match

My recent response to online dating...

Well, that was a colossal waste of time.

Not because he wasn’t nice enough or couldn’t carry a conversation. He wasn’t bad looking or too terribly awkward. He was a very normal guy, who was only a little nervous, and I really have nothing bad to say about him.

But why is it that a few minutes of in-person conversation can tell you infinitely more about someone than a few emails and a scripted online profile? If the guy I met last night had come up to me when I was out with friends, I would have spent two minutes tops talking with him and walked away. The End.

Instead of walking away, I spent almost two hours with him on a perfectly good Friday night, and left with all of my qualms about dating reconfirmed.

It’s a colossal waste of time.

And something in me had hoped I would be surprised. I really had tried to squash any expectations (good or bad) and was just going to go and see and it wasn’t a big deal. If it was bad, maybe I would have a good story to tell. But it wasn’t even really so bad. It was just… pointless.

One of the main of the reasons I gave up on dating a few years ago was that I couldn’t figure out why I continued to spend time either a) looking for a guy or b) with guys that I didn’t really like, when there are so many people I DO like to spend time with and so many things I would rather be doing that are actually interesting. It just dawned on me that if there are only 24 hours in day, maybe I should not waste precious hours doing things (and/or seeing people) that I didn’t enjoy or didn’t enrich my life. And there you go, dating = done. It wasn’t even really a conscious decision, and definitely not a hard one to make.

But now here I am, a bit older, a few more gray hairs later, and something in me hit a tipping point and swayed toward doing what I’d always taken a very firm stance against = online dating.

Let’s be honest, it was really 70% joke, 25% challenge, and 5% interest. But that 5% interest really was there, and I can’t deny it. But even with eager friends setting everything up and me not really doing much except a final screening, it still felt artificial, too much like a Biggest Bargains page on Overstock.com. All you have to base your choices on are two-dimensional images and how well they can string a sentence together. Why on earth was I thinking that would be enough?

Has it come to this? Is this really how I’m supposed to meet people now?

I suppose I could go out on the town, like I used to, and meet guys who are now likely much younger than me who are likely there with few honorable intentions. I could go to church and be lumped in with all the ‘older singles’ groups, filled largely with folks that there is no question why they are still single. Or I can online date and spend hours staring at images on a screen, when two minutes of flesh and blood could give me a more accurate synopsis and, getting back to my original point, not waste anyone’s time (his included).

Are these really my only options?

And then there’s the other not-to-be-spoken-aloud question, am I this desperate?

As I have gotten older, I have watched single women around me lower their standards with each passing birthday. Jerky or dorky boyfriend here, marathon online dating there, with each outcome as unfulfilling as the last. Aren’t we supposed to be getting wiser as we get older? Shouldn’t the bar be going up, not down? I am continuously mystified by women who settle for less than they deserve just in the name of being with someone.

And then there’s my other big issue – my ego. Frankly, I am spoiled. I have always been used to being “looked at” and not “looking for.” And maybe that’s the mentality I need to shake, the humility I need to find, or maybe that’s the question I need to answer – do I really want to “look for” someone at all, like a holy grail of happiness? Or would my energy be better spent (there’s that theme again), searching for happiness inside myself, rather than in travelboy074 from Columbia, MD?

Or, is all this “find contentment within yourself” stuff just my own proverbial cop out? (It has indeed served me well over the years.) And maybe my blatant determination not to “waste my time” is just a defense to shelter and protect my time, for people I love, things that I love… and there’s maybe the real fundamental issue in all of this = I do have time to share and love to give, and having a really special person to share that with and give that love to, I think, would be wonderful. And maybe, overall, it just makes me sad that there really seem to be no good options out there on just how to find that.

Except, of course, the one that’s been there all along….

God, can you help a sister out?

expectant

For months now, I have been counting babies – pregnant friends, friends delivering, another colleague with one on the way, and even a sister! Finally, I decided that I just had take a tally of this baby boom happening around me, and when I did, even I was shocked at the number – seventeen. That’s right, seventeen little ones that I know who have either recently arrived or are on the way. Is there a Facebook group for that?

As the number escalated over the past few months I have pondered aloud to friends that surely there is some symbolism, some deeper meaning in this. One wisely pointed out that all it meant was that I was in my mid-30s. Another said that there is indeed a global baby boom happening right now. I’ve about deduced, though, that it may just be God’s way of telling me to be patient.

See, while seemingly half the women I know are hatching out bambinos, I have been scheming for months (ok, maybe longer), trying to find the escape hatch out of what I have deemed a miserable job/city/life/whatever. I have been interviewing, looking at houses in my destinations of choice, searching online for jobs, writing plans and building websites for my own dream business – in short, flailing about in daily indecision about what is my next perfect step. All the while thinking that certainly staying put was not an option. Wait? No way! I couldn’t take another day.

Long story short, I am still here. Any day now I am hoping for news that will point me in one way or the other. Surely, that door of opportunity will crack open and hopeful glimmer of light will soon trickle through…

But still I wonder, what if it doesn’t? I mean, I have apparently accepted that I’m just going to have to endure daily “misery” until i do something else or move somewhere else. So, if I don’t get Divine Direction soon, is this my assigned state of existence from here on that I need to just learn to accept?

When I actually stop to think about it, though, how much of our lives are spent waiting? Comparatively, there are likely a lot more dull/boring/routine days than enlightening ones; we spend a lot more time behind closed doors than skipping through open opportunistic ones. Life is largely made up of “in the meantime,” which is why I guess the Bible talks so much about daily prayer and a day’s work and new mercies every morning. God gets routine – after all, he invented orbiting planets, flowers that bloom every afternoon, and lapping waves against the shoreline.

And this is where I can take a lesson from the expectant moms in my life = after months of watching their bellies grow, of waiting (often uncomfortably) for the due date, what results is among the greatest of all joys. Sure, there are routine feedings, hundreds of diaper changes, but as that precious New One develops and blossoms, all of those months of waiting are largely forgotten. Every first giggle, first smile, first tooth are new treasured moments sprinkled among otherwise normal hours.

But new baby or no, can’t we all approach our daily lives a bit more that way – looking for magical moments amid the “dirty diaper changing” we all do? Knowing that months of being uncomfortable, months of waiting, will result in something wonderful? Can’t I, at least, learn from the many, many new lives growing around me that there are some growing opportunities for me right now as well?

What sound is more soothing to my soul than waves crashing against the shoreline, over and over and over again? What is more hopeful than rays of light spilling over the horizon, regardless of if that horizon is brand new, or the very same one I saw yesterday...

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

weight

The blog boycott has ended, without even me realizing it had begun. My last entry was wrenching to write. For weeks I worked to assemble the perfect words to hold my heart carefully suspended in a Word document. I wrote and edited and revised and prayed. After being the unsuspecting object of misplaced political frustration, I had wanted (perhaps too desperately) to explain my point of view, to share my story.

But after all the expended emotions, time, and creative energy, I’m still not even sure that the people it was largely written for even took the time to read it. The wonderful responses from all perspectives and all continents couldn’t completely drown out the silence of a very few. The conversation was over, as was the election soon after, and there was nothing left to say.

I guess that’s the call of a writer to some degree – to very publicly bare your soul, realizing that some people just assume cover their eyes, or look the other way.

But now the weight of a muted voice is too much not to try to peck my way out, key by key, letter by letter. Under the weight of an avalanche, even an ice pick is useful. It’s the weight of dread once the comfort of the holiday season was over, and the pace of life returned to the fury and futility of the day to day. The weight of recitations of all I have to do, little of which is actually very important. The weight of stress and frustration, making breaths shallow and sleep fitful. The weight of the calls that never came, or that I never placed. The literal weight around my middle that feels like a physical manifestation of the heaviness in my heart, noticeable mostly to me.

Oh, I know. It’s not nearly so dreadful, and some days are still fabulous. (The last time I posted something solemn I got an immediate call from a most loved one asking what happened to the Real Bonnie.) I’m just purging again to my therapist/laptop, so don't worry. Sometimes I approach writing like I’m on a scavenger hunt for clarity. If I write and write long enough, I can usually glimpse a mile-maker a few paragraphs in, or see a compass-like direction emerge once I re-read my ramblings.

Lately, I’ve been weighing a question we all probably grapple with from time to time – what’s more important, to spend our days toiling away at something we don’t necessarily enjoy to have money to do things we do enjoy, or to throw caution to the wind, break with the norm, and chase after our life’s calling which may or may not lead to any kind of financial stability?

I have just been trying to figure out if, on a practical level, my present state is all self-induced? I knowingly, consciously choose to turn at the mile marker and end up here, so am I free to just choose again crank my engine and drive away? Or do I have to wait for another Divine Opportunity, or for things to reach a certain depth of intolerable before I can launch my life into a new direction, leaving "security" behind? Do I even have to justify it if I did, and to whom?

As adventurous as I am, I feel like the risk-taker in me atrophied a bit post-disaster work. In my daily life now I rarely take risks of any kind. I handle staplers and scissors sometimes, and drive amid local crazies, but that’s about it for me and danger. It’s almost like I’m out of practice taking chances and have now found myself too weighted down by routine to make any kind of big leap in life… just when I may need to the most.

I was on my way home from Geneva when I started writing this. A four-day trip that’s as easy as hopscotch, and typifies one of the heaviest shackles I have to where I am now – the freedom to travel the world on someone else’s dime. Terrible, isn’t it? And terribly addictive. A leap of faith now may just cost me my Gold Elite flyer status, and glimpses of conference rooms in exotic places.

Am I willing to take the chance that a literal world of possibilities may open up, if I just jump? Realistically, practically, I’m just not sure. But it feels good to have at least found my way to the question...

****************************************
Let me learn by paradox
That the way down is the way up,
That to be low is to be high,
That the broken heart is the healed heart,
That the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,
That the repenting soul is the victorious soul,
That to have nothing is to possess all,
That to bear the cross is to wear the crown,
That to give is to receive,
That the valley is the place of vision.

-A Puritan prayer

decisions

I grew up in the rural Mississippi Delta, was in a Southern Baptist church every time the doors were open, and don’t remember actually “knowing” a Democrat until I was in college. The first election I voted in was 1992, and I remember being ecstatic when Dan Quayle came through town, after all I was an officer in the Young Republicans Club. Yet even then, it was the rumpled copy of the Libertarian manifesto Mainspring of Human Progress that I truly treasured, and its ideals of personal freedom unencumbered by government bureaucracies or edicts.

Over the next several years, these philosophies continued to mesh well my tie-dye college days of peace and love and bemoaning “the establishment” (in any form). But still I remember driving to my hometown to vote and not even knowing who was running until I looked at the ballot. In my community of about 400 people, a vote for a Republican was a vote against the corrupt Democratic cronies who used our local tax dollars to finance their new Cadillacs. So that is how I voted, with little thought beyond it.

Having never left the southeast U.S., I found myself on a plane for the first time at age 23, bound for China to teach English in a place that literally couldn’t have been further from home. To say it was an eye-opening experience is a grossly inadequate depiction of the intellectual, spiritual, and emotional shift that happened in those few short months. I came home a different person.

From there I went to Texas, where I was immersed in the Mexican immigrant culture of both my inner-city neighborhood and the family that pretty-much adopted me, loving me as if I were their own. Urban poverty was all around me there, and it wore a different face than in the small town South. I remember trying to bring a homeless couple to church and being turned away at the door by a respected elder. “Those people” weren’t allowed to come in. It was an unforgettable lesson that not all Christians act like Jesus.

Grad school immersed me in the most conservative of environments, with a faith community that I flourished in but a social mindset that was isolated and self-focused. I was a budding journalist and still a non-conformist, in all areas but politics. George W. Bush won his first term during my first semester. The buzz on campus = it was Divine Intervention. He said Jesus was the most influential person in his life, and I went to his inauguration and was excited about what was ahead. After September 11^th, his speeches were interwoven with Bible verses and hymn lyrics, but he encouraged Americans to “go shopping” as an antidote to grief and show of patriotism. I remember being taken aback but brushed it off and went back to my studies.

An internship in Israel then dropped me into the microcosm of monotheism – Jerusalem. All the Biblical stories I had read and heard should have come to life there, but all those places were mostly buried under centuries of history and war and conflict carried out in God’s name. I met Palestinian refugees for the first time, most of them Christian, and heard their stories of being separated from their families by random Israeli checkpoints and city-wide blockades. I struggled to mesh their plight and oppression with the Zionistic fervor espoused by many Christians. Spiritually, it was an enlightening time, but I brought home the philosophical baggage of feeling like the conflict there wasn’t about faith at all – it was about land and money, race and culture, and not much else.

I moved north the next year to our nation’s capital and began working in disaster relief. I crisscrossed the country chasing storms and took my first trips to Africa. Politics dominated most everything in the District, but amid it all I found a fantastic church that met in a movie theater, used popcorn buckets for the offering plate, and actually *invited* homeless people in from outside. When it came time for the ’04 elections, I realized I had been paying very little attention to politics, even while living in D.C., including the fact that our country was at war. So, after much waffling and a little study, I retreated to a single issue to seal my decision and capture my vote. It wasn’t until later that I wrapped my mind and heart around the fact that unborn children are not the only vulnerable innocents in the world whose lives should be fought for. Everyone has a right to life.

I have spent about half Bush's second term working in developing countries, including more than a year living in Indonesia doing tsunami recovery work. There I was part of something much bigger than a “relief operation” – it was truly a global community, sort of like our own little UN of humanitarian aid workers, with a diversity of backgrounds and perspectives that made for great late-night conversations and interesting, friendly debates. It was then that I experienced firsthand the shifting attitudes toward America. While colleagues appreciated our work in Indonesia and loved us as individuals, George W. Bush’s America had come to represent intolerance, torture, and misguided wars to many who had once admired our country. I was shocked at their sentiments at first, but once I started paying attention myself, especially to the war in Iraq, I began to understand and even share their frustration and disappointment.

In the past year and a half my work and travels have continued to carry me all over the world but primarily to Africa. Even on a continent with more than its share of problems, I was asked pointed political questions and forced to defend my country while our actions in places like Somalia have only empowered local warlords, stirred up hatred of America, and devastated millions of innocent civilians. It’s atrocities like these, and the harsh inequity that permeates the rest of the continent that keeps me awake at night even now – the more than one billion people who live on less than $1 a day, the millions that die annually from preventable and treatable diseases like malaria and pneumonia, the lack of basic infrastructure and sanitation and education, the 33 million refugees who have fled their homes and livelihoods because of civil conflict, war and persecution, only to continue to suffer as impoverished nomads.

I hesitate to start on the other realities of Africa – the atrocities in Somalia, Chad, Congo and Sudan, just to name a few, and the governments of dozens more countries that continue to siphon money into the pockets of their leaders and away from the poorest of the poor, unchecked by the UN, U.S. or anyone else. And then there's Guantanamo, the disregard for civil liberties (aka domestic wiretapping), the suspension of the Geneva Conventions, fattening the pockets of defense contractors in Iraq with our tax dollars and no accountability, and even pandering to the Chinese around the Olympics despite their outright involvement in Sudan and the flagrant victimization of Christians and anyone else who dares speak out. I could go on and on about the disasters and failures of the President and Party that have been in charge, but I guess my point is that when I really started paying attention, when extreme poverty, the refugee crisis, and all these “issues” had a face and a name and I had actually been there myself to see it, what our government was and was not doing as the wealthiest and most powerful country in the world completely astounded me. I could no longer stand idly by.

For me, November 4^th offers a chance to do something.

I believe in the power of one, that a single person really can make a difference and affect change. In the election next week, I have chosen to support Barack Obama. This decision did not come easily, and I can honestly say it’s the result of months of research and soul-searching. Even as I traced my journey to this point, I continued to be surprised by my own contradictions.

I do not believe in big government or that government can solve people’s problems with handouts, but I’m voting for a Democrat. I am pretty moderate on most issues and do not agree with Barack Obama’s abortion policies, his vote on the bailout, or the entirety of his tax policy. But this is perhaps the most important election of my lifetime, and I have chosen to let go of my past partisan and single-issue voting and reach toward larger causes which also support life and reflect a spirit of hope and compassion for America and our world.

I believe our great country has been immobilized in recent years by partisanship and hostile division, both at the highest levels of government and in our own communities. We have been paralyzed by our differences rather than working together for the common Good, here and around the world. I believe Barack Obama is a new kind of leader, one whose entire platform is built on unity, cooperation and bipartisanship – that we are not white or black or brown people, Republicans or Democrats, conservatives or liberals, or red states or blue states, but that we are the United States of America. As a raging optimist, I believe in this unified vision for our country, and Barack Obama has been committed unwaveringly to these ideals since his campaign began.

I believe hope and compassion are more powerful than fear and hatred. I believe that peace is possible, and that as a Christian, I am called to be a peacemaker, to love my neighbors no matter how difficult, and to exemplify mercy and justice, without exception. Therefore, I believe that we must end the war in Iraq as responsibly and quickly as possible, and that we must initiate a new foreign policy based on diplomacy and humanitarianism, instead of aggression and isolationism. Our presence in Iraq, Afghanistan and actions in volatile countries like Syria only fuel the fires of terrorism and create more extremists against America. Barack Obama is the lone candidate who opposed going to war in Iraq from the very beginning and whose policies address the root causes of terrorism – poverty and lack of education and opportunity. He is firmly committed to tough and pragmatic diplomacy, to the Geneva Conventions, and to helping end genocide around the world. He will also be a steadfast commander-in-chief and is already supported by veterans and our allies.

I believe we need a leader who will work to alleviate the inequity in the world and will prioritize helping the “least of these” at home and abroad. America is a multi-cultural nation, and we are all immigrants, whether our ancestors arrived in 1608 or 2008. I believe our immigration policy should be both compassionate and just and help people come out the shadows, not cower in fear in this land of hope and opportunity. As a person of blended heritage, I believe Barack Obama has lived these issues and struggles – from being a person of color, to living abroad, to financial hardship. His policies for social justice, immigration and humanitarian aid reflect principles of compassion, mercy and justice that l wish more leaders today exemplified.

I believe that it is still possible to restore the reputation of America around the world, rebuild strained relationships with allies, and again become a nation that is respected and trusted. I believe our country is at a watershed moment, and we have the choice to move in a new direction with a leader that aspires for change and whose tone and propositions represent hope for the future and future generations, and I believe that leader is Barack Obama.

However, all of that said, you may very well disagree with me completely. And that’s perfectly ok. I believe we arrive at our decisions and perspectives as individuals, and who you vote for is your own unique preference and one I am honestly not trying to change. My decision did not come lightly. I knew from the beginning that this choice would put me politically at odds with many of my loved ones for the first time, which has proven to be more painful than I imagined. So my primary purposes in writing this was to trace my journey to this decision for those of you who think I have absolutely lost my mind and for those who are curious about this candidate I’ve chosen to support.

I will not even begin to attempt to combat the endless rumors and lies that have circulated about Barack Obama and have been perpetuated widely by email forwards and some commentators, mainly because that work has already been done by a host of credible independent websites (factcheck, politifact, the post factchecker, etc.). So, just as I spent time looking up answers to my many, many questions, I hope that you will, too, before just assuming things true. If you are getting your information from only one or two sources, likely you haven’t heard the whole truth, and I say that as a former journalist myself. I spent months reading as much independent analysis as I could find, watching old video footage and interviews, and looking up voting records, so I honestly feel that I have based my decision on factual information.

But just in case this is all the research you can manage, I can tell you with all confidence that Barack Obama is a patriot, who says the pledge of allegiance and wears a flag pin. He is not a terrorist in disguise or the anti-Christ. He will not take away your guns or thrust us toward socialism (any more than the bailout already has, thanks Congress). He is a strong Christian, not a Muslim, but I join Colin Powell saying “so what if he was” – I lived in the largest Muslim country in the world and did not meet a single terrorist, only kind, generous people. Obama supports the Constitution and studied and taught others about it. His campaign did not commit voter fraud, and he should not be blamed for what others say (Wright) or did thirty-plus years ago (Ayers).

But I realize, too, that as the pollsters trumpet their predictions for November 4^th, many of you are worried, afraid, and even angry. I, too, have had more than my share of sleepless nights. But I must confess that in writing this piece I did have one hope in mind, and it’s not to change your vote… I ask you with all sincerity that if Barack Obama does win the Presidency, would you please do your best to just give him a chance?

He will not be perfect, nor will we agree with all his decisions. Truly, no politician can fix all that ails our nation. He will also probably continue to hold positions that neither you nor I agree with. But (and it’s a big but) I am willing to take a chance on believing that real change can happen in Washington, that hope and compassion can overcome fear and division, that our country can be unified as we all work together for the common good. Our diversity and our freedoms do indeed make America great, and on November 5^th, I hope you will join me in supporting whoever our new President is, because we are not red states or blue states, we are the United States of America, and that spirit of unity begins with each of us.

mexico

If I could just spend more time on airplanes, I would get lots of writing done. What is it about me and planes… being forced to sit still for long stretches of time? Probably. Far below is the country I was bemoaning returning to just a few short hours ago, while sipping cool beverages on a tranquil Mexican beach. I had been contemplating writing my resignation letter for several days as well, but decided to blog a bit instead. Just kidding… sort of.

My week of vacation was the furthest thing from harrowing, but the week preceding it at the International AIDS Conference indeed was. Do you ever have those times in work or life when things are so intense and stressful and full of activity and drama that you think you might just collapse? Yeah, that was me. I definitely needed the recuperation time afterward with dearly loved friends, where the biggest decision of the day was “the beach or the pool” (usually “both”). Anyway, I am not going to quit Monday morning or anything, but I have begun to see the fundamental shift on my horizon which has been months in emerging. And I’m blaming it on a boy.

Ok, so it’s nothing romantic (gotcha!) but I’ve become acquainted with Shane Claiborne recently, through his first book and hearing him speak recently as well. He and a few friends started an “intentional community” about a decade ago in one of the most notorious neighborhoods of north Philadelphia. Their aim = to live out the Love of Jesus in a practical, tangible way by loving the marginalized, poor and forgotten in society and personifying peace and non-violence in the world around them. They had (and still have) an open-door policy and anyone who has needs of any kind is welcome to share in whatever their little community has to offer.

As you can imagine, amid a plethora of challenges, they have flourished, and Shane has been thrust into a bit of spotlight with his most recent book, Jesus for President. It’s a multifaceted work, using unique storytelling devices and wacky (yet meaningful) illustrations. The premise is that we shouldn’t look for our political leaders to change the world – those changes should begin with us. If we begin to “be the change” we want to see in the world within our own immediate communities, that will make more of a difference than anything we can ever do in a voting booth.

Now, I’m not (nor does he) advocate not voting or anything of the such – quite the opposite (I still believe political leaders can at least help bring change to the world!). But the whole concept of the community-level impact that we’re all capable of really, really shook me, and the notion that "it matters more how we live our lives on November 3rd and 5th than how we vote on November 4th." And though it may seem like I’m not writing at all about Mexico at this point, I guess it was there that this realization finally took a deeper hold… once I was finally sort of quiet and surrounded by friends who represented “community” on a fundamental level to me.

What I forever refer to as “the best job I ever had” immersed me in community. It was in Oak Cliff, one of the most notorious neighborhoods in Dallas, that I learned what living out Love in a tangible way was really all about. My meager salary put me below the poverty line and the house we lived in has since been condemned and leveled. But there amid the “desolation” I was dripping, absolutely dripping, with love and community...

But don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon malaria and pack up and move to north Philly and join Shane's group anytime soon. I'm thankful I've got a good job that is sharpening my skills and toughening me up, if nothing else. But I am going to work harder to create and join in community. Options are all around me, just like they are you – neighbors whose names I don’t even know right outside my front door, all kinds of places to volunteer, co-workers I could make a bit more effort to get to know over lunch or coffee. My excuse has been my busyness, but really, I think it’s just been laziness or even apathy in disguise. Just because my work is now many layers removed from any tangible impact on anyone’s life, doesn’t mean that my day to day existence has to be one of "safe distance” as well…

Community is on my horizon.

Oh, and if you'd like to meet Shane, too, here's a little clip of my new "friend," but if you're really curious, get his first book... I dare you.

signposts

It’s Thursday again. This morning I had to “endure,” as I do every week, the lone stupid segment on NPR Morning Edition – some lame three-minute local production called Star Watch. I mean, who really cares about black holes and life on Mars when wars and famine and disease are plaguing us on this planet, right now? Anyway, sorry for the grumpy rant. But I guess today, amid switching off the radio in my typical annoyed huff, I realized that for months now, silly little rituals like this have become signposts in my life, one of many perpetual benchmarks of the passage of time.

Who knows what my subconscious calendar is really measuring, but I do know I make a deliberate (etched-in-stone type) mental note for recycling every 2^nd and 4^th Wednesday of the month, and every Tuesday most restaurants have specials, Thursdays is The Office night (on DVD if not on primetime), and every Sunday I plan to go to church but usually go to brunch instead (sorry, God).

So, I guess what I’ve begun to wonder is… is this really all there is, passing by one insignificant mile-marker after another and trudging along like I was on the AT trail of life? I mean, I know it’s not, per se, but is this really what it’s like when you (that being me) lead a life of excruciatingly (and slightly unexciting) routine?

Maybe I’ve just been too blessed to have the last decade or so of my existence constantly interrupted by trips, and if it wasn’t trips, it was moves, and if it wasn’t moves, it was monumental earth-shifting changes and/or actual natural disasters (wait, did I just say I was blessed by those things? Ok, I guess I am).

But the past few months, as my work travel has abated, and I’ve cooled my jets for a bit, I’ve found myself sucked into some sort of vortex-esque day to day grind. And, by the way, whoever came up with that “grind” description of the daily get-up-and-go, had it right on –– at the end of most days, I totally feel like I began as a whole coffee bean but hour by hour I was chopped into virtually flavorless specks by tiny helicopter blades. Ok, so of course it’s not that bad, but it is Real.

Seriously, if it wasn’t for the dog, I probably wouldn’t move off my red chair most evenings. Whoa is me. But really, what I’m trying to drill down to is… this Thing, this monotonous hole of existence that I’ve tumbled into… aren’t I made for more? Aren’t we all called to something Better?

It’s not like God said, “Well, during this time period, I’m going to drop Bonnie Jean into big ole a rut. Let’s see how she likes that.” Quite the opposite, really. I know if I looked in a spiritual mirror I’d be standing here dirt-covered and holding a shovel. Day after day after day, I’d dig a little (with a bad attitude about some situation at work), then some more (skipping church), then even more (not making an effort to get out and do stuff) and … viola! What a lovely pothole I’ve created for myself!

Even with my writing, this blog especially, I bemoan how I’m “oh so busy, I just don’t have time” when really, I just don’t make time. It’s a choice. Writing ideas? Plentiful. Motivation? Not much of that going on right now. Day after day, for months now, I’ve gotten ground up at work (with measured success most days, but not with much Joy) because I’ve accepted my place, complacent among the other coffee beans.

I heard a speaker years ago talk about how once when she and her husband felt like they’d gotten into such a big rut of work, routine, and not enough fun, that she decided to get aggressive about getting out of it. On whim, she found herself standing at a Corvette dealer and soon sped away in a shiny, black Corvette convertible (albeit rented)… because she thought that if they were really, really stuck in that rut, then a Corvette could certainly help propel them out, and when it did, it would probably do so even faster than normal. (Her theory later proved correct.)

So, all that said, and all these confessions now written (it is good for the soul, right?), if you see me fly by in a little red (rented) Corvette sometime soon, don’t be alarmed. I figure if I’m going to keep passing all these silly signposts in life for awhile, I might as well blaze so fast that I don't even really notice that they're there... because I'm on my way out of this rut.

impact

marathon

From travels early last month to the busy-ness when I returned, hopefully, after reading this you'll understand why it’s taken me until now to write… Settle in, it's a long one.

April 25^th was World Malaria Day. If you by chance remember, it was this time last year that I’d just started my current job and by the second week was headed to an event at the White House, with a cute suit but no make-up. Looking back on that time versus now, it truly makes me thankful (is that the right word?) for all I’ve learned in the last twelve months, even though this year was, of course, not without its own folly.

Suffice it to say, the days leading up to it were insanely busy with preparations for a week packed with activities, many of which we were co-hosting, but all of which I had to attend. We also had two guests in from Africa to participate in various events, which added another layer of logistical management to my duties.

From media outreach, interviews, jetting from this activity to that event toting a projector, information packets, banners or whatever, to meeting with Congressional staffers from the leadership of the House and Senate (and others, too) and lingering just a few extra minutes outside Obama’s office hoping just to say a quick hi – it was a full-on crazy week, and one where I could have easily forgotten where I came from, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, one panel discussion we hosted on malaria eradication is even online, should you be having a bought of insomnia and need an instant cure. Just kidding, sort of…There were some exciting, non-scientific aspects to the week – we had packed houses at all of our events, distributed awareness posters all over Capitol Hill featuring photos that you may very well recognize, launched a malaria caucus with the First Lady as the special guest, and amid all the madness, I ended up going to Quincy Jones’ birthday party one evening. Random, I know, that I would end up at a swanky D.C. mansion celebrating the "We Are the World" producer with several hundred other strangers. My goal was to find either a rock star to charm or his daughter Rashida who played Jim’s old girlfriend on The Office and get some inside scoop on the show. Instead, I found Colin Powell and that kid Corky from Life Goes On. Again, random. I introduced myself to Gen. Powell, not to Corky.

That night turned out to be a pretty late one, so I got back to Baltimore and had only a few hours sleep before getting up and heading back to D.C. The First Lady event was the next morning, and like any White House-related activity, all was perfectly orchestrated. I even mingled around afterward and met some Congressional members who had joined the caucus. Good people, none had horns -- I was shocked. That evening, though, there was an event for malaria at MTV headquarters in New York City, and the inner teenager in me just couldn’t miss it. So, off I went, back on the commuter train, and after a quick stop in Charm City (aka Baltimore) to grab my luggage, I hopped back on the Amtrak and headed north. It was Thursday afternoon, and I was teetering on the edge of exhaustion by that point, so once I settled into my seat I fell sound asleep…

Clickty clack… clicktly clack… clickity clack...

“Doors closing…departing Penn Station…next stop Hartford.” Three hours later, the recorded woman’s voice was calm and soothing as it told me, unmistakably, that I was missing my stop.

I jumped up and snatched my bag from overhead and sprinted toward the exit doors, which slid shut in my face with a thud. I think I even pounded on the glass, but I was still coming to full consciousness after my long, hard nap. My heart was racing as I struggled to balance myself in between the shifting cars as the train pulled away. If sleeping through my stop wasn’t enough, my left contact lens suddenly falls out, as if right on cue for my own series of unfortunate events.

Somehow, though, I caught it, and with that finely-honed contact-wearer reflex, poked it (dirty hands and all) right back in my eye. The clickty clack clickty clack of doom echoed in my ears, just like last year, as the train veered slowly through the tunnels leaving Manhattan… I slunk back to my seat defeated, distressed, and still slowly waking up. It was then that I realized my left eye was still hurting, so I fumbled around for my make-up mirror and discovered that I had problems well-beyond missing the MTV event. My left eye was on the verge of swelling completely shut.

I donned my sunglasses and tried to pull it together, all the while chastising myself for not packing eye drops or hand wipes or saline or anything useful. (But I did have three pairs of shoes for no apparent reason.) I pondered my life ahead of certain half-blindness.

Soon, though, the jolly train conductor waddled by, asking for tickets, but finding me – now a stow-away of sorts – with a blackening eye headed unintentionally to Connecticut. When I shared my predicament, he apologized profusely for not waking me. Apparently, conductors are responsible for making sure sleeping passengers don’t miss their stops – who knew? He plopped down and began scouring a schedule for my return options, but none of them would get me back in time for MTV. I couldn’t help but smile at his kindness, though, while wincing in pain behind my sunglasses.

The train suddenly slowed as it rounded a curve, and the conductor perked up and peered out the window. “Oh yeah, this could be it, this is it, this is what we can do – follow me, ma’am!”

He snatched my bag from overhead and rushed toward the back of the car. I followed, confused and still blurry-eyed. We were nearing a small station, and he explained that the commuter trains passing through (we were somewhere out in NY suburbs at this point) had created a minor train traffic jam. But that little lag in time was all we needed, apparently, and as we passed the small platform, I felt the train jolt to a stop. The conductor shot me a grin as he mashed a button and the door (at last) flew open. Off went my bag and me, and on went the train (minus one puffy-eyed passenger) to Connecticut. I ran (again) and caught the commuter train on the other side of the platform back into NYC, still amazed that he had stopped the entire train just for me.

By the time I reached my hotel back in NYC to drop my bags, I looked like I’d been in a fist fight, and lost. But an ice pack and some Visine from a nearby pharmacy, plus lots of concealer, went a long way to improving my appearance, if not my inner frenzy. And I figured, hey, it’s MTV – if there’s a crowd where I can get a way with wearing my sunglasses indoors at night, it’s with them.

So off I went, shades and all, to an event that was, unfortunately, the least attended of the week. Bono and all his rock star humanitarian friends were not there, and a guy dressed in a giant mosquito suit ended up being the lone attraction. It was that boring.

The next day I could see the finish line, metaphorically and literally, as my eye was almost back to normal. A luncheon at the UN was the last hurrah of the week and was quite a cool thing to be invited to, and by the UN Secretary-General himself, no less! Lots of VIPs in global health (self-appointed and not) were there and pontificated well into the afternoon about their grand (and largely unfeasible) plans for the next few years. Perhaps I’m cynical, or too practical, or perhaps I’ll blame it on the book I’ve been reading. Whatever the case, the honor was being able to walk into a place that physically and philosophically represents all nations in the world coming together to work for the common good and being there as an invited guest, not just a random visitor. It was amazing actually, and humbling, and I'd say it pretty much topped going to the White House last year :)

With that final stop, though, the malaria marathon came to an end, and after a week of entirely too much hob-knobbing, I collapsed for awhile and then set out to reconnect with the Real World, which actually has nothing to do with MTV or Congress or aging music moguls. I did what any good southerner would do -- I went to a local fair and ate pulled pork barbecue sandwiches and deep fried oreos, two days in a row. Then I made a trek down into Virginia to see a true small town girl who knows how to keep it real wherever in the world she goes -– the great Dolly Parton, of course.

As I sang along at the top of my lungs to “Nine to Five” and “Coat of Many Colors” and so many others, I felt unmistakably grounded again. Nothing like a little dose of Home to remind you where you came from... and who you really are.

spring

Cold gray skies drizzled rain as I left DC today, just when I thought springtime was coming. Now, I find myself in the back of cramped flight with a French kid behind me kicking my seat. He’s part of what looks (and sounds) like a large high school tour group that I somehow ended up sitting in the middle of. And did I mention that someone nearby has gas? Jeez.

Anyway, as I finally find my writing time, the winter-like woes of travel far from overshadow the burgeoning spring joys of the past few weeks, and the journey ahead. It all started a few weeks ago with a new look…

Somehow during the past few years when I wasn’t paying much attention to it, my hair grew really long (again), so the need for a massive chopping was long overdue. During the customary pre-cutting chat, my hairdresser hesitated as she stood behind me, examining the fro carefully, and said, “You know you have enough to donate to Locks of Love if you want to.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was it really that long? She assured me that the required 8 or 9 inches of ponytail was there. And suddenly, I heard myself say, “Well, cut it off then!”

And off it came – those curls that have been perpetual bane of my existence are now on their way to being woven into a wig for a sweet, sick kid somewhere. It was one of the best things I’ve done in a long time – a tangible way to give/give up something for someone else. Plus, it was my own sort of tribute, a little altar of remembrance for those I’ve known who’ve battled cancer.

Then came the puppy… years of wanting, months of looking, and the single epiphany of knowing she would be put to sleep if I didn’t take her, and into my life came Miss Mississippi Masala, or Mazzy, for short – simultaneously southern and international. Nothing less for my dog.

She’s as sweet and charming as she is cute. A lab, beagle and maybe even Rhodesian Ridgeback mix with the heart-melting face of a brown weenie dog that couldn’t help but win me over. The responsibility of dog ownership has already been good for me – her “need to pee” dance gets my lazy self out of the bed in the morning, and her “so happy to see you/need to pee” dance welcomes me home in the evening, at reasonable hour even. Being forced to think of someone other than myself is an ongoing exercise in giving that I didn’t realize I needed so very much.

Beyond that, the responsibilities of puppy motherhood have humbled me as well. From christening my friend’s antique rugs to a bout of dreadful diarrhea that more than “broke in” my apartment, we’ve had some trials already. Yet, it’s her persistent sweetness and adoration (and cuteness) that tame my flashes of anger and my gag reflex, too.

It’s a new season all the way around. The daffodils have emerged for their annual dance of splendor, and just this week, I watched the leafless trees begin to blossom with color on my and Mazzy’s morning walks in the park. And gradually I realized that perhaps for the first time in the eleven years since my Mom died, I hadn’t secretly dreaded this time of year, and the anniversary it represents.

Perhaps it was the challenges of the past many months that have grounded me more, helping me grab hold of the reality that my loved ones, especially her, are always with me. Maybe it was the many nights of dreams of her, after years of having none, and at last getting to apologize for being such a terror. Or it could be that, in a way, I’ve finally set up so many emotional, spiritual, and physical altars (my own little mental memorials) that my fear of forgetting has at last abated. Now, instead of the grave marker, I can look at the flowers growing vibrantly and beautifully beside it, and smile, just as she does.

The pastor at the Easter service I went to talked about how we all so often get stuck in a “Good Friday” mentality – the day of suffering and death, the day it looked like everything was ruined, like our time was wasted, and that all is hopeless and lost. That’s so often our modern perception of difficulties, both big and small, amid the craziness of our world. Yet, if we shifted our minds and hearts instead to more of an Easter morning focus, we’d find an entirely new perspective – a day when Hope emerges from the ashes, Joy follows suffering, and even death holds Promise for the future.

And I see those promises all around me. Maybe it’s because finally the fast and furiousness of my life of work and travel has somewhat (slightly) slowed down, long enough for me to breathe deeply, and appreciate the changing seasons, both inside and outside. The winter malaise is giving way to warmth and color. I spent Saturdays of art and jazz in the park with friends and my new puppy. My nephew Grey turned thirteen. And as I write, I’m in a new country, well on my way to 33 countries in my 33^rd year.

And with each passing day (and mile) I am continuing to find that those little blossoms of Hope, tiny though they might be, are all around me, year around...

relaxing on Easter Sunday

isn't she the cutest thing?

bliss

About two weeks ago now, Sharm and I went to hear the author of the Geography of Bliss read at a quaint local bookstore. Turns out, he’s from the Baltimore area, and after years of traveling the world as an international correspondent for NPR, he set out on a different kind of quest – to find the world’s happiest places.

He read mesmerizing passages about Bhutan and Iceland and explained how, according to the “Happiness Institute” in Amsterdam (who knew there was such a thing?), that the bliss he pursued actually had little to do with location, nationality, money, education, gender, race, climate, temperament, or astrological sign. It seemed that a key determinate of happiness could be summed up in the words of a Bhutanese wise man he interviewed, aptly named Karma, who insisted that happiness is 100% about relationships.

Like many “nuggets” during the reading, that notion brought new expression to something I've always felt was true. But it wasn’t until an unexpected reunion a few days later that I understood the "geography" part firsthand.

During my time in Indonesia, Amin and Manan were not just great teammates, they were incredible friends. Amin even joined our house full of girls for a few months (and spoiled us with his Indian cooking). Within days after I learned about the "geography of bliss," both boys were in the States, taking part in a conference for past and present tsunami psychosocial delegates in D.C. It was tremendous experience for them, and an absolute treat for their Americana friends.

Somewhere amid the perpetual laughter of our weekend reunion, as six former teammates be-bopped around Baltimore and camped out at my apartment, the truth of Karma’s words profoundly sunk in. In Indonesia, and everywhere, the blissfulness of life comes from bonds formed with those around us, wherever in the world we are. And even though more than a year had passed since we were all last together, the original joy (so geographically linked to Indonesia) easily found its way across oceans, simply because of the people.

And if that wasn’t enough to drive home the epiphany, the icing on the cake came last week as I prepared to leave for Tanzania. I received an urgent message from our travel agent, who was supposed to be getting my visa, saying instead that I had to get a new passport. Apparently, if it’s within six months of expiring, you have to get a new one before you can leave. So reluctantly, and hurriedly, I agreed.

Within days a shiny new passport appeared on my desk, alongside my old, overly stamped and slightly-faded friend of ten hard-to-imagine years. It was a compact journal of my journeys, with my fresh-faced 23-year-old picture always reminding me (while making others laugh) of who I was when I began this pilgrimage that’s now lasted a decade… I was clueless incarnate, with a red t-shirt, beaded hemp necklace and an expectant heart that never, ever could have imagined what was ahead.

But as leafed through those familiar pages as if it were a precious family photo album, I realized that the nostalgia I felt reminiscing over stamp and stamp was not about those *places* at all, but about the people I met there... Lucas, my star student in China. Lisa and I hitchhiking through the Israeli desert. Boubacar, the malnourished Guinean boy who was struggling to recover in a dilapidated hospital. The infamous bus ride with Jennifer through northern India. Elzat’s sisters in Kyrgyzstan. Alanou, the Ugandan mother, who is courageously raising (with a smile even) nine children in a refugee camp. Face after face flooded to mind, signposts on my map of memories, each one pointing me a little closer to where I’m blessed to be today…

And here I am in Tanzania, drinking an early morning coffee, while fishing boats traverse the harbor a few hundred meters away, trying to wait patiently for breakfast (it’s a virtue one must indeed have in Africa). I will leave here tonight after a relatively short trip, taking home conversations as souvenirs, memories of chatting with the lovely and fabulous "princess of Africa" Yvonne Chaka Chaka (with a name like that how could you not be a true diva), and of Reuben the farmer’s tiny Artemisinin crop (I am not sure how much he realizes the lives the medicine made from his plants will save – he just cares that his family is surviving), and of bumping along the dusty roads of Arusha National Park with my new friend, William the French photographer and our lovely driver John, on a pristine Sunday morning, looking at giraffes, zebras and monkeys...

And I could go on, because of course, there’s more, much more… but my breakfast is here and today's journey awaits. May the steps of your day (the geography of your life) find you in blissful company. And thank you, for helping me find my way here...

Driving into Arusha National Park

Reuben's life-saving harvest

cutie pie kids near Reuben's village

the blissful Baltimore gathering -
Sharmila, Manan, Elizabeth, Amin and Bon

yes

hopeful

I started scribbling my first 2008 blog entry well over a week ago, but like most things, it’s somehow taken me a disproportionate amount of time (and at least three half-written drafts) to find a few stolen moments to actually sort of finish something. Where have I hidden myself away, you may ask? Why, on an airplane, of course!

It’s not another African adventure, just a quick trip to London for a few days of meetings. Comparatively, I may as well be flying to Texas – that’s how easy it feels, in both my luggage weight and anxiety level. I speak the language, it’s only one six-hour flight – no problem!

But this need to “write in ’08” has lingered like a fog, and honestly, has been quite distracting. During our few lovely days of springtime warmth amid a bleak Baltimore winter, I literally couldn’t stop staring out the window at work, thinking of metaphors for “the naked winter trees stretching their finger-like branches upward against the cloudless sapphire sky” (it was a poetic moment in the most lifeless of seasons – I couldn’t help it!) Yet, aside from a few metaphorical lines, when I tried to actually write, my thoughts would repeatedly turn to one of the bleakest of blah subjects – politics.

As you join me in reeling in disgust at such a notion, maybe I should try to share what I think I’ve traced it to, my own 2007 metamorphosis of sorts = I started working as an advocate, and somewhere along the way, I think I may have actually become one.

The objective of my “day job” is to raise awareness about malaria and educate those holding the global purse-strings about what’s working so they can allocate resources so those programs can continue and grow (ah, it sounds so simple when I write it!). But for me to do that with at least some credibility, I needed to be educated as well – thus one of the main reasons I spent much of last year traipsing around Africa. The cumulative effect of these experiences was a jarring realization of the inequity in our world – not to mention the personally riveting impact of specific aspects like, well, the desolation of refugee camps and overflowing hospitals bursting with people sick from preventable and easily treatable diseases, just to name two…

Yes, I’d traveled and lived abroad before, but largely in a post-disaster context, in a place where, frankly, people really weren’t doing too bad before the unthinkably awful tragedy of the tsunami. And as infrastructure and housing were restored, people were (economically at least) often doing even better than they were before. Extreme poverty (in all its ugly manifestations) was not and had not destroyed their society from the inside out. So, this past year, when I spent extended periods of time in villages and cities and countries with such incredible deprivation, I couldn’t help but be dramatically impacted by it.

As the months flew by, and I settled into my new work, my new life, little by little between trips, I increasingly found myself turning (albeit subconsciously) to books, to magazines, to the news and world events, looking for something (anything!) that could help me understand what I had been seeing and experiencing, and to grasp why when I came home, it seemed like most everyone around me (most people in our great country) had no idea what was going on in Africa and really didn’t really seem to care.

And that’s where I’m at. Needless to say, I’m still searching and questioning and praying and don’t have very many answers yet, but one thing I do know for sure is that every single one of us can make some kind of an impact. Sure, it may sound cliché (“the power of one”), but let the truth of it sink in for a minute… We have, in America, so many, many blessings and privileges that millions of people (dare I say billions even) around the world do not = education, resources, access to the mass media, the power of our vote – just to name a few. We have the choice of who leads our country and how (if we don’t like it, we can vote them out); we can hold those elected officials accountable through and with the media (think: letters to the editor, blogs, etc.); we have an equal opportunity educational system that gives everyone (really, it does) a chance to succeed and excel; and we are the wealthiest country on earth, overflowing with resources of all kinds… but so often (as individuals and as a nation) our “wants” get in the way of being truly generous and helping to lessen the gap between us (at one end of the have/have not spectrum) and them (at the other).

For me, last year, I put a face and a name and a place to that enigmatic “them”… and because of them, I may never, ever be the same.

So, all of that to say, I have started paying attention to politics, among other things, as part of my own commitment to make an impact. And despite how infuriating some politicians are, it’s regular people (like our neighbors in Iowa) who remind me to be hopeful, who can demonstrate to all of us (and the rest of the world, who’s closely watching) that there are Americans who are demanding something different from our leaders, who want change in our country and a positive impact on our world.

So, if you needed the reminder in ’08, here it is = you can make a difference. Every little act of service, every contribution of time or money, every effort made to speak out, to look beyond yourself, your life and your own little bubble (we all have them) and attempt to understand our complex world better – it all matters.

But for goodness sakes, if you do nothing else at all, at least vote! It’s an election year – it *really* matters! There are candidates on both sides of the aisle that seem promising, some more than others (I dare you to read this article and not have your interested piqued a bit). But personally, I am too much an independent thinker to be convinced this early in the process. We shall see how that changes by November…

All in all, I guess I’ve emerged from the strains of a little learning last year to a lot of resoluteness in ’08. Some questions, some struggles (like the battle against malaria, for one) do indeed have answers and solutions. For the rest, we can only continue to search, work, and pray. But I fully believe that change is in the air, and really, not all the news is bad these days (or so I was recently reminded). I have a new favorite CD playing softly in my ears, and though London’s likely to be rainy, I’ll have fresh memories of last week’s spring-like poetic days when I’m in the land of Wordsworth and Coleridge. Things are looking up...

And so thick thoughts like London’s fog
lifted with the sunrise of letters against a page
shaped upon a weightless canvas
a placeholder among moments
almost forgotten

detours

A three-quarter moon glowed orange and hovered low over the horizon as the plane touched down in Casablanca. Hours earlier I had at last ended an unexpected five-day stay in Paris, another of the world’s beautiful, intriguing cities. But circumstances as they were, I far from relished my time in either.

I left the States last Wednesday, headed to Bamako, Mali, for an international meeting of advocates, even departing early to help get ready for the big event which my project was sponsoring. The plane landed as scheduled Thursday morning and I meandered around the Paris airport for several hours, waiting for my connection flight on to Mali, in West Africa.

Only when it was at last time to board did the most dreaded word in air travel begin flashing on the screen above my gate = CANCELLED. I couldn’t believe it, nor could the thousands of other people who soon found themselves in the same situation. The flight crews of the airline, Air France, had just gone on strike, leaving passengers from around the world caught in the middle of their discontent ….

And so began my five day saga of coping with (or attempting to) my worst travel debacle to date. Thank God for debit cards and Blackberrys is all I can say. Without those modern conveniences and kind people at my office back home, I would be among the thousands of stranded travelers still lining the terminals, with luggage carts piled high beside them and no flights home anytime soon.

Sparing you the details, and to stifle any online ranting on my part, I’ll boil my dreadfully detailed experience down to the following oversimplified list, minus figures of money and angst (which were both freely spent).

Number of days spent in Paris = 5.5

Number of different re-booked itineraries in three days = 4

Number of hours spent waiting in line for Air France = 12

Number of hours spent waiting in line elsewhere = at least 10

Number of hours spent in transit dealing with the above = 5

Number of hours spent on Blackberry also dealing with above = 7+

Number of different hotels in four nights = 3

Number of hours spent enjoying Paris, excluding eating = about 7

Number of it would have taken hours to fly directly from Paris to Mali = about 7

***************

And now, here I am in Mali. After starting this entry days ago, we’ve since wrapped up our conference and I’m spending the weekend catching up on piled-up work, planning site visits for the next few days, and having a bit of fun, of course. But to add insult to injury, after surviving the Air France travel nightmare, I was here less than a day before finding out that local officials decided this week was the perfect time to close the airport to repave the runways. So again, I found myself surrounded by stranded travelers, but at least this time they were my colleagues, and I got my wish to spend a little extra time here.

Mali is the real home of Blues, a shocking statement coming from a Mississippi Delta girl, I know, but the last few nights I’ve heard the musical research validated for myself. What these bands may have lacked in wailing harmonicas, they made up for in added percussion – from drums of every shape and size to xylophone-type instruments made of wood and string. The lyrics in French and Bambara (the language of Mali) may have been incomprehensible, but the fusion of strings and beats was as familiar as Muddy Waters, B.B. King or any of the soulful sounds drifting from juke joints along Highway 61. I think I’ve found an African home…

In the coming days, I’ll be spending time exploring outside of the capital city, Bamako, so will surely share some sights and sounds from those days as well. But in the meantime, here’s a few glimpses from my few fun hours in Paris....

hmm... guess where this was?

the Louvre

looking down the Seine River

the throngs at Notre Dame

looking down a lovely, typical Parisian street

the fall colors were amazing...

... as were the parks

in pere lachaise cemetary, i finally got to pay my respects to an incredible poet and musician

And when i at last left the "City of Love," i realized that (even after my horrendous experience with the airline) perhaps we sometimes give French people too hard of time... because if i lived somewhere as incredibly beautiful, artistic, historic, and enjoyable as Paris, i'd probably be pretty indifferent toward everywhere else, too. (Just kidding, I know many wonderful French people, but you get the point...)

Without a doubt, though, I couldn't have picked a better place to get stranded.