The Green Siren: One is One Less
As I cleaned the women’s restroom at Starbucks the other day I made a mental note of all the things I’d gone through that day. I broke a donut right off the bat this morning as I was putting the pastry case together, which I couldn’t sell and I just didn’t want to eat at 4:15 in the morning. I don’t do well when I eat sugar in the mornings, and I’ve always known this. I indulged in classic coffee cake with Emily the other morning and I’ve got to admit, it’s my favorite coffee cake now. When it’s fresh, it’s moist and the crumble has a lovely gritty crunch with a hint of cinnamon. But an hour or so after that, I started to feel sick to my stomach, and I felt my blood surging with a vengeance through my veins. I started chugging water and hoped the rush wouldn’t last long. I can’t remember if it did or not; we got our morning rush of customers and I forgot all about it. So it all worked in the end. So this morning, I refrained. Had it been something more appetizing to me though, I have to admit, I might not have refrained. Like the banana chocolate chip coffee cake? Had I needed to mark that out, I might have changed my mind. But then again, it’s got a little more substance than a glazed donut. That makes a difference too.
So, after the donut, I made myself three shots in a tall plastic cup when I first got to work this morning because I left without getting my grande size plastic cup out of the dishwasher. I reused that cup for two beverages, each of which I drank half of. I then made myself another drink in an iced grande cup when I left. This hurts as I put it down. I so give into the immediate temptations sometimes. I have a thought for a drink, I make it on a break. Or if we’re slow. Really, I thought as a little kid I’d never work anywhere around food because I’d eat it all the time. Then, of course, I wind up working at Starbucks, around not only food but sinfully delicious food, and coffee, one of my all-time favorite things. I really should commit to simply drinking iced coffees when I’m on the clock. If I want a latte, I can make it for after work. And this all sounds doable now, but when it’s in the moment, and nothing sounds better than soy, hazelnut, and mocha mixed with rich espresso, I go for it. Then after, I usually feel bad. Maybe I don’t always feel bad, or angry at myself- though sometimes I can be, if I’m having a bad day, am stressed, or whatever- but I always think back on it and wonder, was that necessary? Was it worth it to me what it took to get to me? It didn’t hitch a ride on the back of a butterfly, that’s for sure. I hope to tip the balance and say yes much more than I say no.
But along with those things, I dumped a venti mocha frappuccino down the drain. I was hoping to assist Emily and get her frappuccino made for her. I didn’t have any customers at the front and I heard her say into the headset ‘a venti mocha frappuccino?’ so I made a venti mocha frappuccino for her. DTO’s run around like mad people in the morning. They take orders in headset, put them in, make beverages, get pastries, get coffee, talk to customers, and make hot beverages if necessary. It’s a crazy job. Emily had this job while one of the girls went on break. I was trying to help her out. Luckily we were slow so my mistake didn’t put too big of a damper on her flow, but still. I placed the mocha frappuccino on the counter by the drive window with pride, expecting her face to break out into a big silly grin as she calls me a big nicey. Instead, she looks at cup, cocks her head to the side, then points to the CRF marking on the cup as she asks me, ‘Is that frappuccino caramel?’
I suppose if I’m going to help, I better be sure to listen. I had heard her correctly the first time; she had said mocha, but there’s a reason we repeat back orders two and three times. Maybe you changed your mind mid-order. Maybe I heard you wrong. The list goes on and on. We repeat it back to you, always. Yep, I didn’t wait for that verification. I went with the first thing I heard. So, had to toss away that one.
Yes, it’s only one. But, it’s one. Customers come for their one drink a day. Many more come for their second and third drinks, but for those who come to enjoy their one drink a day, what if that one I’d tossed down the drain meant that one of my customers couldn’t enjoy their drink that day? That one is made up somewhere along the way, isn’t it? We make mistakes, and we always will. But I recognize in myself my carelessness, and I’d like to improve. I’d like to improve because as I get better, I tread a little less heavily on the Earth. This is important to me now. And when I fall short, or at least fall shorter than what I think I am capable of, I allow myself to feel disappointed in myself. I’m not sure if that’s helping me as I make changes or not; I think the best thing I can do is reflect, because that keeps me aware. And then, with practice I bring that awareness in every moment so that when one arises in which I must decide which way to go, yes or no, I’m clear enough to say no. I’m strong enough to resist. I know what soy mochas taste like. I know what frappuccinos taste like. Cold and creamy caramel and coffee sounds so good right now ’cause I’m sweating a bit after running back and forth on the floor for forty-five minutes straight, but is that one taste I’ll squeeze in between that rush and the one walking through the doors worth the one-time use of a cup? Does that one cup even matter?
To someone somewhere else, it does. To many someone’s it does, because this paper cup in the trash full of frappuccino I thought I’d get to could mean the loss of a home to a villager living in a forest suffering from deforestation. For now, my hand releasing the incorrectly marked cup into the trash represents villagers who have lost homes, birds and reptiles who have lost homes in their trees and in the entire ecosystem around those trees, the loss of clean water and increased pollution. I do have my research to do on this place, and I’ll be sure to comment on what I find but for now, I wonder. I do, I wonder. And this is how I wonder now, as a result of exploring far off places. I’ve heard stories from cotton farmers in India who have lost relatives to suicide. Cotton, oil, forests, all of these resources come from somewhere, which are places in themselves. We can share this entire planet, but right now, we’re not. Not when I can throw cup after cup away, and past date pastry after past date pastry away and others can starve, others can lose their ancestral lands when forests are cleared so we can use the trees. I know it’s not all that simple, and it’s a lot to take in and keep close when I perform my barista duties on a busy Saturday morning, but I want to try. And it’s not much, but if this caught on and my store got to the point where all of its baristas shared the passion I do for reducing waste here- and this is me not even doing as much as I’ve heard of many many baristas around the country doing- we could keep some serious weight out of the trash. And we could keep those who are so distant from us we aren’t even aware of their existence a bit closer to us, because we just never know on whom and how it could have an impact in the world. As for me, I’d rather have as many of mine be good as I can possibly manage.
The Green Siren: North Campus
Estella, my old car, greets me as I sit down at a table on the patio outside my Starbucks next to the Port of Subs, Tropical Smoothie, the adorable locally owned bakery Leopold’s, and Pizza Hut. I’ve spent countless hours of my life as an adolescent, young adult and transitioning adult here. When I now drive Grace Kelly, or Gracie who now wears the BUGABRI license plate, Estella was my first car, a green Beetle and the original BUGABRI. And there she sits, across from me, or at least a symbol of her, as I take my place today on this patio filled with fond memories of love and comfort, and full of unexpected and treasured memories I’m making as I live my life today.
I look around and I think, here I am again. I work across the street from my high school where I spent the best overall time of my life thus far, and I used to come on many a study outing, coffee date, first date, and coffee break during high school. I always came back during college and afterwards; my parents have been coming here consistently, and by consistently I mean daily, for about four years. That means they’re a pair of regulars, and they knew the baristas all here. They chat, show my parents pictures of their kids, and all that. It makes sense, though, doesn’t it? You have a relationship with these people who give you your coffee every day. You see us every single day. For some, seeing us is the highlight of your day. Maybe not seeing my face but receiving in your hand from mine that extra hot soy latte makes your day. My Mom calls Starbucks the Mother Ship. This store is our home. And we know the people in our home.
And those who have been here the longest know me, by way of my parents’ recounting of my travels to them. And now, since spending time at home after the college and first world travel years, it’s the place through which I’ve helped define myself by asking, by seriously considering the challenging questions I’ve been asking myself for years: about responsibility, about relationships, about the world, about my place in it. In this coffee house, my local Starbucks, I’ve grown up. I traveled the world, and now I’ve come home, to my local Vegas Starbucks, lovingly dubbed North Campus.
I worked a stint at the Starbucks in Lake Forest, Illinois where I went to college. It was my first job outside of working at my father’s office, and I loved it. I also worked there at a critical time period of college for me; critical in that I shoved a lot of experiences and lessons into a short time frame, and yet I absolutely loved that time of my life. I think that’s why I knew I wanted to work at this Starbucks, because this kind of gig, where I get to smile and chat with people all day long that also keeps me busy, helps me feel productive and happy, like I felt then and remember feeling so good about. Ever since Lake Forest in the fall of 2006, I’ve found myself aspiring to that feeling of satisfaction in my life. Perhaps that satisfaction could grow and mature and I’ll receive it from other things in the future, but for now I’ve returned to that place that provides stability and even more importantly for me, confidence.
All I’ve these things, my existential questions, my soul’s yearnings, my heart’s ponderings, my approaches to social and environmental complexities, I’ve written about in some form over the years at this Starbucks. I’m really connected this particular store, so I think it’s important that I take a look at what my involvement in it looks like. I try to remain informed in an era of globalization, and that means I have to know that all the things I get for cheap come from somewhere else for cheaper, which extends it’s fingers into all the various issues of environment, social, and business issues.
For me, I don’t want to so much look at the roles of big institutions in globalization, though arguments may come up as I ponder and reflect; I want to look at what my role behind the counter as a girl from Vegas who cares about the environment and works as a barista looks like. How many times a day do I think two and three times before picking u pa cup? How many times do I not think at all about it about snagging a cup for a doppio or some extras. Throwing all those past date sandwiches and pastries away; flashbacks of sitting amongst my peers in Washington, DC listening to a man tell us how he came to be homeless after a successful career as a capitol police officer. It can happen to anyone; staying awake nights on the streets, sleeping in parks during the day, not knowing where food was coming from. I’ve got plenty, with nothing to do with it.
I think of animals, of cows and chickens and pigs confined and crammed one on top of the other to supply enough sustenance for our insatiable demands for food I have to throw away at the end of the day. I don’t close as often anymore, so I don’t actually mark the breakfast sandwiches out anymore, but I see what it represents when my manager sits on the floor and takes the trays of past date sandwiches out and replaces them with fresh. And yet, I participate. Willingly. I need a job, I really like my job, and I often enjoy the benefits of these systems; I like how our stuff tastes just as much as the next guy. I’ve been drinking it for ten, eleven years now. I love it, and I love this place. I just don’t always love my actions here.
I’m sitting inside now at a table in the corner, the prime location I’ve been informed by a gray-haired man with a laptop the a leather armchair across from me. I’m eating an egg-white and spinach wrap that Jackie heated for me. I’m drinking a whole milk latte (yeah, those prior posts about veganism? Thoughts still on my mind, but I’m not currently fully practicing) with cinnamon dolce, white mocha and mocha, with cinnamon sprinkles on top. It’s iced, and I like using the little straw. Some people like big straw with their smaller drinks and small straws with their bigger drinks. Personal preferences. But yes, the sweetness of the drink sounds icky as I write it but it tastes good. I’ve got a sweet tooth, and a sweet tooth with coffee is wonderful. I indulged today because Krista’s creative with drinks and I asked her to make me something tasty. Other than that, I’m typically an iced coffee drinker. Or I make a soy latte. But yes, even when I don’t work here, I spend time here. I take meals here. I receive financial compensation. My commitment to this place knows few bounds. So, how committed can I remain to another partner of mine, the good ol’ Earth?
Not as committed as I’d like, that’s for sure. But isn’t there always some room in the cup for improvement?
The Green Siren: Just one
Yesterday, I was so proud of myself for using only one small coffee cup. I used it for three partner beverages; one when I arrived at 6am, and the second and third uses were on my two breaks. I made my Mom her triple decaf soy mocha. Iced.
Oh, see, Bri? Iced. Said it at the end. I do get frustrated with customers when they don’t say iced until after I’ve repeated the drink back to them, because sometimes I’ve written the cup already. But clearly, it’s easy to forget as you spout off your order. If you don’t initially remember that’s fine, but when I repeat your order two and three times, or if you come to my window and tell me it’s iced as you arrive, or if I’m handing you a beverage and you look at it with that sharp-breath-in ‘Oooh’ face as your hands fly to your mouth and your eyebrows crinkle and you say with a chuckle if you’re friendly or with a huff if you’re not, ‘It was supposed to be iced.’
Hey, it happens. If you’re okay with it, that means more time for us to chat. That’s part of what I love about my job so much. I see the same people every day, but only for a snippet. You come through, we share a few moments that are perhaps meaningful, perhaps comical, perhaps refreshing, perhaps loving. Sometimes, unfortunately, our exchanges aren’t always positive. Maybe you’re in a hurry, or it’s the middle of a big rush and I’m stressed. For the most part, I strive to make my exchanges with people positive, and that gives me something to look forward to in going to work every day. I get to see people I’ve come to know in a certain context and care about.
And I also get to exercise my care for things greater than me. And that’s a bit more challenging.
After a successful day yesterday of reusing one cup, I realized today that I should be taking partner beverages in porcelain mugs. We have them, and they’re so rarely used I forget. It’s funny, the things that our eyes pass over, even when we’re so focused on the concept. I try to be aware of myself at work. Don’t just toss cups when I mark them incorrectly. I tried today clarifying hot or iced beverage with the customer before they began their order at the counter. That might be harder to do on drive, but we’ll see how it goes. Today, though, it worked well; didn’t throw one out.
I did bring my personal cup into work this morning, but still used a plastic cup for my three espresso shots at 4:15. I was parched when I woke up this morning at 3:30ad and drank a full cup of water before I got to work, then refilled it as soon as I got there. When Emily offerred to make me a drink as I hustled to finishing putting together the pastry case I was still so thirsty I wanted a water cup and a coffee. I thought about going without the coffee, but it was super early and not having had coffee would have caught up with me later on in the morning.
And nothing’s worse than a scowling barista.
The Green Siren: Inspiration
It’s 1:58p after a day of opening at work. That means donning the green apron from 4am until 10am. It also means I’m free the rest of the afternoon to wander this exciting and surprising city. A smile breaks across my face as delight bubbles up in my belly, and “This Is How You Remind Me” has just come on. I love me my reliable Nickelback. I’ve just been battling with myself. Now, or later? I’m sitting out at my favorite spot at Red Rock Canyon, an overlook with a panoramic view of the canyon, with its purple mountains that look like they’ve been crashed into by pink and red striped mountains with completely different cleavage lines and sedimentary layers…trying to channel my Earth Science days of eight grade. I suppose it’s now, then. And, I did tell the mountains I’d tell them my story, as I listen to theirs, too.
Seriously. I read an incredible book by Derrick Jensen, Endgame, and towards the end when he’s discussing different courses of action to prevent our modern world from destroying much of our beloved biodiversity and wild nature. One of the things he said that I think about on a regular basis was, go to your nearest (and now Nickelback on another station 9 minutes later…LOVE this collaboration with Santana; so sexy) river, field, mountain, and ask it what it needs; it will tell you, he said. The voice I imagine is his, I hear him say this in my head with such assurance and an air of mystery; the voice that repeats this to me, it will tell you, it will tell you, is a wise one. Listen to the nature. Ever since reading that about four months ago, I’ve come out here on a regular basis, to sit with these mountains, watch the cacti bloom and the critters emerge with the spring.
That’s why I’m keeping my track of myself on a daily basis, in a roundabout way. I want to preserve this landscape. And even though my trying to not use so many cups won’t keep this exact place clean, but it will keep somewhere like it cleaner and healthier than it would have been if I’d allowed ten more cups per week to accumulate. I wonder what this place would look like if instead of the blooming desert landscape sweeping up the foothills, Starbucks cups covered the desert right up to the edge of the red mountains. The chipmunks burrough in cups instead of into the dirt, the birds I’ve yet to identify would rest on heaps of cardboard sleeves instead of the boulder about fifty feet out from ledge of the wall I sit cross-legged on as I gaze out. That image alone is enough to keep me focused on the fight.
That helps me. It doesn’t make it perfect; not even close. But keeping an image of what I love in mind gives me something to hold onto as I’m struggling to protect it. Sometimes the battles are physical, sometimes psychological, emotional and spiritual. Change is tough, even when you’re working towards good change, and change you wish to see for yourself and those around you. Today, even knowing I’d have to write it down, and I worked through the thought process of, ‘Is just a little taste of creamy caramel and coffee worth the cup I’d need to enjoy it? Probably not. How many miles are on that cup? How about that frappuccino? So, is it worse to pour this down the drain, or…and my head started spinning and the next thing I knew I’d poured the thing and had swirled caramel sauce on top.
Then, of course, I had to drink it. It was just a short cup, so I’m imagining tucking it inside bigger cup in the trash heap on the mountains…
The Green Siren
As a Barista at a Starbucks in suburban Las Vegas, I’ve taken on the task of keeping track of myself- not rigidly, but keeping an eye on myself if you will as to how much I consume at work. We’ve all heard about the waste problems that go along with big companies, and I’m interested in taking a first-hand look at what it’s like to work at a coffee shop that bustles all morning and all afternoon, while trying to retain an environmental conscience. Actually, it’s not the environmental conscience that’s the problem. It’s the environmental actionism that is. I’ve known my actions are a problem, insofar as you subscribe to the mindset that your contribution, while small, still makes a huge difference. I’ve known this for a long time now and in a lot of different capacities, many of which I’m sure I’ll delve into over the course of this experiment.
I plan to create a separate blog for this, but it’s been a busy week and I’ve got a big weekend coming up and I’d love to send myself off with the success of posting my first entries of this experiment. Please forgive the informal nature of it at the moment, but this is a little taste of my thoughts of the matter.
What does it take to change?
People often start food journals as a way to help them maintain their diets. I could do something like that. The problem, you see, is I’m a Starbucks junkie. Oh, yes. Another one of those. And the thing is, I not only am aware of it and want to change, I still give in every single day. ‘Today, I’m not going to drink any drinks except those I put into my personal cup.’ I think the closest I’ve gotten to that goal thus far is one drink, and that’s because I only worked a four hour shift, which was pretty much rush after rush so I didn’t have time for many drinks. I did fill my personal cup with iced coffee on my break, and I did snag a tall cup and fill it with leftovers of a Caffe Vanilla Frappuccino, my favorite kind.
So, like a food journal I’m going to keep a Starbucks journal. I’ve already started collecting Starbucks cards that people don’t want anymore, with the intent of using them in art pieces. Not quite sure how yet, but they’re better sitting in my tin of artsy crafts than in the heaps of garbage I haul out to the back dumpster every day. I told a few Baristas and they too started collecting their zero balance Starbucks cards and giving them to me every day. And doing that got me thinking, there’s so much more we can do, and really, it’s up to us as the Baristas and shifts on the floor to start making a positive environmental impact, as well as the customers. So how do we do this? How do I, as someone who has learned to care deeply for the Earth and has embraced her inner nature child, try to protect the earth while still working for a company that by the very nature of its size puts a lot of wear and tear on the planet?
Putting aside the prospect of getting another job for now, as I’ll be sure to shed light on the battles as the project unfolds, while I have this job I want to keep track of the impact I see myself make every day. Used three cups today for two soy drinks and some frappuccino, had to throw away four incorrect drinks, etc. Just to see. And where can I do better, by improving my skills as a barista, my control over my impulses, and my habits? What in fact are these habits of mine? I want to learn, because I want to do better. And just wanting to do better hasn’t been enough to make the improvements I see myself capable of…realistically.
So, I’m taking tabs on myself.
And I’m probably going to get angry. And sound like a hypocrite, and a bleeding heart, and a lunatic. But I’m a person, an emotional and intellectual person with opinions and desires. I’m looking for the truth, a real and honest look at what this job means to me. I’ve come to love it already; I get to see people smile as they feed their addictions, feed them when they’re hungry, hear their stories, day after day. I hang out with people, sweat a little and stress a little when I can’t remember all the drinks by heart and when there’s a line of cups weaving around the bar, but when I do remember how much milk we go through every day and the factory farming that perpetuates, but it’s okay. Right? Some of it’s okay. Some of it, not so okay. I’ll judge it, and guess what, I’ll probably still give into it, then complain about it. But that’s life, and things can change. Can’t they?
Do the Bins Keep Their Promises?
I stood in the garage and stared at the red, white and blue recycling overflowing in their place in the garage between my car and the garbage bin alongsidethe garage door. Five plastic crates, two red, two white, one blue, are filled to the brim with leftover materials that Republic will haul off to the recycling center. Not only are the crates themselves overflowing, but Whole Foods brown bags- four or five in total, are organized in two rows around them. These bags overflow with plastic water bottles and juice bottles, plastic drinking cups and lettuce containers (we buy Butter lettuce that comes with the root still attached; that it comes in an eight-inch by six- inch plastic tub unnerves me), vegetables canned in tin, and plastic grocery bags. I stare at the mess of clear plastic, cloudy plastic and colored plastic, sitting in painted plastic bins waiting to be hauled off to the recycling plant.
I’ve done good, right? My family and I have salvaged all of these things, saved them from a fate of a landfill where they will spend the next several centuries decomposing amongst every other kind of waste imaginable- food products, household items, electronics, cardboard, Styrofoam, and on and on. I haven’t figured out how to avoid a life free of plastic, so in the mean time, I’m pleased that plastics are recyclable. So I could view this miniature mountain of remains as a representation of a transition phase. In a few days, a dedicated laborer will separate all these plastics and send them off down the conveyer belt to be crushed and melted and whatnot, to meet not an ultimate end but a new beginning in the form of freshly made-over plastic resources. Then, it will all be sent away to reenter the cycle, right?
The process is of course a bit more complicated, and a little less optimistic. At least, that’s what I read in a pamphlet in National Geographic. Two pages were devoted to a graph of our resource use here in America and the percentage of those resources that go to landfills and those that are actually recycled. Amongst things like food and paper, plastics was one of the most used resources, and even though some of us can place our plastics in a red bin to be collected once every other week, nearly seventy-five percent of plastics (according to this graph) still went into landfills. A little blurb on the edge of the page said this: Because plastics are made from such a diverse range of materials it is oftentimes difficult to identify the exact components in a jug or a container or any other plastic item we wish to recycle. Inability to identify components makes it more difficult to determine how to break it down for reuse.
So I wonder, am I really recycling what I think I’m recycling?
My Mom had an interesting response: Why don’t we figure out a way to ensure that all plastics are made out of the same materials? I’m no expert in plastic production but that doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
I don’t know exactly how to fix this problem. I just know that when I look at my garage, after reading the National Geographic last week I wasn’t quite as tickled at the good I was doing with recycling as I was two weeks ago. I hope my contribution is a part of the twenty-five percent of plastics that are being recycled. But that little tidbit in NatGeo urged me to realize that my contribution doesn’t always so easily fit into a labeled bin and end as soon as I take that bin to the curb. Rather, I’m reminded that there is always room for improvement and to seek those improvements I mustn’t stop questioning and seeking answers and alternatives. That’s the time to get creative and persist for clearly, there is no one, easy solution. How do we get our centers to expand and take care of the broad range that plastics and recyclables require to actually be recycled? Is it possible that one day all of our plastics will be made from the same components to improve the present poor percentage of plastics still entering landfills despite the hype around recycling?
But it’s not just up to the big guys in charge of the actual recycling. In the spirit of persistence, how do we not rely entirely on centers to make changes that will assist us in our protection of the environment and the natural world, but instead make changes in our own habits? How do we get ourselves to reduce our use of plastic to avoid as much as possible our need for recycling in the first place? When we must, can we stop and think how we could utilize all of it- plastic tubs, plastic bags, for other uses around the home? I learned to knit recently and heard of a wonderful idea: you can knit with plastic. That’s a great way to turn something disposable into something fresh and new. And now, I’m about to get on the phone with my local recycling center, Nevada Republic Services, to inquire about plastics with a number greater than two. Where could I send them if not to our recycling center, and what would it take for the center to expand to accommodate plastics with those higher numbers? These questions have no easy or quick-fix answers but I believe if we truly want to make an impact, we must keep challenging what we think we know and when we see an opportunity to demand more, we must ask those difficult questions because you never know when it could be the question that sparks a change, a transformation into something even better.
As my Dad always says, ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get.’ So here’s to asking and here’s to perseverance and creativity for the getting.
Give Forward
I’ve taken some time over the past few weeks to revisit some of my old homes- my beloved college campus, friends and professors in the Chicago, as well as my mobile IHP home. The IHP home is any place where any members of the IHP family gather, and the beauty of this family is that it is ever expanding. While reuniting with the people I traveled around the globe with will always have a special place in my heart- just as reuniting with any old friend does for you, each IHP gathering offers a chance to make new friends, find new allies in this global movement to create a just world for all of its inhabitants, and connect with brilliant and inspiring people of all ages and backgrounds who devote their time and wide range of talents to this vision they believe in. I feel honored to be a part of this family, and spending a week with old and new siblings alike rekindles the fire, the passion and desire to say yes to struggle, say yes to hardship, say yes to the unknown, say yes to leaps of faith, and say no to immobility.
I’ve never taken well to anyone telling me I can’t change the world. Honestly, that just makes me want to fight harder to prove to you that yes, I can. If you said to me, “You can’t change the world alone,” I’d heartily agree with that statement. But the brilliant thing is, none of us are alone. Even when we think we are, as I often do here in my residence in this desert of sin, we feel that way because we haven’t taken the first step outside of ourselves. Because yes, in my own head I am alone. I’ve spent the entire summer in my head, scraping at stone walls with brittle fingernails, asking myself over and over again, “What do I do? What do I do?” I’ve answered myself time and time again. Write this story or that story, get involved in local politics, keep on working that compost pile in the pickle tub in the backyard, gather the neighborhood kids in our park for a day of arts and crafts to create signs to warn speedy drivers of the bunnies, learn the ins and outs of water issues in the Vegas valley and determine the viability of starting greenhouse projects here, petitioning the hotels to utilize all of the leftover food from the countless buffets and restaurants that we so proudly draw people to this city to enjoy to compost it and supply ourselves with soil for urban gardening and greenhouses. And so on.
I’ve answered myself, given myself plenty of ideas and discussed these ideas with friends and mentors, but the ideas are easy. Taking the next step is the hard part. That’s when we must realize that we are not alone, that things happen because someone speaks up and happens to meet someone who knows this person who can get the ball rolling, if you make the phone call. Big plans start with baby steps, and sometimes forgetting this crucial element can immobilize us. I’ve certainly experienced it, because unfortunately willingness to take responsibility doesn’t so easily translate into action. Obama campaigned for change, and many Americans are upset with how little he’s done since January. But can we really expect him to fix it all for us? Can we really expect ourselves to act alone and fix all the problems that plague our minds but provide plenty of stimulus for conversation and debate?
We’re all in this together, and we all had to take to our knees before we built up the strength to take our first steps on our feet and learn to walk. That basic lesson still applies to us today, no matter what it is we strive for. Whether our dreams and desires are of a specific career, or building a family and instilling certain values, or pursuing the arts in hopes that we can share our insights about the world with the world, we have to get up off the couch.
I spent two hours lounging one Saturday evening half paying attention to “The Tudors” I’d ordered on demand on Netflix and half wandering through the labyrinth of my thoughts after once again asking myself, What do I do? I stared at my laptop closed on the table next to me, willing myself to open it up and start writing. Nothing. Come on, I chided myself. All you have to do is open the damn thing, Microsoft Word is already open so all you need to do is just put your fingers to the keys and write down these thoughts and questions. But instead, I rolled over and just kept thinking, floundering around inside my head. Then it occurred to me that I’ve been wanting to make postcards and greeting cards using the beautiful pictures I’ve taken all around the world over the past couple of years and if I could just use materials I already have around the house…
Cheerios. I’ve been obsessed with them for the past couple of weeks. What if I could use old cereal boxes, cracker boxes, etc? I jumped up and grabbed everything I could get my hands on and spend the next few hours cutting, playing around with the images of a heart-shaped bowl filled with cereal and a cup of soup on a Saltines crackers box. And it occurred to me, I didn’t harp on whether or not it would work before I did it. I just started, made a first move. Whether it works or not will work itself out eventually. If we could all pay attention and give a little time to an idea that fills us with so much enthusiasm we couldn’t sit still if we tried, imagine how far we could go. Because just a little bit of success, that feeling of empowerment we can get from feeling good about doing what we love- get a taste of that and it fuels my fire.
What fuels you?
Pouring over the plot for character development
I get embarrassed when I play the piano with people in the house. I am self-taught except for the few months of lessons from a good friend our last semester of college. I’m not trained but can still appreciate beautiful music, yet when I plunk away at the keys I pretend that the sounds coming from the keys my fingers randomly tap sounds beautiful. My little cousin Mikey is a drummer and the first time in a long while that I sat down at the piano and began to play, I heard the pitter-patter of his footsteps upstairs as he ran across the game room above me and down the stairs to see what that music was. He came and stood beside me at the bench and stared down at my fingers on the keys for a moment before nerves overcame me and suddenly, what had been smooth and melodic became clunky and jerky noises. I apologized to Mikey, for nearly instantly- at least to me, the music changed based on my perception of my ability to play it. That changes, depending on your environment. I feel like I can play the piano decently, for not knowing how to read music or even knowing the keys, when no one is around to hear me. I’ve received positive feedback, but that doesn’t take away my embarrassment, which leads me to look differently upon myself as a pianist if I had to talk to someone else about it who heard me play. I suppose there is some merit to looking at the things you do when you’re alone as a way to look into your character.
That’s a theme in my life, certainly. I might not be considered a pianist by its definition, since I don’t really know or understand the workings of a piano. I know for me what sounds good, and what doesn’t. I know when I’m focusing too hard on making something beautiful, and I know that at times I can let go and let my fingers do the work, as if something else outside of me took over them and I just got to experience how passion for music can bubble in your gut and rush through your veins and crash into your soul so that the only way to escape the intensity of emotion and of being overcome by movement you are not consciously aware of. Really, I’m one of those people that will bend and writhe from the waist up with the melodies? I guess so.
But that’s only for me. As soon as someone else comes into the room, the way I see myself as a musician changes entirely. I wonder how many other things this is true for, as well. I definitely see a pattern with the way I approach art, for which there is some sort of standard but one I’ve never really understood. I know when I like something, for studying specific terms and details does not always enhance my appreciation and understanding of a piece of art, whether it is music, a painting, a piece of writing, or a movie. I like what I like, and I like what I produce when I’m alone, without anyone watching. I’m not sure if it’s solely my sensitivity as a person, and what if any role my figure skating and putting myself in the spotlight and opening myself up to constant criticism and critiques while it has certainly made me stronger in many regards I oftentimes notice that I perform differently when I’m alone.
I also notice that I write differently when I’m alone and when I’m writing for an audience. When it’s an audience I know, I’m incredibly self-conscious. I’d struggle to look teachers in the face as a student (which made things particularly challenging when my Mom was my teacher for every subject those three years of home schooling in elementary school) until I got a paper back because until I knew my grade, what were they thinking of me now that they’d seen a part of me I’d never shown anyone before? Writing has always been very personal, and every paper simultaneously took a piece of myself away and allowed me to give some of myself away. If that piece of me, those ideas I had been instructed to copy down in a well-planned and organized fashion, received a poor grade that grade on that assignment reflected poorly on me as a person. Like I said, writing has always been an active and living process for me. If I am a writer, and what I write isn’t so great, in my simple mind that could equate to I’m not so great. Now, depending on my mood and level of sensitivity ‘I’m not so great’ could mean for me in any particular moment that I as a writer am not that great or that I as a person am not great. Neither is necessarily reflected in a grade, for perhaps I just didn’t put much effort into a paper that my grade reflected that. However, this rhythm of thought does not always find its place in the melody of my mind and emotions.
Life gets ever so complicated when you find something you care about. If you come across something and enjoy it but don’t develop a bond with it that leaves you yearning for more, making goals and plans around it, putting time and effort into it, and hoping beyond reasonable hope that all will work out as you plan. A lot of times, things don’t work out the way we’d plan but for a lot of us, especially in America, we can still get ourselves into a particular area that we enjoy. Just because I want to become a rock star doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll become one, but if what’s driving me is the love of music, I think I could be happy to sing my songs to any crowd, big or small. The bottom line would be, and is for a lot of people, can I support myself doing this? Can I make any money at all doing this, so that even if it’s not too much I could make it by working another part time job and be satisfied? Many of us would consider something like this settling for mediocrity. I suppose we all have to define for ourselves what success looks like. Some people want to play shows for the whole world and make it that far. Others of us don’t. I couldn’t tell you why, but I suspect that sometimes maybe the perks become the driving force and the art itself, the music and writing and acting itself, simply becomes a means to an end. Sometimes a specific lifestyle is most desirable to us so we do what we must to get there. I’m not saying that’s always a bad thing because not everyone considers their job and their lifestyle one in the same. The importance of serving in a server’s life might not be as important as playing the guitar and singing and songwriting are for The Killers (I say them because they’re from Las Vegas, so there’s a little local shout out). Both will earn the respective workers money, but some serve because they have to when they’d rather be playing guitar. I’m sure, somewhere in the world someone is playing guitar and singing when they might rather be doing something else, living a little bit simpler of a life.
Here in America, we at least know that opportunities for different lifestyles are out there. How available they are to each and every one of us is debatable but we see it happen every day. People make their dreams come true for themselves. Do they stop in the middle of it all and break down, thinking this can’t be happening because it’s just too surreal? It doesn’t make sense, why would this happen to me and how does it continue to work out even though I can think of a million reasons why it shouldn’t? Maybe. I know I’m constantly battling myself even though I am my greatest single asset at this moment as a writer. I write about what I think and what I see and what I respond to and how. I am also the one who is the first to break myself down, to question and second guess myself.
I know if I take the job at Starbucks that’s been offered to me, I won’t question myself as a barista every single day. I might occasionally if I have a bad day, or if one of the managers tells me I need to buck up but overall, I’d be pretty solid in my abilities as a barista. I know that because I’ve done that work before and have excelled at it. Why? Was I a particularly talented at pulling shots? Heavens no, because all you do is press a button. How about ratios of shots to milks? Not so much, because that’s what the green lines on the cups are there for. Was it because I was efficient? It probably had something to do with it, but we’re very adaptable creatures, we humans. We can catch on to routines and form new habits pretty quickly. I got into a habit of doing two, three things at once- switch and brew, mark cups, chat with customers, ring them up, get pastries and if I had no customers fill the pastry case or restock cups or whatever needed to be done. I knew I had a job to do and I knew what my job description was, so I did it. But I also loved it. I loved starting my mornings at 5am chatting with the still sleepy-eyed, with the cabbies and the truckers, the early morning commuters, and the elderly who just couldn’t wait for us to open so they’d have somewhere to go after a few restless hours of sleep. I loved being a part of a team, I loved getting things done and seeing people smile when they had their first sip of a well-made latte, or chuckle at something witty I’d said as I handed them their change.
I once heard my job described as giving people something they need. Do they need that coffee? Again, we’ll have to go off of our own ideas of what need is, but some would say yes they do. I would because I know how differently I function without it. I certainly enjoy being able to purchase it, that’s for sure. But perhaps some people simply need a positive interaction with someone. I leave my house sometimes just to go out and be with people. I mean, after spending most every day of nine months with at least twenty-five other people my age, I find I get lonely much quicker than I used to. I used to love the weekends when my parents would go to Lake Arrowhead and leave me with the house to myself. Now, I look forward to them but by about Saturday afternoon I’ve typically had enough alone time. So I go out and find new friends, or just short but sweet encounters. Many times, I wind up at a coffee shop, or a park, or a bookstore. Essentially, all the places I go to write I typically quickly make friends so I have to allot extra time at such places or else I won’t get as much work done because I talk! It amazes me how many times a friendly hello will grow into a full-on conversation. I stayed at the VW dealership a half hour later than I needed to just so I could keep talking with people I’d met. Sometimes, that simple need of interaction and receiving fulfillment from positive encounters is the real need, not the coffee or the particular food product itself.
Why do I write? I have to. I really do need to. I’m not satisfied simply having thoughts and enjoying the beauty of a line or two of poetry. I want to record them so I can remember them. And in some twisted parts of my brain, to prove to myself that at one point I did have them. I’d say this applies more to my personal journaling. I care about my writing, and I’m also human. I have doubts even though I know with every fiber of my being that I have to give it everything I have. If that isn’t enough to make me a writer, then perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a writer because truly pouring your heart and soul into something does not show a lack of belief and drive. However, things get tough and we start to question and sometimes even reevaluate if we need to change direction to get somewhere. But is every little doubt reason to change course? If they start to pile up perhaps but we must always take into account the reasons behind the doubt. But first, we have to uncover those because simply knowing we have fears we want to rid ourselves of isn’t enough. We need to find out where they come from, and if they have patterns. I know that I doubt and fear because I really want to use writing as a way to touch people. I suppose I could say I want people to be as influenced by reading what I write as I am by writing it. Writing helps me clear my head and sort through things in journal entries, and those things I can use to help others sort through similar things. Plus, writing allows me to share the stories of all the amazing encounters I have had in the past few years and continue to have each and every day. I believe that we all deserve to live our lives and not let them pass us by, for our lives are made up of the moments we live.
I’m thinking a lot today about passage of time, since one year ago today I first joined my group on our IHP journey. I can’t believe that not only has an entire year passed, but I can’t believe how much I did in it, and how close it all still feels to me even though I haven’t seen most of my group or had a day in the life of IHP for four months now. I am also now painfully aware of the fact that my program is indeed over. I can continue to live out the ideals I learned on the program, and continue the relationships I formed but my year is over, and I know that now because a whole new group has started their experiences. I know that I’ve been home for nearly half as long as I was gone, but in my head, today, knowing that the newest Rethinking Globalization group is going to sleep for the first time all together tonight reminds me that my life has changed, a period of it has definitely ended. My mind likes to play tricks on me, especially as I reflect today from a place of sentiment and sadness.
One year ago, I barely picked at my gourmet burger and fries at a fine restaurant that came highly recommended by the concierge at the hotel my parents and I stayed in DC before they dropped me at The Pilgrimage to meet my group and board a bus to West Virginia for a weeklong retreat to introduce us to the program and each other. I remember seeing the spire of the church for the first time and simultaneously wanting to throw up and get out of the cab to run back to the hotel. I felt fear, of the unknown. But isn’t it all really unknown? We can make plans, but we can never really know if they’ll work out as we thought they would until we try them. We can’t sell ourselves short before we’ve even attempted and if it’s worth it to we keep attempting, over and over again until it becomes too much of a hassle or somewhere along the way, attempts fade into successes and time you spent “trying to write” or “trying to play piano” simply becomes “writing” or “playing piano” because passion and perseverance quieted the voice of fear. I don’t think we can ever truly silence that voice, nor should we because fear keeps us aware and provides us with a bit of perspective, but when it comes to fear that comes from within regarding your own success or failure, the only fear we should truly fear is the fear that we won’t get up and give it a shot. If I’d gotten out of the car because I’d never felt such incredible panic before, I would have missed the opportunity of my life. If I’d left the program halfway through India after seeing my parents because in a moment of passion none of us understood what I was getting from the program- they didn’t know what had gotten into my head, and I didn’t know how I was going to handle life in the ‘real world’ after spending the better part of a year outside the mainstream.
When I think about writing, I can’t tell if I’m more afraid to fail or to see it work. That looks weird written down and certainly sounds weird to me, but I think there’s something to that. If this thing that I’ve worked for and dreamed of for years actually works, then what? Well, then I continue to live whatever lifestyle that leads me to. If it doesn’t? Well, I continue to live my life and seize whatever opportunities that leads me to. Essentially, the outcome is quite the same, isn’t it? I have no real grasp of what either failure or success looks like, and since both are different than what I’m used to now, of course it’s scary. So if either way I’m going to be afraid, and if I know I believe in what I love more than I fear it, and also because I fear it because I love it, that pursuit is worth everything to me. If something has to change anyway, I might as well have my say in what the path to that change looks like. And the only way I really know how to have any say at this point is to just keep writing, going with the ideas and taking action. Something will come next, that’s for sure. Something always does, whether it’s what we anticipate or not.
All I know is, I’m actively choosing this path and acknowledging all of the accessories and details that come along with it, including the fear. I’m choosing to be a person who pays attention to things, who tries to analyze and make connections and improvements. I like to fix what’s not working, and not just in myself. I’ve had people say that they feel they have something to learn from me. They’ve said I have a way of living, a wisdom that they can see in me and want to find for themselves. I don’t know what that means exactly but I’m here to share that it’s not me, per se. I’m a person in this world just like everyone else, an animal among all animals, who happens to have a complex brain that allows me to do some pretty incredible things. However, the little tricks I’ve picked up along the way that assist me in pulling myself out of a bad mood and being friendly when I really just want to snap at every comment directed at me, or keep my mouth shut when I want to fight, or get up when I want to sleep, or act when I want to just bitch about everything that’s wrong in my eyes, I learned. The only thing I’d say that’s really special about me is that I try love everyone and everything, and I try as best I can hard as it may be at times to embrace all the good about us as people and the world rather than insisting there’s no way out of how things are. And I’d say that’s special about me, but not to me. When I think of love first, when it comes to my relationships to family, friends, new friends, acquaintances, people I drive by on the road and will never see again, society as a whole, animals and plants, food, water, my clothing, my use of my car, my use of my money and the products I choose to buy…when looking at all of these things I try to view them with love and care. Everything I do has an effect somewhere, on something or someone and probably both with just one purchase, with just one choice. And knowing that I want to take responsibility makes it that much harder when I slack off and pretend that the consequences aren’t as bad when I really don’t feel like dealing with them. Because whether I’m alone in a room or not does not matter. Turning off the faucet isn’t the same as getting giddy about someone listening to me play the piano. It’s not something that I can do better at certain times than others. If no one’s there to hear it, does it mean I played? If no one was here to see me NOT turn off the water, does it mean it doesn’t count? Well, I’m a rational person and I could devise an argument for either way if I wanted, but I’d say that whether or not we acknowledge our decisions, the water knows. The fish (and quite possibly still an alligator in Lake Mead? from several years ago? Or perhaps he’s been removed, I’m not quite sure) will know the difference now, and we’ll feel it as our population continues to grow and fresh water becomes even more and more precious to us.
So what do I do, when I either want to ignore or found I already have ignored those consequences before acting? I think of what’s being given to me- clean water for a shower or for food, and since I currently have no control of how these things come to me. The only choice I have is what I choose not to choose- I don’t drink bottled water for instance. I have tap water available to me, and while some studies show that our drinking water isn’t “safe” I have to wonder, really? True, regulations are not what they need to be, but does that mean the water is completely undrinkable, leaving me with just bottled water to drink, which I must purchase from of a few major beverage bottlers that have access and control to natural water resources not only in the US but abroad? This is a sensitive issue as well for me since I live in the desert where I really shouldn’t. The water we use in this valley, and the water we waste in this valley, is frustrating and for some quite painful, especially since we rely on Lake Mead and the Colorado for everything. Rain water provides us with little, and yet we still waste vast amounts of water. And then we ship in bottled water from bottling plants, which was shipped from its original location in a freshwater preserve somewhere quite possibly not even in the US to a treatment and bottling plant, which may or may not be at two separate sites. Really, if we knew all of the resources that went into delivering us our bottled water, I wonder how many of us would reconsider how much we need that little fresher of a taste. I don’t have a preference for taste anymore, but that’s easier for me because I’ve gotten into a habit of adjusting my habits in both big and small ways. I no longer consistently eat cheese, my favorite food in the world, thus adjusting to the taste of tap water wasn’t too big of a struggle for me.
Ultimately, based on the information I have available to me, I try to choose the option that has the least impact. If I buy a bottle of water, I’m not only utilizing the city’s water and all that this entails, but I’m not even drinking it but instead spending money to buy “fresher” water that comes in petroleum-mongering plastic and has been shipped to and fro to get to me. I don’t want to be used as a person any more than I have to, to have more taken from me than I have to give. Do unto others, and for me that doesn’t just mean for other people, as I would have them do unto me. I want water to nourish me, so I should do my best to nourish the places where it comes from. For me, that’s a way I can have a relationship based on love and care. Loving and caring also means that I know I won’t always be perfect and make the best decision for the time, but I know it means I’ll do the best I can to pay attention to all of these things, to slow down and take an active role in my life. I, and we all, can choose how we want this world to look. We might not all be able to walk onto Capitol Hill and get bills passed but as taxpayers and consumers we get to choose how our world looks with the choices we make. If you don’t know, look into it. It takes much more time, but if we are all tired of the mundane what could be more out of the ordinary for us than to take an hour at the grocery store to check all the ingredients, to make a list of all the organic products we thought about buying and then take that list home and do further research? Making changes doesn’t have to look like waking up one day and starting to do everything completely different. Change starts slowly. It starts with going to the store then going home from the store and doing a little more research before my next visit, or going outside for a walk and meeting neighbors I never have before, or trying my damnedest to finish all the food in my fridge.
Love sustains me, both received and given.
The discovery that keeps leading to more
11 September 2009. 9:18pm.
I’m sitting at a table on the patio of Barnes & Noble, about ten minutes from my house and fifteen from the Red Rock national conservation area, one of my favorite spots to hang out in since being back in the US. I spent a fair amount of time there, taking lover’s lane-inspired trips up there with the occasional boy, and taking my telescope to particular lookout points, and also just myself and my convertible, putting the top down, turning up the music and gazing at the stars and the orange haze hovering over my sinful city, hiding behind a mountain. I wish I could take a table or something, maybe a camping chair? so I could sit and write out there, rather than having to come back in town to find a place to work, because typing on a laptop in the driver’s seat of your car doesn’t work so well. Elbows hit doors and arm rests, and I feel like I’m a crooked old woman, my fingers awkwardly bent over the keys of the laptop, wedged in the crevices of my legs crossed on the seat and propped against the steering wheel.
I just had a flashback to seventh grade English class and doing grammar diagrams for homework during the first quarter of school. I was reviewing that sentence, making sure it was grammatically correct and visualized one of those diagrams, you know where you write the words on lines that branch out into spider-leg lookin’ things, so you can see the parts of speech and the structure of the sentence? I have school on my mind a lot these days, with Mikey attending Faith now. I also run into teachers out and about more often, at the cafes and coffee places around the area, and if it’s a really odd night at a bar. This afternoon I also spoke to one of my teachers form seventh and eighth grade, for the first time in five years. I homeschooled for three years before starting at Faith, so she called me Homeschool. She and I always got along really well, and we shared that we’ve thought of each other often over the years and we’re hoping for a chance to visit. I loved that Faith gave me an opportunity to meet such wonderful people. I was closer with many more of my teachers than I was my classmates. When I figure skated I hung out with mostly older girls, who had four or more years on me and Christine, who is a year younger than me. So I suppose my environment in my childhood had a role in my ability to relate to people older than me. I’ve always had multiple mother figures, the first secondary being my skating coach, Melissa. Then when I got to elementary school, I bonded with my teachers there as well, and then learned to rely on them even more so after I realized what a tremendous asset they were to me. I know, because I spent three years reading books and taking tests with my mother as my teacher. A lot of kids, it takes them awhile to understand how important mentors are to you, how important it is to have people around you in every aspect of your life who care about you and your wellbeing. I, fortunately, always found this in school and thus seeking strong relationship bonds has been a crucial part of who I’ve become. I like to build solid, honest relationships with people, who I can look up to and who I can now also give something back to.
I’m attempting to structure my life around giving back, to everyone who has given me the tools I need to get to the point I’m at today, which is at peace with the path I’m on, and excited as hell by it. I’m thrilled that each day I wake up and have no idea what to expect. I learned to love adventures from an early age, and IHP spoiled me, giving me something new and exciting each day. Now that I’m back home, I thought adventures would be harder to come by but turns out, it’s all in your outlook. Open your eyes and look at the people around you, the roads and the buildings, the sky and the landscape, and listen! Listen to all of the noises, all of the signifiers of all of the life, activity and movement all around you. I’m sure if you realize that when you look out your window you’re seeing not just seven people in the seven cars parked at the light next to you, but seven different stories. Seven different music tastes, seven different life paths, seven sets of ambitions, fears, hopes, dreams, loves and losses. Look up at the name of the street sign, and you have a story; why did they choose that name? I like to push the boundaries a little bit and guess which song is going to come on the radio next. I also make requests out loud for songs and allow myself to have a full out dance party in my car if it comes on within two or three songs. I LOVE it when it’s the next song on. I had a friend who’d call it ‘the finger’. I’d start singing a favorite song, point at the radio, and there you go. Lifehouse would be on, or Rascal Flatts, or Nickelback, or whatever I was really into at the time. I choose what I listen to based on how the stories relate to my current struggles, and the inspiration of various artists has pulled me through the depths of a bitter and broken heart upon returning to the US. I never thought I’d actually do it, but I’m really pursuing art as a career path. I have particular goals when it comes to writing, but I’d also like to get into photography in starting a little greeting card business, and really utilize my time to do general activist work, for which I could also use my art skills.
I suppose I always wanted to have this kind of life but always just imagined myself going the traditional route, for a time that meant getting married but that idea’s been tucked away for a couple years now, get a job, eventually go to graduate school, and get back into a steady career. I realized today, when I think about what I really want, I want to be flexible. I want to write, I want to use the skills and that I enjoy using, to support myself modestly for the times when I’m stationary and just enough left over to continue to travel. I have until the spring before I have to start considering a regular job, but for now I’m enjoying living the life I’ve always dreamed of.
At night, however, I dream of returning to IHP. I think because this is the weekend last year that it began, it’s on my mind more. Today, I drove around town and took pictures, wrote, visited friends, had dinner with my Dad, and am planning to go out for a drink with friends later on. Last year, at this time, I was on a pull-out couch bed, tucked in under a brown blanket watching Along Came Polly, glancing nervously at my cell phone every few minutes waiting until the clock turned over to 12:00am, which meant tomorrow I’d be meeting my IHP group. I’d gone on a tour of DC that day and had gone to Capitol Hill the day before. Today, I applied the knowledge I gained on IHP that I so anxiously laid awaiting at this time last year: be aware of your relationships and try to treat every single one with respect. Respect your environment, respect nature and humanity, and respect yourself. If we can ask ourselves what’s truly best for us, and what we really want, I think we’ll find that we want something different, something we’ve never thought possible but always knew we yearned for. I can’t yet articulate what I yearn for, but I know that I learned what yearning makes me capable of. I hope you can find your own passions as deep that lead you to a sense of truth about who you are and what you can do with your talents. Do you like to paint, talk, eat, write, learn, study, travel, compete, sport? I hear so often now, being back around kids, “I’m bored, I’m bored.” Really, in such a rich world right through your door- outside and in! how could one ever be bored? The world is outside of you and within you, a part of you and you it, ready and waiting for discovery.
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