tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3943815643305212652023-11-16T02:41:13.593-08:00and this is Me....meanderings and ramblings of a displaced midwestern girl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-34967045335773036652009-09-11T10:13:00.000-07:002009-09-11T10:15:34.665-07:00As time she fliesBrief update: I'm done with grad school, Franco and I live together in a gorgeous century old apartment overlooking downtown San Diego, I have a job working as a speech therapist in a hospital, I'm 29, and. . .<br /><br />More to come! Life has changed immensely in the last six or so months, and I'm looking forward to sharing the magic and craziness that comes with each new day.<br /><br />Find some sunshine today. You deserve it!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-44520879672495555442009-02-17T18:03:00.000-08:002009-02-17T18:39:32.403-08:00Digging in the archives: A story from Peruthe cobblestone street that i walk down early in the mornings to get to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">spanish</span> school is just barely wide enough for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">daewoo</span> to squeeze itself down. there are sidewalks about the width of a large shoe on both sides, and my morning walk is comprised of a strange sort of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tetris</span>-type advancement, with the faster pedestrians passing slower walkers frequently by stepping around them into the street, and everything coming to a standstill each time a car or taxi passes by. if you are unfortunate enough to get caught next to someone as a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">microbus</span> or somewhat larger car speeds down the tiny lane, it`s quite possible that you could lose something important, such as an arm. it`s best to pay attention.<br /><br />i usually walk pretty fast. it`s a habit borne of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">madison</span>`s large campus distances, and one i have had trouble trying to break. it`s commented upon constantly by people i walk with, both here and at home, and a particularly caustic (yet hilarious and non-blog-friendly) comment made by an old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">brit</span> friend of mine in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">flores</span> gave me pause, literally, and ever since i try to stroll instead of run when i have the time.<br /><br />this morning i was walking slow, as i had plenty of time to get to school. i was a little late yesterday and wanted to make sure i got there with plenty of time. so rather than play the chicken game with the other early-morning commuters, i just slowed my roll and sauntered along.<br /><br />the buildings on the street are all white, and at least two stories tall. every twenty feet or so there is a door, usually bright blue, that opens to reveal an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">internet</span> cafe, a garden tucked away in someone`s private yard, a bakery, or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">tienda</span> overflowing with over-processed, sugar-filled treats, alcohol, water and bad-looking fruit. the basic necessities of any corner store. there is a shit-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">tzu</span> with a ponytail on top of it`s little head standing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">gaurd</span> at one of these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">tiendas</span>.<br /><br />this morning there was a very short, very old, stooped man with a small hump on his back walking in front of me on the sidewalk. he stood at no more than five feet, and walked slowly while intently watching the space on the sidewalk directly in front of his next placed foot. he wore black slacks with narrow pinstripes, and a navy jacket with wide ones. the cuffs of the ill-fitting jacket were soiled with various stains, and the pant cuffs were dirty from the ground, dragging too long past his scuffed dress shoes.<br /><br />his hair was washed and neatly combed, and despite the dirt upon his clothes, he carried himself with grace. his hands were clasped behind his back, the first two fingers of his right hand held firmly in his left. his fingernails were yellowed and tough and bearing the ridges that old people often have on their nails, and very clean. his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">pinky</span> nail on the right hand was long and tapered to a point.<br /><br />for whatever reason, this man commanded all of my attention as i walked along slowly behind him, and the image remains in my mind, even after describing it here. there is often no explanation for what strikes my attention or interrupts my internal dialogue, but the man on the cobblestone street did that for me this morning. i followed him for a few blocks and then wished him a good morning as i passed. he did not respond to my greeting nor look up from the sidewalk in front of him, but continued to plod on to wherever he was headed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-15472585311637926672009-02-13T19:15:00.001-08:002009-02-13T19:15:42.274-08:00This story emerges from the depths of my memory with each detail still clinging to it easy like geckos walking on a ceiling. There is no effort involved in drawing the picture inside my mind; each smell and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">waterdrop</span> that caught the crystalline rays filtering through the canopy of green is still as it was: intact and waiting to be brought back to life with these words. But this is not the beginning, and that is where I would like to start.<br /><br />When I was twenty I studied abroad in Ghana, West Africa. People often asked me, “why Ghana?” It seemed to confuse a lot of folks that one would choose to live in desolate, hot, “dangerous” Africa when there were perfectly acceptable places to study abroad such as London, Madrid or Munich. But I chose Ghana. I wanted to be flung as far outside of my comfort zone as possible. I wanted to see the world from an entirely different perspective. I wanted to see things that no-one else saw.<br /><br />People also often ask, “what was Africa like?” and I’m never able to answer. My first response is that I have no idea what Africa is like. . .it’s a huge continent of which I saw only the tiniest teeniest bittiest fraction. To explain the time I spent in Ghana and the things that I learned about myself and the world would take far longer that you’ll want to sit. So instead I want to share one moment – experience, sight, adventure - that sticks so saliently inside this mind from which so much else slips surreptitiously away.<br /><br />About three months into my semester in Ghana, I decided to take a little road trip by myself. Although I was technically there to study, I spent most of my time exploring the country and attending the bare minimum of classes to get a passing grade (70% and above constituted an A). I had a difficult time convincing myself to go sit in a classroom when there was a wild, open, enthralling country to discover. Who knew if I would ever get a chance to return? And even if I did, everything is always so different the second time around. Nothing remains the same, and nostalgia has a way of tainting even the most sacred of memories.<br /><br />This road trip was to take me back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wli</span> in the Volta region where I had previously traveled with two other exchange students. To get there I had to catch a five-hour <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tro</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">tro</span> (Ghana’s version of buses: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">VW</span> mini-buses brought back from the dead, crammed with an unfortunate number of seats and running on diesel) to Ho then another three-hour fun-ride to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">HoHoe</span> (ho-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hway</span>), and stay the night in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">HoHoe</span> for fear of traveling by myself at night, which fell every single night at exactly six pm. This full day of travel was replete with the memories of intensely uncomfortable seats, the smell of goats drifting down from the top of the bus to which they were fastened with rough twine, raw peanuts, an avocado and unidentifiable fish parts for lunch, and enough breath-taking views to render one speechless for the entirety of the ride.<br /><br />The Volta region hugs the southeastern part of Ghana and abuts Togo next-door. The people there are the Ewe, and are a historically more gentle and humble tribe than the majority clan of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Akan</span>, who are known for their gold and kings and warriors. As you enter the Volta region, the dust and dry gives way to lush moss-green tropics: trees pregnant and dripping with fruits, rivers slicing through the vibrant hues, clouds and moisture in the air beckoning and smelling of the mountains. A heady richness of earth and life jumps at you and a deeper breath is drawn. Life seems softer there.<br /><br />I felt something magical the first time I visited <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Wli</span>, the “waterfall village” in the northern Volta region. We had stayed one night and hired a local boy to take us through the thick foliage and up the mountain to the pristine waterfall hiding in the forest amongst impossible white flowers and ferns as thick as the water rushing past. We <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">didn</span>’t stay up there very long that first time, and I felt that I had missed something; that I had passed through far too quickly to truly feel the place. And so I returned.<br /><br />I caught a bush-taxi from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">HoHoe</span> first thing in the morning and arrived in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Wli</span> in the mid-afternoon. Although the distances are not incredibly great, it took a lot of time to get around in Ghana. Patience was a commodity necessary in great heaps.<br /><br />In <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Wli</span> I found the same nice family with a room for rent and used one of my five Ewe words to thank them for the lunch of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">banku</span> (fermented raw corn dough), swimmers (fried tiny fish) and hot sauce before I packed up my camera and water for a hike to the lower falls before sunset. To get there I had to walk about half a mile to where the dirt road met the forest and then take the footbridge over the stream and walk into the jungle. There were children washing clothes and gathering water from the stream, and I was greeted with the usual curious teasing and laughter brought forth by my strange and foreign white skin, and was asked to try to balance my jug of water on my head as I passed. We shared many universal smiles as I failed miserably at the task, and left them with plenty to tell their families about when they returned home with their chores complete.<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">rainforest</span> in Ghana is different than most places in that there are very few poisonous or deadly creatures. There is a smattering of king cobras, but other than that the critters are more or less innocuous, which helped me to gather courage as I walked, alone, further into the depths of the thick trees and mosses. To be honest, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">wasn</span>’t really concerned about the wildlife much. What I was thinking about were the Little People who lived deep in the forest. Or what Ghanaians referred to as the Little People. Just about everyone I met in Ghana believed in them. When someone traveled to another village and did not return, or simply disappeared, it was assumed that the Little People got him. Similar to our stories of the Sasquatch, no one has ever seen one and lived to tell about it, yet everyone believes. And they are believed to live in the thicker parts of the forest, simply waiting around to snatch up lonely wanderers.<br /><br />I was contemplating how many little people I could take on by myself if it came down to it, and marveling at the enormous centipedes and flesh-eating ants that meandered across my path as I closed the distance to the waterfall.<br /><br />I arrived and looked up with hand to brow, shading the intense glare of the sun as it broke through a hole in the canopy to light my face. The top of the fall was high enough that I could not determine where it began. The volume was magnificent and made a roaring noise in my ears that brought about a sense of peace that I feel only when I am close to moving water. I climbed a large boulder slippery with moss and sat to drink in the wonder around me. I closed my eyes and imagined myself as a microscopic dot in the middle of the woods far away from the closest village in a huge unknown country thousands of miles from all I knew in the world. The deliciousness of this feeling is what keeps me going and seeking and walking to still newer places. It is like nothing else in the world. I felt gigantic and like the tiniest thing in the world all at once.<br /><br />I took this time to take a few photos of the waterfall with the intention that I would put the pictures together later to get an idea of how huge it was. As I took the last shot, my little camera shut down and went into automatic rewind: no film left. Oh well, I remember thinking to myself. It’s almost dark anyways.<br /><br />So as I sat there turning over the great questions of the world inside of my mind, my reverie was interrupted by the shouting voice of a young boy, over there beyond the escaping waters. Thinking that he must be calling to me, concerned I was in the jungle alone so close to sundown, I jumped from my perch and hurried over to explain that I was just fine.<br /><br />Lawrence, as his name turned out the be, was shocked to see me and explained in his broken English that he had, in fact, been shouting up to his friend up on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">cliffside</span>. Turns out that Lawrence and his friend were bat hunting. He showed me the large hollow slugs that were filled with shrapnel and explained that they cost a lot, so it’s important that they kill at least fifteen bats with just one of them. I was trying to figure out how this worked as he tried to point out his friend far up the waterfall wall. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">wasn</span>’t able to make out the tiny moving speck, and Lawrence ushered me under a small tree just as a shot reverberated through the canyon, and my jaw dropped as I was treated to the most magnificent sight: the air became thick and literally darkened with the activity of fruit bats the size of an overweight house cat. There were thousands upon of thousands of them.<br /><br />By the time I recovered from my shock and looked to say something to Lawrence, I noticed that he was already busy at work gathering his prey. He had jumped into the base of the waterfall and was gathering dead or wounded animals that had fallen from the sky. He somehow noticed a wounded bat crawling along a narrow ledge about twenty feet above his head and spent the next fifteen minutes throwing rocks at it to bring it down. Fifteen minutes of effort for a bat. These boys were fourteen years old, and this was what they did to make money. Once Laurence knocked the bat down he gripped in firmly by its wings and gave its head a solid whack on the rocks to assure its death. He repeated this with several other of the bats and then, stuffing them in his pockets and gripping their wings in his teeth, he swam back across the pool to emerge dripping from water, bat blood running in tiny rivulets down his chest and legs.<br /><br />As Lawrence came over to me he took the bats from his mouth into his hand and wore a triumphant grin. He had gathered eleven bats and was expecting at least another five or so from his friend: today there would be profit. He made jokes about which parts I would like to eat and showed me the magnificent bones of the wings and their perfect rounded claws, and how dog-like their faces were.<br /><br />Lawrence’s friend emerged silent from the forest like an ancient hunter, with the one significant difference between them being the shotgun slung haphazardly across his shoulder. Shirtless and well muscled, his blue-black skin glistened with the sweat and effort of climbing; his worn shorts low-slung and filthy were the color of newborn fawn. He had gathered eight bats on his treacherous climb from above, and the boys chattered excitedly in Ewe about their success; the last few hunts had not yielded so much.<br /><br />Chagrined that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">didn</span>’t have any film left in my camera, what with this amazing scenario having just played itself out before my eyes, I promised myself to remember this scene. The picture of these two young, strong, beautiful Ghanaian boys, Ewe boys, trying to eke a living out of their lot in life in any way possible. Standing with smiles wide open to the world in front of the cooling mist of the waterfall, framed by the green and white of the flowers and trees, holding the dead bodies of all those small animals that meant so very much, that could give so much back.<br /><br />I was grateful for the company on the walk back to the village, as night in Ghana fell fast like a curtain and jungles have a way of coming alive in the darkness, innocuous or not. We parted ways when the forest emptied onto the street, and I made my way to sleep on my mattress in the home of a welcoming stranger.<br /> <br />I can close my eyes still, so many years later, and see them standing there laughing into the fading sunlit forest the exact color of their teeth e<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">mbedded</span> in my mind forever more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-35041833789254252292009-02-10T22:37:00.000-08:002009-02-10T23:07:06.887-08:00Learning curveIt's my last semester in grad school. I'm interning at a hospital; one of the last of the major steps on my path to becoming a speech pathologist. Hardly three weeks in and I feel as though the onslaught of daily interaction with "real life" has taught me far more about myself than all my days in the classroom strung together. I was expecting to be so busy the days would pass in a blur. I was expecting to be challenged and to have my knowledge tested at every turn. I was even expecting to be overwhelmed by all the newness and the high expectations I had for this experience and for myself.<br /><br />What I was not expecting was to feel so acutely the facts of the suffering around me; the sickness and despondency. I was not expecting the sadness of either the reluctant acceptance or bitter denial of a life forever changed by a stroke, heart attack, accident, fall, cancer, near-drowning, pneumonia, fire. . . nor the slow and painless slipping into dementia, the pains of which are so keenly felt not by the sufferer, but rather those who love him or her.<br /><br />It's overwhelming at times to be surrounded by so many sick humans and bad luck and shortsighted hope. I wasn't expecting to feel that way, and I think that- more than anything else in my life- has taught me about the kind of person I am constantly becoming.<br /><br />It's up to me to either hold fast to that empathy or let it fizzle away into the ether of callousness and immunity. One must have to employ some kind of shield against the constant despair, right? It's just amazing the lives that some people suffer through, and the open ears and minds of those who take the time to listen to their confusion and fear. A dear friend of mine is on her way to getting her master's degree in social work. She sees people at her internship who have no place to live, are suffering from schizophrenia and diabetes and depression and addiction, and who have no family to go home to; no doctor to ask them about their ailments.<br /><br />I know you're not supposed to "take work home" with you, whatever that means, but I thus far have failed brutally in that department. How can you shake off the faces and the voices and the stories of all those hordes of people who need help and hope and kind words? There is a definite balance to be struck, and I'm in the nascent phases of that learning curve.<br /><br />You know, despite the intensity of it all, I am truly loving the experience so far. There is so much to learn and every new patient affords me the opportunity to be a little more real, a little better at my job, a little more confident and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">competent</span>.<br /><br />I am still very much an optimist and see the rays of light all around me in the rehab center and hospital. The therapeutic staff who work tirelessly to get all the patients to as functional of a level as possible. The families who love and support and give up sleep and time and paychecks to care for their loved ones. The caregiver who isn't being paid but stays bedside all the time anyways because the family has all but abandoned their demented and dying mother. The strides and leaps and bounds of improvement that so many make from wheelchair to walking. The people who learn how to talk and to eat after so much was so inexplicably and suddenly stolen from them.<br /><br />A wild world. I'm a neophyte so pardon me if I seem melodramatic. I know there are hundred upon thousands of people who work in the health care industry, and in far less favorable settings. And I have to take off my metaphorical hat to all of them, in honor of their thick skins, and soft hearts, and magnificent brains. What a world. My training ground for learning the true meanings of loss, and grief, and acceptance.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-29466666889129599602009-02-06T19:38:00.000-08:002009-02-06T20:13:53.702-08:00TenacityI love that word. Tenacity. Tenacious. To be tenacious is to be steadfast and motivated and to see a thing through to the end. An enviable quality. Not one shared by every member of the human species, that is for certain. Some creatures are naturally made tenacious, however. Such as the ant. Never oh ever did I meet a creature quite so tenacious as the common kitchen ant.<br /><br />As someone who is not now nor has ever been afraid of the kind of critters that send most people screaming and running (i.e., spiders, millipedes, snakes, mice), something about ants always creeped me out. I think maybe it's because my mom loved old horror movies and so I saw (read: was subjected to) the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Them</span> at a pretty impressionable age. I'm not sure if that movie- which is all about gigantic ants taking over the planet and eating people- is entirely to blame for my distaste for ants, but it definitely contributed. I think what really freaks me out about ants is the sheer number of them. Any time you see one or two, you know that somewhere close is a colony of millions. Just try and tell me that's not freaky.<br /><br />Freaky-deaky or no, ants are amazing creatures. Tenacious to their gooey little thoracic cores. Recently I watched the magic that is a colony of ants pursuing their endless quest for dried-up food crumbs and deceased flies to bestow as gifts upon the matriarch of their hill.<br /><br />This took place in Jamaica, circa early 2009. I was heading into our tiny little kitchen by the sea to start cooking dinner. To keep myself nice and dengue fever-free, I lit up a mosquito coil and hung it in the mouth of a Red Stripe bottle on the floor. I inspected the walls and counters for ants, and discovered a military line of tiny ones culminating in a small cluster around and under an unidentifiable chunk of food waste about an inch long. The ants consisted of carriers and two lines of ants right next to each-other, traveling in opposite directions.<br /><br />It soon became clear that the ants heading toward home were somehow communicating to the ants heading out that the prize had been found; head back to the crib, y'all. Within a minute, there were no ants heading away from home anymore as the whole cast and crew made for the queen. Home was accessed by most of the messenger ants through a small crack between the wall and the door jamb, close to the floor. Franco and I watched as the ants carried that chunk all the way across the counter, and down the wall to their little hole. That in itself was a feat; it was fascinating watching them maneuver the food over the edge of the counter and against all gravitationsal odds as they carried their prize down the wall. But they were far from finished. . .<br /><br />Alas, the chunk did not fit. The ants attempted about five different entry angles before they gave up and moved on to entrance number two. All the while, there were scout ants running ahead to check out possible routes in for the hunka chunk of deliciousness. The carrier ants brought the hunk all the way down to the ground, across the door jamb, and up to another hole in the wall. Again, they couldn't get it to fit. Again with the different angles. Again, denied.<br /><br />This repeated many more times over the next half-hour or so. The ants would carry the chunk back and forth between the two entrances, trying for a little while, and then . . .seemingly having forgotten that the other hole wasn't big enough either, they would head over to imminent rejection. Tenacity is not necessarily always paired with problem-solving or intelligence, I suppose. I kept wondering the following:<br /><br />why didn't they chew up the chunk into smaller pieces?<br /><br />why didn't they pick up other, smaller chunks that would have fit?<br /><br />i wondered if their queen was a real picky bitch.<br /><br />But not to be underestimated, the ants eventually made their way home with chunk in possession and fully formed. I missed the magical moment of entrance because I had walked away to get myself a beer. Apparently I'm not quite as tenacious as those little creepy crumb collectors.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-12091434984090977102008-12-20T19:53:00.001-08:002008-12-20T20:38:22.221-08:00If I were an Entrepreneur. . .First, like any good story writer, I must give you the background story:<br /><br />The East coast of the US and various areas in the middle parts of America are a full month into being pummeled by the throes of Father Winter's frigid wrath. What this can translate into, for the uninitiated, is sub-zero (that's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Fahrenheit</span>) temperatures, white-out driving conditions, and half-inch-thick ice covering everything from cars door locks to telephone wires to red-ripe fruit still hanging on to branch-tips with the tenacity of a small and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">vicious</span> dog's clinging to an unwanted visitor's trouser cuff. Unfortunately, the powers that be do not cancel the world and it's incessant needs during such treacherous outdoor conditions. They can't really, for in certain parts of this vast and complicated country, such <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">heinous</span> weather lasts for months at a time, and allowing people to use the truly valid excuse of completely unsafe driving conditions as a reason to stay home from work could hypothetically ground all productivity, and even worse - all consumption - to a definitive halt. Yikes. How very <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">un</span>-American.<br /><br />To battle this need for continued rat racing and good consuming, areas that are accustomed to such intense (and deplorable) weather conditions have management techniques in place. Plow trucks, salt trucks and sand trucks are among the most commonly used methods to battle the icy conditions that cause countless vehicle pile-ups and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">excruciatingly</span> long commutes for those rueful rats racing to and fro all the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">livelong</span> day. But there's one massive problem with those problem solvers. And that is. . .if the temperature drops much below freezing, (that's 32 degrees <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Fahrenheit</span>), they are completely useless. That's right. When ice is falling from the sky, pummeling everything in sight, rendering electricity outages across miles of cityscape and leading to many an old-lady breaking her hip, those salt trucks are no good. No good at all.<br /><br />So, what to do? What to do? Well, several cities have proposed an interesting new solution in recent years. That being. . .beet juice. You heard me right. Plain-old sticky-sweet sugar-beet juice. Reports would have you believe that it works like a god-sent miracle, melting even the thickest of ice off streets and highways with a quickness not seen since the senior <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Earnhardt</span> dominated the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">NASCAR</span> scene. So why isn't it used all over the frozen land? Why do massive swaths of American landscape remain locked under fractions of inches of treacherous solid water while the salt trucks sit idly in their service vehicle parking lots? Because beet juice is a little bit stinky, a tad bit sticky, and worst of all. . . a deep, dark, staining red.<br /><br />People can't stand that the juice dyes the tires of their cars. And the sidewalks of their streets. And the soles of their shoes. It's red, it's vegetable juice, and it goes nowhere very very slowly. So this is where my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">entrepreneurial</span> spirit (which I didn't previously know I had) bucks up and gets very excited. I have the perfect solution ,and it will make me scads of money (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">uhmm</span>, and I'll be helping lots of people be safe and stuff which is really good, too. cough).<br /><br />Have you ever read the series of children's books written by James Howe? If you haven't, I highly suggest you get on that, and quick. At any rate, the stories are all very cheeky and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">pseudo</span>-scary, and center around a strange little rabbit named <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Bunnicula</span>. The vampire rabbit. With clever titles like, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight," Howe details the antics of this juice-sucking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">vampiro</span>-bunny as he hops from garden to garden, depriving the root vegetables in each row of their distinct colors and striking fear into the hearts of every subterranean tuber.<br /><br />Well, if you don't see the obvious connection here than you're apparently not quite awake. This is what makes this idea so deliciously brilliant. First step is, I procure some nice fertile, open land and plant some beet seeds. Next, I hunt down <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Bunnicula</span> (he's not hard to find when one follows the country's only trail of colorless <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">rutabaga</span>) and win him over with my personality, cheesy jokes, and stockpile of veggie juice. He'll be as juiced up as an alcoholic at an Irish-Catholic Christmas party. Then, I breed him to create a whole army of vampire bunnies. I will name them things like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Incubunnyus</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Lehoppystat</span>, and we will all be friends. I will keep them sated with bulk v8 supplies procured from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">CostCo</span> as I hatch part three of the plan: tend those beets on my beet farm and start weaning the fanged little furry fiends off their myriad juices and get their juice-lust honed in on the money-pot. . .sweet, sweet beet juice.<br /><br />Once their thirst for the thick red nectar is insatiable, and their fangs drip and glisten in the moonlight with their desire for a fresh kill, I will release my army of vampire bunnies into the rows of juicy beets. I won't watch the carnage; my cruelty only goes so far. But once they have had their way with the heart-shaped roots, I will reap what I have sewn; I will harvest the red-juice-depleted vegetables, and press them for their remaining sweet nectar. This red-free beet juice will descend like a savior on the winter-embattled citizens of the land, bringing them freedom and traction and paths to productivity/consumption they never before imagined during the coldest of seasons.<br /><br />And that is my plan. And I know it's ridiculous. And I don't care :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-81554497764548899242008-12-12T20:15:00.000-08:002008-12-13T09:41:28.813-08:00The Life Lessons of a Squished BeeI recently witnessed a magical moment. It all started at a burrito shop a shoeless hippie's throw from where the sand meets the water meets the sky. The California burrito sitting in front of me oozed with something frightening looking, very unhealthy, and ungodly delicious. Neon signs begged passer-by to stop into the tattoo shop above where I sat- one of perhaps only twelve tattoo parlors on the four-block stretch of the Ocean Beach street.<br /><br />Newport street is replete with one-stop tourist havens filled with a whole lot of crap that nobody needs, filthy-cozy dive bars, sweatshop-supplied clothing stores, incense-burning "water pipe" glass stores, and surfboard and bicycle rental shops. As I contemplated my burrito, many locals (also known as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Obecians)</span>, ambled past barefoot and toting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">long-boards</span> (street and water versions), smoking cigarettes, or played <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hacky-</span> sack and handmade drums by the stone wall separating sidewalk from beach. The locals are generally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">indistinguishable</span> from the transient masses who migrate to San Diego in search of a warmer, better, hipper place in which to carry on their various degrees of chosen or forced nomadic lifestyles and destitution. I dig it in OB because the people watching is ripe, and I could pass a few happy lifetimes sitting back and inventing lives for all those randoms who pass across my view. And the drum beats are nice.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPVieHSveLDNj9xlucJlQ4PFA4Mjph0rZlKnnX2ucA3aW-QPiGp6xRCZdAqtpG8P14ZIMOJEHncPimTQCNIK-ijgTjhFG6M3WwzHnnBV6xeqddDH7JTqi9g4armTOqpM4d8IEEoPU5oboG/s1600-h/IMG_7046_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 355px; height: 485px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPVieHSveLDNj9xlucJlQ4PFA4Mjph0rZlKnnX2ucA3aW-QPiGp6xRCZdAqtpG8P14ZIMOJEHncPimTQCNIK-ijgTjhFG6M3WwzHnnBV6xeqddDH7JTqi9g4armTOqpM4d8IEEoPU5oboG/s400/IMG_7046_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279137148148983682" border="0" /></a><br />The vast majority of people found in OB are clad in the most casual of clothes, from swimsuits to jeans and t-shirts. Girls don't get all squeezed in and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">slutted</span> up to go to the bars here. That's what PB is for. OB is the pinnacle of laid-back beach life. It is what it is and it is chill. To the max. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Brah</span>.<br /><br />As I'm sitting trying to figure out how to eat my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">uber</span>-sloppy burrito, a very well-dressed Mexican family of three walked up to the shop's window to order dinner. The sun was long gone at this point, having dropped dramatically below the horizon several hours earlier. The father was standing in the threshold of the tiny shop, gathering napkins and hot sauce containers for their meal. As an unabashed watcher of all people, I was checking out this handsome man, so wonderfully out of place in his clean navy suit and tie, little slick-haired toddler and red-dressed-and lipsticked wife in tow, awaiting their napkins and food at one of the outdoor picnic tables.<br /><br />As I was taking in the image of this man and his super-shine shoes, I noticed a fuzzy little bee begin to laboriously make it's way up the heel of his fancy shoe. In the best Spanish I could muster (thank god I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">remembered</span> the word for bee), I tapped him on the arm and said (I think), "excuse me, there is a bee on your shoe." He looked at me for a moment longer than my comfort zone would have it, then looked down cool as a cucumber and very gently brushed the bee off his shoe, and went to join his family. For reasons I can't explain I almost blushed; I felt as though I had done something wrong, revealed some personal weakness or moral failing to him.<br /><br />Back to my burrito, which was slowly diminishing. A while later the man's little boy was up and about, burning off some steam while his parents ate. He eventually happened upon the same little bee his father had so gently handled, which had since moved a couple of feet out onto the stone patio, still within harms way of the giant feet making their ways to-and-fro. After contemplating the tiny, flightless, winter-dulled creature for about a minute, the little boy picked up his foot and decidedly gave the bee a good stomp.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrPwwStY2mfqXIyRTlKfec6NNjupYElf7iM4nbxx6BfPwj9KXEH7vyap5Qt-8K6roXi0U1cIQza3SOAB4D_upvgh34tkjY2CK5AKmCfjT73PM02HsVxRLbHa_KjJ6C3jrX_MlSEgwtA5S/s1600-h/IMG_5477_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 428px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrPwwStY2mfqXIyRTlKfec6NNjupYElf7iM4nbxx6BfPwj9KXEH7vyap5Qt-8K6roXi0U1cIQza3SOAB4D_upvgh34tkjY2CK5AKmCfjT73PM02HsVxRLbHa_KjJ6C3jrX_MlSEgwtA5S/s400/IMG_5477_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279137506068578834" border="0" /></a><br />His dad was by his side, it seemed, before his foot had even reached the ground. Taking his wrist firmly and pulling him away with a light jerk of his arm, he offered a very firm and repeated, "no! no, no, no!" The little boy was deposited on the bench next to his mother.<br /><br />Dad returned to the bee as son sat looking more than a little chagrined next to his mother, who seemed to have missed the whole thing. The dad crouched down, pulling up his fancy-pant legs to get down low enough, and tenderly scooped the still-alive (but visibly injured) bee into his hand. He then walked over to a shrub bordering the patio and set the bee oh-so-carefully on a broad leaf. His son watched every inch of the process with eyes and mouth as wide as the sky.<br /><br />Once the little bee was safely in place, Dad came over and grabbed his son by the wrist again, more gently this time, and lead him over to where he had placed the bee. There he crouched with his little son, explaining to him in low tones about the sanctity of life, and respect for life, and love for creatures, and responsibility, and what it means to be really big and to be gentle and kind to something very small. He spent a long time talking to his son, asking him questions and ensuring that he understood how important it all was. The dad then took the bee off of the leaf and held it out on his outstretched palm for his son to look at, to point out the damaged wing and to explain that the bee would no longer be able to fly, to gather pollen, to go home to his family or hive. He replaced the bee and patted his son on the head as he stood up, saying very clearly, "te amo."<br /><br />This scene almost brought me to tears. I don't know that I've ever before witnessed such a beautiful example of being a good human, a gentle man, and most importantly, a great father. In a world in which people so often disregard the little things that are so important in the long run, and set poor examples for the young humans in their lives with their harsh actions and immature choices, here was a man taking the time to explain to this precious little person of his the importance of respecting a tiny little bee. Pure Magic.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-61330903311699481602008-11-27T10:31:00.000-08:002008-11-28T14:41:10.343-08:00Breakfast in bed and it's raining on Turkey day.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndow9J4EVOGfOjw5WblojajKdOGFhB_mqj0b9YoyW3uuN4yxE7LSG0VhtdeJbwYxXqiHvf0YpgMsZeeMYvOK-wEA0In9Ktx0-6n_kLzunkSOOQAhYY3fdq-biL1UVuTSV-LHa2OoTD6Eh/s1600-h/IMG_7142.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 428px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndow9J4EVOGfOjw5WblojajKdOGFhB_mqj0b9YoyW3uuN4yxE7LSG0VhtdeJbwYxXqiHvf0YpgMsZeeMYvOK-wEA0In9Ktx0-6n_kLzunkSOOQAhYY3fdq-biL1UVuTSV-LHa2OoTD6Eh/s400/IMG_7142.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273842019534212162" border="0" /> </a>right now i am overwhelmed with gratitude for the abundance of good in my life. as i sit here snuggled up in bed with a down quilt on my lap, hot tea and oatmeal steaming beside me, and a small slice of pumpkin pie waiting patiently for me, i feel tingles through the tips of my fingers and toes from something called love. this gratitude is so thick i can sink my teeth into it, savoring the soft texture of it as it slides down my throat to soothe my very soul.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91n8c2o-KLlMyuBcVx2GwaBosC-4jgFISyJour5hhHoFDXHHi4JCcAHOin-3dogrIprBuI8DtQeNgBVgWxx7DOL00FpJBCZ2YvqdZ-ewFOu6sUU6xWxQ7WVkIm3_N0jw8DeiSQ_6frKgw/s1600-h/IMG_7134.jpg"> </a><br />i didn't fly home for thanksgiving this year. or last year. or the year before that. every year since i have been living in san diego i decide to stay out of pure angst over braving the airport during the most heinous of all traveling weekends. i do so knowing that i am trading a warm house filled with dozens of family members and enough food to feed a small yet very hungry army, for the quiet and peace and simplicity of a thanksgiving alone. two years ago i spent the holiday in tents and canoes in the black river canyon, soaking in hot springs under an inky night sky. last year it was me and a few friends stuffing ourselves silly with wine and the full feast that we prepared for ourselves. this year, it's different yet again.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rBiZJeD__9jCwkilBVOBiEta2YyNSy7trGLYVrmWgRfRgZcwf5Y-mO5etBBTnH2ykSSTmbfwqvyRZybYdrLdNYPCaXjQIGbgAshyM2TsvtF0bdfadQSE920aXK1hIPhsZdmXBnnm4FfG/s1600-h/IMG_7178.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 466px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rBiZJeD__9jCwkilBVOBiEta2YyNSy7trGLYVrmWgRfRgZcwf5Y-mO5etBBTnH2ykSSTmbfwqvyRZybYdrLdNYPCaXjQIGbgAshyM2TsvtF0bdfadQSE920aXK1hIPhsZdmXBnnm4FfG/s400/IMG_7178.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273841394402976770" border="0" /></a><br />it's just me and franco here in san diego. all my friends have left for family or friends in the far reaches of the country. we're going to a local deli that serves the traditional feast all day long and then we're going to hunker down and watch football and holiday movies beneath blankets and a shroud of food-coma happiness. i am grateful for the peace and quiet of today, and for the knowledge that my family is safe and happy and healthy, and for the love of an incredible man to buouy me throughout my days.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDpUdZBb02jg2Fv_saW_KlWZnb08EkEcot7wSFskukifVqZT4WcyjhyphenhyphenqUN0P8x_aUxYex2iq4oy9gWiFAKYdUJBitN__TL0gESoJjLcPW3j_68mtYgipJsZNeaFEU55LYzJzYqGZESZ0d/s1600-h/IMG_7128.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 462px; height: 346px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDpUdZBb02jg2Fv_saW_KlWZnb08EkEcot7wSFskukifVqZT4WcyjhyphenhyphenqUN0P8x_aUxYex2iq4oy9gWiFAKYdUJBitN__TL0gESoJjLcPW3j_68mtYgipJsZNeaFEU55LYzJzYqGZESZ0d/s400/IMG_7128.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273841762173181970" border="0" /> </a>franco just called me into the living room to gaze upon the rainbow spreading beneath the clouds across the canyon valley. it's not a site often seen here in the desert; i'm happy to accept it as a special gift and a reminder of the good in life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-67410944511665471052008-10-27T09:38:00.000-07:002008-11-27T10:16:45.719-08:00Keeping Pace with myself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Reyx8yg5hLdZNoDtlP9jNQM5t3OsScy8MfWrqkPuugbC6sb39d3voGSKR57wM6jFSkHvbuwHuqHwBl7p3ulpRQNKjX1A1pdkzDr5XrGofuail7mtA6H184zgB7HXfuhCxpWv5f7b1x3_/s1600-h/IMG_6776.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 411px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Reyx8yg5hLdZNoDtlP9jNQM5t3OsScy8MfWrqkPuugbC6sb39d3voGSKR57wM6jFSkHvbuwHuqHwBl7p3ulpRQNKjX1A1pdkzDr5XrGofuail7mtA6H184zgB7HXfuhCxpWv5f7b1x3_/s400/IMG_6776.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261877608269377602" border="0" /></a> My artistic outlets have been taking a backseat to the rigors of graduate study lately. Instead of relaxing with my journal and my thoughts or taking off on my bicycle to find photo opportunities, I've been holed up in the lab or at my kitchen table with articles spread out around me, my head in my hands, and a thesis defense date looming increasingly large on my horizon.<br /><br />But I refuse to let it take complete control, and in defiance of the stress of it all, I have found mini-moments and outlets through which I am able to wrest a modicum of control over my life. For instance, Franco and I are taking a once-weekly salsa dance class. He is loving it as much as I am and grabs me whenever we are together with a free moment to practice our new moves. Having his enthusiasm right alongside mine is a treasured gift, and I relish the stolen times we find to share in our new-found hobby. We have both been long-time lovers of all kinds of dance, but taking a class with a partner is a new experience for us both.<br /><br />His support has been immeasurable. We are both so incredibly busy with teaching and internshipping and studying and writing and trying to keep our heads above water but we still manage to find time for each-other, if only across the table studying together. We just took a one-night trip into the mountains this past weekend, and it turns out that the fresh air and fall colors and stunning scenery was exactly what we both needed to get the energy to plow through yet another week of relentless obligation.<br /><br />Something that has been an unexpected factor for me recently is my almost-obsession with the upcoming election. I find myself feeling very personally involved in the daily goings-on and developments of the partisan emotions and increasingly rancourous tone of so many of my country mates. I find it to be both a hopeful and extremely troubling time in my life as I look at how debate and willingness to listen has devolved into name calling and a continuance of the policies of fear and hatred coming into the forefrount of the national dialogue (if one can call it that). I wonder if my level of stress will fall dramatically on Nov. 5th or if this is just the beginning of my political awakening and if it is a path I will continue to follow as I find it harder and harder to play the apathetic role and pretend that my voice does not matter. The only reality that I can bear is to start to believe that my voice has to matter, and that I have to act on that assumption with conviction and bravery. We shall see.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XO0TCXFr6Kz6lZZB1eHZMUno3RjzUJSvSnPwT2Mcg1b9KAsebyKuHuGBko3g-vLEDXaZJz5oZs7tFROvNC32ZO_uEwrDd_6QVEBEZQ3EsjzmRGPjRTchKEwgV_Kbnm97UjzrvmTxa2BM/s1600-h/IMG_6891.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XO0TCXFr6Kz6lZZB1eHZMUno3RjzUJSvSnPwT2Mcg1b9KAsebyKuHuGBko3g-vLEDXaZJz5oZs7tFROvNC32ZO_uEwrDd_6QVEBEZQ3EsjzmRGPjRTchKEwgV_Kbnm97UjzrvmTxa2BM/s400/IMG_6891.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261877871295560834" border="0" /></a> Fall is here in San Diego, which translates into slightly cooler evenings and a sparse smattering of colored trees where they have been transplanted from more variable climes. I am awash in the sense of nostalgia that always grips me at this time of the year, and wonder once again: where oh where has the time all gone away to? It's hard to keep track of the changing times of the earth when I can hardly manage to keep up with myself. . .Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-10337135344559373042008-07-20T15:56:00.000-07:002008-11-27T10:17:42.644-08:00Pride and Prejudice<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4rboKsmcbnzFO4DeWq790I7D51Va9xW_J05eO7N4EN8eMp6GMQ1cDM81U9qikJ92WvtvJHjUyvwfd3L_35Z4Yb8-mEyZ2Wac-mPVkvZrdyDnDvPDGCVmUHlWbkAgRi7DsthXy7aBwOsj/s1600-h/IMG_5550.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 427px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4rboKsmcbnzFO4DeWq790I7D51Va9xW_J05eO7N4EN8eMp6GMQ1cDM81U9qikJ92WvtvJHjUyvwfd3L_35Z4Yb8-mEyZ2Wac-mPVkvZrdyDnDvPDGCVmUHlWbkAgRi7DsthXy7aBwOsj/s400/IMG_5550.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225304961113890498" border="0" /></a><br /></div> This weekend marked the thirty-third annual Gay Pride Festival and Parade here in San Diego. Both the parade participants and casual revelers, as well as innocent bystanders, joined in the festivities to remind the world that gays deserve the same rights as others and that people should be left free to live their unique lifestyle, void of judgement or hate. Gay pride is also a symbol of solidarity and an opportunity for people to express the vivid (and fun-loving!) personalities which reflect the diverse gay communities throughout the world.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-R02iGTbcz3G_O0fjgtudt3D2Ccsnm1EiCWKnczk3NcX3ckZYgtUoeGTuAPdAdLzULtSwZSrjIYEPvRBxHtOIHfs6tKktLUeCGZximBfyHbjtdj-3_QaMwhPUQwgZ-zTZhcnfnhlrJUV/s1600-h/IMG_5551.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-R02iGTbcz3G_O0fjgtudt3D2Ccsnm1EiCWKnczk3NcX3ckZYgtUoeGTuAPdAdLzULtSwZSrjIYEPvRBxHtOIHfs6tKktLUeCGZximBfyHbjtdj-3_QaMwhPUQwgZ-zTZhcnfnhlrJUV/s400/IMG_5551.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225244240620492258" border="0" /></a> <br />Along with that celebration of <span style="font-style: italic;">gay</span> diversity and freedom comes a sense of love and solidarity among <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> walks of people, gay, asexual, bisexual, straight, other. . . the collective feelings filling the streets of the Hillcrest neighborhood this weekend were of happiness and pride and dancing and love. Their was an outpouring of community support in the way of floats, ranging from local plumbing companies (yes, I see the irony there) to a car driven by three ordained members of a local Catholic church. They are perhaps the only three openly supportive members of the entire religion, but at least it's a start. I was surprised and happy to see a lot of religious organizations out to lend their support, including one float on which a couple got married right in the middle of the parade!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf6xoP5Zoa3IPFqMeUcQbm99ma8VZlGeFTgzfl0eb_qm1pVnPlN6GFZoHCYUxZYb9eFxbhxGc46ezS4cMQBQFG4JjbZUhSnXjQNmsK5Fla8c41CiLGVRee5N9yblOT0_CIapGO-ScUHUs/s1600-h/IMG_5533.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 430px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf6xoP5Zoa3IPFqMeUcQbm99ma8VZlGeFTgzfl0eb_qm1pVnPlN6GFZoHCYUxZYb9eFxbhxGc46ezS4cMQBQFG4JjbZUhSnXjQNmsK5Fla8c41CiLGVRee5N9yblOT0_CIapGO-ScUHUs/s400/IMG_5533.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225304291927530258" border="0" /></a>I had an incredible time joining in the fray. There were costumes and dancers and performers in the street, and happy, sunburnt and slightly drunk people crowding the sidewalks and restaurant patios. The crowd was a diverse as San Diego gets, with many many families in attendance and for sure everyone who had a dog brought him along. There were quite a few dogs dressed up in Pride gear, outfitted with rainbow scarves and leashes and hats; rainbows adorned human heads and clothing and faces as far as the eye could see. It seemed that day as though everyone was just a little bit gay, and damn proud of it. At least in the sense that we were all there in support of the general concept of acceptance and love and allowing people the freedom to live the way they wants<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Unfortunately, it was apparent that not everyone felt the same way I did about the festive gathering, as evidenced by these hateful (and not very intelligent or attractive) people:<br />(By my count, I match about five of the items on his list, so I should probably find myself a handbasket for the trip).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9BKQ4kHkS5OuplUTheR1ekyl66ADDm3IIG1nv8av4OC3qvvfRSt6tN9t-0q2FgL5NSHtT8tEBARAsTpXL3VIzSXez3JIdZaMUPYf0z7ehtJwT9VRxv4u8yQNjgn6gHy5fg4l5-icuBTX/s1600-h/IMG_5535.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 470px; height: 351px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9BKQ4kHkS5OuplUTheR1ekyl66ADDm3IIG1nv8av4OC3qvvfRSt6tN9t-0q2FgL5NSHtT8tEBARAsTpXL3VIzSXez3JIdZaMUPYf0z7ehtJwT9VRxv4u8yQNjgn6gHy5fg4l5-icuBTX/s400/IMG_5535.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225241623088275154" border="0" /></a><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Wz1PkHBj8p4kkZZlftzKax9jVPxYm0pjP_3GjbDCXzqSEI8NM_-RDOw4V-3zR07B_zIAmO0z0S4iM2cTgX-BzUNjt8hLZ9LQGR1C1aWBNPuL7NmTFcdLeDOF9m8btPegGEe_uWReftCe/s1600-h/IMG_5539.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 425px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Wz1PkHBj8p4kkZZlftzKax9jVPxYm0pjP_3GjbDCXzqSEI8NM_-RDOw4V-3zR07B_zIAmO0z0S4iM2cTgX-BzUNjt8hLZ9LQGR1C1aWBNPuL7NmTFcdLeDOF9m8btPegGEe_uWReftCe/s400/IMG_5539.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225242174825457874" border="0" /></a>I really have no clue whatsoever how this could possibly be rationalized, but I couldn't get back there to ask the man to explain his sign or to have a conversation or exchange of ideas, because all the hate-mongers were well-protected behind the yellow police line and about five mounted officers. There was no conversation going on; it was a one-siding outpouring of fear rhetoric and thoughtless scripture quoting. The phrase popped into my mind: "Hell hath no fury like a latent homosexual." I got a kick out of how seriously these people seemed to take themselves, but was and still am also frightened by what such vile ignorance means, as well. It's saddening that in the face of so much joy and love and solidarity there are those among us who feel compelled to bastardize and interpret beautiful stories and lessons of acceptance to supposedly justify their fear and hate. I love the irony that they all got to sniff California-sun-warmed horse shit wafting towards them all day long. An apt metaphor for their actions and hateful words. Fortunately those around didn't pay them much attention and those who did just shouted love into their faces. Five bitter and fearful men against an entire city of joyful revelers. Can't bring this party down, no no.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-70582517245455358212008-07-12T12:38:00.000-07:002008-07-12T13:02:22.873-07:00Filthy carpeting and flourescent lightingI'm finding it hard to believe that my tenure at "clinic" is nearing it's finish. Sooner than I know it, I will be taking all the skills I've learned in that alternate-reality of a second home and attempt to apply them in that "real world" I keep hearing about.<br /><br />What I refer to as "clinic" is the Communications Clinic of my University. As a first-year Masters student heading for a degree as a speech pathologist, I spend the vast majority of my time either at the clinic or preparing for my time at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">clinic</span>. Clinic comprises a total-immersion approach to training us 38 would-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">bes</span> in the multitudinous and extremely variable populations of people to whom we could or will attend to once we are graduated and certified.<br /><br />Clinic has tested me. Tested all of us, I believe. It is a scant percentage of our credit load, but requires energy and ambition, hard-work and ingenuity on a regular basis. I have reached unprecedented lows and highs of pride as a direct result of the demands put to me from my clinical schedule. In the short period of nine-plus months, I have learned how to assess, diagnose, and treat the speech and language aspects of individuals ranging in age from infant to geriatric with countless different disorder types ranging from traumatic brain injury, to stroke, Parkinson's Disease, fetal alcohol syndrome, Autism, nerve damage, dyslexia, language impairments, to name but a few.<br /><br />When I realized this was the path I wanted to pursue, I truly had no idea how much we were expected to know and how different the paths open before me would be. I could take this degree and work with infant children and their families on developmental issues; I could work at a hospital teaching post- coma patients how to swallow and eat again. I could work in a rehab facility teaching folks with brain-injuries how to read, and reason, and be appropriate again. I could work in a school with a caseload as wide as the sea and children with disorders as varied as snowflakes. It seems there is no end to the variety and choice and opportunity for learning something new every day along the way.<br /><br />Grad school has kicked my butt just a bit, and clinic is where the hardest hours have been spent. Learning how to trust yourself enough to feel confident and competent with someone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">else's</span> happiness and success at your nascent fingertips is not the simplest of journeys. This experience has humbled and encouraged me. I feel ready for the real world but look back and can easily see a time when I was not. I still have the sense that I have learned enough to only get me through the tip of that proverbial iceberg, but I also know that this is something I need to continue to grow and learn and feel the heft of my efforts. Challenge is a necessary factor in life if you expect yourself to grow outward and upward.<br /><br />It's ironic to me that the place where I have learned so much, and faced so many internal personal battles, is as ugly as our clinic. Outdated and slated to be replaced this very fall (right after I am finished with it, of course), the clinic carpets are stained beyond belief, its white walls ridden with marks of unknown origin, and its lights garish in all their florescent glory. More than often, though, I find myself not noticing this. Not noticing and thinking more about the people who have aided me in my crazy trip through these past few semesters. My classmates and supervisors and above all my clients. Patient and supportive and challenging me at every turn, this world has changed me. Indelibly.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-82980522326165926462008-06-25T16:40:00.000-07:002008-11-27T10:18:17.889-08:00The Goodness of the Universe<span style="font-family:arial;">After living in San Diego for almost two years, I finally made it down to Black's Beach for one of the infamous full moon parties on the longest day of the year. Except for two small problems: (1) the folks who organized this particular party neglected to check the lunar schedule regarding when, in fact, the moon would be full and (2), they also forgot to double check that it really was the summer solstice. They were a few days off on both counts and although the night was beautiful and well worth a sundown beer and bonfire, it was not quite the naked drum-beating hippie mass of lunar-love I was expecting. We ten and our one modest bonfire were the only things on the beach once the sun-worshippers disappeared along with their celestial idol.</span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx95oXjhGLlncYQe9qGYm9vWfFFTd9ERfU3kB5WF93KLdC7b-IDlXx6isqKT7mfqAqZ48j2AH1bE_x34EEv4yzHDwLvXYuJ4lSk7N2U52We-vz1CxuZdGBpvp91lsnpF0hw__qOJGt7NgK/s1600-h/IMG_5073.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx95oXjhGLlncYQe9qGYm9vWfFFTd9ERfU3kB5WF93KLdC7b-IDlXx6isqKT7mfqAqZ48j2AH1bE_x34EEv4yzHDwLvXYuJ4lSk7N2U52We-vz1CxuZdGBpvp91lsnpF0hw__qOJGt7NgK/s400/IMG_5073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215976213817792690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;">Franco and I weren't quite as young or as energetic as the recent college graduates we hiked down the cliff-side to meet, so as they skipped and twirled along down the beach, he and I kept the pace to a saunter, holding hands in that sunset-on-the-beach idyllic way and letting go for brief moments to share a thought or tell a story. The subject of the safety of our things way back yonder came up, and I made the comment that I believe in the goodness of the Universe and that I knew our things would be just fine where they were. Despite the fact that I have had things stolen from me, and had people I trusted betray my loyalties, I still proceed on the concept of karmic retribution and know that the world needs all the positivity and loveliness it can get. I do my best to put it out there; do my part to balance that dark with glorious shining light. I figure it's the least I can do. We walked further away as the the ocean and the sun melted into one another, and turned back as the mist descended all around us. The other members of our group were but tiny frolicking silhouettes far in the thickening dusk. We two turned back through the creepy-strange sand bugs and lapping waves towards our things and our food.<br /><br />Everything was there when we arrived to our unburnt wood, snacks and backpacks. The Universe delivered on my promise.<br /><br />After a few hours of lounging in the flickering firelight with the sand fleas and drunken grads, Franco and I decided to take our fading Mag light and head back up the steep cliff path to my waiting vehicle. The moon was a whisper of an idea on the far side of the heavens and the only light to be seen the whole world around us was the diminishing fire we'd just left.<br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As we approached the trail head, I noticed the barely distinguishable outline of a small and skinny human form leaning against a solitary fence post. I called out to the form to help dispel the initial thought that this person was there to do us some sort of harm. I held the flashlight up so that Franco could see what I was seeing, and I told him I thought this guy needed some help (keep in mind, communicating for Franco and I, with our hands full of sandy beach goods and pitch blackness surrounding and only one crappy flashlight for illumination was an interesting challenge to surmount at this hour).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Turns out the poor guy was on the beach for his first time and had lost his friends once darkness descended a full two hours before. I was amazed that he was able to find the path's entrance on the obscured cliff face considering the following: (1) it really was black as a panther's paw and (2) this dude was WASTED. </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" style="font-family:arial;">Alcohol</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> fumes rising from his pores in a fine mist. Falling over every three steps. Wasted.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We of course offered to walk the guy up the narrow, unlit, sheer-</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" style="font-family:arial;">drop off</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> cliff path, and for the most part I literally held on to his backpack or shirt to make sure he didn't fall off and plunge to his death. He repeated "thank you thank you" like a mantra and did not resist this almost-babying kind of treatment: he knew he needed it. Twice during our ascent I truly believe that he would have been a goner had I or Franco not been physically holding on to him. It was a nerve-wracking hike.</span><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BUnfBVImQGMfP9oKYU3risOXA2hA-WBn667cyaUzyybQpchA8lH_WOh0BHMYdNm1tcA0_ZCljh6sTlsxJJUi7G0aWcn1uCZ_yzSJMu-M0mbEjmHFExRCEnGb8e-Lf9n6z4fuRTB77KBl/s1600-h/IMG_5082.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 442px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BUnfBVImQGMfP9oKYU3risOXA2hA-WBn667cyaUzyybQpchA8lH_WOh0BHMYdNm1tcA0_ZCljh6sTlsxJJUi7G0aWcn1uCZ_yzSJMu-M0mbEjmHFExRCEnGb8e-Lf9n6z4fuRTB77KBl/s320/IMG_5082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215974909592230866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, as things often lead into one-another, I ended up driving our new friend home as I did not feel right leaving him alone in the near-abandoned dirt lot to fend for himself. Luckily for us he lived within five miles of my house, and I knew exactly where it was. He was telling me as I approached his house that he wanted me to wait for a minute once he went inside; he had something he wanted to give me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I dropped him off. He went inside. He came back out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He was holding something in his hands and he told me that he wanted to give me this gift as a sign that, (his exact words) there "truly is goodness in the Universe," and that thanks to us his belief in it was renewed afresh that night. Then he handed me a beautiful raw crystal and said that he received it in thanks for a random good deed he had done, and now it was mine to keep or give away as I saw fit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My little moral: do good. Be good. Put it out there and spread the light. There is always someone who will need you more than you know and you never know when they're gonna show up in your life.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-47420742094630518652008-06-15T22:04:00.000-07:002008-06-25T17:21:37.053-07:00Tinkering in the yard<a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtccWcWxSCaITitJbHcunJvv_LZ9gxSLvFvDG7cIBuusVmKvM7pfBPvRPew5c4YHYpL9IizQswYURNMZATxKwSfQ3DEW3e1AaIlUQRHo8YXT8YTHrpi0iEhPdrfvh10Aky2FOL389mA7v/s1600-h/IMG_4798.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtccWcWxSCaITitJbHcunJvv_LZ9gxSLvFvDG7cIBuusVmKvM7pfBPvRPew5c4YHYpL9IizQswYURNMZATxKwSfQ3DEW3e1AaIlUQRHo8YXT8YTHrpi0iEhPdrfvh10Aky2FOL389mA7v/s320/IMG_4798.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212345407054755122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">I haven't lived in a house with a garden to play in since I moved out of my parents house. My mom used to "make us" help her in the garden, but I never really saw it as a chore. I loved getting my hands dirty, reshaping the mounts of dirt to hold new colors and life. My favorite part was watching something I helped plant grow big and healthy, and then eat it! My mom grows all kinds of things. Me, I grow plants. House plants. I have slowly learned how to really take care of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">my leafy "pets" over the years, as apparently I am not blessed with the green thumb of my mother which allows her to grow the most amazingly prolific plants. A neighbor once brought over an aloe plant that she had almost killed. When next I took notice of the plant, green aloe fronds were dripping over the edge in self-proclaimed virility. The plant was massive! I asked my mom her secret and she said she just put it under her antique Singer</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> sewing machine and ignored it. "Too much attention, that's what kills plants," she told me. But I remember her talking to her plants, and there was always music on in the house. Maybe that was the magical element keeping her leaves so green.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I name my plants. I talk to them and assure them they are loved. I haven't killed one in years. When I pot baby plants from a spider or philodendron, I encourage the new parent to give a name (I'm more than willing to help pick a name: Franco's first plant was PJ, the first pawned-off progeny of my beloved Phil(odendron)). Who said puns were dead? Who??</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I have grand plans to build a little tarp shelter </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on the balcony</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and </span><span style="font-family:arial;">grow herbs </span><span style="font-family:arial;">and tomatoes and</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">peppers, but I have some waitin' to do. . .I don't really have</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> regular access to that space as of yet. Point of all this. . .I miss gardening and playing with dirt and</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGhxLvp3tUenlIo9k9_pwNwrwE0Qhy_HZf8GC9h9HsRk_eTsaLWNdov6SywY3TXIF4YmXV4-_Je_yV5Z1QPiNSHW-N_bTe-bhVLAT6WojrwSmN6XyGEfnihavByGVop2tkMcpb-7if2I/s1600-h/IMG_4849.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGhxLvp3tUenlIo9k9_pwNwrwE0Qhy_HZf8GC9h9HsRk_eTsaLWNdov6SywY3TXIF4YmXV4-_Je_yV5Z1QPiNSHW-N_bTe-bhVLAT6WojrwSmN6XyGEfnihavByGVop2tkMcpb-7if2I/s320/IMG_4849.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212345639466972786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> smelling that perfect smell of organic matter and worm breath, released when your hands get at least wrist deep in the earth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I used to landscape every summer so I got my fix that way. I didn't seem to ma</span><span style="font-family:arial;">tter that I toiled all day in other people's gardens. In fact, I feel fortunate because I'm pretty damn sure I'll never be able to afford gardens and yards like some of those people have!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So today, Franco and I dug in. He moved to this great place on a canyon with a backyard and some rose bushes and other random plants gone to seed. (Puns are not dead). We dug holes and filled pots and carefully moved miscreant plants from one place to another. It was a lovely day in the shadow-slanted sunshine. Getting our hands in the dirt, thinking about what we can plant that we can watch grow together, and harvest to give us nourishment. Heh. Metaphorical</span><span style="font-family:arial;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On the note of growth and nourishment, Happy Father's Day to my Dad, who has played such an enormous role in my own. I love you.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-67115128471812908682008-06-05T11:43:00.000-07:002008-06-17T10:52:38.566-07:00May gray takes a breakI think it's ironic that my first post on here carried a negative tone, seeing that I am usually an extremely positive person, to such an extent that I'm sure it annoys many of the more cynical people out there. We all have our days I suppose.<br /><br />I am feeling light and hopeful, and happy that Obama is the nominee for the Democratic party at long last. It's difficult to see any kind of good coming out of this country's government after the debacle of the past eight years, but one can only hope for what beauty may appear on the horizon after the worst of storms. My mom always offered this tidbit of wisdom when my hope was lost: "It's always darkest before the dawn." If things get darker from this point on, God help us.<br /><br />Summer school is under way, and WOW am I not cut out for it! My internal clock runs something along the lines of, "Wheee! It's May. . .time to turn of the brain, celebrate another birthday, and go play in the sun!" This time around, things will be different. I am accustomed to having the choice of just taking off and doing the fly-by-pants-seat thing when the mood strikes me. Now my choices are limited to: do I want to start working on this project right now, or tomorrow afternoon once I'm done with a full day at the clinic. Sigh. I have noone to blame but myself :)<br /><br />It's gorgeous out today, and seeing as I don't have much work to do. . .yet. . .I am going to go soak it it. Happy Thursday!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-394381564330521265.post-42836228430332310432008-05-27T18:58:00.000-07:002008-11-27T10:19:05.294-08:00Birthday. Why not bornday?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnxRX8roJpGPulaQL2GnLxJ04yQ69ZJ-9wFryE0eW2G_b19Cdj0zgRYFBtCQwR0OlrNOPVRxi_6nZ0xH53xyVdmF31aB4umb6diXWKFMRK8E4zN-ha5IgSujwLaRGCrTrPJeHEqq4bsep/s1600-h/Photo+25.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 546px; height: 409px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnxRX8roJpGPulaQL2GnLxJ04yQ69ZJ-9wFryE0eW2G_b19Cdj0zgRYFBtCQwR0OlrNOPVRxi_6nZ0xH53xyVdmF31aB4umb6diXWKFMRK8E4zN-ha5IgSujwLaRGCrTrPJeHEqq4bsep/s320/Photo+25.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205246761530417586" border="0" /></a><br />If I had as crappy of a birthday as I had today when I was 16, 18, 22. . .I probably would have rolled up in a sad little soggy ball of tears and self-pity and waited for the masses to bestow upon me their most heartfelt sympathies that my perfect day wasn't glittering in shining gold; that the princess of the hour (that would have been me) had to deal with the real world and life on that day just like any other day, poor thing.<br /><br />Alas, the adult (cough cough) version of me realizes that the world did not conspire to ruin my day because it's the day of my birth. I accept that the millions of tiny things that went wrong from the moment I woke up actually have zero connection to the occurrence today of the anniversary of my new presence here on earth. None of it is related, and because I know that, I know also how small and insignificant this day is, and therefore how truly small and insignificant I am. Sigh.<br /><br />But I am not here to whine and complain, I promise. I'm here to say that I didn't let it take over. I not letting the fact that I didn't get to eat pie for breakfast crumple all hopes of a beautiful day. Or the awful fight I had with my friend spell grief and doom for the rest of the day. Because today, my friends, I am one year, or one day, or one moment wiser, depending on how you look at it. My newest lesson is that today truly is like any other day, and that just like any other day I embrace what it can teach me and send it on its way.<br /><br />I do not feel 28 years old, nor 28 years young. I feel both wisdom beyond my years and a youthful innocence and exuberance that won't be squelched. I know I am both mature and womanly and yet very very childish. Another year tacked on and I still am not quite sure what I want to be when I grow up. I am still struggling with who I am and where I want to go. I am still a child of this earth, wondering if I'm doing things right. Funny how the same questions are in my mind today as on any other day. They're just attached to a new number.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1