Finals Week.

Because I have a lot on my mind and I'm too tired to write anything worthy of being read by anyone...this sums it all up anyways.

Thanks xkcd for helping me procrastinate (http://xkcd.com/137)

Acts of Listening

I had an ephiphany today.  At 8am.

It was inspired by a tiny blurb on the "Positivity" feed I wake up to every morning. This morning's post was a quote from Rachel Naomi Remen - a doctor who's battled Crohn's disease for the past 48 years, and worked to reform the medicine into a holistic practice.

She said:
"The most basic and powerful way to connect to another person is to listen. Just listen. Perhaps the most important thing we ever give each other is our attention...A loving silence often has far more power to heal and to connect than the most well-intentioned words." 

I sat back sleepily for a moment and thought about this, my space heater whirring as I spun slowly in the chair at my desk. Am I a good listener? "Of course!" I thought. It's something that I make a conscious effort to do everyday...and it's like people just know that I'm a sponge for their purging. People have shared things with me before - secrets, both joyous and tragic - that I've felt surprised yet honored to be entrusted with.  But is this sense of trust fostered because I'm a good listener? Have I ever responded to someone's confessions, dreams, or desires with loving silence? What even is "loving silence"? Couldn't that get horribly construed somehow? Misunderstood as indifference?

Sighing, my internal volleying unresolved, I got up and sprawled myself across my bed, propping myself up with a pillow, and grabbing my book. I'll admit that with all the reading I'm required to do I've resorted to speed reading, aka skimming the text looking for key words and thematic elements that are good class discussion starters or paper topics. It's become a key survival skill in college.

That being said, as I began reading Animal's People by Indra Sinha, I realized this wasn't a book I wanted to rush through - that as I passed the 30 page mark, then 55, then 80 in the span of about two hours, my painfully slow progression through the novel gave me more time to understand the deeper meanings of the lesson the author was trying to teach. I highlighted things, I underlined my favorite passages, I even laughed at the subtle humor that I would have normally missed had I flown through the words without looking for their soul. It's been so long since I've slowed down to actually listen to a narrator's story. It frightens me how good I've gotten at hunting out the linguistic cues, the kernals of contradiction, and the forumulaic mechanisms that give novels structure. But that's not what reading is about.

The act of reading is in fact an act of listening. When you take the time to hear out the narrator through to the end, there becomes less of an urge to interject in ways that cause you to alienate yourself from the whole literary experience. Perhaps, to listen with "loving silence" then is to pause long enough to attempt understanding on ones own accord. Because we, as readers, cannot confront authors directly, we must learn to listen with such "loving silence," or risk gutting the very books that attempt to reveal the most complex parts of our humanity.

The Freezing Inferno (& other stories)

I may not live in Garrison Kellior's Minnesotan paradise of Lake Woebegone, but I'm wearing my fleece lined spandex under my jeans, along with three shirts, a fleece hoodie, scarf and a pea coat (like Randy in A Christmas Story, "I can't put my arms down!") Andddd, it gets worse. I hate to admit it, but Heidi and I camped out in front of the oven a few days ago, turning the dial to 500 degrees and putting our faces and hands on the edge of the open door, smiling contentedly. The scalding waves of heat felt heavenly, well, because it's cold here at the Inferno (pardon the pun...or don't).  

Oregon State Capitol, Salem OR - As viewed from Ford Hall

That being said, it's the last week of classes before finals and campus is alive with the caffeinated buzz of Willamette students writing essays and studying for exams. It's hard to believe that this semester is almost over! Only a few essays and a presentation stand in between me and my winter break. Next semester will bring thesis... and (gulp!) graduation. But as always, I'm taking it a day at a time. And frankly, I'm always excited about new horizons. 

Thankfully, the cold weather has brought us some beautiful skies that are so striking and clear, that the world feel infinite, bleeding into the universe like the new bra that turns everything in your washing machine bright pink. The orange, crimson, and gold leaves were blown away in the last storm, leaving the trees starkly naked. All the leaf blower fanatics had a party the next day, sparking their obnoxious machines to life and blowing leaves in one direction only to have a light wind scatter them again. I feel like Sisyphus would have a laugh if he could observe one of my neighbors, who did leaf duty everyday for nearly two weeks. Unfortunately, getting "rid" of the leaves in his yard meant blowing them all under Heidi's suburban, which we didn't discover until Thanksgiving (and who goes to complain to their neighbors during Thanksgiving? exactly.) In any case, all we need now is a blizzard to envelop campus, to soften the ever-clutching grip of academics on students' brains and bodies. I know I'd appreciate a good snow ball fight. Oh, and don't forget making makeshift sleds out of Goudy trays... :D

Morning fog, looking across the Quad toward the Clocktower - from Eaton Hall

This week Willamette held its 15th Annual Star Tree Lighting Ceremony, which is easily my favorite Bearcat tradition (not including the annual Prospie Day body-painted streaker run in the spring). I missed it last year during my time abroad and almost missed it AGAIN this year because of some conflicting schedule issues. But, I made things work, and was able to nibble on cookies, listen to the choir sing carols, and join the countdown until the five huge sequoias, the tallest on ANY university campus in the United States, were lit up with twinkling color. I then had to run back to Smith Auditorium to play in the Christmas concert which we put on for free for the Salem community. While  "The 12 BeBots of Christmas" weren't featured this year, Grant still donned one of his traditional "ugly sweaters" to conduct the band, and a flute octet played an arrangement of "All I Want for Christmas (Is You)." The band of course played Anderson's Sleigh Ride, and finished the concert with an audience sing-a-long carol piece.

The Star Trees - from the Quad

After the concert I met up with Peter, and we ended up justifying a dinner at Adam's BBQ! Whenever I eat there, I never fail to smear half of what I order on my hands and face. Yet, between mouthfuls of pulled pork and fried cornbread (hey, we're rowers lol) and later snuggling up and watching Love Actually together,  it was wonderful to put aside the hustle and bustle of life for the evening for good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs. Oftentimes, life is twice as fun when you get to share it with someone.

That hustle and bustle however cannot wait forever. I have to start working tonight on the final essays due over the next few days. But at least I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. After all, it's only the end of the beginning. There's so much more to come :)

In Spite of Ourselves

Tonight is one of those nights in which my love for life fills my heart in wave upon wave of gratitude. It is nights such as this one that in pausing to reflect upon the craziness of the everyday grind, I can revel in the simple grace of putting aside pursuits of the future to enjoy the present moment. This moment.  Right now. To just "be." To breathe, smile and reconnect and reflect upon our journeys with ourselves and each other.

A year ago I spent Thanksgiving in Amman, Jordan. I had stayed home from classes that day because I was incredibly ill, toting a 101 degree fever and muscle aches. My host family didn't even come in to check on me. Because of this, my mood fluctuated radically between anger driven mostly by my helplessness, and sadness spurred by a desire for my mother to bustle in and start fussing over me. I felt absolutely alone, and absolutely miserable. Everytime I'd be awake long enough for these feelings to begin seeping in, I'd quickly roll over and smush a pillow over my head to bury such feelings in distant fever-ridden dreams. Of course, the harder I pressed the soft pillow against my ears, it seemed the more they would ring...

...Except the ringing in my head turned out to be insistent ringing of my cell phone. My neighborhood girls, calling me during the late afternoon Amman traffic jam, while piled into the backseat of a taxi, gave happy shrieks into the phone that made me wince. "Don't forget Karina, you promised to bring that ancient five month old bag of instant Idaho spuds for us to whip up!" Claire begged playfully. "Rachael is scrounging around Carrefour for sliced turkey, and Laura even found some canned cranberry sauce! This is going to be a perfect Thanksgiving dinner!"

"That's great." I mumbled. "Freakin' mumtaaz."

"Seriously dude, it's going to be awesome!" Becca took her turn yelling into the phone.  I could imagine Rachael, Laura, and Erin grinning and nodding their heads excitedly in solidarity. Their Arab taxi driver must think of his four American passengers were shwei crazy.

"Look girls, I'm really sick," I admitted. "No promises I'll be able to make it tonight." This news was met with cold rejection.

"No, Karina you're coming even if we have to drag you out of bed. We'll see you at 6pm, my place," Clair retorted. Then as if to soften the toughness of her stance, they all screamed, "We love you khteerrrrr, bye!!!" and hung up. A small smile had replaced the scowl on my face. Maybe this is what I needed after all.

I wobbled into Claire's host-family's house a few hours later. A small table piled high with goodies met my eyes. Sliced turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams with kosher marshmellows...even some stuffing. The highlight of the night though may have been Claire's freshly baked pecan pie, my favorite.

Of course, what made Thanksgiving in Amman a Thanksgiving that I'll remember for a long time wasn't so much about the food (although it did help to relieve some of the nostalgia). It was about the amazing women I got to share it with. We were all thousands of miles away from our families in the USA, but we had made a family of each other.

And so this Thanksgiving, as I find myself back in the States, but again surrounded by people that I love, I just feel so incredibly lucky. From being happily welcomed into Peter's family gathering in Tacoma (which included poker, wine, touch football games, and lots of hugs), to reuniting with my Mom and Pop and my various sets of adopted "relatives," I see how families, in whatever form they may come, learn to love each other in spite of themselves. In spite of our struggles. In spite of our flaws. In spite of any stubbornness to prove one's independence and individuality. If anything, coming home from my time abroad has taught me to be more grateful for these unquestioned, nonnegotiable networks of support. We know that the people we try the hardest to push away, will always take us back.

And thus, there's so much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, in spite of ourselves.

A Woman Alone

It never ceases to amaze me how surprised people are when they discover that I am traveling alone, whether internationally or even within the United States.

Fortunately though, I often find that my seeming "loneliness" opens many special doors throughout the world. In Jordan or Lebanon, it means getting invited into the sacred space of someone's home to meet their family, and sip on delicate cups of "shai wa nana" while nibbling on mamoul (or if you're reallyyyy lucky baklava or knafa!). In Croatia, it can even get you a drink or two on the house from a pitying bartender.

On the otherhand, announcing your "aloneness" (I do not use the word "loneliness" on purpose) aloud and without timidity can also cause flickers of confusion to dart across the faces of curious inquirers. "You mean you chose to travel by yourself?" their eyes challenge. But why???

"I'm having a great time... ALL BY MYSELF"  -- acquired at the Museum of Broken Relationships, Zagreb, Croatia

To help explain this, I return to one of my favorite YouTube videos titled, "How to Be Alone" (as shown below). As the short expose illuminates, learning how to be alone can be one of the most difficult but important life skills that one can achieve, especially in an increasingly connected world where two to three degrees of separation is all that exists between you and members of your local community. 

But like any skill, being alone takes practice. You have to work on it in order to feel more comfortable with it. 

I travel alone for the freedom of letting my feet wander: of choosing my own destinations, allowing myself to get "lost" along the way, and understanding how to best keep myself company. "Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless," the narrator mentions, highlighting its ability to unburden oneself from the boredom of routine or the pressure of public image and social cues. For example, what's the longest amount of time that you've refrained from speaking? Five minutes? An hour? Try going a whole day. When you're alone, you allow yourself to get inside your head more than usual. You give yourself the time for self-reflection. Once you get accustomed to the immediate differences that occur when leaving friends and social obligations behind, flyin' solo (as I fondly refer to it) is something that one adjusts to naturally. 

Besides, even if you feel like you're traveling alone, you are of course never completely alone. Just turn to the nearest human-being next to you and invite them out for a coffee. :)

"Remember who you are..."

Its raining again.

I´m enjoying the sound of it whoosh outside my open window. Its muggy here. Hot. Even sprawled out on my bed, I´ve used up all the cool spots and am compelled to migrate to the window to look out and watch the sheets of water pound the gravely road outside Valentina´s house into muddy puddles. Of course, my sleeplessness may also have something to do with the quantity of rakia (the unofficial national drink that everyone brews in their basements...) I´ve been consuming lately, or perhaps the many thoughts churning in my mind...probably both. 

Today was an incredibly intense experience: physically, intellectually, maybe even spiritually. We ventured to Srebrenica and Kravica - testaments to Bosnia´s brutal war that began nearly 20 years ago.

I rode shotgun this morning on our drive out of Bijeljina, with Valentina behind the wheel. It was a cloudy morning with watery sunshine that broke through intermittently and illuminated the bright green of surrounding farmland. I especially love such roadtrips for their ability to promote deeper conversations - they allow you to think outloud and discuss difficult subjects without the pressure of eye contact or the possibility of escape. Instead, your thoughts free to twist and wind around in your mind like the road before you. 

We talked about many things...mostly of course the feasibility of developing a unified Bosnia in the face of continued nationalism of the Bosnian Serbs, Croats, and Bosniacks. We talked about genocide, and the disparities between the truth and ´propaganda´ that construct men such as Ratko Mladic - who ordered the execution of 8,000 Muslim men and boys in Srebrenica - as ´heroes.´

The reminders of war and historic rivalries are everywhere in BiH...plazas with glorified monuments, and rows and rows of sun-bleached, rain-hardened headstones at the entrances of each town. Peace feels tenuous here. Fragile. It feels like war could happen again. That fear keeps people suspicious, and glancing every-so-often back to the local hills that filed to protect all three groups from unimaginable acts of violence.

Srebrenica is surrounded by such hills, beautiful and green and rolling down into the valley.  The five of us mingled sombrely through the thousands of headstones. Faceless people, with stories I don't know...such a reality threatens to make this massacre only another paragraph in the history of humankind. But frankly, it was impossible for me to remain detached. I took time reading name after name of the men, many who had been my age when they were executed. It only took a little imagination drawn from studied historical events to visualize myself here, gazing at these same hills, and realizing that I would die so undignified. I imagined families being separated on the first day, and fathers and sons dying next to each other on the last.

We left Srebrenica with heavy hearts. The car was largely quiet, a rare occurrence for our loud and opinionated group. Right before we had gotten into the car, the old woman Valentina had chatted up for us told us the story of her family's suffering. The woman looked weathered. Her dark, leathery skin crinkled into a quick smile, an incredibly surprising phenomenon. When I wasn't watching her face, I couldn't take my eyes off of her hands: smooth almost, like polished wood worn down by frequent use. It made me suddenly unsure about her age. She became timeless.

The woman eventually grasped my hand and led me over to the museum, a part of the memorial area I had overlooked. Inside my eyes were met with horrible images: a doll with its mouth slit, left on a shallow grave as a warning to all, barbed wire handcuffs removed from exhumed bodies in mass graves, and rows upon rows of evidence boxes.

As we sat quietly, watching the churches and mosques of other villages pass by our car windows, I couldn't help but think back to something a student said to Valentina the night before: ˝Fine, go to Srebrenica,˝ he said. ˝But remember who you are.˝

Remember who you are.

In other words, do what you feel you must do, but do not betray the memory of Serbian heroism. Witness but do not necessarily accept Bosniack propaganda. They claimed to have suffered more under ¨Serbian aggression,¨ but wait! Look at what Serbs have suffered! We have suffered too! Bring them to Kravica as well, and they will better understand our story.

Thus, remember who you are is an incredibly loaded statement, especially coming from an incredibly clever seventeen-year-old Bosnian Serb.

It is impossible to designate events on an empirical scale of suffering. It makes mediating such comments increasingly difficult to redirect. I thought I would have more answers by now about how to help Bosnia move forward, but if anything I am becoming more paralysed by the incredible power cultural memory has on exacerbating and perpetuating existing divisions.

Tonight is our last night here in Bijeljina. Perhaps Orasje will reveal another side to the questions surrounding Bosnian identity...

The World is my Soapbox

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” -- Miriam Beard (from, The 50 Most Inspiring Travel Quotes of All Time)

It never gets old for me, challenging everyday conceptions of space and time. 30-something hours ago I was home, and now I am halfway across the world. Its a thrill that settles in my stomach, like the butterflies that accompany a first date, every single time I head for the airport. Airports symbolize more than annoying 3-ounce bottle rules, body scanners, and strange sweaty seat buddies (you know who I'm referring to). For me, airports represent adventure, freedom, and the potential of going literally anywhere in the world. It presents infinite realms of possibility.

As I find myself in Belgrade, Serbia, attempting to read street signs in the Cryllic alphabet and witnessing the many echoes of old Yugoslavia, I am slowly realizing that this part of the world is truly different from everything that I've ever experienced. What does it mean to travel the Balkans? What defines its people, languages, culture, and music? I wonder what I will come away with when I leave this seeming region of exceptionally visible national pride...

I have a feeling that the next few weeks hold the potential to transform, and continue to build upon the experiences that have changed my views of the world. It began in Zimbabwe and Jordan, and continues again this summer. I am travelling to Bosnia-Herzegovina (BiH) with three colleagues, spending the next three weeks with BiH highschoolers that we mentored and facilitated discussions on democracy during their exchange-leadership program at Willamette this past spring. These 'kids' (aka, soon-to-be-functioning-adults) are literally the product of civil war. Thus, the future of Bosnia and any prospects for justice or long-term reconciliation rests on their shoulders. Hopes for peace could again crumble with the aftershocks of genocide: nationalism, ethnic hatred, distrust of ones neighbors lack of forgiveness, and religious intolerance are only a few challenges they face.

But! As always, there is hope! (As the die-hard optimist, you couldn't expect any less from me of course haha). These young Bosnians are intelligent, genuine, candid, and so incredibly motivated to change their own communities and hence create a new BiH - a nation that supports democratic ideals of liberty tempered by social responsibility - a nation that can heal ancient wounds not through the suppression of identity but rather through the embrace of differences.

Obviously, I've turned the world into my soapbox. What can I say? I'm not one to censor myself.