are very nice people. Only once did I feel a bit of contempt. It happened today when I was biking down Division. A lovely girl leaned out of the passenger window as her car drove by me and yelled “BBBIIITTTCCCHHH!!!” I was a bit startled, and even got a little choked up, wanting to say sorry despite knowing I had done nothing wrong. But then I remembered my prophet guitarist and sighed a mantra of “don’t be sorry, be yourself.” I biked on, found the yard sale I was looking for and bought a movie for two dollars. They didn’t have the dresser that I actually needed, but I wasn’t going to go through verbal abuse to get to this yard sale and buy nothing. And so the settling in continues. This week has had its ups and downs, as every week has, but overall I think Chicago might fit.

The End

2007-06-06T15:40:00.000-05:00

It is time to say goodbye. I have been back in the United States of America for about 3 weeks now, and I am just now settling down in one place (Colorado Springs, Colorado). It's been a whirlwind return, and my experiences continue to flood me. I am not quite ready to settle down, get a job, live the "real" life. It is funny... I had so many moments this past semester that I would have given anything for one taste of American soil--now that I am here, I would give anything for one more tast of my IHP life. That is not to say that I didn't enjoy my past semester in full, but I think it is the curse of life to never soak everything out of the moments we are in, and then get thirsty for them later. The trick for me now is to utlize all the energy and knowledge from this past semester in my daily Colorado Springs life. I am learning that it is not as simple as it seems, but one way to do it is to continue to reflect and share.

So, I never uploaded any pictures this whole time... here it goes.
THE PEOPLE

My host moms! (India, China, and South Africa)

My Best Friends

Sunny is one pretty awesome girl who goes to Berkley. I had many a bus ride conversations with her.

Talia. Talia lives in San Fran, loves to cuddle, and was a huge emotional support for me.

Ariel (Ari) is my soulmate! End of story.

Nikki Kast was my favorite intellectual buddy. She expanded my mind in all sorts of ways that it had not dared have gone before.

Me, Talia, Nikki, and Ari. We were kind of a thing. They were such a huge, special part of my experience

Laura is one interesting girl. She went on the trip to Munnar with Ari, Talia, Nikki K, and I. She kept me smiling.

Nikki M. We didn't really get to know each other until we were roommates in South Africa. I am damn glad that happened. She is fantastic and so so smart!!!

The Places

Kerala, India in the tea plantations of Munnar. Absolutely breath-taking!

The famous God, Aneema, who came to visit!

The Great Wall of China

The Great McDonalds of China

Cape Point in Cape Town South Africa.

Zweletemba. The township I stayed in. This was the poorer part of town. The housing within townships vary widely from relatively well-off to no basic sanitation.

Ok... I'm sick of uploading pictures. So to see anymore you will have to come and visit me! Thank you to everyone who read this blog and sent me positive vibes throughout these past four months. I definitely got them. Transitions are always hard, but I am so thankful that I got to go on this journey and that I am now more aware than ever before of the priviledge that I carry in this world. Along with that awareness is great confusion of what I am to do with it. I hope to continue to ask questions, travel, listen, and learn throughout all I do in my life.

Life in Muslim South Africa

2007-05-06T04:16:00.000-05:00

So, I moved out of Zweletemba and the very same day moved into the Jacob's family. The Jacobs, Gamida and Nadeem, with their three children Nurah, 10, Kouthar, 7, and Gannan, 2, live in the Bo Kaap district in the city bowl of Cape Town. The Bo Kaap is predominately a "coloured" (I use this term, as it is the acceptable terminology in South Africa) area made of mostly Muslims. It is full of bright, colorful houses lining steep streets (last night the taxi we were in started rolling backwards due to the immense steepness, don't worry we were fine!). Most of the people that live there are known as the "Cape Malay", with origins in Malaysia. They are famous for their amazing food, and our family is not an exception. My host mom cooks some of the best food I have had on the trip, it is sort of like Indian, but not exactly. I bought the Cape Malay cookbook at the request of my home stay mom and look forward to attempting a few of these amazing dishes.
I was a bit nervous about living with a devout Muslim family. What if I am too crazy for them? Not to worry! My first day in the home, my host dad was listing off all his favorite Ludacris, Snoop Dog, and Fifty Cent songs. My host mom talks nostalgically of the days she went out dancing and how she would really love to take belly dancing classes. They have a big cozy L-shaped couch, and we have all spent many a nights gathered watching all sorts of movies. I have had a home. They do pray five times per day, and their Muslim values are definitely the backbone of their lives. Rather than being an awkward cultural disconnect, we have had really amazing conversations about religion, apartheid, differences of lifestyle. THe truth is Muslims can truly get down!
My first weekend with the home stay they took me, and Nikki M. (my AMAZING roommate) to a Muslim fashion show at a high school for ladies only. My word, it was an event. All the women had their heads uncovered (no pictures aloud) and were hootin and hollerin as beautiful, scantily clothed high school girls pranced down the runway like professionals. Any stereotypes I had were certainly shattered that night. The next weekend I went to Goudini Spa, a hot springs about an hour out of Cape Town, with my homestay. We sat in hot pools, jumped on trampolines, hiked up a mountain (or half a mountain), watched movies, and ate a ton of junk food! The spa was filled with predominately coloured resort, and bathing suits ranged from full body suits to the few who were a bikini top with shorts. I stuck to the one piece bathing suit. It was a great weekend. But all good things have the slightly negative side. All of this family time has brought with it some familial frustrations and a personal tension that leaves me and Nikki stuck between being with our family and spending time with our friends from IHP who we will soon be saying goodbye to.
All has worked out, and I have had a fantastic time here. There is so much I have learned that I cannot even scratch the surface in a blog. I move out of the Bo Kaap tomorrow, then it is final retreat and then I board a plane to the US of A on Friday. But damn, I feel like I need to come back to each and every place I have gone, there is just too much to do, see, and experience. Then again, it will be good to come home and solidify my synthesizing.

P.S.

2007-04-22T10:36:00.000-05:00

I went back the next day to the last sangoma to continue my medical tourism for my knee. She boiled up some traditional herbs and put them in a 2 liter pop bottle for me to drink. So currently I am drinking half a glass of earth-tasting water per day to try and make my knee better.

Zweletemba

2007-04-20T10:33:00.000-05:00

I spent this past week in Zweletemba, a black township outside of Worcester, South Africa. I turned 21 at a table prepared by three amazing black South African women who, even though we had known each other for about 2 hours, had a bottle of champagne to celebrate me with. There was also mashed potatoes, dad, you know I was happy! The whole week was really just an incredible experience that is impossible to tie up neatly in one blog entry. Instead, I will just recount one day in the life of Jessica in Zweletemba. For a bit of context, Zweletemba is centered in the boland region full of large, breath-taking mountains, and gorgeous wine vineyards.
"I began the day geared toward my need to get out into the indescribable beauty that surrounds this place. After waiting for an hour and half for the transport to arrive, 17 of us piled into a taxi and eventually found something of a trail behind a small campground and vineyard. The trail quickly dissipated into us scrambling up a steep hillside covered in prickly bushes and shrubs leaving me covered in scrapes and scratches... all well worth it. At the top we took in the sights, layed in the sun, listened to music, and relaxed. The way back down was a bit more troubling for me, lots of falls, but all was well. I was hoping for a glass of wine at the bottom, but I had to get back to the township to carry on with the adventures of this day. Nikki, my friend, was asking our mom about sangomas in the area. Sangomas are traditional healers. This led to us going on a very involved "sangoma hunt". At the first house we went to the sangoma was out of town. Quickly we realized that we shouldn't fear--there is a sangoma at every street corner (later we learned for a young boy that Zweletemba is a unique township in that it is particularly witch-infested, thus the need for lots of sangomas). The next sangoma we visited was too tired and told us to come back later. The next one we met chatted with our hose moms for a while and then said she would take us to the place where a lot of sangomas congregate. We then wandered around Mandela square, an slum part of the township. There we met another sangoma who was extremely stern and simply pointed onward. At the end of the hunt we arrived at a house with about 10 sangomas who were participating in a ceremony for a novice sangoma. It was absolutely surreal. We were welcomed into the room that was clearly busting at its seams. Two women created a small opening between their bodacious butts for me to plop into. When all the sangomas began singing and dancing in a circle I was filled with tingles and chills. The woman who was being initiated was probably around 30. We learned that she had been really sick and went to a traditional healer. The healer said that her ancestors were beckoning her to be a sangoma. This coincided with dreams she was having. Once she accepted the calling, she was healed. This is pretty much the same story for every sangoma we have met or heard of. I think it is so incredibly fascinating. That is their truth. It is 100% real. Why don't my ancestors call me to do things?
After the sangoma hunt, we came back home and cooked a feast that ended up feeding 16 people! One of my roommates is Indian-American, so we made tandoori chicken, potato curry, lemon rice, bread pudding, and good ol American chocolate chip cookies. Everyone thoroughly enjoyed it, and it felt so good to give something back to this absolutely beautiful family that has given us so much. It is so nice to really be in a community. After the never-ending feast, we went back to the first sangoma who had dressed up so that we could take pictures of her posing with her certificates. What a day!"

Now I am back in Cape Town living in the Bo Kaap district. It is beautiful and once again I have an amazing family. I finally have kids in my family (three girls, 11, 7, and 2). It is great fun. There is only 3 weeks left on this crazy adventure. Thanks for following through it all with me!

The sun sets on Beijing

2007-04-05T09:16:00.000-05:00

It's April. It's my last night in Beijing. I do not know where to possibly begin. I have loved the Beijing portion of this program. Why, you might ask. Has Jessica become a city girl who loves pollution? I do not think that is the case. More so I just feel like my life and the program have coalesced more throughout this past month. Ah, I am leaving China in a much different place than I was in when I left India and I am pondering much different things. I would say that India was harder for me on the whole, but it was so necessary for this trip. I am really coming to realize that even if things are not as I expect them to be or even if I miss 99 out of 100 opportunities to learn and grow in a day, what I do get matters. I am also realizing that everything I am doing in India, China, and soon South Africa, I can do back at home. Health, culture, and globalization are so integral to life everywhere on this planet and I am excited to apply my knowledge or at least my intrigue in my own backyard... And hopefully figure out what to do my senior thesis on!!!
Let us discuss some of the things I did and sites I saw while in China:
THE GREAT WALL...twice! The first time I went to the restored portion in all its glory. The view reminded me of every East Asian landscape painting... except that there was a long, yellow, winding slide that saved my knees from the walk down. That's right, I slid off of the Great wall of china. The second time I climbed the wall was just a few days ago during our visit to the "New Socialist Countryside" where everyone was named Mao--seriously. We met Mr. Mao, then Dr. Mao, then Mr. Mao the chestnut farmer, and a million mrs. Maos! It was absolutely beautiful. We climbed an unrestored section dating back to the Qin dynasty (220 BC). The Cherry blossom trees were blooming, the sun was shining, and all out work had been turned in. It was a killer for the knee, but totally worth it. YOu may still at this point be hung up on my brief intro to the New Socialist Countryside--basically its a village that used to all farmers, but now they have cold theis land and used money to build guest houses on their homes so that rich Beijingers can breath fresh air for a weekend, and definitely for all those Olympics tourists that Beijing is vigorously preparing for-- we learned that there are more construction sites in Beijing than in all of EUrope! IT all felt a bit strange to me, especially with all the Maos, but it was a good time. Everyone we talked to in the village stressed how much better things are now than when they were farming and poor. Critical jessica wanted to push further. What about the loss of tradition and culture? But, then again, maybe it really is better now. I find myself at times romanticizing traditional culture and livelihoods and feeling sorrow for any person who has been corrupted by globalization. I think the truth of the matter lies somewhere between the two extremes. It is good and bad. ANd it is happening. FOODI love chinese food. I have eaten well... too well. I always heard in the states that real Chinese food was different, but experiencing it first hand is amazing. My host dad was a chef, so I ate well there, and basically you cannot go wrong at any restaurant! I have decided that there are some entities here that need to come to the US ASAP. The beijing breakfast= a delicious crepe like thing with an egg, chives, parsley, fried rice cracker, spicy sauces, all folded up and thrown in a bag for a quick on the go snack or meal. They cost about 2-3 yuan (roughly 30-40 cents). I will truly miss them, perhaps more than I miss people. Other perks I love are fruit on a stick, meat on a stick, grilled sweet potatoes on the street, peking duck (not available on the street), peanut-sauce noodles and cucumbers in a bag, oh the list goes on. Come to Beijing and eat!!!
CASE STUDY WEEK This was the highlight of my time in Beijing. During this week we all stayed in a hotel and worked in groups of eight on various health-related issues. I was part of the One-Child Policy group. I cannot stress how important the week was for me. We traveled all about beijing, did lots of interviews, and even wrote a song for the only children for our presentation, and we really bonded with each other. I am so incredibly lucky. The experience was so great because I felt proud of what I was doing. It was the most exciting and tantalizing intellectual endeavour of this trip so far. My intial biases were challenged, and I was seriously forced to understand the one-child policy from both sides of the debate. It is a human rights violation. It also is necessary for population to be controlled. It is largely a norm of society at this point. But the social repurcussions are not fully being noted and examined. I would love to talk more about my feelings regarding this week any time!
Wow, this blog is getting long. There is just so much to say. I haven't even talked about the silk market, karaoke, banana, my amazing friends and crazy professors.. not to mention the loads of experiences from India. Ahhhh! Deep breath. I got a plane to catch to Africa tomorrow. We will be in a hostel for 2 days, I should be accessible then, but after that, on my birthday, we move into a township outside of Capetown for a bit more than a week. SO don't worry if I am not heard from! Wo Ai Ni ( i love you in Chinese) Zai Jian (goodbye in Chinese)

The biggest automatic door in Beijing!!

2007-03-24T03:20:00.000-05:00

That's right folks. I, Jessica Gingold, got to walk through by far the biggest automatic door in Beijing. It was part of the ultra-rich, ultra new, Tong ren Tang Pharmaceutical Company manufacturing plant. Tong Ren Tang makes traditional Chinese medicines and is known to be the finest worldwide distributor. I never really thought about Chinese medicines being talked about by businessmen in fancy board rooms. But capitalism is here, whether we like it or not, and maybe we do like it, because now you can buy the chinese lizard that helps prevent colds right in Portland Oregon, and boil it in the comfort of your own home... mmm lizard juice. I have had some encounters with Chinese medicine. Basically, I have become the ultimate medical tourist.
In India, I stuck my body in ayurvedic medicine. I had a consultation with an ayurvedic doctor who gave me some oil to rub on my knee (the oil promptly spilled all over my bag), and some black charcoal-like herbal pills to take. I then had an ayurvedic massage when I was in Munnar. This experience could be equated to stepping into a barrel of butter and rolling around in it. I walked into a room, was told to undress and then put on a towel thong. My masseuse also took her shirt off to put on one she could get dirty, and then she lathered me in oil from head to toe, boob to butt. She didn't miss anything. It was a nice, soft massage for an hour. After the massage, I got in a "steam bath". That means, I sat in a wooden box with my head sticking out the top while my body was engulfed by steam. When that was over, she patted me down, toweled me off, and sent me on my way. Unfortunately, my knee still hurt after India, so I decided TCM would be the answer. I began with acupuncture right away. Damn, that can hurt! My knee qi (pronunced chee) is way off. I have had 5 sessions so far, and am currently looking for a new acupuncturist as the one I was seeing doesn't really seem to have his own practice... long story. While i have yet to notice much of a difference, I am still hopeful. Along with the acupuncture, I decided to give chinese herbs a try. I took home some bags of bark and mushrooms and handed them to my chinese mom. She boiled them up and put them in bowl in the bathroom. I proceeded to stick my feet in them and make a wrap for my knee. I am not very skilled at all of this and ended up wrapping the entire bathroom in herbs. I was also dyed greenish-brown. I did it three times and then was informed by my english-speaking host-sister that my host mom HATES chinese medicine because she thinks it smells bad... oops! And I had just brought home some tea for her to make... I decided that it was just too much trouble to put her through, so maybe I will revisit the herbs when I get home (which I can so conveniently do due to the wonders of globalization and tong ren tang pharmaceuticals!). I look forward to finding some ancient healing technique to pursue when I am in South Africa!
TOmorrow, I move out of my homestay and into a hotel for 10 days. As much as I absolutely love my family, it will be nice to have one night without communicating through charades and pictionary--though I do love those games! I am going to learnt o cook something yummy tonight. I will share how that goes! I send my love and healing to all!

peking, beiping... BEIJING!

2007-03-13T07:29:00.000-05:00

I have arrived in a new land far from the land of Bangalore, ayurvedic massages, and ashrams. This land is called Beijing. Beijing is a city of 17 million, however it feels less crowded than the 7 mill ppl city of Bangalore. Beijing is full of large postmodern architecture, bright neon signs, bars, restaurants, paved roads and sidewalks. The poverty that does exist has thus far been well hidden from my eyes. Traditional Chinese medicine is well woven into the city; acupuncture, reflexology, herbal massages. The youth are ultra-hip. Shaggy haircuts, tall boots, knock-off diesel jeans, the whole nine yards. Boys and girls walk hand in hand. My 26 year-old host sister does not live at my homestay, she lives with her boyfriend! This is not India anymore. But at the same time, it is not the United States of America either.
Tonight my American sister, Kit, and I went out to dinner on our own. THe first restaurant we went to had no pictures on the menu, definitely no english, and when we tried to use the phrasebook we couldn't get anything across. Humiliated we left and went to the next restaurant down that had pictures. We ended up getting the spiciest thing I have ever eaten (my lips are still burning) and some fried goo. It is tough being in China when the only things I can say are "hi my name is jessica" and "thank you" in chinese. My homestay parents speak not a word of english, so dinners tend to be a theatrical performance. But I feel very fortunate to be in my homestay, both my parents are foodworkers, my father a chef. We eat well! My host sister was there our first night, and she speaks broken english. My favorite exchange with her went like this:
me, "what should we do for breakfast tomorrow?"
her (after consulting her mom), "My mother will put out bread and jams. YOu can serve yourself and then you can put your dishes in the chicken.
I feel that a lot will be lost in translation while I am here. Luckily there are several mandarin speakers on the trip, one of which is my best friend. Without them, I would be lost.
We live with host families for two weeks and then live in a guesthosue for the next two weeks. It will be nice to have that autonomy especially since Beijing is a hopping city! I am definitely looking forward to my time in Beijing, and the many miscommunications that will accompany it. Hopefully, I will get some time later to write a bit more about my last week in India as there are some stories I would still love to share. Much love to all! I am doing acupuncture for my knee tomorrow!!

p.s. this is a shameless reminder. My 21st birthday is in a little less than a month. It occurs on my second day in south africa. if one would like to send me something and has not done so, you may want to send something to south africa kind of soon. Sorry, i know that is terrible of me to write, but I had to. I have no expectations.

Life outside of the city

2007-03-06T04:55:00.000-05:00

Had I left India two weeks ago, my overall impression would not have been too positive. With scary rickshaw drivers, amoebas, garbage, and extreme poverty-- Bangalore is just not my cup of masala tea. However, Bangalore is not India, and I have constantly been overwhlemed by the diversity I have seen just in Southern India.
On February 23rd I boarded a coach bus with 30 other students and we were off to our week in Kerala. On the way to Kerala we stopped at the Tribal Health Initiative in the Sittiling Valley in Tamil Nadu. It was an amazing hospital set up by two indian doctors to service 24 tribal villages that would otherwise be alienated from medical care. The attitude of the place was very organic. They did not seem to believe that their way was the only way. They were willing to enter into a dialogue with the tribal people in order to find the most effective means to find health and healing. The sturctures themselves were very aesthetically pleasing. I am really understanding the importance of place. If the physical place is peaceful and thoughtful, it is much more conducive to people being peaceful and thoughtful. That first night of our journey we stayed at an organic farm and commune. THey fed us amazing food that they had grown and talked with us about their life philosphies. It was an incredibly uplifting place. From there we went to Thrissur, Kerala for a few days. The most important thing we did during that time was a day trip to Plachimada. Plachimada has been the staging ground against the Coca-cola company in India. THere is a coke plant in Plachimada that has managed to totally contaminate all the drinking water and ruin the agirculture. THere has been a camp of locals protesting across the street from the plant for 1770 days. It was incredible to bear witness to their perseverence. However, I felt that we could have learned a lot more had we had a good translator. There were 15 people sitting in front of us, all with valuable stories that mostly went unheard. Language is such an important tool for communication. I believe deep connections can be made without words, but there is definitely something to be said for them. After Thrissur, we went to beautiful Wayanad. That time was mostly used for the academic wrap-up in India. I had to write a 7 page paper BY HAND. You may roll your eyes and say whatever, but I'm telling you it was damn hard! I stayed up nearly the entire night to complete it, and it wasn't even that good. I give a shout out to anyone who wrote papers by hand.
SInce March 2nd I have been on a vacation with 4 of my girl friends from the program. We went to beautiful luscious Munnar for 3 nights. I will write more about that later. And right now, we are in a small town in Tamil Nadu near Sri Ramana Maharshi's Ashram. We will be walking 9 miles around his mountain early tomorrow morning. We are going to try to walk it in silence. Needless to say, there will be more to write about soon. I was feeling that it had been a while since I connected, so I hope this gives you a sufficient taste of my whereabouts.

Auto Rickshaws and Amoebas

2007-02-19T06:28:00.000-05:00

I have dazzled you all with the colorful, magical fantasy world that is part of India. But alas, there is another part. My two nemeses are now: auto rickshaw drivers, and my amoeba named Andy.
Rickshaws are three wheel vehicles somewhere between a motorcycle and a car that are used as taxis. There are thousands of them in the city and probably the primary way that I get around (besides the bus to school in the morning). Rickshaw drivers are notorious for cheating people, so one must always insist they use the meter. I have not gotten into one without a meter flipped on. However, I happen to have no knowledge of Bangalore as a city. I am just now starting to recognize landmarks, but it is scary getting into an auto and realizing the driver could take you anywhere. I will only tell one story of my hatred for rickshaw drivers as it is also quite comical. One afternoon, Bridget and I caught a rickshaw to take us home... so the story begins. About 20 minutes into the ride he stops and says that his rickshaw is broken. It was believable as the rickshaw has been going incredibly slow... So we all get out, driver included. Bridget and I attempt to get a new rickshaw while the driver manually pushes his up the hill. No more than a minute later and Indian woman runs up to our rickshaw and asks for a ride. The driver hops back in and off they go. Hmmm... that wasn't cool. SO then, we get into another rickshaw after being refused by about 5. We head out toward home when again 20 minutes later the rickshaw slows to a stop. This time it isn't because it is broken, he just simply had an errand to run. So he tell us to wait and grabs some bags from behind our heads to run into the shop. Five minutes later we are on our way again only to realize we had done a huge circle and in fact he had taken us 20 minutes the wrong direction to run his errand. But of course, he didn't understand english, so when i tried to yell at him it was to no avail. Moral of the story: never trust a rickshaw driver.
Now, Andy... the amoeba who is currently residing in my intestines. THe past three days have been full of pain, diarrhea, and depression as I struggle with being sick in a foreign country. And I really think the amoeba has been here for a little bit. However, today is much better, and I am hopeful that I am on the up and up. My family didn't quite grasp my issue. A week and a half ago I had one day of diarrhea and sickness, my host mom decided that she would exorcise that illness with some burning broomstick wood criss crossed in front of me. It may have worked momentarily, but then a week later the diarrhea was back with a vengeance. This time, no fire was going to save me. I got some meds from the doctor associated with my program and settled in for lots of rest. My family didn't seem content with the parasite explanation and continued to try to feed me and conspire with friends on what they had done wrong. Sunday, one of my many "aunties" came over with a jar of some sort of seeds and a bowl of yellow powder. This is the aryuvedic approach. I swallowed two handfuls of the bitter seeds and one of the pepper powder none of which was very pleasant... and then continued to have a terrible day. Later on, another auntie tried to get me out of bed to take me to her sister who would heal me. I decided against that plan, and to just let western medicine do its thing for the time being. That being said, I am more open to alternative approaches to medicine now than ever before.

Gods, Sarees, and lots of food

2007-02-13T07:46:00.000-05:00

Friday night I arrived home from school a bit late because we had a really great presentation on Indian folk music. When I arrived my family informed me that I "had missed it."
"Missed what?" I said.
"The God. She came through the house already and is now in the next home."
Huh? I thought to myself. My sister said that I shouldn't worry because the God would be back on Sunday on her way out of town. We could go see her now and take pictures, but there were too many people there. Needless to say, this discourse led to much confusion in my mind. See a god? Take a picture of a god? The next night the festival would begin, so I just sat tight with my confusion.
I woke up and went to a friend's homestay house to learn the secrets of the Indian kitchen. I can now prepare chipati and some potato dish. I will dazzle you all when I return. After cooking and a little shopping I went home so that I could help prepare for the God. The night consisted of peeling hundreds of garlic cloves, shelling many many peas, getting my hand henna-fied, watching cheesy indian music videos,preparing offerings of flowers and fruit and coconuts for Aneema (the God), and trying desperately to stay awake until it was time for punjab at 2 in the morning. We knew it was time to go when men came to our door banging drums. They pulled Kantha, my brother, out of the house and danced with him as all the women gathered their offerings together. After the dancing we left the house and marched forward in the candle lit darkness to repeat our scene house by house. Each house delivered beautiful Indian women with pots of flowers, incense, candles, and trays of fruit. Occasionally someone would emerge with a chicken to sacrifice. The brigade grew into a swarm of colors and scents. I did my best to lay low , but my white skin glowed in the sea of Indian women. At the temple we gave our offerings, drank holy coconut milk, and received flowers. While some fave their trats, those with the pots circled through the chamber multiple times. Some time in there they sacrificed a sheep and chickens. It was surreal, the next morning it felt like i had dreamt it. There was a second punjab at 5:30 in the morning, but I didn't attend that one.
The next morning we prepped for the big party where 100-200 friends and relatives would be eating a feast on our roof. For the occasion my aunt and my sister, mamta, decided to dress me and bridget up in sarees. We went to the store where they bought us the little black belly shirts, then returned home to be wrapped and adorned. I wore a beautiful iridescent gold and black saree, a bindi, a gold necklace, and the henna on my hand. I truly felt like and indian princess ( i will add pictures soon). A bunch of my friends came to the party as well, so it was fun to show them my homestay life. THe feast was full of all sorts of flavors and chicken parts, some I was more inclined to eat than others. But mostly the festival was a time to interact with people and share in the love for the god.
So finally... the god Aneema. Sunday night it was time for the God to leave. We all went on the roof to watch the processional begin out of the neighborhood. It was at that moment I realized that the God was actually a big lit up golden float that contained an altar. It went with a marching band, a float with singers, and lots of people house to house to receive the people's final punjab. Our house was the last to be reached. Needless to say, it was quite the experience. Aneema is the god for health and success. SO maybe, just maybe, she can help me on this journey.

Welcome to India

2007-02-07T07:21:00.000-05:00

Where to begin... There are three distinct smells of Bangalore: Indian food, Incense, and occasional wafts of urine. People eat with their hands here because as my host brother said, "God made hands for work and eating." But for clarity, one should eat with only the right hand, because it is in fact true the other is used for wiping. There is not toilet paper in my bathroom, and have been avoiding the inevitable with the few tush wipes I brought... my supply is soon to run out. Traffic is crazy and chaotic. I fear for my life every time I have to cross a street or get in an auto. I saw a man next to his motorcycle in a puddle of blood on my way to school this morning. It is a tough reality to swallow. Traffic lights are a suggestion, and basically everyone is in a big game of Mario Kart. I am learning to be cautious, but also not be too scared. That's the intro, now let's get to specifics.
My family consists of two parents who are 40 and 50, neither speak english, and three english-speaking children, 23 year old boy, 20 year old girl, and 18 year old boy. The siblings serve as our cultural brokers, and we have truly been treated like gods. Aaahh there is so much to say, and so little time left on my computer. I guess I'll settle to tell the story of my day yesterday. There is a bit of political turmoil happening here in Karnataka over water rights (look it up in the news to learn more). Nothing serious has occured, but people are taking precautions. Because of fear, our class was cancelled yesterday, so my brother asked if me and the other american living with me, bridget, would like to go to a temple. Of course we said yes. We pile into a car with our aunt and uncle, their daughter, our brother (kantha), and our sister. First we go to an exposition of handicrafts, all so beautiful, and then we get back in the car to emerge 3 HOURS LATER in the midst of rocky hills and countryside. We then climb up a small small mountain to go into a cave that has been scultped as a temple to Ganesh and his parents. It was an absolutely amazing experience. I participated as best as I could in Hindu worship, but am sure I looked quite akward. I drank some holy water from Ganesh's mom, and my brother told me to ask her for a wish and she'll make it come true. SO I decided it wouldn't hurt, and I asked her to make sure I got the most out of this trip as is possible. (My family is very hindu. We have a shrine in our house. When I first came to the home my mom was going into pray and didn't say hi until she was done.) On the way back we hit a wedding of my aunt's friend. I got to go into the bridal chamber and watch as the meticulously draped her in gold so that she could go have a one minut cermony in which she and her husband exchanged flower wreaths, and then stood for four hours as every group of family and friends got their picture taken with them. Marraige is a whole different topic I dont' have the time to get into.. but I have had some interestign discussions with my host sister, rohini, about it. Ok, that is all I can do for now. So rry it is so crazy and vague. I don't have as much access as I thought I would. I love hearing from everyone and I am a bit homesick. Love with hugs.

Pictures!

2007-02-02T13:37:00.000-05:00

By the way folks, the group has created a flicker account to put our pictures. I have not taken many pics yet nor have I loaded any. But if you are just dying to see some pics of my travels even if they are not my own, here is the site: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ihphc07/. ENJOY!

Today is the day...

2007-02-01T16:17:00.000-05:00

After two weeks of anticipation, talking about being ready, clinging to my cell phone to stay in touch, it will be time to turn it off tomorrow. I leave for the airport at 4pm and arrive in India on Sunday. It's going to be quite the journey. Before moving on to the next leg, I want to review the highlights of my time in Boston.

The community building. I am amazed by how amazed I am by my peers that I will be traveling with. I have never been surrounded by 30 people who are filled with the same passion I am to learn about health and inequalities and then do something about it. I am no star in this crowd. I have friends who have volunteered in Tanzania, Kenya, China, disability camp, South Africa, Mexico, cities all over the US, and beyond. I can learn so so so much from everyone I am surrounded by, and that is absolutely exhilarating. That obviously means that this could be a very intense experience. Luckily I have found a few friends I already know I can truly let it all down and laugh with. One of those friends is Ari who has been in my room in the hostel with me. She is a sociology major at Bates, and we have many of the same dilemmas and life crazinesses. She has been a buffer for me.
The Long Island Homeless Shelter run by the Boston City Health Commission. This place is amazing. It is out on an island across from Boston (about 30 min from downtown). The buildings were originally used as a TB sanitarium, then were used for a hospital for the chronically ill, and are now home to a 400-bed emergency shelter to which people are bussed from the city, transitional housing for mostly people who have substance abuse problems, a job-training program which trains people in such things as maintenance, culinary arts, and the like. The people that worked there were all amazing. I am constantly overwhelmed by how many driven, positive, people exist in this world to do good.
Yeshe coming to visit. I had the weekend off from my nine-to-five "job", and Yeshe came out for one last goodbye. It was nice to see someone from my other world before embarking out into this new world. As much as I am going to melt into this experience, I know it will be crucial for me to maintain communication with my loved ones so that I don't come back utterly lost. I want to know the exciting and the mundane from all of you!
Encounters with amazing speakers. While I would say that many of the experts we heard from gave rather one-sided views, they were views that were good to hear for me. I would say that it would have been nice for a few less talks, so as to have a bit more time to think, but overall I feel very lucky. I have so many contacts at the Boston University school of Public Health if I ever want to come here. I think the thing that has hit me most from all my learning these past two weeks is "the culture of biomedicine". I had never really thought of biomedicine as a culture, it was a given norm of my life. To dissect the process of becoming a doctor and to understand the rituals and enculturation that goes into producing a doctor really flipped my view of what is normal. Why is it normal to go to a hospital and be surrounded by professionals dressed in blue when you have a baby? Why does it seem weird to have your baby in your own home? This is one of many realizations I have had so far, and I look forward to working through these questions throughout the next few months.

I think that is all I am going to go in to for now. The next time you hear from me I will be in India. It's kind of crazy, but oh so exciting!

Life in Boston

2007-01-24T13:02:00.000-05:00

I have officially begun my program... but I am only in Boston. Surprisingly, even in Boston, I feel excited, overwhelmed, shocked, and empowered. We are beginning the program by a little bit of orienting with the students, introductions to each of the classes (health and culture, health and globalization, stuff of life, and reasearch methods), tons of guest lectures, and studying health care in boston itself. It is awesome in both the amount of opportunities we are having and the amount of energy it takes to get through a day. We are staying at the international youth hostel.
Each morning we walk a half hour to the bu medical building where we are taking our classes and hearing lectures beginning at 8:45. With a few breaks we go straight from 9-5ish. My brain feels like it is going to explode, and it is just the beginning. By the time I get back to the hostel I am exhausted, but that is when the bonding time, and homework time (yes we have homework (for 4 classes), 4 classes at a time is different than the block plan) happens. Despite the absolutely full feeling I am having, I am very positive. The three professors represent unique backgrounds that when combined give a very comprehensive look at world health problems. I am certain that this program will be a guiding light in my life as I figure out what the hell I am going to do. On thursday we visit community health centers around Boston; it will be nice to do something active after all the lectures we have had. So that is just the quick overview, and I'm sure it will only get more crazy, exciting, interesting, depressing, hard, exhilirating as I go.

SIGN-UP NOW

2007-01-18T11:17:00.000-05:00

Click here: http://www.feedblitz.com/f/?Sub=146016 , and you will recieve e mails of every time I update this blog. You don't want to waste time checking it when there is nothing new to see... conserve you internet time!

Contacting me the slow way

2007-01-17T14:35:00.000-05:00

Just in case anyone gets a hankering to write a letter in the next few months, I have just the solution for you. Below are the adresses for contacting me (take note of the dates because mail will not be forwarded).

International Honors Program (IHP)
Health and Community, Spring 2007
OVERSEAS MAILING ADDRESS LIST
&
EMERGENCY CONTACT INFORMATION
Mail: Mail delivery can require anywhere from ten days to three weeks. Do not send packages. IHP will not forward student mail. IHP cannot be held responsible for lost mail. Addresses and dates are subject to change.
Telephone and email contact: The phone numbers below are for emergencies only. Refer to the IHP Handbook for more general details on student access to telephones and email overseas. Telephone contact overseas is often difficult and unpredictable: friends and family are encouraged to write letters. Be advised that the group will have only sporadic access to email and phones throughout the IHP semester.
Emergencies: If an emergency or serious concern arises where it is necessary for a parent or guardian to contact a representative of IHP
Contact the appropriate country coordinator at the number below. It is critical for all students and parents to know that Coordinators should ONLY be contacted if there is a serious emergency. Be sure to reference the appropriate time zones overseas. Dial the number slowly. You may have to dial several times to receive a good connection.
Coordinators should NOT be contacted for general inquiries, questions about mail delivery, arrival or departure information, etc. Please contact IHP Boston (617-375-8101 or info@ihp.edu) if you have general questions. If an IHP coordinator or faculty has serious concerns about a student currently overseas, the IHP coordinator or a member of IHP will be in touch with the student’s designated emergency contact as reported by the student on his/her pre-departure forms.
If the Coordinator cannot be reached, contact the IHP Program Director, Lois McCloskey on her cell (617) 271-6517. Her alternate home phone is (617) 497-4557. The Program Director should only be used as a secondary source in the event of an emergency.
If messages have been left with the above contacts and the call is not returned within a reasonable time frame, contact the IHP emergency cell phone (617-620-9240).

Boston January 20 –February 2
Student Mail:
Student Name
c/o International Honors Program (IHP)
566 Columbus Ave.
Boston, MA USA 02118
Re: Mail for student, not IHP
Phone: Hostelling International 617-536-1027 (Messages taken for students)
Emergency Contact:
During business hours: (617) 375-8101, ask to speak with an IHP staff member
Fax: (617)236-0162
During non-business hours: cell (617) 271-6517, home phone: (617) 497-4557 Lois McCloskey, Boston Coordinator, IHP Health and Community Program Director
Secondary non-business hours: (emergency cell): 617-620-9240, Megan Pierson, Director, IHP
Calling from abroad: Country code (1), City Code: Boston (617)

Bangalore & Kerala, India February 4 – March 9
Vacation: Begins on Friday, March 2 at 2:00 pm. Students must return to Bangalore by Thursday, March 8 at 10:00am. The vacation end meeting location will be provided to students at the beginning of the India program. The group will gather on March 8 and depart India on March 9 for Beijing.
Student Mail:
IHP c/o Environmental Support Group
105 East End ‘B’ Main Road
9th Block, Jayanagar
Bangalore 560 069 INDIA
Emergency Contact:
Emergency Phone/Fax: Leo Saldanha or Bhargavi Rao 011-91-80-22441977or 011-91-80-2653-1339
or Fax: 011-91-80-2653-4364
Alternate Emergency Phone: (Bhargavi home) 011-91-80-2679-0027
Mobile (Leo): 011-91-9448377403 (Bhargavi): 011-91-9448377401
Calling from abroad: Country Code (91), City Code (80)

Beijing China March 10 – April 6
Student Mail:
China Academy of Chinese Medical Sciences
C/O Professor Ren Xu
Main Building, Room #606
No. 16 Nan Xiao Jie, Dongzhimennei,
Beijing, 100700 CHINA
Emergency Contact :
Hong Mautz, Emergency cell: 011-86-137-1890-6546 Prof. Ren Xu, Emergency cell: 011-86-13701007802
Calling from abroad: Country Code (86), City Code: Beijing (10)

South Africa April 7 – May 11
Student Mail:
Chris Colvin and Natalie Leon
(for [student’s name])
7 Alfred St.
Observatory 7925
Cape Town, South Africa
Emergency Contact: Chris Colvin
Home: 011-27-83-453-9438
Cell: 011-27-21-447-7605
Calling from abroad: Country Code (27); City Code Cape Town (21); omit 0 from cell number

WELCOME

2007-01-10T21:10:00.000-05:00

Welcome to my blog. I've never done this before, but I have accepted the wave of the future, so now you can live virtually through me. I will soon be embarking on a study abroad adventure. In this adventure I will visit India (Bangalore and Kerala), China (Beijing), and South Africa (Capetown). I encourage you to read my ramblings and if you want the juicy, personal stuff, write me emails at jessica.gingold@gmail.com. I leave January 19th for Boston where I start orienting for 2 weeks before I'm off to India. I am traveling with the International Honors "Health and Community" Program (www.ihp.edu). There are 25 girls and 7 boys in my group. I wish boys were a bit more interested in learning about helping humanity... I think it just takes them a few more years. I will keep you posted as my knowledge expands, my thoughts evolve, and I meet new people that color my life in exciting ways.