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.

Betwixt and Between Bus Stops

I'm in the process of writing applications, but they aren't quite done. Classes have begun, but two days were canceled because of snow. Ace has started his meds (for an ear infection), but it hasn't really started to make a difference. Everything is just in between.

I think Victor Turner might delight (or despair) in my use of his infamous term to describe my state (and title my entry), but his description of the initiates feels appropriate. As if I were on the edge of a revelation, as if I were to become part of something bigger, as if I were about to emerge as a new member of my "culture-sharing group," as if I were about to embark on a quest alone into the great big world--I must wait. That's not to say that I am idle. I am busy preparing statements, brainstorming, organizing readings, daydreaming about the future, and living here in Boston.

Since it's February and I'm finding Boston's weather to be rather brutal, I decided to buy a monthly bus pass. That's right: unlimited rides on the bus (if you grew up with public transit systems that are reliable--or existent!!--you don't understand the glory that is a Boston public bus). The pass seemed like the right choice given the fact that I start my training routine  in earnest this week (hear more about why I'm training here)and will likely have to spend late nights on campus poring over ancient texts (seriously, I have a class whose texts reach back all the way to Plato. Awesome.). For the most part the bus is relatively on time (in a five to ten minute window either way) and definitely toasty as compared to the whipping wind, biting frost, and sudden onslaught of rain that pervade this Bostonian winter. This evening in such weather, I made my way to the bus stop nearest the Divinity School two minutes before the bus was to arrive to take me home. I stood in the cold, bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten my hat and my gloves as drops of rain ran off my eyebrows.

I looked in the direction of the bus. Nothing. Car, car, bike, man with umbrella, car honking at man, car, car. I checked my watch. Should have been here five minutes ago. A car honked as it drove by. Well, I thought to myself. Perhaps I should wait a bit longer. As I stood there weighing my options, that old familiar feeling came over me. Somewhere between anticipation and indecision, I was perched on the edge of change and movement--the pause before the song, the deep inhale before the dive. I hesitated a moment longer and then, before I could even make my decision conscious I was walking through freezing rain and ice covered bricks back to my home. Slipping the whole way, there were moments of doubt. I would look over my shoulder and think, Man, should I have just waited a while longer? But even as I thought that, I realized that there was something very refreshing about a late night walk through the snow and ice with rain dropping on my head, as if I had really never experienced a moment like this before. Before even realizing that I had beat the bus home, I knew that I'd made the right choice.

The struggle between deciding to take the bus or walk has the same character to it that my life seems to have right now. I'm waiting for a lot to take form, both at Harvard and beyond, and that can be an uncomfortable stage for me. So often in my life, though, I've found that when I feel like I need to take some action, but I don't know what that action might be, that really I just need to wait. Give it a while to rest. Take a deep breath and see what comes of it.

I guess sometimes you have to wait for the bus just long enough to know that you're supposed to walk in the rain.

Feeding the demon

On the bus, bumping along foreign streets filled with brown brick buildings and their modern counterparts reaching ever towards the heavens from Harlem, my mind wanders. My four days spent predominately in Brooklyn with jaunts to Manhattan has given me a chance to clear my head and come to terms with this indescribable uneasiness that has doggedly pursued me for the last few weeks. After a few years of trying to ignore the hungry demon, he has reared his ugly head. I am officially under the influence of my favorite and most addicting drug: Wanderlust.


Since my return from the UK, I've felt agitated, but not in an angry way. I mean, agitated the same way a washing machine agitates. I've been stirred up. And, really, for the first time since the UK, I felt the calming of the demon. I know that it's only temporary and that I'll likely feel this way forever, but sitting on the bus on my way back from New York City, I had the chance to really reflect on what it is about travel that seems to bring me back to myself. It probably has something to do with the rhythm of buses and trains or even the fact that I literally can't escape my thoughts, especially because I get so motion sick if I read on a bus/train. There's also something remarkable about feeling completely out of place. I loved walking around New York, knowing that I stuck out like a sore thumb--a very happy, brightly dressed, sore thumb.


The wanderlust is about all that, but also about so much more, at least for me. I've wanted to live abroad since I was seven, and while I've been blessed to see many parts of the world and to find my own little corners of it to call home, there's something missing.


I returned from New York today to see my passport still sitting out on my desk. Every time I spot it, I think, Yeah. I should probably put that away. But, I cannot bear to tuck it into the fireproof safe my parents bought me for Christmas in 2009 (that is a whole different story...). It seems that maybe there is a reason I am so taken by this drive. I'm not so naive as to think it isn't connected to the death of my grandfather and my amazing New Year spent in Edinburgh. I think, though, that those occurrences have served as catalysts for me to remember the desires of my heart. I keep returning to lyrics from Dido's song "Life for Rent":


I've always thought 
that I would love to live by the sea 
To travel the world alone 
and live my life more simply 
I have no idea what's happened to that dream 
Cause there's really nothing left here to stop me 

It's just a thought, only a thought 

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy 
Well I deserve nothing more than I get 
Cause nothing I have is truly mine


Honestly, I don't know what it all means practically yet, but I feel like I have to listen to the little demon inside me. It's time to surrender to the wanderlust, perhaps in some temporary way over the summer and probably in a more lasting way after my graduation from Harvard Divinity School. He's been hungry for too long.

Me and a snow man in central park.
Yeah. He's sitting on the bench

My good friend from Pagosa, Cindy and Niman.
Niman showed us how to play Tibetan Singing Bowls.

My friend, Darya and I in front of a pretty fountain.
We made a wish.

Cindy and her husband, Ed.
They generously hosted Allison and I in Manhattan.

Allison made it up to New York, despite the snow!

Snowfall

There's something very comforting about tromping through inches upon inches of fresh snow as even more falls down upon me. Honestly, I've never been so aggravated, nor have I ever slipped so much walking merely a few miles. The snow is so wet here. It's as if there is a layer of snow, covered in a layer of ice, covered in another layer of snow, all kept together by slush. No one could have prepared me for the absolute frustration that pulses through my body daily, as if Boston and I are locked in a carefully choreographed dance that I don't know the steps to, leaving me panting while the city moves gracefully to the rhythm of her own song.

It feels good, though, to have a tangible, existential problem. Like perhaps struggling against the forces of nature makes it easier to struggle against this large stone that weighs upon my chest. The death of my grandfather has hooked into something deep --our final conversations, his place in my life, the fact that he was so proud of me, all of this is stirring round in circles within me.

And with all these heavy thoughts and many dreams, something about the snow cools my temper and soothes my heart. The cold allows me to turn inwards without losing myself in the abyss. 

I've been unsettled by my grieving process. At moments, I get upset, but then I calm myself. At others, I feel that I should be upset, but I'm not, so I try to work myself up. And, then there are moments out of the blue where I break down in public. No matter what I feel, I long to feel something different--to cry or to stop crying.

I keep returning to the words a wise man recently told me, "It's not what if, but what is." This sentiment echoing in my mind, Florence + the Machine pumping through my headphones, trudging through the white powder and slush, I can breathe a little easier. And, if I forget to do so, there are a million little snowflakes landing upon my face to remind me that it's as simple as inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

-Sierra

A hatchet might be a useful tool for traveling to school.

A winter view of historical Prospect Hill.
If you look carefully, you can see the moon.

Imprudence and Mourning

My grandfather died this morning. That doesn't sound right. Like the timing is off. My grandfather survived a pretty horrific car crash earlier this fall. We thought we might lose him for a while. But, we didn't.


Over Christmas, he spoke to me about making the most of my life and taking care of my body. He encouraged me to enjoy myself in London and to apply myself to my studies. He spoke of his newfound feeling of vulnerability and mortality. He said I had too many theories.


Last night, my grandfather went to sleep next to the woman he'd been through heaven and hell with, two yappy dogs asleep beside them. This morning around four a.m. he stopped breathing. My grandmother awoke to her still breathed husband.


Somehow, the timing feels wrong. But, everything that happens, happens, doesn't it? So, the timing can't be off. I'm not saying I believe in meant to be's, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what might have happened. What matters is what is taking place. My Pops is dead.


Part of me thinks such public mourning as this is imprudent, but perhaps I've been among the Puritans too long. I come from a long line of emoters. We laugh, we cry. I'm sure over the next few weeks as we prepare for the funeral, I will share many memories of my grandfather that will elicit tears and laughter. For now, I will just say that he is the only grandfather I've even known. We used to split boxes of cookies n' cream ice cream and watch the Ninja Turtles. As a kid, you take those things for granted, but I'm sure he wasn't interested in the finer points of Splinter's philosophy. I was lucky to have my grandfather in my life for so long. I'm lucky to mourn him so deeply now. I hope you will bear with me over the next few weeks as I honor the memory of a great man.


In the meantime, I want to share something that reminds me that perhaps public mourning is important:


Funeral Blues
by W.H. Auden


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

The Ride

Friends, Romans, Countrymen--

It is with great excitement that I announce that I have officially registered for AIDS/Life Cycle Ride, also simply known as "The Ride." This summer in early June I will ride my bike from San Francisco to L.A. to raise money for the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, an organization that among other efforts helps care for individuals living with HIV/AIDS. The ride is 545 miles and will take seven days. For Christmas, my grandparents decided they would buy my bike for me, which I'm in the process of securing as we speak.

Many of you probably know that HIV/AIDS hits close to home for me. My uncle (who you've heard about from time to time on here) has been HIV positive for 21 years. As you can imagine completing this ride will be emotional for me. The fact that my uncle is healthy and will be riding alongside me (or more likely way in front of me) makes the whole thing so much more special. I know that this will be a life-altering week and I am excited to train and fund raise for such an amazing cause.

I have agreed to raise $3000 between now and then. I would love any support anyone can give, seriously even as little as $5 can make a difference. And even more importantly, please have patience with me as I contact you via email, text, or phone in the coming months to solicit your support. I really hate fund raising, perhaps more than anything, but this is a worthy cause.

You can view my page here and our team page here. I am riding with my uncle and his friends, who all work in the adult film industry--hence the amazing team name.

HIV/AIDS is an epidemic that has crippled our world and continues to do so. I look forward to being a part of the battle against this devastation.

With the highest of hopes,

Sierra

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet...

It’s hard to know quite where to start after a week like the one I just had. It makes sense to start at the beginning, but really, how interesting is a chronological account of a journey abroad? And, how does that make any sense when I can't even keep the order of events straight? Why proffer a contrived semblance of reality when the madness is so much more fun?

After seven days in the UK and a bit of a hike/walk through the entire city of Newark to catch my second train to London, I tucked into a seat next to a older English man who seemed utterly unamused by my presence, even after I did my best oh-look-how-cute-and-American-and-confused-I-am. Apparently, he didn't like redheads. Trying to soothe my aching self, I pulled out a delicious gluten-free sweet that I had bought. This incredible concoction of gastronomical heaven helped me to cherish my last few hours riding along in a bouncing train in the English countryside--truly a perfect moment. As I read the label (of course I did), I started to realize how amazing this company Honeybuns actually is. Not only do they make gluten-free food, but they also use their business to contribute to making the world a better place. Their labels talk about the efforts they take to be green as a company and about an organization they sponsor called Samaritans which offers a listening ear. What a notion! To live simply and happily and to make the world a better place.

After a short meditation on simplicity and the beauty of living, I spent the remainder of the ride reflecting on the experiences I'd had over the last week, which felt like a lot longer than a week, and what perhaps that aching feeling inside me meant.

The greatest moments were the ones that couldn't be planned. Hiccups in the plan or twists in the road (sometimes literally) wove together into this perfect tapestry of unexpected brilliance. From five hours alone in the car with my new brother-in-law getting to know him to his lovely friends who became our Edinburgh companions, everything was amazing. Hogmanay (the New Years' celebration in Edinburgh) was outstanding with some of the greatest fireworks I've ever seen and a rousing rendition of Auld Lang Syne which prompted a Scottish fellow to tell our group that we sounded like cats. 

The "Big Wheel" as the Brits called it.
Beautiful and fun to ride!

Melissa and I-typical self-portrait.

Lovely fireworks!

After three days of barely seeing sunlight, my sisters Tiffany and Melissa took me on a tour of London. I saw the changing of the guard in front of Buckingham Palace, rode the tube, walked around Piccadilly Circus, listened to the drunken rants of an Irishman (made me proud), saw Big Ben and Westminster Abbey, and spent a great day with my sisters. The two moments that stand out most were the least planned. First, we stopped into a beautiful church just to have a peek and wandered into the rehearsal for that night's performance of Handel's Messiah. A rather normal looking fellow stood at the front and after a false start or two, the orchestra started playing harmoniously. For a moment I zoned out and then this booming, incredible, completely unexpected voice came out of the man in front. We stayed for the entirety of the song, swept up by the beauty of that moment. Later, we went to Melissa and Tiffany's (dare I say) favorite play Blood Brothers. It was outstanding. The acting was phenomenal, the story line devastating, the songs beautiful and compelling. All in all, London was incredible. The next day was spent at Tiffany, Rob, and Melissa's new place in High Wycombe. Mostly we just hung out and watched The Inbetweeners (a hilarious, terribly British TV show that makes me laugh in that embarrassing way that so many of you are familiar with. You know, the one where I start crying and laugh for about five minutes after everyone else is over it. Yeah. That kind of laughing).

Rob and I drove three hours to Lincoln where I spent my last day wandering through the city alone (with my giant bag on my back). On the way there, I was nervous and afraid that maybe I would hate having to explore by myself, but as soon as I said goodbye to my brother-in-law and set off to see the cathedral, that old part of me came back to life. Being alone is such a wildly comforting feeling, especially when I know it's only temporary. I spent a few hours in the cathedral, another hour just wandering around by the castle and the other old parts of the town, and then finally an hour or so in the pub. Now, that, my friends, is a day in England. Somewhere between the pub and my train ride the next day, I worked on my posh (which stands for Port Out Starboard Home, the name of the expensive cabins on boats back in the day) accent, realized it had been over a year since I'd been abroad, and felt truly happy.

The lovely town of Lincoln, UK

The Cathedral during the day

A reflection from the Cathedral onto the sidewalk
that I thought was really cool.
Seriously, I have like fifteen of this same photo.

A grandfather and his grandson playing and making
shadows in the light of the church.

The Cathedral by night.

As for the aching feeling I felt on my train ride back to London, let's call it one part nervousness about making my flight (which I did just in the nick of time), two parts befuddlement, and one part exhaustion. My befuddlement, of course, was at realizing that yet again I had found another little piece of the world to love. Yet again, I had found people I could be friends with, places I could explore, and a public transit system I could use (I'm guessing by this point in my blogging, you understand that I am obsessed with public transit. Having grown up without it, I think it is a modern miracle. One day, I'd like to write a book about how I think public transit says a lot about a place...one day). My befuddlement was also at the realization that I long for foreign lands. Sometimes, I think I have convinced myself not to feel that way, but I do. I want to be somewhere...else. Now, I'm not particularly interested in the roots of this feeling (I can just hear some psychologist in a crazy German accent saying, "As you can see, ze child wizout a stable childhood growz up to be ze adult wiz ze wanderlust.") I do, however, wonder what it means for my future. There is so much of the world I have yet to see and I wonder how I will see it all. Mind you, how. Not if.

Finally in the plane about to depart from Heathrow, I had left another little piece of me in England. I'm not worried, though, I have plenty of reasons to go back. And, the flight takes the same amount of time as flying to California.

All of these thoughts and memories swirling inside me, I am slowly getting back into my routine here in Somerville. I'm in the laundromat as we speak, excited to have clean clothes. I'll work all weekend and next week I'm attending a poetry workshop two of my friends are running. Hopefully, somewhere in the midst of all that, I'll be able to knock a few things off my ambitious to-do list.

Life is good here. I'm a little restless, but no worse for wear. 

In honor of the time of year, may we all raise a cup o' kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne. Happy New Year, everyone!

-Sierra

On a final note, my New Year's Resolution is to spend Saturdays for self-care (running, getting in long bike rides, playing with my dog, sleeping) and staying in contact. Hopefully, you can expect a new post from me on Saturdays, though there may be points where I slack...

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