The City

I've spent a great deal of time trying to decide what to write about, hence the long silence. Should I update you all about my schoolwork? Would you enjoy a report on my break so far (and the several flight issues that have slowed my travel)? What about a little something creative I've been working on? Or some deep philosophical musings on our inner darkness?

Nah. I'll save all that for darker or more mundane days. Today is about San Francisco...kinda.

Something inside of me only comes alive in this city. There is something about a late evening stroll through the Tenderloin that makes me feel closer to humanity. Then again, maybe it's in the air in the Castro, or at the wharf, or watching the waving tourists snap shots from the top of a double decker bus. I don't know, honestly.

Then I ponder on Boston, or well, Somerville--my current home and the place where lately it has felt like it's all come together (to be vague). I love that place so much, but not the way I love this one (i'm actually sitting in the San Francisco airport after a canceled flight waiting to see if i get on my flight that i'm stand by for writing this in an email to myself on my phone...yikes).

Maybe a good analogy is that San Francisco is like my high school sweetheart and Boston is my current romance. The fact that I never had a high school sweetheart and don't have a current romance isn't lost on me.  I'm starting to think that maybe the metaphor is not a coincidence. Maybe my love-for-cities-bone is connected to my romantic-love bone. But in a converse way. All the people I loved were not city people. Our lives planned together were always in the country or big towns. I feign no suprise at the fact that coming into my own has meant a love for cities. (That's not to say i don't love the countryside. I still do, but as my uncle said, "Have a country home for vacations and holidays and a city apartment to live in." Now, wouldn't that be something?!). I've found myself drawn to these cities lately, though. Like maybe here or there I can really be myself. It seems that coming home in the personal sense has meant questioning where home is in the global sense.

And let's not pretend that a lot of why I love these places has nothing to do with who I love there. Boston offered a challenge becuase I moved there with almost no friends. There, my friends are all academics and future clergy (with some glaring exceptions). My first full day in San Francisco, I was reminded that there is more than one way to be in the world. I had lunch with Marissa, who for lack of a better word is an activist and a friend from HiA, followed by coffee with Lauren, an artist (to say too little) and friend from college. In two beautiful (and much too short) conversations, I remembered another piece of why I love this place. Marissa and I strolled through the castro talking about sexuality and Lauren and I sat at a coffee shop where she adjusted her art display, discussing love and the beauty of being alone. I hopped back on the BART and was right back in time to meet my uncle, Brandon who is my longest standing best friend. A quick ride on the muni and we returned to the castro to meet my uncle's friends, John and Mike, for dinner. The laidback tone of conversation, the warm demeanor of my companions, and the ease of transportation characterized my entire time in San Francisco. There's something formal about Boston. Maybe it's the puritan values or the sense of tradition (which even reaches into the queer community, into what a dear professor lovingly called the Ice Queens), but it seems harder to relate to people in Boston. And at school, sometimes it feels like there is always an angle. People have something in mind or are often more interested in being convinced by their own argument than really learning something new. Of course, I've met (and befriended!) exceptions, but the atmosphere is markedly different.

What about home? Where is home for the traveler? I probably wouldn't have called myself a traveler until my family pointed it out to me this last week. I'm off to London and Edinburgh (for Hogmanay) in a few days (flights, weather, and god willing). I drove across the country to a city I visited once for grad school. I'm hoping to spend a year abroad after finishing at HDS. And my mind is always thinking about the next trip (including the ride...more details to follow once I pay my registration fee!). So, maybe it's time to accept some labels, including traveler. The question remains: where is home?

Some say it's where the heart is or where you hang your hat. Perhaps it's where you nail together some wood (or lay some bricks) and buy furniture. Then again, maybe for an academic it's where your books are (if I had a kindle, this might be a little more philosophically daunting, but I don't. And, I don't really want one).

For me, though, in a very real way home is in Amsterdam, where I learned the pure joy of life. Home is in Mexico, where I decided to be an academic. Home is in Denver (and other parts of Colorado), where my childhood, Chloe, and so many, many loved ones reside. Home is in Glencholmcille, where I first felt at peace. Home is in Boston, where I have a community, and a pup, and a roommate, and new friends. And, home is in San Francisco, where I can be whatever I want and be loved. Home is all these places and so many, many, many more. Of course, it's always painful to love. And to love so much in so many places seems always to signify fragmentation, but I have no time for Freud or Lacan. To me, these many loci mean flexibility and a great expansive space in which I can live.

In short, my home is with all of you.

Happy holidays and bring on 2011!


--Sierra and Ace

My beautiful, darling Lauren adjusting her installment.
She is truly incredible, please visit her site and think about supporting her in her pursuit of her dream!
http://www.etsy.com/shop/Quickeningforce

One of her pieces up close!

Her collection specifically for this cafe.

a little something

Since I'm buried under another 20-30 pages of writing to do this weekend, I will not attempt a blog entry. However, a week from now, I will hopefully write joyously about how well my papers went. In the meantime, I will leave you with something absolutely lovely from Hannah Arendt:

Even if there is no truth, man can be truthful, and even if there is no reliable certainty, man can be reliable.

May you be truthful. May you be reliable.

Sierra and Ace

Personal and political

Thanksgiving. A time for gluttony and family. While I took it easy on the gluttony, I've had a double dose of family. I'm in Washington D.C. where Allison, my sister, lives. Tiffany and Rob, her husband, are here. Betty and Dorman just left this morning and Melissa is sitting right next to me. We're watching Dexter, our favorite T.V. show to watch--episode after episode. This is the Diller family. And I'm part of it.

I lived with the Dillers from the age of fifteen on. Since that time, I've been so lucky to have my family sphere expand to encompass new people and new roles for me. This expansion has completely altered the way that I conceive of the world and the definition of family under which I operate.

As our family has grown with Rob and his family, my red hair and facial structure make me stand out less. British accents and foreign vocabulary trump appearance. I have inside jokes, family photos, and long-standing "bickerings" between siblings on my side. When I was younger and insecure about my connection to the Diller family, this would have been my train of thought. Today, though, it's not a competition. It's a family with open arms. We have welcomed Rob into our fold. Just as I was once welcomed into the Diller fold. Just as I was born into a loving family.

Sometimes I get stressed around the Holidays because it means coordinating visits and finding flights. It means packing bags and leaving my dog and my home. I easily forget that my family (however defined) comprises such a huge part of who I am. My family--the Dillers, the Fleenors, the Jensens, and now the Howards--who would I be without them?

I've been reading a lot of Hannah Arendt for different projects and because, well. Simply put, I love her. She was a German Jew who fled during the Holocaust. After a short stint in France, where she was imprisoned for a short period of time, she moved to the U.S. with a visa that was falsified for her. Arendt went on to write some of the most provocative and compelling philosophy coming out of the Holocaust. She has written about violence, evil, and the human condition. Arendt's intellectual work is infused with her existential reality. Her encounters with the S.S. and the consequent events comprise the frame in which Arendt created her art--her philosophy. Her philosophy was grounded, powerful, and overtly political. Arendt did not obscure that fact.

Her life and her intellect were woven together. Her resistance was her work. To write was to live. To live was to write. I can't help but hope to embark on such a voyage some day--to write my life, but not in the sense of my "life story." I hope to write critical work a la Arendt. I am not someone who survived the Holocaust, but I am someone who has lived. My life and the people in it have shaped me in such a way that my life hangs in the balance of my work. Melodramatic, but true.

I hope to take this to heart as I write my final papers for my classes. Wish me the best of the personal and the political in this happiest of seasons--writing season! ;)

THE GAME and beyoooond

Tex and Hunter being adorable before the game.

The Game. Maybe you've heard of it. Maybe you haven't. This epic struggle of good and evil has raged on between Harvard and Yale since time immemorial (or since 1875). If you're wondering who is evil, the drunk Harvard grad from the seventies seated directly in front of my friends and I can clear that up for you. "If you go to Yale, you will fail. If you go to Yale, you are morally corrupt." Now, the people seated directly behind us, having driven up from Connecticut, might not agree. But, of course, they are patently wrong. They had probably just come from kicking puppies or something. Evil jerks...

Whoa. Let's just say I'm suddenly very proud of going to Harvard. And, in case you were still confused, we won the game with some surprisingly stellar ball playing. The running back from Harvard returned a kick from over 80 yards to score a lovely touchdown. Honestly, I screamed myself hoarse.

Let's not pretend like the whole thing was without a hitch. In fact, I felt suddenly strange. I hadn't attended a game since my time in Pagosa (except maybe one game at CC). As I tried to explain plays to Hunter, I kept looking to Tex to make sure I'd said the right thing. My play breakdowns wandered and often involved a juxtaposition of terms drawn from soccer and rugby alongside football. The most embarrassing moment fell about halfway through the final quarter. We were seated at the middle of the "coliseum" (what a name!), where the crowd was made up about 60/40 of Harvard/Yale fans respectively. Someone to my left started cheering "Defense, Defense". Elated that I knew the cheer, I joined in only to realize that they were Yale fans. I hoped against hope that our dear compatriot in front me had not noticed. The next play, he turned around.
"Are you cheering for Yale now?" he asked.
"Um...no...I just got confused. Uh...I mean...I," I mumbled and tried to find something to say. "I thought I was cheering for Harvard and...uh..."
"No. It's ok. I just want to know so I can keep it down."
"Never!" I replied emphatically. "I hate Yale, bunch a jerks." My reply appeased him.

Our friend can be seen here pointing to the sky,
I believe this gesture reflects joy.

He seemed to get over the incident rather quickly once we scored another touchdown. In fact, while Tex and Hunter got high fives, I got a bear hug. Awkward.

Tailgate before the game. Outside shot of the Coliseum

Before and after the game, Hunter, Tex, and I attended a few tailgates which were a ton of fun. Between the actual game and the hullabaloo surrounding the game, I couldn't have felt more like a real Harvard student. Go Crimson!

After the game, students flooded the field.

The man in the beanie on the edge is Hunter running to join the team on the field.

A couple of days later, I am staring at screens. Going back and forth between the t.v. screen and the computer screen, I write scene analysis and theory and anecdote and pun and so on, hoping something that makes sense will appear on the page. For the first time since graduating from high school, I have four papers due in the next two weeks. Part of me is terrified. The other part of me decided not to be hung up in fear. I have started all of my papers and plan on finishing the one I'm working on tonight. It's a lot to juggle, but now that I'm actually writing, I feel a lot calmer. I feel capable and confident. I just can't lose steam!

Reflecting on the past week, I can say only that I feel like I actually live here. I feel like I belong at Harvard in some way. I may not be the brightest and best student, but I'm keeping up. I feel good about what I have to contribute to my classes and my community here. I am looking forward to Thanksgiving in Washington D.C. and a few weeks away over winter break (California followed by the U.K.?!?!). Spending most of my break here will be a lovely respite as well. My time will be filled with working at the RSL office and reading independently. There are so many books on my list and I'll look forward to time to investigate some new work. Hannah Arendt, here I come!

But, before I can get to reading for fun, I have to be on task with my writing. Wish me lots of inspiration!

Existential Crises of Age and Understanding

Good Morning!!

Ace and I have been up for a while. However, we haven't accomplished much more than cuddling and a walk. As I start to write and watch some of my "sources" for my upcoming final projects (ie: the t.v. show Dexter), I have been reflecting on my little man's birthday, age (as a concept), and understanding.

Ace turned five this week. The lovely boy celebrated in style with a doggie cake, music videos, friends, and champagne. Well...Ace at least had a piece of the doggie cake. The rest of us took care of the remaining party accouterment.

Around the same time, actually while I was buying champagne for the party, a young cashier asked me if I was old enough to be buying alcohol. I'm 24. I wasn't offended, especially because he went to lengths to tell me how beautiful I am and that he hopes to see my "pretty face again soon," but it gave me pause. The next day, someone was talking about how he was turning 25 soon. I said, "Yeah! Me too...well, soon enough." He looked at me and said, "I would never have guessed." I didn't quite know what to think. He went on to explain that I looked like I was maybe 22 or 23. But, what did that even mean?

As my four legged soulmate gets markedly older, graying on his chin and lips, I somehow seem to be appearing younger. To me, this is a vicious reminder that if all goes the way of it "should," I will continue on in my "youth" after my dear boy fades into old age. I spent a lot of my summer reveling in the wonder of being a twenty something alongside Ace. Both full of energy, exploring a new city together, I could feel the youth pulsing through my veins. I could see it in the way he looked so alive running down the street on our daily run.

Months later, I am sitting here in my bedroom with my lovely boy, pondering the finite nature of our individual existences and our collective relationship. My own insecurities about being understood are drawn into the searing light of this constant existential reality. What does it even mean to be so afraid of being misunderstood when in reality understanding may be impossible? Why do these questions matter when my whole frame of reference (living) could be gone in an instant? And, surely, one day it will be. 

I struggle so hard to express myself clearly to others. The more I seek to explain with words, the less it seems to work. I am often afraid that people will misconstrue my actions and think me stupid, needy, or inept. That sort of pressure is impossible to live under. The more that I read and study here, the more I realize that misunderstanding is probably an existential reality. We are caught in discourses that determine us and bind us, even as we experience individual phenomena that defy or question these discourses. Somehow, though, even these words that I write miss the point. So what is the point? 

The point is that language is useless when it comes to really expressing the essence or the experience of a person. Philosophers and poets spend their lives throwing themselves against this notion, generally only to learn to appreciate the places words cannot touch. So, maybe my own frustrations with being misunderstood are actually a realization of my existential limitations. Maybe the greatest thing I fear is that to not be understood is to not be alive. Let's just tilt our heads a little to the left and look at that again. Maybe the thing we should fear most is not to be misunderstood. Maybe misunderstanding is the real seed of understanding. Maybe by accepting that no one will really ever get me I can accept that I can be "not gotten." And that mercy, that love, that whatever, is more important than being understood. Instead of wanting to know the "truth" of one another, we are seeking to experience the existence of one another. Instead of understanding one another, we look to touch one another in some honest way. Now that is an existential crisis I can live with.

Two Quacks

As I sit on my couch before the world has really rubbed the sleep from her eyes writing, I cannot help but feel older, more genuinely in control, happier, and freer. In some ways it feels like the only way I have been able to really grow up (even after two years of working full-time and a lifetime of taking care of myself) has been to revisit this primal scene (forgive me, Freud, for not making this about sex) where I was most powerless and from which I have to regain power.
My primal scene is academia. When I went to college, I felt totally lost and totally alive for the first time. My peers were markedly more intelligent than I. They knew who Heidegger was, could describe the intricacies of the Spanish Civil War, and most importantly, they were confident. They knew that they belonged in the halls of my undergraduate college. They knew that they had every right to ask for more, to challenge their professors, and to write the papers they wanted to write. For a long time, I mimicked them. Thinking back on it now, it reminds me of a duckling trying to imitate a chicken. Sticking my head out, puffing out my chest, bobbing my head back and forth--I looked almost like an academic. To the untrained eye, I was all I needed to be. But if you looked closer, I didn't have the right feathers. In undergrad, I waited until the last minute to write every single paper I ever turned in. I will blame a bit of that on the block plan, but I will place a lot more blame on me. There was this sense that if I didn't really give my all, if I didn't really spend a lot of time on my work, then no matter what the grade or feedback, it couldn't really speak to my experience. I hadn't really tried, so I couldn't really be hurt. Call it self-preservation. Call it immaturity. Call it what you will, but this was my primal scene.
Years later, I am back in that milieu--the place where I was least qualified and most scared. I still have moments where I am terrified, but not like before. I am re-playing my primal scene and things are going differently. Instead of waiting until the last moment, I have already started my final papers (which are due in December). Instead of giving 70%, I am giving one hundred. And the most surprising thing of all is that I'm still alive. I'm risking everything. I am going for broke and I'm ok! The comments that come back on my papers, proposals, or presentations are reflecting that. It's as if I'm really showing up for the first time, and with all the risk that entails, it also offers a huge pay-off. Maybe I couldn't really understand the gambling metaphor before visiting Vegas, but I'm not folding. I belong here. And if I'm not smart enough, if my ideas aren't good enough for me to be a professor and an academic, I am sure as hell gonna find out. Hiding from the truth has never served me personally.
Forgive me the double metaphor, but it seems to work in my mind. This primal scene is playing out differently because I want it to do so. I am not a duckling imitating a chicken. I am a duck. I can't crow and I don't know how to scratch the ground the right way. But, I can swim. And I've never seen a chicken swim.

Vulnerability

On my back, face to the sky I breathe heavily under the weight of my vulnerability. For a moment, my world has completely fallen apart. I am not invincible any longer. I am a mass of flesh crumpled on the pavement. I do not know if I am safe. Some part of me feels broken, but my mechanical frame still remains intact. I see the tires of the car that hit me from a completely novel position. For a moment a piercing silence surrounds me. Suddenly, voices.

The way I have ordered my existence, my only ritual since I was a small girl, has been writing. When routine has been destroyed by violence or displacement, I have turned to my personal rain dance--words on the page. Until the last six months or so, I have kept most of my writing to myself. The willful exposure of my wounds reinstates my control over them. By choosing to share what scares me, I can stop it from over-powering me. I am vulnerable. The ghastly bruises covering my pitiful, aching body can testify to the great betrayal I feel. I trusted this city and its drivers, for better or worse. Three days after a collision with a car, I am alright. I know I will get back on my bike and that I will be more cautious, helmeted, and a little more embittered. With time, the reality of this moment will fade. I will enforce normalcy in my life to aid in its slipping away. I will change the way I tell the story from the present tense to the past as I exercise the power of ritual over it. And through this retelling, I will heal. If not today, soon.

I left my apartment to head to the Divinity School. I felt particularly good about this day. I had gotten up to run, packed a lunch, and eaten some yogurt. I was running a little late as I pedaled up to my first intersection. I saw another cyclist ride by with a helmet on. Suddenly I realized I'd forgotten mine. I'm not an avid helmet wearer, but it came into my consciousness at this moment. Next time, I told myself. As I approached the hill that marks the first half of my ride, I noticed a mini-van sticking out, clearly having failed an attempt to parallel park. I made my way around them, making sure not to swerve in front of any cars. I heard a car come up next to me. It was the same van. They went around me and cut in front of me. I inferred that they were going to attempt to park again. I moved over to the left, so not to hit them. As I passed their taillights, time slowed. She was going to turn left. I had too much momentum behind me as I descended the hill. I grabbed onto my brakes. I leaned back. I called out, "What the hell are you doing?" Too late.

On my back, face to the sky I breathed slowly. For a moment, my world had completely fallen apart. I was suddenly aware of my vulnerability. I pushed my mass of flesh up off the pavement. I realized I had landed in the other lane, five or ten feet away from Nigel. I stood up and moved toward my bike.
"Why didn't you use your blinker? What were you doing?" I asked, covering my intense sense of nakedness with bravado.
"Are you ok?" a small sixteen year old girl asked as she stepped out of the mini-van. A chorus of voices rushed at me repeating the question.
Who were these people wanting to know if my fallible frame still worked?
"I'm fine. I'm fine," I said over and over, picking up Nigel's twisted frame. He looked suddenly small and light against the backdrop of the giant van.
"Hold on. You're probably a little shook up. Let me take this," a man said and took my bike, Nigel. I reached for Nigel, wanting to hold to something to make me feel bigger. The man put his arm around me and led me to the sidewalk. "Just take a second."
I breathed deep. My lungs work. My knees hurt. Otherwise I was fine. Nigel was okay.
"She almost hit us, too. She pulled out right in front of us without looking." The man gestured towards his truck. I realized he had been following the mini-van. "Do you want to take down her license plate?"
"No. I'm okay." This time I said it firmly. I did not want to stand there any more. I did not want to be seen so vulnerable and alone, some twenty-something on her bike without a helmet. I wanted Nigel back. I wanted to be big and safe.
The driver's friends asked again, "Are you ok? Are you sure?"
"Thank you. I'm fine," I answered.
People returned to their cars and their days. I started to walk Nigel down the sidewalk. I felt myself start to shake. I felt my mind start to lose control over the situation. I could have...she could have...what if I'd... I called my uncle. I knew he would hear me. I knew he would listen. I cried. I calmed down. "Were you wearing your helmet?" I cried again.
I made my way back to school, biking part of the way. I cried once I was back in the seat. I got to school. I went to see my work supervisor, our director of religious and spiritual life. I told my story. I cried. She took me to the medical center. I told me story again. I cried. With some ice packs and a warning about soreness and stiffness, I came home on the bus.

My sweet friend Ace greeted me at the door and I thanked the earth for continuing to spin. I thanked my tights for saving my tender legs. I thanked my flesh for holding itself together. I thanked Nigel for being such a sturdy bike. I wept from gratitude and mourned the loss of my innocent beliefs of invincibility. Through my sole ritual, I gathered my strength about me and embraced my vulnerability.

Every muscle aches. All at once, Monday became the day I grew up. I am not so young anymore. My body is aging and my humanity feels entirely real. I have read so much about how ritual helps people order their worlds or regain power when they feel so weak. Only now do I begin to realize what that means. I have been through rituals. I have been through deeper and greater pain than being hit by a car. And I've been hit by a car before. Somehow, though, my awareness of how my mind is processing and my rituals are saving me changes how I see others. This body is tough and hearty, but it will not last forever. I write, I love, and I think all in order to come to peace with my embodied existence, to make these moments somehow less futile. For me, there is so much hope in that fact. There is so much hope in my ability to create relationships and rituals. I have always been one who loves chaos. Today, though, I am one who understands order.

Laundry for One

I don’t know if there is anything that makes me feel single quite like doing laundry. For one. While listening to Ingrid Michaelson question the effects and purpose of love. While reading about a guy who is falling in love. It’s just depressing.

Generally, I love being single. I don’t have to watch movies I don’t like. I don’t have to feign an interest in academic subjects that sound completely soul-less. And, I don’t have to spend money on impressing someone. I get to spend tons of time reading, listening to music and hanging out with my dog.

I find it disturbing to have one of my favorite rituals besmirched by romance…or a lack thereof. My apartment bears the aromatic wafts of fragrant Tide (I never let my laundry dry completely and have to hang it all around my room because I’m impatient), but I am left feeling lonely. Usually this fragrance (alongside my unmentionables draped around my furniture) leaves me refreshed at my singularity. But, today it makes me wish I had someone to share laundry with, someone to be frustrated that my underwear are in plain sight, someone to make me wait until my clothes are actually dry before removing them from the dryer. 

Perhaps most aggravating of all is that I spent the majority of my time at the laundromat (while reading about liminality and communitas--how we are at points on the fringe of society, and at others we are soaked in it) thinking about a recent conversation with a friend about the difference between loving and being in love.

I'm not sure this is either a revelation, or a very important distinction, but it helps me order my inner and outer world (which, I think Mary Douglas might appreciate). So, what's the difference?

To love is a choice. It is directional. A person (or people) act.

I love you. You may also love me. But we are in love.

To be in love is to be located there, to be submerged in love. Love is the very environment in which we live.

Maybe a person needs both. Maybe not.

Then again, as someone who has never been in love (oh, I have loved...and fervently), perhaps I am not privy to some secret understanding of love. I do not endeavor to dichotomize these two types. I hope only to posit my definitions as a possible reading of two of the many ways that we experience love. For me, it helps as I reflect on past relationships, on the love of my parents for their partners, and on the love I see in some people's faces. I don't know that one form of love can sustain us a lifetime. Such a dynamic experience and emotion must have a wide array of expressions. Maybe there's a point at which the choice to love can grow into an environment of love. I have heard descriptions of this relayed from arranged marriages. Then again, what starts as a total immersion in love has to at some point be a choice to continue that love.

As I pick up another t-shirt I cannot help but laugh at how funny it is that such a mundane task as folding my laundry has caused me to meditate on love and its many functions/actions. I guess this is what happens when you spend all your time thinking.

I'm revisiting this post now, after a day filled with celebration. Two of my friends celebrated their engagement today (congrats Tim and Jake!) and another friend and I carved pumpkins. I'm continually struck by how when I feel the most lonely, I am reminded of how truly loved I am. Carving pumpkins with two couples, it never once crossed my mind that I was single. The whole time I kept thinking, This is great! I love wasting time with friends. As I reflect now, the last thing I was doing was wasting time. The time I spend with the people I love is an investment. And, I am blessed to be so rich in this currency.

With musings on love and pumpkin guts behind me, I think I can safely say that today was a great day.

Am I still single? Yes. Am I alone? Not in the slightest.

Cuddling up with my pup and cup of tea,

Sierra

My sweet pumpkin

A full (and strange) week

It has been a strange week. I had a paper due in one of my classes, so I spent the majority of my week between writer's state (as I like to call it) and reality. Unused to writing on a semester plan, with the great advantage of time, I spent days writing this paper. I would write until I ran out of gas and then step away from my computer. I would come back later that day or the next day and edit. Then I would write on a new topic. Finally, I sat down to edit all these smatterings together into one cohesive paper.

This paper has lingered with my for days now, infecting my thoughts and actions. It has become the underlying discourse of all my conversations. My two best friends here, Hunter and Tex, are in the same class, which somehow raised the tensions. When we weren't writing our papers, we were talking about writing our papers. Unfortunately, we didn't talk about how to help one another, but held our cards closer to our chests. I hope that in the future we'll be more collaborative. That is not to say that in this instance it was a negative thing. This was our first paper in graduate school, which is already a very vulnerable situation. Inviting a "competing" peer to read your paper risks undermining your confidence and theirs. We probably made a good choice in not sharing, even if the motivation was at best questionable. I know for me it was fear based. I can be very insecure about my intelligence and at times, I horde my writing to myself, fearful that it will either confuse or disgust those around me. But, that's what your Teaching Fellow is for (oh god, if any of them are reading this, please pick up on my sarcasm).

Besides all this, it has just been surreal. Lack of sleep, days without coffee (I decided to take a hiatus when I quit the coffee shop), and Foucault on the brain has made life a sort of walking dream. There are moments when I feel like I'm not really here. Almost like I'm watching a movie. As all the characters walk by, their names come on screen and a relational line connects them to someone else, scribbling off in infinite directions.

This is not to mention the matter of the increase in coverage of queer youth suicides lately, which have kept me on the verge of tears (or made me outright weep) for days. I am so saddened by the loss of these young boys and troubled by the questions left in their wake. What do we do about bullying? How has systemic homophobia denied the agency of all the characters in this playing out of power roles? How has the media constructed harassment as a rite of passage?

Yesterday, we had a service on campus for a student organization called Queer Rites. It was an amazing service that brought to light the great diversity of the experiences of queer persons. I am in awe of the words my peers offered and the way their passion or criticism moved me. I was able to offer a blessing and feel blessed to have done so.


I do believe that things will get better. But not because we wait for them to. They will get better because we make this world a better place. This life will get better because we take action to care for each other and ourselves. It is not us against them, or against the world.

It is us together in the world.

Letting Go

I quit my job yesterday.

I don't think I've ever said that in my entire life. I don't think I've ever quit anything. I've always toughed it out until the "natural" transition point occurred. Now that I write that, I cannot even conceive of what that means. Perhaps a self-indulgent attempt to make sticking it out somewhat easier. A reason to persevere. Or other nonsense.

I was overwhelmed. As someone who generally knows myself and my limits (or lack thereof) pretty well, I feel terribly ashamed by that fact. And that shame makes me embarrassed because I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. And so my self reflection circles round itself trying to find a place to lie down as if it were a puppy, too determined to find the right place to just rest.

On Monday, after three days with no more than four hours of sleep at a time, a wonderful celebration of Tiffany and Rob's love, three flights, six cabs, two trains, four buses, and three hours of work on campus, I collapsed into my chair in my classroom for my Counseling class. My professor walked in after I'd sat down and started rearranging furniture. Then it hit me: I had volunteered to go first in counseling a complete stranger in front of my peers as part of class. I told myself to calm down. I'm good at counseling. I understand people pretty well. I could do this. Then I reached down to grab my book and almost vomited. There was no way out. My peers were counting on me and I'm not the type to back down or disappoint.

The session was fine. Good, in fact. I messed up a couple of times (but, hey, who doesn't?). It was a great learning opportunity and I was able to reflect on my mistakes. I felt pretty good and was looking forward to the class break. But, it wasn't over. There was still time for a feedback session. Every thing I had noticed that had gone wrong, everyone (I mean everyone, including the client) reflected back to me. I generally can take criticism in stride, but I was at the end of my rope (a macabre, yet apt metaphor). I felt horrible. After what seemed like a year of being told just how I screwed up, we finally took a break. I went to the bathroom to breathe, compose myself, and, as it turned out, cry. If only that were the end of the story.

I walked back to class, knowing that everyone could tell I had been crying, but I figured that given social norms, no one would say anything. That's just not how my professor rolls. I sit down. She stops talking. She turns to me and asks, "Are you upset?" Well, thanks, Pat. Yes. Yes I am, I think to myself. Out loud, "Yes." The tears start rolling down my face and utterly aware of my own ridiculousness I say, "It's just hard to hear the criticisms others have of me when I already have those criticisms of myself. And, honestly, I think I'm only crying because I am so so exhausted." Everyone rallied back with support, "Oh no, Sierra, you rock." "I wish I could do that like you." "Just be yourself. Stop trying to imitate the textbook." Of course, being told that what you're feeling is ridiculous always helps. Someone finally changed the subject (thank the merciful god/s). I felt horrible the rest of class. I wished I hadn't said anything. I wished I'd slept. I wished I were somewhere else. After class, one of my colleagues looked at me and said, "It's impossible to keep going when you're so spent," and offered me a hug.

As you know from reading my blog (which I know you all do religiously...if only I would maintain some kind of regularity), I was sick two days later. In my bed, miserable, I thought to myself, I just can't keep doing this. I can't do it all. I later realized that was the moment when I decided to quit working at the coffee shop.

Friday morning, when I peeled myself out of bed, still sick, still tired at 5:30 am after having spent two days with guests in my home, I made the decision to quit. Working twenty-four hours a week suddenly seemed to me unreasonable. I was losing my grip and couldn't afford the devastation that was sure to come (as if being physically ill and crying in class weren't devastation enough...).

At 3:15 p.m. yesterday, I sat down with my boss and expressed my concerns. She was amazing. She spoke to all the hard parts of leaving that place for me in such a generous, thoughtful way that I am still awe struck. There is still the matter of my last shift to be figured out, but other than that, my time at the coffee shop has come to an end.

Ace and I went on a little stroll today. We walked further and longer than we usually have time for and while we were out, I realized how wonderful it is to feel like I have time. Twelve to fifteen hours is a lot of time to not have in a week. Hard as it is to quit something that I feel hadn't reached its "natural" point of conclusion, I know that I've made the right decision.

And as for all my self criticism and reflection, this will be a process I go through for the rest of my life. I will always reflect on my thoughts, actions, and ways of being. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes it is exhilarating. But, for the most part, it's just me.

Life Rhythms and Shared Experience

I love the times in life when someone shows up that you haven't seen in so long. Someone you need to see. Someone who instantly makes your life better. Yesterday (somewhat planned and long expected) Krystle and her husband, Ryan showed up. This was the day that lack of sleep and too much celebration in Las Vegas caught up with me. This was the day that I could not get out of bed.

I slept until 2:30 pm (having gone to bed at 11 pm the day before), waking in just enough time to take a shower and eat a little something before Krystle and Ryan actually arrived. They pulled into our cul de sac with their big truck complete with camper shell, and despite feeling ill, I suddenly felt relieved. I missed work and class, but I was not going to miss the one time my Coloradan friends drove across the country to see me. We spent some time together, made dinner, and caught up on new (and old) times. Krystle and Ryan are the kind of couple that just makes you happy to be around. When you're with them, it's easy to see how much they love each other.

Which brings me to Vegas (and all the celebration). My sister Tiffany married the love of her life, Rob. They decided to elope, which provided a pretty good reason to get out of town for the weekend (especially for my first time to visit Las Vegas!!). The ceremony was beautiful and it was so fun getting to know Rob (not to mention both Tiffany and Rob's friends). Tiffany, fortunately for us as usual, led us all around the city, taking us to amazing hidden treasures (and not at Treasure Island). I can't imagine a more fun celebration and definitely think the whole weekend was a wonderful celebration of Tiff and Rob. What stands out most in my mind, though, were those moments that Tiffany and Rob stole to themselves, moments when they thought no one was watching and they would steal a kiss or just look at one another. These were the precious times when I knew I was in the presence of the kind of love one feels blessed just to gaze upon.

The amazing "falling" leaves in the Venetian lobby.

One of many self portraits that Melissa and I are infamous for...

some things never change.

Where I won all my moneys playin' Blackjack!

Did I mention that I'm awesome and won money?!

But, the aftermath was devastating. I was so sick yesterday and so exhausted on Monday and Tuesday. Today, Hunter commented on the fact that this week has been a rough one for all three of us (of course, Tex is always the implied third when I speak of Hunter and myself, and vice versa). And, for some reason to know that my comrades, my amigos, my new life mates were in rough shape made me feel that my own life was under control. Now, it could be inferred that I, like many, am just an example of misery loving company. I will argue, though, that it was the sense that we were all in sync that gave me a sense of camaraderie--the sense that I am not alone. To know that I share an experience with people I love and that we are somehow participating in the same life is a great comfort.

Well, back to today. Krystle and Ryan are in the living room watching movies and hanging out with their wonderful chocolate lab, Leroy. They are the most easy going visitors to have in town. I took them to Harvard's campus today and they thought everything I had to show them was amazing and they made me feel really great about myself and my pursuits here. Then, I went to class and sent them on their merry way. We met back here after school ended and Krystle cut my hair (which I sooooo needed). We grabbed a lovely dinner and now...here I am. Blogging instead of studying, content to feel less sick and just plain ol' happy.

Between the rhythms I have created with the new family I have here and the blessed and lucky interruptions into those rhythms from those longtime friends and family that make up each of the threads of my safety net, I am a pretty lucky gal.

It's good to be part of something bigger. It's good to be loved.

And, it's good to feel better.

-Sierra

Sukkot

I don't know if I've told ya'll this, but I work in the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Harvard Divinity School (I know, I know. Two jobs...but such is life). Anyway, on Wednesdays we have a service that is hosted by a different religious/spiritual group each week. This week was hosted by the Jewish Student Association, and it was one of the most amazing services I've ever been to.

In celebration of Sukkot (the feast of booths), we met under the Sukkah, a temporary structure erected during this seven-day holiday and removed after. Different students led songs, or offered prayers, but I was most struck by a classmate named Max's address in the middle. He spoke about the way the Sukkah recalls a wedding tent and how the Sukkot celebration itself is much like a wedding ceremony. Both are times for celebration, but both are also times marking transition.

Max talked about the way Sukkot is a time to celebrate the harvest, but also a time to look forward to what is next. A time to ask ourselves: So what? What is next? He compared this question to the way when a wedding ceremony is over, the question is: What will you do together with the rest of your life?

Max laughed as he considered that question. He smiled to himself, cocked his head to the side and said again, "So, what now?" My eyes welled with tears and I wondered to myself: "Yeah. What now, Sierra?" Then Max said: "Just like these New England trees, we are in transition," followed by a quote from someone whose name I cannot remember: "The only sin is to be stuck."

The honeymoon is over at HDS, but I am certainly not stuck. Max's words are such a relief as I realize that I am in transition, that I will always be in transition, and that thankfully, that means I am alive. I am still alive, still moving, still learning, still growing. Everyday a new idea pops into my head. Everyday a new theorist or a new article piques my interest. Everyday I am living the most perfect and beautiful life I could imagine.

-Sierra

p.s. I am attaching some photos just so you can get a glimpse of my lovely life here...and because my new phone has a camera and I'm just so excited to be able to share!

My two fantastic housemates! Mike and Ace!

Hunter and Tex's feet. I really like this photo. Hope they don't get mad.

What a boy!

As the Dog Days Dissipate.

I've been writing two different blog posts for the last week or so. One is about fear and the other is about the relief that autumn brings--escape from heat, return to books, and those sweet moments when I realize I have a new life here. However, it would be false to pretend that either one (fear or relief/contentedness) could stand alone. They are two parts of the same experience, two shades of the same color, two essential threads of the cloth of autumn.

A mentor once told me that autumn is frequently viewed as the season of release. The time to let things go. Given that statement, no wonder it is a time marked by fear and relief. I find it is always frightening to let go of something I am accustomed to or to relinquish control over something, whether or not it is good for me. And, yet to be free again, shew. That is quite a feeling. This fall, for me, is a time to release all the dreams I have for my life. Not to give up on them, but to just let them be for a while, to let myself be. And, to be here. It's terrifying. Thinking about PhD applications, or projects I might want to do, or the possible (and some inevitable) failures I will encounter can make my head spin. A healthy dose of that can be good, I find. But, I take great solace in Okhi Forest's words: "To be fearless is not to get rid of fear or to numb yourself to it, but to experience your fears even more strongly."

While these meditations on fear swirl about my brain, I also can't help but breathe a little easier. There's something visceral about the way cooler weather affects me. My posture is more relaxed, my sense of humor less cutting, my time less "valuable" (meaning I just hang out more readily). Oh! And, I like my fall clothes a lot better.

As I reflect on these dual processes at work, I wonder if perhaps they are not two separate entities at all. Maybe the former is a product of the latter. As I relax and become more comfortable with myself and my life, surely fears will come up (as they say, life isn't all beer and skittles). But perhaps by embracing fear and facing it head on, it reduces the power of fear over my life. Perhaps it is through fear that relief comes. Then again, maybe I'm reading too much philosophy and still recovering from the heat. ;)

Fearlessly, contentedly, authentically,

Sierra

The bees envy me.

This may seem like a ridiculous start to a blog entry. And it is. But just listen to it while you read.

As long as I can remember I've wanted for this to be someone's "song" for me. You know what I mean, heart-breaking-every-time-you-hear-it-you-think-of-your-sweetie-song. Why you may ask? Besides the fact that is adorable and classic, I have always found a lot that I figured would make someone think of me. Here's my logic:

How does seeing a redhead like Sierra turn your day around? Answer: Like sunshine on a cloudy day.
When was Sierra born? Answer: the month of may
What did I guess you'd say? Answer: my girl (aka: Sierra)

But lately, I feel like I don't need someone else to make this their love song for me. I think this is my love song for my life. Maybe that's cheesy, maybe it's an overstatement, but a girl can't stand around forever waiting for someone else to love her life, can she?

The other night I dreamed that I was rummaging through jars of honey while bees buzzed around my head. I was not panicky nor was I frightened. I was diligent. I was persistent. I was intelligent and I was pleased. It was as if this tedious and hard work was worthwhile even if I didn't find the right "jar". All summer, I've had bees on the brain. When a crew remodeled a facade of a building on campus, a bee hive was found and no one could walk on that lawn for a few days, so as to let the bees settle down. I also learned that a friends' painting company merely paints over the hives they find on homes. Bees seem to be everywhere for me right now.

Their metaphorical presence is not lost on me. They inspire me to work hard to create symmetry, form, beauty, and sweetness in my life. And, they remind to appreciate the sweetness I have found, especially in the camaraderie of my new friends Tex and Hunter (of course, I would move from Colorado to make friends with characters bearing such names as these) and in the joy and love I cherish daily from long time friends and family. As The Temptations would say: "I've got so much honey, the bees envy me."

Cuchulain, Ace, and Henry David Thoreau

Remember the celtic hero I told you about named Cuchulain? Well, according to many, he was the "greatest" Celtic hero. Here is a story about him that stood out to me (in mostly my own words):

As a youth, Cuchulain was once late to a dinner at a home protected by a giant dog. No one could ever pass this dog. The people inside were dining and they heard a great commotion outside their home. The great hound was clearly defending the home against some large force. Everyone gathered outside to see what was occurring. They saw a young boy fighting the great hound. With a loud cry, the hound fell to the ground dead. Cuchulain stood with one foot on the carcass. Everyone celebrated the young warrior, but then the clamor died down, "for there stood their host, silent and sorrowful over the body of his faithful friend, who had died for the safety of his house and would never guard it more" (Rolleston 184). Cuchulain offers to train a pup from that dog up as a great guard dog, however for the rest of his life he has a geis against eating flesh from his namesake (ie: the dog; which seems really random, but in fact, is very important). Later in his life, Cuchulain is coerced into eating dog meat and is killed in battle the next day (after fighting an entire army off for an extended period of time...he really does put many heroes to shame).

What I was most struck by in this story, though, was the host's ability to mourn the loss of an animal, which I feel is often missing from stories of heroes. This happens many times throughout Celtic mythology. It seems the Celts saw even in animal friends a connection to the earth and the divine. There's another tale where a dying warrior's horse is mortally wounded, but the horse still manages to lead the warrior's friends to the dead body of his master. The horse lays down next to the corpse, places his head on its lap, and closes his eyes.

I relate so profoundly to the deep connection between the animals and their human counterparts. My dear Ace is such an important part of my life and at times I don't think I can articulate how much I love him. He helps me to see so much of the world. Sometimes when I watch him interact with other dogs, I see how guarded he can be. Ace will rush at a foreign dog and bark as loud as possible, throwing his tail as high and possible, back and forth, back and forth, attempting to scare the other dog before it can scare him. This display allows him to stay isolated and to continue to be "safe". But I can't allow him to be reinforced for this behavior. When we're together, we sit and wait as the other dog walks by. Some days (like today), it is no big deal and Ace seems content to see another dog. Other days, he lets out a low whine and seems tortured by its very existence. Sometimes I think Ace and I have more in common than I could ever explain. I think he came to me because I needed him. Because I needed to be reminded of why those "safe" places aren't really safe. They're just isolated. So, in perhaps one of the most ironic couplings of all time, I am teaching him how to be open and to accept others. I am showing him how to be in the world. At the same time, he shows me how worthwhile it is because when Ace plays with another dog, he is the kind of happy I can only express by laughing. He is pure--alone and connection to another. And he reminds me to be likewise.

As I start my first official week of graduate school, I'll carry these thoughts with me. And for you, another thought from a wise man:

"All good things are wild and free..." -Henry David Thoreau

Geis

I just finished a book about Celtic mythology and I've been thinking about the concept of geis (pronouned: geh-sh). The idea is that each mythical character (particularly heroes) have geis (similar to a tapu, but not the same), which is something that they are forbidden to do. This geis is also frequently bestowed onto the hero by a Celtic goddess or fairy or other type of female "spirit", for lack of a better term. Some geisa (the plural form), as in the case of Fergus MacRoy who was not allowed to turn down a feast, seem pretty favorable. However, even this geis can create hardship as at one point Fergus cannot escort a couple he intends to protect to their destination because he is invited to feast at a city along the way. He stays, while they continue on and are consequently slaughtered.

So, lately, I've been pondering about what exactly my geis might be. Could it be being unable to refuse my pup a rub on the tummy? Could it be the curse of never living in Colorado again? What could it be?

Well, while I may have many geis (as the great Celtic hero Cuchulain did--I'll have more to say about him in my next entry), I think my most prominent one is the inability to turn down a good conversation. Does this get me in trouble? Sure. But, it also adds a great deal to my life.

For instance, take this last week. I was back in Colorado for my dear friend Amy's wedding. I made a quick dash down to Colorado Springs (sorry if I missed you while I was there! Next time!) and then headed back up for the pre-wedding and wedding festivities. It was an amazing ceremony, and then I stayed at Chloe's for an extra few days to just hang out. I saw so many people in such a short period of time, but I really enjoyed it. However, my geis followed me everywhere I went. I had so many wonderful conversations, but even in moments when I would have wanted to dash away for some alone time, I got caught up in another conversation. I'm not complaining, but it's something I've noticed about myself. I'd rather hear what others have to say and talk with people than sleep!

Ah, but so far, it's not a bad geis...I just hope it doesn't end in someone getting slaughtered...But, then again, I'm no Celtic hero!

Sillily,

Sierra

Thoughts for two friends

We had the great pleasure of meeting two lovely canine souls in Illinois, who are crossing through the great tunnel today. Tex and Princess, thanks for sharing your home and your bowls. You were good friends. Our hearts go out to the family that mourns them.

-Sierra and Ace

Coyote

Growing up in the Southwest, we talked about our history as something including Native American culture. Perhaps it was an easy way to paint a pretty picture or to make penance, but I think it was also perhaps an attempt to accept that "white culture" was not the primary way the Southwest was understood. Anyway, as a child, I was obsessed with Coyote myths--stories about coyotes and their place in Native culture. Coyote has generally been understood as a trickster always fooling his friends and even himself. What I find most intriguing about Coyote, though, is that he is also the animal most often called upon to do "brave deeds" such as to steal fire from the FireBeings to share with all the other animals, so that they are not cold.

As well, in a Navajo creation myth, Coyote is the one that prophesies that we must all die. When he says so, everyone gets angry, but he responds, " 'If we all go on living, and if all the women keep having babies, there will be too many people. There won't be any room. Nobody will be able to move around. There will be no space to plant corn.

'Isn't it better that each one of us should live here for just a while, until old age slows us down? ... Then we ought to move on. Leave everything behind for the young. Make room for the new generation.'
When the people heard what Mq'ii the Coyote had to say, they recognized the wisdom of his words. Grudgingly they agreed that he was right. And one by one they grew silent."

Even while Coyote is a jokester and someone to be cautious of, he still represents and communicates great wisdom humbly. Coyote, for me, is a powerful symbol of how one can live their life, and I believe Coyote is my spirit animal.

My favorite story about Coyote involves how he got to be the dusty color he is. Remember, the filter through which I recall it is twelves years after I was told the story in Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. My sixth grade class and I prepared a program about Native American legends. We told a tale, which is likely from the Cherokee tradition. I will paraphrase the story for you and only speak of the parts that I think are pertinent to my life right now (if you want a more complete idea, here is a good link).

One day, Green Coyote, hidden in the grass, spotted beautiful Blue Bird. He asked Blue Bird how he got to be so beautiful and blue. Blue Bird said that he had spent four days singing a little song and diving into the deep blue water. Then all his feathers fell off and on the fifth day they grew back in a brilliant blue. Green Coyote decided he wanted to be a beautiful blue color, too. So, he did exactly as Blue Bird had said, song and all. On the fifth day, Green Coyote became Blue Coyote! Now, this was a sight to see. Coyote loved the color of his coat and decided to run and show it off. As he ran, he looked from side to side to see if people noticed how beautiful and blue his coat was. Since he was running and looking from side to side, he did not notice a large stump. Bam! Coyote ran right into the stump and fell onto the dirt. When Coyote rose, he found that his coat had turned to a dingy, dusty color. And, this is why Coyote looks the way he does today.

Ace is a chow lab mix, so he has a lot of the darker pigment that Chow Chow's do (he also has a good deal of their personality, too. For instance, he generally loves to poke his head out the window and keep an eye on the neighborhood rather than socialize with new guests). This gives his tongue that blue, black quality you might have noticed. Less noticeable, but ever present, is the blue pigment that runs across his skin under his black coat. I have had many a Vet comment that it's hard to gauge different vital signs because of his dark skin (I'll have to default to someone more medicinally gifted to explain why). If you rub his coat backwards (gently!), you will see a blueish tint where the hair enters the skin.

Recently, I've realized that Ace is a blue coyote, still blue, happy and free. And, I feel so lucky to live with him.

Missing the Southwest

I've been eating Jalapeños and wearing turquoise, a sure sign that I miss the Southwest. I wrote down a few things that spoke to me of home. I'm going to share them, raw as they may still be.

Drought


My father philosophizes,
recounting a childhood of episodic happenings,
ice-covered street lights in New York,
seven sibling summers spent sharing
less than I had to myself in a day,
fourteen year olds' championship basketball games,
And I still have the trophy to prove who won.
"Remember to drink a lot of water.
That's people's problem. Too much coffee.
It dehydrates you. You already start behind."

As if a little more water would solve everything.
And maybe it could,
raising daughters under the speckled desert sky it made sense.
Water.
And now, as he ages it must ring truer still.
Water.
Red embers of Celtic whorls and temper
cooling as if they were a doused campfire
crackling as we drifted off
accompanied by coyote songs.

A humbled Saul,
turning to his Christ.


Roaming Home

We are of star dust,
heavenly suspended dirt,
wholly clay and wholly light.

We are the conversations between ancient gods,
spoken into being,
but called into life.

We are agents and creators of our lives
leaving what remains
to larger hands.

We roam
between sky and earth scenes
Seeking now one home, finding then another.

In ever-widening circle patterns
of wolves and owls calling in the desert
we find our center.

Even Clever Coyote
Had a place among the stars.

I just can't be thoughtful on such hot days

The heat is really getting to me. It finally cooled down last night, but here's a little something I wrote because I just don't think anyone can be serious when everyone is covered in sweat.

Ode to my A/C

I love you. Simply put.

I have never before truly cherished the blessing of your presence.

On hellish, humid days, you make life bearable.

You transform me from a panting demon to a loving companion.

Recirculated, cool, fresh--I embrace your mystery, giving thanks for your creation.

Your gentle hum pacifies my expiring temper 

and gentle as an afternoon in mountain air, you breathe new life into me.

Oh to stay with you forever, hidden from the torture of the heat, rising off the pavement.

Alas, I cannot.

And, somehow, I am grateful for even these hot days, knowing colder ones wait just around the corner.

As you flick on and off throughout my day, regulating each degree, i remember to be humble and thankful.

Awed by my A/C.

I was warned.

In college, my favorite professor once recalled an anecdote to a classroom of would-be-religion-scholars, "Cocktail parties are not always very fun if you're a religion professor. I spend most of my conversations trying not to talk about religion because as soon as someone finds out you are a religion professor, you get an earful. I try to tend to keep the conversation away from my work, or tell them that I teach ethics. Trust me, people have a lot to say about religion." We all laughed at his story, imagining this kind man avoiding the topic he loves more than anything.

I witnessed this very scenario later that year at Graduation. A classmate's uncle had cornered my professor and I could overhear him saying, "You know, it's the Muslims that are ruining America." I could discern a look of mild amusement mixed with concern and a desire to seem respectful on my professor's face. Arms crossed, he tilted his head to the side in a listening posture. As I sauntered off, I giggled to myself, thinking, "So, that's what he was talking about."

Flash forward two years. Here I am, starting Divinity School. Let me describe to you a typical conversation upon meeting someone new:
New Person (NP): Why did you move to Boston?
Me: I'm starting grad school this fall.
NP: Oh where?
Me: Harvard Divinity School.
NP: So are you going into ministry?
Me: No. That's not really the goal.
NP: So, what are your religious beliefs?

Four questions into knowing someone and they have asked me one of the most personal questions I can imagine. I'm an open person, so it doesn't really bother me. However, struggling to explain my faith to a stranger is always a delicate balance between honesty and over-exposure.

Then there are days like today. I worked my first full shift at work and within an hour of meeting two new co-workers, one said to me, "I'm probably one of the only anti-religious people you will meet who isn't bothered by pentecostals." I tried to hold back a cringe. "Do you define yourself as anti-religious or a-religious?" I asked, trying to understand what he could have meant.

"Well, I think that all religions are institutionally based and cause people to do bad things. I think religion is just a block to the way people experience spirituality. I mean, I'm a Zen Buddhist, which is like a mystical version of Buddhism. So, I know I don't practice what I espouse, but I still believe it."

I took a breath and slowly began, "Well, I don't know that it's that simple to talk about all religions as the same. I guess I think of religion and spirituality in the same way that I think of language and communication. We cannot communicate with one another without language, although we accept that the words we use fall short of what we really mean. In the same way, I think that religious institutions and practices help us facilitate whatever connection we have with the divine. I don't think that's a bad thing." I stopped myself short of divulging my own personal belief and looked up at him.

"I like that," he said. "Religion and language. That's good." And then we were off to serving iced coffee and tea to the many haggard customers seeking refuge from the heat.

So, despite my professor's warning and my desire to stay under the radar when possible, my religious thoughts are still standing front and center in most of my conversations. It seems like it will be an interesting year, comprised of awkward conversations and me learning how to negotiate a path between truth and saying too much.

This same professor has a book that will be released on July 19. I recommend it for anyone who is interested in religion, how faith works, or how divine intervention (ie: miracles) operates across traditions. He is an incredibly clear and interesting writer. Enjoy!

Something more concrete

So, I've recently realized that I tend to wax pretty philosophical on here, but don't give too many details. So here is a short summary of what's new in my life.

School: I am in a Reading French for Theological and Religious Studies Students class. It is awesome. My professor is a monk (who has been kicked out of a few orders for sticking to his guns) and my TA is an awesome doctoral student who knows grammar better than anyone I've ever met. My classmates are hilarious (one kid and I have been talking about maybe starting an improv group, although he didn't really like my idea for the name: Holy Rollers....get it?). I love the campus and I am really enjoying learning French. I think I've missed the classroom so much more than I realized. Studying is refreshing and SO rewarding.

Work: Cafe Zing! hired me to work as a barista/cashier. I love the manager already, she is hilarious and has great tattoos. The Cafe is awesome. They serve mostly local food and have many gluten-free options, which is actually how I found them. I will be working part-time which will compliment my school schedule perfectly.

Social Life: Tonight I'm having a classmate and his wife (?!) over for dinner. I bought fresh veggies at the Farmer's Market and I'm going to make a nice Ratatouille! I guess the whole French thing is really getting to me!

Other than that, I was invited to go on a Bay Harbor Cruise for free tomorrow, so I'm really excited. I won't know anyone there, so it may be weird, but I really couldn't pass it up. And, if I hadn't lost my camera (probably on the T), then I would promise photos. Alas, I will instead mourn my irresponsibility.

Well, that's the long and short of my life right now. Simple. Fun. Lovely.

Miss you all!

Sierra

7:30

I am not a morning person, but I love mornings. I love the way the light feels hazier and the air is a little softer. The way everything feels a little surreal, as if life could not possibly happen this early. Of course, I am talking about the hours of four a.m. to six a.m. Ironically, I knew these hours well when I was younger. My dad always rose before five when I was very small, and I would try to rouse myself alongside him.

As much as I love mornings, I love sleep so much more. I'm the person who can sleep until a nine a.m. alarm and then hit the snooze, stealing every minute of sleep from the day. This lifestyle has served me well since I left home for college. Well, until Ace came into my life.

Ace stirs around 6 a.m. from what I can tell. I honestly have no idea because he forces himself to stay in bed as late as he can. When I was working full-time and kept a "normal" schedule, that meant rising at 7:30 so that Ace and I could go for a walk and have breakfast before I got ready. But now that I can sleep as late as I want (a blessing and a curse), Ace still wakes up at 7:30. He isn't impatient and doesn't get frustrated. He just hops out of bed and walks around my room. Generally, I get up and open my bedroom door so that he can walk around the kitchen and the living room, perhaps stopping for a drink. Generally I doze off of for a few more minutes before I feel him standing before me. Looking me dead in the eye, he wills me to wake. I coax him back into the bed and then our real morning ritual begins. Ace flops down in the bed next to me and I put my arms around him. He rolls onto his back pressing his body into mine and then he tips his nose back, exposing his chin and neck. For as long as we like, we lay there, me rubbing his neck and belly, he stretching and slipping into pure bliss. There is no complicated message or hidden meaning in our morning ritual. Just a dog and his human, happily together.

I've never reflected much on this ritual until this morning. I realized that my favorite part of the day is now opening my eyes to see my loyal friend ready for a tummy rub. The rest of the world hasn't figured out that we're awake yet and no one is leaving the apartment building yet (thus there's no need to bark). I am so lucky to start my day with the happiest dog in the world, doing what I love most--rubbing his underside.

Some days, you just gotta be grateful.

-Sierra

A Late Night Encounter

Ace and I have been working on some off-leash walks. They are generally short and entail walking to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. He stays within 5 or so feet of me, and we stop together if he needs to relieve himself. These little bursts last no longer than seven to ten minutes and have been an exciting way for Ace to experience our new life in Somerville. Before heading out our big red front door, I make Ace sit and wait, so that I can peek my head out and see if there are any cats, dogs, squirrels, or humans that he might be tempted to chase or that my leaving him off leash might upset.

Last night after completing my ritual of vigilance, I let Ace out. We walked near the park, around the sidewalk and after a quick stop, headed back the apartment. Everything seemed right as rain, so I decided to race him. He is so fast when he's free to run and I love to watch his behind as he leaves me in the dust. I started out ten yards ahead of him and just as he was about to pass me, he dashed off to the right. Oh no. I thought. I had seen the neighbor's cat earlier that night and tried desperately to befriend her, despite feeling that she hated me for owning that black behemoth of a dog. I called out to him, hoping he would pay attention. "Ace, come!" In the dark, I could make out his shape dashing right, then turning on a dime to run to the left. I thought he might by some miracle be coming back to me, but no. There were two black cats in the darkness. Not wanting to chase him, but not wanting him to destroy the neighbor's flower bed, I followed him up the driveway. I could no longer see him in the dark. "Ace," I called in that tone he knows to be annoyance, "come." I heard his tail swish and saw him in the neighbor's unfenced backyard, front paws on their fence. He turned, trotted back to me, and looked up at me, seeming to say, "Almost got the jerk." I grabbed his collar and led him back inside without a word. Once we were inside, I muttered only, "Bad dog," under my breath and ignored him. I felt his big, brown eyes search my face, trying to attract my gaze. Frustrated, I refused to look at him and told my roommate not to reinforce his bad behavior. Noting his slowly wagging tail and attempt at puppy dog eyes, I told him to lay down at my feet.

As his elbows hit the ground, I noticed blood on the floor. There wasn't much, but it was enough to melt my tough facade into a worried mother. "Buddy, where are you bleeding?" Of course, he didn't answer, but wagged his tail happily at my attention. I tried to roll him over to look at his underside. He resisted. I rubbed my hand under his front, right paw. My hand came out with blood. Desperate, I sat down on the ground and he flopped into my lap. I found another spot where he was bleeding, and another. I rubbed his other legs. Two more. I counted a total of five abrasions.

I filled the bathtub with about four inches of lukewarm water. Ace hates baths and usually struggles to get away. I lifted him and he acquiesced. I set him in the water and he tried to lift each of his paws out, one after the other. Removing the mud that hindered me from assessing the situation, I inspected his front paw. One of the pads was raw and bleeding lightly. The other paw was in the same condition. I let him jump out of the tub as I drained the water and gently dried and wrapped his wounds. his back legs had two dime size chunks of skin and hair missing. His ears hung low, his eyes turned down at the outer edges. "Ace, you can't do that. You can't chase cats without regard for how you might be hurting yourself." I don't know what it sounded like to him, but he let me touch his paws (something he disdains), and behaved so sweetly and gently that I couldn't even be mad.

After five minutes, his bandages started falling off and bothering him. I removed all of them, hoping he had stopped bleeding. As I examined the wounds, I saw a toenail on his back foot had been mangled all the way to the quick. I couldn't believe that in a minute and half he had so thoroughly hurt himself. Utterly disregarding all care for himself, he had bounded after a cat and in that pursuit had not just been scratched, but had inflicted real pain upon his own body.

Of course this encounter has given me pause. It isn't that Ace is still shook up. In fact, he seems to be back to normal. He limped for half a minute at one point today, but otherwise he's been excited and ready to explore. Disappointed when I didn't take him out on a run, he stared longingly at his leash while I brushed my teeth this morning.

I, on the other hand, have vacillated from self-loathing for being irresponsible to doubt that I will be able to give Ace the life and structure he needs to amusement at my own wild responses to this occurrence. The feeling that has stuck with me longest, though, is wondering if it is fair to expect my big dog to adjust to a confined life in the city. What should I do? I have promised him time and again that we are together in this. So what is the solution? Should I stop taking him outside? Stop letting him off leash? Then, I realized that someone else probably went through this same line of thinking when Ace was a pup. He probably showed some dominant tendencies or a desire to chase small things that run (hello? he's a dog...), and that scared the owners. I've surmised this much just from knowing Ace for the past few months. Someone didn't feel they could handle him and that's part of the reason he came to me.

Finally today when we went out for a longer morning walk, I realized that there will be mishaps throughout our relationship. There will be times when we are at odds, when what he wants and what I believe he needs are two different things. He will probably chase a cat or a squirrel again. What's important, though, is that I don't shut down, that I don't lock him up inside--and that I don't become afraid. Much like heartbreak, if I close myself (and Ace) off to new experiences because of one disappointment, I will limit our ability to be open and to live fully. We have to embrace our disappointments to know our triumphs. No one lives fully locked inside literal or figurative walls. So, we will continue to know adventure. We will continue to run. And, we will continue to take care of and love one another in this city. The limits of the city are only there if we let them be, and we've only just begun to see what our city has to offer.

In hope,

Sierra (for Ace)