heroes

I met Anne Lamott again last night. The first time I had just returned from Indonesia and was wrought with the emotion of transitioning home and, well, I was just nervous. She was one of my heroes in writing and life, and I wanted to tell her how reading Traveling Mercies was a watershed moment for me. The Cowgirl and I were the last in line, and I anxiously waited to have my moment. Of course, she was kind and gracious and listened while I told her that her book made me realize that it was ok to be a Christian and have the past I have and how it really helped me move forward with my life and past all that guilt for being so terrible. She listened thoughtfully, signed my tattered copy with care, asked a few questions and told the Cowgirl how much she liked her coat (it was a great coat).

Last night, though, I was at ease and excited, and the Cowgirl wore different great coat. We decided that maybe we needed a secret handshake with Anne so she would remember us from reading to reading. She has a new book – it’s fiction. [We don’t like her fiction nearly as much as her non-fiction, but would never tell her that.] She talked a lot about how tough it is for teenagers today and the array of drugs at their fingertips – her new book is about a good teenage girl’s fall from grace. She talked about the struggles parents have when their kids are getting into trouble but that they need to step up and be a parent rather than a buddy. She talked about her son, as she always does, and it turns out she’s a grandmother now.

As always, her hard truths were wrapped in humor, steadiness and grace. Several times she used the phrase “hero story” and how we are all just trying to create our own hero stories with our lives, complete with struggles and triumphs. Perhaps, more than anything, that resonated with me (that and how a writer needs to write at the same time everyday). I’ve been working so hard trying to tell the story of my life the past ten days or so, that I haven’t stopped to think about the story I’m in the middle of – the craziness of driving halfway across the country to confront the struggles every writer faces everywhere, being here at the same time as Anne Lamott (of all people), getting to go with the Cowgirl to see her again, having my favorite writer close out my own “writer’s retreat” – now that’s the stuff of great Plot!

So, maybe a big part of writing stories simply involves paying attention to the daily twists and turns, learning from them, appreciating them, and in a way, reading the stories that our lives are already telling… And maybe hero stories are more about the slow, quiet development of character rather than action-packed tales of red-cape wearing villain-fighters. Maybe what I need to remember is that the moment I’m in now is as priceless as the ones I’ve been struggling to recapture.

Anne quoted another author last night who said, "Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." And that’s what I will leave here tomorrow having embraced – that this book is only going to happen one page, one paragraph, one sentence at a time, and that if I just keeping going I will get there eventually … at just the right time in my story.

eclipse

I read an article about eclipses today in Afar, my new favorite magazine, and realized that I may be in the middle of one, or several. Not that the sun has mysteriously darkened here or anything (Denver is quite sunny), but it’s definitely an appropriate astrological metaphor for where I’m at right now.

I came here like a pilgrim to begin Really Writing, and somewhere in my subconscious I must have thought that I would be done by the end of my stay. Finished!

Not really, but I thought I could at least slip into a coffee shop chair in an undistracting space and the muses would circle my head like the little birdies did Snow White. At least a little progress could be made, surely. I even had this nice little outline that I’d put together awhile back, and even more ideas in mind, but once I geared myself up to Begin, the subconscious solar eclipse began… the brilliant, spring day full of shiny ideas went slowly, dazzlingly dark.

This was just not going to be so simple.

Theme? Structure? I mean, I’d considered those things, but didn’t actually realize how succinctly they needed to be defined for both my publishing pitch and well, actually doing this project. How does one write in two sentences or less the Theme of one’s life, or add Structure to years of ramblings in hopes of making it more interesting than droning chronology?

I stared at my overflowing pages of personal history and wondered how on earth to stitch together the scraps of memories. And the sun slipped back from behind the shadows and it was day again… Day One, to be exact. Was I not done yet? Did I have a draft finished? Chapters then, what about chapters? No plot, no problem!

Questions and doubts poured in and I wondered if I was really up for this task. By then, Day Two had enveloped me and I didn’t have a THEME! I mean, I had themes, just way too many: small town girl travels the world; every southern girl is not a debutante nor do we aspire to be; how I’m finding my own healing through helping the hurting; and the list goes on and on… can’t I just do a chapter on each?

Did I mention this was hard?

Maybe to some it’s not so bad. Those professional writer-types who do this all the time and know the formulas and have cultivated their knack and rhythm and nightly sacrifice bad first drafts to the gods of creativity -- surely, it's easier for them. But, let’s be honest, I’m out of practice. How long has it been since I’ve written anything other than a proposal, a press release, or the exceptionally rare blog entry? My years of mass-production in grad school and Red Cross Part 1 are long gone.

And this elusive lengthy genre? It’s new challenge and requires the structure and forethought that my blogs (confessionally) do not get. And how easily (like now) do I slip back into that very unstructured structure to “get into the groove” and get the words flowing (also known as procrastinating.)

But is this perpetual cycle of dark and light, hope and discouragement, ups and downs, just part of this process that I’m just going to have to get used to? Realizing that really (really) Inspiration does not appear on command -- no matter how long we’ve followed the proverbial “seat of pants in seat of chair” command for writers everywhere. Some days are going to feel/seem more “productive” than others, whatever we’re doing, right? This is all part of the process, regardless of our chosen profession…

I was writing a friend earlier and described the last few days of my stay in the Rockies as the first time I’ve begun to relax amid the flurry of the last few months, but that the writing was coming along in baby steps. Seeing that, though, reminded me of my own words = God had not brought me to the precipice of a cliff and asked me to jump, He had simply brought me to the edge of a stream and asked me to hop.

I guess I should lighten up… mostly on myself. Baby steps do count as a hop forward and are really not so bad, seeing as how I’ve only been at this four days. It’s ok that I’m not done yet :)

stories

The plane was about to touch down in Atlanta as I flipped closed the back cover of Don Miller’s most recent book. In it, Don shares about the process of turning his best-seller Blue Like Jazz into a movie. With the help of two film-makers, he learns story-writing basics for the big screen and discovered a whole new world of characters, conflict, inciting incidents, and fundamentally, that when characters overcome conflict (particularly against insurmountable odds), it makes the best stories.

Through it all, he is compelled to begin telling a “better story” with his own life, because as he puts it, no one wants to watch a movie about a guy staring at a TV. So, he gets up off the couch (literally and physically) and launches into the world to live an epic, or at least more memorable, life.

Needless to say, I loved the book. And though I have had it in my hands at the bookstore more than once, it wasn’t until early last week that I went through with what turned out to be a very timely purchase. Despite many points of connecting with him, though, Don also accurately pointed out what may be our primary difference -- “People who are living good stories are too busy to write about them.” (p. 97)

It’s not that I think mine is anything amazing – this crazy path is certainly something that I didn’t consciously follow or construct. But as the narrative of my life has unfolded -- with each move, each trip, each friend-- I gradually realized that something was being told through my life (and through all of our lives) that was much, much Bigger than me. So, as many of you know, I decided about two months ago to hit the pause button and at least try to write this all down before I forget how I got here.

Yet, when I reached for the pause button, I must have accidentally hit fast-forward. I looked around and found myself in Haiti amid both terrible tragedy and irrepressible hope, then I zipped back to Baltimore/DC and had way too little time with my amazing friends before seeing all my earthly belongings shoved into a truck and driven away. I stopped in at my favorite Tennessee homestead on the way to my new city, then suddenly I was surrounded again by all my stuff, but it was all still in boxes that were all over the house. And then the phone started ringing -- “Why, yes, I would love to do that project for you!”

I mean, wasn’t it just like Don -- I was too busy living to have time to write? Not entirely. Buried within someone else’s rambling memoir and his descriptions of conflict and struggle and how those develop true character, I realized what may be my biggest obstacle to overcome yet, one which I’m avoiding with all of my perpetual busy-ness... telling my own story, truthfully.

The Cowgirl and I affectionately call it The Veil -- it’s the line between all those things that everyone knows happened but never talks about, versus what’s ok to discuss at the dinner table -- the taboo topics compared to the safe topics, or for us at least, all of our rowdy, rebellious years versus the women we’ve become today.

I’ve known it was coming. From that first outline I sketched out a few months ago and realized my story had to be much longer than one year in Indonesia; I knew. It had to start in Mississippi, where it began. The Veil was going to have to be drawn. Having grown and become (hopefully) something better than the little devil I was during my late teens particularly, the thought of re-visiting years that are repressed for a reason is, to me, much more mortifying than a short-term consulting job in one of the world’s most undeveloped countries (which I’ve already, fearlessly, agreed to do).

The thought of drudging back through the dark years, shining a spotlight on all the yucky things about myself (then and now), is one part of this writing project that I had not really even allowed myself to consider. The rest -- world travel, adventures, funny people, exciting work, weird food, whatever -- all of that? Covered. Check and check. But if I really want to share a Good Story, if I want the character, my character, to grow and develop, and become someone that has the courage to face insurmountable challenges and overcome crisis, I am going to have to do it myself.

After years now of running furiously forward, I need to have the guts now to stop, turn around, and walk deliberately backwards. I need to figure out why my life has become this particular story and be willing to a hold up a mirror to the character of me and see what’s really there.

Insurmountable obstacle? We shall see…

haiti3

haiti2

Photos now online here and a multimedia piece from yesterday's activities below...

haiti1

At the end of my first full day I lay on my cot and scribbled first impressions in a rumpled notebook, trying not to let those initial reactions to this surreal experience slip away. That was just five short days ago, and as I look back now at those late night sentence fragments, it may as well have been a month ago. I had almost forgotten the marathon hours on a disaster response – the intensity, the hustling from place to place, constantly adapting to changing circumstances, frustrations, challenges. It is just about overwhelming, particularly with the “camping” aspect thrown in, but I’m afloat and smiling, most of the time :)

I have absolutely no idea where to start in trying to describe things here. It’s been a whirlwind induction into a massive, complex operation in an equally complicated country. The destruction is widespread. Around Port au Prince the damage is scattered and varied – many of the larger buildings are completely collapsed while perhaps not even half of the smaller homes and businesses sustained visible damage. The roads are clear for the most part and debris removal is underway on a small scale, which is more than I anticipated. People are outside everywhere, both in makeshift camps and just walking around. To me, this indicates both the vitality and resilience of the Haitian population as well as a pervasive fear of being inside should another earthquake occur. Outside the capital city, toward the epicenter of the quake, the damage is much more severe and few buildings in the small cities I visited yesterday are still standing. Roadways were buckled but still passable for the most part. Little assistance appeared to have arrived there, with our RC water tanks and trucks being the lone exception.

Our relief operations here are in overdrive, but stymied by pre and post earthquake conditions. We’ve targeted the most vulnerable populations, but often those are the most difficult to reach with our heavy trucks carrying thousands of pounds worth of supplies. It’s an almost hourly exercise of revising plans and strategies, while still trying to keep what is working moving at warp speed. I honestly have never seen anything this complicated, perhaps only because my in-depth tsunami work was months afterwards. At this stage, it’s just so much more complex as effective systems and processes are established that work within an ever-changing environment. Yes, our teams are pros at this kind of work, but each disaster presents a whole new set of challenges to address and, eventually, to learn from. So, yes, we are struggling to get all the supplies out that people need, but are solving problems almost as fast as the crop up, so I remain optimistic!

What IS working well are the field hospitals, the health promotion and psychosocial teams visiting camps and communities, the one million liters of clean water being provided daily to thousands of displaced families, and a cool new text messaging system that reaches millions daily with relief information and health and safety messages. I have met amazing people – both the infinitely patient Haitians and the other Red Cross folks here from around the world. Among the unforgettable ones so far are the Canadian RC psychosocial delegate at the children’s hospital who carried a stuffed penguin in her vest pocket and had a nametag made of duct tape with only a smiley face drawn on it; the two young Haitian RC volunteers who worked all day to help their brothers and sisters recover in what they described as their “broken” country, even though they, too, were homeless and sleeping outside at night; the big burly American RC logistics lead (who I knew from years ago at HQ) who broke down crying telling me about an orphanage he visited a few days ago. I’ll carry home with me the sounds of the children laughing in the recovery area of the field hospital – even though their legs and arms were immobilized in traction as they recovered, their spirits were high, and they filled my own heart with hope during my first few days amid the destruction.

Yesterday, I joined a team of Colombian RC volunteers who were planning a distribution to 1,400 families (or so I thought), but their trucks and supplies had complications and instead of cancelling on the community that was actually 14,000 people, they improvised and did health promoting games and activities instead. No one complained or grumbled or boo-ed that they showed up empty-handed, they were just excited to have them there. The kids and the volunteers together made it an unforgettable day.

And that’s really been the theme of my time here so far – making the best out of difficult situations. Yes, I’m camping daily with 300+ of my new closest friends. But we have refreshingly chilly showers after long hot days, port-a-potties that my tent is not next to anymore, and a vast amount of bonding time. The first person I saw when I walked into the camp earlier this week was a Canadian friend from Banda Aceh, so I was welcomed here with a giant hug. And today, after more than three years, I had a long-overdue reunion with the last of my housemates from Banda who I hadn’t seen since I left, and like so many of my other RC friends, it’s always like no time has passed.

So, if you’re wondering what our set-up here looks like, there is a great “base camp” multimedia short piece on You Tube= http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6R15ijI2gM

And if you just go to the “AmRedCross” channel there are lots of little short, casual clips myself and others have taken over the past few weeks. They are small glimpses into the work, and hopefully, in the coming days I’ll be able to add much more. I have had little time to sort through photos, but when and if I ever go home, I’ll try to do a full album online. In the meantime, there’s tons of stuff here about our programs overall and likely soon some of it will be from yours truly = http://newsroom.redcross.org/

Thanks for all the love, prayers, good vibes and facebook comments – keep ‘em coming, and I’ll do my best to do the same!

unwritten

More than twenty inches of snow and 2,000 miles later, I drove back into Baltimore ready to jump. Driving has always been my thinking time -- from years of canvassing Delta backroads to meandering East Coast oceanside highways, open roads have always had a way of opening my heart.

On the final stretch home, I listened to hours of talks from my new favorite motivational speaker, Lance Wallnau. He shared one story about the Japanese oranda fish, an aquatic beauty whose growth depends entirely on what size tank it lives in -- Oranda fish in small tanks stay small; ones placed in bigger tanks grow up to five times that size.

Lance’s point was that often our dreams are limited by our own “fish bowls” -- our environment, our thinking, our choices. We allow our lives to be restricted by the size of our “tanks” rather than growing into our full potential.

Before I had time to twist and contort back into the Baltimore fish bowl, I reread old blog entries that had been on my mind and was stunned by such tangible reminders of just how long I’d been struggling here. Inertia, among other things, had kept me from taking action, along with a nice hefty dose of fear.

Fear of walking away from my job/salary/success/benefits/travel/comfort and being seen as crazy/confused/misguided/cowardly/stupid. Didn’t I know about the economy/unemployment/being patient/counting my blessings in a time like this? Yes. Yes, I have wrestled with every one of those questions absolutely endless times, from every angle, walking through every possible scenario, to the point of total decision-making paralysis and near-forgetfulness of the Big Dreams in my heart.

But finally (FINALLY), the night I retuned, I had perhaps the most clear vision I have had in many years... And I knew that God had not brought me to the precipice of a cliff and asked me to jump, He had simply brought me to the edge of a stream and asked me to hop -- to step out onto a stone and begin making my way across. That’s it. This wasn’t a huge mountain at all, and it required no gigantic leaps. It required only a single, simple step.

With that realization, my courage and my peace quietly returned. I took a deep breath and placed my foot on the firm, smooth stone of my future.

My last day at JHU will be February 5th. The sense of relief I felt the day I gave my resignation was almost euphoric -- the weight of day to day dysfunction would soon be over, the fearless risk-taker in me was alive again, and my far-away aspirations seemed just a little bit closer. I honestly can’t believe it took me so long, because now that it’s done, I know unwaveringly that it was the right decision to make.

I’ve learned so very much in my nearly three years here and will leave with a breadth of new knowledge that I’m forever grateful for. But it was, and has been, time for me to move on -- to new challenges and adventures, to healthier environments, to a life of Faith instead of fear... to a much, much bigger fish bowl.

My heart is open, the horizons ahead are limitless, and to borrow from my current life theme song, the rest is still unwritten… :)

cheetah

My first attempt at film-making! It's a rough cut so don't expect any Oscar nominations... yet :) It's in three separate segments, with a different window for each, so don't think I left you hanging!

safari

Fall came while I was away. In two short weeks the kaleidoscope of Mid-Atlantic colors turned from crisp summer greens to hues of gold and crimson. It was birthday and football season, and my jackets were stuffed away in the front closet, far out of reach when I stepped off the plane from sunny, dusty Tanzania. I was a week in Zanzibar’s exotic sun but risked burns only from too much fluorescent lighting – yes, more conference rooms in glamorous places. Such hard work that I do, eh? It was perhaps one of the most difficult weeks of my professional life, though, and there were definitely times I thought I was going to be voted off the island. Sparing you the details I could rehash to infinity, I was praised and passed over, bullied and adored all in five days or less, leaving me drained and disheartened as I headed off for my first safari back on the mainland.

Joined by two friends/colleagues who’d survived the grueling week as well, we took a two-hour flight to Arusha in northern Tanzania and were met by our driver/guide Kappia, a dry-witted local man in his late 50s, who was trained as a vet and drove perhaps the most ghetto Landcruiser in the entire country. I was still distracted by the recent drama, though, and hopped into our “rugged” ride, and pulled out my computer. I typed as we drove, the entire bumpy journey to our first park, just trying to decompress, and was calmed by the familiar rhythm of the keys and the draining of my angst like an IV line into my computer. I breathed deeply, finally, just as we pulled into our first park.

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect because I’d done basically no research, which was unusual for me, but these particular parks came highly recommended. All I knew is that in all my African travels I’d never taken a safari and there was/is real potential that this would be my last trip, particularly with someone else covering the airfare. We were hitting three parks in three days for a fairly reasonable price then were homeward bound.

Lake Maynara National Park was our first stop, and our guide carefully maneuvered down the winding dirt road, shrouded by low-hanging leafy branches. Within minutes, we met a troupe of baboons and saw little antelope and looming giraffes munching away on the foliage. It was incredible, and I’d lugged every piece of camera equipment I owned across three continents just to immortalize these unbelievable encounters.

After about an hour of gawking and clicking and excited squealing (from us), I quickly changed my lenses because the animals were so close I didn’t even need my zoom, but when I went to shoot again, my camera went haywire. It was dead. Even a late night, very long distance call later to emergency Canon tech support (aka Gene Dailey) could not revive my once-trusty sidekick. I was disappointed, but somehow not upset. I figured it must be God’s way of telling me I needed to shoot video. So, that’s what I did = for the next two days I pretended I worked for the Discovery channel, except for a few shots here and there on my pocket camera. (The award-winning quality of any actual products from these hours of raw footage has yet to be determined. If I can ever come up with a story line, and figure out how to use the software, I promise to post something on You Tube.)

Our seasoned driver and guide began the next day by proudly showing us the frayed rope he’d rigged to hold the pop-up roof of our Landcruiser in place after it had partially collapsed the day before. With our ghetto ride quickly becoming a possibly unsafe ride (with an imminent need for helmets), we descended into the massive Ngorongoro Crater enveloped by a chilly, sheer fog. This geographical anomaly is the world's largest volcanic caldera (an imploded volcano) and spans more than 100 sq. miles. We had only a day to take in the enormously diverse wildlife that call the crater home, and our morning soon exploded into a zoological parade – we saw four of Africa’s “big five” animals before lunch – hippos, elephants, lions, rhinos, along warthogs, hyenas, jackals, servals (a cheetah’s little cousin), strutting ostrich, superb starlings, guinea pheasants, secretary birds, baboons, waterbucks, reedbucks, and much more that I can’t remember! We were rarely out of sight of the incredible backdrop of the crater walls rising in distance.

The next morning we rose and traveled about two hours south to Tarangire National Park, home to thousands of the Dr. Seuss-esque baobab trees and huge herds of elephants. There was little greenery on the crackly-dry, wind-swept plains of the park, yet the landscape at times seemed otherworldly, with panoramic views mirroring Lion King animation. We stopped at several elevated overlooks situated above drying riverbeds and watched amid long silences as hundreds of animals congregated below, drinking and splashing, reacting to one another’s movements with the domino-like sensitivity. By late afternoon, we had about given up on the fifth animal in our search for the “big five” – the leopard, when our driver received a tip that one was hiding in rocky embankment nearby. So we parked and waited. And waited. And waited for the infamously shy leopard to emerge. When suddenly, what looked like a large, spotted housecat popped out of the rocks and swiftly, yet very visibly, made its way to a thicket of dried brush nearby. It was a fantastic finale to our short, yet wildlife-packed, safari excursion.

The lone African legend we didn’t spot was the lightning-fast cheetah, which is apparently a rare sight even among locals. But that didn’t stop us from looking until daylight began to fade that final day. As darkness fell, we zipped across unmarked dirt roads to our accommodations for the night – Whistling Thorn tented camp, a hidden gem miles from the main road, which was owned and operated by local villagers. The staff consisted of traditionally-dressed Maasai warriors, one guy in a chef’s hat and coat, and another in blue jeans and a t-shirt that punctuated his broken English with an unfortunate stutter. Our heavy-duty tents were staked over large concrete slabs that even had a toilet (and hopefully a septic tank somewhere below) and a shower that trickled for about a minute, but only if the bucket suspended above was filled by the Maasai guys. Amazingly, my Blackberry worked there in the middle of Tanzanian nowhere and that night I got a message from my Dad reminding me to be careful and stay alert of my surroundings. I giggled thinking if he only knew there were real live warriors with spears standing guard outside my tent.

We left the next morning, beginning the long journey home from our dusty safari trails, preceded by a torturous week in luxury. It had a been a tumultuous trip of highs and lows, but those final few days of great company and conversation, and waiting quietly and watching Nature’s unencumbered motions, were among the catalysts which sent me home steadied and resolute. I spent time combing through the real-life stories of people grappling with one of my own resounding questions in Po Bronson’s What Should I Do With My Life? Their experiences helped unshackle my thoughts from coping with the status quo, and I was flooded with ideas for my new business, my blog and writings, a podcast, and a career fueled by creativity and connection, rather than convention and dollar signs. I scrawled frantic notes to myself in the margins of pages, knowing I would likely slip back into the straight-jacket of routine and grip of pride when I returned to familiar surroundings.

I arrived home just before my birthday, my annual time for a cathartic self-check on where I am in relation to my dreams, and if where I’m headed will get me there. Despite the rigors of the past weeks and months, I did find myself waffling again, predictably – comfort and security vs. leaps of faith and big dreams. But between the solidarity of dear friends toasting my special day, and an array of Divine Signposts pointing me (still) toward new horizons, I have regained my footing and can see not just one, but many pathways ahead...

“When a lot of things go wrong at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to be born – and this something needs us to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.“

-Anne Lamott in Traveling Mercies

Before my camera died, in Zanzibar and Lake Mayanara...

Zanzibar's famous Dhow boats at sunset.

The Red Colobus Monkey, found only in Zanzibar.

After my camera died, from my little camera and Jackie, my fellow traveler...

Me, Jackie and Kathleen at the gate to the Crater

The winding road down into the Crater

The hippo pool with the Crater walls in the distance.

A baobab tree.

"Hey, can't a hyena take a mud bath in private?!"

With our Maasai guys at the tent camp.

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.