A four layer cake...of work, work, work!

Hi ho, Hi ho

it's off to work we go!

Dad and Jordan hung around for the relaxing days before the weekend of the flea market and we ventured to Paradise for a nice hike before they fled, just in time to escape chaos.

Anyone living in Packwood who is insane enough to tolerate it knows that Flea Market weekend is the weekend to work. The prospect of putting in 42 hours in three days is probably supposed to seem daunting to someone with a healthy balance of work ethic and relaxation but to me I didn't think twice...let alone once. After a week of being on the road, I'd left time to have a glorious kick-off dinner with my dad, brother and new neighbor teammates, play games and venture to paradise in Ranier but absolutely no time for settling in before plunging into the work weekend. 

The mental and physical shift one makes is akin to wilderness survival - your self shifts and makes what you thought were impossibly drastic adaptations just to get you through. Friday through Sunday, I worked my three different jobs from 8am unil 2am with about a 2-hour break back home. 

With any long work weekend, there are bound to be unsavory situations. On Saturday for instance, everyone at Karaoke decided to give me hell and a half. For the most part however, beautiful social interactions quelled any overwhelming exhaustion that may have otherwise set in; as a returning help to the vendors at the Library, there were plenty of warm hugs and fond smiles from artists who I'd gotten to know (and buy things from) the year before; my co-workers and I kept one another laughing and easy-going at the coffee shop; familiar faces of tourists became weekend conversation staples when they came in to get their drink; even karaoke had more perks than expected, with an impassioned pair of girls singing and tipping me all the way through the first night. 

I managed not to splurge nearly as much as the year before but nevertheless came away with more than I expected: a sweater, a backpack, a lantern, gloves, soap and one of Jaenette's flax hot/cold packs after using the one I gifted to my dad excessively when I was back home. 

My house was a mess the entire weekend, my car still not even completely unpacked. But it hardly mattered because I was hardly home. I was completely immersed in the social aspect of life, meeting new vendors, discovering friends at Karaoke, seeing Open Gym kiddos pop up around town and running into old AmeriCorps members. 

It was hard to come down from the flight of the social butterfly. On Monday, after finishing my last shift at the Butter Butte, I began my trek home when I was distracted by a couple of PCT hikers I'd seen walking around earlier that day looking somewhat dazed. Now having the time to spare, I asked where they'd started and we entered a lengthy conversation outside of the grocery store. It wasn't but a few seconds after parting ways that I found myself racing back into the store to hunt down Brent for a phone number exchange. Through one conversation, it had seemed silly at first - would he even have a phone? - but I'd never actually talked to anyone hiking through before and the connection seemed to valuable to let slide away. Fortunately, phone-having and not weirded out, we swapped numbers and shortly after I returned home, I got a text inviting me to come hang out with him and his fellow trail buddies who'd split on a room for the night. Opportunity overtook exhaustion once again and settling in was put off a little longer. After a lovely few hours of hearing trail stories, sharing in our midwest/east roots, and finding a surprising amount in common in regards to stability/freedom in our lives, I made it home with just enough time for a decent sleep before my next work would begin...AmeriYear II

Pretty nifty side of the mountain

My lovely dancing friend Ibrahim coin' his thing

The Sibling Saga

"I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at." - Maya Angelou

I think of myself as very fortunate to have come to this realization as early as I did, and still often wish it had been earlier. For those who don't know him well, my brother is pretty amazing. His thirst for knowledge and his passion for the structure of words far surpasses anyone else in our family, when it comes to that form of intelligence. And his ability to will himself into quiet observation when it comes to conflict used to be a thing of envy to me. I cannot remember the exact moment that he became an individual of his own inspiration and  not just an "accident" of a shared birth, but I often reflect on the division between those two ways of relating in our lives and only hope that the journey to come makes up for time taken for granted. 

So when there was little hesitation to agree to join me on my drive back West after summer break, I was beyond honored. 

On August 20th, with little pretense for either of us really to discuss, Jordan and I launched into our first trip together - siblings unite - across the country. Both of us seem to have a similar process when it comes to registering experiences on a tangible level. While my mother likes to pre-brief, de-brief and gnaw at every moment not yet unfolded, the two of us don’t really have a method of connecting to experiences that haven’t happened - that aren't present - in any way we find useful; we just go with it. 

However, for this trip, I think I diverged from that a little bit since I had to make an effort to quell my anticipation of what a one-on-one week could bring. Jordan's astute academic intellect easily and frequently fools my perception of his maturity. I tended to forget that his emotional and more complex forms of intuition and intellect are still in the early stages of growing. With those qualities being a more prominent thematic focus for my journey, I knew that my fascination and eagerness to ignite those sorts of conversations would have to be thoroughly mediated so that he would not be completely resenting me by the time we made the 4,000 mile trek. 

Of course, I was not going to deny myself completely of what I found important. I still wondered: could I access some level of emotional vulnerability that was never allowed stage time in our fragmented passings at home? Would I have the guts to “stay” in uncomfortable questions? to find a balance with them that allowed him to feel comfortable? 

Premeditating on these possibilities certainly helped me to keep a balance. Never for a minute did I think that it would be like the movies - my inspirational wanderlust sweeping all of his preconceived reservations about adventure into the wind and emerging on the West Coast forever a changed person, fearless and ready to roam - because there is no was in hell that was going to happen. 

No, by cultivating an awareness to our different approaches, I was able to allow myself moments of just observing, listening and feeling what he was going through. Some situations in the past have called for push and shove, getting him out to go do something despite his adversity. But his being thrust into this trip was push enough and I simply wanted to navigate each day in a way he could feel most comfortable and at ease with. I’ve had this trip with it’s wanderlust approach. I’ve had my opportunities to bask in the mountain’s cradling and let inspiration be blown onto pages from wind that wisps my hair in time with river currents as I sit off highway roads and take my time. This was a different trip and it wasn't a bad one. We had some invaluable bonding time and I wouldn't have traded it for anything (I can't speak for him of course). Those are ours to keep and so I leave that space blank here. 

Besides boldly taking to the wheel a couple of times (first time handling winding mountain highway!) one of Jordan's biggest contributions was our in-car entertainment. Main features included Justin Vernon and his many brain children i.e various projects, a british radio series called Cabin Pressure, a quirky dark comedy radio show called Night Vale and radio episodes of Cracked, which I never knew was a thing. And of course there was plenty of new music to be introduced to. 

Day 1
Landed us in Ames, IA where my amazing friend Matt hosted us for the night. It was a far different experience from my first time visiting his home state, back when he lived in Fort Dodge. In contrast to the run down, disparate atmosphere of Fort Dodge, Ames seemed to be kicking' with fun local haunts, music and a vibrant, young community. Matt excitedly talked about the spurt of locally sourced, small businessy eateries and bars that had popped up in recent years, one of which - a fun food cart - he'd recently started working at where he gets to dress up however he wants (the majority of the clientele being drunk college kids who probably won't even remember what he's wearing). Jordan and I had a pseudo-picnic made up of leftovers and co-op fare while waiting for him to get off of work and visited with him back at the house before Jordan settled in for some down time and Matt and I took off to meet his friend Emily for some drinks. The next morning, he took me to his favorite coffee spot, a small basement venue called Vinyl Coffee where they collected and sold old records and sold a unique offering of home-baked goods, brought in from the owner's home kitchen each morning. 

That was the beginning to...

Day 2
Which quickly turned grey and wet. Jordan began the drive which I immediately felt bad about as we entered the highway with wipers waving as fast as they could go, rain beating down so hard it was pointless to try and listen to any entertainment over the din. Aiming to camp somewhere near the Badlands that night, we drove and drove and drove some more. Needing a stretch break anyhow, I encouraged a stop to the locale of the Corn Palace which sparked very little enthusiasm. Admittedly, I didn't have it in me to stay around long once we'd gotten out of the car either. The temperature had risen far above 90 and the streets were un-navigable due to a carnival which would have been fun except that the rides and such were not running so early in the day; probably more of an evening event. We came, we saw, we conquered. We got outta there. Jordan got us through the las painful stretch of driving while I tried to find campgrounds that we could reach before sundown. We opted on a small KOA about an hour out of the Badlands. I hadn't camped at a KOA in forever and it was certainly a more pampered experience than I'd expected. The grounds had a pool, a laundry room, very "trimmed" sites, a restaurant of sorts, and a game room equipped with a pool table. We set up camp, cooked some dinner and ended the night with a couple games of pool. 

The weather was so mild that I'd been tempted to leave off our covers but just before bed, we looked up the weather and there was the chance of a storm. It was a good choice to cover up because, about 11pm, the downpour hit pretty full force. By morning, things had settled but the sky remained pretty overcast for...

Day 3
as we drove through the Badlands. We didn't really stop, since our agreed-upon destination had been Wind Caves. We drove mostly in silence, taking in the overpowering vastness of it all. We reached wind caves by mid-afternoon and snagged tickets for a 3pm 'Fairgrounds' tour - the same one Mother and I had done on our visit. I have yet to be disappointed by a national park guide. Our particular guide was a retired navy officer who, well over 60, had just finished school in environmental studies of some sort and had participated in lectures associated with...NASA? when I asked how he'd landed in this gig, he said it was the first place that had called him. He'd only been there since May. I had been under the impression that one had to have a particular focus to land a gig as a park guide but apparently not. Their training of the ecology must be pretty in depth though, because he knew his stuff. I enjoyed his analogy of the cave, offering up a mental image of a bowl of Ramen noodles to describe the tunnel system of Windcave - the most complex cave system in the world, squeezed into one square mile. Jordan quickly came to the realization that his feelings about being confined under hundreds of feet of earth in the dark damp cold had changed since he was last in a cave as a kid and I think was pretty relieved when we finally emerged. We called it an early evening at camp and took some time to ourselves to read in our tent. The weather wasn't terrible but it was windy enough to just want to huddle up in tents. When I finally came out to get ready for bed, he was already asleep. 

Day 4
We awoke to wet tents once again, having received an equally strong storm once again. I've been thoroughly impressed with the tent I have, as it's been the first one to not leak at all when faced with water. We were able to pack up the tents pretty immediately and after wiping off the covers with towels and shaking them out, we put them in bags to transport to our next destination. We were bound for Bozeman where a friend that I stayed with when she lived there a couple years ago had connected us with one of her gracious friends to post us up for the night. After two nights of stormy camping, I think we were both a bit relieved for some shelter. Recalling my breathtaking introduction to "Big Sky Country", I was pretty bummed that Montana was undergoing a state-wide gray day and Jordan couldn't be privy to the incredible display of rolling clouds and mountain horizons that had immediately won me over when I first drove through. 

Margaret warmly welcomed us with hugs and urged us to make ourselves at home and then we headed out to the co-op - the best solution for different taste pallets - where I treated her to dinner. Originally from Ann Arbor, Margaret had met my other Ann Arbor friend only after moving out that way. I swear that the entire state of MI will have eventually evacuated to the west; I run into Michiganders all the time out here. We had pleasant conversation and came back home where we each seemed to be inclined to have our own space so there wasn't too much pressure to make ourselves social. 

Day 5
Margaret felt bad that she didn't have a lot of breakfast options for me but I was just grateful for a real bed to sleep in. I had been interested in checking out a breakfast nook in town anyhow and finally having a real meal. We were up early and after saying our farewells, we rushed down to The Nova Cafe since she warned us that they tend to get crazy-packed for breakfast. We arrived just in time because by the time our food came, the lobby was packed and almost out the door. The last time I'd been there, Nova had been a simple coffee shop. Our table was placed where I remembered their counters for the coffee used to be and they'd completely renovated and expanded into the next building over. It was amazing what they'd done to the place. The lighting was bright and warm compared to the darkened atmosphere from before and their menu was brilliantly creative. I was happy to see Jordan actually enjoying the menu, torn between several options. The food was filling a sustained us for our full day of driving. 

Which was good, because we didn't really have much more relaxed down time. Up to Bozeman, we knew we'd have places to stay. But this day, we weren't really sure how far we could make it or what connections we could find. I let Jordan take the wheel while I made shootouts for both Spokane and Kennewick connections. I found an acquaintance willing to host us in Spokane, but emphasized to Jordan that it would be a crowded living situation with people I didn't know that well. When we reached Spokane, I ran into their co-op and asked him to sit quietly with the options of staying with people in Kennewick or splurging on a hotel where we were at and just ending our driving for the day. He opted for the hotel. I was glad I'd let him take control of the decision and quickly eased into the idea of having a full afternoon to relax. A day to unwind was much-needed. The hotel that we found was an unassuming option and if we'd just done a drive-by, I doubt we would have ended up there. The Ruby Hotel and Lounge was located in a vibrant red mod building with artwork of scantily clad female figures and bright neon light donning the street-side bar. The lobby was a small nook right outside of the lounge and the rooms were tucked back in a run-down looking parking lot. However, the experience was probably one of the best hotel experiences I've had. The staff were professional, hospitable and we were charged a decent price (which Jordan treated) for a full double-bed room with fridge and all the amenities etc. It was in walking distance from the main downtown mall and a restaurant I'd found for dinner so we went to go see an afternoon showing of Calvary at the mall. Navigating that place was a source of mild humor for the both of us and the movie was an agreed-upon win. We walked from there to the Saranac Public House. On the way, we discussed the meaning behind the movie and the film quality  and then enjoyed another successful meal for the both of us - rich mac and cheese and a burger for him and ginger rice stir fry for me. We had an animated conversation about language and he seemed to loosen up into taking in the surroundings, getting curious about an old building across the street from us (which we finally concluded said Longbotham a friendly debate between three possibilities). He seemed in good cheer on the way back and we made little remarks about the city’s design (like the unfunctional Postal recepticals and the phone-scan maps on the sidewalk). And then back at the room, I took a shower while he fell into his own space with the computer, I to follow. Then we quietly got ready for bed and called it a night. 

Day 6

I was up early and went out to hunt down real coffee, where I also found a rich-looking Cinnamon roll that looked too good not to get for Jordan. I sat in the breakfast area at the hotel - simply the bar whose counter had been converted to present a line-up of breakfast options - and waited for Jordan to emerge. We were on the road Portland-bound that day where we'd meet up with Tony for one last road night before meeting my dad in Seattle the next day. We were supposed to meet Tony at a place for dinner but Mondays proved to be the off-day for many businesses and we had to adjust a few times before settling on the Hedge House with simple deli fare. He and Tony seemed to hit it off, Tony's positive attitude always being magically infectious. We walked a bit to digest after dinner and then headed over to Salt and Straw which has apparently become my must Portland experience, especially since they now have the crazy amazing coconut ice cream decadency on the regular. Back at Tony's we meandered out to the river where Jordan pulled out his camera and experimented with night light play, getting some pretty neat shots. 

Day 7

Tony had to be up for work early and so we'd said our good byes the night before. Our last stretch of road to Seattle was our shortest driving day but I think I was just at my road weary limit because it was painful to get through. I was feeling pretty tightly wound up in stress when we arrived and I couldn't get a hold of Dusty and so we had to find a way to bide our time. Jordan couldn't really contribute excitement towards any ideas I threw out so we finally just headed to Pike's place where I think he at least got a kick out of some of the buskers. Around 3pm, we got a hold of Dusty and we spent a few hours on the waterfront catching up before heading to Capitol Hill for a fancy dinner. Dusty was excited to learn they served Poutine there which he had recently been told to try. Unfortunately, it was not all it was cracked up to be...

After dinner, he walked us down to the new Library, gushing the whole way about its amazingness. I was completely along for the ride but had no idea the scope of which this library covered the territory of AMAZING. architecturally, it was like nothing I'd ever been in before. The building itself slanted like a crouching being with crazy criss-cross glass panels. Each of the 7 or so floors was a different design, from the bottom with wood-etched phrases in the floor, to the dewy decimal book spiral to the red floor (literally a floor of RED) and finally to the top where you could look down (hight fearers be damned) to the mixed media floor with a forest themed patterning. All of this was connected by a series of blindingly bright chartreuse escalators. We picked up a newspaper on the way out which lay out the inspiring story of the artist and described in detail the innovations in the design specifics which heightened the efficiency and sustainability of the facility as a hub of knowledge for the modern being. Definitely worth the stop. 

That night, we met up with my dad at a hotel in Federal Way and prepared to enter into our respective next chapters. A new year of school for him, and a new year of AmeriCorps for myself. 

not really a real post...but illusions of progress are important!

It is interesting that in the most frazzled states of being, I am able to bring myself back to myself in reading a simple piece of my own writing. I suppose this is reason enough to blog. 

Life has once again swept me up in much of its “do,do,do” as I have once again made a cross-country transition. 

It will still be a few days (hopefully not much more) before I really have time to sit and get this blog caught up, but some observations: 

1) I am surprised to look back at my summer in retrospect and see how much introspective time I allowed for myself amidst all of the visiting. In this, I accessed a high degree of ambition for personal project (once again) upon returning to Washington. 

2) The reality of Washington is once again presenting itself as a precarious balancing act. The environment primes itself for these personal endeavors, and yet the external commitments I have show an ever-narrowing space for that. 

3) And thus a feature Journey theme of mine - Balance - takes the stage once again. How to navigate my inner and outer growth without needing storage shelving at one time or another? 

4) In the last few years, I have aimed to nurture integrity as my namesake. This is my equilibrium for my extremities. When overwhelmed, it comes out as awkward, fragmented sculptures. I will only be able to persist for so long like this until I just need to retreat and make quiet space. 

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To be blogged: 

1. Traveling 4,000 miles across the country with my brother. The ins and outs of feelings…coming out and staying in. 
2. The wonderful insanity of my Great Communicator and social planets compelling me to shape yet another jam-packed weekend of three jobs and little sleep right after moving (sacrificing the actual “move-in’’ process of unpacking…) 
3. The first week of Orientation, introductions to a whole new, amazing AmeriFamily (and still the underlying disarray of an abode to be unpacked…

…which is what I really meant to be doing right now in this short (and now shorter) time I have t home…so more soon! 

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.