To Go Again

Hello all,

Since I am about to embark on another endeavor, I have started a new blog to chronicle my experiences in Cairo, Egypt. Although this blog will remain active, please visit Can I get that Recycled? for updates and current happenings, at least for the duration of this new adventure.

J

Crossways

This morning, everyone was walking to work. On this side of the Hill, the metro is in one direction, and everyone on all the sidewalks on every street was headed towards it, like pre-programed robots on their way to punch their card. I was either walking directly in the opposite direction or on cross streets, and I thought, 'Well, this is pretty typical.' I've been moving in cross directions from the general public my entire life. I didn't even have a dog or a stroller to use as an excuse, just going against the flow for no apparent reason: looking at the sky, talking to myself a little bit ('geez, what is this, pedestrian rush hour?'), touching trees (a random flare-up of my fascination with bark), and listening to cicadas while the humidity argued and fought with the cool breeze and otherwise pleasant weather.  People even smelled like morning, all fresh and clean, hints of cologne and toothpaste, bright and airy before the day turned stale and people wilted from the unkind, stagnant atmosphere of office buildings. 

HOT

Funniest thing I've heard all day: "You know it's been like living in Satan's armpit when the phrase 'highs plummet to the 100ºs' is used."

LOL and so appropriate. At least the wind is blowing today... and not knocking over trees in the process. Win. 

"How to Make an American Quilt"

I watch the kids run and splash in the fountains and none of them are my color. What I see is freedom. We can run and dance and get wet in our streets and plazas and our melatonin is almost as varied as our ages and personalities. But it works here, like a patchwork quilt someone just threw together but nonetheless turned out beautifully. Someone hung it out on the clothesline in the late afternoon sun and it billows in the breeze to the sound of laughter and clear water hitting tile and concrete. This is my country. We're corrupt, often arrogant, and given so many freedoms that we choke ourselves with them, but for all of that, we have so many moments of unstifled beauty. When we're born, we don't choose our nationality - it's simply thrust upon us. I'm one of the blessed to have been born in the land of the free. But I think a lot of times, it inhibits us to understand those who weren't. On the other hand, it affords us a lot more opportunity to do so: more resources, more educational programs, families who encourage us to discover who we truly are and where it is we fit on this huge planet of ours. I think too many of us don't take advantage of that, preferring the safety of our small little worlds. Then, too, the ones called to stay are necessary. The world doesn't function without them.  They're the ones that clean the fountains when the kids have all gone home; the parents who dry off their children as they walk back down their streets; the ones who make sure the street lamps begin to glow after the disappearance of the sun. The quilt now flutters in the wake of the noise of the day and in the artificial light, reflects gold against the hazy, violet night. 

I May Not be 'Lovin' It

I just had a Big Mac for the first time in about 6 months. Why, you may ask. Because I can. And let me tell you, after a month of not eating red meat and eating super healthy for the last week and a half, it may not have been the smartest decision. But there's just something about that special sauce, that American cheese product slice turning into plastic as it dries out over the side of the three layer bun that reminds me of childhood. As a youth, I had to graduate my way through the plethura of McDonald's burgers. It began with the hamburger, then the cheeseburger, the double cheeseburger, and THEN, when my mom decided I was old enough to handle it, the fabled Big Mac. Regardless of how healthy McDonald's tries to become, it will never be McDonald's without the Big Mac. Add to the legend a side of fries and a Coke and Waalaa, I present you with the most unhealthy meal on the planet.

Do I regret my decision? Jury's still out. All I know is I'm carrying a food baby like I'm 4 months pregnant and all of my digestive powers that be are still running around in a panic, wondering what hail storm of saturated fat and hydrogenated oil just hit them. They've gone so long without a natural (or unnatural) disaster that they've long since foregone any hatches that needed battening down. Hang in there guys! I'm drinking Coca-Cola to help smooth the transition. And no worries. You're getting tacos and brownies tonight as a reward for charging through.  

Me Hungry...

Argh, I have no brain power! All I can think about right this minute are the tacos my friend just offered to make. What I have sitting in front of me is a bottle of water and a tiny bag of almonds. After devouring the first 8, my mouth is refusing to imbibe any more despite my stomach's loud protestations. They're so dry. And I know almonds are filled with all kinds of good fattiness, but honestly, who can just chow down on these things wtihout some Craisins or chocolate chips up in the mix? This is the bad thing about working away from home. The kitchen isn't just a few steps away to alleviate all my hunger pangs. Not that being in my house right now would make much of a difference. My apple bowl is occupied by two sad and decrepit looking specimens that belong to my roommate (or maybe they belong to the one who moved out three weeks ago) and my fridge shelves look like they're two steps away from the apocalypse. This can't go on. Now that I'm working, I seem to have no time to do life stuff, like oh you know, go grocery shopping and pay for things to feed my face. Le sigh. It's amazing how jobs can eat into your free time...

Because She Said So...

This post is dedicated to my mother. Who has said I HAVE to start blogging again. Even if it's just to write about how I spent my weekend digging through the dumpster at my old coffeehouse in order to rescue some cardboard pastry boxes that were just begging to be made into book covers. Considering I recently spent 10 days in Egypt doing life with people living in a community that looks and smells like a dumpster, the irony of my current task was not lost on me. So my mother has informed me that I should inform the world at large that I did that. And that since I have returned, I have eaten both granola and corn chip crumbs off of my kitchen floor (it looked clean... ish) and pulled saran wrap back out of the garbage to re-wrap my quartered head of cabbage. What can I say? I am not a fan of wasting things. And I will re-wash those ziploc bags until the sponge rubs through the plastic. Unless its former contents was liquid. In that case, sorry landfill, but you're winning some more refuse.

My roommates and I also tried rather unsuccessfully to start a compost in our back yard. I need not iterate the various life forms that evolved within the damp, warm ecosystem housed in that trash bin. It's times like these when one needs a goat. Screw the nutrient rich soil, I just need something to eat all of the rotting things that stink up my trash. I'm trying to be environment friendly. Yet I go into the office and cringe at the amount of paper I'm tossing away. Granted, it is being filed in the paper recycling box, but I wonder... Are these sheets really being re-used? Are those reams of paper sliding through the printer gears really reincarnated relics of past rough drafts and memos? My eyebrows raise with skepticism. 

Bob Goff

One of the most joyful, full of life people I've ever come across.

Hill Country Barbecue

I'm not sure it gets any more American than this. We're eating barbecue, two guys are playing some mix of country and bluegrass on stage, and I'm drinking sweet iced tea out of a mason jar. All we need is the red, white and blue waving over our heads and a pick-up truck parked outside and the image would be complete. The more I experience, the more I think I need a little bit of every place in my life. A little Americana, a little European sidewalk café, and now a little bit of Egyptian heat and desert. In comparison to most, I've turned into somewhat of a chameleon when it comes to place. My grandparents sent me a birthday card on which was a phrase that said they hoped that I'd feel at home wherever I am. That ability is becoming as easy as slipping into a great pair of jeans: they may be new and unbroken in, but they fit just right. It's a learned skill within that I highly treasure. 

Dreaming

Dreams are funny things. I'm waiting again, but now it's an expectant waiting. Somehow, I know this will happen, like I knew Germany would happen. It's already a sort of certainty.

I can picture my life now and I like what I see. Not only that, but I'm excited for it. That's new and different for me. That determination, that drive is back. The girl in the poodle skirt? I found her. And when I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned around and looked at me with her hands on her hips. And never being one to veil her impatience, you know what she said? "What took you so long?"

I laughed, shrugged and said "I have no idea." I reached out my hand. "But let's go, shall we?"

My Boys (by proxy)

I love the way my nephews smell: a scent rich with sunshine and laundry detergent that's specific to every piece of clothing in my brother's house. But that smell doesn't mean clean laundry to me, it means Noah and Eli. And except for any time there's a little sumpin' sump' extra in their diaper or pull-up (aka "poo poo in da pull-up" - Noah at 2 and already brilliant with alliteration), they always smell this way. It's a tiny piece of heaven.

It makes me wonder what happens as boys grow up. Somewhere along the line, the clean laundry smell is replaced with a distant, musky funk that slips into their bedsheets and soaks into the carpet like spilled goji juice. And while, for the most part when they're not exercising or moving furniture, this smell leaves them as they go about their daily routine, they somehow even manage to take it with them when they travel. My good friend's younger brother was just in town for the week. The first thing she did when he left was Cloroxed the bathroom. "It just STUNK in here," she said, delicate nose wrinkled in disgust. "I'm not sure what happened!" I responded, "Your college-aged brother happened. It was inevitable." Maybe it's a right of passage into adulthood, the acquisition of man-stink, and I hope my nephews put it off as long as possible. It'll be all too soon before that little boy smell wears off. But for now, I still have them, Boo Boo and Bay Eli, two gorgeous bundles of soft Gain deliciousness. At least until the next missed trip to the bathroom...

Quote of the Day

"We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all that we need to make us happy is something to be enthusiastic about."

Albert Einstein

Sitting

If there was a world that felt as magical as the one in my head, I think I might be much more content. Sometimes all it takes is putting in my headphones and that’s enough to transport me somewhere else. I’m sitting in reality, but music makes everything seem somewhat other. Like stardust could blow off the roof of the building across the street and float and sparkle in the air with cartoon drawings of fantastical characters like in that commercial on television.

This endeavor is proving tough. I’m not terribly good at self-discipline. When I really want something, it’s easy, because in that case at least there’s a goal. When I’m just making myself do something for the sake of doing it, it’s much harder to sit down for three hours at a time and make my brain focus. It doesn’t even need to focus so much as create imaginative brilliance out of thin air.

The Belgian guy that comes into the shop all the time is wearing lavender shoes today. Yesterday they were royal blue. If he wasn’t attractive and look pretty constantly like he just stepped off of a yacht, he’d never get away with it. The warm smile and the perfect French accent help too. I used to make his triple espresso and medium cappuccino. Now I’m sitting here in another capacity watching him walk away down the street. I wonder where life and his J. Crew polos will take him... I wonder where life and my Old Navy t-shirts will take me...

Quote of the Day

From Amy Carmichael:

"You and I must be sure of what we are called to do, with an inward conviction that absolutely nothing can shake. Only God and those who have to walk in that path know how hard this kind of faith-life can be. But He does know. If only the next step is clear, then the one thing to do is take it! Don't pledge your Lord or yourself to any steps beyond what you know. You don't see them yet. We don't walk spiritually by electric light, but by a hand-held lantern. And a lantern shows only the next step - not several steps ahead."

I'm finding life to be ever increasingly a day by day experiment...

A Ponytail and a Poodle Skirt

My mom told me once on the phone that she was looking at a picture of a little girl in a poodle skirt with the devil in her eyes. That little girl was me. I know exactly which picture she's talking about. I'm sitting on a stool holding an old record with a cardboard cutout of a jukebox behind me. I guess I'm about 8 or 9 years old. It was our annual photoshoot before our end of the year dance recital. I'm wearing my costume for that year's tap number.

When Mom said that, I smiled a little because I could see that little girl in my mind: my scalp tingled from the remembrance of a pony tail pulled so tight and high I swore my face would stay permanently stretched back into my hairline. Every swift swipe of the brush pulled my hair even further away from my forehead. But it shone as much as the red silk ribbon holding it in place.

I miss that girl because I remember her as fearless. Spoiled rotten and stubborn, but never afraid to do things her own way. Actually, usually unaware there were other options. I've since learned to curb some of that willfullness, but there's a part of me that desperately needs to find the little girl in the poodle skirt again. I need her fearlessness, her belief that anything was possible, because why wouldn't it be? At an age when you have no responsibility to anyone, not even yourself, there are no barriers, no mental obstacle courses to overcome, no gymnastics of faith to perform to achieve a life of your own choosing. Things are wonderfully innocent and effortless and the future drips with potential.

Walking Manhattan - E Line, WTC station

I begin in lower Manhattan, the construction site of the World Trade Center off to my right and a handful of grubby looking men hawking their 9/11 souvenir booklets at the smatterings of people just hoping for a glimpse at the two block scar that's been healing for the past ten years. I turn around and walk the other way. Something about this place, this preview shop, the push for donations to build the memorial - an unliving thing erected to immortalize the names of the dead - sits unwell within me. We're fascinated with scratching at the wound, looking continuously at images of the tragedy, picking at the scab until we're disquieted and bleeding within again instead of leaving it be and truly letting it heal. The scar will be there forever, a constant reminder in and of itself, so I fail to comprehend why we're selling souvenirs to a train wreck. This place makes me angry and the oppressive air of misguided good intentions is suffocating within these glass walls. I need sunshine and crisp air and the life that's still going on outside in the streets. Why are we not remembering by channeling human feeling and resources into the ones in desperate need of connection instead of funding cold stone that isn't breathing?

Amtrak train - halfway to New York City

I want to travel. Unequivocally. It's what I absolutely love, it makes my heart sing, there's something in my blood that quickens and pulses with the raw possibility that hangs in the air when I'm going somewhere with a suitcase.

I feel so amazing right now, belly full of toasted bagel and cream cheese, lukewarm coffee with 5 sugars (yeap, I'm far from a purist) sitting in front of my notebook, train speeding passed what can only be called shrapnel scenery all the while bumping and weaving so much that I'm reminded every second why writing in a notebook on a train never comes off very well, romantic notion though it may be.

What amazes me most at this moment is that we're speeding across a lake, so close to the water I could almost skim my fingertips across the rippled surface, and not one person in this cafe car has even looked up. We're in the midst of beauty and sunshine, and save myself and the seven year old Spanish girl, all other eyes are glued to phones, computers or magazines. I am two seconds from yelling "Wake UP, people! Don't you see this? If you want life to reach inside and open you up, fill your chest and expand there, you have got to open your eyes."

I'm not a technology hater. I think it's amazing/scary some of the things we can do now. But it is stealing from us some of the richest aspects of reality and making our world into a monotonous, digitalized, pixelated amalgam of information. People are neglecting the world's texture, foregoing the simple pleasure of flesh and blood presence. All of these things that have been invented over the last ten years are not bad, but perhaps we have a responsibility to find a happy medium of seamless integration instead of seeking to completely replace things that have an art and richness all their own. Let us not sacrifice the beauty of what can be created with our hands on the altar of "life-like" technology. It will never be as good as the real things, the things we can see and smell and taste and touch all at the same time.

Garbage Dreams

A trailer for a documentary on three young boys growing up in Garbage City, Cairo - a place I'll be going in April. They inspire me with their courage and determination.

PBS Independent Lens - Garbage Dreams

Leave the Pieces

I don't like saying goodbye. That's a rather trite statement, as I'm not sure there's anyone that does. Some times hurt more than others, but it always aches a little, regardless of how well or little I know the people from whom I'm separating. One would think I'd gotten used to it by now. I've hopped on a plane without so much as a by-your-leave more times than I can count and I've chosen the most transient city in the United States as my semi-permanent residence. People come and go so often here that it's barely conceivable that I might know someone for more than a year or two.

I just said goodbye, probably forever, to someone I knew on the most surface of levels. Yet he's sweet and kind and doesn't give himself enough credit. And I wish I had more time to speak confidence into him. Later this month, I lose my dance partner. He isn't just my partner, he's danced with eleventy different ladies in just about as many different countries, but for a few months, he led me.  He doesn't know these things, but he helped me face my fear and break-in this stiff, dusty skin called dance that's lived in me before and has been begging to breathe again. If it weren't for him, I'd probably still be existing in my half-life, a spell he broke with his effortlessness of being. He's leaving behind a hole that, here, at the start of it, feels impossible to fill. Saying good-bye is even harder with the ones that are irreplaceable.

Shortly after the holidays, I lose another. Our friendship lies somewhere between the other two, and although I don't see him often these days, I'm really going to miss his face. Whenever I see it now, I'm sad and helpless to change where he's going. These people are taking pieces of me away. The pieces will eventually return in some shape or another, but they'll never look quite the same. It's that fact that hurts my heart, and makes these holidays more melancholy than most. When I leave for Christmas, these people leave for their new lives, and my world will look different when I return. I usually don't mind changes of scenery. But I always hate losing things of beauty.

On the Street Where I Live

I found a pink plastic bag, a can of Fix-a-Flat and a new, stark white pair of Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs in my truck bed yesterday. I hesitate to even contemplate how these items came to be nestled in among the crackly brown leaves and day-old rainwater floating in the grooves. Once again, I am living on a rather interesting street on Capitol Hill where the neighbors are out on their porch all day (and sometimes all night), there's a blue taxi cab from Maryland constantly parked within five feet of my front door and there's a tiny corner market with bars on the window and a female Asian proprietor taking money behind about a foot of plexi-glass. In addition to cold Cokes, juices, and various assortments of chips, she also serves egg sandwiches and a host of other grilled items that may or may not relate to Chinese food. I couldn't say what her hours are as I've only found the door open once in my many attempts to satisfy my craving for dark, carbonated goodness, but as the place still exists and the sign remains painted above the windowless wall, I assume she's making enough to survive.

Our house does nothing but add to the block's character. The paint is peeling on every side, the green stuff growing haphazardly in the front 'yard' can only be called grass on a good day, and our front walk looks like it's seen more earthquakes than San Francisco. I suppose the cracks would also explain why our front door only occasionally seems to fit the door frame. My roommate has since dubbed the entire establishment "Sealander" and we're running out of room on the current list of necessary repairs. We discovered a water stain on the ceiling in the kitchen this morning and are now anticipating the day when someone using the upstairs bathroom finds themselves continuing their shower in the kitchen sink.

With all of its faults, I still love its character and am even thankful for the watchful neighbors who could probably tell you in a heartbeat how many times I've left the house in any given week. "Looks like she went grocery shoppin' again;" "Must be headed off to work;" "Ooh, better not stay parked there, baby. They gonna ticket you fo' sho." It's our own little version of Mayberry. Just with a little more flavah.