Just this tragic figure

Diamonds, roses,
I need Moses
to cross this sea of loneliness,
part this red river of pain.

My lungs hurt from singing along. The busiest day in a long time doesn't remove it and even the moonlight dancing on the Puget Sound can't take it away.

I don't necessarily buy
any key to the future
or happiness, but I
need a little place in the sun sometimes
or I think I will die.

I'm relinquishing the battle.

The best day of my life

I am lucky to have a beautiful, smart friend who is dating a talented guy who plays for a team that is doing well. That's about all I have to say. Grant is a pitcher for the Tampa Bay Rays (used to play for the Twins and still has a house in MN) and Angie was his Ortho PA; we went to grad school together at rotated at Madigan, so Mariner's games are what we do! The Rays are playing the Mariners right now, so I got to spend the day with them. It was fun. I like Australians. And teams that are at the top of their division. And getting free stuff at the Phiten store, VIP tickets, a meal, etc. And, as if that wasn't enough, they bought me flowers!

I also got to meet and have dinner with Ryan Rowland-Smith of the M's. I had the unfortunate role of telling him how to drive around Seattle. If he would have listened to my directions, we would have been fine!

In any event, here are a few pics from the day.

I have GOT to go to bed.

Mad Men

So I happened across Mad Men tonight. I'd heard good things about it and heard it had several Emmy nominations. Funny thing, this guy I went to college with is in it. His name is Rich Sommer, he's brilliant; I loved his improv in the Concordia drama department, and I still love his acting. It took me a little while to figure out where I recognized him from in the Devil Wears Prada, and he's been in a couple of Verizon commercials. In any event, I'm happy to see he's made it, and on a very well-done show, nonetheless. 

A few of my favorite things, Seattle style

1. Molly Moon's Homemade Ice Cream, Wallingford. 

I LOVE this place. In fact, last night, after the sun set, I stood in line for half an hour along with couples, families, and dogs, the smell of fresh-baked waffle cones wafting into the street. What can I say... where else can a girl get Salted Caramel or Balsamic Strawberry ice cream? I mean really.

www.mollymoonicecream.com

2. Elliott Bay Book Company, Pioneer Square

Located in the historical district of Seattle, Elliot Bay books is a harbor in the tempest... or at least in the rain. The floors are nice and squeaky, just the way they should be, and you can get lost in dark nooks and crannies. 

www.elliotbaybook.com

3. The Baguette Box, Capitol Hill and Fremont

So apparently I like places with dogs on the sign. The first time I had their tofu baguette, I was in love. A soft baguette is stuffed with crispy, coconut-braised tofu, pickled daikon carrots, garlic aioli, cilantro, and avocado, all for $5. Yummo.

4. Ray's Boathouse, Ballard

The seafood is perhaps the best Seattle has to offer, but I take my guests here for one thing, and one thing only... the view. 

5. All of the Farmer's Markets, Capitol Hill, Queen Anne, University District, West Seattle, Ballard, Phinney Ridge...

6. Cafe Vivace, Capitol Hill 

Seattle has done it to me, like thousands of others... made us coffee drinkers. This place turns

coffee into art. Don't you want it? 

 

7. Velouria, Ballard

The cutest boutique in the city, Velouria boasts indie designers and artists who don't sell out

to mass production along the way. 

http://shopvelouria.tripod.com

8. Theo's Chocolates, Fremont

I went on a factory tour with my friend Elizabeth and a bunch of old ladies. It was wonderful. 

You don hairnets, tour the plant, sample along the way, and at the end, eat AS MUCH of their organic, fair trade chocolate as you want. Fig and fennel, bread and chocolate, hazelnut crunch, almond, vanilla, chai tea, or my favorite: curry. I felt like Augustus Gloop. I almost barfed. 

www.theochocolate.com

9. Easy Street Records, Queen Anne

I can't decide if I like them or Sonic Boom better, but all the great music in this place makes me *happy*. And I like their star logo. 

www.buymusichere.net/stores/easystreet

10. Cupcake Royale, West Seattle, Ballard, and Madrona

You know I had to wrap the list up with sweets! It's a simple concept: take two flavors of cake (chocolate and vanilla, well, and red velvet and carrot) and top the cupcakes with different flavors of buttercream. These cupcakes transcend all others. Serious.

www.cupcakeroyale.com

More to come...

Clear as a bell

My sister got married yesterday. In atypical Minnesota fashion, and much to Weather.com's chagrin, the weather agreed and was not, in fact, severe. It was the perfect day; Michelle was stunning, the setting (perched above Lake Superior) was serene, the reception was intimate. My sister seems to have found the "man for the job" as Ken says, they seem happy, and that's all you can ask for, right? 

I went alone, because that's how I roll.

As I got in the cab to leave, Some Day My Prince Will Come by Miles Davis played, tinny, through the speakers. So this begs the question - will he? Or, perhaps more importantly, do I want him to?

Nonetheless, it was good to be home. Sometimes I feel like Minnesota is made of gumdrops and lollipops, other times, it's painful to be there. That said, I'm still not sure what's meant for me. I saw some wonderful friends who I miss terribly and for whom I would move back in a second. 

And now the weekend's over, the adrenaline is waning, the comfort of home is behind me. I'm somewhere over the Rockies now, turning to Rosie Thomas for advice and, let me tell you, she's good. 

"When will love ever find me?

Who cares, anyway

'Cause when it's over

All that matters 

Is the love you gave away"

I guess with or without a prince/pseudoprince/amphibian, I'm blessed. Blessed with friends who I love and love me, a mom who turns the other cheek like the saint she is, a sister who can love someone more freely than I ever may, a brother who values me, and a home that may sooner than later satisfy my proverbial sweet tooth. 

I guess time will tell, clear as a bell. 

How How Why Why Why?

I originally chose to see this play because of the poster of a flying Dachshund, and it doesn't hurt that the tickets are $10 at the Seattle Repertory Theater. In any event, maybe it's because we hail from the same state, or his shrewd self-deprecation or acumen for storytelling, or because, by virtue of my new job, I get to take care of folks like him, but I really enjoyed "How How Why Why Why". Kevin Kling, a regular contributor to NPR who likens himself to the Hunchback of Notre Dame, was born with a left arm abnormality and, to add insult to injury (or vice versa, as it were) sustained a motorcycle accident in 2001, rendering his right side paralyzed. He tells the story of his rehabilitation, coinciding with our nation's recovery; illustrating his physical trials (including a funny story for the title of the play) and the pain he endured and joy he ultimately experienced, culminating in a week's preparation for a cocktail weenie and tears over the taste of an apple after a year of a TPN. He paints a picture of his childhood and my home; from the dry wit of the people to the farmland I may as well have grown up on, to that fateful intersection of Lake and Lyndale where his accident occurred. His anecdotes are spot-on, endearing, Prairie Home Companion-esque. Twangy-but-clear Simone Perrin, mostly on accordion, peppers the show with greats like Nina Simone's (Willie Nelson's, Rosie Thomas's) "Let it Be Me" and throughout the evening, the author looks over in admiration, closes his eyes, smiles, and nods his head in approval. "How How Why Why Why" is a story of hope, of recovery, of perspective, joy and regret; a reminder that we don't choose our fate, and, like a Dachshund, to have a "can do attitude" even if you're in a "can't do body". 

List

So while at a pre-Burlesque party tonight, I saw a to-do list on the hosts' refrigerator. I think that's a good idea. On my drive home from West Seattle, I decided that I need a list of things to accomplish this year (or within the next seven, let's be honest), and to keep me somewhat accountable, here it is, for all the internet to read.

1.   Play the guitar that's sitting in my room (I actually just did, it wasn't pretty)

2.   Live greener

3.   Learn to sail (Center for Wooden Boats, here I come)

4.   Read the Bible cover to cover

5.   Try to ski

6.   At least attempt to train for Alex's "Lowest Expectations" Triathlon in August

7.   See whales! Lots and lots of whales! (San Juans, May 9-11!)

8.   Read the classics sitting on my bookshelf

9.   Obtain real estate in Seattle

10. Take advantage of the tuition reimbursement my job gives me

I think that's good for now...

I'm back

Oh hi there.

It's been a long time. 

So, to catch up... I moved to Seattle last July. I live in a really beautiful house right next to Volunteer Park with two MDs (coincidence). I love it. Seattle is a dynamic place; it's majestially beautiful. On my walk to work in the morning, I hear a piano through stained glass windows under the canopy of sycamore trees. There's seriously a woman who walks down my street singing songs to her baby in French. And I *love* being able to pick sage from my garden in February. Right now I am knee-deep in lenten roses, hyacinths, daffodils, and muscari. The Scarlet Pimpernel tulips are next! 

Things have changed in my life. I drink coffee now. I ride the bus every day. I do yoga. I shop at farmer's markets all the time. I understand myself a little better. I am more forgiving of myself. I have a great group of friends (we're a bunch of transplants from California, Iowa, Idaho, Texas, and Virginia, mostly) and we have the best time exploring the city (mostly gustatorial!) and the greater Northwest in general. I don't know what I would do without them. There's so much to do here, and I love it. 

I changed jobs in January. It actually wasn't a choice of mine, and I face new, great challenges every day. I work with orthopaedic and plastic surgeons but practice really autonomously. I have to know a lot. It's hard. But it's great experience and I will benefit from it. The patients I see literally have had their lives come down around them, and it's gratifying to be an active part of their healing.

Lastly, my church is amazing. I go to Mars Hill, which just opened a campus downtown. My pastor, Mark, is a genius and challenges my faith and my capacity to grow and understand every week. I attend a community group in First Hill and have met and formed relationships with some really amazing, inspiring folks. Plus, we make really good tacos together. 

My sister is getting married in June in Minnesota so I'll be home then, which will be nice. 

So basically I'm livin' the good life in my favorite city. If I'm not studying at home, you might find me walking around Greenlake, or down at Alki Beach, or Pike's Place Market (or the University Farmer's Market), or eating pho at Than Brothers', or wine tasting at EVS every other Saturday, or checking out music at Sonic Boom or Easy Street Records, or seeing a show at the Moore! or at the Crumpet Shop, or down at Gasworks Park, or dreaming about sailing whilst staring at the Puget Sound, or revisiting my Norsk roots in Ballard, or on the ferry to Bainbridge Island, or up in the Skagit Valley or the San Juan Islands whalewatching or down on Mount Rainier or in Portland! Or looking for a cat at the Humane Society or trying to find a place to buy (eep!)!!!

Broken

One night last week I was just done. I came home, put on comfy clothes, and just knelt and prayed (and cried, let's be honest) for all these things, for loneliness, apathy, direction, faithlessness, pride, unfulfillment, etc., etc., etc. I think for the first time in my life, I felt like God was actually listening. And I realized, much to my chagrin, I can't change on my own. It was good, it was liberating. And then I watched House.

My friend Kate, who is wise beyond her years, said to me, "I think those times of lamenting are so important. I always feel such a weight being lifted off of my shoulders when I approach prayer with abandon and honesty. I really think God honors those times." It makes sense. I mean, why would I hold those things in? God knows. Most of the time I don't think God wants to hear me. He has starving and dying people to take care of, right? I guess He is a big God, but if I were God I don't know if I'd listen to me. When I asked if we'll ever feel "right", she said, "I don’t think life ever feels 'right' for anyone. People can put on a pretty good show and we might believe that they are completely happy, but I think that’s impossible. Because we’re not of this world we live in and so it can’t ever feel right. We’re created for eternity. I don’t remember this most of the time but I was actually just thinking about it the other day. I was listening to someone talk once about feeling homesick and that we as humans are bound to feel homesick our entire lives because this isn’t home. And we try to make it a comfortable place with money and family and a busy social life but that will never be enough. We will never be comfortable here. And in a way, thinking of the fact that I will never be comfortable is kind of comforting".

Here's the sad part. I have everything I need. I am comfortable, I am full, I am warm, I have a great support system, a loving family and more friends than I need. I have a good job, an inviting and loving church, etc. Yet I am left wanting more. I look around every corner for the next opportunity to change, or learn esoteric things, or escape, or feel less alone. I fear that these actions, while seemingly innocuous, will eventually, excruciatingly, lead to my demise. And I will have no one to blame but myself.

I know that I need to accept that God is pure love and that He wants to lavish that love on me, that He wants me to come to him, pajama-wearing, tear-stained and broken. I know that He is the only one who can fix me. He is the only one who can wipe those tears away.

The penultimate day

This is an e-mail I sent...

I am sitting in the apartment in Banjul, Arabic flowing through the speakers below me. I've seen more Muslims bowing and doing their daily prayers, and it is so heartbreaking to know that they are praying to a dead god, someone who thought he was possessed by demons. Lori took my picture with a shopowner today and he said, "I shouldn't take a woman now because of Ramadan", weird.

The drive from Mansa Jang yesterday took about 9 hours. It is supposed to take 5, but the ferry was too full, so we had to wait. As we sat there, little kids touched our hands through the windows, asking for bututs and dalasis and for pens for school. They just stood there staring at us for over an hour, trying to sell us green oranges and ground nuts. Each day leaving Koina, kids would run after us, reaching in the van, which is gratifying and heartbreaking at the same time, because it makes me wonder if they will ever escape this life.

Lori witnessed to a man named Mamadou on the ferry. Please pray for him. They argued over Islam and Christianity. The traditions of the people are so strong; they will be disowned by their families if they give up Islam. I wish they knew that they were also giving up eternal life. He explained that Mohammed was "pure" and that by cleaning his hands he was pure, and by praying a lot he was exonerated from sin. It hurt to hear that, to hear his denial of the grace of God freeing us from sin. Lori said she'd agree to read the Qu'Ran if Mamadou would agree to read the Bible. She said she was totally comfortable with it, because she knew that he'd be reading the truth.

Although this trip has been a great experience, I am excited to get home. As I was taking a shower (dumping water over my head with a bucket) this morning, I noticed something. The window was split into two parts; one pane was an aged, yellow glass, the other side was just a screen. I realized that coming here has been like getting glasses. I didn't see things clearly before. I saw them through that distorted yellow glass. I was sequestered from the environment. The way the people lived here did not seem real even though on some level I knew it was happening. Now I see things through the other part; my vision is clear, I can hear the voices of the people, smell the smells, feel the breeze. I am part of how this world operates and my eyes are able to see how a majority of the world lives. Poor. Impoverished. Fighting for survival. And no matter how hard I try, I can't block out those voices. I can't make my skin or nose not feel or smell. I can't ignore it.

Ah, the Gambia

I’ve been in Africa for a week now. The poverty here is beyond words; you have to see it to believe it. I actually feel as if I have been transported back at least 50, if not 100 years. It is hot, and sad, and incredibly eye-opening. For instance, they don’t even have ice here, and when they do, people fight over it because they brought it from ANOTHER COUNTRY, Senegal. People ride donkeys and old bicycles to get around. Today I saw a big truck with at least 30 men on the top, and the truck broke down, and a man jumped off and popped the hood, and they continued. We are stopped daily by “Customs”, men with big guns asking for our documents and our business here.

When I got to the airport, the bus driver said, “Your people are dying, and so are ours, but from different things”, which was so profound. It is accepted to be unnecessary in the US for people to die from malnutrition or disease, but here it is happening all around and nothing can be done.

The government turns on and off water and power as they see fit. We met a Peace Corps worker today who said that the power came on right as our group came and will be shut off soon undoubtedly. There are posters asking for votes for Yayah Jammel, who was elected president recently with 90% of the vote. A shopowner, Samba, told us that they have gone without power for at least a year in the last couple years, sometimes up to 3 years. I can guarantee that I will never look at electricity, or water, or plumbing, or refrigeration, or maintained roads, or health care, or the freedom of Christianity the same.

The missionary here is great, and so is his wife Miracle. Because of Taylor, we have dodged many goats, people, and potholes on the roads to Koina. They have the three most beautiful children I’ve ever seen, Bishop, Marilyn, and Berry. Berry is my favorite, she is 18 months and is so smart and funny. They all call us “Auntie” and “Uncle” and say they missed us every day.

I am working at a makeshift clinic in a community called Koina, a round trip of 3 hours each day from Mansa Jang on the bumpiest, worst maintained road you can imagine. The door of our van has actually opened up during the trip, spilling suitcases and pills along the road…the van works sometimes and the battery terminals come unplugged several times on the trip. I see families of at least 3 people at the clinic, everyone is sick and has a fever and abdominal pain, a workup for which in the states would cost at least $500. Here, though, I treat empirically for Malaria, Worms, STD’s (in the Muslim faith men can have up to four wives and are not faithful even then), Malnutrition, Tinea, skin infections, Amebic Dysentery, Giardia, etc. etc. etc. People wait in line all day for a toothbrush and some Tylenol. The state of health is so poor, and I don’t think there is any end in sight as there is no education in place and the people are so poor. They can’t afford proper nutrition, which is paramount in health, and I have always just taken advantage of that. Even if they have money, the availability of medications is so limited. It is heartbreaking.

There is a dark spiritual presence in Koina as there is not one known Christian there. Most people are fasting so even if I have pills to treat their condition, they can’t take them. Really good Muslims don’t even swallow their own saliva. Unbelievable. When you ask why they fast, they don’t even have an answer, other than it is Ramadan. The translation is fatiguing, in fact more than once I have had 2 translators; 1 translating from English to Fula and the other translating from Fula to Mandinke. Lori and I pray over each family we see, and although they don’t understand, they are appreciative of the gesture. It is hard to know that once the handful of pills I am able to provide are gone, the patient will continue to suffer and struggle to survive here.

The people in general are very excited to see us “Tubabs”, or white people, because they automatically assume that all Tubabs have money. In the Gambia, the average income is about 25 dalasis a day, or about a dollar. And it shows.

The people in the village seem to love us Tubabs; the little kids follow us around everywhere we go, expecting toys and waiting to see the photos we take with our digital cameras, then laughing hysterically at their own appearance. Only rich people have mirrors. And shoes.

The language here is difficult, I’ve learned enough just for greetings. My typical conversation goes like this,

“Ja wali”(Good morning), or “Jamyaleh” (good afternoon) or “Ja eerye” (good evening).
“Hono banduma?” (How is your body), “Hono gorcoma?” (How is your husband), “Hono doleo?” (how is your compound?)…to which the response is always “Jam tan” (only peace). They greet saying Salam Alecum, to which you respond Alecum Salam. Women always ask “Hono gorcoma?”, to which I reply, “Me falaca gorcoma” (I don’t want a husband), and they laugh out loud. I always say at the end, “Nalenjam” or “Balenjam”, see you tomorrow or good night. "Ja Rama Bui" is also very common, or "Thank you very much".

On some level I knew the world was like this, but I didn’t choose to believe that suffering like this could occur. I had to see it with my own eyes to fully understand. It can’t be explained, and my pictures can’t tell the story of sheer desperation here. The amount of time in a day has been revealed to me, however the work it takes to live here is so much. Yesterday and today we made tega dayges, or peanut butter. The “ground nuts” we got were already harvested and peeled, and it still took us portions of two days to roast, clean, and grind the nuts. I can’t imagine how much work the whole process is. Work just to survive is incredible here; and I will never look at a jar of Jif the same. Every day we have to collect water to bathe and drink from the tap. That is if the tap is even on. We live in a compound where the doors fall off and toads and bats and rats roam freely. While the building is outfitted with a toilet, shower, and two sinks, the water pressure is so bad that none of them are functioning. I have never been so dirty in my life, but sponge bathing doesn’t seem to get the red African mud off. Even after I am clean, I just sweat again because it’s always 90 degrees.

Tonight I milked a cow. People here generally can’t afford milk, even the evaporated kind. The two men who took me there, Mustapha and Netty, couldn’t believe that we feed our cows corn! Corn is only for humans! They basically live on rice and couscous. Only rich people can afford meat.

We had church this morning with a small turnout, and a sort of cumbersome service with rough translations from English to Fula. I hope that the people of Mansa Jang will learn to look at Jesus as more than a prophet, but it is generally unaccepted here. The Muslim tradition is so strong and Christianity is not common.

Sorry if this is too random, I am practically comatose right now.

Please lift up the people of the Gambia in your prayers. They need a revival.

Africa.

Check it out.
http://kittywompus24.livejournal.com/

Land Locked Blues

"Can anyone tell me what God created on the second day?", I asked.

"Um, wasn't it... two turtle doves?", Kirsten answered.

Perhaps the highlight of the class I taught at camp.

I got there and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. It was going to be over 100 degrees several days in a row. Now, I can handle forty below, but I can't handle heat. My body turns off. I mean my mitochondria seriously stop making ATP. After all, in keeping with the week's theme, I am a "nordique". Qoi.

So I pretty much wondered what I was doing at a camp 1204.3 miles away from my home. Where I knew 3 people. Not very well, I might add. I was hot, dirty, far from home, and not feeling a semblance of spiritual presence. I don't even like kids that much. I am retarded.

Let me tell you that it was, far and away, the best week of my summer. I came home exhausted yet invigorated. Part of it was devotions, part chapel and tabernacle, part group time, part alter calls and subsequent catharsis, part worship, part nature and dissociation from civilization (as much as you can be in New Jersey), part fighting my natural introvert tendencies to go out of my comfort zone and meet people who are much cooler than me. All of it was being enveloped by Christians, meeting people who do nothing but inspire me, kids with legitimate concerns and issues kids should never have to deal with. Teachers and counselors and deans giving up a week of their lives without pay to keep a camp that changes lives afloat.

I met so many awesome people. Brian, Emily, and Danielle were kind enough to pick a Minnesotan up in Philly. Sarah E. and Scott were my team leaders (Jesus, Hockey, Breathing), Sarah M. inspires me to play guitar- chicks rock!, and Sarah J., the sweetest girl ever. Courtney and Matt Ralph, the best deans in the history of deanhood. My roomies Lauren and Jill. Jon and Dave and Bandu in the lounge. Mama Ralph, my fellow Midwesterner/hugger. Dave Ralph and Tina, technology extraordinnaires. Angie, Greg, DJ, and Jay moving us with worship. My prayer group girls. My team (Go Leafs!). Milkshakes at 2 AM. Nightswimming in Lake Agape. Watching the kids fish, remembering the curiosity and thirst that seems to hasten with age.

I sat on the beach, moved by the acoustic music, emotions swelling, pleading to hear God. About two seconds later, I heard, "I'm tired of searching for a love that only comes and goes." That is so true. Believe it or not, the trip was worth that one single moment.

I also got to see my classmates/friends: Suz, Sarah, Nicole, Jentry, Julie, Shana and Chad, Kathryn, Carla, Greg and Arayel, Jen and Tom, Colleen and Laura. I got to attend a housewarming party, view where a friend's wedding will take place, and celebrate the birth of a baby boy and the engagement of a friend. And, as usual, I feel like the rest of the world is moving and I am standing still. I miss them all so much. One year is too long to not see them.

"And the world's got me dizzy again
You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin
And it only feels worse when I stay in one place
So I'm always pacing around or walking away"
~Bright Eyes

Hello Mother, Hello Father...

I never did the camp thing. I was, in so many words, a momma's girl. Docile. Homesick. Wimpy, as it were. My sister went to camp, and there they watched The Wizard of Oz and when she heard "There's no place like home", she cried, ran to the phone, and demanded that my mom come pick her up. I remember. I was not about to leave my comfort zone for swimming and canteens and tetherball and crafts and relationships. I just wasn't.

So in a couple weeks I'm doing the camp thing for the first time. Yeah, I'm 26, so homesickness shouldn't be a factor.

I met Matt Ralph while he was preaching at a church in Chew's Landing. He quoted Bob Dylan in his sermon, and I was sold. He's a journalist and he cares more about the human condition than anyone I've ever met, and is wise beyond his 27 years. We've kept in touch since then, and his family runs a Bible Camp in Southern New Jersey. When the proposition to help out at "Ralph Camp" came up, I jumped on it. So for the first time, I will be teaching a class to junior highers (ahh! hormones, pray for me)... and Matt suggested that I, in all my poetic, nature-y-ness (as he put it), teach a class that focuses on how we fit in to nature and God's creation. I feel a flashback to junior high right now, sans the spiral perm and BUM Equipment sweatshirt, fearing that I may not be cool enough. I may have to start watching MTv or something.

It's funny, with a junior high audience I feel lead to stress that each of us is fearfully and wonderfully made, He knew us before He formed us in the womb, He formed us in His own image, we are His beloved, He loves us with an agape love, etc. etc. And while I know these things, they are hard, almost impossible, for me to believe. It's one of Satan's biggest holds on me, and women in general, that our intrinsic worth depends on our extrinisic appearance. I have wrestled with it for a long time, but at 26, I am just beginning to believe that I am exactly who I am because that's the way God wanted me; baby face, Norwegian washwoman-esque, non size-2 body and all. I need to hear it, I need to believe it, just as much as these teenagers do.

I pray that the kids will have a blessed, dynamic, life-changing week at camp. I pray that I will feel God's presence in the nature of South Jersey (yes, it exists). And I am so elated that I'll be there with one of the most inspirational people I've ever met. That is worth the trip.

My weakness

I'd like to think that I can remember the specific moment I decided I was done living life for myself. It should be easy, because I've done it more than once.

I've thought it through in my head, felt broken by it, made an arbitrary decision to abandon a self-centered lifestyle, and then gone right on to live my posh, American, all-about-me life. I'll take some mass-marketed self-absorption to go, brown bag, no ice. I'm sick of it, but the whole of me occupies my time, and my doubts and fears have a magical ability of being all-encompassing. I get caught up in a career, a lifestyle, and therefore a sad, solipsistic existence. Even as I sit here, I am trying to come up with excuses for this. There are none.

I am upset that things aren't going the way I want them to go, but maybe that's because I am blinded by selfish ambition. Maybe that's why doors have been shutting left and right. Slamming, as it were. Slamming doors aside, I still have more than I need, more than I deserve, and I am left asking, "Who am I to be blessed? What makes me deserving?" The answer is simple: nothing.

Nothing.

It is my duty to use the resources I have to help others. I chastise the rich for not doing enough, but I could do more; I just need a nudge to get me going. Perhaps a kick; something that makes me realize that this life I am living is not mine. I am reminded of something Paul said in Philippians, "do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves".

Once a month or so someone at my church gives their Faith Story. It is undoubtedly emotional, purging, eloquent. And every time I hear one, I wonder to myself what mine would include. What would move me to tears? How could I turn this humble, if not insipid, existence into something inspirational? I could come up with something, make it sound real, maybe even squeeze out a tear. Of course I can cry at the drop of a hat about my own life, a life of luxury, all the while stoic at the sight of those dying from war or hunger or disease. That is a sad, sad fact.

I sit here, future still unknown, needing God to change my heart, make me grow, help me find purpose, save me from myself. I just feel alone in it. I want Him to come sit by me, hold my hand, give me the strength to surrender my life to Him, completely, unabashedly, without reservation.

No one ever said it would be easy.

The Final Hour

My head and my eyes are heavy and while I should be, say, resting them, I choose to sit here. Mesmerized. Thinking someone might actually be reading this, my sad excuse for human communication. At lunch today, I sat down to my leftover penne and vegetables my personal chef (my sister) made and did a couple Wuzzles and the Cryptoquip in the Star Tribune. A couple other employees came in. We each sat at our respective tables, the fellow to my left biting an apple, the lady to my right reading the paper, the buzz of the Coke machine filling the silence. No one spoke, and I thought, "this is what's wrong with America".

I mean, that's just scratching the surface, and I am a loner so I'm not above reproach, and I've only been to eight other countries so I am far from seasoned, but this type of behavior is pathologically unusual from a global perspective. In a world where no one needs anyone, no one takes social responsibility. If anyone fails, it is a direct reflection on themselves, maybe their family, but not necessarily society. We "pull ourselves up by our bootstraps", having not been that far down to begin with, all the while washing our hands of any obligation to those in need. It's Social Darwinism at it's finest. We drive our fancy luxury cars, own our second homes, spoil our kids, and blatantly neglect any onus we have to a global, even local community literally dying in front of our eyes.

Oh, the sweet smell of hegemony. Oh, the aroma of imperialism.

To quote Lauryn Hill, "It's time to change the focus from the richest to the brokest".

The $200 billion industry

I went to a big dinner sponsored by a drug company once. I was a student and I must say it felt pretty good to be catered to; to be served great food just for listening to a doctor speak. I guess that's how they get you, they make you feel smart and important and feed you $50 steaks and hire attractive people who know nothing about medicine to sell their product. In fact, I wouldn't doubt that somehow writing a prescription for that medication might conjure up feeling satiated and make me write more of it. I am weak like that.

Being there, despite being surrounded by spoiled malcontents, felt good. For about an hour. Then the guilt set in. What I didn't realize then is that those expenses are exactly why the elderly, like my grandmother who waited until off-peak times to turn her heat on in order to afford her medications, are on buses to Canada and holding signs in Central Park begging for money not for food, but for much-needed prescription medication. The sad part is that extravagant dinners and lunches happen every hour of every day in America, inflating egos and expanding waistlines, and ultimately increasing the already rapacious prices drug companies charge.

Furthermore, the pharmaceutical industry would rather develop more expensive everyday and, might I add, already extant forms of medications for higher profits than work on, say, antibiotics for multi-drug resistant strains of TB that are killing people in third-world countries every day. Maybe if they spent more on R&D and less on the barrage of marketing and administration lives could actually be saved. After all, isn't that the point?

So, I was thinking...

The richest country in the world should not have 45 million people living below the poverty level and still be pushing democracy and capitalism down everyone else's throat. I really am pessimistic about the future as everyone would like to live very well but there aren't enough resources for that to happen; those of us (me included) who live too well must live less well. At least the British Chancellor has been successful in forgiving 40 billion pounds worth of debt to some of the poorest nations; it isn't enough but it's a start. Bill Gates is doing his bit but as an individual his wealth is worth about 10 small nations and his house cost $12 million some time back, so he could do a lot more! I'm rambling.

cancer sticks

please, for the sake of humanity, put the cigarette out. not only is it the most disgusting habit, it's slow suicide. i think 99% of our clientele smokes cigarettes, and it makes me want to yak.

cigarettes have rocket fuel and formaldehyde in them. sign me up.

so if you want charcoal colored, balloon consistency lungs and Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, weight gain, bone metastasis and a nice tinge of constant cyanosis, go ahead. but if you don't want to die a premature, breathless, oncology floor prison death, quit now. it will be the best thing you've ever done.

Sockeyes going upstream, Kenai River