Transcendent Moments

Occupy SF- Who Was There

2011-10-27T00:45:00.000-07:00

Young men wearing flannel shirts and dark hoodies sat on their skateboards in a circle on the lawn in the middle of camp.

TV reporters pointed cameras and shoved microphones into the faces of the weirdest people they could find and prompted them to say inevitably outrageous things.

Legal volunteers wandered the camp making sure everyone had the phone number of the legal hotline. I scribbled the number on my hand just in case the police rushed in and I got swept up with the people being arrested.

A pack of drag queens sashayed by lisping “drag queens for social justice”.

An enthusiastic guitar and mandolin duo entertained the crowd by singing “All you fascists are bound to lose!” to a cheerful melody.

Former City Supervisor Aaron Peskin sat on the ground linking arms with others who were willing to get arrested tonight. Mayoral candidates Leland Yee and John Avalos were also present, often with digital recorders shoved in their faces seeking saucy sound bytes.

Gray-haired Boomers wearing Land’s End fleece jackets marched in a circle and reminisced about past marches, actions, and demonstrations.

Garden variety San Francisco hippies huddled together pinching joints between their thumb and forefinger.

Drunken homeless people plopped down to sleep smack-dab in the middle of all the milling crowds, probably wondering what the hell all the noise was about.

Canine occupiers were well represented. Two puppies wrestled in the center of camp, and on the outskirts a kitten on a leash ignored the action long enough to lick herself a nice bath.

Young people clutched cell phones, social networking at lightning speed with blurred thumbs.

Earnest social justice and activist leaders prepped crowds of people on the north and south ends of camp. “Mic check” one of them would yell. And the crowd repeated “MIC CHECK”. Then a series of staccato instructions would ensue—one sentence at a time—while the crowd repeated each sentence. “We are going to role play.” WE ARE GOING TO ROLE PLAY. “When the police come we will form 3 rows”. WHEN THE POLICE COME WE WILL FORM 3 ROWS. (you get the idea) “The first row will be seated.” “The second row will be kneeling behind them.” “The third row will be standing.”

We were instructed that if you were willing to get arrested tonight you should be a part of the first row sitting in front of the camp. Those who weren’t willing to get arrested were instructed to stand on the sidewalks on the sides of the camp and alternate between two chants: “The-whole-world-is-watching” and “They-may-be-violent-but-we-are-nonviolent”. And as a final instruction, the activists told us “the police will succeed if they raid the camp tonight. So when we are dispersed, reconvene tomorrow at noon in front of 101 Market Street.”

There’s a lot of smart, brave, committed people at that camp. I’m going to bed hoping that my prayers made a difference for those who may be arrested or injured tonight.

Occupy SF- Walking Laps Around the Camp

2011-10-27T00:35:00.000-07:00

Arriving at Occupy SF at 9pm I got it in my head to walk seven laps around the camp and pray for all the people who may very well be subjected to violence or jail tonight should the rumors about a police raid turn out to be true. Seven is such a nice sacred number, and besides, walking seven times around Jericho seemed to work (Joshua 6).

So I strolled the walkways, ramps, make-shift highways and byways through the camp at Justin Herman Plaza, towered on different sides by the Ferry Building and the Embarcadero Center.

First thing I noticed is that the camp is clean and tidy. I don’t know what the SF Dept of Health was looking at this week because I didn’t see any vomit, feces, or really any trash at all except for two empty Peets cups with tea bags hanging off the sides. Scattered on cement walls around the perimeter of camp are lots of black glossy buckets with neatly printed signs labeled “cigarette butts”. In one corner of the camp there are 4 porta-potties and a sink. And recycling bins are located throughout the camp.

The camp is organized. There are a variety of tents and some structures of dubious construction made out of tarps. A couple of doors rest horizontally on crates to form low communal dining tables. There is a lost and found area. Someone is even paying attention to decorating because carved pumpkins that would make Martha Stewart proud are scattered throughout camp. There are also art displays, and feathers hanging from overhead strings.

Lest an occupier get bored and stir up trouble, the camp appears to have an active social calendar with various activities to keep occupiers occupied. One tent advertised “Free Massages Here.” I saw a sign informing occupiers of an upcoming “Paper Mache Committee Meeting”. They have formed a committee for paper mache! Taped to a lamp post was a poster board “Sign Up To Teach a Class” which advertised the following upcoming classes:
o The military industrial complex
o Anarchism theory
o Book reader circle- The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein
o And my personal favorite, although I have no idea what it means: “Workshop and group discussion on the society of the spectacle, commodity fetishism, and the situationist international.” (if anyone understands that, let me know)

There is a large drum circle tent, where the rhythmic faithful are pounding out beats for the cause. A medical tent stands in the southwest corner of the camp, where volunteers ripped strips of gauze and gave instructions for people to tie them over their mouths and noses should they be confronted with pepper spray.

My favorite sign was “Standing for a More Just, Moral America”- probably because it echos my beliefs and explains why I was there to pray for the camp. A more just and moral America is something that people of faith have been desiring for many months and years- long before the switch was flipped on the first megaphone at Occupy Wall Street.

The Five Senses of Pescadero

2011-08-02T20:14:00.000-07:00

While driving down the coast from San Francisco to Pescadero…

I SAW:
Skinny tow-headed teenagers lugging surfboards to the beach; pelicans flying in formation; bicyclists hugging the shoulder of the road; bright yellow kayaks in the harbor; a tall blue heron hunting for lunch; driftwood forts constructed on sand; fat lizards sunning on driftwood; hovering Red-Tail Hawks, coyote scat, coastal wildflowers.

I SMELLED:
Coastal sage; fennel; eucalyptus trees; salt water marsh; beach BBQ’s; fresh baked cinnamon bread.
I TASTED:
Cream of artichoke soup; crusty sourdough bread; olallieberries fresh off the bush; succulent tender flounder sandwich; peach-apricot jam.
I TOUCHED:
Sun-dried crab legs; empty snail shells cast away by satiated sea birds; gray feathers; hot sand; a bench made out of driftwood; Indian Paintbrush flowers; thorns on berry bushes.
I HEARD:
Scurrying lizards; Jethro Tull singing “Thick as a Brick”; elephant seals barking; farm workers hoeing around plants; seagulls squawking their warnings; waves crashing through a natural bridge in the rock.

Road Trip to Pescadero

2011-08-02T19:49:00.000-07:00

As a city-dweller without an automobile, I often yearn for the freedom of open roads and a day-long adventure that will supply me with a steady stream of simple pleasures. So on a recent Friday I gassed up a borrowed car, pressed the radio buttons to a classic rock station, and shrieked to Styx’s “Come Sail Away” as I put the car into gear. “I thought that they were angels but to my surprise, they climbed aboard their star ship and headed for the skies….” 70's rock and roll was so dramatic. With the Pacific Ocean on my right, and wildflower-dotted hills on my left, I headed south on coastal Highway One past small beach towns with pleasant names like Pacifica, Moss Beach, Montara, El Granada.

After an hour of driving, my legs needed stretching so I pulled over to a parking lot to explore the Pescadero Marsh Preserve- an area I have passed on multiple occasions but haven’t taken the time to explore. The marsh is a low wetland of brackish water, which I learned is a mix of salt and fresh water. Over 68 species of birds live in the marsh, but they must get a kick out of giving birdwatchers a run for their money because all I could see with my binoculars were white herons and blue herons (which I can see in Golden Gate Park five minutes from my apartment).

While the marsh didn’t have much action (that I could see), it was peaceful and pretty with a winding channel of water meandering through the grasses and reeds. A larger river curved its way around sand dunes and fed into the ocean. Seagulls and other sea birds stood in groups on the river bank, facing the same way and squawking like banshees whenever anyone or anything approached them. Driftwood of all shapes and sizes was scattered on the sandy river banks, and some enterprising explorers had built simple driftwood forts large enough for 2 people to sleep in.
After hiking through the wetlands and tiring of the uneventful bird watching, I got in the car and headed further south. Fields of artichokes stood between the road and the sea and it was visions of artichokes that motivated me to turn left onto the road that leads to the small town of Pescadero.

Pescadero is an old Portuguese town that was founded in 1856. Pescadero means “fish seller” and I assume that after California’s initial Gold Rush of 1849, San Francisco grew so large so fast that those who were disenchanted with gold mining moved south of the big city to fish for seafood to sell to San Franciscans, and ended up planting agricultural crops (like artichokes) as well. In all of my reading about California Gold Rush history, it is clear that the people who sold things to the gold miners usually made more money than the gold miners.

Pescadero’s current population is 643, which must triple or quadruple each day as tourists swarm in. There’s not much there—a couple of general grocery stores, a few artisan shops that sell the works of local artists, and Duarte’s Tavern.

Pronounced by locals as “Do-arts”, Duarte’s Tavern was founded in 1894- so about 40 years into the life of the town. It isn’t cheap but it has delicious food and fantastic pie, as evidenced by the fact that everyone who was leaving the restaurant was also lugging along 2-3 pies to go. I took a seat at the counter and was ignored for a while by my brusque waitress, who daily deals with demanding tourists and cranky old timers- like the one sitting next to me at the counter. This man- who appeared to be one of the town’s founders from 1856-- ordered a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, then complained bitterly when he was presented with a bill for $9.74. He paid with a $10 bill and departed, giving the waitress just cause to roll her eyes over her whopping 26 cent tip—which was probably a decent tip in 1856, but not so much in 2011.

My lunch started with a bowl of cream of artichoke soup, perfectly accompanied by steaming hot sourdough bread and unsalted butter. That would have been enough but I also ordered the flounder sandwich, earning the title as the juiciest, best-cooked fish sandwich I have ever eaten.

Craving more exercise than a lap around the tiny downtown, I got in the car and drove south to Swanton Organic Farm. Stopping first at their strawberry fields, I chatted with the attendant who was sitting behind a make-shift table with a scale, and was reading an organic chemistry text book. Since no one else was around, he seemed glad to have some company so I listened to his animal facts about the nearby barking elephant seals and the pelicans(in the 1960’s pelicans almost became extinct because pesticides ran from the crops into the ocean, contaminating the fish they ate and affecting their reproductive systems).

But since I can get strawberries at my own farmer’s market, I drove to the olallieberry patches. Families with children fanned out amidst the berry patches, and the kids alternated putting one berry in the communal container and one berry in their mouths. I happily strolled the well-tended rows while berries practically leapt into my Tupperware.

After paying for my U-Pick berries, with visions of the jams I will never get around to canning, I shifted the car into gear with my purple stained hands and drove north up the coast towards my San Francisco home.

The Five Senses of Haiti

2011-07-02T15:17:00.000-07:00

In Haiti…..

I touched: A whole goats’ head wrapped in cold plastic in the refrigerated meat section of a grocery store; a tattered deck of cards; a farmer’s worn machete; a handful of tiny planting seeds; conch shells lining the top of a wall; banana leaves slick with rain; rain drops sneaking through a tin roof onto my bed; rough wooden carvings; calloused hands and leathery cheeks of countless Haitians; a non-electric iron that grows hot by inserting pieces of charcoal inside.

I smelled: Small charcoal fires in cinderblock houses; pigs wallowing in mud; grilled chicken at a street stall; trash rotting in the streets; shared chunks of watermelon in a crowded van; Caribbean ganja; propane stoves; homemade meat turnovers being cooked at a street stall; incense; trucks sputtering exhaust; sulfur flats where President Duvalier used to dump the bodies of his enemies; freshly woven shopping bags.

I saw: mangroves lining the coast; a Benedictine monastery nestled atop a hill; cars and trucks crushed by earthquake debris; chartreuse lizards clinging to walls; trees heavy with fruit; armed men piled in the back of United Nations Land Rovers; piles of sticks prepared to make charcoal; flying fish skimming the sea like skipped stones;fridges turned horizontally to be re-purposed as ice chests from which to sell cold drinks; children bathing in rain puddles; scraggly dogs searching for scraps; children dancing; cock-fighting rings; the sun setting over Florida; men and women donning cheap shower caps to walk in the rain; coffee and manioc plants, street art on public walls.

I tasted: Madam Antoine’s delicious homemade donuts; dried breadfruit chips; fresh mango; Haitian rice and beans; hot coffee from beans hand-ground by the neighbor next door; homemade peanut butter; tangy lime juice sweetened with sugar cane; Prestige Haitian beer;
manioc dumplings; fresh passionfruit juice; conch meat with hot sauce; goat meat; spaghetti for breakfast; spicy hot tea with ginger and anise; sugar cane peanut brittle; hot chocolate with spices; chaka stew (beans, veggies, milled corn).

I heard: impassioned preaching and singing from outdoor tent churches; children singing and playing drums and wind instruments at school; gentle rain on a tin roof; roosters who start in at 4am; children chanting “blan! blan! blan!” (white!) whenever we went by; the soothing waterfall next to Carla’s house; goats bleating for food; a dot-matrix printer spitting out receipts; cats meowing in the night.
Mesi, Haiti. Pita. (Thank you, Haiti. See you later. )

For other Five Senses posts, click on any of these:
The Five Senses of Tanzania
The Five Senses of San Francisco's Chinatown
The Five Senses of San Francisco's Presidio

Haiti and the USA

2011-07-02T14:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve been avoiding writing this post because there is huge potential for coming off as sanctimonious, “preachy”, or judging. Some people aren’t going to like it, but it's a post I have to write.

We don’t want to admit it, but the United States is hugely responsible for many adverse conditions in Haiti. Other Western countries also do their share of the pillaging—but that doesn’t let the U.S. off the hook because that’s like being a part of a gang who beats someone senseless, and pleading afterwards “But I wasn’t the only one hitting him.” Besides, my belief is that the U.S. owes more to Haiti because of its close proximity- it’s only a 1 ½ hour flight from Miami to Port au Prince.

Anyway, there is this giant called the United States of America, and we have a functional government (I know, it sounds like an oxymoron) that very successfully looks out for our own interests. Then there is this pee-wee named Haiti that has suffered from a long string of dictators and failed leaders, and who most recently elected a Haitian pop star as their president, in an attempt to give someone a try who hasn’t come from a corrupt political career and thus may look at things differently. (Kind of like Arnold Schwarzenegger being elected in California)

So whenever there is a situation when the U.S. can benefit from something related to Haiti, the U.S. inevitably wins, and Haiti loses because the U.S grabs for what it wants like a two-year old in a sandbox. And the American people probably don’t even know this is happening because the trade agreements and political alliances happen on levels that we have no access to or that we find so boring and beyond our realm of influence that we don’t bother to keep informed about them.

But the fact is that I could physically see America’s adverse influence on Haiti while I was there. How?

Rice. All over Haiti I saw 50 pound bags of rice in white canvas bags labeled “Made in the USA”. Haitian farmers used to grow all their own rice, but for years buying imported U.S. rice has been cheaper than buying locally grown Haitian rice. So Haitians buy “Miami Rice” (get it?), Haitian rice farmers are out of a job, American rice farmers off-load their subsidized product, and the U.S. bags more money.

Chicken. Haiti has chickens running around all over the place. Sure they are scrawny—but chickens nonetheless. Tyson Foods takes the dark meat that Americans don’t want and exports it to Haiti. Guess who makes a lot of money on that? Tyson! Guess who loses out from raising local chickens? Haitians! To be fair, right after the earthquake in 2010 Tyson donated $250,000 to Haiti’s disaster relief efforts. But on the other hand, this is a company that makes hundreds of millions of dollars per quarter, so you be the judge on whether a $250K donation is significant or not.

Travel advisories. Some world travelers have long been distrustful of the United States’ travel warnings posted on State Department websites. “The Department of State warns U.S. citizens of the risk of travel to…” It is suspected that there may be some less-than-truthful or some politically motivated reasons why American’s are discouraged from traveling to certain countries. One highly cynical theory- and I don’t know if it is true- is that U.S. Embassy employees get extra pay for living and working in a high risk area. Who writes the travel advisories? U.S. Embassy employees. Thus, to issue a warning about a certain country may work to the financial benefit of the person issuing the warning. My main point is that- partially due to travel advisories-- Haiti doesn’t seem to have any tourism. I’ve been to poor countries before but many of them have some sort of tourism infrastructure that brings in at least a little money. In Haiti I saw a few sub-par “resorts” along the beach where United Nations soldiers go to shed their camouflage and drink beer, but as a rule, tourism for pleasure is pretty non-existent in Haiti.

Volunteer Tourism. However, volunteer tourism (volunteering for a charitable cause) is rampant. And America spends a lot of money in Haiti through church groups, NGO’s, building projects, and medical clinics. But before we pat ourselves on the back too quickly, 12 months after the earthquake the Associated Press shared information that out of every $100 spent by U.S. organizations in Haiti, only $1.60 was won by Haitian contractors. In other words, Americans' charitable service to Haiti lines the pockets of Americans- not Haitians.

Trash. Port au Prince is covered with trash. There is so much trash because the Haitian government doesn’t have a handle on things like sanitation. Most Americans can’t wrap our heads around this reality because we enjoy regular sanitation pick ups once or twice a week. (In 2007 Oakland had a trash strike and the trash wasn’t picked up for weeks. Homeowners threw a tizzy fit, people were confronted with their waste consumption, and politicians were calling it a “serious health crisis.”) Not once did I see a public garbage can in Haiti. And even in places where there were huge trash bins, they were overflowing because the government doesn’t have someone pick them up regularly. I distinctly remember being in developing countries in the past, looking around at all the trash and thinking “if everyone is unemployed, why don’t they rally themselves to gather up all the trash and get rid of it?” But now I understand that there is nowhere for the trash to go.

But there is also trash in Haiti because American companies sell things to Haiti that exacerbates the trash situation. Haitian locals told us that in the last 15 years the trash has gotten worse in Haiti. Previously, Haitians used recyclable glass bottles for Coca Colas and other sugary drinks, which they would return back to the place of purchase. Now there are worthless, empty plastic bottles strewn everywhere. Previously, the Haitians wrapped street food in biodegradable banana leaves. Now there are Styrofoam containers tossed all over. Coca Cola and whoever manufactures and imports styrofoam gets money while the Haitian countryside gets litter.

Wood and gold. Haiti is completely deforested in part because long ago other countries took most of their wood to build houses in France and other lands. Canadian mining companies are scattered all over Haiti, taking Haiti’s natural resources and leaving massive soil erosion as a gift.

So the United States and other key Western countries are directly responsible for much of the tragedy and poverty in Haiti. Countries like the U.S. have what we have because countries like Haiti don’t have what they don’t have. Taking it up a notch- Melanie has what she needs (and wants) because a woman in Haiti doesn’t have what she needs. I'm currently sitting with that.

Things I Like About Haitians

2011-06-30T19:24:00.000-07:00

“Bonjou!” and “Bonsoir!” I like that Haitians greet one another with a robust “hello” and a hug and kiss on the cheek like they haven’t seen each other in weeks or months—even if they saw each other earlier that day.

Strength. While I don’t like the conditions that keep testing them, I do like and admire the physical, emotional, and spiritual strength of the Haitians. It’s astounding how they endure things that would have made most of us crumble long ago.

Patience. I like that Haitians don’t fret traffic jams, they patiently tolerate the fumblings of foreigners trying to help, and I watched this Haitian fellow patiently and kindly help Yvonne learn some Creole for quite a long time on the patio.

Sharing. In the van one day, Carla bought us all a bunch of chips in plastic bags. When we stopped to pick up some Haitian friends of hers, she gave each of them a bag to eat too. When one man was dropped off first, he took his unopened bag with him. “See that?” Carla shared, “he’s taking that home to his family to share with them. Haitians always think of others when they receive something.”

Big is Beautiful. Upon arriving at the wharf for our ferry ride to La Gonave our van was swarmed by a dozen men wanting to carry our bags to the boat. Hot and sweaty, in NO WAY looking my best, I climbed out of the van under the stare of 12 sets of eyes. “Big woman!” one of the men said appreciatively while the others nodded. All righty then.

Artists. In Port au Prince-- a city where there isn’t much natural beauty-- public art stands out as a lily among thorns. I admired much of the graffiti, and their public buses are fancied up real purty too!
Local Heroes. All over Haiti there are people like Mona and William who have other passions and responsibilities, yet remain committed to their communities and work hard to raise the quality of life around them. I can only guess at the massive number of local heroes who share their food and water, offer their personal space for a stranger to sleep in, care for orphans who lost family members in the earthquake. Heck, I considered Madame Antoine a local hero for cooking over open fires in this “kitchen” and churning out delicious meals for us guests every day. Average Haitians rise up every day and make good things happen.

A Great Saying. In Creole—as in English—there are a large variety of responses you can give when someone asks “How are you?” My favorite response is “Map bat zel mwen” (I’m still beating my wings!)

Tent Camps

2011-06-28T12:46:00.000-07:00

In one month I’m going tent camping with my sister. We’ll pitch my fine REI tent on a carefully tended campsite in a lush forest, toast marshmallows over a fire, sleep on comfortable mattresses, and consider it a fine vacation.

In Haiti there is a completely different situation going on with tents. Driving around the countryside we saw plenty of tents pitched on hillsides or out in fields. Many of them were stenciled with “PR China” and the names of countless other governments and NGO’s providing housing to the Haitian people after the earthquake. In Port au Prince there are tent camps scattered around the city. There’s a big one by the airport, there are tent camps in spaces where there used to be parks or public squares, there are tent camps built on top of the rubble from fallen buildings, and Sean Penn’s famous tent camp in Petionville (a suburb of Port au Prince) is situated on a golf course and houses and cares for 50,000 people. Check out this before and after satellite photo.

We drove by many of them, but it is difficult to take photos while cruising in a van, and I also didn’t want to be a voyeuristic jerk, obnoxiously taking photos of other people’s misfortunes. So I don’t have great photos. I have ones like this:

But I have vivid memories.

One of my host Carla’s good friends is a man named Mona who is a remarkably gifted painter, poet, musician, and song writer. He is a classic Renaissance man. On January 12, 2010 the earth started shaking, walls and ceilings came down all around Mona, and despite being in a basement room on the bottom of a house, he miraculously survived.

Out of necessity, a tent camp sprung up in his neighborhood and 300 families currently live there. When my group visited his camp we walked through muddy, narrow walkways past rows of tents and shacks made out of plywood and scavenged materials. Tent flaps were tied back to reveal 5-10 people sitting in tents about 15 feet wide and long. Older children came out to shake our hands and offer cheerful “bonsoir’s”, while naked toddlers laughed and twirled in the rain.

Our group gathered in a make-shift community center built out of plywood, and listened to Mona and his co-laborer William speak of their experiences helping to run the tent camp. Shortly after the earthquake, a pastor from San Diego had showed up with a wad of cash, asked the tent community what they needed, and peeling off $3,000 had commissioned them to build the community center in one week so that he could take a photo of it before leaving to show his church what they had paid for. Mona and William had hired Haitian workers and moved heaven and earth to complete the room in one week, with a painted sign “Rev. James W. Smith Memorial Community Center” being the finishing touch. They also built a small medical center so tent community members could get medical attention, and they want to stock it with more medicines but they need to save up for a cupboard with a lock so that the medications will stay safe. They’d also like to hire a Haitian nurse to provide care-- especially since there are so many Haitian medical practitioners currently out of work.

Of the 300 families living in the tent camp, there are a handful of men and women who participate in a committee that makes decisions for the community. It is difficult for Mona and William because they are looked at as people who can give other people work if an NGO approaches them with a project. So they hear a lot of desperation and get a lot of requests. Mona and William have a computer with spreadsheets of hundreds of names of people who want work, and there is a lot of pressure to ensure that the distribution of work and resources is fair and just.

Seeing that the tent community had taken initiative to build a community center (as a gathering place for meetings, and for a space for children to play and learn), another NGO gave the tent camp a water tank and built toilets and showers. The NGO pays for two people to clean and maintain the public toilets and showers, but instead the community chose four people to work part-time so that more people can make a little money. With an 80% unemployment rate, cleaning toilets is a prized job.

First World Problems Rap

2011-06-24T14:29:00.001-07:00

Great perspective in light of the other things I'm writing about lately.

Healing in Haiti

2011-06-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve traveled to several developing countries and the truth is that with the exception of the Philippines, I haven’t had great experiences. India was the absolute worst. I don’t even talk about what happened there, except to say that after a week I left there with severe post-traumatic stress syndrome that I recovered from by sitting in a guest house garden in Katmandu for a week.

When I’ve traveled to developing countries, I’ve been prepared for the fact that they will be poor, that there will be people asking me for money, and there will be sad things to see and experience. I accept those realities. But what I’ve never been able to accept is the cheating, lying, scamming, stealing, and the constant feeling that everyone sees me only as a walking ATM machine, everyone is trying to get one over on me, or everyone is trying to befriend me just to get something from me. In those countries I feel like I can’t trust anyone.

Haiti wasn’t like that. In my 8 days of traveling Haiti, only about 2 people asked me for money—and they didn’t really even ask—they just pointed to their stomachs and said they were hungry. I never felt pounced upon or unsafe in Haiti (except for maybe seeing all the U.N. soldiers with automatic weapons resting on their knees). And the Beyond Borders staff brokered all the relationships, so I never felt like anyone was trying to shake me down or get something out of me.

So the disturbing things that have happened to me in other developing countries didn’t happen to me in Haiti. But Mother Ayiti took it a step further—she healed me.

On my final day with my rural hosting family on La Gonave, our group had to leave unexpectedly to catch a boat across the water before a bad storm hit. At my hosting family’s house I quickly packed my backpack, said reluctant goodbye’s, and slung my backpack over my shoulder to walk back to the truck. After a minute I heard a child yelling “Mel-a-nie! Mel-a-nie!” One of the children from my house ran down the trail with my shoes in his hand. Someone had put them outside the door of the house, and when I packed I didn’t notice they were gone.

I can’t describe how healing that moment was for me. I was profoundly touched. Any other country I had been in, the person finding my shoes would have probably thought “that damn American has other shoes. I’m keeping these.” But in Haiti- the poorest country in the Western hemisphere-- this beautiful child knocked himself out to return my stupid, old, beat up shoes (that I was planning on leaving in Haiti anyway).

It's easy to ascertain from my vague narrative above that I carry some heavy emotional baggage from past travels. Fully aware of this, in the months leading up to my departure for Haiti I had been filling up a flip chart on my living room wall with prayers for me, my fellow travelers, and for Haiti. Here’s what I had written in one corner:
How’s that for an answer to prayer?

Children in Haiti

2011-06-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

One of the best things Mother Ayiti has going for her is her children. Haitian children have something special going on.

Number 1- Haitian children are not lazy. If an adult needs to send a message to another person in the village (or even the household), they flag down a kid and the child runs to deliver it. With no TV's or video games to plop down in front of, Haitian children actually apply the old-fashioned practice of physical movement.

Number 2- Haitian children are hard working. At Carla’s guest house, all of the children- whether they were 4 years old or 14 years old—carried adult-sized loads of enormous bags and supplies from the van to the kitchen. Without complaint. They grow them strong in Haiti.

Number 3- Haitian children take school very seriously. In a country where there is no free public education, families who make very little money struggle to scrape together at least $150 a year to send each child to school. So the children study hard to honor their parent’s sacrifice. Late on Friday nights at our guest house, older children could be found fretting over mathematical equations scribbled on a chalkboard.

Number 4- Haitian children are uncomplaining. While staying with my rural hosting family, the family was standing up looking at the postcards of San Francisco and photos of my family that I had brought to show them. The youngest son- a little guy no more than 4 years old— well, here is a photo of him….

…the youngest son stood underneath everyone and clearly wanted to see the photos but they completely ignored him. He jumped up and down a couple of times to try to get a peek, but came up a good 2 feet short of being able to view anything. Eventually I saw that he was being left out, so I lifted him up to see. But the whole time he never said a word- he never cried or whined or complained. Now show me an American kid who acts like that.

Creatures in Haiti

2011-06-21T09:11:00.000-07:00

Most of the non-humans occupying Haiti are of the domesticated kind. Haiti is only a small island, so there aren’t any deer or bears wandering around. The animal I saw the most of was goats. Goats are everywhere- sometimes roaming freely and oftentimes tied up.
The rural family that I lived raised these lovely pigs.
And on the more appealing side, I saw a few baby animals like this adorable horse.
It being a Caribbean island, there were a lot of lizards scurrying around the guest house.
But the animal that reigns at the complete bottom of the totem pole is dogs. In Port au Prince dogs could most often be seen pawing at trash piles, searching for something to eat. My rural family had a little puppy whose mother had died weeks before. This scrawny puppy lived a miserable existence fending for itself and trying vainly not to get stepped on. We visitors petted him, but you could tell that it wasn’t used to anyone paying attention to him. The rainy season had just begun, and while I didn’t think it was cold, everyone else- including the puppy—thought it was freezing. The puppy was often found huddled up shivering, and once I woke up in the morning and found the puppy sleeping curled up on top of some coals from a fire that had burned out the night before.
Did it break my heart? Of course! But the sad reality is that in a country where people are struggling to survive and they barely have enough to eat, feeding and loving dogs is not a top priority.

Haitian Market

2011-06-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

The streets of Port au Prince are crowded with street vendors selling what they can. Imagine every square foot of the your city’s sidewalks filled with people squatting beside blankets on which they have neatly arranged items to sell- shoes, clothing, food, cooking utensils, mattresses- I literally saw kitchen sinks for sale on a sidewalk. Lucky vendors who stake out prime sidewalk space get to hang their items on a fence or the wall of a building. Of course there are no official standards, no permits, but there probably are mutually understood rules. I have no idea how anyone carves out a living selling the exact same mangoes and bananas that the person right next to them is selling, but somehow it works.

One day our whole group drove Madam Antoine, our amazing cook, to the market in her old neighborhood so she could pick up a few days of food to prepare for us. Madam Antoine brought along 3 children to help her at the market, since she essentially bought the equivalent of a big Costco run and needed help lugging her purchases from place to place.

This is what the market looked like:
There were pyramids of papayas, mangoes, oranges, coconuts, pineapples, melons.
Tables were heavy with piles of pigs feet and chicken feet.
There were wheelbarrows of charcoal for making fires, and other wheelbarrows of 3-4 foot rods of sugar cane (Haiti used to be the sugar cane capital of the world).
Most interesting to me was that men and women stuffed scrawny live chickens head first into black plastic bags, and walked around with them tucked under their arms.
Platters of smoked herring glistened in the heat and Madam Antoine picked up the biggest sweet potato I had ever seen: (this isn't Haitian Madam Anoine, by the way. This is Anne, of Virginia. But that is the sweet potato)

Later on in the day when we returned for Madam Antoine and the children, we had 15 people, all the market purchases, and two propane tanks crammed into a van with a passenger capacity of 12. We were so packed that the sliding door of the van threatened to come off. At one point in the van I yelled “Stop! The window just fell out!” and we drove slowly along in traffic as a random guy on the street trotted alongside us and gave us back our window.

Getting to Know the Aldors

2011-06-16T12:55:00.000-07:00

My hosting family was Monsieur and Madam Aldor and their 5 kids—3 of whom were actually theirs, and the other 2 belonging to a sister or cousin or something- it wasn’t totally clear.
The Aldors farm for a living, and have plants, crops, and fruit trees scattered throughout the hillside. They also have relatives scattered throughout the hillside- they told me that basically everyone in their little community is related. The family pointed out the papaya and mango trees on their property, and Monsieur let me swing his machete and plant some seeds.

One afternoon, Monsieur and one of his sons taught my fellow traveler, John, and me a card game. They pulled out this beat up, raggedy deck of cards (I have around 6 brand new decks of cards in a drawer at home) and John and I gamely tried to catch on to the rules despite us speaking English and our hosts speaking Creole. Every time I made some points, I slammed my cards down on the table like I had observed the son do, and this made for some great fun and laughter no matter what language we spoke.

Indeed, with dozens of pairs of children’s eyes watching me at all times, I found that really all you have to do is smile, pat them, and occasionally shake your booty in order for them to think you are the most hilarious person in the world. I don’t do a lot of booty shaking in San Francisco, but I figured give the people what they want. Here are some of my local followers.

Our last evening together, I showed the family two postcards of San Francisco- one of the Golden Gate Bridge, and one of the downtown buildings. They really liked the Golden Gate Bridge. I also showed them a photo of my family, and they wanted to know exactly who everyone in the photo was- sister, brother, mother, nephew, niece…..

After us visitors had showed off a few photos of our families, Madam brought out a treasured photo album, and we went through the album page by page, with Madam Aldor pointing out and naming every single relative in each and every photo. It took a while, but I couldn’t help but note that when an American pulls out photos to show strangers, they preface it with “oh, you don’t want to see all these photos… it’s boring.” Whereas, family is so important to Haitians that they were proud to identify everyone and happy to share their extended family with us.

Even after only a few days with them, I felt a real bond with the Aldors, and certainly a lot of admiration for them. Make no mistake about it- they are poor and they struggle to put food on the table. But they welcomed strangers into their home, they sacrificed their own comfort and probably some of their own meager resources to house and feed us, and hopefully they enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed them.

Living Like the Haitians

2011-06-16T12:12:00.000-07:00

One of the best parts of my trip to Haiti was that I got to live with an average rural Haitian family for a few days. After arriving in the village, we had a little get-to-know you time at the school, and then three different hosting families took 2-3 of my traveling partners to their homes. After wandering down a dirt road and then up and down a pleasant dirt trail, we came to our family’s compound. It was composed of a couple of crudely constructed buildings, a cistern for collecting rain water, and a canopy made out of branches and dried banana leaves. It was on a small hill, with a terrific view of surrounding mountains covered with green trees and bushes. Chickens clucked nearby, and a welcome wagon of curious neighborhood children came over to line up and stare at us.

My host mother showed me how to take a bucket “shower” behind the house. After scooping up water and washing the day’s travel grime off of my body, I was ready to explore. The main house was a little bigger than my living room, had no windows, and was divided into four sections by walls, with doors of hanging fabric. Three of the four rooms had a bed in them. The whole family gave up their beds and slept together in a storage shed so that we 3 visitors could sleep comfortably. The 4th room had a small kitchen table and 4 chairs alongside a shelf storing all of their eating utensils.
After serving us a dinner of rice, beans, fish and fresh lime juice, we sat with the family under the canopy. I asked them what the family does on a typical evening. “We sit here and talk until the sun goes down. Then we get sleepy and go to bed because there is nothing else to do” replied Madam Aldor through our translator. The sun went down at 6:30pm so bed time was early. (Every morning of my time in Haiti, everyone was awake with the sun at 5am, and the place was totally hopping by 6am)

Lying in bed the first night, some relief from the sweltering heat eventually came with the arrival of some gentle pitter-pattering rain. I thought it soothing to hear the rain drops on the tin roof of the house, until a real downpour arrived causing a racket beyond anything you could imagine. The wind whipped around the house, the rain poured on the roof and rushed down the gutters directly into the cistern. We later found out that we had survived our first tropical depression, or a light cyclone. All I know is that you could be in the house screaming at the top of your lungs and no one would be able to hear you over the rain pounding on the tin roof. It’s been a long time since I’ve appreciated the fulfillment of a basic need like shelter.

The next morning it was still lightly raining, which the family decided was good reason to have one of the boys escort me up the hill to the outhouse with an umbrella. I’ve never been big on processional ceremonies to the toilet, but I let this one go. Furthermore, call me shallow and spoiled, but the outhouses and toilets were the one thing in Haiti that I couldn’t wait to be done with, and I truly missed Western plumbing. Here are outside/inside photos of the outhouse. It ain’t for the faint of heart.

Island Time- La Gonave

2011-06-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

As those who got an A in geography know, Haiti and the Dominican Republic share an island, and on the Haiti side, to the northwest of Port au Prince, there is a smaller island called "La Gonave". I was told that the people from Port au Prince look down upon people from La Gonave, but I don't know why. It is picturesque, peaceful, rural, and it doesn't smell like automobile exhaust. Haitians probably consider it provincial, in the same way that I turn up my nose at Bakersfield.

Our group took a leisurely ferry ride over to the island in the bright sunshine, and a few days later took a speedboat back in order to avoid getting stuck on the island in a possible hurricane. But that's another story. For now, views of La Gonave:

Goudou Goudou

2011-06-14T09:12:00.001-07:00

Many people have asked me what signs of the January 2010 earthquake are still present. Well, a year and a half later, there is quite a bit of physical as well as emotional rubble. Referring to the earthquake as “Goudou Goudou” (when you say this a bunch of times in a row, to the Haitians it mimics the sound of buildings shaking) everyone has an earthquake story.

People took care of each other and shared what they had. My host family had 17 people sleeping in their house for a while. This is a house the size of my living room.

One woman near my guest house is living in a tent in her yard because the roof on her small house is concrete and she is afraid of it falling on her in another earthquake.

Most people have seen this on the news, but the presidential palace is still in a shambles. I couldn’t help but think that a country like the U.S. would have bulldozed that eye-sore long ago. But on the other hand, some Haitians say that some bad shit went down in that presidential palace in the past, so it is fitting that it stay there as a symbol of evil getting its due.
In downtown Port au Prince there are some vacant lots where I was told demolished buildings had been cleared, but there is still loads of rubble EVERYWHERE. It was difficult to get photos of all that I saw because we were driving through and it seemed voyeuristic to stop and take photos of misfortune, but these are pretty typical scenes of the rubble:

The government has gone through and painted these signs on all the buildings- commercial and residential. If the paint is green it means the building is all right and you can go in it; red paint indicates that the building is off limits.

I know what earthquakes are like. In 1989 I lived in an unstable loft and was home when the Loma Prieta earthquake shook with a 7.1 on the Richter scale. It was scary. 63 people died in that earthquake.

The 2010 Haitian earthquake was 7.0 on the Richter scale. 316,000 people died. Even after seeing the rubble with my own eyes, I can't wrap my head around that number.

Beyond Borders- Transformational Travel

2011-06-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

I have nothing but good things to say about the organization that arranged my travels. Beyond Borders’ Transformational Travel program is offered so that people can travel humbly to Haiti with the intentions of learning the culture and history, and getting to know the people and how they live (rather than relying upon CNN to feed us info). There is mutual give and take among Haitians and visitors, and they discourage the typical paternalistic approach where visitors come to Haiti with a wad of cash intent upon doing things for Haitians that the Haitians could very well do for themselves.

In additional to Transformational Travel, Beyond Borders has an apprenticeship program in which people live with a typical Haitian family, immersed in the culture and Creole for one year. Two of the people on my trip- Sarah and Courtney—were two months into their apprenticeship, and their Creole had excelled so rapidly that they joined our trip as our translators. These young women already knew plenty about Haitian culture and I admired their courage and sense of adventure in signing up for a year.

Knowing that Haitians are competent, innovative, passionate people, Beyond Borders partners with Haitian organizations and local individuals to tap their expertise, their relationships, and their street credibility. They raise awareness and organize movements around issues such as reproductive rights and violence against children. They were instrumental in helping families find each other in the aftermath of the earthquake. They support grassroots community actions and help “mobilize and unite” Haitians. And much more.

My group was in constant contact with amazing Haitian people who were knowledgeable and professional. We had language, culture, and history lessons from 4 young men- Manno, Yaya, Jean David, and Routson—who were patient and proud to share their country with us. In addition, our trip employed Haitian drivers, teachers, cooks, hosting families, boat captains, facilitators, artists, musicians—all to give us an accurate view of what Haiti is like. In addition to the privilege of being introduced to true Ayiti (Creole for Haiti), I was happy that some of the fees for my travels helped so many Haitians work an honest day and make a living sharing their expertise.

This is a photo of my travel group, along with the two apprentices and a couple of Beyond Borders staff.

First Glimpses of Haitian Reality

2011-06-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

My first glimpse of Haitian reality was in the Miami airport. I smiled at an elderly Haitian woman who was dressed in her Sunday best for traveling with some family members. She looked frail yet adorable in her big white hat and fuchsia suit. When we came to the first escalator the woman stepped up to the moving staircase, froze long enough to back up a long line of people, and at the urging of her family members (who couldn’t help her because their arms were full of luggage) she awkwardly stepped onto the escalator and her feet flew out from under her. But she clutched the railing as if her life depended on it (which it did) and she fearfully watched for the moment when she was going to have to step off again.

I realized that most Haitians have never experienced escalators.

I watched helplessly while she disembarked awkwardly, and then there was another escalator with a repeat performance of stumbling and gravitational realities until finally some of us Westerners feared for her life and we tightly held onto her as she staggered on and off five different escalators. Touched by her bravery, yet shaken by the danger for this poor woman, I raced ahead to get on the airplane.

The flight to Port au Prince was uneventful, but as I completed customs paperwork on the plane I caught a second glimpse of Haitian reality. Seeing that I had a pen and that I was writing on my customs documents, the two Haitians sitting next to me said something in Creole, smiled shyly, and passed me their passports and blank customs documents.

They were illiterate.

So comparing my English documents with their French ones, I gamely did my best to fill in the correct blanks for them. And I sent up a quick prayer that they wouldn’t get detained at Immigration because I didn't study very hard in my high school French class.

Departure Gate

2011-06-12T16:27:00.000-07:00

After a red-eye flight from San Francisco, I arrived in Miami at 5:00 am and wearily awaited my next flight at the departure gate. The waiting area was bustling with early morning activity. With a quick glance around the room I estimated that about 15% of my co-travelers were Haitian, and 85% white.

There were more than a few middle-aged men whom I imagined were managers or engineers of various NGO’s (Non-Governmental Organizations). With their gray wavy hair, clean blue jeans, t-shirts, and multi-pocketed khaki photographers’ vests they emitted an air of expertise. They rested their feet on brand new backpacks as they pecked away at battered laptops.

There were various teams of 8-12 people whom I guessed were church groups. One team wore bright yellow t-shirts that said “Love a Child Construction Team”, and another group wore blue t-shirts proclaiming the obvious “Here to Serve Haiti”. The team leaders bustled around in baseball caps, offering firm handshakes and peppering their conversations with questions such as “what’s the weather like?”, or “what are you working on?”, or “how is the drainage working now?” One by one the church groups migrated inconspicuously towards some quiet corners to clasp hands in a big circle and pray.

Haiti as a Blessing

2011-05-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

Lately, in preparation for my Haiti trip I have been watching all the news specials and documentaries about Haiti that I can get my hands on. I recently watched a Frontline special about that state of Haiti one year after the 2010 earthquake.

A Haitian man named Daniel was interviewed. He is a successful businessman who is putting Haitians to work building a power plant in Port au Prince-- at high cost to himself and his family. As one of the “business elite” Daniel is a target. His wife was kidnapped by gangsters and held for 10 days while he paid three different ransoms. When she was finally released she was so traumatized that she moved to the United States with their kids. He stayed in Haiti.

A soft-spoken man of incredible faith, this is what he said:
“Coming from Haiti feels like a burden. It feels like a heavy cannon ball tied to your ankles. It feels like a curse, really. I used to really feel that. Until it occurred to me that living in Haiti was a blessing. It’s an opportunity to touch Christ every day. In the person who can’t feed himself. And the men in the prison. And the kids who contacted AIDS and don’t have access to medicine.”

That statement blew my socks off. This is exactly the type of attitude I am going to be on the lookout for while I am in Haiti.

Intentions for My Time in Haiti

2011-05-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

One week from today I will be on a plane to Florida, and then on to Port au Prince.

This morning I'm reflecting on and listing my intentions for my time in Haiti:

Love, Grace, Compassion- be ALL about these things.

Look past the physical to the spiritual. See things through spiritual eyes.

Cheerfully embrace discomfort, risk, and transformation.

Identify and celebrate pockets of hope. Find out how Haitians still manage to be hopeful.

Be encouraging. Smile often, praise people who have endured much and been at it for the long haul.

Listen intently to what the Haitians are saying and not saying.

Release my incorrect beliefs and myths about people living in poverty.

Say YES. Be game for anything. Try everything out.

Flash Mob Cry Baby

2011-05-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

Pushing the treadmill speed up to 5.2, I stuffed the buds into my ears and blasted “I Gotta Feeling” on my iPod. Involuntary tears came to my eyes. What is that all about?, I wondered.

I had 40 minutes of treadmill time to figure it out, during which time I determined that I have a Pavlovian response to that song because of the YouTube video where the Black Eyed Peas surprised Oprah with a flash mob for her anniversary a couple of years back.

And I always get teary-eyed when I see a flash mob.

I’m a flash mob cry baby.

But I don’t get emotional for any old flash mob. I respond to the grand scale mobs—not the small, weak ones. The organizers of Oprah’s flash mob allege that 21,000 people learned the choreography. That qualifies as grand scale, my friend.

Secondly, I respond to the songs that they play. This flash mob in an American mall food court is fantastic, not because there is free advertising for Arby’s, Subway, and Panda Express, but because children, adults, and seniors were all blessed with the sounds of the sacred Hallelujah Chorus while spreading mustard on their corn dogs.

Lastly, location is important. I love this classic flash mob in the cavernous Antwerp train station where children and adults dance to “Do Re Mi’ from the Sound of Music.

A search on YouTube reveals that there were flash mob tributes to Michael Jackson in Paris, Cebu, Stockholm, Seattle, Bucharest, Montreal, London, San Francisco, and apparently every other major city in the world.

There are flash mobs that pay homage to Glee songs, and some enterprising advertisers—like T-Mobile-- are organizing flash mobs to draw attention to their products.

But why do I love flash mobs, and why do they invoke such an emotional, visceral response in me? Simply put, flash mobs represent everything that is good in the world.

They are a joyful celebration of life-- exciting and spontaneous. Flash mobs shine a spotlight on the arts— music and dance. They represent large-scale unity. Flash mobs require humans to cooperate with one another and they highlight the value of global community. They are a profound example of people peacefully working together, delighting others, calling attention to an issue, celebrating, and spreading good will and cheer. Flash mobs exult in turning ordinary places- a food court, public square, train station- into sacred space.

And most importantly, flash mobs represent a transcendent moment-- an “ascendancy of the soul” as Thomas Moore would write.

And if I can get all of that inspiration from just 40 sweaty minutes of blasting a mediocre band’s music through my iPod, then flash mobs are even more powerful than I thought.

$659

2011-05-07T14:41:00.000-07:00

A fashionable woman could buy a Dolce & Gabbana black wool jacket.

An adventurer could buy a scuba diving package.

A romantic could enjoy a Las Vegas weekend vacation package at the Bellagio.

A boss could secure 4 chairs and a 36 inch round table “break room set”.

A computer geek could buy a Toshiba notebook.

A sports fan could purchase a Samsung 46” LCD HDTV.

A teenager living in Alberta could get a Canadian iPhone.

A driver could pay for a one month lease on a Mercedes.
And they would be spending the same amount as the average annual income of a Haitian at the start of the cholera epidemic. $659.00

Manual Labor

2011-05-01T08:04:00.000-07:00

I popped a couple of Advil last night in a pre-emptive attempt to ward off some aches and pains this morning. My shoulders hurt from hauling 2 liter bags of mulch. My hands ache from grabbing handfuls of weeds. My arms hurt from digging and overturning soil in a planter. My knee hurts from kneeling down to pick up rocks, marbles, chunks of concrete, and chopped roots. My feet ache from countless trips to throw junk from the backyard into a dumpster in the front yard.

I have a sunburned face. I have scratches on my legs. I have bruises on my forearms. My clothes are covered with ground-in dirt. My shoes are spattered with rancid mud water and slug juice. Bees buzzed around my ears, my feet crunched countless snails, and spiders crawled across my shoes and up my socks.

And I couldn't be more satisfied.

Because yesterday, while working on a project for Rebuilding Together, my Tribe helped turn a family in need's backyard from this.....
(decades of accumulated junk, weeds, overgrown garden)

To this.....
(uncluttered patio, planters with flowers and herbs, mulched garden area, trimmed trees)

We also cleared and organized a garage that looked pretty much the same as the "before" backyard photo, and laid new linoleum in the hallway and kitchen. All things considered, a great way to spend a day.

Book Reflection: Introverts in the Church

2011-04-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

In college I took my first Meyers/Briggs test, and came out a high E for Extroversion.
Every few years I would take the Meyers/Briggs for a leadership position or for a seminary class, and my E score kept getting lower and lower. Now I score a clean “I” for Introversion.

In regards to my introversion, for years I felt like I was walking around in the dark with a dim flashlight whose batteries were 90% depleted. Reading Introverts in the Church was like dropping new Duracells into that flashlight. Here are a few of the main things I gleaned:

Evangelical Christian Churches are Geared Towards Extroverts
In his book, Adam McHugh describes the extroverted environment that evangelical Christian churches cultivate. Evangelical churches are all about relationships—relationship with God, and relationship with each other. If you walk into an evangelical church on a Sunday morning, the ushers will warmly greet you, church members will bombard you with small talk because they want you to feel welcome and noticed there, and you will observe a lot of hugging and laughing and interacting among the members. Once the service starts the leader may ask everyone to stand up and greet each other (especially visitors!), and there is always something happening, such as a sermon to listen to, music to sing, offerings to give, prayers to recite, scriptures to read, and announcements to take note of. Stillness and pregnant pauses are rare.

It being an evangelical church, the focus is on evangelism, or sharing the “good news” with others—which includes initiating relationships (with hidden agendas), helping “seekers” feel comfortable, and encouraging people to participate in smaller groups where they can know and be known. At all points and time someone is up in your face.

The whole set-up is geared towards extroverts—not introverts. I grew up in an evangelical church setting, and until about 5 years ago have been actively involved-- with mixed results-- in approximately 5 or 6 churches.

As an introvert, my processing is best done internally rather than through interactions with others. In churches, people are encouraged to participate in small groups and verbally share with others.

As an introvert, I crave silence and contemplation. Most churches are a hub of stimuli and activity with “church socials” in their “fellowship halls.”

As an introvert, I feel most alive when I am alone. But “as followers of Jesus, even introverted ones, our ultimate identity is never found in aloneness, but it is found in relationship with another.” (page 56) Which is why, as an introvert, Christian community exhausts me. My personal spirituality leans towards silence, prayer, journaling, taking a Sabbath to unplug, writing, and reading.

But on the other hand, I recognize the truth of my identity being found in relationship with God and others. So I do what McHugh describes as a “spiral”. I take “steps into a community, but then spiral out of it in order to regain energy, to reflect on [my] experiences and to determine if [I] am comfortable in that community”. So there is this rhythm of engaging and retreating that is the story of my life. I was so glad to learn that introverts do this spiraling thing, because previously I just thought I was a anti-social, self-indulgent jerk.

Some Good Things About Being Introverted
My current faith community is ReIMAGINE, which is an amazing bunch of young people in their 20’s and 30’s, whom as far as I can tell, are mostly extroverted—like I was in my 20’s. They are charismatic, energetic men and women, attracted to the prospect of following the teachings of Jesus in ways that may be different than how a traditional church goes about it.

And in this community of extroverts, according to McHugh I have these introverted gifts to offer: compassion, service, loyalty, insight, listening, creativity, calming presence—which are things that I have been pretty much affirmed about in the past.

Some Down Sides of Introversion
But on the down side, “in an extroverted culture, introverts can become the silent screens onto which others project their insecurities. Others may regard our quietness as arrogance, or they may interpret our tendency to observe in social situations as condescension.” I don’t know if people have thought I am arrogant, but I do know that my introversion makes some people uneasy, and they wonder what the heck I am thinking about when I am quiet in a group setting. Loads of people have communicated this information to me in loving and not-so-loving ways.

Introverts in a Christian community also have to be vigilantly on the watch for burnout and depression. I have been incredibly susceptible to those for the past several years. I wonder if they are unavoidable conditions for those of us who are emotionally depleted by interaction? I’d like to think that just because I lose energy doing something doesn’t mean that I’m not supposed to do it.

It’s Not Just About Churches
While this book is written about introversion within the context of the church, most of what it says applies to the nonprofit work environments I have been involved with. Any nonprofit organization worth its salt exists because they have a vision and mission to love people and serve them. Nonprofit work attracts a certain personality type—the extroverted, people-loving type. Meetings are preceded by personal “check in’s”, staff members tend to know what is going on with each other and hang out together outside of work hours, and the “save the world” mentality often translates into overwork and extended time spent working with one another.

I’m not picking on churches or nonprofit organizations, and I’m not griping about people either. But in general, American culture values extroversion over introversion. But not as much as some other countries I’ve been to—like Thailand, or the Philippines, where I would go absolutely crazy as an introvert. Years ago, I remember telling a Filipino friend of mine that I was going to travel solo for a year around the world. She thoughtfully absorbed that outrageous information, tilted her head and wistfully asked “But won’t you miss people?”

Well…. no, actually.

Sacred Space- Josephine's Retreat

2011-04-09T17:03:00.000-07:00

In 1924, wealthy Palo Altons Frank and Josephine Duveneck steered their Model T Ford towards the mountains and discovered a magical valley called Hidden Villa. Understandably enchanted with the place they purchased it and raised their family on the land where children could climb trees, race leafy boats in the creek, and chase chickens, goats, and pigs around the pasture. The valley looks like this:
With so many children, farm hands, house helpers and endless projects afloat, Josephine—a contemplative like myself- needed a place to hear herself think. So her ever loving husband Frank built her a small cabin on a hill overlooking the valley and dubbed it “Josephine’s Retreat”. It looks like this:
After decades of raising children, founding a school, and running summer camps at Hidden Villa, the Duvenecks donated the land to a nonprofit organization dedicated to educating people about environmental issues and sustainable living. The space is now a 1,000 acre organic farm, outdoor education program, hostel, and summer camp.

Most months Josephine’s Retreat can be rented by the public. It’s a 10x12 foot one-room cabin with a comfortable bed, a kitchenette, and a deck with spectacular views of the valley and surrounding mountains. This is the view:
Near the cabin there are heavy oak trees, fragrant bay trees, Adobe Creek, lupines, bunnies and deer, and occasionally an illusive bobcat and fox can be sighted.

At dusk, all the day-trippers go home and the only sounds are the rushing stream, hungry goats bleating their demand for dinner, and uncountable birds singing their unique tunes. And the frogs, oh the frogs… at night the frogs start up a blaring symphony chorus of “ribbits” and then inexplicably they all stop as if instructed by a mysterious froggy chorus conductor. They observe a multi-measure rest note, then resume.
In the cabin there are three guest books dating from 1995 onward, which is when the cabin was remodeled and opened to the public. Reading the guest book is like reading a novel full of comedy, tragedy, and fairy tale. People write of returning to Hidden Villa in middle-age after spending the summers of their youth there as campers or camp counselors. Couples write of meeting as staff at Hidden Villa and renting Josephine’s Retreat on their anniversary to reconnect and make love on hallowed ground. Women write about being in remission after a difficult battle with breast cancer. Writers and artists write of coming there for inspiration.

Hidden Villa and Josephine’s Retreat are sacred space for me. I’ve stayed at Josephine’s Retreat four times and the solitude, natural beauty, and peaceful spirit of the place is always the perfect setting for praying, recalibrating my priorities, and daring to dream about what I want my life to look like.

I envy Frank and Josephine for all they accomplished, as well as the legacy of Hidden Villa that carries on long after they have died. When I was there last weekend I found the remains of a blue robin’s egg on the deck, which I took as Josephine’s assurance that all of my ideas, desires, and dreams will also be hatched in their time.

Third Time’s a Charm

2011-04-07T12:34:00.001-07:00

There is something about the number 3 that is special. As children we hear stories about the three little pigs and the three bears, and we sing repetitive songs about three blind mice, and pretty soon we start to catch on that the number 3 stands out.

As we mature, we expand our knowledge of three to include three branches of government (executive, legislative, judicial), three dimensions to a human (body, mind, spirit), and the monumental importance of three day weekends.

In America we have the saying “third time’s charm” and in Britain they say “third time lucky.” The idea behind those sayings is that hey, if things didn’t work out for whatever reason the first two times (e.g. a disappointing marriage, plastic surgery run amuck) all we have to do is persevere and everything will turn out all right the third time. The third time holds the promises of hope and faith.

The number 3 really has its’ hey day in the Christian bible. Starting with the obvious trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, from there we move on to three wise men, Peter denying Jesus three times, Jonah hanging out in the belly of whale for three days, three apostles with Jesus at his transfiguration, and to commemorate Easter, Jesus was three days in the tomb. The number three in the bible is said to symbolize divine completion.

In October 2010 my planned trip to Haiti was canceled because there weren’t enough people signed up for the trip. In November 2010 my trip to Haiti was canceled (the night before departure) due to the cholera epidemic that infected 80,000 people, and killed 1,800.

My trip to Haiti has been re-scheduled for May 30th.
I’m going.
Third time’s a charm.

The Sacred Amidst the Profane

2010-11-24T09:18:00.000-08:00

I like how some people stand up in the food court King George II style, and some people just keep eating their curly fries.

What Am I Willing to Give Up?

2010-11-21T20:56:00.000-08:00

There’s a well known story in the gospels about a rich young man who approaches Jesus and asks him how to get his hands on the golden ticket—that is, eternal life. Jesus tells him to stick to the 10 commandments, and the young man claims that he has those under control. So Jesus looks him up and down, and with razor sharp insight He goes for the jugular. “Sell everything you’ve got, and give it to the poor.” The words hang in the air between Jesus and the rich young man while the young man takes in the shocking instruction. He puts his hand in his pocket to feel the soft leather of his wallet. Deeply chagrined, he drops eye contact with Jesus and he slowly back-pedals home towards his lake-side Galilean condo with his Mercedes Benz chariot parked in the garage. For he was very rich.

And Jesus turned to his disciples and said “It’s difficult for people who are stinking rich to turn their lives over to a Higher Purpose. It’s like trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle.” At which point the disciples either slapped their knees and laughed at Jesus’ hilarious joke, or they swallowed fearfully, wondering what THEY were going to have to give up someday.

I don’t think Jesus is inherently against people having money. In this particular case, Jesus just knew that the young man’s wealth was what was keeping him from really being able to serve God and man with whole-hearted, undistracted dedication.

Right now, tens of thousands of thirsty Haitians are scooping up cloudy water in tin cups, knowing that they will die if they don’t drink water, and they will die if they drink cholera-contaminated water. Those are the choices. Right now angry Haitians are wandering around the littered city streets, waving machetes and trying to find someone to blame for the cholera epidemic, the U.N occupation, the earthquake, the shambles of the upcoming presidential elections, the whole history of Haiti, and God only knows what else.

This past week— the week I was supposed to be in Haiti -- I’ve been sitting on my comfortable couch, drinking clean water out of the tap, flushing my toilet and not even thinking about where that waste is going, walking on an uncontaminated beach, enjoying rain storms without fear of flash floods, and going to work where I earn considerably more than one dollar a day.

And I don’t have answers, but I keep discovering new, soul-searching, mind-blowing questions. The question for this week is: what am I willing to give up to authentically serve God and others? Material things, like my bank account? Some clothes? My job? Chocolate? My meticulously accumulated retirement funds? Good tasting food? Or how about immaterial things, like comfort? Health? Security? Respect? Traveling? Dreams for my future? My indignant sense of right and wrong? Time with friends? Convenience? My precious down time? Seeing my family on holidays? Cleanliness?

I begin to worry that people are tired of reading and hearing my rants full of these questions. But on the other hand, I think these are questions that all world citizens need to ask themselves if we are ever going to make a dent in rectifying the inequities that exist from country to country, and in many cases, from neighborhood to neighborhood. If there is ever any hope of balancing the scales, everyone has to be willing to ask “what am I willing to give up?” And the answers to that question that will truly make a difference in this world will certainly be harder to carry out than squeezing a camel through the eye of a needle.

Unpacking My Suitcase and My Disappointment

2010-11-14T07:49:00.000-08:00

I would have been arriving in Haiti right now. But the night before I was prepared to leave, Beyond Borders, the organization who was hosting me and four others, made the judgment call to cancel the trip because the cholera outbreak in Haiti had worsened and they didn’t think they could adequately protect us from cholera.

Cholera has infected 12,000 and killed 800 in Haiti so far. Worse yet, it recently made its way into the capital—Port au Prince—where millions of people live in post-earthquake make-shift tents, and are in great danger of being exposed to contaminated water. I knew cholera was a threat, and in general I do try to avoid situations where projectile vomiting and diarrhea are likely. My brain thinks Beyond Borders made the right decision.

But my heart feels so damn sad.
And confused.
And disappointed.

On Friday I spent most of the day carefully packing my suitcase, and on Saturday I unpacked it while trying to sort out my feelings.

I feel sad because in 2010 alone the Haitians have suffered an earthquake that killed 200,000 people, last week Hurricane Tomas wreaked havoc on parts of Haiti, and now there is a deadly cholera epidemic.

I feel disappointed because I’ve been gearing up physically, emotionally, and spiritually for this trip for months, and the rug quite suddenly got pulled out from under me.

I feel confused because the reason I want to travel to Haiti is out of obedience to a calling I feel upon me to go. So why can’t I get to Haiti? Is the whole point the willingness to go, and not the actual going?

I’ve no tidy answers for the end of this post-- just questions. But one thing I know is that the next 8 days that I would have been in Haiti are going to be particularly devoted to praying for and focusing on the Haitian people, reading and getting more educated, and listening for other ideas of what I can do to help them.

Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

2010-11-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

I love the poem where Emily Dickenson defines hope using a bird as a metaphor:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.

Where is the Hope?

2010-11-07T10:07:00.000-08:00

In preparation for my upcoming trip to Haiti I’ve been reading articles and history books about Haiti, and in the past few days I’ve developed a low-grade funk. Haiti’s history is chock-full of horrifying atrocities.

Ever since Christopher Columbus discovered Haiti in 1492— and subsequently wiped out 400,000 natives—the Haitians have been fighting for their lives. The Spanish wreaked havoc upon Haiti for 200 years by forcing the natives to labor for them, and then they paid them with the gift of small pox. Then the French got in line to take a stab at ruling Haiti and they brought in hundreds of thousands of African slaves to work their coffee, cocoa, and cotton crops so the French could get rich. There were revolutions and rebellions over the next few hundred years, in which various men asserted their power and authority, only to be assassinated by their enemies.

Cue the sound of a military bugle blowing. The U.S. Marines marched into Haiti to occupy the country and show the Haitians how it is done. Which is to say—the U.S. showed (and is still showing) the Haitians how rich people from other countries can wag the tail of the American military so that they receive lucrative contracts in said countries and become stinking rich in the process. Then another series of politicians and military officers played “king of the hill” for the right to rule Haiti. Papa Doc Duvalier stepped in as a dictator dishing out torture, extortion, and violent rule for the next few decades, until he died and passed the dictator baton to his son Baby Doc. Baby Doc eventually got kicked out but he took enough of Haiti’s money with him to go live comfortably in exile in France, while another series of wanna be politicians orchestrated various governmental reconstructions, military coups, and murders, vying for control of Haiti.

This brings us to today. We all know that in addition to governmental instability and extreme poverty, in January 2010, Haiti suffered a 7.0 earthquake that killed 230,000 and left over 1.6 million people homeless. In the last few weeks, an outbreak of cholera has killed hundreds of people, and yesterday Hurricane Tomas blew through Western Haiti, leaving the people to sweep mud out of their NGO-issued tarp tent homes.

Isn’t this blog post a bummer? Well, that is my point. Where is the hope?

I delivered a sermon on hope once, defining hope as “a desire of something good, with at least a reasonable expectation that it is obtainable.” From the perspective of my readings, ever since 1492 when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, Haiti has only been dealt lousy cards. With a 500 year history like that, how can there be a reasonable expectation that good stuff is obtainable?

Where is the hope?

I don’t have the answer to that question, but you can bet your bottom dollar that when I am in Haiti I will look high and wide for the answer.

Upping the Ante

2010-11-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

Apparently it’s not enough that Haiti has…

Distinction as the poorest country in the Americas
Constant political unrest
An upcoming presidential election
Extensive recovery efforts from the January 2010 earthquake

But now— right at the exact time when I am traveling to this country— Haiti is dealing with:

A cholera outbreak that has infected 5,000 people and killed 400 people.
Hurricane Tomas threatening to blow winds of 85 mph upon the weakened geography of Haiti.

Seems the ante has been raised on my interest in poverty issues, and on my commitment to obediently pursue a calling to check out Haiti.

up the ante Informal to increase the costs, risks, or considerations involved in taking an action or reaching a conclusion

Thank goodness I’m a gambling woman. You gotta bet big to win big.

Fears that Creep Into the Night

2010-11-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

I’m anticipating that my trip to Haiti will be intense. And so far, in the daytime at least, I haven’t been tripping out about the inherent dangers, discomforts, and unknowns. But last night was the first time that I spent some sleepless hours dealing with fears that creep into the night.

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that I will have the same extreme aversion to Haiti as I do to India.
I’m afraid that for some reason I won’t connect with Haitians.
I’m afraid that I will be stuck in a hotel room in Miami for several days while a hurricane passes through Haiti.
I’m afraid of getting a bad stomach bug- I once spent a long night passed out in a bathroom in Katmandu, so I know it is a big bummer.
I’m afraid of people’s first impression of me as being tired and cranky since I will be flying all night to Miami, and arriving in Haiti very early in the morning.
I’m afraid of extreme toilet situations that I haven’t experienced yet.
I’m afraid of accidently doing something offensive to the Haitians.
I’m afraid of my heart aching from compassion and empathy and love.

In the midst of all this nighttime fear, I’m reminded of a few verses written by St. John, good friend of Jesus.

God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them... There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…

I believe that in this last week of preparation for my Nov 13th take-off, my best bet is to focus on love.

Pull Out the Crayons

2010-09-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

Last night I started a 4-week learning lab on creativity with ReIMAGINE. Creativity is one of the 7 vows that we take together to live out the teachings of Jesus. We believe that living artfully helps us to live out God's unfolding story in our cultural time and place, and that when we exercise creativity we are reflecting the Creator.

The particular team who put the creativity learning lab together decided to roll with creativity as "child-like wonder, creativity, and faith". So we are doing kid things. For example, during our lab time last night dozens of grown-ups could be found sprawled out on the sidewalks and in Dolores Park doing "rubbings" where you place your paper over objects of different textures, then "rub" the crayon over it so you get that shape on your paper.

We are all keeping a daily journal for the duration of the learning lab-- but not an ordinary grown up journal. It is a "doodle pad" (mine has a happy turtle on the cover) and we have agreed to use only crayons in our journaling. I happened to have a mega-box of crayons in my closet, so I enthusiastically got them out and dove right into crayon journaling this morning.

Crayons don't flow like a nice Bic rollerball pen does. Crayons are chunky and imprecise and wrapped in paper that you have to keep peeling off. But on the other hand, they smell like childhood, and I have 64 colors to choose from with names like "spring green" and "mulberry". Bics come in red, black, and blue. Period.

Jesus said "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." Will journaling with crayons help me live my life more like Jesus? That remains to be seen. But in the meantime, I did catch myself sticking my tongue out in child-like concentration a couple of times.

The Ass of Grace

2010-09-17T14:22:00.000-07:00

Prologue
My friends Ed and vicki!—in moment so silly I can’t even tell you how it came about—challenged me to write a blog post called “The Ass of Grace.” “The phrase doesn’t even make sense” I protested, but in an optimistic act of bravado they upped the ante by promising to donate $100 each to my travel fund if I end up going to Haiti. So here goes….

The Ass of Grace
My friends use the word “ass” a lot. There are the common phrases having to do with ass, such as:
“Nice ass”
“Move your ass”
“Kick ass”
“Haul ass”

But my friends have come up with some hybrid ass-phrasing that is a regular part of our conversations and I’ve come to realize that many of them are strongly related to the concept of grace.

If we define “grace” as receiving favor that you don’t deserve or haven’t earned, then many of the ass phrases embraced by my friends have grace-full meanings.

We’ll start with an easy one. If someone looks at another person and says “what an ass!” (but not in the good way like they have junk in their trunk and look good in their jeans) and this person is shaking their head and casting a disapproving look, they mean the person has misbehaved in some way. Who needs grace—free favor—more than someone who is misbehaving?

When someone “falls on her ass” it is quite literally and figuratively a grace issue. If she literally fell on her ass—say whilst skating at a roller rink listening to "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees—then this illustrates lack of grace in the sense of ease of movement. But if someone “falls on her ass” in the figurative sense, it is rather about failure or being unsuccessful, as in “she blew that presentation and fell on her ass”. Who needs grace—free favor—more than someone who has failed miserably at something?

My friend vicki! uses the term “show your ass” quite often, as in “he went ballistic when we broke up, and really showed his ass”. When you “show your ass” you are unveiling the undesirable things about yourself; there are no pretences, no hiding, just the reality of who and what you are. Who needs grace—free favor—more than someone who has hung their worst bits out there for everyone to freely see and judge?

When referring to someone’s “sorry ass” it means that something pathetic has inadvertently been revealed about you, and someone is calling out your “sorry ass” with a tinge of disdain in their voice, as in “take a shower and get your sorry ass over here”. Who needs grace—free favor—more than someone who is acting pathetic?

Last but not least, my friends frequently use the term “foot up your ass” which means to strongly motivate someone. For example, when my friends vicki! and Ed set up a date to meet with me to follow-up on my desire to travel to Haiti, they threatened me that “these two Filipinos will have our feet so far up your ass that you will burp adobo!” This is how my friends talk. I don’t make this stuff up. Anyway, who needs grace—free favor—more than someone who has another person following up with them when they may or may not have finished or carried out the thing that the person is following up with them about in the first place?

Now I ask you….do Ed and vicki! both owe me $100 for my Haiti trip? You bet your ass.

Mom's Mispronunciation Disorder

2010-09-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

My mom: "So when are you going to Tahiti?"
Me: "What? Tahiti? When did I say I was going to Tahiti?"
My mom: "You know, in October."
Me: "Oh. You mean Haiti, not Tahiti."

Five minutes later.

My mom: "How far away is Hades?"
Me: "Haiti, mom. Hades is hell and I'm not going to hell."
My mom: "Well how far away is it?"
Me: "Haiti is below Florida".
My mom: "Oh, so it isn't too far away."
Me: "No, but these conversations will drive me to Hades."

The Push and Pull of Haiti

2010-09-14T17:09:00.001-07:00

A week ago I got an email that froze the blood in my veins like water pipes in Antarctica. It was an email informing me that my October teaching trip to Oregon had been canceled. The reason I reacted so strongly was because I knew there was a trip to Haiti planned for the same week, and the only thing that had kept me from signing up for Haiti was this other commitment.

Knowing that I was now available to go to Haiti, the first thing I did was to quiet myself in my big easy chair, and pray about it. I felt a strong inclination to go. So I emailed Beyond Borders, to see if they were still planning a trip for October, and they said that they were not going to offer the trip in October, but there is a possibility of one in November, and probably another in late December. There are a lot of extraneous details about specific travel dates and people going to and from Haiti, but that is not what I want to write about.

What I want to write about it the push and pull of Haiti.

The Pull of Haiti
One of the biggest things pulling me to Haiti is that I want to say “yes” as an act of obedience to the Voice that has been calling me to go to Haiti. I don’t know why I have Haiti in heart. It’s just there. As I’ve written before, my interest was roused when I read about Haitians making dirt cakes to fill their bellies, and my sense of sadness and outrage has continued. But unless I actually get on a plane and GO, I am never going to know what the heck that Voice was all about.

The Push of Haiti
Haiti is a developing country that struggled through hard times long before January’s earthquake made things even more difficult to live and survive there. In my past travels to developing countries I’ve paid a high emotional toll-- and perhaps spiritual toll— equal to at least one million trips across the Golden Gate of my heart and spirit. It’s hard to be around the poverty, the crime, the dirtiness, the weariness from being on guard against being hustled, scammed, cheated, and stolen from. I hate walking around developing countries imagining locals looking at me like a walking ATM machine.

The Pull of Haiti
Through the Transformational Travel program, it’s kind of Beyond Borders’ job to make Haiti and the Haitians more approachable and welcoming to the people going on these trips. Traveling with a program like this would be a much different experience than my usual method of showing up somewhere alone with my backpack and passport saying “here I am!” In this rare case, am drawn to the facilitated approach where I can meet and make friends with locals and be exposed to the amazing work being done in collaboration with Haitians.

The Push of Haiti
Parting with $2,000 for program fees and flights is a terrible idea at a time when I am underemployed and my current consulting opportunities are scarce at best. Not only is my financial budget going to suffer, but my time budget will also take a hit. Since September/October is the start up time for a lot of the programs that I work with, Fall is a awful time for me to go running off for 1-2 weeks. I’ll be scrambling to catch up when I get back.

The Pull of Haiti
There is something to be said about the appeal of saying YES to an adventure in the midst of countless unknowns and fears. At my age most people have families, jobs, and mortgages, and they have defaulted to a safety zone that they call their life. To drop everything and go to Haiti is adventurous, hard core, crazy, exhilarating. This is the way I want to live.

I believe I’m called to go, so I will go. The details of when, what, who, and how will be revealed in their time.

Book Reflection: On That Day Everybody Ate

2010-08-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

On that Day Everybody Ate, by Margaret Trost.

Ms. Trost’s story begins with a “reverse mission” trip to Haiti in which the goal of the hosting organization is for the participants to be transformed. She volunteered in a hospital and orphanage and observed first-hand the physical hunger that the Haitian people suffer and the spiritual satiety they posses. She returned to the U.S. so transformed that she recognized a series of events for what they were—a personal call to help feed the hungry children and adults in Haiti.

Partnering with a local Haitian Catholic church, she raised the money to start a feeding program that provided one hardy meal a week to 500 children—some of whom walked 5 miles to get that meal. Donations kept rolling in so she started a non profit—the What If? Foundation, based in Berkeley-- and they were soon feeding 1,000 people five days a week, as well as running a summer camp and sending some kids to school with scholarships.

All of this happened before this year’s earthquake in Haiti. Their kitchens in Haiti were miraculously spared severe earthquake damage, so in the aftermath of the disaster they are now serving about 2,000 meals a day.

All right then. Ever since 2008 when I read about Haitians eating “mud cookies” (made out of lard, salt, and dirt), Haiti has been in the back of my mind nagging at me like an item on my grocery list that I just can’t recollect. A logical next step would have been to go to Haiti earlier this year after the January 15th earthquake, but I feared that there was so much chaos in Haiti at that time that my trip and intentions would be wasted. I’m still waiting for my call to Haiti and it feels like I’m revving my engine at the red light, waiting for it to turn green so that I can peel out over the starting line.

Until I get that green light, I’m pondering some of the lessons from this book.

1) The reason Margaret Trost was on the original trip to Haiti in the first place was because her husband had unexpectedly died 18 months earlier. Her life as she knew it had ended, and she was ripe for a new beginning. Oftentimes something new doesn’t begin until we have experienced and honored an ending. I’m on the watch for endings in my life (jobs, relationships, interests, etc).

2) The Haitian women who partnered with Ms. Trost in the original once-a-week feeding were women who worked full-time jobs in addition to caring for their children. However, they still carved out time to go to the farmer’s market every Saturday morning, buying sackfuls of rice, beans and vegetables, then cooking all day and night Saturday, then serving 500 meals, and then finally cleaning up on Sunday after church. The author describes their joy as they sat in a circle peeling carrots, picking bugs and rocks out of the rice, cooking the meal with love and care. Where, oh where is my heart for service like that? I considered it a monumental sacrifice to dedicate two nights in a row recently to cooking a meal for the homeless one night, and serving it the next night.

3) I’m still trying to figure out what to do with mathematical and ethical incongruencies like that the money I spent on organic strawberries at the farmer’s market yesterday could feed 24 Haitian children their one meal of the week. Or that I have a cupboard full of pasta, beans, and sauces, and Haitian mothers are baking “mud cookies” in the sun to give their children something to fill their tummies.

Drive Slowly

2010-07-27T17:24:00.000-07:00

She snuck into the quiet chapel about 10 minutes after the liturgy had begun. Jingling her keys restlessly in her left hand, she plunked down on the bench beside me, exuding a nervous energy. The liturgy rolled on. She shifted her feet. Choruses were chanted. She stretched her arms. Scriptures were read. She inspected the ceiling. Prayers were spoken. She blurted out call and response one beat ahead of everyone else. I started thinking of her as the Frenzied Female.

Officiating monk: “The Lord be with you”.
Frenzied Female: “Andalsowithyou”.

At the appropriate time in the liturgy the monks formed an inner circle around the altar and the retreatants stood as an outside circle along the walls. Frenzied Female stood next to me. More Scripture readings, more prayers, and then the passing of the peace. Hesitant retreatants received robust hugs from grinning monks.

Retreatants and monks: “Peace to you.”
Frenzied Female: “Peace to you father, brother—WHATEVER IT IS!”
The kindly monk graciously smiled and nodded.

The elements of wine and bread were ceremoniously served up. I waited patiently for the monks to go through the line first, and the Frenzied Female kept inching toward me, trying to get me to cut in their line.

Hissing Frenzied Female: “Areyougoingtogo?”
Me: “Yes, I’m going to go…”

After the Eucharist service my 5 day retreat was over, so with great regret I got in my car and started down the two mile road to coastal Highway 1. About a third of the way down, I glimpsed a car in my rear view mirror and within seconds it bore down on me. “Who would be tailgating me from a monastery?” I thought. I felt an immediate sense of urgency and an annoyance at being shaken out of my peacefulness during my first five minutes off the mountain. It was rude, obtrusive, and incongruous.

Nevertheless, the driver of the Volvo Stationwagon didn’t back off from tailgating me. As soon as I could, I pulled over at a turnoff and the Volvo whizzed past me. The driver wore dark sunglasses, she stared straight ahead, and she didn’t give me a glance or a wave of “thanks” for letting her pass me. The driver was the Frenzied Female.

Car idling, I stared in disbelief at the dust her car was churning up down the road. Easing my car into gear, I looked up through my windshield at a hand-painted sign the monks had posted by the road.

Mustangs Roaming the American West

2010-07-23T08:50:00.000-07:00

I spotted a wild herd of at least 25 Mustangs roaming the California coast between Santa Cruz and Hearst Castle. Clustering at the best vista points, they cling to the cliffs overlooking spectacular bridges constructed in the 1950’s. They are playful and beautiful-- their bodies gleaming in the California sun. Symbols of freedom and adventure, the Mustangs roam unfettered throughout the American west, wind blowing past them as they race up and down the coast. They travel to isolated areas, embracing the wonders of the natural world and invoking the pioneer spirit. Mustangs are slightly domesticated and are one of the most splendid means of transportation known to man.

I speak, of course, of the Ford Mustang convertible. Highway 1 is rife with them. Blue ones, yellow ones, black ones, red ones. And there are only two combinations of people riding in them:
1) middle-aged man/woman couples indulging in a mid-life crisis
2) four or five screeching young women indulging in a weekend bachelorette party

A Ford Mustang convertible can be rented from rental car companies for the reasonable cost of $85.46 per day—which is a small price to pay for roaming the coast looking like the coolest cat in town.

Why California Doesn’t Suck

2010-07-22T14:09:00.001-07:00

YES, California has…
Earthquakes
Wild Fires
Heinous State Budget Deficit
A Legislature that Can’t Get the Job done
The Governator
Atrocious Education System
Insane Traffic and Congestion

BUT, this is why California doesn’t suck:
Big Sur, California Coast, Highway 1
I rest my case.

Easing Into Sweet Silence

2010-07-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

I knew I had eased into sweet silence when I woke up in the middle of the night thinking “what the heck is that infernal racket?” And really it was just a deer walking on the gravel in my garden.

At the monastery where I spent my silent retreat, every retreatant has their own simple room with a single bed, a desk, and a rocking chair. The desk faces out a window overlooking the retreatants’ private garden, and the garden overlooks the mountains, fog, and the Pacific Ocean.

As I lounged in my garden, a stellar jay hopped from branch to branch in the fig tree. Two hummingbirds whizzed by, playing follow the leader. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the Morning Glory creeping up the fence. The faint sound of barking sea lions echoed uphill from the seaside. Various birds chirped, cheeped, screeched, and twittered. A bee buzzed happily as it drew nectar from a Sticky Monkey Flower.

In San Francisco my ears are continually assaulted by the sounds of Muni rushing down the tracks of Judah Street, automobiles racing to the next stop sign, sirens, neighbor’s parties, and homeless couples yelling at each other on the sidewalk “I’M NOT DRUNK!” (Note to the clueless- pretty much every time you find yourself yelling “I’M NOT DRUNK!” to your significant other, the chances are that you ARE drunk)

I know a lot of fabulous people who intensely dislike silence. Silence provides the opportunity for unpleasant thoughts to be heard in their heads. Silence makes people feel lonely. Silence feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But I crave silence. Immediately upon arrival, I sat down in my garden and eased into the silence like it was a fur-covered La-Z Boy recliner. The chorus of animal and insect voices resounded, but believing in this proverb, I kept my mouth closed:

Do not speak unless you can improve the silence.

Wildlife Welcome Wagon

2010-07-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

In the absence of human contact and communication for my 5 day retreat, the local wildlife stepped up to fill the void. I mean, they really rolled out the welcome wagon. In the first 10 minutes in my private garden a plump, 6-inch long lizard scurried along the wooden fence and stopped 2 feet in front of where I was sitting. She tilted her head to better cock one eye at me, and I held my breath to stare back. After a 5 minute stare-down, apparently determining that I had passed muster to sit in her garden, she went on her way.

Then a whole family of rowdy quail invaded my garden like they owned the place. They are the California State bird, so I guess there is some entitlement. The head quail stood apart and watched over the covey, with her “plume” (that funny squiggly thing on top of her head) waggling her pleasure or displeasure. The babies rushed madly about the garden, tossing small sticks and leaves in the air like women at a 75% off clothing sale.

When the sun made a downward turn towards the sea, the bunnies came out. Little grey bunnies with white tails. They tentatively nibbled grass, noses twitching, ears perking at minute sounds, eyes on the lookout for circling hawks. They occasionally stood up on their back legs to peer at me from 4 more inches of higher ground. But try as I might, none of them would let me scoop them up and give them a big hug and kiss on the nose.

The deer came fashionably late to the garden at dusk. One-by-one they strolled by my fence, peering curiously into my room before heading downhill to graze for the evening.

By this time it was starting to feel like that scene in Cinderella where all the mice and birds run about gleefully singing,
“Cinderelly, Cinderelly,
And we'll make a lovely dress for Cinderelly!”
By day's end I half expected this enchanted place to produce a talking mouse who would start sewing me a ball gown.

Silent on the Details

2010-07-20T17:03:00.000-07:00

Last week I savored every hour of a 5 day silent retreat at a Franciscan monastery below Big Sur. My purposes for going were to be quiet, to clear the clattering in my mind, and to listen to the primary sound that matters to me—the voice of Mystery. And while the retreat was life-giving and life-changing, I’m reluctant to write about it in depth, because the experience was something akin to going on a romantic weekend tryst with a lover.

In the same way that a loving couple wouldn’t return from a weekend spouting detailed descriptions of their intimacy—“and as we laid in each other’s arms we talked about…”, “and we made love this many times…with this position_____ being a mind-numbing favorite…”, “and we both wept as we told each other…” –- so too it would be indecorous to reveal sordid details of pillow talk with Mystery.

It was fitting to kiss and tell when we were in high school, but giving intimate details of Love is just bad form when we are older. A sacred relationship of body, heart, and soul should be shielded from the profane at all costs. Sure, there are plenty of brazen bloggers who pin their spiritual delicates on the internet clothes line, but I’m not one of them.

Pets Taking a Dirt Nap

2010-07-05T16:12:00.000-07:00

I'm assuming this is a parrot- and it's the oldest animal in the cemetery at 51 years old

a bunny
It would take Frodo a very long time to get that damn Ring if he was a turtle
Not just a lizard-- that's Mr. Iguana to you.
a fishy
a kitty (20 years old!)
And my favorite.... a couple of GREAT hamsters!

Presidio Pet Cemetery

2010-07-05T15:45:00.000-07:00

Lord knows I cried my eyes out for days when I had to euthanize my beloved black cat, Bart, many years ago. So the pain of losing a cherished pet is not lost on me but I was surprised and touched by my visit to the Pet Cemetery in the Presidio recently.

The pet cemetery sits on a slight incline on a plot of ground about 100 feet wide by 200 feet long. The soil is dry and sandy and it is the kind of place where you are always looking out for snakes. Gopher holes frequently collapsed beneath my feet, making me wonder exactly how many animal corpses I was stepping on. Bright pink flower bushes swayed in the wind and tall weeds struck a pose against wooden and stone tombstones. The beating sun, fog, and salt air were expediting the decay of favorite chew toys and stuffed animals leaned haphazardly against their owners’ grave. Plastic red and yellow roses were stuck straight up in the ground like miniature street lights.

Grieving pet owners went to varying levels of trouble to send their felines off into the Great Sandbox or their canines into the Great Dog Run in the Sky. Some of the gravesites are carefully surrounded by tiny 6” high wooden fences, while others appear a little more slap-dash in style. Many of the grave markers are obviously painstakingly hand-written by a child, while other pets are honored with granite grave markers by full grown adults with too much money on their hands (as in the case of this photo above, where this dog must have been something else because she only lived four years to make her mark on the world)

I puzzled over a few grave markers that spoke of animals being loved by certain “captains” or “majors” until I remembered that I was on an army post, and more specifically, the designated place where military men and women buried their favored pets.

My quiet meandering was interrupted by an open air double-decker tour bus pausing in front of the cemetery. I looked over to find dozens of Chinese tourists quietly staring at me. The guide said something into his microphone making everyone burst into laughter. I imagine he said something like “And if you look over here to your left you will see a crazy American woman, grieving the recent death of her favorite chowchilla.”

"If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went." ~Will Rogers

Five Senses of San Francisco’s Presidio

2010-07-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve always found the Presidio to be quite daunting with its maze of roads, trails, and cream-colored military buildings—it’s inevitable to get lost there. But with a long 4th of July weekend upon me, I desired to explore a place that most tourists and San Francisco locals wouldn’t bother with. So I parked at the top of the Presidio, secured a map of an outdoor installation called “Presidio Habitats” and wandered solo around the mountain while throngs of people strolled the waterfront below me.

I was wrong to avoid the Presidio for so long. It is a City treasure with tranquil woodlands, well-kept trails, sweeping vistas, indigenous wild flowers, unusual glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge peeping over at you, military and San Francisco history, and delightful secret community gardens. If I owned a car, I wouldn’t mind living in one of the houses in the Presidio. The reclaimed officer’s quarters are surrounded by manicured lawns, tall palm trees, and living there appears to amount to peaceful, natural living in the middle of a metropolis.

While exploring the Presidio...

I SAW: clusters of Cypress trees illuminated on one side by the sun; eight foot high yarrow flowers; Chinese porcelain vases secured high in a tree for screech owls to nest in; bright red Indian Paintbrush flowers; remnants of abandoned concrete bunkers; the crisp, clean, deceptively shiny leaves of poison oak; a hummingbird flitting about a community garden like it was a two dollar Vegas buffet.

I SMELLED: wispy stalks of wild fennel; the energizing aroma of a grove of Eucalyptus trees; the salt air wafting off the water at the Golden Gate.

I TASTED: smooth sweet leaves of Miner’s lettuce; the first sun-warmed blackberries of the summer season.

I HEARD: birds flitting about in the dried grasses of a bird sanctuary; the long horn blasts of tugboats and container ships communicating their next moves; massive treetops straining and creaking in the breeze; wind chimes hung by tomato plants in an attempt to keep birds away.

I TOUCHED: the long stringy bark of a Eucalyptus tree; the smooth, red, hard trunk of a Madrone; the flaking, gray bark of a Cypress tree; soft airy “snowballs” floating from long thin stems; the fuzzy “pea pods” of a purple flowered bush; pine tree branches laden with dozens of heavy pine cones.

Five Senses of San Francisco's Chinatown

2010-05-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

As I am currently lacking the time and money to travel internationally, today I explored some back streets of the old Barbary Coast. Boasting the title as the largest Chinese enclave in the USA, San Francisco’s Chinatown seems like another country. (A google search unveils two different answers to the question of which is the biggest Chinatown in the USA— New York or San Francisco. A common explanation is that San Francisco has the most people in their Chinatown, and NYC has the biggest geographical area for their Chinatown).

Chinatown is full of vegetables, music, dining experiences, games, and customs that are unfamiliar to me. Most signs are written in Chinese script, and even when things were written in English, I still didn’t know what they were. “Dried Medlar” anyone? So I engaged all five senses for a few hours and this is what I experienced.

While walking through Chinatown…

I HEARD: restaurant workers banging pots and laughing and joking in Cantonese; the nauseating sound of extensive throat clearing and the frequent hocking of loogies; older Chinese women cackling over snacks and cards

I TASTED: Longan ice cream textured with chunks of what tasted like sweet cream cheese; a fluffy, hot, steamed lotus bun

I SMELLED: the super sweet aroma of fresh baked fortune cookies; open bins of dried fish and shellfish; incense wafting from the Buddhist temples and the gift shops

I SAW: dried shark fins, sea slugs, chitons, and seahorses in jars; an enormous fortune cookie the size of a large grapefruit; narrow Spofford Alley, historical home of Chinese revolutionaries who plotted to overthrow the government in China; men gathered in tight clusters playing games with round tiles and playing cards in Portsmouth Square

I TOUCHED: the smooth, worn wooden beads of an abacus that a merchant still uses to calculate purchases; leafy sprigs of bamboo plants; bricks from the Chinese Baptist Church that was erected in 1888, destroyed by the 1906 earthquake fires, and then rebuilt in 1908

More Frolicking, Please

2010-05-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

Frolic: (def) to play and run about happily

Yesterday I spent a few hours at Hidden Villa, a place that I have come to recognise as sacred space for myself. I strolled through the sunny garden, trying to ascertain the difference between rhubarb and red chard. I breathed in the aromas of various herbs and at least 5 different types of sage, and crawled around on the ground until I could pinpoint which plant was smelling like chamomile. I made friends with the pigs, the cows, the sheep, and the goats. I yanked leaves off a bay tree and tucked some in my pocket for making red pasta sauce later. I admired the chickens, the green valley, the compost pile, the butterflies.

And after a scrumptious picnic lunch savored beside a frisky stream, I frolicked.

I tromped through the middle of the stream, not caring that my jeans were getting wet. I ducked under poison oak branches dangling dangerously over the water, and listened to the crunch crunch of my Tevas on pebbles. I searched for newts, tiny fish, and the illusive Giant Pacific Salamander. I was happy and carefree, like I used to be when I was a kid searching for crawdads in a stream near where I grew up.

Lately life has been about Responsibilities and Duties and Shoulds. So to spend a few hours frolicking and exploring with child-like wonder has been good for my soul. And while having an afternoon of frolic is somewhat akin to eating one pistachio nut and having to stop, I trust that my Creator will happily point me to the whole bag of pistachios (or the pistachio factory) with perfect timing and grace.

Shadow and Future Self

2010-03-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

My faith community (Tribe) did an activity a couple of months back where we staged portraits as our shadow and future selves. Our Future Self is the wonderful, amazing, whole person that we aspire to be under the influence of our Creator. Our Shadow Self is the dark part of our being- the brokenness that keeps us from living into all the goodness that the Creator has for us.

Brace yourself. What you are going to see next is not pretty.
This is my Shadow Self.

My Shadow Self is constantly exhausted, has no joy in her life, and is weighed down by the heavy loads of Responsibility, Duty, and other sundry Burdens. I call her Malignant Mel. This version of Melanie is drained, uninspired, struggles to keep afloat, and is not pleasant to be around.

I hate it when Malignant Mel is living with me, flying a heavy black flag of skull and crossbones above my residence. I thought Malignant Mel had been loitering around in the dark shadows of my Self for about the last 6 months until some close friends gently corrected me, “Ummmm… it’s been more like TWO YEARS.”

Needless to say, it is time for my Shadow Self to PISS OFF.

This is my Future Self.

My Future Self moves through life with purpose and calling. Her name is Magic Mel because she is propelled by a Supernatural Force. She knows what is important to her and she has energy for her passions. She draws from a limitless bucket of love, and she freely ladles out compassion, justice, joy, and goodwill. There is life and beauty around her, but better yet, she is life and beauty herself. A redbird of refreshment perches on her shoulder, constantly tweeting affirmations and suggesting thrilling directions in which to go.

With all of my heart I long to step into my Future Self.

Note- portraits of my entire Tribe were taken by our friend Melody Hansen, who is a fantastic photographer.

The Five Senses of Tanzania

2009-08-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

In Tanzania…

I tasted: banana stew; fresh-squeezed passionfruit juice; ugali; chicken marsala, beef stew; tea with goat’s milk; dessert bananas the size of a lipstick; honey straight out of a hollow log; Kilimanjaro Premium Lager; African avocados; green oranges; home-brewed banana beer

I smelled: incense; clove spices; instant coffee; lemongrass tea; BBQ chicken with “secret” African spices; tiny chili peppers plucked from a bush; trash being burned in the dirt streets and gutters

I touched: mud squishing between my toes as I waded through a pond; countless handshakes and hugs from friendly Tanzanians; high-fives from children roaming school hallways; a gnarly Bao Bao tree; animals carved out of smooth teak wood

I heard: roosters crowing at all hours; a class of 4-yr olds clapping and singing a welcome song to me; a monkey telling others of my approach; crickets in the bush; enthusiastic church singing; a young child screaming after being bitten by a beetle; rain drops being caught in tanks to harvest water; Afro-Caribbean drumming; the rustling of critters in thatched roof huts; elephants trumpeting a warning

I saw: red, brown, and green coffee beans; cheerful sunflowers standing guard over rows of corn; hundreds of partially built houses waiting for more money to continue construction; bright pink pick-up trucks (driven by men); the President of Tanzania driving by with his entourage; men straining against the load they pulled on their carts; a bull elephant tossing a camping tent in the air
Kwa heri (goodbye) Tanzania

Fab Photos

2009-08-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

Here are my top three "money" shots:

The isolation and vastness of the Serengeti.

Graceful, gentle, playful creatures.

His or her stare bores through my soul.

My Hippocratic Oath

2009-08-14T09:10:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the hippo pool- a gleeful Italian tourist pointing at a hippo and exclaiming "Lookee da heepo, he shake-a his butt!"

Watching hippos in the Serengeti convinced me that hippos have The Life. They sit around in communal mud ponds all day, keeping cool in the blazing sun. Occasionally a random bird may land on their back so they lazily do a slow-motion 360 degree roll-over in the mud. Ghastly sounds emit from their bodies, but it is socially acceptable because everyone does it. Their food and water is right there in the pond in which they are sitting- kind of like those swim-up-to-the-bar swimming pools in Las Vegas and Hawaii.

So, inspired by the hippos, here is my Hippocratic Oath:
I, Melanie Hopson, do solemnly swear that I will go to the mud baths in Calistoga sometime in the next year.

Here Kitty, Kitty!

2009-08-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

Lions

Leopard

Saber Cat

Cheetah

Lion vs. Warthog

2009-08-14T08:45:00.000-07:00

A great source of entertainment on safari was watching lions hunt for warthogs. The female lions do most of the hunting because they are lighter, faster, and more nimble. This is what the male lions do:

Here’s how they do it. The lion spots a warthog from afar. Then she crouches in the grass FOREVER, seemingly plotting when to pounce. She creeps a little closer to the warthog and then crouches again FOREVER—waiting to pounce. She repeats the crouching, waiting, creeping, and waiting cycle over and over again.

The warthog, in the meantime, is just rummaging around on the ground for whatever disgusting thing that warthogs eat, ignoring the lion who could kill him, and going about his business without a care in the world.

Finally after what seems like HOURS and after all that trouble, the lion springs up and half-heartedly chases the warthog. The warthog scampers away and says “Nanny nanny nanny. You can’t catch me!” And the lion turns in another direction muttering something like “Stupid warthog. I didn’t want to catch you anyway…”

I saw encounters like this happen 3 times. I have read that lions are only successful at catching something one out of five times. I saw 3 unsuccessful attempts, so I guess I should have stuck around longer if I wanted to witness a nice gruesome killing. But it’s clear to me that “the thrill of the hunt” is a misnomer 4 times out of 5. It’s more accurately “the tedium of the hunt.”
Lion vs. Warthog

Roughing It

2009-08-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

"Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water."
-WC Fields

Baby Photos

2009-08-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Baby Elephant

Baby Lions

Baby Zebra

Baby Giraffe

Baby Wildebeest

PRECIOUS!

Animal Sighting Checklist

2009-08-11T17:25:00.000-07:00

What I saw on my 5 days of safari:

Baboons
Blue Monkeys
Bush Buck
Cheetahs
Crocodile
Dik Diks
Elephants
Fox
Gazelles
Giraffes
Hippos
Hyena
Iguanas
Impalas
Jackals
Leopards
Lions
Marmots
Ostriches
Reed Bucks
Saber Cat
Tipo
Warthogs
Water Bucks
Water Buffalos
Wildebeests
Zebras

Skunked on:
Black Rhino

Italians on Safari

2009-08-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

Safari Traffic

2009-08-11T17:07:00.000-07:00

For those who have never gone on safari, basically what you do is you get into a Land Rover (British) or Land Cruiser (Japanese) and they are outfitted so that the roof flips up so you can stand up in the truck and spot animals to your heart’s delight.
Safaris go out looking for animals for 4-5 hours in the morning, and 3-4 hours in the late afternoon. Mid-day is siesta time for the animals and the safari adventurers. I don’t wish to appear unhumble when I assert that I am a darn good wildlife spotter. This is simply a certified fact—ask my friends who have traveled with me. So I spotted critters that the driver/guide didn’t even see—but in his defense, he did have to drive the whole time, while all I had to do was hang out the top of the Land Rover.

Even though I had a safari truck pretty much to myself (ok, there was one other woman in my truck, but she didn’t like to stand up), this is not to say that there aren’t hundreds of other safari trucks racing about the wilderness. They have people like this guy who apparently brought along the Hubble Space Telescope.
And occasionally there is a real traffic jam as safari drivers radio each other about a exceptionally good animal sighting, and all safari trucks high-tail it over to the location to crowd around a bored and blasé feline. Then you get a traffic jam that would rival any Los Angeles freeway.

The Mighty Serengeti

2009-08-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve seen a few documentaries about the Serengeti- with robust voice-overs by James Earl Jones, dramatic footage of animals stalking each other, and a hushed narrative of someone explaining exactly what the animals are thinking as they trudge through the wilderness.

But nothing prepared me for how magnificent the Serengeti is. The highlight of my trip to Tanzania was spending 5 days camping in the Serengeti. It’s indescribable, but I’ll take a shot at it. The place is vast. You can see desert and savanna (rolling grasslands with scattered acacia trees) for miles. And yet everywhere you look there are some animals to watch. You can’t spit a watermelon seed without hitting an impala or gazelle.

It is dry there. There are some watering holes that the animals naturally gravitate towards, but not many. The moon was full while I camped out, and at night there were millions of stars lingering around the Milky Way like teenagers at the mall.

I can count on one hand significant traveling moments in my lifetime when I have found myself grinning from ear to ear and completely and totally ENJOYING every second of my existence. I experienced that in the Serengeti, standing up in my safari truck and peeping my head out the top while the driver drove me along bouncy, dusty roads out in the middle of nowhere.

Unclear on the Concept

2009-08-10T22:10:00.000-07:00

This is what a pretty typical local business looks like in Tanzania. There are myriad small business owners who slap a shingle up on a corner of their home, and call it a restaurant/store/clinic/etc.

What amused me were the names of the businesses. I kept in mind that the Tanzanians speak Swahili and that English is NOT their native language, but it was still funny to see what they posted on their businesses. Some were just slightly off.

A few examples of business names I observed:

Monster Club (a bar where the Abominable Snowman can relax and toss back a few drinks?)

Wimpy Restaurant (do you get fired if you start to go to the gym too much?)

Money Maker Pumps (unapologetically capitalistic)

Nicer Medics (I'd rather get checked out by "Sexier Medics")

Giraffe Executive Inn (built with extremely high ceilings?)

And the award for The Most Unclear On The Concept goes to:

The Modern Traditional Clinic

What?!

Market in Marungu

2009-08-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

Here are some photos of a typical market that I strode through in a small village called Marungu.

Spices in bulk. Not unlike Costco!

Bananas are BIG BUSINESS around this village. In front of her bananas is this female CEO who refuses to accept any glass ceilings.

Booze in Tanzania

2009-08-10T21:34:00.001-07:00

I did some taste-testing of some of the local “fire water”.

Banana Beer
Home-brewed. Strong. Chunky. The texture was like a cup of sawdust stirred into a root beer float. I drank it from a hollowed out gourd, and the taste was like something I imagine Hawkeye and BJ distilling in their MASH tent.

Konyagi
A catch-all name for a liquor that isn’t vodka and isn’t gin but tastes somewhat like both of them mixed together. It comes in little packets like the “Capri Sun” juices favored by American children, but the contents are a lot more flammable. Tanzanians drink them down like shots, then discard the packet. They are littered everywhere.

Drinking is a problem- especially in rural areas. People are bored so they drink. People get drunk and lose their good judgment. People lose their good judgment and have unprotected sex. People have unprotected sex and contract an STD or HIV. People contract HIV/AIDS and get sick and die. See the problem?

Mount Kilimanjaro

2009-08-10T20:38:00.000-07:00

When I was there, Mount Kilimanjaro didn't peek out from behind the clouds very often, but when it did it appeared to be an enchanting mountain.

However, most of the people I met who had just climbed it weren't enchanted in the least.

"Are you glad you climbed it?" I asked.
"Oh yea! It was great!" they replied.

"Would you climb it again?" I pressed.
"Noooooooooooo......." was the usual answer.

I have good guesses as to why no one wants to climb it again.
o It may be that it takes about 6-7 days to walk up and come back.
o It may be that the last leg of the summit is climbed in a sleepy, exhausted state of stumbling after only 2 hours of sleep.
o It may be that many people get nauseous from the altitude.
o It may be that some people don't like the expedition partners they got from the bad luck of the draw.

As you can see, I heard from plenty of people about the experience of climbing Kilimanjaro. And that will suffice for me. I'd rather chew aluminum foil for 6-7 days than climb up that mountain. Or any mountain, for that matter.

"Mountain climbing is extended periods of intense boredom, interrupted by occasional moments of sheer terror." Anonymous

A Dry and Thirsty Land

2009-08-10T19:31:00.000-07:00

It was hot today and I felt dehydrated so when I got home I poured a cool, tall glass of Hetch Hetchy water out of the tap and drank it down. This is in contrast to Tanzania, where I was constantly asking myself the questions “Where is the water? What do they drink?”

From reading the newspaper and watching news shows on television, I have always had a vague idea that Africa is short on water. But after spending three weeks there I really get the picture. It is dry. It is arid. There aren’t many wells. There aren’t many rivers. There just aren’t a lot of water sources. When I arrived in Tanzania the rainy season had just ended and they didn’t get enough rain which meant that the corn crops were already dying, and it also means that quite a few farmers are not going to be able to earn their living this year.

The amount of time, money, and energy that goes into securing drinking water is surprising. Here is a photo of some rural people gathering around a well to fill up plastic canisters.

Then from there, someone hauls the heavy water canisters around for miles by foot or on a bicycle and delivers the clean water to people who have purchased it. It’s a lot of work. And it’s probable that if water was more accessible then tons of energy and money would be freed up to do something more useful and perhaps sustainable in order to make living conditions better for the African people.

I know there must be quite a few nonprofit orgs that focus on providing water to sub-Saharan African countries, but they must not be very high-profile because I can’t name even one. And truthfully, I’m not going to research the matter because I don’t feel particularly led to be a solution to that particular problem. But I never know who reads this blog, so I will put the issue out there as a real concern for the people in Africa. Do with that knowledge what you will.

Obama Mania

2009-08-04T08:12:00.000-07:00

Tanzanians are big fans of President Barack Obama. When walking down the street I occasionally had someone call out to me “Hey wazungu! Obama!” making a connection with me by approving of my President. In a nod to capitalism there are numerous vendors selling Obama paraphernalia such as posters and screen-printed cloths like these:

I saw lots of evidence of Obama adoration that I wasn’t fast enough to take photos of—like the name OBAMA painted on the sides of bridges or on cement walls by the road. My favorite Obama sighting was a local business where there was a painting of Obama’s face and the sign read “Obama Hair Salon.” Next time President Obama visits Africa he really is going to have to get his hair cut there.

I asked some of the older children at the orphanage why they were so enthusiastic about Obama. One of the more thoughtful ones replied “Because he is one of us! He is half African and that makes us feel like we can be the President of the United States.” I see.

I did manage to capture this homage to Obama on the back of a bus--where Obama’s portrait is sandwiched between the words “Emergency Exit”—hopefully not a prophetic word for our Commander in Chief.

School for Albino Children

2009-07-31T17:31:00.000-07:00

My favorite new friends I made in Africa were three fantastic young people from Great Britain— Rose, Josh, and Vanessa— who were in Tanzania for 7 weeks this summer teaching English at Mwereni Primary School in Moshi. This school is primarily for albinos.

Filed under the heading of “Things I Never Would Have Known About If I Hadn’t Gone to Africa” is the issue of albinos and the hardships they face in Tanzania. In addition to the usual challenges—being ridiculed for looking different, social segregation, the risk of getting sun burned, and suffering eye problems—albinos in Tanzania are in danger of being killed for their body parts.

In short, witch doctors tell people they need a leg, an arm of an albino in order to make magic potions that will bring people good luck or fortune. And quite a few albinos have been murdered in Tanzania in the past few years because people actually believe the witch doctors. I did a google search of Tanzania/albino/witch doctors, and the stories that come up are not for those who are weak of stomach.

Rose told me that the school houses about 80 albinos and most of them are fairly vision impaired. They have a Braille computer room, and the schoolmaster built an enormous hall with huge windows so the children can be protected by the sun and yet still feel like they are playing outside.

In a country where many people believe that being born albino is the result of a curse that was put on your family, the Mwereni School is a place where the students become each other’s family. I love that such a school exists, and I love that young people like my friends Rose, Josh and Vanessa choose to spend their summers helping students learn English so they can have a stab at some kind of successful future.

This is Vanessa, Theresa, Rose and Josh. In addition to being great English teachers, they can shake their groove thing on the dance floor too.

The Pentecostals

2009-07-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

I awoke to the sounds of pattering rain and the bass line of Pachelbel’s Canon, so I turned off my fan and listened for a few enchanted moments.

Then an organ began pounding out the tune to “I Surrender All” and the screaming began.

Next door to my guest house in Africa there was a Pentecostal church. The people walking down the dirt road to the church were well-dressed and appeared happy to be there, which is a good thing because attendees were always in it for the long haul with services sometimes lasting until 3 or 4 in the morning. At this church there was a lot of singing, clapping, preaching, and cheering. And the casting out of demons. There must have been a considerable number of real and/or imagined demons around there because they hosted exorcisms almost every night.

I’m no demonologist but after 3 weeks of listening from my bed in Africa, I know that demons are hard of hearing because the Pentecostals felt the need to yell at them loudly and frequently. They started with a rhythmic cadence of alternating yelling in which the demon-possessed person shrieked like he/she was in pain and the demon caster-outer shouted authoritatively at the demon. There was a glorious crescendo of noise and enthusiasm and then inexplicably there would be instant silence—like everyone needed to catch their breath or something.

It sounds pretty gruesome- I know-- and more than once my friend Theresa has had terrified volunteers come to her room in the middle of the night saying “someone is being killed out there.” She assures them it is simply a friendly neighborhood exorcism, then she distributes earplugs and everyone goes back to sleep.

So one Sunday I walked over to the gated entrance of the outdoor Pentecostal church and peeked discreetly into the compound. I must have been spotted because they sent a smiling man out to talk with me.

“I’m just listening to the music” I said to assure him I wasn’t a church-wrecker.
“You are welcome” he said.
Thinking this meant I was welcome, I clarified “Can I go inside?”

This was a bold move on my part because God only knows how many demons were hitching a ride on this white woman from America, but as a past theology major I was intrigued by their beliefs and as a former charismatic I was interested in their practice.

He squirmed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at the ground. “They are praying….” he shrugged.

“Ah, ok. Praying is private. I understand” I said, kindly letting him off the hook. I guess they didn’t want to be scrutinized in the middle of an exorcism—and I don’t blame them for that. So I went about my day thinking about how differently they do church from how I do “church” and humming a catchy tune that a white missionary must have brought years ago to the Africans.

“I surrender all…I surrender all… all to Thee my precious Savior…I surrender all.”

African Cuisine

2009-07-28T08:30:00.000-07:00

The primary thing I learned about Tanzanian food is that it revolves around gravies. I ate a banana stew with chicken in white gravy, and the cooked bananas tasted similar to potatoes. I had a lot of great vegetable and chicken Marsalas, but again, they were heavy on the gravy. Beef stew…gravy. You get the idea about gravy.

The most common food in Tanzania is “ugali” which is made from corn and flour with the color and texture of grits or a really thick version of the hot cereal “cream of wheat”. Tanzanians eat ugali every day and claim to love it. I don’t know if they love the taste or love that it is a cheap food that sticks to your ribs, but I heard stories of people who visited family members in other countries and lugged along the ingredients to make ugali so they wouldn’t miss it while they were abroad.

Here is a photo of a typical meal I had—grilled chicken, cooked bananas, beans, a generous helping of ugali, some cooked greens, and tomato sauce.

No forks are used, so you roll up some ugali into a ball in your hand, pinch the other foods with the ugali, and eat them all together. It tasted pretty good, but I’ve got to admit that my stomach never did very well in Africa. I don’t know if it was the food, the high altitude (I was at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro), or malaria medicine, but I had a low-grade nausea the whole three weeks I was there.

Bottom line: don’t go to Tanzania specifically for the food unless you are on a top end safari with a world class chef making you Spice Rubbed Chicken, Carpaccio and Fennel Salad, and Roasted Bananas sprinkled with walnuts, thick cream, and cinnamon. Oh, and ugali.

Kilimanjaro Kids Care

2009-07-26T15:09:00.001-07:00

For those interested in the daily operations of an orphanage in Tanzania:

At Kilimanjaro Kids Care, twenty two children ages 7-15 live at the orphanage. They have all lived there between 1-2 years and a handful of the children are siblings, but they all consider themselves to be a big, happy family. There are four bedrooms full of bunk beds with the girls claiming two rooms and the boys claiming two. In the backyard are a couple of “hole toilets” in outhouses, as well as a closed off “shower room” where the older children take “bucket showers” with stream water.

There are 3 adult house mothers who live at the home, and while the children are at school these extraordinary women clean the house, do laundry, mend clothes, prepare food, and do what you need to do to keep your sanity while you live with 22 children. The house mothers cook breakfast and dinner over an open fire in the backyard, and serve meals off the floor in a serving room in the house.

They clean and wash clothes with stream water, so every day after school the older girls walk to a nearby stream and carry water (on their heads) back to the orphanage. The older children do their own laundry, and the house mothers help the younger children keep clean.

The children help prepare meals by chopping vegetables...

or by picking rocks out of the dried corn that is used for making porridge.

All in all, these children do a lot more than my sorry lazy butt did when I was a kid. And they are smart, kind, well-behaved kids.

Safety Belts? Huh?

2009-07-26T13:26:00.001-07:00

“Wazungus on the bottom!” I called out as everyone clamored for the Make a Difference vehicle. The kids thought this was hilarious and massive giggling ensued. “Wazungus onda boddum!” some of the children repeated again and again. More giggling.

Every time we taught and volunteered at the Royal Junior School, the orphans would see Theresa’s safari truck in the parking lot and they would forgo jumping on the school bus in favor of the much more fun option of riding in the truck to the orphanage. The challenge was that there were 22 of them and 5 full grown adults whereas the safari truck had seats for 8.

Undaunted, the adults sat in the seats forming a bottom layer and held at least 2 children on our laps. Backpacks were tangled around our feet, school uniforms were askew, and there was a cacophony of yelling and laughing and tickling and giggling and questions and answers of “what did you learn in school today?”

While I agree with most of our safety laws in the United States, I have to admit that I’m secretly relieved to be in other countries where safety guidelines are a little more “optional”. For me it is worth the sacrifice in safety to be surrounded by happy, smiling, wiggling children who gladly give and receive hugs with a generosity that makes the heart soar.

The Royal Junior School

2009-07-26T10:49:00.000-07:00

“I prayed and prayed and prayed…. every morning at 5 am for one year…. God, what should I do?” Headmistress Elizabeth Ndjiki told me the story of how she founded one of the top 3 ranking schools of the region—the Royal Junior School.

A profound woman of faith who could also be a powerful preacher if she wanted to switch careers (I watched her give several mini-sermons to squirming students called into her office), Elizabeth started a school in her house and 10 years later she has several school buildings, almost 500 students, 17 teachers, a garden, a well, and a residence that houses 130 children who board at the school.

I instantly liked Elizabeth and her husband Leonard Ndjiki, who is a retired university professor of philosophy and psychology with a penchant for wearing cowboy hats.

In the three weeks I was there, I taught a journaling class at the school - showing students how to personalize their journals, how to use drawings and colors, how to mind-map, and I encouraged them to pay attention to their lives and to dream about the future. When I walked into any classroom, the students would stand up and recite a greeting in unison—something like, “Good afternoon, Madame, you are welcome at our school.” The smaller children (4-6 years old) giggled when I gave them “high fives” in the hallway.

It’s an amazing school and I was honored to be able to contribute some things they didn’t know about- like mind mapping. On one of my last days I sat down with Elizabeth, coaching her and mind-mapping her dreams for the future of her school. As she spoke her dreams out loud I drew sports fields, a library, a teacher’s lounge, a Secondary school, and even a swimming pool (a gutsy dream in a drought-ridden area). When we were finished, she proudly took her mind map from me and smiled widely as she spoke of laminating it and praying over it. Considering all the Ndjiki’s have accomplished in only 10 years, I’ve no doubt there will be exuberant children splashing in a swimming pool sometime in the next decade.

Make a Difference Now

2009-07-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

My friend Theresa Grant is an amazing woman who experienced a meaningful spiritual transformation some 4-5 years ago and left her high-powered Silicon Valley job to move to Africa, where she eventually started and maintains her own nonprofit organization called Make a Difference Now (MAD). MAD currently does work in Zambia, India, and Tanzania. Theresa’s work in Tanzania includes collaborating with local partners to care for 22 orphans in an orphanage called “Kilimanjaro Kids Care”. Theresa is responsible for their education and she sends all 22 of the children to an excellent private school. She is considered their parent, and yes, she is required to go to Parent Days at the school to represent her brood.

In Tanzania all children are required to go to Primary School- even though many families are so poor they cannot afford to buy the school uniform for their children. At the end of Primary School students take an English test, and if they pass the test they are allowed to move on to Secondary School. Without going to Secondary School there is little chance of ever landing a job beyond manual labor—like working as a porter, hotel cleaner, cook, or farmer. And sadly, 20-30% of children pass the English test to get into Secondary School. After that only 5% of children graduate from Secondary School to go on to college or university.

So one of the key things Theresa asks volunteers to do when they come to Tanzania is to spend quite a bit of time reading books with the children so they can hear how Westerners pronounce things and to imitate them the best they can. And these kids LOVE to read. I would stand at the orphanage and call out “Who wants to read?” and at least 5 children would race to the library yelling “Me, Madame, me!” There was a line to read with the volunteers. These photos are of volunteers Josh and Vanessa reading with the children.

It definitely put a new spin on “Go, Dog, Go!” and “Curious George” for me to hear them read out loud with a Swahili accent.

First Impression

2009-07-21T15:07:00.001-07:00

My first impression of Africa was that everyone carries everything on their head. I vaguely remember seeing photos of that before, but when I saw it in real life it never failed to fascinate me.

I constantly saw people balancing baskets on their heads. And buckets of stuff. And big bunches of green bananas. And 10 litre canisters of water. Women rushed off to market with any number of things on their head.

Here's a lady I saw carrying a bunch of sticks for firewood on her head.

I don't know why it interested me so much, but truthfully, it is the first thing that made an impression upon me. I wish my first impression was of the kindness or the ingenuity or the tenacity of the African people. But no, it's that they can balance bananas on their heads. I never claimed to have deep thoughts all the time.

Immediately Breaking the Rules

2009-07-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

"Whatever you do, don't have sex, don't get a tattoo, and don't go into any water." Before I left for Africa, my friend Elizabeth passed on some medical advice that her doctor friend gave her before her trip to Rwanda. "Ok" I agreed, thinking none of those things were likely to come up. Four days later I found myself wading thigh deep through a mud-bottomed river trying not to think of leeches, piranhas, or the myriad bacteria seeping into my pores.

Why was I immediately breaking the rules? Not by choice. I was in Moshi, the region around Mount Kilimanjaro in northern Tanzania. There are numerous "wazungus" (white folks) in Moshi, and they take turns hosting a monthly event called "The Hash". The Hash, I was told, is an expatriate tradition around the world in which expats regularly gather together in a foreign country. The Hash used to be about hanging out and drinking until someone got the brilliant idea to get some exercise. So Hash participants take turns creating a running/walking trail outside the city limits by marking a course with piles of flour. Serious runners run quickly like a bunny to the next pile of flour and show the slower walkers where to go by forming sticks into an arrow on the ground that points in the right direction.

I was assured the walkers were all about just strolling, talking, and taking it easy-- so I agreed to go. But I soon found myself trudging, breathing heavily, and cursing the day I was born.

The person who created this particular hike had decided to lead runners and walkers straight through the brush where bushes grow needle-like “leaves”. I hiked over logs and under branches. I walked through tall grass, jumped over small streams, and pulled endless rocks out of my sandals. I listened to strange bird calls and watched the setting sun light up unfamiliar trees. At one point I heard a fearsomely sharp, quick howl and stood stock still until I spotted a monkey high in a tree. Jet-lagged, hot, sweaty, and tired, my entire existence boiled down to finding the next pile of flour.

After 9 kilometers the sun was low in the sky and I just wanted to be done with what I was now thinking of as “the wretched Hash”. Thinking less than pure thoughts, I wearily rounded a corner to discover that the only thing between me and the finish line was a muddy river surrounded by trees and brush that made it impossible to pass through anywhere except to wade through the water.

“Crap” I said. I looked behind me and knew I was too tired to retrace my steps backwards for 9 km, and I certainly wasn’t keen on wandering around the African bush by myself at dusk. So I rolled up my pants, pulled off my dusty sandals, and did what a traveling woman has gotta do.

At the campground at the end of the walk, about 25 wazungus clutched bottles of beer and huddled around bags of salty snacks. “White people are crazy” I muttered to Ben, our African driver who was waiting under a tree bemusedly watching the wazungus trickle in from the hike. He laughed but was too polite to agree.

Amsterdam Airport

2009-07-21T13:09:00.001-07:00

The orange bin comes in handy if you want to properly recycle your pet hamster before hopping on a flight.

3 Meter Diving Board

2009-06-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

Five years ago when I was getting ready to embark on a year long solo trek around the world, my therapist likened my time of packing and preparation to climbing the ladder to jump off a high dive.

Tomorrow I am flying off to Tanzania, Africa for 3 weeks. It doesn’t feel like I’m climbing the rungs to an Olympic size diving tower platform, but it’s no jump off the “low dive” at the community swimming pool either. In the Olympics, there is a diving board that is sized in-between the high dive and the 1 meter diving board.

It’s the 3 meter diving board.

I’m climbing that ladder as I prepare myself for Africa, and while I’m not freaking out (like I would with the high dive) I am well aware that I am willfully jumping into deep waters.

Those waters are teaming with some adorable little Nemo-style clownfish but also with some fearsome great white sharks. Traveling to Africa, I’m certain to dive into waters of uncertainty, inconvenience, fear, and frustration, but also into waters of mystery, knowledge, joy, experience, relationship, expectation, delight, and discovery.

Sure, I might belly flop. But given my genuine love for travel and adventure, I believe that in the end my trip to Africa will be judged as a perfect 10 swan dive with a splash-less finish.

Street Food

2009-06-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

At the Academy of Sciences in San Francisco there is a tank in the aquarium where several amazing, other-worldly seahorses live. I’m fascinated by them. They move to and fro like a hot air balloon floating lazily over the Napa valley. So imagine the “ewwww” factor when I opened my book What the World Eats and saw a photo like this one:

In Beijing, China, street vendors sell dried seahorses on a stick.

Now don’t get me wrong- I am completely on board with the street vendor idea. Four and five star restaurants are fine and dandy, but for my money some of the best food in the world is bought on city streets. Cases in point:

• on a cobblestone street corner in Bratislava, Slovakia, a man sold me a rolled up cone of newspaper that held a dozen or so chestnuts that he had just roasted on his cart.
• in the Philippines, I snacked on delicious strips of grilled chicken on sticks.
• in Maui, teenagers standing under coconut trees sold me chilled chunks of mango and pineapple out of an ice chest.
• in Bangkok, virtually every square foot of sidewalk space was claimed by food vendors setting up mini-kitchens from their carts and the aromas of the satays, curries, and various noodle soups fought a losing battle to overcome the odor of automobile exhaust.
• just last December I gamely embraced the New York ritual of buying a basic but adequate hot dog from a street vendor near Rockefeller Center.

Street food. Most City dwellers have noshed a taco or burrito from one of San Francisco’s many taco trucks. And those of us who have frequented Zeitgeist or other bars know that the Tamale Lady makes tamales so good they bring a tear to your eye. But I’ve been reading in the newspaper that the crappy economy has birthed a new breed of vendors roaming our city streets.

At 24th and Mission, “Murat the Muffin Man” sells strawberry tarts, zucchini muffins, and chai tea for $1. Peddling his cuisine in Dolores Park is “Curtis the Crème Brulee Guy” who skillfully finishes off the carmelized sugar with his blowtorch.

The Department of Public Health may be getting nervous about these culinary entrepreneurs, but I think it is a good thing to have them around. And if I find out that there is a street vendor in Chinatown who is selling seahorses on a stick, with a lot of prodding I just may go ahead and give it a taste. And to assuage my guilt, I will immediately make a donation designated to the seahorse exhibit at the Academy of Sciences.

Five Eternal Minutes At Taize

2009-06-07T22:36:00.000-07:00

The brown stain of the wooden pews grows darker as the last rays of sunlight take leave from the chapel’s stained glass windows. Flames in the votive candles cast an amber glow upon the faces of the faithful sitting cross-legged on the floor. The flickering lights make the chandeliers dance in shadows upon the walls.

The high-pitched soprano plays piano and leads our singing while an octogenarian plays capable violin by her side. There is repetitive, meditative singing and the offering up of prayers. Some prayers are shared from shy, quaky voices, and some prayers emitted from strong, sure speech. There is more singing with the sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses finding their respective parts. As the final notes of the four part harmony are held and dissipated, we enter an observance of silence. Two hundred people in one room attempt to be still in body and in spirit for five……eternal……. minutes.

Someone sniffles in the corner. A woman stifles a sneeze. A man shifts in his seat and the pew creaks. A man clears his throat. A cell phone vibrates. We wait for the silence. Another man clears his throat. A knee thuds against a pew. A woman scratches her head. Someone coughs. A latecomer enters the chapel and steps on a squeaky floorboard. More coughing, shifting, thudding, clearing, scratching, sniffling, creaking, bumping.

Then miraculously, all two hundred of us ease into the silence like a newborn being lowered into a warm bath. For eight, maybe ten seconds the silence is attained. I feel a sensation like a heated palm massaging a small circle in-between my shoulder blades. There is a gentle beating in my chest. My heart feels suspended, light, floating and expecting. Silence. A transcendent moment.

What the World Eats- III

2009-06-04T17:56:00.001-07:00

If you ever get to view this book you will observe that families from many of the poorer countries have a bonanza of food laid out in their kitchens and food prep areas. The main difference between their piles of food and other family’s piles is that their diet consists mainly of fresh fruit and vegetables, much of which they grow themselves.

Look at the food for this Ecuadorian family—plantains with every meal!

This reminds me of Michael Pollan’s wise little phrase:

Eat food.
Not too much.
Mostly plants.

I enjoyed reading some of the more exotic recipes offered up by many of the families.

The mother from Chad makes a daily breakfast soup by throwing a handful of dried tomatoes into some water and salt. I figure it’s probably healthier than Frosted Flakes or Pop Tarts for breakfast.

From Greenland there is a family recipe for Seal Stew, which will come in mighty handy should I ever get famished and want to club a baby harp seal.

Lastly, here are some of the more interesting foods and drinks ingested by families in different countries:
o The family from China lists MSG, a flavor enhancer, as a regular condiment in their meals. I thought MSG was only for places like Panda Express.

o The family from Greenland lists walrus and polar bear as regular meats they enjoy. Any animal that stars in a children’s cartoon is questionable in my book.

o The family from Japan eats an average of 12 different kinds of fish and shellfish, and 3 varieties of seaweed each week. I don’t think American supermarkets even sell 12 kinds of fish.

o Mexico ranks 1st in the world for per-person consumption of Coca-Cola. Considering how miserably sick I’ve gotten from Mexican water in the past, I would brush my teeth with Coca-Cola if I had to.

What the World Eats- II

2009-05-31T16:31:00.000-07:00

Somehow I missed this little fact, but this book says that in the year 2000 the World Watch Institute reported that for the first time there were just as many overfed people on the planet as there were underfed. This surprised me. Hunger organizations relentlessly show us videos and photos of starving adults and children— so naturally I believe that there are a lot of underfed people in the world.

Overfed people are not on my radar screen-- probably because they aren’t on TV or in movies because they aren’t considered beautiful enough for Hollywood. Personally, the only times I view the obese populace are when I attend a county fair and see chunky people waiting in line for corn dogs and funnel cakes; or when I am at a national park accosted by pudgy moms, dads, and children spilling out of their RV’s (and tight clothing) munching on bags of Cheetos.

Many of the countries represented in What the World Eats have a high percentage of their population living on less than $2 a day.
o Almost half of China lives on less than $2 a day.
o India has 80% of its people living on less than $2 a day. This stat is exacerbated by the mere fact that the population of India is well over 1 billion, so right there we have $800 million people living on next to nothing.
o African countries fare worse. Mali, in northwestern Africa, has 91% of their people living on less than $2 a day.

Two dollars will barely buy a Happy Meal in America. Speaking of which, let’s see approximately how many McDonald’s are to be found world-wide:

Australia- 726 (kind of scary considering that there are what, about 5 big cities in Australia?)
China- over 600 (but China is so big and spread out you can't find them)
France- 973 (France isn't that much bigger than California)
Great Britain- 1,100 (gamely closely the gap on the Americans)
India- 46 (even though they can't serve beef)
Japan- 3,891 (I wonder if their fish sandwiches outsell their quarter pounders?)
United States- 13,491 (the big winner, er.. loser!)

It would be picking on America for me to post a photo of the poorest country in the book and compare it to a photo of one of the American families in the book. I’m here to tell you that the three American families represented here don’t stand out as being the only ones with big piles of food. You should see the photos of Great Britain (that family likes their biscuits), or Kuwait (that family likes their candy bars), or Australia (there must be 60 lbs of meat on their table). Obese Americans are a convenient target, but the scary truth— as the World Watch Institute has reported— is that world-wide, the numbers of overfed people are quickly on the rise.

What the World Eats- I

2009-05-31T16:03:00.000-07:00

On one of my book shelves sits a photo-journalistic, coffee-table type of book titled Material World in which a photographer visited countries around the world and took photos of typical families with all of their worldly possessions laid out in front of their home dwellings. I've used that book for teaching classes on simplicity and I look at it often.

Shortly after my $1 a day experiment was finished I bought a similar book called What the World Eats. The same photographer traveled to over 20 countries and found a family that represented the average income for each particular country. He took a photo of each family in the place where they prepare and eat food, surrounded by a typical week’s worth of groceries.

Here is one of the families from the United States:

Here is the family from Chad:

Here is the family from Mexico.

I could sanctimoniously say that this book made me want to immediately get online and buy stock in Coca Cola (check out the back row of the photo above), but there is much more to this book than gawking at the photos and judging what the families eat. The book is a fascinating study of food, economics, cooking, survival, globalization, culture, tradition, health, and so much more.

With each photo of the family and their food, the author records how much money the family spends on food in one week (converted into U.S. dollars). I won’t list all 20-something of the countries, but here are some highlights:

o The French family (2 adults, 2 teens) spends $419.95 per week on food (with all of their sublime cheeses, mousses, cafés, and pastries I’m pretty sure that I’ve spent close to that in one week for myself in Paris)

o The family from Japan (2 adults, 2 teens) spends $317.25 a week on food.

o The large family from Mali (8 adults, 5 kids, 2 babies) spends $26.39 a week on food (if you want two wives you gotta be ready to feed more mouths).

o The Sudanese refugee family (1 adult, 5 kids) living in Chad spends $1.22 per week on food. Nope, that is not a typo. ONE DOLLAR AND TWENTY TWO CENTS!

For some reason, the authors photographed 3 families from the USA.
o The California family (2 adults, 2 kids) spends $159.18 per week on food.

o The North Carolina family spends double that at $341.98, but to be fair they have 2 teenage boys in the photo.

o The Texan family (3 adults, 2 kids) spends $242.48 per week on food.

I've got much more to say about this book, but for now I am wondering how many of us would enjoy putting a week's worth of our eating habits on photo display? For the photo in my kitchen, I imagine a small castle made out of stacked pints of Ben & Jerry's icecream.

Chapel on the 29

2009-04-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

"How many of you are ready for 2012?" she called out in a loud voice. Those of us on the 29 bus were startled to hear someone shouting on the relatively quiet bus line. "Barack Obama is going to be your last President-- there won't be a President in 2012. 'They' are challenging Jesus the Living God and there is going to be mass destruction. Jesus is getting ready for them because he knows what 'they' are going to do."

This woman preacher had made her bus seat into her own private pulpit and us passengers were her captive congregation. One passenger smirked to a friend, another turned up the volume on her iPod. A toddler stared at the woman with his mouth agape and the bus driver peered curiously at the woman in the rear-view mirrow.

Undaunted by our passivity and our disinterest in pending doom, the speaker started singing in a surprisingly strong and beautiful voice. "How great is our God; how great is our God..."

"COME ON, SOMEBODY SING IT WITH ME!... How great is our God..."

She continued singing her contemporary chorus while our multi-cultural, traveling chapel on wheels roamed the streets of the city. While I don't quite follow her theology, I believe that her zeal, courage, and sense of the sacred came closer to "church" than many a congregation I have visited in my time.

Easter In San Francisco

2009-04-14T21:28:00.000-07:00

Returning to San Francisco after visiting family in Stockton, I wearily rode the N-Judah on the last leg home. I perked up when two men came aboard- both wearing clunky hiking boots. They both also wore bright colored, form-fitting knit dresses, and adorable Little House on the Prairie calico sun bonnets were tied in neat bows under their stubbly chins.

As I observed them from the precarious safety of my peripheral vision I concluded that they looked like Laura Ingalls had left the Banks of Plum Creek to join the lumberjacks near the Little House in the Big Woods. At any rate, I'm certain that Pa would have offered to play fiddle for them, and Ma would have most definitely disapproved.

Reflecting On $1 a Day

2009-04-14T20:55:00.000-07:00

Originally I had three reasons for wanting to conduct this experiment in truth:

1) To reveal my compulsions- yes, this experiment revealed the things that are completely out of control in my life. In fact it did more than that. It wrote my compulsions in big, bright letters and posted them on a 50 foot marquis with rotating spotlights shining in all directions and signaling “Look here! Look here at all the things that Melanie doesn’t have a handle on- chocolate, morning comfort in the form of coffee, the desire to fit in, buying things I don’t need…”

2) To be in “training” for a day when I may be called to go “all in”- on a scale of 1-10 (10 being super radical), this experiment was about a 5 for me. It’s all relative. Some people thought what I was doing was unfathomably crazy, and others yawned and resolved to wait for future blog entries about wing walking. But whether people were inspired or not, I stepped out and was in training for something bigger in my life. If an opportunity that requires obedience and sacrifice is offered to me, I’m one step closer to saying “yes” even if the opportunity may be somewhat uncomfortable or scary.

3) To better identify with the poor- I was able to live in a little solidarity with the poor in that people who live in poverty were greatly on my mind and heart for 40 days. But the exercise was one of considerable futility because of the privilege and power that I was born into. My friend Sarah gamely took my challenge and lived on $1 a day for one week. She blogged about her similar experience of privilege and class here.

I’m reluctant to make some grand statements such as:
“THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED...” or
“THIS IS WHAT I AM DOING DIFFERENTLY FROM NOW ON...’

However, this experiment had a profound affect on me and I am not going back to business as usual. There may be some permanent changes, but for the time being I am remembering the words of Jesus to his disciples- ‘the poor you will always have with you". Most people think this just means something like “hey, there are always going to be poor people around. That’s just how life is. Do what you can, but don’t sweat it too much.”

But after my 40 day experiment I’m getting the idea that by saying “the poor you will always have with you” maybe what Jesus meant was that I am always going to have them on my mind, or in my life work, or maybe even literally by my side. I’m open to any and all of those things.

True to My Word

2009-04-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

Integrity is big value of mine, so I just wanted to let everyone know that I was true to my word and sent in the donation. I mailed off a check for $376.84 today to the San Francisco Food Bank. This includes $375 which is the money I didn’t spend from my regular budget for 40 days on groceries, eating out, and entertainment.

Also included in the donation is $1.84 which is money I found on the streets. Small change really, usually just a penny at a time. But I found quite a bit of it.

Celebratory Meal

2009-04-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

My celebratory meal with friends-- during which I spent considerably more than one dollar.

Thanks to vicki!, Chris, and Elizabeth for helping me put a symbolic period on the 40 day sentence.

Day 40- $1 a day

2009-04-08T20:49:00.001-07:00

"We must talk about poverty, because people insulated by their own comfort lose sight of it."
- Dorothy Day

That about sums it up for me.
But stay tuned-- I'll be posting some more reflections about my $1 a day experiment within the next week.

Day 39- $1 a day

2009-04-08T18:09:00.000-07:00

On this day before the end of my experiment I am experiencing two feelings.

1) I feel excited about the things and experiences I can purchase after tomorrow—cheese, cocktails, new socks, a haircut, iTunes songs, Warriors tickets. It’s not that I didn’t eat well or that I didn’t experience pleasure while my experiment was in process. It’s just that on Thursday night I will have more options to choose from of things that are fun, tasty and pleasurable.

However, I must admit that I have been sitting in my easy chair tonight staring out the window with a heavy heart, a stray tear occasionally welling up in my eye.

2) I feel sad for the billions of people in the world who live on less than $1 a day and for whom this is not experiment. It’s brutal reality. Very few of the world’s poor are waking up tomorrow morning and saying, “Well, thank goodness those 40 days are over! Where shall I dine out with my friends tonight?”

I see my ending point. For people living in extreme poverty there is no end in sight. I can call it all off anytime I want. They can’t. This makes me profoundly sad.

Day 38- $1 a day

2009-04-07T19:37:00.000-07:00

"When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist."

-Dom Helder Camara, former Archbishop of Olinda and Recife, Brazil

“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then just feed one.”
- Mother Theresa of Calcutta

Day 37- $1 a day

2009-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

I ate out twice today. For lunch I spent $1 on a cheesy, greasy, McBurger-something, and for dinner I spent $1 at a dim sum place on Clement- ordering two shrimp ball things and a pork bun. The dim sum was good, but the burger tasted pretty gross.

Today I committed to eating off the "dollar value" menu of a fast food restaurant because those are the places that many lower-income American people are likely to eat. I have found the opposite to be true in developing countries-- the rich have the option of eating at fast food chains and the poor eat the 25 cent meals cooked by sidewalk vendors.

I actually did some unofficial research on this during my travels around the world a few years ago. In every country where I visited, if I spotted a McDonalds I walked in and looked at the price board to see how much a Quarter Pounder with Cheese Meal cost. Then I converted the currency and recorded how much the meal was in U.S. dollars. This is what I found:
• In Paris- $8.00
• In Prague- $7.00
• In Australia and New Zealand- $5.00
• In Budapest, Zagreb, Istanbul, Dubai, - $4.00
• In Bangkok- $2.50
• In India- $2.00

Of course in India they don’t have beef burgers on account of the sacred cow thing, so there I compared a chicken or fish “burger” to a Quarter Pounder. But in India and Thailand I especially noticed that only upper-middle class and rich people were in McDonalds nibbling on French fries and slurping down shakes.

I usually steer clear of national fast food restaurants partly because of the documentary "Super Size Me", partly because of the book "Fast Food Nation", partly because I don't own a car in which to "drive thru", but mostly because in my neighborhood there are so many inexpensive, family-owned, quick restaurants that I don't feel the need to seek out a national chain.

But it’s crystal clear that the convenience, the marketing, and the relatively low cost of taking a whole family out to dinner are all factors that appeal to people who frequent fast food chains. It is reported that Ray Kroc (franchiser of McDonalds) “did everything he could to keep costs down so that even low income people could afford a meal out at McDonalds.” In the 1950’s that was considered a good thing. In 2009, I’m not so sure Mr. Kroc has done the poor a favor.

Here is a photo of an art piece that I bought in a Nashville gallery last year. I love it! It took me a long time to notice that the stripes are french fries...

Five Dollars Well Spent

2009-04-05T12:20:00.001-07:00

I was walking to a store two blocks up Judah to purchase a small loaf of bread so my faith community could participate in Eucharist (if you are Catholic)/ Communion (if you are Protestant) together this evening. I passed two men with two dogs sitting on the sidewalk. One of them asked me "Can you get me something to eat?"

"What do you want to eat?" I asked. He told me a burger or an omelet from the cafe up the street would be good, but I informed him that I only had $5 to spend and could probably get him something at the cheaper Mexican food place up the street. So he stood up, we shook hands and introduced ourselves, and we walked to the restaurant together as we chatted.

His name is Joe and he told me he is from Virginia, but he went to Washington State to visit his parents only to find out they had died in a car accident. He is a military veteran with some neurological disorder. His hand was bandaged because his girlfriend's parents don't like him and they sicced their dog on him. "You've had a rough few weeks" I observed. He mumbled, "yea, life is a mess right now."

Joe picked out a modest rice and beans burrito and a coke, and I paid for it with the found money that I never considered mine anyway. He returned to his friend on the sidewalk and I walked to the store to get bread. I was rejoicing that I had tucked my five $1 bills in my back pocket as I left the house. I was relieved that I didn't choose to be the priest or the Levite who passed to the other side of the road in the parable of the Good Samaritan. I was grateful that the Maker had crossed my path with someone who needed a hand.

I passed Joe on the sidewalk as I walked back home. Two raggedly girls had joined Joe, his friend David, and their two dogs. All four were sharing bites of his burrito and chips and salsa. "Hi Joe!" I called out. He looked blankly at me for a minute as his impaired brain registered who I was. "Hi! Melanie, right?" Yes.

Day 36- $1 a day

2009-04-05T09:33:00.000-07:00

What I didn’t mention at the beginning of this $1 a day experiment is that in 2008 I did the same thing--only I lived on $1.50 a day. So I had $60 to work with for the 40 days of the experiment. I’ve been surprised by the big differences between my experience last year and this year.

Last year my focus was on figuring out what I could eat and how my lifestyle was affected by being limited to spending $1.50 per day. The experiment felt like a big sacrifice. The food I ate seemed limited and bland. I felt hungry much of the time. The limits on my social life bummed me out. I was very concerned about other people being adversely affected by my experiment (e.g. not being able to go out for a friend’s birthday dinner). In short, the lessons were almost entirely about me, me, me.

This year my focus--whether it was reflected in my blog entries or not, this is what has been going on in my mind--has been more on scrutinizing my lifestyle to determine how I can keep the plight of the poor and hungry front and center in my life. The experiment hasn’t seemed like a sacrifice. I’ve been pleased with the healthy, delicious food I have been eating. I’ve embraced the extra time I’ve had home alone or walking around the beach and park. I’ve invited other people into their own version of my experiment. In short, the lessons have had a bigger vision outside of myself.

After two years of this experiment I see a progression. I wrote in a previous post that I consider year one to be a 5K race, perhaps this year was a 10K, and I look forward to training my way to a marathon in regards to how I can be used to wipe out poverty on our planet.

Day 35- $1 a day

2009-04-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

Last year a book came out by a seemingly unlikely author who is the founder of Vanguard Mutual Funds-- one of the most successful mutual fund families in the United States. John Bogle's book is called Enough. In the book Bogle explains his philosophy that Americans have lost touch with what is "enough" in money, business, and in life.

I can see it in other people. They have lost touch with what is enough.
o Children think they don’t have enough toys and video games.
o Couch potatoes think they don’t have enough TV channels.
o Fashionistas think they don’t have enough clothing.
o Parents think they don’t have enough activities for their children.
o Manufacturers think consumers don’t have enough choices of breakfast cereal.
o Home owners think they don’t have enough square footage.

Here’s a chart that shows the increase in the square footage of homes from the 1950’s to now. Americans used to think that 1/2 the current average square footage of a home was enough. Not now.

I can see it in myself. I lose touch with what is “enough” in my life.
o I don’t have enough books or plants.
o I don’t have enough songs on my iPod, even though I have 4,400 songs.
o I don’t keep track of when I have drunk enough cosmopolitans when I go out to the Mint karaoke bar with co-workers.
o I don’t have enough camping and outdoor equipment when I shop at REI.
o I don’t have enough artisan grapes from the Farmer’s Market in the summertime.

In the dictionary "enough" is defined as “a sufficient amount to meet a need”. When my needs are met, that is enough. Grasping for things way beyond those needs is more than enough.

Day 34- $1 a day

2009-04-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

"When someone steals another's clothes, we call them a thief. Should we not give the same name to one who could clothe the naked and does not? The bread in your cupboard belongs to the hungry; the coat unused in your closet belongs to the one who needs it; the shoes rotting in your closet belong to the one who has no shoes; the money which you hoard belongs to the poor."
-Basil the Great

I happen to have 9 coats and jackets in my closet. I have a cupboard full of pasta, rice, tuna, and jams. I have 10 pairs of shoes. I have savings, a 401K, an IRA, and investments.

What to do with quotes like this? On one hand my heart cries out "yes, yes!"
On the other hand my head warns, "yes, but...."

Day 33- $1 a day

2009-04-02T15:12:00.001-07:00

There was an intriguing article in the San Francisco Chronicle today about how some people are waiting in great anticipation for the Chronicle's Top 100 Restaurants mini-magazine to come out this Sunday. It is what it sounds like-- the Chronicle food staff compiles a list of what they think are the top 100 places to eat in the San Francisco Bay Area.

But the interesting part is that some people have a contest with their friends to see who can visit the most of these top 100 restaurants in one year.

Most of the people hit the more affordable restaurants first, and they make reservations far in advance for special occasions at the higher end dining establishments. One man gamely ate at all 100 restaurants last year and printed t-shirts to commemorate the experience. He also admits to spending $18,000 on dining that year, which according to my calculations is an average of $180 per meal. I'm sure some of the restaurants cost far less than that and some--like French Laundry (prix fixe meal $240 without wine)-- cost much more than that.

Needless to say, online readers posted plenty of comments on this article.

Readers highly in favor of this quest:
"I'd rather eat out and keep a business alive, than add more people to your beloved food banks and dumpsters. Some people actually know how to spread the wealth around productively."

"The people featured here who are doing this are doing their part to stimulate the economy."

Readers moderate on this quest:
"Even though I can't afford going out to eat anymore, I'm glad others can."

"Some people like to accumulate stuff (cars, DVDs, electronics, clothes, knickknacks, books, art, shoes) and others appreciate things like good restaurants and travel more than things."

Readers highly opposed to this quest:
"As they're eating their way through these 100 restaurants do they ever wander around the back to see the truly hungry digging through the dumpsters looking for their scraps?"

"I can't help but look at the article and picture and feel angry. I work 3 jobs, and I'm lucky as I am paying the mortgage and my children aren't experiencing any real hardship."

"I do not see what kind of achievement it is to spend tons of money in high class restaurants. If this is your claim to fame, you might want to rethink your priorities. Like, donate that money to charity and no, do not brag about it."

"Insensitive and outrageous in these hard times. Don't these people have anything better to do than stuff their faces? Maybe volunteer at St Anthony's soup kitchen?!"

Gee, does anyone detect any judgmentalism in these comments? Careful readers will notice that the writer of the article casually mentioned that the fellow who spent $18,000 on dining that year also spends quite a bit of time volunteering in New Orleans. She was no doubt neutralizing the venom that was to come from judgmental people intent on telling other people how to live their lives and spend their money.

Who among us hasn't dropped pretty penny on a meal, sports equipment, a vacation- and asked themselves afterwards how many people they could have fed with that Prime Rib, or their ski equipment, or the money that went *poof* at the blackjack tables in Vegas? The people featured in this article will spend more on dining than I will spend on rent this year. But I harbor no judgement towards them for their decision. I'm more focused on what I am supposed to do with my money, and how I can be a good steward of the resources I have been blessed with.

Day 32- $1 a day

2009-04-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

Yet another chapter in the Chronicles of Things that Melanie Gets for Free When She’s Trying To Be Poor.

I was rambling down the Civic Center Farmer’s Market this afternoon, enjoying the sunshine and listening to the hoards of lunching people exclaim to one another, "Man, Spring has sprung!"

With 9 days to go I only have about $5 left to spend and I decided to eat my Top Ramen and potatoes and carrots instead of buying something fresh at the market. So I wandered through the stalls and sampled freely from the generously proffered wedges of oranges, mandarins, asian pears, and the nibbles of butter toffee almonds.

A man came up alongside me and handed me a plastic bag, which I took automatically without thinking. Thankfully it was nothing contraband.

As I looked down at the bag in my hand he inquired “Do you want this?”

“Uh, yea, what is it?” I asked, peering inside at some green leafy vegetable.

He said, “I don’t know. I bought it by mistake and they wouldn’t let me return it. Will you use it?”

“Yea, sure, thanks!” I smiled at him, and he took off.

So I walked back to work and after inquiring around a few cubicles I was informed that I am in possession of a fine-looking bunch of chard.

Suffice to say that I've never been handed a bag of something free at the Farmer's Market. The free stuff just keeps coming. I find that very interesting, and will have to make some heads or tails of it by the time the end of my experiment comes around.

In the meantime, for dinner I've made a nice angel hair pasta with sauteed chard and diced tomatoes. Yum. I took a photo of it but chard is rather un-photogenic, so you're just going to have to trust me on this one.