a christmas wish

It is Christmas evening in Manchester and I have spent the day in a decidedly un-magical way: working on class preparations for the New Migrations course I will be teaching in January. This is the first time in my life that I have not celebrated Christmas day. Now, I will be celebrating with my mum in January, but it isn't quite the same. I have to say that I hope this is the last Christmas I spend alone or working. Next year I suspect that it will be an all out, gingerbread house, paper snowflakes, homemade nativity, stuffed pheasant day.

Anyway, as I am alone with Sarah's cats and have reached my UK immigration law reading saturation point, I have decided to put on a Chanel 4 special on the nativity. I've just finished watching a segment about the virgin birth debating whether Mary was in fact a virgin or if she was rape victim. There is historical evidence suggesting the latter.

A Christian anthropologist has just finished speaking. Like many an anthropologist before her, she is trying to reconcile the world she encounters in her fieldwork with her own perceptions and beliefs. She has just questioned why God manipulating the ova of young girl is any more miraculous than Joseph marrying a pregnant Mary in the strict cultural context of the moment. She is asking why insemination through the Holy Spirit is any more a miracle than the idea that Mary came to her parents after an attack and was met with her father's support. Why do we need the conception to be supernatural? What, she asks, is more miraculous than hope in a moment of despair, of profound healing found in tragedy?

I am a Christian. I believe in God, though I sometimes question him. I believe that Jesus is the son of God, though my mind can't quite comprehend that. Still, I like this woman's argument. I appreciate it. I believe in its message. Because whether Mary was an adolescent virgin or if, as historians would have us believe, she was a young rape victim, there is a deep humanity, vulnerability, fragility in her story, much like the divinely human elements of son's suffering. I think that both conclusions-- rape and virginity-- lead us to hope and to faith and to love.

These are things that I have been thinking about a great deal in the last few days. In what do I place my hope? In what and in whom do I have faith? Who do I love? How I express that? My friend, Julia, recently wrote a beautiful blog entry about love. In it she encourages us to approach our days with more generosity of spirit, with more compassion, with more love towards ourselves and others. I would like to join her in doing that.

It seems to me that living in love necessarily requires living in faith and in hope. Vice versa. No, I am not talking about a Christian faith or divine hope. Rather, I am saying that however we approach them, these are deeply connected concepts. Tonight I would like to rededicate myself to examining my hopes and beliefs and love and living more explicitly in the spaces of interconnection. In this new year, I would like to approach each day with generosity and gratitude, to radiate love. That is my Christmas wish tonight.

much love to you

exhale

*** Tried to post this last night but I had technical problems. Don't I always! ***


This has been a long year. Correction: these have been a long couple of years. Ok, these have been a long several years. Still, 2008 exhausted me. Lately, I was feeling as though things might not get better anytime soon, which, given my eternal optimism, was a fairly awful sensation to experience.

Then at last, today, the return of hope...

My mother received some exciting new offers. Yes, plural. This, combined with Clara's successes, has lifted a huge weight of me. And while we all realize that it is going to take each of us some time to recover from the traumas of this year, the consensus is that we will. That's improvement!

So, I know that 2008 is not officially over for a couple of weeks, but I am going to say farewell tonight. This moment, this is a new beginning. Now as Alison pointed out, change takes time, but a new start just happens. Things haven't changed yet. I know this. There's a lot of healing to do. Change is going to require a dedication and conviction that will undoubtedly test our (non-existent) reserves. It's going to require a whole lot of hard work. Still, I think I am up for it.

Here's looking forward to 2009 and a new world of possibilities.

congratulations clarabelle! (sorry had to)

One of the most extraordinary experiences of this past year has been watching my younger sister grow into this amazingly articulate, determined, wise, and compassionate woman. Life has not always been particularly fair to her and our respective experiences and opportunities have been very different. Yet, despite some rather unfortunate obstacles, she's proven herself to be not only resilient but also rather wonderful.

I've always been aware and somewhat jealous of her wit and loyalty. She's always been a good friend and for better or worse a strong leader. What was rather more of a surprise was discovering how quickly she could rebound from mind-numbing educational institutions, to see just vibrant the thoughts in that head of hers are. Even more than, I've totally floored her discipline. (Especially since I have none of my own. Clearly it isn't genetic.)

Clara has come alive in unexpected and dramatic ways. She expresses herself with a sincerity and confidence that are well beyond her years. She has found passions that are entirely her own and dedicated herself to them without closing herself to possibility. In short, she's proving herself to be this rather incredible woman.

I've been watching this from afar with a particular mix of hope and pride. So last night when she called to tell me that she finished the semester with academic honors, a place in the top echelon of her year, and a perfect GPA, I was ecstatic. These would be great achievements for any young student, but she's done this of her own merit, with little support, and some serious road blocks in her way. I am beyond excited for her.

Congratulations, Clara!

much love

official notice: january 2009

It's official!

I have bought my tickets to the States, booked a car, and accepted the hospitality of my dear friend, Liz, her lovely wife, Lauren, and their rather adorable cats. I'll be teaching a course called New Migrants, New Migrations in the Latin American Studies department at Mount Holyoke during J-term. What does all this mean? It means that I will be in the Pioneer Valley from January 4-24.

I honestly don't think that I could be more excited. (Or terrified, but let's stick with excited.) I'm very much looking forward to teaching in Skinner, sipping Chai tea and eating pumpkin chocolate chip cookies at Rao's in Amherst or in The Dirty, and wandering around Northampton. Basically, I'm thrilled to be returning to my P-valley roots and indulging my fantasy of a perpetual 5-college experience.

More than that I am looking forward to spending time with Liz and Lauren, Roberto, and other dear, dear friends. Since I know that many of you are close by or have your own roots in the area, let me just say, it would be lovely to see you too. (And for all of you New Yorkers, I know that the world seems to begin and end in Manhattan, so rest assured that I'll be making an NYC visit as well! Ok, let me clarify, I'll be making a Brooklyn visit and passing through New York, as we all know my heart is in Brooklyn and not in Manhattan.)

Anyway, if you are Stateside and have my number in the States, give me a call after January 4. If you need my number, send me an email.

much love

faffing about

I should be finishing the final version of the syllabus for the Mount Holyoke course I am teaching in January. I should be writing my lectures for said course. Or writing a chapter of my dissertation. In fact, there are many things I should be doing on this cold winter's night. It's a long, long list, my friends.

What you will not find on that list are the following: jumping around the bedroom pretending to be a rock star whilst singing Buzzcocks songs, alternately reading my favorite NYT Modern Love articles from the last year or passages from You Shall Know Our Velocity, making and eating what feels like 101 crepes, watching Herzog films, or taking an obscenely long bath (think refilling with hot water twice). No, no, none of these things are on that to-do list of mine. Nope, not one. Which of course, means that these are the very things I have spent my Sunday doing.

Now it hasn't been all irresponsible fun and games. I've also managed some Christmas knitting and two very important transatlatic phone calls. Once I finish this post I am going to pull out the good stationary and write one or two long-overdue honest to goodness letters. (I promise to post them! Really!) At some point tonight-- and it will be a long night since my insomnia is back full force-- I will finish off a proposal.

Maybe it's the faffing about or maybe it's the lovely emails and phone calls some of you have sent, perhaps it's the winter air or the thought of far-away friends soon being near again, but whatever it is, I'm feeling particularly hopeful today. I think some very good things are coming this way... or maybe they've already starting revealing themselves. In any case, I'm excited about the new year. Very, very excited.

And now, back to the Buzzcocks...

sorry, but i can't...

This evening I received a very out of the blue message from someone who was once a big part of my life. Not good news. I am a fairly nurturing person. I am good in a crisis. I am good at solutions and shoulders to lean on. So, perhaps it only makes sense that when a serious crisis presents itself, he would think to turn to me. Maybe it is even fitting that faced with his own mortality, he thinks of someone with whom he once entertained thoughts of spending his life.

Unfortunately, I can't be there for him. I'm not the right person. It wouldn't be good for either of us to open that particular Pandora's box. No, really. It wouldn't be good for either of us. Our relationship didn't work because we couldn't even manage a friendship. So, as much as it gnaws at me, I can't be there... or maybe I just refuse. If ever there was a right time not to get involved, this is it.

So, why am I posting this here? Isn't this a private matter? Probably. But I am a nurturing person and this feels completely out of character and somewhat uncomfortable. (I can hear Vanessa applauding somewhere in Manhattan.) So I guess that I would like to leave some record of the fact that I have thought this through. I am saddened and concerned. I wish him the best... and I still know that I cannot get involved.

Maybe it makes me a bad person. Maybe it makes me a little more sane than usual. In either case, this is how it is.

back

So, my viewing public, as you may have guessed, I've been on hiatus. I needed a chance to sort through the wreckage of the last year and dwell in the possibilities of the new. Since, we all know that I like a little bit of symbolism... my birthday fell at a convenient time this year. Not a New Year, but my new year. So I shut down my facebook, my mobile, my email (mostly), and walked away from this little cyberspace for a moment. Please don't take it personally.

So why the need to regroup, you ask? While I don't think I can reasonably claim that this past year was the worst year of my life-- that's a toss up between my 7th and 19th years-- I can say that it hasn't been my favorite. If you are curious as to why, please feel no bonds to decorum. Ask and you shall receive. But in this little resurrection post I may attempt to redeem this last year by highlighting just some of the 'new and good' that emerged from it. (An idea clearly pilfered from Susie.)

Without further ado...

The new: a penchant for fermented green tea leaf salads, a newfound affection for cats, red dancing shoes, a real relationship with my (rather wonderful) brother, the perfect recipe for Moroccan almond and orange tort, a sense of closure.

The good: (in addition to all of the above) Clara's transformation, a deep awareness and awe of some of the friendships we've formed, , a return to my writing ways, picnics in the park (ok, ok, parks plural in London and New York and Bogota), feeling uncomfortable.

And so with that I bid farewell to my last year. Or at least make peace with it. Or at least try to. Can't really exorcise the past without denying the future, or at least I don't believe we can. So, yes, I'll hold on to the lessons and unfortunately probably some of the anxieties of the past year of my life. But let me say this here in this strange little space that's neither public nor private: if you find me dwelling too long in the dramas of the past year, remind me that if I want to revisit them I should A) do so through the writing of my dissertation (ok, that only pertains to the dramas of the field) and B) dwell in the continuing possibilities. Tune in next time and perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I will share some of the possibilities and promises of the months ahead.

much love

missing you

The weather on this (nearly) All Hallows Eve is perfect for a fire and a glass of wine and secrets whispered in a loved one's ear...

So on this cold winter's night, I'm thinking of you and missing you...

much love.

enough

***Please be warned that I am not editing this… just writing what I feel in this particular moment. Don't take it too seriously.***

Right now, I am on the train back to London. I am writing this in the hopes that my staring at a computer screen will stop the woman sitting across the aisle from asking if I'm alright. Our beloved whippet, Trumpet, better known as Trump, died this morning. While this alone would probably make me cry, the tears that are welling up in my eyes, the ones that would lead this woman to ask if I am ok, are not coming forth in love or sadness (those may come later) but in anger. I am furious… at fate or randomness or, actually, in my case, God.

So if I am, in fact, not a complete and total idiot and if you are out there, God, and you happen to be tuning in today: what is wrong with you? Truth be told, some mornings I think it would be better not to believe in anything… that it would be a greater sign of hope to embrace a chaotic world than a distant god. I hear the criticisms all the time: if there is a God that he's a sicko who gets his kicks from our suffering or worse an absentee-landlord. Lately, though I still believe, I've not got much in the way of a retort .So if you are there: Enough…Enough… Enough…
Enough… ENOUGH!!!!

Clearly this isn't about a dog. My mother has lost absolutely everything in the course of this past year. Her marriage. Her savings. Her job. Her home. Her health has become an issue. Her loss of confidence and control, a crisis. And in the midst of all of this, she's alone. I live in England Clara is finding her own way. My grandfather is dying. Her friends are 'too busy.' JP is a drain.
So what has she got? A dog.

Frankly, I'm feeling a little knocked around right now. Or rather, I'm tired of watching my mother get knocked around. Every piece of news I get from that line is bad news. I think we've been good sports about it. But I've had enough. So God, if you're out there: wake up and put up!

and here you are

Smell is my favorite sense. Smell like nothing else elicits taste, touch, vision, carries me to a particular moment.

I close my eyes and smell a lilac bush and I am 16 again, standing beside Maren and Sarinda, watching Elliot play with Jonathan. Maren, 3 years old, has freckles across her nose and streaks of light in her hair that glisten like the waves of Lake Wononscopomuc on a September morning. She holds a small doll in her left hand—blue eyes, grapefruit lips. Her voice, the voice of a child I have not spoken with in ten years, comes back to me. This smell of lilac floods me with other smells—the grass on the golf course, Maren’s shampoo, a freshly painted door to the chapel.

Maren, 3 years old, is alive in this lilac scent. Alive here in a way she is not otherwise in my memory. Ask me to describe the Maren I knew in 1998, I will, without hesitation, produce a catalog of half-true descriptive phrases, the essence of the girl, but not the girl herself. Yet, here in lilac is Maren, whole.

So it is this morning, as I lay here in bed and a scent—some strange disembodied scent— hits and fills my lungs, fills me with the being of someone faraway. (You.) I lay not thinking in absence, but feeling the presence. Sense builds on sense constructing, out of the abstraction of my memory, a form. Then suddenly: here, here, not there, but here you are beside me...

you can never go home again?

I have a writing deadline that I have to keep to.... two actually. This will be short.

Just got off the phone with my father. Among other things, he told me to stop looking west: 'Accept that the axis of your world has shifted. Accept that your future takes you away from here. Stop looking at England or Europe as places you are passing through. Keep your love for Colombia. Keep your life in New York. Keep those things, but know, know that your life will unfold from there.'

I doubt that I will ever have a particularly stationary life-- after so many travels I have a hard time staying in one place. Yet, I do need a base. When he spoke to me tonight, I had this sickening feeling that my father is right in his assessment.

For the first time, I think I understand what my informants tried to share: a deep sense of mourning not so much for the past, but for the future. Of course, we cannot predict where our futures take us. It isn't the certainty of any possibility (none exists), but the shift in vision, the tectonic movement of the soul, that rattles.

And so, I'm feeling just a little off-kilter at the moment. Just a little. But no time to dwell. Back to writing.

much love

...

Thank you.

for vanessa

Vanessa is demanding that I write her a poem, but since I am not yet willing to share (inflict) that much of myself in the virtual world, I'm going to channel Christina Rossetti. Cheap, I know.

So, my dear friend, a love poem-- out of context-- but appropriate nonetheless.

I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! Did one but know!

hello hypocrite

How is it that we experience ourselves? Yes, I realize that this question is perhaps both somewhat tired and unanswerable. Still, if we are limited to originality of thought or inquiry then I am afraid we, as species, must live in either solitude or silence. Anyone who knows me knows that while I am prone to both in spells, I am just as likely to crave connection and communication. So, please, permit me the indulgence of asking…

The past five days have challenged my perception of my own experience of self—physicality and personality included. First, I was challenged on an academic level. Though, I admit that the intellectual is often visceral for me as well. Then in conversations with Joceny, I was pushed once again to question the way I think of this body I inhabit. Then finally, in thinking of M.’s letter, still unanswered, and my anger towards it, I was forced to examine anew the conclusions I have drawn in the last hours and days.

The only thing that I am certain of— aside from the fact that I should always eat before my second (or third or fourth) glass of wine—is that I am terrible hypocrite. When Joceny (who is quickly becoming one of my favorite debate partners) pushed me on my own physicality and sexuality, after much rambling I confessed that I often disconnect from myself. Let me clarify: during the rambling stage I claimed truthfully that I think of myself as a thousand things before attractive or unattractive, desirable or not. She replied that the hierarchy of my self-perception didn’t respond to the question at hand. Then when backed into a metaphorical corner, I snapped that while I am very aware of my own attractions in all their forms—that I am a very sensual person, as in acutely aware of my senses— I do not generally think of, am not generally aware of my own physical presence.

Fair enough (or not), except that when M. wrote a deeply confessional letter about the violence inflicted on her physical being in a highly theoretical and intellectual prose, I was furious with her. That’s right: not only am I a hypocrite, I’m also a bad friend. Having experienced such violence myself, I instinctively questioned the legitimacy of her disassociation with her physical being. Because I have the good sense not to respond in anger, I wrote notes to myself. Good coping technique… too bad it’s total crap. Is it? Of course… theorize our bodies, intellectualize our emotions, great… but we still live in them.

I don’t think I need to draw further attention to the irony of this reaction. (Okay, I will draw attention: I know that I intellectualize too much. No, no, I just think too much.) But let me momentarily dwell on the problem of it: both sentiments—my own occasional disassociation with my physical being in favor of my intellect and my fury at M’s own very similar process—were true and genuine. Now maybe this only goes to prove that we are all complex beings and that there is no one truth or experience… but since I am not satisfied with that so-called truth, I have a feeling that I’ll be up late again tonight…

bad things happen

Bad things happen. Not to good people or to bad people. They happen to people. Period. While I would like to say that eventually everything that goes around comes around and that in the end we all get what we deserve, I do not believe that is the case. While most clichés bare some semblance of truth, these, I am afraid, are things we tell ourselves to order the world in the face of what assaults our senses. The unimaginable is both real and common. Suffering not only exists, it thrives.

Ultimately, I do not subscribe to a theory of cosmic randomness, but I am a firm believer in the randomness of the world which we inhabit. So let me say it again: bad things happen. They are neither a reflection of our character nor a mark of some predetermined damnation. Pain is not the accounting of the cosmos, some sign that our bill is due. It is pain. Something we feel and experience.

Today my inbox and phone have been flooded with news of suffering. I am not only sharing in the pain of those I love tonight, but feeling it with a primacy and urgency all my own. Yet, in the midst of this, I am also reflecting on a common thread in what are otherwise unconnected traumas: a frightening tendency to ascribe our misfortunes to some fault of our own.

If culpability is ours, so is control. Quite simply, this isn’t the case. We have no real power to prevent the individual dramas of everyday existence. We, alone, can not order the chaos of our lives. We face the challenges before us. We do the best we can. This is all. No more.

silence

What a strange sensation to experience the silent implosion of a relationship. I’ve lost friends and partners before, of course, but never on such terms. (Funny how we talk about losing those we love, as though the melancholy language of loss somehow mutes the violence of such ruptures.) This was no long, slow disintegration, no casual growing apart. One moment we saw some common point or path and the next we didn’t.

That, perhaps, is normal, maybe even mundane. What I find harder to grasp is the abruptness and aggressive passivity of that moment. We didn’t quarrel. We had no discussion. There was no fumbling toward such a conclusion. In fact, as far as I can tell, we have not even shared some mutual revelation. Rather, we have, quite simply, come to silence.

For a significant period of my life, we shared daily conservations, long emails, physical and emotional companionship, and a deep and respectful love. Then sometime in the last weeks, whatever it was that connected us— the aforementioned love, an attraction, intellectual curiosity, or artistic vision or perhaps just some unspeakable hope or need— changed. I cannot mark that moment of change because, to be honest, I did not recognize its passing. For days I looked upon the silence with a casual indifference. We’ll speak soon.

Soon, was in retrospect, a radical shift in and of itself. But not so radical as this: the central figure in my narrative has disappeared without so much as signaling an exit. I write these lines from a distance that has afforded me a degree of certainty. We are through.

Given the importance I have so long attributed to this relationship, the increasing finality of silence is surprisingly easy to swallow. Neither good nor bad, but merely fact. Yet, the nature of my being pushes me to question. So I am sitting here attempting to construct a chronology of silence. To determine the precise moment when we vanished into the nothingness that has since come to occupy this space. No luck.

The last words we spoke were the same: Love you. Love you. I love you. Three of the most powerful words in the English language strung together in a phrase meant to express a profound and inexpressible connectivity. Of course, words in and of themselves possess no power, but rather are animated by the meaning with which we endow them. As I sit here, I am trying to recall if ‘I love you’ could have as easily have been ‘Pass the potatoes’ or ‘window dirt marmalade.’ Again, no luck.

The only true conclusion I have drawn is not even a conclusion so much as a confirmation of experienced belief. I think that Frost was right: the world does not end in fire, but in ice. The true losses in my life have all been experienced through moments frozen in haunting tranquility. While thankfully I do not find myself wrestling with grief as in the past, I cannot deny that this moment—for its implication as much as its gravity and finality-- ranks among those before and after events through which I have lived. So from this view, it is fitting that we should end in silence and absence, in conditions that to me taste of only one thing: death.

So, what does it say about me then that I am not grieving? What does it say about me that having essentially died and watched death, I am no different? What does that say about me?

sleeping sickness

I have sleeping sickness. Okay, maybe not. That was an exaggeration. Seriously though, I am completely exhausted. Normally, I am something of an insomniac, but in the last two weeks I haven't been able to stop sleeping. I'm perpetually tired. Two hours after waking, I want to take a siesta. Eight at night and I want to go to bed. During virtually all moments in between, I struggle to keep my eyes open.

Granted, I was terribly ill just a week ago and the tickle in the back of my throat suggests that I will be again soon. I'm teaching and attending virtually daily meetings in Manchester and trying to collect interviews and materials in London, which makes for an interesting commuting pattern. My growing concern about the state of the US economy and its impact on those I love is beginning to take a toll. Oh, and the jet lag. Can't forget the jet lag.

But since there is very little I can do to change or control any of these things at this particular moment, I am sticking with sleeping sickness.

why are you so afraid?

Tonight I made my way over to Fran Beckett's house for a meal and Bible study. To be perfectly honestly, I stopped myself from turning around on the walk over by focusing on the former, not the latter. In the last couple of weeks, in the rare moments in which I have found myself reading my Bible or praying, I am more often than not filling my time with God than spending it with Him. This is neither intentional nor malicious. It's not that I am at a particularly low point or that I am really doubting anything. I'm just, I don't know, or I do, but...

Anyway, the meal was splendid. It is so nice to eat a healthy, delicious meal that was homemade by someone else. (I actually like cooking, but come on... it's nice that have someone else prepare food for you and even better to share said food.) As we ate, we sat there chatting about this and that and sipping wine. When we finished, we dug into jalebis and some of the best strawberries I have had in England.

Then the actual Bible study began. We were looking at the first four chapters of Mark-- the anointing of Christ, parables, and miracles. Instead of a formal study, we were presented with some questions about the nature of our faith and its implications. (I am attending a church that is wonderful, tolerant, loving, socially aware, and somewhat radical-- in the best sense.) We were meant to spend 30 minutes in silence marinating on one or more of these points. Virtually all of the questions were relevant to 'where I am,' which is probably why I didn't want to think about any of them. So instead, I decided to read through the chapters. Did I mention that I have been filling time with God rather than spending it with Him? Ummm, yeah.

As I came across the penultimate line of the tonight's reading, Mark 4:40, I found myself frozen: "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" A little context: The disciples, terrified that they will drown in a nasty storm that threatens their boat, wake an exhausted Jesus from his nap. He looks towards the wind and waves, says, "Quiet. Be still." The winds die and the waters become completely calm. Then he turns to these men who have given up their lives to follow him and asks, "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" As I read those lines, I tried to imagine the tone. Eleven words, over and over again with variation in emphasis. Is he disappointed? Angry? Frustrated? Reassuring? I couldn't reach any conclusion.

What I did realize was that those very words might as well have been directed at me tonight. So I sat there in silence going over them. "Why are you so afraid, Natalie?" I tried to answer, but every response that flowed through my mind was to a different question: what are you so afraid of? I am not very good at admitting fear. Yet, in this quiet moment of meditation, I was able to confess what felt like an endless list of fears. What am I so afraid of? I am afraid that my mother won't get this offer or that she will and my grandfather's care will suffer, that Clara's tuition won't be paid or that even if it is her opportunities will somehow be limited. I am afraid that my own father's health will become an immediately pressing issue and that I will be far away, that I am already too far away in moments of crisis, that even if I were present I would somehow still be far away. I am afraid that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities and that my responsibilities will cause my dreams to stagnate. I am afraid that I won't finish this dissertation on time and that it won't be good enough, that my applications won't be successful or that they will and I won't have the support I need. I am afraid for my family and for myself, for the future and for the environment. I am afraid of this and so much more.

While I can normally bury my fear and push forward with what has been called aggressive optimism, lately even as I do so, I feel the fear. It physically weighs on me. There are many challenges facing my family at this moment and I am, myself, in a moment of transition and uncertainty. Still, I have been through such moments before and while I did not always handle them as well as I might have, I have never experienced fear in such a visceral manner before. Grief, perhaps, but never fear. I don't like it. Quite frankly, I don't know what to do with it. (For better or worse, I am someone who has to do.)

As I sat there going over all these fears and trying to name them because I am someone who believes that naming something gives us a certain power over it, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the question. Jesus hadn't asked his disciples what they were afraid of. The answer would have been simple: 'We're afraid of the huge waves that are going to sink our ship and drown us.' He had asked something much more profound. I hadn't been asked not what, but rather why. I found myself trapped in a very circular argument: Why am I afraid? Because bad things might happen or are happening and may continue. Essentially, why am I afraid? Because I am afraid. For the life of me, I could not come up with a better answer. Had the question been different, now then I might have had something. 'Why are you upset?' he asks. 'Because you seem to have been sleeping through my imminent demise.'

The fact that I couldn't and can't answer the why, has brought me to the second question. "Do you still have no faith?" Even when I imagine a benevolent and concerned Jesus lovingly prodding his friends with this rhetorical question, I can't help but to feel that it is something of a accusation or challenge. Religious beliefs aside, one either has faith in someone or something or doesn't. Faith can't fall into the grey area. I can't mostly have faith or almost have faith or have 65% percent faith. Faith is an allegiance, a commitment, a conviction, a belief. You believe in something or you don't. So it is with faith. To do something on faith, is to do it without question. There is a reason that faith and hope are separate virtues. Faith requires a certainty, no room for doubt.

My gut reaction, the certainty that radiates through my bones, is, "Yes, I have faith." In this case, a faith in my God and by that, a faith in the future. The moment I utter that to myself, I have a revelation: I am never going to be able to answer the why. If I have faith, I have no reason to be afraid. Now, that doesn't mean that I am no longer afraid-- I am-- but it does mean that I know I shouldn't be. So, yes, right now, I still feel as though I can't breathe and my mind is racing through a million worries, but as long as I keep reminding myself that I do, in fact, have faith, I am confident that those worries will die out, choked by the strength of hope and the certainty of belief.

I don't know if any of you are out there experiencing these burdens, suffering from worries that literally weigh upon you, but if you are, please reach out to whatever you have faith in-- your God or your friends or your belief in your own abilities. When you focus on the faith, it becomes impossible to drown in the fear.


much love.

sicko

I love my little sister more than just about anyone or anything in the world, but every time I see her I get deathly ill. Last summer it was scarlet fever (yes, people actually get that), in June it was a bug that just wouldn't go away, and now once again I am miserable and totally unable to function... unfortunately the next couple of days are REALLY important. Hmmm...

busy as a bee

I am sitting here looking at the monthly day planner that I just picked up at OfficeMax and thinking to myself that these quiet months of writing I had anticipated are looking awfully busy... October and November are just a little scary. My slingshot planner and palm are trusty companions, but it wasn't until I bought a large monthly calendar and wrote in all of my appointments that I could see the 'big picture.' Don't get me wrong, I like to be busy. I thrive under pressure. But, I don't know how the days filled up so quickly!

At least, between now and December the calendar is filled with exciting things-- and I've had the good sense to schedule daily 'writing blocks.' So, what are those exciting things, you ask? Let me share a few:

1. TEACHING! I'll be teaching tutorials of Political and Economic Anthropology. Now whatever my issues with anthropology, this course really excites me. It examines methods and morality and the perspectives that anthropology can bring to pressing and relevant world issues. More than that, teaching tutorials gives me a chance to interact with undergrads. There's something really magical about watching people grow in confidence and ability at such a rapid pace.

2. RUNNING! A couple of weeks ago I came home to help pack up our house (Not going well). To keep our sanity, my mother and I started running together in the mornings. Now, we've both been running individually, but quite frankly, neither of us lives in a road running friendly environment and running alone outside is daunting. (Hence, my treadmill addiction.) However, running with a friend is amazing in whatever conditions. Since I can't run with my mom every morning, I am joining Serpentine Running Club.

3. EGYPT! Enough said.

4. DISSERTATION WRITING! For the first time in a long time, I am feeling really good about my dissertation. I wrote an email to my supervisors clearly stating my needs in terms of structure and support and received a wonderful response. This is a good lesson for me. Typically I take what's before me and make it work as best I can. This time, instead to plowing ahead, I really asked for what I need. My guess is that we all feel better about this.

5. CREATIVE WRITING! I've also scheduled in daily creative writing time. A poem that I wrote last summer gave birth to a new project and I am looking to have a manuscript length draft ready by June. It is so good to be back on track with creative writing.

There's more, but those are the 'biggies.' Ok, ok there is one more biggie in the next two months but I would rather not go there until I know for sure. So for now, all you need to know is that I am steadily working towards my long-term goal and pounding away at applications. Most importantly, I am feeling really positive about everything.


much love

N.

thanksgiving

Sorry for my silence. (Isn't that a phrase I utter often?!) I've been in four US states in the last week. The trip was designed as a glorious combination of business and pleasure, but I have to admit that when you are in good company and walking paths that feel familiar, everything is pleasing. I've really missed the good ol' US of A.

Even more than that, I have really missed the Pioneer Valley. Claiming that your college career was 'the best time of your life' is cliche, but in my case, the cliches are all true. My time at Mount Holyoke was the most joyful, empowering, and exciting period I have known. That statement is all the more powerful because those years also included the kidnapping and murder of my aunt, the unexpected death of my beloved grandmother, and a number of other dark moments. Still, it was in the Valley that I found my voice and in the Valley that I found friends and mentors who continue to be my greatest inspiration. This place is magical.

For the incredible yearning I feel as I walk around Amherst and South Hadley, there is an equal or greater sense of thanksgiving. I am thankful for all this place has given me and for all that it is. I am thankful for Roberto Marquez, his challenging teaching, and the quality of his mentoring. I am thankful for the people I have met who taught me new and better ways to see the world and myself in it: Liz, Liam, Hilary, Zachary, Jayna, Julia, Bekka and Alison, the Wilder Crew, and Five College friends, to name only a few. I am thankful for an environment so rich in so many ways.

I have been told recently that I speak with confidence and that I possess a clear sense of direction. I don't know if that is true, but if it is, it is through no merit of my own. I owe everything-- in the positive sense-- to my time here.

windermere, emphasis on the wind

This past weekend, I escaped the hum-drum of the Big Smoke and made my way up North with Team Lievesley. It was such a gift to be able to spend three days with Alison and her parents and to meet other people whom she loves dearly. I firmly believe that you can tell a lot about a person by the company she keeps. Let me assure that everything I love about Alison was affirmed and amplified by meeting her closest friends and spending time with her family.

The purpose of our trip was to support my dear Dr. Lievesley as she swam the length of Lake Windermere-- nearly 11 miles-- in the 52nd annual Windermere race. I wish that I could say that my support was particularly useful, but I don't think that it was. While Kat and Felicity served as crew and Lewis and Pamela proved transport, I was pure cheerleader. Next year, next year I will have a skill to offer.

And yes, there will be a next year. Unfortunately, after months of training and a transnational expediation this year's race came to an unexpected end. A very miserable morning (even by English standards) forced the safety wardens to pluck the Windermere swimmers from the water mid-race. Strong winds created havoc on the lake and sunk two of the support crew boats. So, after swimming a very famous 22 mile course that I have been told I am not allowed to mention by name-- hint: it involves a passport, begins on an island and ends at the continent-- Alison will be returning to Windermere next summer. Go Team Lievesley, go!

Even though the weekend didn't go as planned, it was thoroughly enjoyable. Cumbria is awe-inspiring beautiful. The company was second to none. Oh, and there were lots of cakes. What more could a girl ask for?

I have included a couple of photos below. Enjoy!


much love

Felicity and Kat load the Victorian boat that they will crew.

Dr. Lievesley prepares to enter the water.

And she's off....

But then the skies go grey and the rain begins to fall...



The race is canceled and Pamela, Lewis, and I head to a cafe with a postcard view to await the rescue boats that carry Ali, Kat, and Felicity to shore.

writer's block

I would like to apologize for my silence this week. I've been trying to get in as much study time as possible before the next semester begins. Though, I suppose the real reason that I have been so quiet is that I am working on a series of essays for various applications and suffering from a terrible case of writer's block. After so many years of academic writing, I am finding short personal pieces to be a real challenge. It took a long time for me to learn to 'write myself out' of my essays. Now to write myself into them is difficult. I know that I have stories to tell, but the first line is always the hardest. If anyone has any good writing prompts, send them this way! Please!

This evening I am off for a couple of days to support my lovely friend, Ali, as she completes an 11 mile solo swim. Madness, I know. But, since she always supports my crazy goals, the least I can do is make up there for to be her and try best to be a cheerleader. Let's hope for good weather or at least nothing appalling...

I'll be back Sunday with photos to share.

much love

sarah palin

I know that there are many people out there rejoicing at McCain's decision to tap Sarah Palin as VP. So let me say up front: I am not one of them. I think that it is pandering of the worst kind. There are many, many qualified pro-life Republic women out there. She isn't one of them. A rising star? Possibly. Someone I would be comfortable seeing lead the United States should a 72 year-old cancer survivor die in office? Definitely not.

I am happy to see a woman on the ticket-- just as I am thrilled to see racial diversity. New narratives are important. That said, I am not voting on narratives. I am voting on issues, voting on directions. I am voting on the nation I see before me and the one I hope to see in four years. That the McCain campaign seems to truly believe that I would pick a pretty working mom because she reminds me of my own struggles or of my mother's balancing acts just proves how much he underestimates women. Might it work? I don't know. Whether it works or not, I find this particular choice insulting. On Thursday, I saw the best of American politics, today I believe that I am seeing the worst.

Reports that John McCain met Gov. Palin only once before offering her the post further fuel my disappointment in this pick. Hey, let's put a woman in there. Doesn't really matter which one. The voters will never notice that she is an anti-choice, anti-LGBT, anti-environmentalist former (very) small town mayor with 20 months of real experience. Don't worry, they'll be so overwhelmed by her winning smile that they'll forget that she is in the middle of her own ethics scandals. National security? Ha. Economic and healthcare solutions? Ha. Foreign policy? Ha. But look at those cute kids and the hunky 'First Dude.' Now that's what's really important.

Hey John, I don't vote for a candidate based on her anatomy.

manual labor

This past Sunday, Alison and I decided to tackle our mini decorating project. A couple of months ago a persistent leak in the flat above us gave way to genuine disaster, flooded our flat, shorted out electricity in half our home (still no light in the bathroom!), and caused parts of our ceiling to cave in. We have been in a battle with the council ever since, but that's another story. We have been wistfully discussing plans for the kitchen and bathroom since the night we came in to discover that our home had been converted to a wading pool. This weekend, thanks to Alison's motivational paint purchases, we decided to attack our project.

Anyone who has ever completed her own home remodeling/decorating project will surely appreciate certain truths about such things: 1) No matter how much you plan, you never have all of the right tools. 2) It will take hours-- if not days or months longer-- than you imagine. 3) Nothing is as simple as it seems. Oh, how painful (no, really, physically painful!) it is to learn such lessons! We set out to strip old plaster and paint from the water-damaged bathroom and kitchen ceilings, prep them, and slap on new paint. Nothing fancy. Ah, if only we had known...

Because I still don't have full function of my shoulders and my neck is totally out of commission, I will refrain from assessing the wisdom of DIY until a future date when my optimism returns. I can say, however, that we managed to strip the ceiling in the kitchen, but not paint it. Having lost the desire to ever even enter our kitchen again, we decided to switch to stripping the bathroom with the logic that stripping everything and then painting was what actually made more sense. (Don't you love the tricks we play on ourselves to keep ourselves going!?!) At 10pm, after having spent twelve hours ingesting and inhaling debris of questionable safety, covered in grime, and incredibly sore, we abandoned ship. Then, we realized that we needed to shower and possibly cook and we would have to clean. Not the highlight of my weekend.

Thank goodness for C-SPAN, though. I have been convalescing at home and feeding my political obsessions with their live internet stream. I don't have a television, so to be able to watch the DNC-Denver speeches live on my computer is amazing. Of course, my mother might disagree. I have been calling her every ten minutes with a comment on one speech or another or with some quip from New York Times opinion pieces. (My other vice.) Unfortunately, this also means that for the last three days and for the next week my London life is officially conforming to eastern time.

So, yes, no comment on DIY until the pride of accomplishment replaces the ache in my back. Thank you to my partner in crime, Alison. Thank goodness for C-SPAN, Skype, and the DNC. Oh, and one more thing: forget Hillary, forget Barack, definitely forget John McCain... can I vote for Michelle?


much love.

a walk in the park... almost

Today, I went for a walk through Burgess Park, a wonderful expanse of greenery in an otherwise fairly barren landscape. I wanted to clear my mind. Though I am something of an insomniac anyway (it comes and goes) I really haven't been sleeping well in the last 6 weeks or so. Luckily, I have many things to keep me busy in the very late nights/early mornings when I am twitching with energy-- organizing fieldnotes and applications, meditation, creative writing, and transatlantic friends. Still, chronic sleep deprivation wears away patience like nothing else. I've managed to hold onto a relatively upbeat outlook on the world, but when something starts to annoy me these days, it really annoys me. Since patience is the virtue I am trying to work on, when I feel my blood beginning to boil, I have to find something else to do because I really don't want to be reactionary. Most days, yoga or a good workout is my outlet, but today I felt as though I needed something more organic than my gym and so it was off to Burgess.

Now, I have lived in this area for 17 months and in that time I have walked or cycled through Burgess hundreds of times. I've had picnics in the park and gone for runs, practiced yoga and watched the mounted police perform dressage. I've spent a lot of time in the park. I tell you this because today as walked down my typical route, I turned left where I normally turn right and discovered this:




Burgess Park has a pond and I never even noticed! So much for being aware of my surroundings, eh? Now that I have recovered from my shame, I can focus on the wonderful surprise. I love water. It fascinates me, tranquilizes and rejuvenates me. This discovery was exactly what I needed. I'm thinking this spot is going to become a frequently-visited retreat.

*****

Now, I feel that before continuing I should warn you that the next part of this post discusses religion. I realize that one should never discuss religion or politics, but if you know me, you know that I love talking about the latter, so... guess I am not big on that rule. I also realize that many of my older posts have discussed my faith. That is not the intention of this blog. I want this to be a place to share with people I love. Sometimes in the past that sharing has involved explicit discussion of my faith, I as write more regularly I can tell you that most times it probably won't. Today, however, I had a run-in that has put my faith front and center and I want to share it with you. If you are totally anti-religion, I understand that you probably don't want to hear about mine, but if you would bear with me, I would be very grateful. If you can't, I send you my love now. Please check back soon. I plan on updating several times a week.

*****

As I walked back from Burgess Pond (sorry, still can't believe there is a Burgess Pond) I was stopped by a man and a woman evangelizing on behalf of a local church. The mere thought of street evangelizing may make many of you gag, but living in an area such as this, one becomes accustomed to it. The Camberwell/Peckham area is widely known as an economically depressed and high crime area subject to all of the associated problems that go with such distinctions. Churches provide stability and social safety-nets here much the way they do in vulnerable communities around the world. I usually stop when approached by street evangelists in London and when I am in particularly gracious moods, I even open the door to the door-to-door variety. Like I said, I stop when directly approached. I smile. At that point, they (street evangelism is almost always done in teams) typically ask something along the lines of, "Have you heard the good news?" I am a committed Christian. I am a believer. That opener and all of its various equivalents make me cringe a little. I understand the enthusiasm, which is why I stop instead of breezing by or muttering something nasty under my breath like most people, but there must be a better way to do this.

My intention in stopping is to offer a smile or bit of kindness to people who are routinely cursed and ignored on the streets. I've handed out fliers for campaigns and causes and the typical responses one receives from passers-by are often disheartening. I don't believe that 'selling God door-to-door' as one my dearest friends refers to it, is the best or most appropriate way of sharing faith--actually it is often very counterproductive (more on that in a moment)-- but these are people trying their best and that deserves a smile. So, I smile and reply that I am a Christian, say that I hope they have a good day, and attempt to go on my way. My exits always fail. Sometimes the failures are pleasant. In my experience, young Mormons are typically very exited to hear that someone is a Chrisian. They ask what church I belong to and whether I enjoy living in the area and sometimes inquire as to whether I have any prayer requests before wishing me well and sending me on my way. Most people, however, are not so pleasant. (Ironic, given that of all the different branches of Christianity, my own belief system arguably shares the least common ground with the LDS church.)

What happened today is a perfect example of where it all goes wrong. I was approached. I was listening to my iPod and clearly headed somewhere, but I stopped. I smiled and listened as one of the two people before me asked if I know Jesus. I replied with a broad smile that I am a Christian. At this point the man in this particular team asked whether I pray on a regular basis. I do. Do you read the Bible? I do. I could already see where our conversation was going, but I breathed in deeply and tried to work on my patience. I thought to myself that I would insist on my exit in a moment. Then he asked me where I attend services. This is a more complicated question than it appears to be. In the course of my life, I have, at various times, regularly attended Anglican, Baptist, Methodist, Non-denominational, Catholic, Dutch Christian Reformed, Quaker, and Presbyterian services, in addition to a number of house churches. Recently, for many reasons and after much consideration, I decided to attend a Roman Catholic church in Soho. It was a personal choice. I told the pair before me simply that I have attended churches in many denominations, but I am currently attending a Catholic church. Then it began.

Catholicism is an easy target. I know this. Trust me. I have decided to attend a Catholic church for personal reasons. I am not unaware of the many criticisms of Catholicism or of the problems with the Catholic church. There are many of them. I know this. I am more than willing to discuss faith, in general, or my deeply personal reasons for attending a Catholic church, in particular, when I am asked to, but I think that faith is something that should be lived. We talk about faith too much and put our beliefs into genuine action too little.

Anyway, upon hearing that I am attending Catholic services, the team before me asked a series of questions. Though, I know that they were asked with sincerity their purpose was clear: these questions were meant to crystallize the points of discord between different denominations. I have no problem with discussion, but in my experience this tactic is used to argue that one denomination or a set of denominations holds the key to salvation and other Christians are not, in fact, true Christians. For whatever reason, Christians of all denominations spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to tear each other down. I have read about it in my history books and seen it with my own eyes, but I do not believe that I will ever truly understand this impulse. I have found myself in the situation I was in this afternoon before. Normally when the intra-faith bickering begins, I state very firmly that we will have to agree to disagree and walk away or close the door. Today, for whatever reason, I decided that I actually wanted to share my thoughts on the matter. So, I stood still and alternately listened and vigorously responded.

I will spare you all of the discussion of doctrine and ritual. My central arguments actually had little to do with doctrine because the fact of the matter is that I don't think that whether Christians should practice infant baptism or 'believer-baptism' or whether we should confess to a priest or pray during a walk through the woods or in the solace of our rooms is the point. The aggressive imposition of doctrine and the assumptions about other people's salvation that accompanies is totally ridiculous and, quite frankly, a little offensive. (Yes, this is almost always the next step in the descent of the argument-- even today it was implied that I am not saved because I don't agree with the people I was speaking with about infant baptism and therefore do not understand the scripture and am being 'led astray by false prophets.') Christianity is a religion, yes, and religions are mass movements, but at the end of the day faith and belief are about a personal relationship. We, as individuals, believe or we don't. It is hard to believe in this world. If meditating on the rosary or silent meetings or wild dancing support and foster the deepening and maturity of a personal relationship with and commitment to Christ, so be it. Christians shouldn't spend so much time proving themselves right. It's a form of arrogance and pride. I think it really hurts us as individuals and certainly undermines Christians as a group.

As I mentioned earlier, I live in one of the most economically depressed and highest crime councils in London. There are so many real and tangible needs in this area that it is almost impossible to grasp the scale. (As you can tell, I am drawn to places like this.) The point I stated over and over again to this man and woman as I talked to them was that instead of arguing with me, a Christian, about the relative worth of my denomination, all three of us should be out there 'living lives worthy' of the faith we share, something that to me requires patient and loving service. We shouldn't be tearing each other or anyone else, believer or not, down. We don't save anyone. We certainly don't damn them. What was so radically different about Jesus of Nazareth was that he embodied God's love and power. Now, I believe in a Holy Trinity, but even if we look at Jesus as a teacher, what we would see is that while everyone else was engaging in the empty and draconian enforcement of rules and ritual, Jesus was acting, living his message. Instead of telling people that they should repent and be saved, instead of condemning them, we, Christians, should should repent our own hubris, self-righteousness, and self-importance, surrender ourselves to our faith, and live it. Living our faith, to me, requires more listening, more patience, and whole lot more love. There are many, many people who are suffering in Camberwell and Peckham. There are people who are struggling. There is incredible need. We should be out there, lessening suffering, lending strength, and meeting needs. This was my argument for the people before me in Burgess Park.

After 40 minutes, this pair of street evangelists handed me directions to their church and a dvd sermon and told me that the passion of my words shows that I could still be saved and that when I am ready to truly convert I should come to their church.... oy!

With that I am signing off for now.

much love.

welcome back

Thanks to an absolutely fantastic makeover by Danielle at Blogs by Danielle (see the link in the sidebar) we're back and better than ever. It's so much easier to write when everything is organized and pretty... not to mention, full of reminders of the reasons I wanted to write in the first place! In any case, thanks to Danielle, I plan on using this baby on a regular basis now. Keep tuned!