Questioning the "Obvious"

I remember being a young kid, looking up at everything in the world. I remember summer days riding home in my dad's orange '67 volkswagon bus, the engine putting along, and of course, the radio blasting - usually NPRs hourly news cycle but if the world was proving too heavy for the shoulders of his daughter on a particular day, my Pop would usually change the channel to whatever rock station happened to be playing Eric Clapton and the like.  Our windows would be down, the wind sweeping away the bass vibrations with the oily exhaust spluttering from back pipe. We'd always exchange talk about our days, or rather I would usually just gush ecstatically about riding horses and mucking out stalls - for me, another day in paradise. I was rarely scared of these creatures that towered above my tiny body. I learned their language, and simply trusted them to do me no intentional harm.

Of course, as I've gotten older and my understanding and perspective has evolved to look down upon many things in the world (both literally and figuratively), I am always so floored by the innocent candidness of the very young. As I navigate the seeming complexities of my own life, I can't help but yearn sometimes for the unquestioning clarity of vision that kids enjoy. For example, walking through the Seattle Art Museum's Picasso exhibition with Claire last winter I was gazing upon an abstract painting of a naked woman, reclining comfortably despite the various contradictions of her curvy dimensions. I stood there for a moment, to admire the piece of course, but moreover to attempt to understand the crazy twists within Picasso's brain intellectually - the rationale that liberated him from coloring inside the lines of classic artistic tradition. I soon found however, that my serious intent of making sense of Picasso - an effort that would have been appreciated by "sophisticated" adults - would be momentarily overturned and ridiculed by two young brothers between five and eight years old who proved more open-minded than anyone else on that floor.

"What is that?" the littlest brother asked, shaking his blonde head into unruliness, and putting his nose as close to the paint as possible. I could almost hear my inner art snob wimper.

"C'mon, isn't it obvious?" retorted the older brother. "It's obviously an octopus, duhhh. See?" pointing innocently toward the woman's breasts, claiming them to be the "octopus' eyeballs,"  the many limbs the creatures legs, dangling precariously into surrealism.

Grinning happily and pushing back the peels of laughter that threatened to burst out of my chest, I stalled behind them, hoping to hear the conversation evolve. But of course, two seconds later the boys were off to the next masterpiece, interpreting art in blasphemous ways that only children can (and can get away with).

It got me thinking, and as I was again reminded today thinking through some of the decisions I must make soon, about how upon entering adulthood, we choose to see the world in incredibly regimented forms. I know we can't necessarily "unlearn" or "uncondition" ourselves from the society we've come of age in. But the ability for the young boys to see something completely different - an octopus - in place of the "right" answer, aka. a highly sexualized female figure, was thrilling.  And, it made me wonder what I've trained myself to no longer see.

What kind of world have I left behind? What happens when I think about such things as truth, life, trust, love, and happiness in terms of what joyful or devastating experiences such things have brought?

Moreover, it makes me think about ways in which I can look up at the world in wonder and curiosity, instead of down upon it with the conceit, cynicism, and arrogance that is often "wisdom" gone sour.

No, I don't wish for innocence. Going through the various growing pains of junior high, high school, and even college once is enough. But, it is fascinating to me to think about what life would be like living with the perspective of an adult but the openness and innocence of a child. Authors and poets have waxed on about this since the beginning. My assumptions of the "obvious" having been challenged by those two boys, I can't help but fall into the same timeless musings about (thanks again, Camus) the "art" of living.

To love joyfully and ecstatically, but without blindness.
To trust wholly, but only those who earn it.
To think pragmatically, but never without compassion.

And so I can only hope that the juxtapositions upon life's canvas can coexist much like the octopus and Picasso's painted woman. For perhaps they aren't really so obviously different afterall.

The Animal Who Loves the Sun.

I'm up again, it's 1am, I'm hanging out in my favorite fleece and underwear. James Taylor is soothing me with lines about country roads and escape, and Heidi just knocked on my bedroom door to bring me a freshly baked peanut butter-chocolate chip cookie.

Am I lucky or what?

I've been in a bit of a funk all day, and couldn't really tell you exactly why. There's a lot of things that have been weighing down my spirits the last few days. Yes, I lost my uncle to a horrible car accident, and watched Oma gasp for breath and fade before my eyes this past weekend. What's strange though is that after my good cry on Friday, I've felt so incredibly calm that really everything has seemed sort of surreal, a blur. I've jumped right back into everything - school, workouts, social stuff, and thesising - yet I almost feel like I've tiptoed through the last few days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, some other bad thing to happen, and I've warned Whoever or Whatever or Fate about the consequences of testing my strength again anytime soon. I'm just completely exhausted.

You cannot imagine (or maybe you can) how much more I've thought about death the last few days, how I waited  for the text message from Mom telling me her flight landed safely, and Pop to say that the drive back home was uneventful. These events usually wouldn't even carve a spot out on my radar - it's been easy to accept that things generally turn out just fine. Afterall, I've traveled the world and have always come home safely. What is there to fear? I think youth allows you to laugh at death, or even on a particularly good day, you might even squeeze in an eye-roll or two at an otherwise seemingly distant phenomena. Yet, now it's like a little dark cloud is following me around, just to challenge my resolve to remain optimistic. I guess the sunrise of consciousness casts long shadows.

Just look at 'em! What a guy!

Albert Camus, my absolute favorite thinker and writer, in his Lyrical and Critical Essays (which he wrote when he was 22...amazing!) best teases out my recent thoughts regarding death. He writes: "A young man looks the world in the face. He has not had time to polish the idea of death or of nothingness, even though he has gazed on their full horror. That is what youth must be like, this harsh confrontation with death, this physical terror of this animal who loves the sun" ("Nuptials," 77)

He continues: "Death and colors are things we cannot discuss. But can I really think about it? I tell myself: I am going to die, but this means nothing since I cannot manage to believe it and can only experience other people's death. I have seen people die. Then I think of flowers, smiles, the desire for women, and realized that my whole horror of death lies in my anxiety to live! I love life too much not to be selfish. What does eternity matter to me. ("Nuptials" 78)

This love of life, this saturated, infatuated demand and desire for closeness with the world is to understand the glory of loving life unconditionally in spite of the cruel irony that death creates. It is acknowledging the inevitability of death that frees you from its grip in a way, in which suddenly "learning patiently and arduously how to live" ("Nuptials" 69) becomes enough. All we must do as human beings then is learn how to live joyously despite the futility of our struggle. Indeed, "there is no love of life without despair of life" ("Love of Life," 56). and so perhaps my doubts place me in not such a bad place after all. Rather, I am just an animal who loves the sun.

Time to cast off the dark storm clouds.

Just when you think you've grown up...

W-H-A-M!

Something happens to come along to humble you and remind you how small you are in the scheme of things, how ignorant your worldliness makes you about the things closest to home. Because I suppose when you spend your life focusing. worrying and caring about other peoples problems you rarely make the time to address your own. Ha, like all "grown-ups" there are things rattling in the back of my closet.

Me (the apparently busty blonde) and some hero guy trying to tell me what's up. Figures.

I'll be sitting next to my Oma's bedside in a few short hours, ignoring the prickle on the back of my neck from my uncles spiteful gaze, and looking at the shell of a woman who used to be the rock in my young life. Oma is on hospice care, and my family, after a series of texts and phone calls discovered that she's in critical condition...She may not even make it through the night.

It's fair to say that going down to sit at her deathbed is the least appealing thing I could possibly think of right now. Oma has always been a strong woman and it's been incredibly difficult to watch her fade under the throws of dementia and old age. Seeing her in my mind, I see a vivacious grandmother filling up my 101 Dalmatians cup with orange soda and shrieking curses in Dutch-English to the neighbors cat who always stalked birds at her numerous bird feeders. It used to make me laugh with glee. But now, as I imagine she'll look today having visited her a month ago, as emaciated as a concentration camp victim, her body seeming to shrivel up into itself, I'm selfish in my wishes to turn away. To forget. To block out her last few moments, the only time of frailty in her life of incredible strength.

But, I'm going anyway. Something Ryan said about "family" and "love" and "togetherness" reminded me, as I grabbed tissues from the box, that in a way I really didn't have a choice in the matter. That no matter what kind of shit we've put each other through in this crazy family of ours (and trust me, our family feeds the makings of an incredible soap opera), there's obligation to support those who's legacy depends on me to pass on the stories of their lives.

So, no. I don't want to see my Oma die. Death freaks me out. Not for me per se; I don't really fear death personally. It's natural and inevitable, and who am I to say that I know what will happen when we die. I am overwhelmingly a chipper agnostic. We'll see right?  But I think it's always harder to be the one getting left behind because it reminds us of how quickly we live, and how many things in life we still wish to do and see. Death gives life perspective that we lose amongst our stacks of books and to-do lists and workout schedules, jobs, and relationships. And that reminds us of our worst fears - of having lived an unfulfilled life.

So, when will I actually "grow up"?

If knowledge and life experience is what constitutes the coming-of-age, and we learn tough and joyous lessons throughout our whole lives, perhaps then the moment before death is the act of ultimate maturation. Of having lived and died and left a legacy to those that loved you and will remember you.

How foolish am I to have thought otherwise.

The Mystique of the "Unfulfilled Idealist"

"Sit down, go ahead and make yourself at home," my Peace Corps recruiter smiled, waving me to a comfy soft swivel chair. She was older, perhaps early 60s, and had an incredible flare of energy surrounding her. The purple streaks she had dyed at the sides of her otherwise silvery temples matched her dangling purple earrings. "My women in Morocco made them for me," she said, catching my glance. My women? I thought with quick irritation. WHO do YOU own exactly? I tried to brush away this offhanded remark.The room was bright, filled with warm August Seattle sunshine, yet it was sparsely furnished except for the table and chairs. A huge map of the world settled itself perfectly on the wall behind my recruiter's left shoulder. Just in case I forget what I'm getting myself into, I thought dryly. It's only the whole world in front of me.

I applied for the Peace Corps July 1st, in the middle of the organization's 50th anniversary of service abroad. As I sat in that swivel chair two months later, waiting for my recruiter to begin asking questions my mind was swirling, mainly from a desire - an absolutely compelling, consuming desire - to share what I've seen, heard, witnessed, and learned over the last few years and to prove that I was ready for whatever task the Peace Corps could throw at me. I had worked hard for this moment. I had dreamed of joining the Peace Corps since junior high, and with sudden stark clarity, I realized that this interview was "it." This could be the beginning of the next chapter in my life. A little jolt of excitement shot through me and I resurfaced from my thoughts, tearing my eyes away from the map and back to my recruiter's silvery-purple hair.

The questions were rapid and successive, ranging from "Why do you want to be a Peace Corps volunteer?" to specific questions about my skills and various qualifications and how I can contribute to the Peace Corps mission. Because of my experience teaching/tutoring primarily English at both the middle school and collegiate level, we quickly affirmed that I would be most competitive in the final selection process as an English teacher. That gave me the opportunity talk about how I've worked with students with a variety of learning styles in the past, and how my aspirations as a Peace Corps volunteer stem from wanting to use the privilege and means that I possess to provide the tools and resources necessary to enable people around the world to empower themselves.

Considering my immersion in racial justice and post-colonialism studies throughout the last year however, I couldn't help but wonder before walking into the Seattle recruitment office: could the Peace Corps be considered a form of neocolonialism? As volunteers are we fostering good will and earning the trust of communities for the right reasons? Is the organization as idealistic as its founder, John F. Kennedy intended? Are the "good works" volunteers pursue directed by local, organic actors and only supported by skilled American volunteers?  There's nothing more destructive than creating relationships of dependency that continue to ingrain inequities rather than foster autonomy. And while I didn't necessarily say this as bluntly during my interview (although I hinted heavily) I think that Peace Corps service, if conducted without a consciousness of patronizing behaviors, can actually do more harm than good. Anytime you have a Westerner (especially a white, blond, blue-eyed woman like me - an incredibly stereotypical image), coming into a generally impoverished community that may or may not have colonialism in its recent history, it can potentially send the same message that was sent for decades or even centuries before: we're here to "save" you because you need help, and we know best.

Speaking only from my own experiences, such a script - of perceived cultural inferiority when compared to the grandeur of the West, especially the United States - seems to have become overwhelmingly adopted and internalized by "othered" peoples. This remains incredibly disturbing, especially because when I travel, I become a personal embodiment of everything America represents. Hence, I find it problematic placing myself in a position of power in which I would be heralded as an "outsider" coming in to "fix" a community's problems in only 27 months.

I struggled with this for many months, trying to decide which direction to go. When I showed up to the interview, I wanted to hold conviction in whatever decision I had made. But it made me wrestle with some ideological demons.

In the end, I decided that it was precisely because of my doubts to serve that I must go. And don't mistake me: I don't doubt my ability to adapt and thrive in any environment in which the Peace Corps places me. I understand the highs and lows of culture shock, believe me! Rather, I came to realize that the doubts about my role and authority within the community I would serve give me the very consciousness and awareness necessary to be an effective and respectful Peace Corps volunteer. I'm sure there are mistakes made, by everyone. But overall, I have something to contribute to the world, to help make the world a little bit better of a place. Acting with humility and respect, I intend to help someone help themselves.

Of course, I'm sure I'm so completely naive, not having entered service or even basic orientation and training yet. This may be just a bunch of idealistic, romantic regurgitations from a liberal arts student hell-bent on creating something good and beautiful in a world that people love to hate so much.

But then, my recruiter's departing words come back to me, with a swish of those purple earrings: "We're always looking for the unfulfilled idealist - someone who actively envisions how the world ought to be."

If that's the case, then I can guarantee that you've found just the right woman for the job, ma'am.

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 :)