Baby Energy

When I sit down to write something I should write, I inevitably don’t write it. The beginning of a blog post about our glorious backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains replete with 25-foot cliff jumping has been lingering in my open tabs for a week now. I felt a duty to report out on what it was like backpacking with a one-year-old. How starry the starry nights were. How I really did spend most of the trip in a patriotic tube top romper, in salute to Fourth of Julys past. I thought I must declare to the world that I achieved a life fantasy… hiking in 3 miles to swim in what seemed to be a secret lake that no one else knew about (ignoring the fact that there had been an article in the San Francisco Chronicle)—no—this lake was ours. At least for nearly the first two hours we were there. On the day we hiked out, it seemed a small community had decided to transplant there. I couldn’t really blame them. I also felt obliged to share about my own physical challenges. Having not backpacked since before my first ACL knee surgery, it felt good to get back out there. Though, of course only with my big brother by my side. So, yea. That was what I was going to write about.

This:

 And this:

And of course this:

But, now, after a week more of California living and pseudo-parenting, there is something else on my mind. Oliver, my 15-month-old nephew. Or more accurately, lessons learned from Oliver. Or still, to be more precise, a key lesson learned from Oliver. I fear this will be a trite post. One we have read before in wellness magazines with pictures of sunsets. One that comes from the wisdom of the Buddhist tradition that my writing could hardly begin to capture. Or maybe one I have even written before after walking along the Oaxacan coast. Still, learning this lesson from a baby somehow feels more poignant. Here it is.

All that matters, really, is right now.

Last April, a friend of mine at school shared a Native American tale with me that he had learned at his previous job. I am sorry to say I do not recall the exact origin of the idea/story and will likely not do it justice in my retelling, but it went something like this… each generation of people has a unique relationship with energy in this world. And we all need each other. Broken down into four distinct groupings. Infants are particularly good at letting go of energy. They do not hold grudges or hold onto excitement. They experience, may be perturbed for a minute or elated for a prolonged second, and then they move on. Adolescents are particularly good at putting energy into the world—they express and emote and create and go, go, go. Adults are good at holding onto energy. On the positive side, they can harness it into more efficient and effective ways of being. They also can bury it within, building deposits untapped. Elderly people are good at taking energy in. Receiving it from others. And the cycle goes on and on and on. This basic storyline has stuck with me since my friend shared it. And, especially now as I watch Oliver, and learn his way.

I have always been aware that babies get over sadness quickly. They hit their head, cry, and then see something shiny and forget their head was ever hit. But, I have also been caught by how babies also don’t hold on to their extreme excitement. Oliver will be on top of the world, arms flailing, laughter booming, tongue hanging wildly out of his mouth, and the next minute he will be in tears. I find myself frustrated at times that I can’t call on him to remember how just a minute ago we were having the best time of our lives together. That minute no longer matters to him. It has made me realize how much of my life with other adults in this world is built on the capital of shared experiences and nostalgic moments. That, we reminisce while we are in the moment, “We are having the best time right now, I can’t wait to post pictures of it on Facebook.” As if we experience the now in anticipation of our future feelings about this moment. Countless times I have thought about how great it will be to tell my children someday about the time I [backpacked around Europe, studied abroad, quit my job, fell in love, lived in California for the summer…]—never mind that I am not even in a relationship.

I am not advocating that we are wrong for holding on to the good so fiercely. But, I also know that we often discuss letting go of the bad, without realizing that maybe that skill of not holding on to the bad is the same skill of not being too attached to the good. That it is all about us controlling the now, taking it in and adding it to our life story—the narrative of the then, now, and future. I don’t think it is realistic to abandon that tendency. There is a lot of good that comes from the stories we create, the memories we make and hold on to and the warning signs we have come to know, understand and avoid. But, I also watch Oliver intently and see that there is something important that he knows and we all once knew. That presence. That surrender. That lack of worry about what your face looks like when you are just too happy or how dirty your knees get upon diving headfirst into a muddy puddle. That being over becoming. 

When I first arrived to California, I think I came with an expectation that Oliver and I would build so many great memories. That I would become his besssst friend. That each day would be more miraculous then the next. Then I realized, he is a baby. And, thus, all we have is the now, together. And some days he will pull in my face and give me a kiss, but it is best not to hold on too tightly to this as the new norm. Because shortly after he will be yanking my hair and then he probably will forget I exist. And all of that is just as it should be.

Because in Oliver’s world…all that matters, really, is now. Thanks for sharing your wisdom, little guy.

Summer Plans

Most people have their place of clarity. The place when whatever confusion was obscuring their mind is magically solved. For some, it is the shower. For others, hiking in the Rocky Mountains. For me, it is on my bicycle.  It is on top of my bicycle that I usually plan meals (or rather get inspired to take on ridiculous creative culinary adventures, usually for one). It is on top of my bike that I envisioned the beginning of this blog post. And it is on top of my bike where I made my most recent “big life decision.”

I was riding to Union Square from Harvard for my weekly acupuncture session. I know, that sounds bougie, but it really works to keep me healthy. Anyway, I was riding my bike thinking about my summer plans. This was nearing the end of May. My original plan was to graduate from Harvard at the end of May (with my Masters in Education for those who may not be totally up to date on my life happenings), and start a fellowship in the Bay Area two weeks later. I would pack up right away, drive to Cincinnati, throw a baby shower, fly to San Francisco, move in with Ben, Katy, and Oliver, and show up for my first day. As I rode and thought about the rapid changes ahead of me, I heard one of those inner voices say, “Do you have to do the fellowship?”

Huh. Hmmm. Interesting. So the thing is I got offered a really prestigious fellowship in March. I had gone through four rounds of interviews to get it (and even bought my first suit). And I of course wanted to live in the Bay Area for the summer to be with my family there. It made good sense to do it. Why wouldn’t I do it? I had not once considered not doing it until I was riding my bike that afternoon. I think part of why bike rides are a good time to face complicated matters is because all I am doing is pedaling. I can’t distract myself with Facebook or text a friend for input. It is just me and my thoughts and the road. So, the question hung for a second. I pedaled a bit more. And then the reasons for asking the question started rolling in.

 “I don’t feel done with my work here in Boston. I want to edit my papers down to be published and that would be easier if I can work with my professors here. I don’t have a good match organization at the fellowship yet, and I don’t want to spend my summer doing work that doesn’t speak to my soul. I might be able to continue working for the National Action Civics Collaborative (NACC) for the summer on a contractual basis. I am not ready to say bye to my friends here. I need more time to transition. I could still come to California for less time. Do I really need this fellowship when I already have a Harvard degree and am going on to Michigan Law? The fellowship will mean I can’t go on my family vacation in Minnesota and that I will work right up until I start law school…”

And then the part of me who had not even considered this question before spoke up, “Wait. But I want to live in California this summer. This is such a special opportunity to spend time with my nephew and be close to my brother and sister-in-law. The fellowship comes with a community and professional development opportunities. I haven’t had a real job in a long time—it would be good to get back into a routine. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. You don’t turn down things like this."

And then I got to acupuncture. With the needles in me, I shut everything off, and meditated…err fell asleep. All this to say, I listened to that question, talked to all my most trusted advisors, and ultimately decided to shift my plans. 

So, now I write this from Berkeley, California, sitting on a couch with my feet nestled into my sister-in-law’s side. I arrived here on Saturday night. We woke up Sunday and in typical Ben and Katy fashion, were off to the mountains for a glorious hike full of ocean views and Redwoods. While I am here, I am working as a consultant with NACC doing work I am passionate about for a cause I deeply believe in. I make my own schedule and will be able to go on our family vacation in Minnesota. To get to this place...

Terrible picture, but you get the point. We are a family. We hike.

I stayed in Boston a few extra weeks and was able to close out my time at school and with friends with as much peace as can be had (though I am still reeling a bit from leaving the side of my soul sister friend, Ari, who made my life in Boston so unbelievably rich). I may or may not have made the reservation for that dinner at a restaurant in a different city (I thought the name was Il Posto, it is actually just Posto...my bad).

Amazing goodbye dinner with wonderful friends

I took a two-day road trip with a friend from Boston to Cincinnati full of Subway sandwiches, New York camping, and waterfalls. 

Harvey was a trusted companion for the road trip

I spent a week in Cincinnati to drop off my stuff, go visit the Buffalo Trace Bourbon distillery with my brother Adam, his wife Meredith, and my Dad (worthy of its own blog post), have a moment on my Aunt's farm that is for sale and host a baby shower for my childhood best friend, Hilary.

Bourbon barrels

Aunt Kathy and Uncle Bill's farm

It was an elegant, evening affair

This isn't make-believe anymore

And now, here in Berkeley, we are enjoying the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) strike which has meant that Ben, Katy, and I have all been working from home, having gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners together. Oliver and I are finding our rhythm. I know he really loves me because he can’t stop pinching me.

I am feeling lots of gratitude for bike rides, ah-ha moments, supportive family and friends, and the freedom to ride the unexpected waves of life. This is going to be a great summer. I have decided to pick back up the blogging, because as far as I am concerned, California is a different country. Thus, I am working abroad for the summer. That is the stuff of a good blog.

Reflections From a Hard Week

Monday

There are never words for times like these. I write that as if I have had times like these before. But where my words fail, my body speaks.  Heavy. So damn heavy. Cement-filled veins anchor me to the ground. Grateful that my feet are still here holding me steady as the world violently shakes around me. But I am strained. It isn’t easy to stay standing when so many fall. But it isn’t even the numbers, though the numbers matter. And it isn’t even that it could have been my friend's dad, though that matters too.

           I think I feel the tears in the collective sky reverberating through Boston. I wouldn’t be surprised if it began raining soon. Wash this all away. Wash this all away.

Thursday

I was locking my bike in front of church tonight as the three boys walked down the street. Teenagers, texting with headphones in while carrying out a conversation, “Can you imagine dude, being down there… not running away, but running toward the violence. Helping even when they are covered in blood. So much blood.”

            “You just gotta tune it out I think. You just gotta forget there is blood and help.”

            “Yea…”

            They walked on. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that they were not talking about some foreign war or a video game. No, they were walking down the streets of Boston just a few blocks from where the bombs went off three days ago. They were talking about their home. My home, if only temporary.

            The lump formed in my throat as I biked down Beacon St., but it was when I stepped through the front doors of the church that my eyes welled up. Once the music began, the tears came, almost against my will. My thoughts vascillated between being so grateful to be in a place where I could cry, yet also analyzing myself—why now? why are you crying now when you were "fine" all day?, and then wondering if I was allowed to feel this sad. I am not from Boston. I’ve joked since coming here that I am on a study-abroad trip for a year from the Midwest. My home here is across the river from Boston in Somerville. I attend Harvard. Copley square was a place I had been meaning to go all year, but had not yet made it to. And now I instantly want to launch into the reasons I am allowed to feel sad… I had been watching the marathon just before. My friend’s dad was running it, though, thankfully, was having a bad race and did not make his target time, the time the bomb went off. That I feel this as an ally to the pain so many feel directly. But… that all misses the point. It is not about who got hurt most or who was closest to the blast though those things do matter. This blast shook more than the ground beneath it.

Friday

            It wasn’t the worst thing to be on lock down with one of my best friends in the entire world. Not that I enjoyed it. But if I was going to have to spend a day in an apartment because an “armed and dangerous” boy was on the run, doing it with Ari was the way I wanted to do it. I'm glad at twenty-seven we still plan sleepovers that would have me over at her house on this morning. Like most Americans we were glued to our TVs from 6:30am until at least noon before we stepped away. We kept being sure it would come to a close soon. At 1, we napped with the TV’s soft murmur behind us. The incessant sound of the Watertown shoot out becoming a familiar backdrop. It was 3 when we finally ate a proper meal and 4:30 when we started giggling inappropriately all the time because we had been inside too long and the world wasn’t making sense. At 5, I finally got a little schoolwork done. Eventually the seventy-degree weather called us to brave the outdoors, breath in the spring sprinkle, see the flowers. With another friend we walked amidst freshly blooming trees that did not seem to have a hint about what was going on. I took my shoes off and felt the grass beneath my toes. I smiled the kind of smile that only the natural world can invoke. When we got home, we settled into a night of pizza making, wine-sipping, and debriefing. We kept an eye on the developing story of Dzokhar’s arrest, but we weren’t glued to it. We got sucked into conversations about violence, and its roots. We asked questions like, “what rules can a society have that really make for less violence?” We questioned what role rules even have in such big questions. We bemoaned the polarization of our leaders and our neighbors. We wondered how we might sustain the kindness that has emerged this week past this week. We felt relief that Dzokhar was no longer “at large,” but also felt deep sadness that his life had come to this moment. We held hands and did a Quaker prayer before eating pizza and diverging into conversations about first memories and childhood crushes. It was a complicated day. Not all bad. Far from good.

            Eventually, it was time. Time to go back to my home in Somerville. Time to go feel this in my bed where I felt this all Monday night. I was ready to take a deep breath in my home, however temporary it is. As I drove home, I put in my new birthday CD from my roommate Michelle—a mix of female empowerment songs named for the famous Rhianna song and my personal 2013 mantra, Shine Bright Like a Diamond. I momentarily felt guilty for listening to music and not the news, but not guilty enough to switch back. As I drove around Jamaica Pond, I felt my adrenaline start to give way to feeling. I remembered waking up to a text about the lockdown. I shook my head in disbelief. My fingers clenched the steering wheel as if I was driving home after watching a scary movie, flashing back to all the scenes, looking over my shoulder every once in a while. Only this horror movie is real life. And it’s been five days long. As I processed that thought I realized my car was passing Beth Israel Hospital, where Dzohar had been taken. I felt a chill at just how close this has all been to me and so many I love. That is when the swarms of college students appeared on either side of my car going down Brookline Ave. At first I thought maybe there was something happening. They all had their phones out and were taking pictures. As I got closer, they started pouring out into the street, looking forward, photographing, cheering. Soon, my car was stopped, completely swarmed. All around me people were chanting “USA, USA, USA.” The champagne bottles were out, being shaken and released. People were prancing in boas and top hats and goofy sunglasses, climbing on each other’s shoulders, smiling, thrilled. Still stuck in my car, I was unsure what to do. I felt invisible. Eventually a man who appeared to be dressed in medical scrubs, who likely had just gotten off an arduous shift approached my car from the car behind me, I rolled down my window, “Are you going through?”

            “That’s my intention,” I said, unsure if maybe they were hollering because the suspect had not yet been brought and was just approaching. Or for a minute, I actually wondered if there was a big international sporting event that happened today that I hadn’t heard about. Maybe they were just celebrating that.

            “There’s nothing in front of them. Just go.”

            I blasted my horn, and eventually the sea of celebration parted. I crept my car through as the people frolicked in and out of traffic, fearful of taking another life on this fragile week. As I drove off, my heart beat hard and fast and with such great disappointment. Tears bubbled over. This is not the point. This is not the point.

           I get it. Those of us who have survived this week are damn happy to be alive. But, this is not the kind of happy that makes me want to jump in the streets, shake champagne and chant patriotism. Dzokhar was an American. America didn’t “win” today. I am so grateful for the hard work of the police, FBI, first-responders, doctors, nurses, chaplains, parents facing impossible questions from their kids and the many helpers big and small. I am so impressed with the people who have stayed calm, held tight, and felt this deeply together. But I do not feel like we are winners right now. I ache for the families who lost loved ones, and those who are physically left with reminders of this week that may never go away. I ache for Dzokhar, and whatever it is that led him to this moment. I ache for his family and friends who can't make sense of this. There has been a lot of death, too much of it, this week. Not only in Boston. And there is a lot of death a lot of weeks. There is something underneath this violence that needs to be understood and worked through and healed. We aren’t going to get there with one side as winners. We are going to need to do this one together.

            As a lifelong Unitarian Universalist, I don’t always know what to do in times like these. Some of us pray, but it isn’t exactly a core part to the faith—or at least it isn’t taught in religious education. We hold on deeply to love and justice and each other. I have felt those values tested this week. I continue to. But, I have to believe that underneath all of this there remains a force of good stronger than evil; a force of love stronger than hate; a force of empathy stronger than othering; a force of community stronger than alienation. At dinner growing up, I loved saying our grace. It went like this, “We love each other. We help each other. We live together in peace.”

May it be so.

The Rhythm of the Beach at Year's End

I began this year by going to Mexico, so it only seems fitting to return, if only in my mind. Now, I was never one of those people that bought into the whole beach, relaxation, sunset thing. During the part in guided meditations when you are asked to visualize a calm beach with softly lapping waves, I generally rolled my eyes underneath my closed lids. Why does everyone always talk about beaches when they are stressed? And if they are really that great, why have we not all relocated by now? (Besides the obvious deterrence of hurricanes and tsunamis)

I realize now that the reason I never “got it” before was because I had never been on a beach for longer than a week. And I had never been on a beach for longer than a few days since entering the adult world of jobs, life plans, bills, heartbreak, meaning-seeking, and responsibility. Beaches were made for adults. Sure, kids enjoy them. They build sand castles, they play soccer with the waves, they do long-jump competitions in the sand, but the beach that permeates meditation literature, health and wellness blogs, and personal ads “I love long walks on a beach”—that beach is an adult beach.

I am currently up at my family cabin in Northern Minnesota. It is lightly snowing outside. I spent the afternoon skiing on top of a lake. Yes, I can stand on water. Be impressed. The peace of this place is nearly unparalleled, except of course by beaches. Hence my reflective pause backwards. For Christmas, I got lots of thoughtful gifts from my family, and a few unclaimed things my mom found in the back of her closet when she did her latest organization storm. But, perhaps the most cherished present, that all twenty-somethings love/hate, was my period (sarcasm intended). Only twelve days late and full of rage—thank you copper Paraguard IUD. Having forgotten to stop and buy supplies on our way up to the cabin, I had to call my aunt to run the errand. Keeled over in pain, moaning and clinging to my heating pad, I was grateful when Aunt Carla showed up.

With a box of Tampax super plus tampons in her hand, she leaned in, “You know honey, I loved buying these for you.”

            “Remind you of pre-menopause?”

            “No, it’s not just that. It reminds me of when my life had a rhythm. I loved having a rhythm.”

            Dopily, feeling sorry for myself in the throes of one of the worst periods in the history of the world, really, I replied, “Well, mine is always unpredictable, so it is hardly a rhythm.”

Still, the point was heard. Rhythm.

I think maybe that is what the beach offers us. That is what spending five weeks on the Pacific coast gave me. Rhythm. And that is what it has continued to give me since returning stateside, starting grad school, coping with the death of two uncles, supporting family, writing papers, facing my fibromyalgic body… all of this. When life feels chaotic. When I am not quite sure where to put my energy. I can close my eyes, take some deep breaths and feel the waves rocking me awake, visualize the sun setting over the big white rock at 6:24pm. 

A few weeks ago, I was in a yoga class, something of a triumph to make it to anything that starts at a set time in my grad school life. It was what seemed like the thousandth downward dog, and I was plotting my escape. Would it hurt the others’ zen if I just slipped out the back? The teacher doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me too closely… While I was busy concocting an elaborate plan, the beach snuck up on me. Breathing in and out, I literally relocated in my mind, unwillfully, back to Zipolite. I heard the voice of my favorite Norwegian yoga teacher. I saw the sliding bamboo doors in front of me. I saw the pacific horizon melt in the distance. I was there, and then I was here. Present within my body, at peace with the pain, ready to engage more fully with the world. The rhythm of the ocean got inside me as few things ever have, and I have marveled at its stickiness. Its refusal to leave me. Thank god.

So, here I am. YOOT months in the past. Masters degree half-earned. And, I get it now. The beach is pretty awesome. But, really, I don’t think it is so much the beach as an entity that I hold on to so tightly. It is that thing that happens when we really surrender to being. Something not easily accessed in the day-to-day life of achievement focused, do-gooders entrenched in capitalism while attempting to live life well. In surrendering, the rhythm I found, though inspired by the waves and the sunsets, was really more internal—about me. A core pulse that is always there, sometimes beating too faintly to hear, but there to catch you when you are too tired to hold a downward dog or too stressed to write a paper or too sad to be alone. The beach introduced me to me (go ahead and roll your eyes, but I'm serious). I used to think that to find a good rhythm, I had to make better lists. Schedule out work-outs and plan meals with more acuity. Create a better life organization system. Turns out, I needed just the opposite.

So, perhaps all this longing for sunsets and beach vacations is really just our longing to have the space and time to take a few more deep breaths. Perhaps it is a yearning for that thing we all feel inside of us, that feels too often too far away, that can only be revealed when we press pause and feel our own unique rhythm. Beaches are a great place to find it. But, I think it just might be accessible in many other spaces and places, if we can just slow down enough to feel it. And, what has made me most excited about this discovery of my inner beach is that it sticks. You do not have to relinquish normal life forever. A little dose goes a long way.

(Note: This blog has been relatively inactive since YOOT travels have concluded. Thus, upon reflection, I have decided to designate this as my official travel blog. Where I write when I travel. I will look for other outlets for my writing when not traveling…)

(Second Note: I just read Mindy Kaling's book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, which I think contributed to the tell-all nature of this post--i.e. period writing)

Amazing Race Application Video

Of the many accomplishments in the YOOT, few come close to this application video for the Amazing Race prepared by my dad and I with directorial input from my brother Adam. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) we were not selected. But, like many of the Olympians we have all come to love over the past week, the glory is not always in the gold, but in the journey.  We gave it our all.