on the road with grace

Travel: Along the Road of Life

2007-07-18T10:04:00.000-05:00

This month I traveled to four states, journeyed an estimated 8,500 miles by plane and train and driven two rental cars (one of them a hybrid).

When I was in college I dreamed of the day I would travel for my job. The day I would be a jet-setter and so important that I would need to be in multiple places (outside of my office) in a short period of time to attend meetings, finish important business or cover a breaking news story. I idolized the liberated career woman, the empowered female executive and the brave reporter on television, in movies and in real life. I never had one, but given my aspirations, I would have been the type of child with a Barbie doll in a business suit, carrying a briefcase.

Well, after living the reality, I want a vacation Barbie. And I want a vacation.

All of this travel (and more to the point, the point of the travel) has made me wonder: what it is that drives my drive? Why would I want a Barbie in a business suit? The word success comes to mind. But when I look inside, I think the saying – “the journey is more important than the destination” – is what my drive is all about. What drives my drive is excitement, seeing new places, meeting new people. What drives my drive is doing things that I love: writing and editing for social change.

While these things may “drive my drive,” I still wonder how far I’ve come. My frequent-flyer miles statement will quantify the journey in numbers. By how do I quantify the journey of my life? What have I learned about my drive?

In Brandi Carlisle’s song, The Story, the singer says:

“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am.
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am.”

Well, that might not be a pretty picture – lines across my face. But there’s definitely some truth to that. Here’s a little more of what Brandi Carlisle has to say:

“But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to
It’s true – I was made for you.”

So, the lines are fine, as long as you aren’t the only one seeing them.

The lines of this song point to two things I’ve learned in my travels: There’s no escaping reality, i.e., lines across my face; and Tell your story.

I’m a writer, so telling the story isn’t much of a problem. Finding time to tell my story can be a problem.

There’s no escaping reality. I find excitement in what I don’t know or haven’t experienced in my current reality, so you could say that I like to escape reality. But there’s no escaping reality. Whether reality is lines across my face or reality-checks at 34,000 feet in the air when I’m on my way to a meeting.

The reality check is this: Where am I? I’m a late 20-something. I’m creative. I’m single. I’m talented. I’m healthy. I’m successful. But where am I? Where is the real me? Where’s the driver of my drive? What defines me and confines me? How do I find answers and find release?

The answer: keep traveling. Vacation Barbie and I are ready to go.

This I believe

2007-01-26T21:29:00.000-05:00

I've had an essay posted at "This I Believe."

Enjoy!

Twinkling Lights

2006-12-08T16:46:00.000-05:00

I have lots of lights in my Christmas decor this year -- white lights on the tree, colored lights in the living room and blinking colored lights in the kitchen. (Yes, I decorate my kitchen.)

I love Christmas lights. When I was a child I would sit at the foot of our live Christmas tree and watch the "bubble lights" start to boil. I was also accustomed to LARGE Christmas bulbs and not today's mini-lights. The large bulbs would get pretty hot. My mother was always worried that the tree would catch fire from the heat. The tree was covered with the afore mentioned colored bulbs, bubble lights and other lights that were in the share of snowmen, houses and Santa Claus. We also had small metal reflectors that would sit under the bulbs. The reflectors shimmer and enhance the light of the colored bulbs.

Our Christmas bulbs were always stored upstairs in the attic. They rested in old faded boxes that at one time contained fancy chocolates, linens or (surprise) Christmas lights. Annually, we would search through the boxes, untangle the cords and test the lights for the tree.

My dad liked to turn off all the other lights in the living room where our Christmas tree was displayed and enjoy the room being lit by a couple hundred twinkling lights.

Light is a symbol of hope. Lighthouses guide ships to shore. Candles burn in memory or in honor of someone. The lights on a Christmas tree are equally hopeful. They are welcome bright spots in the midst of a cold and sometimes dark winter season. Light is hope in the dark spots of life -- loneliness, injustice, sadness, loss. Light can show us a way out of the darkness or be a source of illumination in the middle of darkness, like the lit Christmas tree in the middle of a dark room.

Covered With Love

2006-11-13T22:50:00.002-05:00

Relationships are like blankets.
Blankets dull winter drafts and soften hard ground.

I want a quilt; specially made with a gentle touch.
It wraps me up and keeps me warm.
Memories in the fabrics,
Creativity in the design.

He wants a loosely knitted shawl; nothing too heavy.
He can move around easily and not know it’s there.
Versatility and practicality.

A quilt will take time; to make and to grow used to.
A shawl, too, takes time and needs a crafter’s touch.
Can we make a blanket together?

A new pattern, new materials, new thread.
New adventures, new romance, new love.

Or do I go back to sewing my quilt?

Trains

2006-11-13T22:47:00.000-05:00

Moving on
I pull into the station.
This seems like a nice town.
I get out and walk around.

He was standing near a coffee shop.
We met and he took my hand.
We walked through the park,
We went to the zoo.

He let got of my hand.

We walked back to the station.
The train was about to leave.
I stepped on.
He’s still on the platform.

I found my seat.
He’s still on the platform.

I wave from the window.
He’s still on the platform.

The train leaves.
He’s still on the platform.

Flag: The Symbol of a Country

2006-08-26T14:33:00.000-05:00

The flag of Cote d'Ivoire has three stripes: orange, white and green.

The orange stripe is a symbol of the desert landscape in the north of the country. The green stripe is a symbol of the forests and green landscape on the coast of Cote d'Ivoire. The white stripe is a symbol of peace and unity where the two different regions join. The peace and unity is a dream and a hope in the midst of civil strife. The flag is a symbol of the beautiful landscape and the beautiful country that is a very hopeful place in West Africa.

Sisters

2006-08-25T23:25:00.000-05:00

Children in Cote d'Ivoire

2006-08-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

One Beautiful Girl

2006-08-21T22:30:00.000-05:00

What makes beauty? Confidence. Assurance. Grace. Peace. Eyes. A warm smile. A soul exposed.

This little girl stood next to me when we visited the Abobo District in Abidjan. Young children flooded the open-air building where we were being entertained with dances and skits (performed by children.) This girl let me photograph her, but wouldn't tell me her name. She is beautiful.

She's standing next to me.

Strong Women

2006-08-21T22:01:00.000-05:00

Women in Africa are strong and beautiful. They are the foundation of the family and many times the main provider. Their courage and entrepreneurial spirits have made them successful at supporting their familes and themselves in the midst of growing social and economic challenges.

Dr. Nicole and her mother

Gisele, one of our translators

Women preparing attieke

Adele Yed, the president of the Sarepta micro-credit bank in Abidjan

Woman holding her Sarepta savings book

Three Boys in Abidjan

2006-08-20T22:05:00.000-05:00

Africa Photos

2006-08-20T21:17:00.000-05:00

Bingerville, Cote d'Ivoire: the second capitol of Cote d'Ivoire

A boat flying the Ivoirian flag in Ebrie Lagoon

Views of Abidjan, population of 3 million people

Beach at Grand Bassam: Original French colony

Faces

2006-08-20T12:28:00.000-05:00

A few faces from Africa...smiling, looking, reaching, learning, laughing.

Collective Soul

2006-08-20T12:12:00.000-05:00

Collective soul...That's how I fee about my recent trip to Cote d'Ivoire. It was an amazing trip. A beautiful trip...Beautiful faces, beautiful clothes, beautiful spirits. There is color amidst the gray and decay of colonialism. There is hope in the midst of war. There are people who have been displaced by the current civil war or "crisis" as the Ivoirians call it. There are people who live in poverty and struggle to survive.

There is also a sense of resilience and strength in people. They are searching for a solution. They want to survive and be successful in life. They want peace. They want a small loan to buy a sewing machine to make clothes to sell. They want to tell you their stories and they want you to share their lives. That's collective soul.

Africa

2006-08-03T11:46:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow night I'm leaving for a ten-day trip to Africa.

I'm going with 10 other people to meet and learn from women in Cote d'Ivoire. The trip is part of a cultural exchange program: Ubuntu Explorers. Ubuntu is an African word (and proverb) that means: "I am human because you are human."

I am human because you are human.

We all share life. We all share breath. We all share sorrow and pain. We all share joys and celebrations. We share failures. We share redemption.

For the next ten days I will share humanity (some of mine and some of the Ivoirian women.)

I think this will be a journey of the "collective soul," and also a journey of the "barbara soul."

It's Getting Hot in Here

2006-08-02T11:26:00.000-05:00

I love August.

First, it's my birthday month. Start shopping now. My birthday is August 29.

Second, it's summer-time, which means it's HOT. I love the heat. The past two days have become a bit "oppressive" in the city, but all in all the summer heat is one of the things I've come to love about August.

I walk outside and it feels like I have a blanket wrapped around me. On humid days it's a moist blanket. The sun warms (and tans) my face. I'm reminded of recently living in Mississippi, which was VERY hot for a good portion of the year. I remember summers at home when I was growing up in the country. We didn't have air-conditioning and cooled ourselves by laying on the cool grass or sitting in the breeze of a tree. There was also a pond on our farm, and we would float around in inner-tubes in the water.

I've recently come to love the beach. The waves. The sand. The sun. What's not to love. The beach is a real vacation for me only if it's a few hours. I don't take my laptop to the beach, only my lap. I love to simply sit and read or listen to music and nap.

Sometimes people talk about the heat and say they are "cooking" or "baking" in the summer-sun. I like the cooking analogy. During the summer I think something is usually cooking or baking inside of me. There is a time of preparation from a well-crafted recipe. Then the ideas, the feelings, and the anticipations can cook for a while until they are ready to be served to myself or maybe to the rest of the world.

Is It Any Wonder?

2006-07-30T19:45:00.000-05:00

The title of this entry is also the title of a song by Keane: "Is It Any Wonder."

"I always thought that I knew
I'd always have the right to
Be living the kingdom of the good and true and so on
But now I think I was wrong
And you were laughing along
And now I look a fool for thinking you were on my side."

Stress, travel, relationships..."Is it any wonder I'm tired? Is it any wonder that I feel uptight? Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?"

Is it any wonder...Worried about work. Thinking about my future. Confused about dating. Wondering what could be next..."Is it any wonder I'm tired? Is it any wonder that I feel uptight? Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?"

"Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm
Stranded in the wrong time
Where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme."

Am I too sensitive? Do I feel too much too quickly? It's a double-edged sword, really. I feel extremely compassionate and caring toward people who are marginalized in our society or who are suffering because of natural and social disasters. So I have a great capacity to feel. I'm ready to love. I'm ready do discover things about myself that I might not even realize I know about love. But as the song says..."Stranded in the wrong time where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme." That can be very disappointing.

"Nothing left beside this old cathedral
Just the sad lonely spires
How do you make it right?
Oh but you try."

So I'll try.

I'll live my own life. On my own terms. I'll live the life of a passionate lover of/in a world where "love is just a lyric." This means I will need to be tough sometimes...And maybe a little tired. Tough enough not to settle and tough enough not to be settled for.

What does that mean? What will my life look like? Sad lonely spires? I don't know...That might not be all bad.

Cathedrals are grand and beautiful things. One of my favorite memories is sitting among the spires and the gargoyles of the Duomo Cathedral in Milan. Cathedrals leave a legacy. Cathedrals last. Cathedrals are majestic, spiritual and holy places. I want my life to be a majestic, spiritual and holy place.

"Nothing left beside this old cathedral
Just the sad lonely spires
How do you make it right?
Oh but you try."

So I'll try. Is it any wonder that I would try?

Compassionate Detachment

2006-07-16T22:49:00.000-05:00

Compassionate detachment. This is a phrase I've gained from author Anne Lamott. She uses it in her book "Bird by Bird." I love this book.

Compassionate detachment is a loving, simple way to remove the judgmental over-analyzing layer of thinking that prohibits writers from seeing the true nature of their characters. Likewise, Lamott encourages writers to use compassionate detachment on themselves and be a little kinder and gentler as we accept ourselves and the real characters in our lives for who they are.

Lamott shares the challenge:
"Obviously it's harder by far to look at yourself with this same sense of compassionate detachment. Practice helps. As with exercise, you may be sore the first few days, but then you will get a little bit better at it every day. I am learning slowly to bring my crazy pinball machine mind back to this place of friendly detachment toward myself so I can look at the world and see all those other things with respect."

Lamott cautions to be gentle with yourself in this new practice...It's a difficult task sometimes.

I know, and I'm trying to be gentle with myself.

I'm trying to detach from my over-thinking, analyzing and wicked-self that exaggerates and over-reacts.

I'm trying to relax and find the true essence of myself and my feelings in relationships.

What a challenge when it's so easy for my head to start thinking and tearing a situation apart...Trying to understand. Sometimes you just can't understand a situation or a relationship or a conversation. And maybe we're not supposed to. Correction: we don't always need to understand. We need to find the essence of a situation or a relationship or a conversation.

Lamott also says, "You can see the underlying essence only when you strip away the busyness, and then some surprising connections appear."

One more thought, another quote, actually: " The important thing is this, to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become," Charles DuBois

Well...I'm ready to give up the busyness. I'm ready to sacrifice the ease with which I sometimes think and take on the challenge of feeling, really feeling the essence of life. I'm ready to be what I can become.

Fireworks

2006-07-05T21:35:00.000-05:00

Fireworks. The Fourth of July. Music and cheers. At times I don't feel very patriotic, and the bursts of explosive light resemble too closely "the bombs bursting in air" over several nations of the world. All in all, though I enjoy the spontaneous glow and colorful displays.

Fireworks. Fireworks between people: sometimes meaning an argument, and sometimes meaning a romantic feeling. I prefer the latter. The spark-like emotion is passionate or on-fire, if you will.

My favorite fireworks are the ones that cling to the air for a little while and fall through the sky resembling a weeping-willow tree. They are slow, which is contrary to most explosions. Sometimes they continue to burst into smaller willow trees. It's a pyrotechnic wonder.

My favorite fireworks are my favorite relationships. They stick around for a while. There's an element of passionate explosion, and yet something slow and graceful about the way the stages of the relationship float through time.

A Summer To Remember

2006-07-03T17:45:00.000-05:00

A photographer originally from Mississippi is working on a new project and photographing portraits of the Freedom Riders who worked to integrate bus stations, train stations and airports in the south during the summer of 1961.

The present-day portraits are paired with the then-prisoners mug shots from the Jackson City Jail.

The photographs are very moving and the stories of some of the Freedom Riders are equally passionate, as these young men and women were willing to serve time in prison to preserve justice.

The series of photographs is called "Breach of Peace: Portraits of the Mississippi Freedom Riders" and some of the photos were featured in the The New York Times Magazine on July 2, 2006.

Dry Bones

2006-07-02T20:13:00.000-05:00

Ezekiel's Dream
"The had of the Lord was upon me, and the Lord brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. The Lord led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. The Lord asked me, "Son of man, can these bones live?"
I said, "O Sovereign Lord, you alone know." Ezekiel 37:1-3

A Hurricane's Reality

After the destruction of a hurricane, there are dry bones all around. Neighborhoods are ripped to shreds. Houses are skeletons. Trees are without leaves and branches. Bridges have had their surfaces torn away.
There are plenty of dry bones to see on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. The hurricane damage in Mississippi was caused by a tidal wave that crashed into the coast, swept water inland up to six miles from the shore, and then receded back into the Gulf of Mexico. The body of communities, towns, housing developments, commercial businesses, and churches was reduced to bones in some places.

Breath of Life

"Then he said to me, "Prophesy to these bones and say to them, 'Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the
Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath, enter you, and you will come to life." Ezekiel 37:4-5
The dry bones in Mississippi are coming to life. Many residents returned to find only the concrete slab or foundation their homes once stood on. The new life in the dry bones might be a FEMA trailer. The breath of life from volunteers and resilient residents is rebuilding homes.
The breath of life that has entered the dry bones of physical structures has also entered the dry bones of hurricane survivors who know that the power and presence of God will restore and renew their spirits as they search for hope in the midst of destruction.

The Essence of Service

2006-06-28T08:39:00.000-05:00

This week I have been on the Gulf Coast. I staid in Mississippi for a few days and also made a quick visit to New Orleans.

It's been ten months since Hurricane Katrina ravaged the coast and changed the lives of every resident in this region.

It's been ten months since Hurricane Katrina ravaged the coast and changed the lives of every volunteer who has visited this region.

One theme to this trip to the coast has been community. Communities on the Gulf Coast are beginning to rebuild. There is also a powerful witness of service and caring that has transformed many people's view of community.

Community is your neighbor. Community is your neighbor down the street or in the apartment next door. Community is your neighbor 2500 miles away from your current address on the coast of Mississippi or on the streets of New Orleans.

I've been reading a book: Through the Eye of the Storm, and one of the most notable things that the author has reflected on is the great gift of serving others. She came to Mississippi to help after the hurricane.

She and various friends brought supplies, and relief to desperate areas of the coast. They nailed roofs on houses and assisted residents in filling out FEMA applications and insurance claims. They came to help. They came to be of assistance.

They found out that they were the ones receiving assistance, and they were being helped and healed in the process of serving others. They found themselves connected to a community of neighbors they had never before met.

Their help and assistance wasn't self-serving. Their gifts were more than charity. Volunteers are discovering life and the joy of service. The joy of service brings humanity back to a mutual agreement to live together in peace and harmony. We are all neighbors. We all live in the same community. I help you, you help me. We live together.

That is the essence of what the author describes in her book: "One Sunday Rev. Rosemary asked me to come and tell the congregation what we were doing for their community. I ended up telling them what they had done for me. I told them that I wanted to introduce America to them in hopes that their spirit and sense of community and love would heal our nation as it had healed me."

In healing we are healed. In loving we are loved.

This week I've heard that story; that joyous story from volunteers and from residents here on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and in New Orleans.

"People have come to help from all over."

"Thank you."

"Now I know what love is."

Community. The community says these things to each other. We live. We give. We receive. We are community.

The Perfect Cup of Tea

2006-06-16T10:47:00.000-05:00

Father's Day Special

An essay I wrote about my dad has been featured on the web. Read, reflect and enjoy the love and support that fathers and father-figures give to each of us.

PINK

2006-06-13T22:24:00.000-05:00

I am a feminist who likes to wear pink.

My mother had a pink bridesmaid gown in her closet when I was growing up. It was shiny, bright pink and had a full skirt with a bow, no a BOW, on the back. I remember seeing photos from the wedding, and my mother was also wearing a pink bow, no a PINK BOW, in her hair, too.

If I get married...If I have a wedding...If I have bridesmaids...I don't think I will make them wear pink. You can never say never, though. I'm a stylish and fashionable person. My sympathy for women who are forced to wear PINK BOWS and pink dresses could fade into the color palette that is in season.

I do like pink. It is one of my favorite colors. I don't like the stereotypical association of pink with all things girly, all things Barbie doll or all things fairy princess.

Don't get me wrong...I'm one of the first people to be girly and I think Barbie dolls are okay, and fairy princesses deserve as much chance as anyone at an education.

I hope to have the strength and the common sense to continue in my progressive feminist ways, and like (and wear) pink at the same time. PINK is what you make of it.

Home

2006-05-29T08:07:00.000-05:00

I live in a city where homelessness is a major concern. I am fortunate to have a home, a steady income, and an overall sense of security.

I grew up in a home that had been in my family for three generations. It was an old farm house on (you guessed it) a farm. I grew up on ninety acres covered in trees and grass. My home was not only where I lived, but it was the place where my closest family was and where my closest friends would visit.

I remember my first big move away from home. Specifically one year after begin away, I was able to say with confidence that home wasn't a specific place, but a feeling or an emotion in my heart. I had moved one thousand miles away from the home and community that I had grown up in, and as much as that was "home," I began to realize that home was more that a house or a zip code.

That sense of security had to do with feeling at home with the new friends I had made; feeling at home in the work I was doing; and of course feeling at home in my apartment and neighborhood.

Feeling at home. Feeling. Home is a feeling. When making a deeper emotional connection with "home" I can't help but think of the homeless people in New York and across the country who suffer from mental and emotional illness. They are physically without a home, and they also struggle with finding a sense of emotional security that I have identified as my "home." How much greater is the challenge to finding a "home" when you cannot afford the rent, and you don't know how to spend emotional energy on a sense of security?

Roll Over Me

2006-05-21T16:37:00.000-05:00

Water. I like to drink it, to walk in it, to make art with it. Water gives life. Water soothes and cools. Water sustains. The sounds that water makes, from raindrops on tin roofs to waves rolling onto the shore, are subtle reminders of nature's presence in our lives.

There was a pond in the front yard of our farm house when I was growing up. I remember creeping to the pond's edge hoping to see a frog or a fish in the shallow water. We would row ourselves around in the water in a green row boat or float in tubes on hot summer days.

One of my favorite experiences with water is at the beach. I love standing on the shore and watching the waves roll in. The photo above is of the Pacific Ocean from the shore of Venice Beach in California. There is a peaceful rhythm to the water near the shore. An inviting "wave" summons me closer. I'm teased by the water as it laps to the shore. I jump over the first little wave, and step even further into the water.

The waves seem endless. They roll over the rough sand and collide with whatever or whomever is in their path. The waves are cleansing. They wash the sand from my feet. They rush to sweep my spirit clean of what stains it. The waves move over me and carry me back into the great waters of the ocean. As I stand on the shore and long for refreshment from the water I find myself moved; my soul shifted.

My feelings seem endless. They roll over the rough spots in my life and collide with whatever or whomever is in their path. My thoughts of worry are cleansed by calm. Feelings quench a longing for intimacy and compassion. Feelings of passion roll over me and invite me into the great ocean that is life.

Loss

2006-05-13T09:13:00.000-05:00

Loss. You have something important to you taken away. Your team doesn't score the winning run or goal or point. You misplace something and cannot find it, which happened quite frequently in my home as I was growing up. Not a week went by when my mother, brother and sister and I weren't caught up in a frantic search for my father's glasses or his keys.

I've lost touch with friends over the years. More to the point, I lost some of the things that we had in common. I (or they) moved away and we started new lives in new places.

Loss has different degrees of severity. Some losses are easy to recover from. Your sense of self remains more intact after a loss of lesser value than after a loss of greater value. And, the value most definitely doesn't have to be monetary. The emotional or intrinsic value of someone or something can be priceless.

The loss of my dad has so far been the hardest loss of my life.

I can remember the last time I saw him. I was home visiting for the holidays from Mississippi. At the time I was only visiting my family for holidays and family events like weddings, and sadly, funerals. It was a cold January day just after New Year's, and he and my mother had taken me to the airport. With all of the security lines and barriers in place my parents stood off to the side as I walked through the security screening to my gate. I glanced back and waved at my parents through the plexi-glass. That was the last time I saw my dad.

We talked on the phone three to four times a week when I was in Mississippi. We spoke for the last time a day before he died. I remember the conversation. It was textbook foreshadowing. "You know," he said, "The medicine I'm taking...This book says it can be fatal."

My father had invested in a large pharmaceutical dictionary a few years earlier when he was first diagnosed with a heart problem. He had a pacemaker and took a cocktail of drugs, including the fatal one.

There was no clear reason for his death, or my loss. There were many unanswered questions, but in my mind there was one clear answer to all of them: I had lost my dad. Whether he was slowly killed by heart medication, or hit by a car, the outcome was the same. He was dead and he was my loss.

Loss is one of the deepest feelings I have ever experienced. As I am writing this I can feel the loss well up inside of me. It rises from somewhere deep in my belly, over my heart and chest, and erupts with tears in my eyes.

I usually end an essay with a resolution of some sort that would tie the story together and leave a feeling of completion. That's not as easy to do this time. I believe that loss and the feelings of grief and sadness that can accompany loss do not go away. Loss has changed me and I live with it every day. Some days the feelings erupt, and most days they don't. Either way, I live with the loss. I guess in some ways it is one of the connections that I still have with my dad. The notion of his loss and missing him assure me that he is still here.

Fashions of Peace

2006-05-10T20:12:00.000-05:00

I recently attended an anti-militarism fashion show at a conference in Los Angeles.

I consider myself a stylish person, a bit of a fashion connoisseur. The fashion show highlighted how subtle messages of militarism pervade our culture through fashion. There are other subtle messages: Hummers rolling down the highway, and military toys for children. Living in a country at war on foreign soil, the reality of war sometimes seems far away. However, the camouflage, the vehicles, and the language and trappings of war have invaded popular culture.

Check out an article I wrote about the fashion show.

2006-04-29T23:21:00.000-05:00

The Important Thing

"The important thing is this--to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become." Charles DuBois

This is one of my favorite quotes. I have had it written in my daily planner for three years. It's been my mantra for this week as I continue my post-Easter venture to rise above usual ways and let go of habits (in the form of actions and relationships) that have recently been a part of my life.

Needless to say this hasn't been an easy week. I've been second-guessing. I've thought about changing my mind. To give up what we are, what is comfortable, what is known; for what we could become (something unknown.) I'm not sure about the alternatives. I don't know if I'm thinking of choosing between paths that are right or wrong, but I am choosing between paths that are different.

In the past I've juggled decisions about moving to a new city, taking a different job, choosing a new lifestyle. The uncertainty and emotional challenge of the situation is no easier this time.

What I know is that I have lived through these times with a lot of faith, a healthy dose of optimism, and a calm assurance in "the important thing."

2006-04-29T23:20:00.000-05:00

Do I Do Myself Justice?

I remember hearing the phrase "this doesn't give it justice" used to describe an inadequate or somehow lacking description of a favorite restaurant or vacation spot. "The advertisement doesn't do the bistro justice." "These photographs of Bermuda don't give it justice."

I try to "give justice" to what I write. Whether it's sharing a memory or telling a story about a moving experience. I think I do a decent job of "giving justice" when I write.

I consider myself a socially conscience person. I consider myself someone who does a lot of justice. I officially work with a program that states as one of its principles "faith in action." I give my faith justice by what I do for a living, and also how I live the rest of my life. I choose to do justice.

This afternoon I'm wrestling with the question: "Do I do myself justice?" This relates to self-care, to nurturing my spirit, and caring for my soul. Following a recent break-up I have been wrestling with the balance of myself and himself. I struggled with it when we were together. Now in the recovery and reclaiming of myself I'm asking: "Do I do myself justice?"

I can honestly say that I have been more challenged with "doing myself justice" than with doing justice for others. I hesitate less to volunteer in an after school tutoring program than I hesitate to take the time to reflect and recover after a difficult week. I give emotional care and don't insure that I receive it myself. I am coming to terms with some of these personal injustices as I become increasingly tired in relationships and emotional moments.

Through self-care, through patience and nurturing I can do myself justice, rise above my usual ways, and probably do a better job of living life.

2006-04-29T23:19:00.000-05:00

Let Me Tell You a Story

Let me tell you a story. Sometimes that phrase is the prelude to a fable, of sorts. The kind of "let me teach you a lesson" kind of story. Other times it's a bit of history: "Let me tell you about when I was a child. We would walk to school in the snow--uphill both ways." I remember my father telling countless stories about family and friends that I had never met or had limited contact with, but characters who lived in his stories.

Let me tell you a story. I didn't move too far outside of my comfort zone until I took the step toward a call to serve, and became a young adult missionary. I was part of a group of seventeen young adults. At the very beginning of our training together we were each asked to participate in an ice breaker activity of sorts. Our instructions were to share our stories. We were invited to use and create props for our presentation and we would have twenty minutes or so to share. Wow. I had met a few of the others at our interviews, and knew a little bit about them. Everyone else was a stranger except for a similar call to serve. I was going to share my story (however I edited it) with a group of strangers. Wow.

Let me tell you a story. This blog is a story of sorts. It's my story (however I edit it). One of the reasons I so enjoy writing is that it's a vehicle for sharing stories. The stories of our lives illustrate what we believe. The stories of our lives share our thoughts and feelings and responses to other people's thoughts and feelings and responses. We practice them in different venues and perfect our retellings. The stories of our lives can reveal more about us than we know or might be comfortable with. Stories unite and sometimes divide. Many times our stories are the best way to communicate.

Let me tell you a story.

2006-04-29T09:04:00.000-05:00

Center for Urban Contemplation

This blog title is not original. My work supervisor in Jackson, Miss. had a dream for a "Center for Urban Contemplation" named in her honor that would serve as a place for education and growth related to urban and faith issues. I worked at a faith-based nonprofit organization and we faced urban issues of homelessness, poverty, drug abuse, prostitution, inadequate housing and violence on a daily basis. We also contemplated issues of faith in our context: hope, trust, truth, spirituality, security, love, and one could make the case that the urban issues are faith issues as well. I would make that argument.

As I was sitting in a meeting earlier this month and I remembered the Center for Urban Contemplation. I googled the name, and it's still original. I was thinking about the center for urban contemplation that I am living in and worshiping in. I contemplate a lot on my futon/couch, and I'm doing so as I write. At my church we've been contemplating the issue of homelessness in New York City and responses that our community of faith will have to an issue that affects so many of our brothers and sisters.

Where is your center for contemplation? I've had many...Aside from the couch and the church. I remember sitting quietly in quietly in various cathedrals in Italy and thinking about God, and the men and women who built such magnificent spaces. I have contemplated outdoors, which is probably my favorite place to think. A favorite spot from my past was our front yard, usually in a lawn chair.

Contemplation...Thinking, feeling, and being. In the midst of a busy schedule and fast-paced city I'm grateful for moments of contemplation, wherever and whenever I encounter them.

2006-04-29T09:03:00.000-05:00

In Search of Something to Find

I am the first one to admit that I am a searcher. I will search for a bargain in a sales rack. I have been on the search for a fulfilling job since graduating from college. I search for purpose and meaning to what I do with my time and who I spend time with. Along those same lines I've been thinking about what it is I will find.

The premise of the search is to find something, right? Sometimes I'm lost in the journey and don't know what to find. I live moment to moment without too much care for the next moment, or six months or five years. (Sometimes this lifestyle is more satisfying than others.) When I was a child my dad would attach a magnet to a string and I would drag it through the grass and dirt outside of our barn and tractor sheds to find stray nails and bolts. I have found some things recently, though: a ring on a crowded dance floor, time to write this blog, a workout class that fits my busy schedule, joy in long phone calls to old friends.

Along with all I've found, I am still looking. The band U2 sings about the search in "I still haven't found what I'm lookin' for": "I have run, I have crawled; I have scaled these city walls; These city walls; Only to be with you; But I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

It's hard to look when you don't know what you are searching for. Sometimes I'm not sure I will ever know. Or maybe that's part of the mystery of life. One of my favorite quotes about this journey is from T.S. Eliot: "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

One more thought on the journey: home. The concept of home or a resting place is important in the search. There is a distinct sense of arrival in T.S. Eliot's quote, and to arrive in our "home" or starting point is very significant. Sometimes the "home" is really a home or a place. For me home is a feeling. Like most things in my life (relationships, traveling, writing) I know when they are going well because they feel well. I feel well when I'm engaged in relationships, or riding the train to visit family, or brainstorming ideas for an article. And the feeling of knowing something for the first time engages my senses of wonder and anticipation for what lies ahead in the journey.

2006-04-29T08:55:00.000-05:00

What's in a Name?

BARBARA GRACE

I am named after two important women in my family. "Barbara" was my paternal grandmother. She died before I was born and I only know her through photographs and stories. She was a teacher, a mother, an aunt and a friend in the stories I have heard. Barbara was kind, loving, strict and had PERFECT handwriting (I've seen it). She attended my alma mater when it was a Pennsylvania State Normal School (teacher's college). Her nickname (and sometimes mine) was Barb.

My middle name, Grace, belongs to my mother's great aunt. Aunt Grace has endured the loss of her husband and untimely death of her only son. Grace is a picture of courage and determination. One might call her stubborn.

I have always loved my name. My mother called my Barbara, and my father called me Barb. My best friend in kindergarten called (and still calls) me Barbie. In fact at some point in college, some friends called my both my first and middle names: "Barbara Grace". Growing up, I knew few (I can think of only two) "Barbaras". There are of course the famous, however, they were "Barbra", not "BarbAra". When I moved to Mississippi, I met several! They were all over the age of 60, however, they were fellow Barbaras.

So what's in a name? Well, I could quote some origins and "definitions" of my name. Shockingly, the "definitions" that I have found linked to my name are not too far from my reality: "Your name has given you an appreciation for many beautiful and refined aspects of life, music, and art, nature, drama and the outdoors where you find much peace and relaxation."

What's in my name? I would say tradition is in my name. And purpose. I was given this name for a reason. My parents were purposeful in naming me after close family. I am purposeful in claiming the name and the heritage of kindness, sensitivity and determination that comes with it. Barbara went to college when many young women did not: a symbol of ambition. Grace live through the Great Depression on a farm in rural Pennsylvania: a symbol of endurance.