There is so much anticipation in the New Year. We all want January First to mean something great for all of us. A new resolution, a new goal, a new life. We think that on this day, the whole world is in front of us, we can reinvent, re-imagine and re-do a year, four years, a decade or a life of what has been dealt us.
But in reality, we can't. Instead, we look back with a skewed view of everything good and everything bad we've done in the past, and make inflated and unrealistic goals of what we want to accomplish in the new year. Why do I think that come some random day I will wake up and have some vision about my life that I had never had before? Is it all mental? Do I need simply to believe more in the myth of it all?
In this new year, here's what I've learned:
1) Life is really unpredictable. Even when it seems predictable, it's not. As Heidi Klum says, one day you're in, and the next day...you're out. We can all be out at any time. Don't look down on those who've not had the luck you have had. You never know when you'll be in the same position.
2) It's ok to be vulnerable, and to question yourself. Until I hit North Carolina for Christmas, I basically wept every day for one reason or another, all of them stemming from the same thing. I have one great friend who has listened to the song below with me for hours. It's ok for me to say that I am sad and scared and I do not know what will happen next. And I listen to this for comfort, for some reason.
3) It's ok to rely on family. We all have them, and they're all flawed in some way, but at the end of the day, you can curl up in a fetal position and know you'll be surrounded by some sort of amazing love. And family comes in a lot of ways. It's biological, but it's also the pillars who stand, stoic and concerned in your life.
Most of all, I've learned you get this one great chance in the world. And during that roll of the dice we all succeed and fail and struggle and rage against the things that seem either arbitrary, or entitled or unfair. And there's a lot of uncertainty. And it's scary, unfair and it makes you want to punch someone sometimes. But it's ours, it's alive, it's life.
And so we live. With trepidation, yes. But with purpose. And what scares me is that I am still unclear of my own purpose. I suppose I'll find it soon....
Happy New Year, loves.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Power of Two
We used to lay out on my parent's driveway, holding hands, looking at the stars, wondering where we would be ten years down the road. We shared ambition and heartache, teen angst, teen love and the uncertainty of the future. We would pull my parent's speakers out by the windows, open the door to the porch to let the music seep out, and listen to hours of the Indigo Girls while contemplating our own course, our own map, laid out in the stars. We would talk and laugh for hours, drinking canned Miller Lite, he smoking cigarettes that I procured for him.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Trying Times
There are times in life that we all go through. They are not fun. They test us to the very core of who we are. Whether it's work or life or love, they hit us now and then. They are our own personal rapids that we have to navigate. Hopefully we do it with grace and skill, but there are times when we flail, hoping for one more minute of breath before we go under.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A Tribute
In 1995, I was a junior in high school at the Northfield Mount Hermon School in western Massachusetts. I spent four years immersed in one of the most fantastic environments for education. I lived with my teachers and friends in a place where there was never a lack of encouragement and support.
We had choices in the classes that we took, choices that extended beyond what language we decided to study, and we had limited choices in the teachers who taught the subjects we were most drawn to. One of the classes where there was little or no choice was English class. At the start of each year we would tear into our schedules with anticipation to see who we would be spending the next year of the academic year with in English class. Some teachers were infamous for their English classes. One of those women was Audrey Sheats.
Audrey was known as being tough. Really tough. And not just in the assignments she gave, but in a tough love kind of way. I remember my heart sinking when I opened my schedule on an otherwise perfect September afternoon at registration to see that it was with Audrey that I would spend the next year of English class with. Thankfully, my roommate and best friend Erin was also placed in her class so I knew I would have solace in at least her presence.
The first book Audrey assigned was The Sound and The Fury. The first assignment was merely chapter one. Sa-weet, I thought, chapter one? That's it? How can she possibly be as bad as everyone says? But I was young and naive and had never read any Faulkner, let alone a book like The Sound and The Fury.
Walking into her class that first day I saw a group of faces who were equally as confused as I. What, on earth, was that chapter about? And didn't she know we were juniors in high school and not English lit majors in college???? I began to get the sinking feeling that I was in for a year of..well...hell.
How delightfully wrong I was. Audrey lived up to her reputation of being remarkably difficult in terms of how she stretched and exercised our brains. An hour in her class was exhausting, but over the course of the first weeks of the semester, I realized just how lucky I was to be part of this experience. She was hard because she knew just what 16 year old brains are capable of when given the right coaxing. She was hard because she lived and breathed and loved the books she chose. We meandered through the Sound and the Fury, A Yellow Raft on Blue Water and myriad other titles she chose for us that year. Over spring break, we chose our own book to read and do an independent study for. I chose Love in the Time of Cholera, mostly because of her suggestion to me. Gabriel Garcia Marquez continues to be one of my favorite authors to this day.
I found myself, over the course of the year, looking forward to class with Audrey. I knew never to arrive unprepared or I would face the wrath of her stern verbal lashings. Toward the end of the year, when students were deciding whether to apply for some of the AP classes NMH offered, Audrey approached me and asked about my plans for AP English. I remember looking down and saying I had not really thought about it, but didn't think I would get in. Her eyes lit up and she took my hand and told me how wrong I was. That it was in Louise Schwingle's AP English class the following year that she saw me. I lacked confidence in those days, but she reached me. She believed in me, and she told me that. She said it would be a waste of a year if I did not try.
Lo and behold, it was in Louise's class where I found myself the following September. Just as Audrey has envisioned. And it was another breath taking year of a class with another woman who I've come to realize meant to much in my continued education. When I sat for the AP exam toward the end of my senior year, I wrote my essay on Love in the Time of Cholera and scored a 5 on the exam, all thanks to Audrey.
I read, with a very heavy heart, this morning that Audrey passed away this past January. It gave me great pause and allowed me a chance to reflect on the four years I spent at NMH, the people who have continued to influence me, and the profound loss her passing is on the community. Audrey was tough and passionate and caring and intellectual and supportive. She inspired confidence in me and she will be missed.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friends
We get lost in life. We get lost easily. In work, in relationships, in the grind. We also have those rare nights when we're reminded of just how fantastic life is. We surround ourselves in all of those things that are meant to be fulfilling--everything that makes life...life.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Review
I don't really re-read what I post on here too often. Occasionally, if I need a dose of perspective I'll take a tour through the posts I wrote while in the refugee camp, but it's rare I revisit my musings.
But I was looking at a program that shows the page views etc of this blog and I noticed a blog that had linked to mine that I had never read. So I went to check it out. It's called likeridingabicycle.blogspot.com and it's a blog of a good blog buddy of mine. I read this woman's post that mirrored my experience with my client that I had shared some of last year. And she linked to a couple of my posts that described the hearing in April 2008 and the fallout from that. I went back and re-read what I wrote, and read what she wrote, and it made me remarkably emotional.
It's amazing how easily you push down past experiences, carrying them with you, and move forward and selectively remember (or forget) the details that are the most difficult. And for the first time, I'm truly grateful I've had this living website where I can go back and read through some of my past, and allow those posts to let me feel like I am back in the moment.
I don't live my life with regrets, and I've been reminded of that today. It's still hard. And it's still sad. But it's life. And the only thing you can do is live it fully.
But I was looking at a program that shows the page views etc of this blog and I noticed a blog that had linked to mine that I had never read. So I went to check it out. It's called likeridingabicycle.blogspot.com and it's a blog of a good blog buddy of mine. I read this woman's post that mirrored my experience with my client that I had shared some of last year. And she linked to a couple of my posts that described the hearing in April 2008 and the fallout from that. I went back and re-read what I wrote, and read what she wrote, and it made me remarkably emotional.
It's amazing how easily you push down past experiences, carrying them with you, and move forward and selectively remember (or forget) the details that are the most difficult. And for the first time, I'm truly grateful I've had this living website where I can go back and read through some of my past, and allow those posts to let me feel like I am back in the moment.
I don't live my life with regrets, and I've been reminded of that today. It's still hard. And it's still sad. But it's life. And the only thing you can do is live it fully.
The News of a Passing
I was walking through Adams Morgan with my friend S on Saturday and we were chatting about the recent plane crash in Buffalo killing 50 people. I had read a little about it, what a tragedy of grand proportions, but had not fastidiously kept up on the news over the past week so only digested the snippets I caught in passing.
S asked me if I had read any of the bios of the victims, specifically the woman who was big into international aid work. I had not, though had heard there was an 9/11 widow on there, I'd not heard about anyone else and I doubted I would have any idea who the international aid person was.
As we walked out of the coffee shop we passed a stack of NY Times, and S picked it up and to my shock and profound sadness, I saw that the woman S was referring to was Alison Des Forges, the leading scholar and activist on Rwanda and a tireless of advocate before, during and after the genocide on international recognition and accountability.
When I was representing my asylum seeking client this past year, we had to build an army of experts to write affidavits in support of our client's story. This meant hours upon hours of research, cold calling, lots of emails, follow up emails, follow up follow up emails, normally resulting in1 out of about 15 responses to our begging for these people to let us explain our client's story. We found Alison's name early in the semester, and searched and searched for a way to find HER. The more we read the more we knew that it would be next to impossible to get someone of her expertise and her notoriety to ever speak with us about our little case, but we vowed to spend the semester trying.
Midway through the semester, we had a meeting with a woman who works for State who had been the acting ambassador from the US to Rwanda at the time of the genocide. She met with us over lunch, and spoke frankly about her experience, while listening to the story of our client. She asked who else we had spoken to, so we went through the list and at the end added the fact that we were trying to get in touch with Alison Des Forges, but we were having no luck finding any contact information.
The woman paused, and told us she would email Alison for us, and she could choose if she wanted to get in touch with us. And lo and behold, a few days later, she emailed us. It was an email explaining why she ultimately could not give us an affidavit or testimony, and wishing us luck, and our client luck. It was a gesture that was generous and at the time, while sleep deprived having only read anything about Rwanda for weeks, it was like getting a communication from God.
When I realized it was Alison Des Forges on that plane to Buffalo, I had to pause for a moment to collect myself. She was a woman to be emulated and her work affected millions of people and saved lives. She was the kind of human being we all should aspire to be, and is certainly the kind I will work to become for the rest of my life.
S asked me if I had read any of the bios of the victims, specifically the woman who was big into international aid work. I had not, though had heard there was an 9/11 widow on there, I'd not heard about anyone else and I doubted I would have any idea who the international aid person was.
As we walked out of the coffee shop we passed a stack of NY Times, and S picked it up and to my shock and profound sadness, I saw that the woman S was referring to was Alison Des Forges, the leading scholar and activist on Rwanda and a tireless of advocate before, during and after the genocide on international recognition and accountability.
When I was representing my asylum seeking client this past year, we had to build an army of experts to write affidavits in support of our client's story. This meant hours upon hours of research, cold calling, lots of emails, follow up emails, follow up follow up emails, normally resulting in1 out of about 15 responses to our begging for these people to let us explain our client's story. We found Alison's name early in the semester, and searched and searched for a way to find HER. The more we read the more we knew that it would be next to impossible to get someone of her expertise and her notoriety to ever speak with us about our little case, but we vowed to spend the semester trying.
Midway through the semester, we had a meeting with a woman who works for State who had been the acting ambassador from the US to Rwanda at the time of the genocide. She met with us over lunch, and spoke frankly about her experience, while listening to the story of our client. She asked who else we had spoken to, so we went through the list and at the end added the fact that we were trying to get in touch with Alison Des Forges, but we were having no luck finding any contact information.
The woman paused, and told us she would email Alison for us, and she could choose if she wanted to get in touch with us. And lo and behold, a few days later, she emailed us. It was an email explaining why she ultimately could not give us an affidavit or testimony, and wishing us luck, and our client luck. It was a gesture that was generous and at the time, while sleep deprived having only read anything about Rwanda for weeks, it was like getting a communication from God.
When I realized it was Alison Des Forges on that plane to Buffalo, I had to pause for a moment to collect myself. She was a woman to be emulated and her work affected millions of people and saved lives. She was the kind of human being we all should aspire to be, and is certainly the kind I will work to become for the rest of my life.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Passion
When was the last time you felt truly alive? Truly passionate about something? Was it yesterday? Maybe a month ago? As long as a year?
I've had the good fortune to experience things that make me passionate almost every....day, dare I say, from coming home from Mali. Passions differ-the intensity, the drive, the reason you want to feel passionate about something.
And I've taken to re-reading some of the things I wrote so long ago in 2006 when I was in Dadaab, and I feel that fire rekindling. I love challenges, I relish in them. I love being told that something is not quite reachable, and finding a way to do it. The opportunities don't come along very often. Peace Corps was one of them. And I persevered to be able to see the beauty in a group of women who had never been given the chance to take control of themselves. Dadaab was even more profound. The stimulation of giving yourself so wholly to other people, to do the very little a single person can do to alleviate suffering..it's euphoric and it's something I've not experienced in a long time.
I believe people individually have a greater calling. I re-read To Kill A Mockingbird this past summer, and I see that my father's greater calling is equality in representation, and compassion in that. I see my mother's being the divine ability to comfort children, parents, her kids and absolute strangers. My sister? My god, where do I begin? Her joy is extends beyond education, it encompasses all that is great and beautiful about human nature. She is a savior, and a kindred soul, and someone who is as generous and loving as anyone else in the world. And my brother, who loves loves loves the way he knows how, and is a protector, and confidante and a really remarkable friend.
And I struggle to find my place in that, even though in my heart of hearts I know exactly where it is. I'm not quitting my job, and I'm not doing anything drastic, but I'm clawing myself back to where I feel my own identity resides, which is in humanitarian aid.
I've spoken about my girlfriends many a time on this blog, and I love them more than any words could convey. And this past week our group has suffered a tremendous loss, a loss of one of our mothers. And my, how sad that journey has been. To see the devastation of one of our closest, our darlings, our sisters. And to know that we have the power to heal only in our own power to love, and sometimes that's not enough. And I am the most at ease, even when in tears outside the National Press Club building, comforting my friend, being an outlet.
The world of corporate law is not for me. I will never complain about the opportunity, or that I have a job, but my goodness does it make me feel vacant, and lonely.
I am the child of my parents. I have been raised in a manner that celebrates selflessness and compassion. And I think I'm just striving to get back to where I'm finally able to feel that within myself again.
I've had the good fortune to experience things that make me passionate almost every....day, dare I say, from coming home from Mali. Passions differ-the intensity, the drive, the reason you want to feel passionate about something.
And I've taken to re-reading some of the things I wrote so long ago in 2006 when I was in Dadaab, and I feel that fire rekindling. I love challenges, I relish in them. I love being told that something is not quite reachable, and finding a way to do it. The opportunities don't come along very often. Peace Corps was one of them. And I persevered to be able to see the beauty in a group of women who had never been given the chance to take control of themselves. Dadaab was even more profound. The stimulation of giving yourself so wholly to other people, to do the very little a single person can do to alleviate suffering..it's euphoric and it's something I've not experienced in a long time.
I believe people individually have a greater calling. I re-read To Kill A Mockingbird this past summer, and I see that my father's greater calling is equality in representation, and compassion in that. I see my mother's being the divine ability to comfort children, parents, her kids and absolute strangers. My sister? My god, where do I begin? Her joy is extends beyond education, it encompasses all that is great and beautiful about human nature. She is a savior, and a kindred soul, and someone who is as generous and loving as anyone else in the world. And my brother, who loves loves loves the way he knows how, and is a protector, and confidante and a really remarkable friend.
And I struggle to find my place in that, even though in my heart of hearts I know exactly where it is. I'm not quitting my job, and I'm not doing anything drastic, but I'm clawing myself back to where I feel my own identity resides, which is in humanitarian aid.
I've spoken about my girlfriends many a time on this blog, and I love them more than any words could convey. And this past week our group has suffered a tremendous loss, a loss of one of our mothers. And my, how sad that journey has been. To see the devastation of one of our closest, our darlings, our sisters. And to know that we have the power to heal only in our own power to love, and sometimes that's not enough. And I am the most at ease, even when in tears outside the National Press Club building, comforting my friend, being an outlet.
The world of corporate law is not for me. I will never complain about the opportunity, or that I have a job, but my goodness does it make me feel vacant, and lonely.
I am the child of my parents. I have been raised in a manner that celebrates selflessness and compassion. And I think I'm just striving to get back to where I'm finally able to feel that within myself again.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Chirp...Chirp...
This is the second post that's starting with "So it's been a long time...". But this time it really really has. And I have plenty of excuses for that...
But none of those will be written about, at least not immediately. I've been thinking a lot of about the trajectory of my life as of late. Thinking is the operative word, because I've certainly not been having deep discussions about it with family or many friends. I've thought about what makes us happy, and what makes me happy.
Doing well at work. Those days are good. Really good. Particularly when you've only been doing something for 5 months and those days are relative dots in the landscape of being lost in the weeds trying to look up and see the light shining through. I've had a couple of those really good days in the last 5 months. But they have yet to be quite prominent in the grand scheme of things.
I've thought a lot about my former client, as well. Her daughter turned one a couple of weeks ago, and I marked the day thinking that it had been one year when the single greatest learning experience of my life began at the same time as what would turn out to be devastating, demoralizing and just plain maddening. I've thought about it because I realize that those 8 months spent representing her, as hard and at time trying as they were, made me feel truly great. I compare it to what I'm doing now and have a sense of...longing, I suppose.
I don't know if any of you guys noticed (or if any of you guys ever check this anymore), but since the last time I wrote our economy is kind of in the toilet. Now is not the time when sane people start looking for new jobs. Now is the time when the people who have lost their jobs scoop those open jobs up and the rest of us shut up, keep our heads down and be thankful that we're still sitting behind a desk. And don't get me wrong, I am remarkably thankful. More so than I could possibly put into words (though, knowing me, I'll likely try at some point). But I've made the decision to start the process of finding a job doing what I love more than corporate transactional work, and I'm pretty stoked about it.
So. There you have it. Not the most earth shattering post from my 5 month hiatus, but we have to start somewhere, right?
But none of those will be written about, at least not immediately. I've been thinking a lot of about the trajectory of my life as of late. Thinking is the operative word, because I've certainly not been having deep discussions about it with family or many friends. I've thought about what makes us happy, and what makes me happy.
Doing well at work. Those days are good. Really good. Particularly when you've only been doing something for 5 months and those days are relative dots in the landscape of being lost in the weeds trying to look up and see the light shining through. I've had a couple of those really good days in the last 5 months. But they have yet to be quite prominent in the grand scheme of things.
I've thought a lot about my former client, as well. Her daughter turned one a couple of weeks ago, and I marked the day thinking that it had been one year when the single greatest learning experience of my life began at the same time as what would turn out to be devastating, demoralizing and just plain maddening. I've thought about it because I realize that those 8 months spent representing her, as hard and at time trying as they were, made me feel truly great. I compare it to what I'm doing now and have a sense of...longing, I suppose.
I don't know if any of you guys noticed (or if any of you guys ever check this anymore), but since the last time I wrote our economy is kind of in the toilet. Now is not the time when sane people start looking for new jobs. Now is the time when the people who have lost their jobs scoop those open jobs up and the rest of us shut up, keep our heads down and be thankful that we're still sitting behind a desk. And don't get me wrong, I am remarkably thankful. More so than I could possibly put into words (though, knowing me, I'll likely try at some point). But I've made the decision to start the process of finding a job doing what I love more than corporate transactional work, and I'm pretty stoked about it.
So. There you have it. Not the most earth shattering post from my 5 month hiatus, but we have to start somewhere, right?
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