Winter Break To-Do List

Write all the blog entries I've thought up
Return letters from friends
Watch Dexter
Sleep
Eat a lot
Run a bit
Be a human
Update "professional" website
Be a friend again
Be a better daughter/sister (ie: reply to phone calls and emails)
Apply to grants
Apply for jobs
Complete research for thesis

To-Do List Until Then:
WRITE

Something New on The Horizon

Actually, it's the horizon that is new.

All my friends are getting married or having babies (ok, not all of them, calm down those of you who aren't). But, since they are busy doing that, I figured I needed to be busy getting my own life world a-rolling.

Due in no small part to conversations with two men who very well may have changed my life (Mat and Jeremy, you were certainly keystones of my summer) I have decided that it's about time I start following my dreams. Ah, but which ones you may ask. Of course, the ones that I have hidden for the longest. I have decided to launch a website with my own production "company". The idea is that this will be the technological hub of my professional life. This will be where I can hone my craft(s), meaning writing (in its varied forms), film production, film editing, improv, and research (oh and anything else I can probably think of and then justify). Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this blog, but you might see a difference in what appears here (or maybe none at all).

I'll keep this post short and to the point because hopefully you will now need some time to have a look around my new website and all that is currently available on it.

http://www.doubleeffproductions.wordpress.com/

Think of it as an interactive resume/C.V. Think of it as a way for me to remember what it is I love and to feel justified in pursuing it. Think of it as whatever you want.

And, follow me and my "company" on Twitter @Sierrasayer and @DoubleEffProd

If you're interested in getting your own creative life going and want to talk about collaborating together (especially if you live in Boston), let me know. I'm happy to work with actors, writers, directors, producers, blog contributors, etc who are interested in taking themselves less seriously, but their passions deadly so.

Sharing is Scaring

So, it turns out that to be a writer, you have to share your work with others. A lot. Workshopping groups, professors, friends, family. Sharing your work becomes an important component of the writing process.

And, I’m elated to do so. That is up until the actual moment I share it. I love the idea of sharing my work, being vulnerable to another, and hearing what they have to say. Honestly, though, handing (or emailing) something that I’ve spent hours on terrifies me. My stomach drops. My heart pounds. And, I think to myself, Am I a narcissistic fool? Did I just really send that dribble to my [insert important person] thinking they would care? I don’t even know if I’m a good writer! Hell, I don’t even know if I’m a writer!

Thankfully, I tend to send or hand my work off before I’ve given my insecurities too much thought. The moments of dread and horror come immediately after the work has left my totalizing grasp.  Will my jokes make sense? Do I sound self-pitying? Is there truth in what I wrote?

There’s really no way to know. I sit in my little room with my lovely dog, feeling insecure and exposed, hoping to God that at the very least no one will hate me after reading my work and that maybe someone somewhere will get at least one joke. Much to my surprise, though, the feedback on my creative work from both peers and professors has been incredibly positive. In fact, one professor looked at me and simply said, “Sierra, you are a writer.”

Perhaps then it is time to shake off my insecurity (or at least keep it at bay long enough to actually share my work) and see what it is I can do with this thing, this dogged desire to write.

The Spot

Ace and I had our two year anniversary yesterday. This is the longest non-familial relationship I've ever had and that makes me so happy. This dog, in all his glory, all his fur, all his idiosyncratic existence, is a part of me. Hell, he might be the truest part of me.

We're doing well, Ace and I. I'm learning how to live a a life that is "utterly wild" in the sense of Mary Oliver's poem (and my tattoo), even though I'm not quite sure what it means. Ace is showing me how, me with my dumb humanity and need for logic. It has something to do with responding to the impulse of each day, loving the beauty of ourselves, and sleeping enough. And, probably lots of snacks.

Yesterday, we lay on my bed, listening to Florence + the Machine (Ace's favorite band). As the sweet sounds of techno-soul-rock reverberated against my walls, I rubbed Ace's belly. For the first time (after two years of belly rubs), his leg started to thump as I found his "spot." I was amazed that he had this reflex, this response to a rub on the tummy.

It seems that even as we grow older together, we still have so much to discover. For that, I am grateful and by that, I am humbled.

On Long Pauses

So, I haven't been blogging much these days. And, I'm sorry. Only, I'm not really.

I've been writing and creating like crazy and I feel amazing. I just haven't felt the need to write blog entries yet. Part of me feels like I'm still "catching up", but at some point I'll have to accept that this rapid fire pace is my life here.

A friend and I recorded a song the other day and I hope to shoot the music video soon. Also, I plan to have my website up and running by the end of next month. Times, they are a changing. So, you have all that to look forward to.

Until I feel the pull, much love to you all. :)

It's all in the timing

I got a tattoo yesterday. The moment was right. The final line of this Mary Oliver poem curves over my left hip.

A Meeting

She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.

The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.

She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion

and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.

So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.

In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers

I meet them.
I can only stare.

She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.

Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me

like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,

to be utterly
wild.

On belief

I used to believe in myself.

I mean, really believe in myself. I honestly thought that I'd be a successful writer one day. I really didn't have any doubts. Unlike the last couple of years, when I've couched everything in a disclaimer. "I want to be a writer." "I'll find out if I can do this."

Some of that is humility, and I honor that. But some of that is just plain doubt. When I was a kid, I didn't doubt because I knew there was one thing I had to--was compelled to--do: write.

And since that time, I've allowed people--some out of love--to stifle me. I've allowed the have-a-back-up-plan-advice-givers, the it's-hard-to-be-a-writer-and-make-a-living-mentors, the you're-not-good-enough-for-our-student-publication-classmates to creep into my inner space. They drowned out all of you who told me to dream, encouraged me to reach, and believed in me. More importantly, they drowned out my own still, small voice, or rather I stopped listening. And that's what this year has meant to me: listening to myself again.

And now I've decided to become again what I never was. Like my seven year old self, I'm going to jot down all my ideas and write bad poetry. Like my fifteen year old self, I'm going to believe I can make it. As my new twenty five year old self, I'm going for it.

And as Sara Bareilles just said in concert, "This is a song about people who should mind their own damn business." Well, this is a life about the same.

Turn and Face the Change

Time to embrace a new year with a new look for the blog. Enjoy!

Back in Boston (well, the American Cambridge)

On this lovely Sunday evening, sitting under a fan in my new room where I have finally (thanks mostly to my two studly roommates) moved in, I am happy. A little warmer than I'd like to be, but happy.

It seems that really, I just need some time away to appreciate being here a little more. I mean, how lucky am I? I have the best dog ever (who sat rather wonderfully at my feet while I had brunch at a restaurant near my house for 2+ hours this morning), I get to study amazing things (including screenwriting since I was accepted to the course I applied to!!!!), and I have really good friends (both here and around the world). And, since I know this is a moment in time rather than a prison sentence, I can honestly do whatever I want and deem worthy of my time for the next nine months of my Harvard/Cambridge/East Coast life.

This, my friends, is freedom. And, I think my favorite patriot, Paul Revere, would be proud of how I'm using mine.

Ace at Brunch

Applications and Expectations

 I expected at some point to hate this, to not want to be here anymore, to miss my life so much I could barely handle it. I never reached that point, and today on this train for my last trip to Cambridge, I’m wondering why.

Maybe it’s because my summer has been so full. Maybe it’s because I have had a crazy year and being away has been a welcome respite. Sure, maybe. More likely, I think it has to do with the fact that I finally feel like I’m getting a real sense of what I want.

I’ve always wondered what I wanted to “do,” what I wanted to “be,” and how on earth I would get there. This summer, I’ve tried to reflect on what makes me happiest, what catches my attention, and how I could make a life of doing those things.

I really love applying for stuff. I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I’ve applied for more grants, scholarships, and admission to schools than I can even count. I’ve been lucky to win a portion and have accepted a few. However, this constant chasing of “shiny things” has allowed me to get wrapped up in dreams that aren’t necessarily something I want. Take, for instance, my application to the Rotary Foundation.

I applied under the guise of studying international relations in Chile. A fairly competitive process, I was selected as a recipient. However, when it came time to actually set the wheels in motion, I decided not to go. I’ve always reflected on that as a peculiar situation since I was going through a rough patch in general (and specifically a gigantically horrific break-up). Lately, though, I’ve started to realize that I will apply for damn near anything. I like writing. I like dreaming up crazy projects and justifying why I’m perfect for that situation. Sometimes I even convince myself of that fact. (Mind you, this is just one example. I have more.)

So, I ask myself, What is it about applying that I love? Why do I love dreaming up possible lives, but not necessarily pursuing those lives? Why is that I feel I should be disappointed that I didn’t go on that Rotary year, but really, I don’t care?

The answer is simple and you know it already. I want to create. I want to write. And, I will. It's just nice to finally feel like I don't have to have an "excuse" to do it.

Modern art, really?

Standing under a giant wooden plug in the middle of the Tate Modern, I could hear the three women who had been a few steps behind me for the last three galleries start up again.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I don't get it."
The third just sort of snorted.

Frustrated with their loud banter, their judgmental attitudes, and the fact that I felt like they were breathing down my neck, I passive-aggressively sighed and gave a sideways glance. What I thought to be a well-timed social cue flew under their radar as they shifted their attention to a Jackson Pollock painting wondering what the big deal was.

In that moment, I felt torn. I'm not into art. I know nothing about art. The hardest assignment I had last year was to write about a collection of abstracts at a gallery at MIT. If this is true, then how was it that I was defending (even if only internally) the strange sculptures and paintings around me from criticism? Since when did I care about art?

When I arrived at the Tate Modern, I figured I could spend an hour tops wandering from room to room pretending to care. I would sigh meaningfully and pause at larger canvasses, maybe grabbing a seat in front of something that looked important. But, not until I had my cappuccino and looked at the map to form my plan of attack. Then I saw the words "Pop Art." That I knew I would enjoy. Comic books made giant? Yes, please.

I made my way to the Pop Art gallery planning on lingering there and then strolling along what was sure to be a series of contrived pieces. Larger than life, Lichenstein's work stood in front of me. My every sinew wanted to reach out and caress the painting, but I knew not to. I had been trained well in my teenage years. Excited, I wanted to see what else was around.

As I entered a larger gallery filled with paintings by Picasso and Monet (which I am very pleased to say I saw in person!!), a young girl in front of me snapped a picture. Scandalized, I looked around for someone. Then I realized half of the people in the room were snapping photos. In our age of hyper-technology I guess there really isn't a way to stop them, I thought.

I noticed an older, female docent looking at the girls. She stood as if ready to pounce, clearly filled with rage. She stopped the young girl and exchanged words in a hushed tone. I passed through the gallery and into the next, having paused at every piece and read every placard.

In the next room, sculptures, which I must say I still do not have a taste for, appeared throughout the space while paintings and etchings hung on the walls. I lingered at the paintings allowing the echoes in the room to fill the background creating soft white noise. Suddenly, the same docent appeared like a ninja to tell a mother to control her child who, I might add, was just then balancing herself against a pedestal on top of which perched a rather delicate looking sculpture.

Some part of me wanted to tell the docent to breathe. I wanted to explain that she couldn't possibly appear in every room and control every patron of the museum.  But, I'm glad I didn't. At that moment, I could overhear her telling another coworker, "I mean, the nerve. Over here a girl is just snapping photos of every piece. Not even looking. And then the toddler." She grunted in frustration.

I walked away quickly, drawn to the Poetry and Dream exhibit. As soon as I passed the threshold, I knew this was were I was supposed to be. Surrealists surrounded me at that moment and I was ecstatic. I looked at my watch. I had already passed two hours in the museum without having noticed. A little perturbed that this meant my time was waning, I pressed on. Room after room filled with paintings, drawings, photographs, collages, and just about anything you could think of delighted me. I was actually and thoroughly enjoying myself.

Then there was the "Dark Humour" room in the exhibit. My own little heaven. At one point, observing the wall of David Shrigley contributions, I was laughing so hard I disturbed the guy next to me. I tried to walk away but came back just to read the placard again. I turned to find that same docent in the room. Surprised that she had moved to where I was so quickly I wondered if she were following me. Had I touched anything? Did I laugh too loud? Did I stand out in some way?


I, ever so coolly, sauntered out of the room and took a hard right. Follow me now, Ninja, I thought. I turned to find a giant pile of sunflower seeds. An exhibit by Ai Weiwei. I felt a little disappointed at that fact that this is what all the hype had been about. The person I most felt I had to see while at the Tate Modern was one of those stereotypical modern artists. Feeling obliged, I read the placard. Each seed was actually made of porcelain from the town where Weiwei was born. According to the sign each represented the export, the multitude of Chinese people, and the questioning of how China is imagined abroad. Looking at the pile of porcelain made to look like simple sunflower seeds, I simply felt sad. I was sad that I had snapped to such a quick judgment. I was sad that such an artist was being persecuted by his country for his "dissidence." I was sad simply because it seemed that the seeds demand I be so.

All this meandering and imaginary cat and mouse with the docent (who really had no interest in me) led me to the giant wooden plug hanging from the ceiling. And the peanut gallery. With their worn out appraisal of modern art: "My kid could do better than that." Well good for you. Sell your kid's art and make a million dollars so you never have to come here again.

In all honesty, I was most frustrated with the women because I didn't "get it" either. I mean, I wanted to get it. I wanted to turn around and say, "Listen lady. This is commentary upon our dependency on technology and how in reality we are still more invested in wood than electricity." I could have, but I didn't know if that was true. And, I didn't believe it to be true.

That's when it hit me. Maybe the docent, the toddler, the young girl snapping pictures, the inattentive mother, and even the judgmental three were all doing what they were supposed to. Maybe I was the one off base. Perhaps instead of struggling to find meaning and somehow own the art through the grasping of it's inner meaning I should just let it wash over me. Let it confuse me. Allow it to seem meaningless.

As I stood under the giant plug with my revelation, I noticed a cobweb between the two blades, gently waving in the wind. That wasn't planned. That couldn't have "meaning."

Maybe that was it. No big lesson. No grand meaning. No further understanding as to why I was so enthralled by modern art. No explanation for how three and a half hours seemed too short. Just a cobweb and a giant wooden plug. Simple enough.

The chaos of the scene at the Tate Modern and my reaction to it seem like something Gerard Richter would have loved:

I don't know what I want; I am inconsistent, non-committal, passive; I like the indefinite, the boundless; I like continual uncertainty.

If that's the point of modern art, then, yeah, I like it.

My English Life

What can I say? My English life is stellar. I've been reading a lot, researching a lot, seeing the sights, drinking loads of tea and just enjoying myself.

Many a pet has made an appearance in my life including two dogs belonging to Tiff and Rob (Stella and Bailey), four cats, two chinchillas, and two guinea pigs (all belonging to my supervisor Jenny and her husband Trevor). The cats are Lily, Amy, Beau, and Poppy. Amy and Beau have taken a particular liking to me in their own ways. When I return to Jenny and Trevor's house, I often find one or the other on my bed, purring away. I sit down next to them to read and they stretch out for a tummy rub or do that stretch their legs by clawing my pants thing. Anyway, all these little people (pets are people too) have really made my English Life much richer. And made reading Foucault or Freud instead of sleeping less painful.

I spend a lot of time on trains, which you've probably gathered. I am constantly traveling between High Wycombe, London, and Cambridge (as well as a few other sites). I feel like I have train travel on lock down and have been enjoying that time to read and write. In fact, the reason I have been so long silent is that I have been busy writing other things, which I promise to tell you about soon, but not until I am 100% ready. Ok, or like 80% and then get too excited to wait the last twenty. Yeah. That's probably what will happen.

Anyway, things are grand here. I've made it a point to spend a few days doing touristy things in both London and Cambridge. The biggest surprise was how much I loved the Tate Modern (I'll write more on that soon) and the biggest let down has been realizing that Winchester Cathedral is not located in London. No, in fact, it's in Winchester. This would explain why I could not figure out which tube station to get off the Victoria Line at. Seriously, wow. It's been a long time since I've felt that foolish.

Well, I better be off to actually living that life I keep referring to.

Missing you all!

Halfway there...

So, I'm about halfway through my internship and well over halfway through my summer. I feel like all the things I wrote on my summer wish list are starting to seem more daunting to complete. One of my biggest hopes for the summer has been that I will create a routine for writing. I'd like to get to where I write every day for an hour or so. The tough thing is that at the moment I feel I need to devote my time to reading (part of which is research for my internship and part of which is philosophy that I'm reading for a class) before I do my own writing. I think there will always be that excuse, though. There will always be more books to read and more research to complete.

Sometimes I think that needing to read allows me to put off writing. I have spent a lot of this last year gaining confidence about my writing and think that I've really worked to hone my skills. Blogging has been one of the ways that I have experimented with tone, storytelling, and whatnot. Yet still I feel that part of me desperately fears writing.

It's strange that I'm feeling a bit vulnerable about my writing at the moment, but I think it is because I recently shared some of my work with a friend to get feedback. He was very encouraging and made some helpful comments, but somehow I felt laid bare by the process. Knowing that writing is something I really want to do means that I know I will regularly be sharing my "work" with others. I think my reticence about starting a regular writing routine is based in this fact. I think part of me is afraid that my work will not be well received or that perhaps I am not a very good writer.

Writing is the one thing I've been doing as long as I can remember. And, the more I write, the more I learn. I feel that each day I am finding my own voice and feeling more confident, but sometimes that comes in the form of feeling a little lost, a little concerned, and a little hesitant. I have to remind myself though that being fearless does not mean being without fear. The possibility of failure or rejection is real. To me, being fearless means facing my worst fears.

So, here we go. I am going to spend the next year crafting my writing skills, developing a portfolio, and looking for jobs that will allow me to write. The cat's out of the bag. I'm going to try my hand at writing. Come failure or success, I will know that I tried to do the thing I loved. And, in the end, I think I can come to terms with the costs.

I've spent a lot of my time on the train daydreaming about a quaint life. I keep seeing myself sitting at a window with my computer, writing while drinking a cup of coffee. My dear Ace curls up at my feet and I reach down to pet him. I lean back in my chair, sigh and feel content. A life of writing. I think I could get used to that.

So, I was wondering...

If you know me at all, you know that I incessantly ask questions. It might be about the flora flying by as we drive down the road and whether or not it is specific to this region. It might be about you personally or about your thoughts on love, power, or the Spanish Inquisition. The deluge of questioning I offer can sometimes be annoying to those around me. I understand why. In fact, as a child in school I can remember being told to allow someone else to ask a question. I can also remember being told to let someone else answer a question, but that's a thought for another time.

It doesn't take much to pique my interest and when I'm in a foreign country, my curiosity is at full throttle. I want to know if a princess can become queen even if she's a commoner. I want to know why the parliament and the government are considered to be two different things. I want to know what's so special about a crumpet. I want to know how to make tea the way Brits do. So, I ask questions. Tons. And, somehow my sister Tiffany and the supervisor for my internship, Jenny, are withstanding the barrage. The nice thing is that I'm a quick learner, so as I get into a groove my questions become more refined, though probably not less in number.

Even sitting alone on a train staring out the window, I find myself wondering what it is that makes someone want to become an conductor/engineer. Suddenly, I'll snap back to reality and realize I've been following that train (ahem) of thought for the last thirty minutes and nearly missed my stop. I really only need a moment of wondering to find myself wandering in a world of questions.

I love to think. I love people. And, I love, love to figure things out. There's something about this time here that is allowing me to do all these things in a gratifying way. It's like I can think a little clearer since I know I'm only here for a set period of time. And, in that clarity, I have time for adventure.

Walking on the wild...er, left side

There are many wonderful things about being in the UK: delicious tea, train rides, gorgeous accents, kind people, the list goes on. However, there is one thing I can't get over. Every time I am walking down the street or through a frenetic tube station (imagine the T with an English accent and a sense of punctuality) I run into people. I mean physically, awkwardly, nearly head on. Immediately after the collision, I mumble a sorry and am usually met with a sweet accent saying, "No worries."

It's not that I'm still a country bumpkin (though I am). No. I've learned how to blend in a little better than that since living in Boston. I've gotten pretty good at navigating crowded places. I've even managed to fine tune my subway etiquette, knowing when to call for a stop, how long to wait before boarding, etc. It's not my etiquette that's messing me up. Indeed not. It's that I cannot for the life of me remember to pass on the left (my left, their right). I've gotten to the point where I almost remember which way to look when crossing the street, and I walk to the correct side of the car, but walking? I'm an utter mess. The strange part is this comical fumbling reminds me that I am a foreigner, that I don't belong here. I am not bothered by this fact, though. It's not that the reminder resounds in the voices of angry villagers threatened by an intruder, but instead a gentle nudge, a soft reminder that this place is not, cannot be, my forever home.

I'm not sure what to make of this feeling yet. I've been thinking a great deal about what I should write. Yet the words just seem to not want to come at all. Or rather, they want to flood forward, denying any form or function. Who am I to demand order? So, I leave you with this to ponder on: As I sat in the train making my way back to London from Cambridge, I was struck by the fields of bright, red poppies. The flowers demanded my attention and my admiration, as if they were a thousand six year olds in fine red dresses playing at tea time. How can such a lovely thought filled with images unfamiliar to myself not bring into clarity the foreignness of this place and the places that remain foreign within me?

Riding Solo

I stuffed myself, my carry-on, and my “personal item” (which certainly stretched the meaning of the term) into a bathroom stall. Once I made it past the door, I realized I actually couldn’t turn around. My bags pressed tight against my body and I realized that unless I had magically learned to pee standing up, I was facing the wrong direction. Determined not to be bested by this airport bathroom, I dropped one shoulder, slid my carry-on down my arm, and turned quickly. Yeah. I’m pretty sure I would make an awesome ninja. As I hung my personal item (a giant bag that I use for farmer’s markets and as a very large purse) on a hook, I smiled to myself.

I squeezed out of the stall and fumbled toward the sink. Washing my hands, I glanced at the women who were unencumbered with luggage. Some were accompanied by friends, partners, or sisters who held their bags just inside the bathroom. On my way out, I spotted the other accomplices—husbands and fathers, arms crossed leaning against piles of luggage. Instead of feeling jealous of their companions, I felt relieved to be alone. Solo travel means for me constant adventure from mundane challenges (like my bathroom dance) to time on trains to think and write.

As I sit on the train en route to Cambridge for the first day of my internship, I can’t help but feel that I love this. Some part of my heart misses my friends and family and I can barely stand to be away from Ace (though some puppy companions here have eased the pain). But that aching doesn’t change the fact that I am already happy here. I know that doesn’t mean I always will be or that this is a permanent move I should make. I’m aware that there will be days where this is no longer fun and that if this were my “forever” it would likely become tedious and mundane.

For now, though, I am enjoying this ride alone on a train in England. The countryside is unfolding as we leave London and I can’t help but feel happy. Maybe one day I will get to share this place with one of you or someone special, but for now it’s mine and I don’t mind keeping it that way.

No place is a good place.

The sun beat down, reflecting off two thousand bicycle helmets. After seven days filled with rain warnings, clouds, and fog, I tried to relish in the warmth. My legs ached and my skin was sticky with sunblock. Somehow, though, this was heaven. My little sister Melissa on my left, my aunt and uncle behind me, thousands of riders, roadies and supporters surrounding all of us--I felt like I belonged there. My heart swelled with pride. I had ridden 545 miles of hills, flats, coastline, city streets, and highway in seven days. I had fallen down and gotten back up. I had been helped with flats and encouraged to get back on the bike even when every cell in my body begged for a break.

Everything melted away in that moment and what remained were my tears. I cried from exhaustion. I cried in remembrance of those we've lost to AIDS. I cried because I knew how lucky I was to ride alongside my uncle. I cried because my family and friends were there to watch me. I cried because my grandfather was not. I cried because I had accomplished something amazing. And, I cried because my utopia was fading.

Six days later and I am still searching for the right words to describe the AIDS/Lifecycle ride. It was only seven days, but it felt like longer. It felt almost like a lifetime, not only because it was challenging, but also because it was its own little world. I could tell you a minute account of each day and what we ate, where we stopped, who I met and what was most memorable from that day, but from climbing hills to coasting on flats, you still would not see the big picture.

This was a place where when I didn't know if I could ride any longer because my legs felt like they would fall off, I could hear the echoes of "Ow," "Oh God," and "We can do it!" reverberating through camp. I've never felt so encouraged in my life. I kept thinking that I just had to keep going, but the truly astonishing thing was that I didn't. I could "sag" at any moment and a bus would take me the rest of the way to camp. Everyday I had a good excuse to. My bike slipped its chain. I felt dehydrated. My Achilles tendons were inflamed. And everyday, I met those challenges. I took my bike to get fixed. I drank an extra bottle of water and forced myself to drink even more on the road. A wonderful Sports Medicine staff member wrapped my feet and gave me tips for stretching. The resources were there for me and I rose to meet each day.

While the ride certainly meant a great deal to me for what I accomplished, it meant (and means) even more for the fact that it was ultimately not about me. I felt that for once, I was doing something truly unselfish. I've been around the world and am on my way to finishing my second degree, but for a few months of training and fundraising and one week of heaven, it was not about me. So, when I found myself grumpy or tired or asking my uncle too many questions, I was able to take a step back and breathe. It simply wasn't about me. This was about fighting back against this pandemic. This was about encouraging all those living with HIV/AIDS and preventing the spread of the infection. I am a better person for having completed the ride, but it is good to know that that's not why I did it. I got on the bike for one reason: love. I love my uncle and I committed to being there with him. I stayed on the bike for so many more: pride, fun, joy, mourning, faith, and the Utopian community that evolved before my eyes.

When I studied Greek in college,  my professor once explained the term utopia. "Topos means place, but the u is tricky. It could be the u for eu, which means good. Or it could be the u for ou--no place." Now, Greek was certainly not my strong suit. In fact, I often reflect on that course as the single worst decision I made in undergrad. But I'd like to argue that utopia can be a place that is at once good and non-existent, or even good because it is in some sense non-existent. For me, the ride was utopia because it was a temporary place, both from day to day (since camp constantly moved down the coast) and in the sense that as I sit here in San Francisco, I cannot locate "the ride." I cannot go there. I cannot send a letter to someone there. For utopia to exist for even a moment, it must necessarily be in a state of disappearing, slipping away from and evading the constraints of our world.

The ride lives now in photos, memories and the thirteen million dollars we raised to end AIDS.
 It lives in us now, hopefully bringing to our lives the strength that comes from knowing we can face the challenges that come our way, the commitment to ending this pandemic, and the faith that together we can make this world a better place. A place free of AIDS--a place where our temporary utopia can be a place of celebration. Until then, I can't help but believe that "no place" is good place. A very good place indeed.

At the top of the evil twins (two tall hills we climbed) and halfway to LA!

Butterflies

So, I'm officially nervous. In five days, I start my 545 mile bike ride through California. And, today, I am sick. I've been feeling not-so-good since Sunday. Maybe it's the nerves. Maybe it's still that the school year just ended (relatively speaking). Or maybe I'm just sick. Whatever it is, it's really not helping with the nerves.

But, if I've learned one thing in my life it's that freaking out never helps. So, I'm letting the upset tummy and lethargy serve as a guide to rest, to store up strength, to prepare for the big ride. It won't be easy. I know that. But, I've trained all I possibly could and now this is mine to face. I'll be there with 2500 other riders who have worked hard and raised money relentlessly for months, but it will only be my internal store of strength and belief in myself that will carry me through that week and those miles. Well, and my assortment of Lara Bars.

So, I have some butterflies making a bit of a racket in my tummy. I would be concerned if they weren't! I've always fed off of nervous energy, seeing the tensing muscles and fluttering mind as a sign of my own cache of energy, ready to burst forth. As the days pass, I'm sure I'll get more and more nervous, building more and more energy. Hopefully, right when I need it, it will propel me into action. But, for now, the lethargy is holding me (and my energy) captive in my best friend's apartment in Denver. With hours of netflix and my big, fluffy dog. I can't help but see that this life is good.

Wish me luck. And, if you haven't donated to my participation yet, throw a few bones my way. Donate here.

Fighting Demons

I've been watching an inordinate amount of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Well, and Angel, the spin-off. As a child, I never watched the show. We didn't have television when I was a wee one and I think that perhaps it might have been a little too over my head, though I have a great number of friends who are my age and watched the show when it came out.

Watching the show fifteen years after it came out, I cannot believe how much I love it. A tiny blonde girl kicking serious demonic tail. She whines a lot, broods about, and continually pushes people away. And, I love her. I am compelled to defend Buffy when I talk to friends about the show and for someone who really hates television about high school (I did not really love it when I was there, so not a huge fan of re-living it), I cannot stop watching. I don't want to.

Buffy has special powers. She is special. Her gift and her duty is to fight vampires and evil, but it also means she has to fight evil. There are times where she tries to change her calling, or to avoid fighting, but she is always called back. Sometimes her friends and family need her protection and sometimes evil comes to her doorstep. There are innumerable waves of demons she must face. But, even the worst evil that is outside of her cannot compare to what she fights inside.

She has to come to terms with her gifts and responsibility while continuing to develop as a person. She must learn to rely on the people around her. She must learn to love and trust her family and her friends. She must learn that what is inside her, her own strength, is the only thing that will carry her through the darkest nights and battles. She cannot do it alone, yet she must learn to harness her own inner strength. The demons inside her remind me of St. Teresa's book The Interior Castle, where the scariest thing one must face lies within.

Maybe it is no coincidence or surprise that at this time in my life where I am trying to understand my own self and my calling in life that I have stumbled upon Buffy and her interior struggle. I am busy fighting my own demons both within and without. Coming to terms with what gifts I might have, what my connection to my friends and family means, and what my "call" might look like (Good lord...I've been in Divinity School for entirely too long)--all this seems to be reflected in the story of Buffy and her friends.

But as for me, why be mysterious? Why not come clean to my loyal audience? Well, suspense is what brings the fun to life (and makes someone compulsively watch television). I guess you'll just have to tune in again soon to know what I'm thinking and what form it takes. For once, I'm taking time arrange my hand, holding my cards close to my chest until the moment is right. But, I promise, eventually the time will come when I have to be all in. But until then, my chips and my time are precious and I won't go wasting either on anything but a full house.

Mist

I've always believed that there are certain days I feel older. They are not frequent, but they are real. For the first time in my life, such a day has fallen on my birthday. I am 25 today. A quarter of a century lived. A half of a graduate degree finished. A whole life lived daily. An expansive heart, ready for adventure.

For the last three years on my birthday, I have gotten up early to watch the sun rise. In Colorado, it was on top of the chapel, facing Pike's Peak. The sun would come into sight and Colorado would be reborn, washed in light. This morning was much different. I rose at the appropriate hour, walked to the top of the hill behind my house and climbed the tower. From that vantage point, I have spent many nights looking out over the cities of Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston. This morning, though, all were obscured.

A thick mist has settled here. I could see no further than the stoplight by my house clearly and could only make out buildings a block further than that. Even as the sun rose higher, the mist diffused the light, keeping the world a dull gray. At first, I was saddened, wondering if I would even actually get to see the sun rise. I wondered if this is how the future looks right now, blurry and uncertain, obscured by humidity and broken light. Then more mist rolled in. I watched the clouds of moisture press into the rest of the mist. I had thought there were no way for it to become mistier, but it had. In that excess, I began to see the mist not as obstructing my view, but instead as comprising my view.

As I walked home from my sun rise celebration, I remembered that mist was part of what I loved most about Ireland. I loved the way it made the most mundane activities mystical and made belief in faeries not just possible, but requisite. Seeing the mist again through this memory, I glanced once more upon the metaphor for my future. Yes, it's unclear, but not in a despairing way. The sun is rising, infusing water and fire to light up the very air. Life is not hidden, but instead omnipresent. Taking mist as the object of my gaze, I begin to see that the future is not some scary place out there, but instead a time and space as close to me as the curtains of water droplets welcoming me into the second quarter century of my life.

Miles of Appreciation

Yesterday as I left my house to go for a ride, I slipped a chain. Somehow my chain had gotten beneath the little rubber piece that is supposed to keep the chain from getting that low. Ridiculous. I figured this out about a block from my house, so I pulled over and tried to see if I could just yank the chain through. Anyone with any finesse in this world should be appalled at my tactics, but I grew up with a lot of brawn and little patience. For the most part, I don't live from that place anymore, but when I feel without direction, boom. I'm right back at ten-year-old, red in the face with anger, fighting back tears Sierra, trying to force the chain through. Luckily I remembered that I am (almost) 25 and not ten any longer, so I took a deep breath and assessed the situation.

I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.

I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.

I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.

Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.

My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?

So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.

Fear of the Rain

Somewhere in the middle of who-knows-where-Massachusetts, the sky opened up. An hour and a half into my bike ride I was faced with my worst fear--rain.

Earlier in the morning I had stood at my bedroom window, decked out in my cycling gear, trying to judge the clouds. "Is it supposed to rain?" I asked my roommate.

"Maybe in the late evening, but only a little," he replied.

I stood for a while longer, contemplating the temperament of the sky. Would it hold out until I arrived in Ipswich or would the clouds rumble with anger, pouring down upon me and my bike? Unsure, I decided to risk it. Better to ride and turn around before reaching my ideal length than not to ride at all. As I got onto Georgiana, my bike, I hoped for clear weather.

In the rain twenty miles from home, my hopes failed. Water running down my face, I wondered, Do I turn around or do I go on? Will the rain get worse? Unable to decide, I kept pushing.

After a few minutes, I realized that I could keep going. The rain was not so bad. I smiled to myself and pulled out a Lara bar for a snack. As I munched on that delicious mixture of almonds and dates, I believed for the first time that I could actually complete the 545 mile ride from San Francisco to LA.

Laughing, I realized that my training thus far had been a series of thinking of the worst possible thing that could happen on that day's ride, hoping it wouldn't, and then facing it. When I first got my bike, I had hoped I wouldn't get a flat. Then, I did. And my roommate showed me how to fix it. On the next ride, I had hoped that the route wouldn't be too difficult. Then for forty of the sixty miles, I climbed up and descended down steep hills. On this rainy day, I had hoped for clear skies and been met with April's showers.

I feel that training has become this opportunity to face my deepest fears and defeat them. I can ride in the rain. I can ride hills. I can fix a flat. If all that is true, then maybe I really can do this. Maybe I can bike 545 miles in seven days. And, if I can do that, then what can't I do? It really seems that the world is opening up in a whole new way for me and, maybe for the first time ever, I really believe that I can get whatever I want from it. Now, I just have to decide. Not a bad place to be. Not a bad place at all.

A week off

My house is a mess. I'm half asleep. My dog is sprawled out on my bed with Mr. Moose. It is that time of the semester. Only this time, it is summed in two words instead of one: writing and riding. I'm on my bike or in the books.

I hope you will allow me this week off (since I already missed my post day) and know that I will be back with something really good next week. Until then, look at this cutie.

A final month...

In exactly one month from today, I will mark the end of the first quarter century of my life. Unlike other years spent celebrating my birthday through parties and lots of attention, I will spend my 25^th birthday in quiet reflection on a 90-mile ride (likely followed by a couple of celebratory pints). Ha!

That said, this year instead of anyone buying gifts or throwing a party (with all the monetary concerns that creates) I ask that everyone consider donating to my participation in the ride. I am 45% of the way to my goal and I would love your support to help me finish raising $3000 that will go to the San Francisco Aids Project.

I know that my second quarter century is going to be filled with amazing accomplishments and adventures. How could it not be when the first year will be filled with the ALC Ride, spending my summer in the UK working for the EEFC, and finishing my Masters degree at Harvard?

Here's to my final month of being twenty four!

Community

I love this word. Community. I think it covers all manners of evil, but I think it also fills in for spaces where  we're not sure what to say or write. This weekend, I witnessed the evolution of the latter from what has sometimes been the unfortunate happenstance of the former.

My desire to be a part of creating and facilitating community came to fruition in a unique and real way this weekend. There is a group of us here at the Divinity School who are striving to foster the development of spirituality and sexuality in a common space and we took the weekend to go on a retreat to talk about what this all means. To me, this is one of the most ambitious and awe-inspiring missions I have ever seen take flight.

We talked about ourselves and each other, our pasts and our futures, our gifts and our curses. I laughed and I cried (because I'm a baby). I shared and I hid. Something revolutionary is in the making here at HDS and I am so lucky to be a part of the greatness. As I write this terribly vague description, I am reminded of the the fact that this revolution is likely taking place inside me, too. I feel that I am finding my voice and my place and my gifts and my calling to come forth into the world in new and exciting ways constantly.

I am putting in the time to cultivate the skills that I want to take forward into the future, but I am also embracing the rainfall and the sunshine that are limiting and necessary parts of this process. I am not a lone farmer, fighting the elements alone. I am, instead, part of a community here and in the world at large. Together, we will raise the crops to sustain us.

Yours in sleepy serenity.

From bikes to protests to the UK

This has been a crazy week of highs and lows, and I'm not just talking about the weather! Now that I've typed that, I realize that you can't actually see me leaning forward and winking. It's a joke that really only works with the visual effect. And, with being present in Boston....Well, I guess that's one way to start my fifty-first entry.

Despite that bad joke, it really has been a week to remember. It started fine with me kicking my training into high gear. With only 63 days until we hit the road, there's really no time to waste (and that goes for fundraising, too. If you haven't yet, will you please consider donating to the cause?). My training schedule has me either cycling or running six days a week, which has kicked my metabolism up a notch as well. Basically, I've been eating anything and everything constantly. Lots of black beans in this girl's diet at the moment.

My coursework seems to have entered a particularly intense phase lately as well. I spend almost the entirety of my weekend reading and writing for class, followed by a whirlwind of a Monday through Wednesday shoving information into my tiny brain. I'm enjoying the majority of my reading and almost all of my class time, but it has definitely lost the shiny quality school had a few months ago.

At the height of the intensity of courses and training on Wednesday morning, I got a flat tire. On my new bike. While my other bike was in the shop for a flat tire. I was devastated. There is something about the way a bike with a flat makes that dull thud sound that just rips my soul open. I cannot even begin to describe the utter horror of that moment of realization--not a flat! Of course, I had waited until the absolute last second to leave my apartment to go to school, so I was completely stressed out of my head. Piled on top of that was my general exhaustion from training and the long trek toward spring (every time I think we've arrived, it seems there is another snow storm around the bend. I've come to believe spring doesn't exist in Boston).

In the midst of juggling classes, training, and work, I got involved with a protest. This weekend a conference was organized on Harvard's campus that featured some of the most virulently homophobic and Islamophobic speakers I've ever had the great pleasure of meeting. I stood alongside many peers and friends from the Divinity School, the Extension School, and the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences to educate, raise awareness, and hold the speakers and the conference organizers responsible. We even got our letter published on Change.org. It was a hugely challenging and monumentally rewarding effort that involved a less than friendly interaction with the police (but I guess that's what happens when you represent a threat to the authoritative structures).

Now that I've drawn the concentric circles of my week, I can tell you about the nugget in the middle. I was awarded a grant to work in the UK at the East of England Faiths Council from mid-June through the end of August! I am so excited about the work I will be doing there (which includes research and outreach, duh, my two favorite things) and the people I will be getting to work with. Furthermore, I think spending a summer trying my hand at this will give me a chance to see if this is work I could do on a full-time scale. And, who doesn't want to spend a summer with the Brits? Think of all the tea I'll drink!

Don't worry about Ace. He'll be spending the summer learning and growing in Colorado with Aunt Chloe and Cousin Barney. I think he'll be glad to be away from the Bostonian humidity and heat (if we were both going to be here for the summer, I was going to shave him...which probably would have been hilarious).

I've got quite a summer ahead of me it seems. There's a lot to do between now and then, but for the rest of this weekend, I plan on basking in the excitement. And, maybe looking up the rules to Settlers of Catan so I can beat Hunter and Tex next time we play.

Barney

While in Colorado, I spent the majority of my time with my dear Chloe and her dear Barney. This lovely gentleman is a 10 year old pug who was rescued from a puppy mill situation. He had been studding for the entirety of his life, but had escaped his entrapments and was found running down the street. The woman who found both Barney and his mate had been fostering the ol' gent when Chloe found out about him. And now, seven months later, Chloe and Barney are in love.

Of course, it's not all sunshine and roses. Barney is old and has a lot of health problems. Chloe is young and very active. But, somehow, they make sense. Being with them reminded me of how much I love Ace and the amazing trials and growth that come from letting a dog into your life (and if I may be mushy, heart).

Before I left for Colorado, Ace and I were standing in the backyard. It was a frigid Bostonian evening, but I had wanted to give my dear boy one last chance to relieve himself and sniff around. As he was examining his favorite nooks and crannies of the backyard we share with the rest of the apartment complex,  a man chanced to walk by. Because we had just run out for a moment, Ace was off-leash and the gate was wide open.

I froze. I hoped that Ace would not see the man and tried to reposition myself between Ace and the open gate. Too late. He set off at a pace that I couldn't help but admire. I called out to the stranger, "He's a nice dog. I promise. He won't hurt you. He just doesn't like strangers."

I wanted to call after Ace, but by this point I knew it was futile. Ace is not a huge fan of the "come" command and less so when I sound upset. I rushed out the gate toward both Ace and the strange man. Still a good twenty yards away, the man responded, "Don't worry. I have dogs. It's ok."

"ACE," I yelled. "COME."

Before I could take another step, Ace dropped his tail, turned around quickly, and trotted right back to me. I was so shocked that he had responded that I didn't know what to do. I looked at the man and apologized. I looked at Ace and simply said, "Good boy. Thank you for coming back. Oh and making me look like a fool."

As we turned toward our apartment, that moment lingered with me. Actually, Ace had not made me look like a fool. There was nothing foolish about that encounter. I probably shouldn't have left the gate open, sure. If I hadn't, though, I wouldn't know now that Ace can come back. I wouldn't know that I can be that vulnerable and open to disaster and somehow the world could not fall apart. Maybe leaving the gate open was an accident, but maybe I left the gate open because I trust Ace. And, in the end, I have to trust him and myself, and the universe. Because bad things may happen or greatness may happen, but neither can possibly take place if I try to control everything. Life inherently denies anyone control. That's half the fun.

When I think of Chloe and Barney, I can't help but see the same principle in action. Despite his age or any illness, Chloe has taken Barney into her home. At first, I saw this as some benevolent act of bearing witness as a good dog fades into old age. Examined in light of my experience with Ace, though, I know that really, Chloe has embraced the uncontrollable nature of life and love (even with a dog). I admire her so much for this commitment to Barney and to allowing a dog so different from herself change her life daily. These little four-legged buddhas crawl into our lives, hog our beds, and pry open the dark recesses of our hearts, showing us how to just let go, take a risk, and trust in life.

How lucky are we?

Barney is a rather splendid co-pilot. Er, well, backseat driver.

Too cute.

He's hunting geese as if he were a spry eight year old.

Everything Will Be Okay

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I sit in bed with my lovely dog curled up at my feet. The life we lead is not so bad. It's been an amazing spring break (filled with a whole week in Colorado for me!), but it's time to get back to the grindstone, the books, and training for the ride (donate here to help me keep motivated).

I've been up late studying--reading articles and books about sight, knowledge, and ineffability. Ace has been enjoying the finer points of a life of leisure, namely sleeping. As I try to quiet my brain to join him for morning dreams scripted by my unconscious, I cannot help but feel content.

The last few weeks have been a bit uncomfortable. After deciding not to pursue a PhD for the time being, I've been engaged in the process of disseminating this information to those I love. While the emotion has mostly been one of relief, I have also felt nervous about telling my mentors from college, including my advisor. It turns out I had myself all worked up for nothing. Everyone expressed support, love, and hope for me. To think, I could tell people I have less of an idea of what I want to "do" with my life and more confidence about how I want to "be" and that they would listen to all my hippie dippy nonsense and then encourage me? To see (and be seen!) so completely without a bunch of inner turmoil and self-flagellation is truly refreshing. As my chaplain and friend put it, "It's nice to be able to change without going through crisis."

In the wake of this proclamation, I have come down with a cold. Maybe it's a consequence of all my jet-setting, or perhaps it has to do with the changing weather, but part of me wonders if it's all connected. Perhaps I'm having what my dear qi gong teacher, Ellie, would call a qi reaction, or what I might call, my body-expurgating-some-built-up-gunk. Maybe at the same time that my head came to a revelation, my heart and body jumped on board. Or maybe it's foolish to think my head was ever the one steering, at least not these days. More likely, my heart has been at the helm all along. It just took my head a while to catch up and now my body can relax and swab the decks (to stick with the boat metaphor).

I think one of my greatest fears was letting people down by sharing the next step of my path with them without actually knowing why or what might come after. The outpouring of unadulterated support is echoed in the words of my advisor, who after a talk over lunch said to me, "My suspicion is that you'll find revelations where ever you go."

To be so loved and to have so much certainty in who I am expressed by those I admire most is humbling.   Yet, somehow, it affirms what I already know about myself: No matter what, I will be okay. My heart encompasses wide expanses that I have yet to travel, as does the world. In the years to come, I hope to explore both. And with a sidekick like this, how could I not believe that everything will be ok?

A few new paint strokes

About a year ago, after a break up, I met with my meditation teacher/friend. As I cried and mourned the loss of that relationship, she told me that sometimes freedom comes at the cost of loss. She also explained that an ending can be an opportunity for opening doors that have been closed. “In our lives, we get to paint many paintings. We just have to choose which one we want to hang in the center.”


At that time, it struck me as a poignant reminder to think of my life as more than just a relationship that was ending. Now, I am returning to this metaphor as I think about my future.

I have decided to step back from the painting I have been focusing on. The picture is not complete, but I think that it might be time to relocate this large canvass that has occupied my field of vision. I’m not discarding the work over which I have toiled; rather, it’s time to pull the painting down and place it to the side of something new.

This new canvass is not blank. I am not starting over. There are many strokes already filling the borders of this work. In fact, many of the techniques I learned from what used to hang in the center (academia) will be utilized in this new space (yet to be named). Eventually, these strokes and techniques will come together to complete another scene, another dream for my life.

Being back in Colorado has given me the chance to reflect on the questions I’ve been asking myself since the winter break over coffee and meals shared with the people I love. The long conversations with my good friends and my mentors have helped me to find the words to describe a decision that I feel was made back in December. After I graduate from HDS, I will not immediately enroll in a PhD program. At this point, I do not think I want to make my career in academia. This is not to say I have abandoned the project or that I suddenly no longer want to be a professor. I do. It’s just that I’m realizing more and more that there are things I need to do before returning to the classroom (to be 100% clear: I am not leaving my program or regretting any decisions I have made to date. Just reassessing).

Maybe I’ll be out in the “real world” (silly phrase that that is) for a year and decide that it’s time to get a PhD. Maybe I’ll get a PhD in a research field and then work with faith communities to help them strengthen relations with members. Maybe I’ll be a professor when I’m 60 at a community college in Denver. Who knows? And, I believe I don’t need to know now.

There is no blueprint dictating how I build my life. For me, living is not a fulfilling of plans already made. Instead, it is something to be lived—truly an ever changing canvass. Some days, the picture may be unclear or fuzzy, which might scary. Others, I might think I know what’s coming into focus, just to find that something entirely different fills the edges of the frame. And, should I ever find that the picture has become something I no longer enjoy, there are an infinite number of dreams to be dreamed, and plenty of paint with which to fill a new canvass.

A strange concoction called "adulthood"

Today, I did my laundry, took my taxes to the post office to mail them (and promptly left because the line was nearly out the door), made my first successful omelet, called one of my parents to wish him happy birthday (on time!), turned in a paper that was due today, and am currently working on another paper I have due on Monday. Somehow, with all that I’ve accomplished by three p.m., I still got in a walk with Ace, a cup of tea, and wrote this entry. In the strange mix of grown up tasks and infantilizing schoolwork, I can now see that this is my version of adulthood.

I know I’ve blogged about this before, but it’s amazing to realize that I’m growing up. You know the saying that a watched pot never boils? Well, I’ve been waiting for my adulthood to “boil” since I was thirteen. And as soon as I looked away, that sucker hit 212*F (if adulthood is comprised of the same material as water, which I assume it is).

I’m not sure that this is exactly what I had in mind when I was daydreaming as a little girl, but perhaps, as my dear friend Ursula put it, there is not some “real life” out there waiting to be attained by me. I cannot continually imagine a far distant future and wait until I get there to be happy. Happiness is something deeper, more everlasting than that. Or maybe there is another term like “joy”, or “contentedness.” Maybe I should ask a Buddhist.

Whatever you call it, I think I have it. Or at least some version of it. That’s not to say that I don’t still worry (about bills, about school, about Ace’s ear infections) or that I don’t experience sadness (I’m still mourning the loss of my grandfather), but its something that lies beneath that.

A strange example of this was when I was speaking with someone about the death of my grandfather and my choice to miss a week of school. She said to me, “Well, you’re an adult. You’re making the choices that seem right despite the consequences because it is your education.” And, I agree. There is something about the death of my grandfather that has aged me markedly. In a real way, it’s as if his death has forced me to look at what I’m doing with my life and to ask: Why? This is a scary feeling. To think that I’m not sure why I’m doing what I’m doing, to think that perhaps somewhere along the way I lost track of what I wanted from life, to think that maybe I missed my stop. Beneath all those flittering emotions, though, there’s a vast ocean of certainty that I am going to be ok. No. Even more. That I am continually and always will be ok.

And, maybe, this is what it means to grow up—to lose the people you love, to lose pieces of yourself, to learn how much more expansive you can be. When I was in California looking through photos for my grandfather’s slideshow at the funeral, I was struck by the diversity of shots. There were so many I’d never seen. I saw a photo of him with his parents, and found the program from his mother’s funeral, which he kept in his sock drawer so that he might see it everyday. I saw photos of him with three different wives at different stages of his life, and I saw so, so many photos of him happy. If nothing else, these photos were a testament to the great expansive sphere of his life. I was lucky to occupy a portion of it, but to know that he had so much more comes as a great comfort. So, as I grow up, I am looking to his example: To mourn those I love. To love and love again. And, to let myself touch and be touched by so many people that my grandchildren will look around at my funeral in awe of the memories each heart holds.

November 25, 1939-January 16, 2011

Today, we held my grandfather's memorial service. It was a lovely way of remembering him and as part of the service, I offered the following:

When I think of my grandfather, I think of Pops because that’s what I called him. I think of eating cartons of Cookies and Crème ice cream just between the two of us.

I think about how honest he was and how he once made my uncle Brandon drive all the way across town to give money back to someone who had given him incorrect change.

I think about the fact that he was one of the most loving people I have ever known and how he was one of the only constant figures throughout my life. When I was two, he brought my sister, Ashleigh, and I into his house. It wasn’t like he had a lot of room. He had two sons, Brandon and Keith, at home. He’d already been a father to so many, but he was ready to be a grandfather to me.

I think about how stubborn he was and how stubborn I’ve always been. When I lived with him, I was obsessed with the neighbor’s lawn figurine. It was a squirrel and I stole it on a regular basis. Every time It mysteriously made its way to our house, my grandfather made sure it was returned to its rightful owner. And every time it made its way back to its rightful owner, I made sure it found its way back to me. Our game continued while I lived with them. Later when they moved into the house on Berkeley, he made sure their backyard had a little squirrel so that I would never have to return to my days of thievery.

But, above all I think of his change jar. Maybe it seems trite or self-serving, but a glass jar half-filled with coins is my symbol of Pops. Ever since I was a tiny child, Pops would gather his change for me. As he drove across California and the Western United States, he would save his pockets full of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. I imagine his pants hung heavy with the coins jingling. Lugging those little bits of currency and love back home, he would return to the woman he loved most in the world. In the last decade, his return was welcomed by two yapping dogs alongside my grandmother. As he dumped the metal coinage into the jar, he not only saved up money, but also hope.

Until my sister moved to Fresno, we would split the coins from the jar, but once I was the prodigal granddaughter returning from afar, the coins became all mine. When I was fifteen and sixteen, the money was a welcome boost to my spending money for my trips to California. As I’ve aged, the rolling of coins and the clang of the coin counter became vastly more important than the amount of change collected. The time spent in my grandparents’ bedroom—a place that had always held the mystical charm of adulthood—meant so much more than a couple dollars in my pocket.

I know now that every coin was a hope and prayer for me. It was a dream saved that I might one day cash in. Every time he made it safely home, he was storing up safe returns for me. As I traveled around the country and the world, he was bringing little pieces of his travels back for me. No matter how alone or afraid I have felt, I have always known that he was here, saving up good things for me.

The fact that he always saved those coins is a testament to the fact that he believed in me. He believed in all of us. Because we’re a family. We may not all share DNA, or common goals, or communal memories. But we share him. We share Pops and the love he had for all of us. We were so lucky to have him in our lives as long as we did, but it’s our turn now. It’s our turn to collect the coins of our lives, whatever form they may take. It’s our turn to save up hopes and dreams for ourselves and each other because that’s what a family does and Pops would have wanted it that way.

Regret and Forgiveness

I could tell by his tone that my grandfather was annoyed with me. He looked at me and said, "I don't know why you keep crying." As I started to weep, I told him through the tears, "I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry. I can't make anything better.  And, you're gone."

Suddenly, I was choking on air. My chest was heaving and I was in a dark room. I had been dreaming, but the fact that it was a dream didn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. For what seemed like an eternity, I could not stop my chest from heaving lying on my back on an inflatable mattress in San Francisco. I had seen my grandfather and I had had a chance to talk to him.

Over the winter holiday, my grandfather and I had argued about my "theories" and my answers for everything. His attitude had hurt my feelings immensely and felt like such a dismissal of all my hard work. I left California more than a little frustrated with him. The past few weeks this feeling has plagued me. I feel like such a jerk for taking his comments at face value. Instead of understanding that perhaps my grandfather was trying to relate to a whole world he didn't have any conception of, I treated his response as if he were an ignorant simpleton. What a fool I was.

I've been trying to put a word on what I'm feeling and it comes down to disbelief. I can't believe my grandfather is gone and that I'll never see him again. I can't believe one of the last times I ever talked to him was a fight. Above all, I can't believe that for a second I was foolish enough to think he wasn't infinitely proud of me.

My dream may have been just that, a dream, but now it feels like a sort of forgiveness, as if that dream gave me a chance to talk to him. To tell him I'm sorry. It has given me a way to understand my own grief. Maybe it is also a chance to understand that families fight and that for all his frustration with me, that my grandfather was proud. For Christmas, I got him a Harvard t-shirt and he loved it. He wore it the next day and made sure that everyone we were with took note of his shirt and told them about his granddaughter who goes to Harvard.

Unlike the dream, the reason I'm crying now, here in this Starbucks in Fresno, California is because I love my grandfather. I am crying because it is hard to say goodbye. And, I'm crying because my heart hurts.

Silence, Or: it seems like theological school is getting to me...

I'm settling in for an afternoon of reading Simone de Beauvoir with a cup of hot chocolate. I just walked home from Davis Square and there's just enough of a chill in the air for my cheeks to be burning. After a week of spring like weather, it feels like late winter again here in Somerville. I'm grateful for the decline in temperature as it is helping me stay on task with my reading. Don't get me wrong: I love Simone de Beauvoir and everything she writes seems like pure gold to me, but it's just hard to concentrate right now. Above all, it's Saturday and I have never been a productive person on Saturdays. Put on top of that the fact that I leave for California tomorrow to be with my family through my grandfather's funeral on Saturday and you've got a recipe for laziness.  If the weather were nice, too, I would be hopeless.

My hot chocolate, my reading chair, the howling wind, and my handsome dog make it all a little easier, though. There's something comforting about being alone with just the sounds of the world to distract me. It reminds me of the story of Elijah listening for the voice of God (1 Kings 19:11-14). God was not in the wind, nor the earthquake, nor the fire, but instead in the silence. Perhaps I've been studying too much Negative Theology, but there is something deeply confounding, yet peaceful about that idea. After all the years I've spent learning to read, write, and speak, there are things that are best expressed in the silence. For a girl who has spent most of her life talking and trying to express herself adequately, it comes as a great relief to know that with all the power and might that Elijah's God had, he expressed himself in silence. But the silence did not last. After Elijah entered the cave, God spoke. Not only did he speak, he asked Elijah a question.

I think perhaps I am in a phase of silence in some aspects of my life, but I must have faith that as with Elijah, the silence will not last. While I'm not waiting for the voice of God to tell me of the anointing of kings and the destruction of a ton of people, I am waiting for my own still, small voice echoing in the cave.

Or to stick more closely to the story, I guess I'm waiting for the question. And I will wait in the silence as long as it takes.

Taking a cue from Ronnie

I've been under a dark cloud this week (as you can tell from my last post). Most of my time has been spent alone with Ace and countless hours have been consumed with collecting, organizing, and reading materials for my classes. It turns out, there is no space on syllabi for heartbreak. So, basically, I've been one giant ball of stress. The other night, I was trying to open a bag of salad and nearly lost my mind. My dear Hunter came to my rescue, opened it in about 2 seconds without a word of judgement, and handed it back to me. I felt embarrassed at my short temper and frustrated that it was so easy for him to open it. Graciously, we both ignored the situation and discussed our school work.

Yesterday, in the middle of one of my stormy moments staring at the computer, the much beloved Ronnie burst into the Religious and Spiritual Life Office. Ronnie works in the mailroom here at HDS and pops in the office to collect mail on a regular basis. But, he is so much more than that. To me, he feels like the soul of this place. He knows everyone's name (which has got to be a challenge, given how quickly the student body turns over), and if he happens to forget yours for a second, he feels awful. I love seeing Ronnie and dark cloud or no, this time was no different.

"Sierrah!" he said in his Bostonian accent.

"Hey Ronnie!" I said, "how are you?"

"Oh I'm good. It's Friday, you know."

With a deep sigh, I replied, "Well thank God for that. Any weekend plans, Ronnie?"

"You know Sierrah, I'm gonna sleep in tomorrow and then eat some scrambled eggs." And with that he was out the door, calling, "Have a good weekend, Sierrah!"

A simple comment about a simple plan. Ronnie's joy gave me pause.

This morning I slept in. When I woke up, I stayed in bed for another twenty minutes, talking to Ace. When I got out of bed, I rummaged the fridge to find the perfect ingredients for banana pancakes with honey-yogurt. A simple and delicious way to embrace a new day. And as I pull out my reading for today, I can't help but think of Ronnie, off somewhere enjoying his scrambled eggs.

Undertow

I keep hearing that grief comes in waves, as if I am sitting on the beach letting the water rush up around me. Growing up in the mountains of southern Colorado, I don't really know much about the ocean. I can remember clearly though my first grade teacher (or one of those early ones) talking about undertow. The way it was described to me was that you could be close enough to the shore to see people you love and then suddenly, a current could sweep you out and away. Even strong swimmers could be claimed by undertow.

This morning, I awoke to find an ambulance in our cul-de-sac. I didn't think much of it as I was trying to get Ace out for a morning run. After our run, some homework, and a change of clothes, I set out for my day. As I passed the house on the corner by our small park, I looked up. Two men, who I later recognized as part of the coroner's team, were carrying a black bag. I stared for a moment trying to decipher what was happening. I recognized the black shape from television shows like Dexter and CSI. I looked away quickly, shamed by my voyeuristic gaze. I had just seen a dead body, but what right did I have to witness the last time this man would leave his home?

I've been troubled by this event all day. There was something so unsanctified, unholy, irreverent about the whole thing. It seems unfair. A whole life ended today and there was no pomp or pageantry. No one wept in plain view. Just a bag and two profane pallbearers. Perhaps the worst part to me was my own presence. I had the distinct feeling that I should not have been there. Then again, I've been wondering, perhaps that's exactly where I needed to be. To bear witness to the literal passing of a life before my eyes. To be present for the death of a stranger in a way I couldn't be present for my own grandfather's death.

It was only a moment. What could I really have seen or felt in a moment? How could I have been part of something significant in the time it takes to look away? Maybe it's okay not to know exactly what is happening. Maybe instead simple cognizance of change is what matters. And maybe the ways people--those we know and those we do not--touch us is beyond our control.

A package came to my grandmother's house last week. She opened the box to find my grandfather's Valentine's Day gift for her--three rings. As she told me this story, I started to cry. She said to me, "Everyday I got to say, 'I love you.' and 'Come back home safe.' And every night I got to kiss him and tell him I loved him. I knew him better than anyone. I was so lucky to love him." Even after his death, my grandfather is still touching the lives of everyone who knew him. I bought my bike this week and it feels cruel that I won't be able to share that with the man who helped buy it.

So maybe I am being pulled out from shore. Perhaps, though, this is the vantage point I need.