Reflection of Home

Hey all, 

being back has been a little bit of everything. I would have been writing about it, but then I wouldn’t have been doing it. 

And honestly, there are not any extreme outlandish adventures to report (although I did see some amazing belly dancers with Lori, jump on some funky inflatables with Thomas and ride a life-threatening thrill-slide at Belle Isle with George) because being home has been about being home. And home is such an inward and intimate experience. Both the best things and the worst things that have happened since being in Ann Arbor have been wrapped in packages of feelings and words (and a few pictures). 

My best friend and I reverted to high school (with some added refreshments now), gossiping late into the night and combining our lives in overnights and routine every other day. Newer friends and I have gotten closer, as I find new ways to befriend my integrity even more with age. Acquaintances from the past have become friends in the present. 

Family continues to be a living, growing practice of fascination and I’m hesitant to proclaim that our function:dysfunction ratio has moved stably into our favor. 

My sensitivity to my body feeds the bad days (there have been many crying bouts of envy, unfairness and restricted plans since being home), but on the good days, it is my connection to a greater sensitivity in all I am doing and a gigantic reservoir for gratitude. 

The recent anniversary of a friend’s death was a surprising catalyst for a new level of my inner home, my inner growth, enriching many of the questions I carry for myself. You can read a peek into the start of that cycle here.

Home has all of the furnishings: past, future, relationship, self-reflection, vulnerability, expression, need, longing, love, hurt…and it is beautiful to be here, sometimes in an overwhelming way. 

But the greatest thing about this home is that it moves and travels. And it welcomes. Friends, you don’t have to be here to be here with me. 

As the journey goes on and as I get ready to move back to Washington, I have enjoyed all of the beautiful connections I have had. As we all grow into our own homes, may we feel more welcome in one another’s. 

Pouring in, like sunlight and rain and something that doesn’t have a name. I feel blessed and cursed and purely here. When emotions come, in a presence that is more than happy or sad or anything teathered in boxes. When emotions come in all-encompassing force, charged with that very real realness, that you are here. That you are loving, loved, hurting, human, marred and raw. But that you are undeniably connected, in these states, to some beautiful, beautiful souls. When they are trivial and simultaneously sweeping, picking up dust of long forgotten memories that seem like someone else's footprints. When these footprints seem like molds that had been waiting for feet to find them again, to carry them someplace they were going…

Summer porch nights with the bestie

Look at us! We're athletes! (cue laugh)

wow, horseback riding! 

I love this picture

George sharing his favorite Detroitland with me: first time at Belle Isle!

An all too short but never too beautiful reunion with my GR (and now FL) family.
What better way to spend it than to get my Lake Michigan visit in? 

Dinner in GR with amazing people. Good (air conditioned) finish to a hot, sunny day

Rockin' the beach goer's garb

Making friends

For someone who is “cutting out coffee”, I’d made quite a centerpiece as a occupant of the outdoor seating at Espresso Royale for the past three days in a row. Justified by reunions of old friends, the declaration of abstinence I’d made upon my arrival in Ann Arbor had quickly been tossed out the window as ludicrous. But today, I wasn’t awaiting the arrival of an old friend. I was awaiting the arrival of a date, of sorts. 

After battling one of my all too frequent bouts of physical malady on Monday night, I’d ultimately decided to say “phooey” to my remaining discomfort (significantly dulled down from a former level 5 on the Richter scale of stomach quakes) and make it out to a semi-recently discovered pastime (for me) of Monday Night Nectoing. 

For those un-ann-arbored yet, the Necto is a place that you would never expect to find me. The last time I looked like I would “belong” in the necto was in high school. Ironically, that was when all my friends were going and I was adamantly opposed. But, one can always count on best friends to enlighten and enrich one another with new experiences. Last year for her birthday, I promised Anna a day of her choosing. We ventured, we went to Grand Rapids, we bonded and she convinced me to go to the Necto with her. Monday nights are “factory” nights and so I dug through my little remaining highschool wardrobe for anything black and made a mishmash attempt at the “goth” look. I pleasantly surprised myself. The industrial dubstep and otherwise wonky-genre music was a joy to dance to; if anything, it beaconed my body more into dance. I was hooked. But from there on out, I would ditch the black. It was a place to express.

So, while I sometimes have had to compromise with my body in the past and attend things while quelling inner discomfort, I was not going to go that night if I couldn’t groove. 

Level 5 averted however, I went, I danced, I enjoyed. And as with club territory, I got hit on. Normally, this is brushed off with a disinterested air but near the end of the night - perhaps feeling more open from the drinks and the dancing - I found myself intrigued with an encounter. 

Anna and I had taken a seat on one of the benches outside and a flamboyantly gay man who I’d admired earlier began talking with us - er, more so the indirect talking near you about something else in the way one does when they want to include you. In this case, he and his friend were trying to find him a guy and he was berating about no one admitting themselves to be gay. I was so amused with his charismatic - albeit self-involved - act, that I didn’t even notice at first that his friend was admiring me. And then, she began to talk to me and I quickly realized that they were a gay pair, both trying to help the other find partners. Sofia was unabashedly dropping admiring compliments and I was flattered but quick to point out that I was not gay. She frowned but then said, “bi?” to which I didn’t exactly dismiss downright. She played with my hair while we talked as conversationally as one can in a loud club and then we exchanged numbers. She wanted to get together with me before I left if I had time. And I found that I wasn’t completely uncomfortable with the idea. 

And so on Thursday afternoon, I was on my way to a coffee date with Sofia. I checked in with my energy as I walked and was intrigued to find that, although I wasn’t fluttery or nervous or really invested one way or the other (we hadn't ever confirmed the time or place, as our conversation stopped the night before while hashing possibilities) but it was oddly…comfortable. I’d made out with girls in high school, sure. But I’d never gone on a date with the serious consideration of seeing if someone would be compatible as a relationship. I’d been thinking about my blunders with men and wondered if maybe it was time to be open to other options. It felt right. 

Well, our details never got worked out for whatever reason. But as I sat there, waiting to see if something would pan out, the man at the next table over - a man I’d vaguely recognized as being a frequenter for the last three days that I had been there - asked if I could watch his stuff. In no hurry, I graciously obliged and when he returned, he thanked me with a lingering that indicated more conversation. A few minutes later, he queried with the most run-of-the-mill line of questioning in the book: “I’ve seen you around here lately. Did you just move here?” I was quick to establish my grounds as a born-and-bred, but careful not to retort with snark and quickly pleased that I hadn’t. 

Shaz was a slim, clay-skinned man who could have perhaps been in his mid-to-late thirties but spoke in an understandable middle-eastern accent with the vibrancy and eyes of someone in their twenties, at the “peak of life”, as they say. What began as a friendly exchange from two tables away turned into a three-hour conversation, sharing one of the small round seating arrangements as though we were old friends. He was a math and physics tutor at the University and had recently finished the outline to a large writing project - a textbook of sorts - on the two subjects. He had recently emerged from this introverse cave of writing and conceptual mining and was just readjusting to life in laymen’s world, intrigued by ways in which I used or paired words and phrasings, explaining how his mind had functioned on a terminology and analytically-based language diet for so long. He was fascinated with my seemingly “freebird” life flow while I was impressed with his diligence in writing, teaching and otherwise tasking himself with intellectual heft while still functioning so lightly in spirit socially. He felt stuck in Ann Arbor and I laughed, as I’d heard the sentiment so many times before. But I did feel for him. Especially since he loved travel. A self-proclaimed and evidently proven story teller, he regaled some of his train and travel encounters with me that he one day hoped to turn into pieces of published fiction. Our conversation carved hills, dipping smoothly into the slightest introductions to our deeper struggles and faults before rising up where our lower selves met, sharing a common characteristic which we graciously smiled at one another for understanding. We eagerly exchanged book titles on paper scraps like college study buddies. We told more stories, about death and unexpected connections. The last story that he imparted to me before we parted was a sort of parable of Freedom which featured Parrots. “It is a common children’s story. But not in America. And it is not India. That is not where I am from. I will tell you next time.” We hugged, planning to walk in the Arb before I leave. 

Making new friends is exciting. But there is nothing that puts a skip in your step more than when that connection is authentic and meaningful, where both parties are occupying the same energetic space. I can’t help but think that in moments like these, the world was planning something. 

In writing this, it made me think of how interesting it would be to have written accounts of the first interactions I’d had with all the people in my life. What would that look like? Would the first encounters show an indication of the connection we’ve come to have? Would they show surprising contrast? 

Amy

“Don't let pain scare you away from visiting your memories”

These are the words of a dear friend’s father, on the 16th anniversary of her death. 

The Fedels have consistently amazed me in their grace and groundedness surrounding the drunk driving accident that injured them all and ultimately, resulted in Amy’s passing. 

People that know me today have come to describe me as…well, a lot of things. But some of my more off-putting characteristics include a certain reservation, a certain emotional wall. I know that one of my mother’s biggest struggles in being my mother during my adolescence was in navigating the non-communicative, secretive mask I wore. (Okay, maybe not all a “me” thing and in part, more of an “adolescent girl” thing.)

In a lot of the current challenges I face in life, I tend to get curious about my past. I subscribe to the belief that our past experiences can leave physical and energetic imprints in and on the body, which manifest in a whole host of maladies and “issue themes” - blockades that we constantly find ourselves running up against with seemingly little explanation as to why we can’t overcome them. 

My walls and privatude (a word now, k?) around certain aspects of my emotions are still present and so I am not as attuned to this inner map of my experiences (and I’m sure that part of those walls are because of experiences) but I am constantly becoming more aware of small lines traced from moments to past moments. Sometimes these walls can make me feel more stoic than I ideally see myself to be. But then I will stumble on these traced lines, like Amy’s. 

It never fails. Even if time has allowed more distance in thinking of her passing, every time her life is commemorated, it strikes a deep, deep chord within me. 

And that is when I am most grateful for Jean, Mike and Lisa’s energy. Her family must confront those striking moments of memorialization far more often than I do and yet, they do it with unabashed bravery and honor, vivacity and gentleness. It is inspiring, thought provoking and today, has brought about deep reflection. 

“Don’t let the pain scare you away from visiting your memories.” 

As my dad was getting ready to head out the door, I sort of quietly stated “today is the anniversary of Amy’s death.” He bent down, unable to hear me and I repeated a little louder. After having wiped the first round of tears from my eyes, they welled up again as he came to sit down beside me. 

He had been reminded of her the night before and had been thinking about memories of the two of us, which he shared with me. We talked about the family and the accident.This was the first time in 16 years that it had crossed my mind to look up the article from the day. To place a name to the man that took her life. To find out that he is probably out free by now. He shared more about his thoughts, memories of that summer and amy singing in my room. And then my dad shared his biggest worry at the time: “You seemed to just…swallow everything inside. We never really saw you process it, in any way we could recognize. 

It struck a chord with me, a truth. 

I remember the concept of Amy’s energy, I remember flashes of memories. But the details seem lost, because I never opened up to others. A wall went up then. 

As I sit here now, I find myself challenging that wall on many levels. 

The first memory I always recall is that of a last sleepover. She’d told me a ghost story and I’d become too frightened to sleep. I remember telling my parents I was scared and Amy feeling bad; that she would never be allowed to sleep over again.

I remember getting in a fight over the spelling of ‘Friend’ in our writing club. I was trying to write it in rainbow letters. I think she was the correct speller. 

I remember the vague concept of getting in fights at school, but more so, I remember when we would sit near each other later during story time and write heart-shaped apology letters back and forth to each other. 

I remember when she died, I addressed every journal entry to her and for a while, I talked to her angel every night, asking her to come back. 

But now, more feelings arrive. I now remember the feeling of trying to play her voice over in my head each day when it first happened, never wanting to forget what it sounded like. I can still barely hear it. 

I remember a vague concept of shyness at her memorial, when we were given small books with her name on it to write memories and I couldn’t even finish a page. 

And then this morning, when my dad shared his memory of us singing in my room, I now remember that also. We all loved her voice - knew she’d be a star. I feel like she was singing Grease that night. She knew far more musicals that I did. 

My dad also spoke of thoughts about who she may have been now, whether we’d still be friends. I believed we would, just from the energy I remember from her. He believed our writing would have been a big common denominator to keep us together. 

And as I sit here with that and her photos and stories that her family has shared over the years, I see my wall is formed around more than just memories. Some of those small lines begin to appear, in my resistance to my creativity, my resistance to writing, my resistance to the vibrant qualities that I know I posess, that she so readily expressed. What if that resistance is an imprint of my body and spirit mourning? 

Amy was an incredibly gifted girl. Even in my shortage of memories, her image exudes light and poignantly expresses all of the qualities of wisdom, creativity, vivaciousness and compassion that she embodied. 

For the first time, I imagine how her living could have inspired my living. I think I would be in a drastically different place right now, in many ways. That is powerful. 

But with an energy that powerful, there is no reason for it to not carry on, penetrate our lives even past her physical existence. 

I move forward today with a new sense of recognition of all of my deepest aspirations. Every small step in which I actualize those is healing my mourning; it is giving Amy life. 

A little more on chocolate

I recently posted a whirlwind recap of my summer cross-country adventures and in those, was included a brief recount of the delectable chocolate exhibition temporarily up at MOHAI in Seattle.

This morning as I was blearily scrolling through my good 'ol Facebook feed for an interesting article to start off my day, this I was instantly drawn to this video. 

My abridged summary of the complex and varied iterations of the cocoa bean throughout history did not justly emphasize the involvement and the controversy behind one of privileged society's favorite indulgences. Chocolate is not inherently good or bad but our blind consumption and under-appreciation of the hands behind it can have dire global consequences. 

And so now with a more nuanced report of this informative exhibit, hopefully you can learn a little bit more about the long journey through history and labor that your piece of chocolate has taken to get to your mouth and with that, make more conscious choices that may just make the treat taste a little bit sweeter:

I remember years ago when I first got offered the taste of a Cacao bean. I knew that word, cacao. It was filed away in a mouthwatering category, making my sweet tooth chatter. I gladly accepted an offer to taste one and subsequently hid my shocked befuddlement while the astringent taste of the raw plant penetrated the pores of my tongue. 

We tend to look at chocolate as an ingredient, forgetting that it is a complex man-made concoction. Kids may often find themselves wishing that chocolate grew on trees but if most of us were to pass by a Cacao plant, we probably wouldn't even stop to take a second glance. The nib itself, that eventually makes what we eat is not even visible in its plant form. encased in a giant pod, the "golden ticket" is probably at least 1/75th of the entire pod. And to produce that pod takes work! Cacao plants are picky, needing the shady, humid and windless climates of Central and South America. It is a collaborative effort between climate and various birds, mammals and midges (their primary pollinator and in my book, the only reason that hell-demon exists) that spread the seeds, nutrify the seeds and make the magic happen. 

In ancient time, the natural world was all that needed to do the work. Before sweetened chocolate came into existence, the Cacao bean was a thing of decadence all on it's own. As early as 250 AD, the Mayans coveted chocolate as a symbolic gift fit only for gods. Stored in elaborate vessels with personalized symbols carved into it, the liquid mud was left as an offering, never to be enjoyed by laymen. in the 1400's, the Aztecs held it to similarly high esteem but it's usage as a drinkable was slightly more attainable, extending to rulers, priests and decorated warriors. However, taste was not what it was known for. Cacao nibs became the upmost form of currency and one of the various ways that citizens could pay taxes and tribute to the elite. It would be over another century before chocolate began to make it's way into the hands and stomachs of a cross cultural crowd. 

In 1519, Cortez set sail to look for gold in the Americas. Instead, he found chocolate. Defeating the Aztecs in 1521, Spain quietly began gathering the crop as product via forced labor (officially banned in 1542 yet carried out for decade to come). It was not until the 1600's that the product became more widely introduced to Europe. For the next 200 years, Germany, France, England, Holland and Spain would be in heated competition to colonize regions for cacao and other foods prolific in the trade industry. Coincidentally around this time, the proliferation of enslaved labor also went up. 

While opposing voices in the 1900's began to quell the unregulated labor, the age of the Industrial Revolution was sparking innovative ideas in chocolate such as molds for the modern chocolate bar with Fry & Sons creating the first bar in 1847. Still, with its modern shape, the taste was still for want. In 1815, chemist Coenrrad Van Houten had discovered how to extract cocoa butter and get a creamier effect to chocolate but it was not until 1875 that Nestle finally invented the addition of milk to chocolate to get its modern, creamy finish. 

Product near perfection, the marketing picked up ten-fold. highly stylized cans were designed for powdered drinking cocoa, Nestle went to schools to promote the product and the military even received earmarked chocolate rations during WWII (albeit, they were modified to be less, er....desirable so as to make them last). 

Far from the instant mortar and pestle method of the ancient cultures, the broader demand for chocolate now demanded a far more rigorous process to reach such desirability, going through over half a dozen involved stages in the factory to become a neatly packaged bar. 

Thanks to the industrial revolution, there is are machines that takes care of the following steps: 

Cleaning and sorting: All of the beans are filtered through a conveyor/sorting contraption which cleans and sorts them into a roaster set between 400-500 degrees where the cacao gets a flavor-aroma makeover. 

Winnowing: more cleaning occurs as the shells are cracked off, skin is removed and the tiny tiny nibs are moved on to be ground. 

Grinding: This is where the nibs become that ingredient you so often see and perhaps has made you wonder "is my chocolate alcoholic?" Chocolate Liquor simply refers to the pure cocoa once it is ground into liquid form.

Mixing: Time to fold in all the goodies! Milk and sugar go into the vats and create a pool of yum. 

Refining and Conching: both processes eliminate any remaining chunkiness

Tampering: the chocolate is cooled and then warmed just enough to pound into bar molds. 

Voila!

And then there are the hands that get it to the factory to begin with. 

In just as involved a process, anonymous hands replace the untiring machines that we have the luxury to use in the chocolate-making process. 

Twice a year, cacao beans are harvested from the plant using machetes and collecting the cumbersome pods in big satchels. Each pod then needs to be split, the seeds put under the shade of banana leaves or baskets to ferment for about a week which alters their taste and produces the chocolatey color. The beans then need to dry so that they do not mold during shipping. Farmers use every avenue they can, from spreading on roofs to tables or finding large mats to use. Some can afford a simple machine. Finally, the farmers pack the beans into burlap and send them off, usually without any knowledge of where or why they are going where they are going. Currently, the Ivory Coast is the world's leading Cocoa capital and with that, one of the top areas in the volume of child labor, the people that make up a large percentage of who is doing this work. 

With complex trade processes, it is nearly impossible to have a 100% traceable source of ethically farmed cacao but many companies and organizations are teaming together to not only figure out how to avoid supporting such undocumented and cruel labor but also how to provide education programs to farmers and their families that enable them to be self-sufficient, make fair pay, learn to be the best of their trade and overall enrich their family's livelihood.