365 Days Of Love. Day 16

Day one of what has become known as the love blog started like this,

“I believe I’ve had the most incredible people in my life…”

As I’ve tapped my tiny keys on my macbook air since that day, I’ve been repeatedly reminded of that exact sentiment.

Last weekend, I was in Minneapolis for my friend, Brittany’s bachelorette party. Knowing that my trips (near) home are infrequent, I mentioned to my aunt, who lives outside of the twin cities, that I would be in the area. I asked if she, my uncle, and their 3 kids could meet at the Mall of America for lunch because I knew the girls and I would be doing some pre-festivity shopping during the day. When I extended the invitation, I half-expected a declination only because I have three very active cousins who generally fill up my aunt and uncle’s weekends with social or sports activities. However, as soon as the invite was offered, my aunt accepted and made reservations at Dick’s Last Resort, a fun mall restaurant, shortly thereafter.

Even before flying into the MSP airport, I felt grateful. Grateful that I would get to spend time with friends, grateful that my aunt and uncle agreed to drive 45 minutes to meet me for an hour lunch, grateful that I had a weekend away from the hustle and bustle of teaching on the border.

Saturday morning mall shopping commenced and shortly thereafter, I started my maze-like hike to the 4^th floor restaurant my aunt made reservations at. In perfect Natalie style, I successfully meandered from the 1^st to the 3^rd floor, but couldn’t locate the escalator to the 4^th. Instead of shimming up mall poles like Mulan, I called my aunt for her insight on the locale of the 3^rd floor ascending escalator. As she directed me, I could sense urgency in her voice, which made me flustered. I thought for sure my inadequate sense of mall directions would make us miss our reservation.

Soon, though, I learned the urgency in her voice was excitement and not just excitement to see me.

I made my way to the 4^th floor and cruised around in my best Olympic speedwalking attempt to find Dick’s. As I turned the corner to the brightly colored dining establishment, my 5-year old cousin Zoe ran up to me. I bent down to hug her and looked up to see my aunt looming over the two of us with the hugest smile on her face. She helped me up, hugged me, and as she pointed to the restaurant entrance, said,

“We brought some guests.”

I’m certain an invisible hand painted a question mark in the silenced air between us. As I followed my aunt’s finger to the very tip, I strained my eyes to see the “guests” that would be joining us for lunch.

My mom, my sister-in-law, my nephew, my grandma, my sister, my brother in-law, and my other nephew were all standing at the entrance of the restaurant. They drove hours (some 5, some 3) to have lunch with me for one hour. My heart sped and slowed in unpatterned beats, overwhelmed with the excitement of seeing my family. Additionally, though, my heartstrings pulled at every bit of my being. I didn’t deserve the hour lunch with my family. I didn’t deserve the hours in the car my family spent to see me, I didn’t deserve the smiles from my sweet nephews, the hugs from my cousins, the conversations with my sisters, grandma, mom, brother in law, uncle, and aunt.

I got them, though.

My family taught me that love is time. I’m beyond grateful for their time, the time they sacrificed to spend a blessed 60 minutes with me.

365 Days Of Love. Day 15

I was born on my aunt Suzi's 21st birthday, which I believe cultivated an innate bond, a sewing of spirits of sorts.

I don't know if the first memory I have of my aunt is eating copious amounts of her Easter colored M and Ms at her and my uncle's apartment by a lake near Minneapolis or riding her geo metro to visit my great-grandma, but one resounding (literally) memory I have is of my aunt softly humming,

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray..."

The sweet sound would usually convene at the height of my toddler tiredness as I struggled to hold back the tears forming is the corners of my almond shaped eyes. Although my aunt sang the song to me, she has long been my sunshine.

Sometime in high school, Suzi and I started an e-mail correspondence. I would unload cathedrals of words regarding disputes with friends, boyfriends, my parents, anything. She would always respond with grace. Through these e-mails, she consistently encouraged me make choices that I was secure in, choices that made me feel most like the "unique Natalie" I sought to be, choices that would be make me sunny.

My freshman year of college, I drove through the night from Oklahoma to Minneapolis for Spring break. At 4 in the morning, still 40 minutes away from my destination, my aunt called to check on me. After she repeatedly asked me if I needed her to come meet me somewhere, she ensured I had the correct directions to the house. Upon my arrival, she shuffled my barely awake self into an already made bed. Although I drove through the night, every time my aunt called, simply knowing she was waiting for me, I felt as if the sun was fueling me, my own little sun.

My aunt has been my sun through breakups and moves, college stress, new loves, and adventures. Since the love blog started, she's commented on (I think) every post, encouraging me, even when I've felt so insecure about sharing my story.

Our sewed spirits sing solely because she is my sun. My aunt has taught me that love is being light.

365 Days Of Love. Day 14

My grandpa has this uncanny ability to keep people close.

The last time I was home, he gently slipped, "I don't think you want to go to Haiti, I think you'll miss home too much" into our conversation. I reminded him that South Texas is almost as far away from home as Haiti and flights are just as expensive. But, even as I compared my current geographical proximity to home and my future proximity, I knew my grandpa intertwined his comment into our conversation thread because he wants to keep me close.

We frequented my grandparent's house growing up. One time, after a dinner which I'm positive included bread with butter and sugar and sliced tomatoes, I started throwing a temper tantrum because I SWORE that my sister didn't have to wait as long for her birthday as I did for mine. I have no idea how I built my argument, but I was positive that July came around twice as much as December did. The innocent snickers of my parents and grandma and the adamant denial of my sister acted only as a catalyst for my stubbornness. At the height of my stomping and screaming, my grandpa patiently pulled me next to him on our favorite worn couch. He had written all the months on a piece of paper. He took my finger and counted with me, July to July is 12 months, 1 year. December to December is 12 months, 1 year. As my argument proceeded, just slightly quieter, he softly grabbed my finger and counted with me again. And again. And again. He counted with me until I internalized that my sister, born in July, has to wait the exact same amount of time for her birthday that I have to wait for my birthday. Because he was close, because he was patient, I conceded my point (thankfully, in time for my grandma's infamous jell-o and whipped cream dessert).

Until a couple years ago, my grandpa owned a restaurant. I worked for him on and off from the time I was 14 to 21. In the beginning, I clung to him, even though I knew he was busy. I would pretend that I was still his bubbly three year old granddaughter, running back to his office almost immediately after I entered the family style sit-down. As soon as he saw me, he'd look up for his work, and greet me, using my childhood nickname, "Hi, Scooter!" My last summer working for him, when I was 21, I no longer clung to my grandpa's physical presence, but rather sought to cling to his unmatched ability to connect with people, to keep them close. As soon as I would mention to my customers that I was "Larry's granddaughter," I would be served stories of "This one time, your grandpa did this for us.." or "Your grandpa is a good man.." or "You're a really lucky young woman...." Hearing these stories was humbling because I was afforded the reality, my grandpa didn't own a restaurant solely to earn an income or to smell like food every day of his life or to work 10 or 11 hour days 7 days a week. Rather, he owned a restaurant to keep people close. Close to each other, close to him, close to the community.

It would take the entire community of Mitchell, a majority of the state of South Dakota, and various pockets of the country to do my grandfather justice. Like my dad, he isn't a man of many words, but every word that slips his tongue is one of deep meaning, profound impact, close keeping.

My grampy taught me that to love people is to keep them close and deeply connected.

365 Days Of Love. Day 13

He didn’t want to eat alone.

I begrudgingly boarded my plane from Minneapolis to Dallas this morning. As to be expected the day after a bachelorette party, I was sick to my stomach, running on fumes, and excited to board the plane only to immediately get some shut eye.

I sat in my 11^th row seat by the window and watched as other passengers filed into their seats. The flight attendant’s announcements regarding security and electronics began and there was still no one next to me. Was I really seated in a row all by myself? Just as I pulled my winter coat up to my chin, a gangly man in his sixties meandered onto the plane and sat down in the aisle seat in my row. Frankly, his presence didn’t phase me. Normally, I scope my row partners out for potential conversations, but truthfully, I only wanted to sleep.

The gangly man, who I later found out was named Phil, took my -any other day that is not the day after a bachelorette party-traveling approach and started questioning me immediately. Less than chipper in my responses, I hoped that he would get the hint, I wasn’t in the frame of mind or condition to hold any sort of conversation. As we ascended into the bitter Minnesota sky, my eyes couldn’t bear the weight of the previous night anymore. I slept. Soundly.

Occasionally, my peepers would pry themselves open only to see Phil chewing sunflower seeds and enjoying the complimentary beverages American Airlines offered. I woke up with only 20 minutes before our plane and the DFW runway rendezvoused. At the sight of my eyes, Phil immediately commented on my incredible airplane sleeping ability. I replied with a story about my lack of sleep the night before and finally afforded him the conversation he’d been searching for from the get go.

As the wheels hit the runway, he invited me to lunch. I paused for a moment and accepted, slightly confused by this man’s interest in me. We chose to eat at the first restaurant that greeted us in the DFW terminal, Friday’s. As I literally downed multiple glasses of water, he told me about his grandson and daughter. His story took a sad turn as his tears formed in the corners of his eyes and words of his divorce escaped his lips. Sparing me the details, he looked up and said, “Forgive me for inviting you to lunch.” My face must have marked my confusion because he went on to explain that, to him, eating alone is the height of loneliness. I refrained from telling him that I love eating alone and instead turned my ears forward as he shared his fear of the looks and whispers induced by solo dining. I was immediately humbled and overly grateful for his invitation. I wasn’t worthy to be this man’s lunch partner. In fact, hours before, all I wished is that he had never sat down next to me. I wanted sleep and water, he wanted conversation and someone to share a meal with.

As I left Friday’s, wishing him well on the rest of his journey and thanking him for lunch, he shook my hand and said, “It’s been my pleasure.”

Sometimes, love is just accepting an invitation.

365 Days Of Love. Day 12

I flew for the first time when I was 18. I graduated high school early, but returned home to walk with my class on graduation day. Right after the ceremony, my parents took me to the nearest airport, an hour away from our house, and I departed to Missouri for staff orientation at a summer camp I would be working at later that summer. I had one layover in Memphis and arrived safely in Missouri just a few hours after I had departed South Dakota.

The second time I flew, I went to Israel. By myself. I was 18, a rookie flyer, and traveling to another country, not having any idea as to who I would be looking for once I got to the Holy Land. I had a seven-hour flight from DC to Frankfurt in which I was seated next to a retired Air Force pilot. He wouldn’t be continuing to Tel Aviv with me, but he had shared stories of his many trips there. As he prepped me about all I should expect in the Israeli airport, I absorbed his words like a sponge. He told me there would be soldiers lining greeting me upon landing and English directions would follow after Hebrew and Arabic, respectively. He praised the Israeli people, encouraging me to seek their help if I felt lost en route to baggage claim. I’m not sure we slept the entire red eye flight, our conversation ceased only when we were served breakfast early the next morning. After de-planeing, he wished me well and left me with one command, “be safe, but don’t be scared.”

I saw this man one more time, per my meandering the Frankfurt airport. He smiled, and that was it.

I arrived in Israel safely and like the pilot suggested I would, easily made my way to baggage claim, and by some Universal gift, immediately made eye contact with the people who I would be staying with during my two-week stay. I was safe, but never scared. Each time I fly, I imagine myself sharing a row with that pilot, I carry his wisdom with me.

I have no idea why this pilot chose to initiate conversation with me, but I’m indebted to him for it. I’m sure my 18 –year-old-self looked clueless and immature, nervous and ill-suited to be traveling solo. Regardless, this pilot immediately treated me as a friend, a granddaughter, a person. He cared about me, not because anything was in it for him, but simply because he cared. He shared his story with me, which in turn, authored my own story, for a time.

This stranger taught me that loving is caring, without expectation.

365 Days of Love. Day 11

When I was younger, I would pack for three-day summer camp months in advance. My grandparents gave me a mini suitcase for Christmas one year. After taking it home, it was rarely empty, I filled it with my favorite clothes and polka dotted socks just in case my parents would surprise me with a weekend getaway. Traveling has long been a catalyst for giddiness within. Tonight, I’m fortunate enough to be flying to Minnesota to celebrate the soon fleeing singleness of one of my closest friends, Brittany. The promise of travel, winter coat wearing weather, and long overdue girl time has my heart feeling like it will positively explode. But, this trip holds a promise of greater value, a promise of soul full ness.

Day 11.

11 doubled is 22. 2 2 are the last two digits of Brittany’s phone number. In a way, doubling Brittany equates to me. Bear with me, as I try to explain this numerical equation of friendship that, to a degree, has yet to be hashed out in my own head.

Brittany and I have had a marathon friendship of sorts. Whereas our friendship started rhythmic and well paced, there were times where it seemed to have dehydrated or run out of energy to burn. In elementary school, we did everything together. My first sleepover was at Brittany’s house, nearly all of my talent show debuts were alongside her, our closets mimicked each other’s due to our desire to look like twins. Our time together most regularly passed innocently, drinking cokes and eating doritos with salsa and cream cheese while wataching our favorite Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen movie. Sometime, towards the latter years of middle school and the commencement of high school our friendship’s energy supply depleted. We remained friends, but lacked the sisterhood style depth that initially bonded us.

Our friendship preserved, but just barely.

Until our senior year of high school.

Our similar (at times unhealthy) obsession with exercise and resulting diminishing size drew the same sort of exploitive attention from the same man, our senior government teacher. Neither Brittany nor I would say we are grateful for the misuse of authority this man exercised on us, but through it, I grew closer to Brittany than I ever had been before.

Through prepping for a court case and undergoing betrayal from previously thought trustworthy adults in our lives, Brittany and I shared our insecurities with each other. Surface level, this sharing of ourselves came through text messages or phone calls, but each time a communication was exchanged via one of the many means available to us, I felt like my soul was being shared. It wasn’t as if I was giving Brittany my soul or vice versa, it was as if we had the same soul, that held far more power doubled than it could withstand singularly. The same soul because at that time, we needed one that was doubly powerful than either of ours could be separately.

The last four digits of Brittany’s phone number are 1 0 2 2. Daily, I look at the clock at 10:22 or check out at the grocery story with an order totaling $10.22, and I am reminded that my soul is infused with that of another.

11 doubled is 22, similar to the way that Brittany doubles me, works within the innermost parts of my being to strengthen my soul. Through our marathon of a friendship, Brittany has taught me that love is shedding the surface and realizing our soul full spirit within.

365 Days Of Love. Day 10

For a few years now, I've been grappling with the notion of simplifying my life. My 6 moves in 7 years have made it difficult for me to acquire a lot of stuff, but I still find my life to be too elaborate, too luxurious.

This reality felt most pressing when I visited Haiti for the second time. Naturally, the poverty most Haitians are forced to live in coupled with their spirited demeanor would make anyone feel a life of even remote materialism is too much. The second time in Haiti felt different for me, though. The need for simplification felt far more pressing than it ever had before.

Shortly after returning from Haiti, I started eating a plant based diet. My reasoning had nothing to do with weight loss or animal rights. Instead, it was rooted in the desire to eat like a truly poor person, to be more simple. However, as I've moved towards simplicity in this one area of my life, I've found three hundred plus other areas that are far from simple. This new reality has left me critical of my current life and frustrated with my attachment to things like my smart phone or trail mix from the gas station.

Recently, I've reconnected with an old friend, of sorts. Truthfully, she is the mom of someone I went to middle school and high school with. She stumbled across my blog, left a comment, and I thanked her via Facebook. That simple transaction was a catalyst for a conversation between the two of us. She shared stories of her past that are similar to my current story, I shared passions and frustrations, which she responded to with wisdom.

As we traded messages, I truly reflected on who this woman was. I probably haven't been in her physical presence more than 30 times in my life, even that may be a generous estimate. Regardless, there are vivid images of this woman's smile embedded in my mind. Even now as my fingertips dance across the keyboard, I can hear her chipper voice, whispering sweet words of encouragement. Every memory I have of this woman is one of innate joy. Whether it was passing her at my dance recital or seeing her at a hockey game, this woman radiates joy. We've had a few simple interactions, but, in essence, they have been grand. Simple, but joy-filled.

Being simple is simply loving, loving with a joyful spirit. Inspiration drawn from a new old friend, in my efforts to simplify my life, I'm going to smile more, sing encouragement. I'm going to seek joy.

Simply love.

365 Days Of Love. Day 9

I've been sassy to my parents and bossy to my younger brother, but at times, I've been unforgivingly cruel to my older sister.

Case in point, in our lifetime's, I've ruined near 1/4 of her closet. It was never intentional, but I couldn't seem to control the paintbrush in art class when I was borrowing her new sweater. Or, the spoon missed my mouth consequentially causing the red beets it was carrying to stain my borrowed white pants. Worse than that, though, I remember arguments with my sister where I said horrible things. I told her she would never get a boyfriend, she was a loser, she didn't have friends. None of these things were true and recalling them now, I know the spawned out of my own insecurities and jealousy. Regardless, the closeness in age of my sister and I coupled with our same sex-ness has undoubtedly resulted in some toxic word brawls.

I definitely don't deserve my sister's love.

My junior year of high school, my sister came home from college for a week to visit us. I spent the night out with my boyfriend and sleepily sauntered into my bedroom around 2am. As I buried myself in my covers, I heard the crinkle paper under my pillow. I reached my hand under my head and found a letter, not a note, but a letter.

It was from my sister.

I can't recite the letter word for word, but I remember one part distinctly. My sister wrote, "I admire you." Just as I sauntered into my room shortly before that, tears sauntered down my cheeks like a slow moving ship as it departs from the harbor. My sister knows the worst possible version of me. She's been the bearer of the most evil things that have ever exited my lips. Despite that, she admired me. I know she didn't admire my ability to dish out insults, but rather, my sister refused to draw judgement on me per those (out of character) moments. Although she knew the worst possible version of me, she saw and believed in the best possible version of me.

My sister is my dearest friend. She taught me that love is seeing the best in people even if you're shown the worst.

365 Days Of Love. Day 8

"Ms., what can we do to help Haiti? Not give to Haiti, but help the people help themselves?"

This question was posed to me during breakfast with my first period this morning. Per my students' curiosity, I frequently field questions about my trips to Haiti. Per my students' benevolence, I frequently field suggestions about what we can do to help Haitians. Generally, bids of clothes drives or fundraisers to donate a goat to family bounce off the colorful walls of F-126. During these conversations, the 7:45 bell, which signals the finale of breakfast and commencement of class, comes too quickly and suggestions are left as ideas and little matriculates.

I've always been inspired by my students' innate kindness. My 14 year olds have told me stories of kid-knapped fathers and missing grandfathers, rapes, beatings, and sadistic slayings. However, when I share stories of Haiti, they ask me, "how can we help?"

What was most profound about the comment my student made this morning is that it carried the promise of understanding. She understood that it wasn't helpful to simply donate clothes or buy a family a goat. Somewhere, in her sweet sweet soul, I think she understands something greater. Her question signaled an understanding of equilibrium. If we teach people "how to fish" they will no longer be dependent. Fleeing dependence creates lasting security. This is true help. I'm not positive my 14 year old student knows that as her words were spoken into existence, the soul of the Universe brightened a bit, knowing that another person knows true help is creating self-sus

taining people and communities.

Every single day, my 14 year old could choose to use the chaos around her as an excuse to put her head down, to watch the world pass her. Every single day, she could find a reason to be a victim. Instead, she chooses to be el sol, the sun, because she knows the sun sustains life.

Truly loving is truly helping.

365 Days Of Love. Day 7

I've spent the past 40 minutes streaming a 20 minute video via shoddy internet. If your broadband isn't burdened by a rural connection, you can watch the video by clicking this link.

http://vimeo.com/36137581

The above little blurp is primarily about Mike Miller, a Miami Heat basketball player, bred in Mitchell, SD, my hometown. In the video, Mike recalls his first NBA draft, held in Minneapolis, MN. As he talks about it, he mentions the fact that tons of people from Mitchell drove to Minnesota to support him. Throughout the video, he alludes to the community of Corn quite frequently, but as he talked about his fan base at the draft, I realized..

love is community, or the inverse, community is love.

I've been told I don't take compliments well. Generally, if someone says something nice to be, I say "Oh, I am this way because.... " or "Everything I am, I've been taught." I'm not an grateful person, but frankly, I don't think I'm deserving of any compliments. My community, though, warrants every compliment ever bestowed upon me and many many more.

My community taught me the value of carpools. My friend's mom would pick us up from school every Monday and rush us to dance class. Never did she forget to bring one of those amazing cookie, caramel, chocolate bars for us to devour on the way to our tutu session. Soccer tournaments, basketball games, everything was at least a two-family affair. Even summer vacations frequently turned into combined last name carloads.

Growing up, I had many moms and even more dads. The first time I drove was in my friend, Ashley's, mom's minivan. Sandy took us cruising around the middle school parking lot, as if we were soccer moms in training. Many moms beside my own tugged my hair into a pony tail for school pictures or picked my amazing 90s bangs to an appropriate height.

Once I started dating, boyfriends pretty easily gained the approval of my parents. However, the approval of my "other" dad's never dissipated as easily. Since my brother and sister both played hockey, I frequently doted a boyfriend to their games. As soon as our breath escaped our mouths, my poor boo would be questioned quite heavily by other hockey fanatics, generally male friend's of my father. My cheeks would blush and I'd try to fend them off, but inside, I felt cared for, protected, special.

My community taught me generosity. In 8th grade, my friend, Jenni's, sister was diagnosed with cancer. Despite our limited fundraising knowledge, my soccer team and I pulled together to organize a fundraiser for Jenni's family. At times, it seemed my soccer team's greatest concern was the color of our uniform or who was actually the best goalscorer, but as we washed cars and set out donation buckets, uniforms or goals scored were of no importance. I remember one camper that came to our carwash. My dad hovered over our 14 year old selves as we scrubbed the bugs off the well-traveled beast in his attempt to ensure we were doing an obsessively good job. The owners graciously made conversation, and when they left, they gave us a check for 300 dollars. Even though my dad hovered and we did our best karate kid carwash, we probably didn't deserve 300 dollars. The couple could have easily gotten a better carwash at a "swipe your card and drive through" carwash. However, as they parted from us, they offered justification for choosing our parking lot wash, "we wanted to do something to help."

Generous.

This wandering couple was generous. Later that day, we wrapped up our fundraiser. I handed a very literal wad of money to my Jenni's family. It totaled somewhere slightly over 1000 dollars. With the mounting medical bills, I'm sure the money did little more than make a dent. However, the generosity of others to rally behind fourteen year old girls who wanted to help a friend, did a great deal for me. It taught me trust. Trust of humanity, because humanity is generous.

Stories of my community's love will continue to transpire throughout these posts. Mitchell, SD is indescribable, it's the place I credit for much of the person I am today, it is my community.

My community is love as well as the inverse love is my community.

365 Days of Love. Day 6

Love is transforming me.

In terms of my physical appearance, I've never been considered a really beautiful person. In fact, I'd say I sort of just embody "average."

Since I've started writing these posts, I've been required to think about love everyday. Whether I'm recalling events from the past or searching for love in my daily interactions, it is always on the forefront of my mind. To that end, although I've let myself get overly stressed out about work, I think the loving mind these posts have induced, has innately resulted in a more loving soul. I believe this loving soul is transforming me in to a more "beautiful" person.

Yesterday, I had a very lazy Saturday. At 2:00 in the afternoon, I still hadn't showered and I was moseying around in my pajamas. Regardless, I felt it would be appropriate to take a mini excursion around the neighborhood with my roommate's dog. Shortly into our outing, we were joined by the apartment complex's handy man, Reuben. We exchanged Valentine's Day stories (mine included my couch and Glee, his included a stuffed teddy bear and tacos with his girlfriend). He mentioned that my hair was growing, I mentioned that I was enjoying my free day, which was why my hair was all over the place. After a few more exchanges, he said, "You look really pretty, Miss."

I can vouch for the fact that I actually didn't look pretty at all. I thanked him, nonetheless, and skipped back to my apartment with a grin on my face. I knew I didn't look pretty, I know I'm actually not a knockout on anyone's scale. What I do know is that as negativity is purged and the void is filled with reflections and recollections on love, it inherently seeps out, eliciting beauty.

The grin on my face wasn't induced by Rueben's comment, but rather by the lesson his comment reminded me of.

Physical beauty is subjective, fleeting, but a soul filled with love is always beautiful.

365 Days Of Love. Day 5

I've always admired how laid back my brother is. When my sister and I would incessantly bicker, he sat back and enjoyed the show. He, like my dad, is a man of few words.

When my brother was 17, he started dappling in things that we (my family) had no idea how to respond to. He was never addicted to drugs or at risk for hurting himself or anyone else, but we still feared his well-being. My parents did all they knew how to do to help him, as did my sister. Their efforts, although very well-intentioned, resulted in exchanges of words that I'm certain everyone involved wishes they could take back. Geographically, I wasn't close to any of them, but I witnessed things unfolding from a far. I feared the demise of my family, I longed for a solution, but ultimately I, like everyone else, had no idea what to do.

One night, my senior year of college, I was walking to a bar to grab a beer with my cousin and her boyfriend. En route to our regular hangout, my phone rang. It was my dad, which generally meant he was planning something and would like my input. This time, though, it wasn't a phone call about a box garden or family vacation to the Black Hills.

When my dad bears bad news, I hear it in his voice before it matriculates into words. He was calling to tell me that my brother, a senior in college, had moved out.

Left home.

I asked questions that I knew my dad couldn't answer. What can we do? Why is this happening? Is he okay? Neither of us had words to exchange. As tears flooded my eyes, my finger pressed the "end" button on my samsung cell phone.

As my steps to the bar slowed, I was reminded of a letter I had received from my brother a few months prior. I still have the letter, here's bits and pieces of it...

Dear Natalie,

I just wanted to say thank you for letting me live my life and not judging me for the choices I make....And I know that I have never once thought you were "running away" like some other people. I think it is totally cool that you have lived in such far away places. I'm hoping to come see you sometime. Thanks again, I love you.

Your Bro,

Brian Sturdevant

In minimal words, my brother taught me that love is acceptance, not necessarily approval, but undoubtedly, acceptance.

365 Days Of Love. Day 4

I wanted to write about my Grandma Judy yesterday, but every story I started about her was near impossible to finish. Today, I realized why. The love my grandma has is perpetual, I don't know when it started, but I'm certain it will never end.

When my grandma was 16, she married my grandpa. As I understand, they moved to France shortly after their nuptials. Per my grandfather's military duty, he was flown to France. My grandma. however, sololy set sail, to reunite with my grandfather. 16. My grandma was 16 with the spirit of a swallow, a spirit that I am hopeful to say I inherited. When I think about my 16 year old grandma hopping ship, it makes so much sense to me that throughout my life, she's been my greatest source of solace. It's as if she is my free spirit's kindred mate.

One instance of this kindred dance between spirits was particularly defining.

At seventeen, I felt like no one loved me for me, which was primarily due to the fact that I was an insecure young woman. In an attempt to make myself more lovable, I started an unhealthy relationship with my running shoes and the refrigerator. I wore the former out too quickly and I didn't visit the latter near enough. Because I actually did have people that loved me, I found myself fielding copious amounts of questions about my budding relationships. Most of these questions came from a place of love and genuine concern. However, one such commentator came from a place of exploitation. My social studies teacher used my shrinking size as a means of justifying sexual comments about me and my body. His interactions with me only added to my feelings of inadequacy and cultivated a distrust for everyone around me. I continued to find solace in the pavement, attempting to build a distance between those who loved me and myself. The only person who I let close the otherwise extending gap was my grandma.

I spent many afternoons with her and my grandpa, which soon because a form of therapy for me. As we awaited my grandpa's return from work, my grandma and I would sew or bake or look through old photographs. Once my grandpa was home, the three of us would snuggle into their comfy couches, coffee in hand, and watch a Lifetime movie or Jeopardy. My grandma never expected me to talk, but if I wanted to, she would listen as if I was telling some gripping story. She never expected anything of me, she simply let me be.

As afternoons turned to evenings, I would curl up on my grandma's couch and drift into sleep. I depended on those catnaps to propel myself through the rest of the evening and, the inevitably, sleepless night I would have upon returning to my own house. Every moment passed with my grandma was one of peace, I lived for those moments.

My grandma's love, coupled with the promise of quiet moments spent with her, saved me.

It was her love that taught me how to love myself.

365 Days Of Love. Day 3

In third grade, I was part of a club, the cowboys club. My friends and I had coaxed our parents into buying us starter jackets with our favorite football team's logo on them. Most of us were sworn to marry Troy Aikman one day so it was natural for us to bear the blue and gray. At recess, we would run around making fun of the other girls who weren't in our club. We deliberately excluded them and soon deemed that they were the rainbow bright club, due to their multi-colored winter coats. This doesn't sound like love. At all.

Love came as soon as my teacher caught word of our little clan....

I still remember my sweet teacher seemingly taken over by the wrath of God as she told my cronies and I, "What you are doing is creating a cult, your actions are hurtful and they can lead to very dangerous things." I felt more remorse in those 5 minutes than I have my entire life.

Later that year, we had to do reports on presidents, I was given Nixon. I asked my teacher if she gave me Nixon because I was naughty like Nixon. Through her chuckles, she explained that my conclusion was absolutely wrong. I'm not sure if she detailed it or not, but I know in that moment, I felt forgiven.

Beyond teaching me two incredible life lessons, lessons that I try to instill in my students today, my teacher has invested in me as a person. Every single time I've been in the newspaper, she has sent the clipping to my house with a note about how proud she is of me. When I graduate high school, she sent every single person in my third grade class a video of us as wee little 8 year olds. It's as if she didn't have kids of her own, a husband, and ranch to tend to. I can't fathom her generosity.

My third grade teacher taught me that love is inclusion, love is forgiveness, love is investment.

Love is generous.

365 Days Of Love. Day 2

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. When I was little enough to fit in my parent’s bed with them, I would snuggle in between them after having a bad dream. My mom would rub my back until I fell back asleep. Sometimes, I wasn’t so quiet in my nightly excursions, however. These were the times I would scream, “MOM , I CAN NOT SLEEP.” She would scurry out of bed in her nighty, quickly fetch a pen and paper, sit me at the table and quietly command me to, “write.” I attribute these night time interactions to my present love of writing. She loved me, she cultivated an art within me.

One time, on an absurdly hot summer day, our chore list included raking the freshly mowed lawn. I’m positive my sister and I were more dramatic about having to comb the lawn with our bright orange rakes than we ever should have been. Nonetheless, after 10 minutes of raking, we requested our mom join us. Without question, she grabbed the rusting metal rake from the garage and blistered her hands alongside us.

After joining a club soccer team, practices were no longer a bike ride away. Instead, they were 67 miles away. Since I was merely 13, I couldn’t take the trip alone. So, my mom would feverishly work during the school day so she could take me to soccer practice. She did this three times a week and then on the weekends, she’d drive me to tournaments that we at best 4 hours away. In these car rides, I realized my mom would forever be my best friend.

My mom taught me patience and kindness. She taught me that being hypocritical is detrimental to my soul. She taught me that reading offers a path out and writing offers insight into the person I am. When I switched colleges four times and moved because I was “in love,” my mom always picked up the phone whether I was calling to cry or calling to share an exciting story.

My mother is solid. She is pieces of a million attributes that create a puzzle worthy of an art museum. The way my mom has loved me is far worthier than words, far great than a blog post.

My mom has taught me that love doesn’t stop, not for disagreements, not for misunderstandings, not for long car rides. It simply doesn’t end.

365 Days Of Love. Day 1

I believe that I've had the most perfect experiences with the most perfect people, which is an incredibly potent combination, a combination that has taught me how to...

Love

Thus, the next 365 days will be dedicated to these most perfect people. Flashbacks and present moments recorded. I am indebted to the souls, the soul, of the Universe.

Day 1.

The earliest memory I have of my dad is morning arguments over what I had chosen to wear to school. I would insist that my striped pants and polka dotted shirt was a superb outfit because they both had the color pink in them. In turn, he would plead with me to put jeans on so I wouldn't freeze (and so I would semi-match). I refused, I always refused. He didn't fight hard, he knew it was important for me to be comfortable in my chosen outfit. Looking back, I'm so thankful that he chose not to win that battle (although he could have relatively easily had he threatened a grounding). Because he let me win, I learned that I don't need to keep up with the Kardashians, I simply need to be comfortable, even if that means polka dots and stripes.

When I was in first grade, I signed up for a football contest. My dad took me to the store, bought me a tee and a football and practiced with me as often as I asked. Somewhere between my imaginary marriage to Michael Jordan and middle school, I fell in love with basketball. So, my dad put a mini-cement pad equipped with a basketball net in our backyard. In 8th grade, I joined a club soccer team. Shortly thereafter, my dad built a rebounding soccer goal adjacent to the basketball court. Oh, and dance pictures, how could I forget the time he tried shamelessly to put a feather in my hair. As the other girls' moms decorated their faces with blush and red lipstick, my dad crookedly placed a black feather with pink lace into my jenky ponytail.

One time he got really (and rightfully) mad at me because I was making fun of a basketball player on TV. Now, I think he was trying to teach me that all people are worthy of kindness, even if they can't sink a shot.

At 18, I flew to Israel by myself. My last days in Israel coincided with the Israeli-Hezobollah conflict of 2006, meaning my final night in the Promise Land was shared with war jets, shoddy power, and fear. Upon arriving in Washington DC the next day, I called my parents to let them know I was back on American soil. Before I hung up the phone, my dad said, "I love you."

It was the first time I had ever heard it from him. Although, never did I doubt how much he loved me. I can't count the things my dad has done and continues to do for me. I can't relate how selfless he is. Last summer, he planted a garden for me. He built my bed. Him and my mom have flown to Texas only to hop in the car and drive to South Dakota with me. When I go home, he buys extra sweet potatoes because he knows its the one food that I will always like.

Since the first "I love you" when I was 18, I've heard my dad say those three words maybe twenty times. I've seen him show me love an innumerable amount of times. Really, the internet isn't big enough for me to record the wonderful ways in which my father has loved.

My dad has taught me that love isn't words, love isn't self-serving, but love is doing.

Help

Many students in Haiti attend school in this...

What is that, you ask? A tent, not immune to the weather, not ventilated, rustled easily by the wind. Recently, I joined the board of directors with a nonprofit organization working in Haiti, Transparency for Haiti (http://transparencyhaiti.co/). We've partnered with Earthship to build Haiti's first ever full-sized Earthship.

Earthship, you ask? Watch this video to see Haiti's demo Earthship. Seriously. Click.The.Link:

http://earthship.com/Caribbean-Haiti/haiti.html

TfH's Earthship will be located in Croix-des-Bouquet, Haiti. Many programs, ranging from healthy programs for at risk youth to a already existing primary school classes (through our partnership with HAC (www.hacus.org), are set to be hosted by the Earthship. It'll look something like this:

Not only will the community of Croix-des-Bouquet have a new community center to convene in. Earthship will teach them how to mimic the building practices of the community center so they can build self-sustaining houses of their own. So, instead of living in this:

They'll have their own little self-sustaining Earthship. They'll have a home immune to rain, ventilated, sturdy. Pretty incredible.

Before we begin building the Earthship, we need to raise 40,000 dollars. It seems like a lot of money. It is a lot of money, for one person or two people or even one hundred people. It's not a lot of money for 40,000 people or 20,000 people or 10,000 people. Help us spread the word, help us help Haiti. Help us help Haiti help themselves.

If you'd like to donate, you can do that here:

http://transparencyhaiti.co/donate (You'll have an opportunity to delegate your donation to The Earthship after you enter your card information).

If you'd like more information, you can read the post below, and then check out this website:

http://transparencyhaiti.co/

Haiti deserves this, I believe we can make it happen.

They Can't Wait

Dearest Friends and Sweetest Family,

Someone once told me, "those who are successful are working when others are playing, they are awake when others are sleeping..." At the time, I was doing work that I couldn't imagine staying up all hours of the night for, I couldn't imagine giving up my social life for. Now, though, as I pound away at my keyboard, fighting a head cold and exhaustion, I've found the work that I don't want to sleep for, the work that makes me feel like I'm not working at all...

Over the winter break, I spent a week in Haiti. Whereas my first trip to Haiti was laden with manual labor, frequent English classes, and the constant accompaniment of children from the primary school, my second trip, shorter in duration, was spent becoming part of the community of Croix-des-Bouquet. On my second trip, I no longer required the aid of a Haitian as I trotted down the street to the store for Ju-mex (juice) and Coke. Rather, I took orders from the local (and volunteer) staff, walked solo to the store, and returned successfully with refreshing drinks for everyone. No longer was I shocked to see garbage littering street. Instead, in the crumpled papers and plastic water bottles, I saw potential. I envisioned rafts made from plastic, bags from paper, something from anything. While weaving through traffic, barely bending by potholes, I no longer held tightly onto the people surrounding me in the car. Instead, I trusted the road and the person at the wheel.

The first time I went to Haiti, I was captivated, infatuated. The second time, I fell madly in love with the country, I felt like I was, dare I say.... home.

Prior to departing to Haiti, I had interviewed for a job in Brooklyn, NY. The interview was positive enough and I assumed I'd be offered the job. Then, as I sat in PAP, waiting for my flight back to the States, I felt so torn. I knew if I was offered a job in NY, I couldn't turn it down. I also knew that my heart wanted to be in Haiti, my passion plays the tune of the sweet Creole songs. The day after my return, I received the unexpected rejection e-mail from New York. Although I was sad, part of me jumped with something far greater than sadness. Perhaps, a door closed in New York was a door opened somewhere else...

Shortly thereafter, I re-connected with an International school located in Haiti. I interviewed via Skype, and was offered a teaching position a mere three weeks after returning from Haiti. Per my upcoming employment in Haiti, I was asked to be on the board of directors of an organization I've been working with since my initial trip to Haiti in June. Transparency for Haiti ( http://transparencyhaiti.co/ ) is a nonprofit organization working in the Croix-des-Bouquet community. Their mission is to empower Haitians through life-sustaining programs. Some of these include: adult English classes, a primary school, art and sports programs for youth, adult literacy courses, animal husbandry programs, and a micro-finance program. Currently, TfH shares a compound with their partner organization, Haitian American Caucus. Recently, however, TfH partnered with an organization that builds sustainable community centers in developing countries. These centers are known as Earthships. Currently, there is a mini Earthship in Haiti. This video details the incredible impact a small sustainable center can have on a community.

http://earthship.com/Caribbean-Haiti/haiti.html

Pretty amazing, right? Now, consider the impact a full-sized Earthship (http://transparencyhaiti.co/projects/tfh-earthship-community-center) would have a community already striving to better itself.

Per TfH's partnership with the Earthship organization, we have been given the opportunity to support the building of Haiti's first ever full-sized Earthship. The effects this Earthship will have on the community of Croix-des-Bouquet, the home of those to many who are dear to my heart, are overwhelming. A community where few houses are finished, where children run shoeless, where cows share the road with men and women, where people smile and offer their "bon jours" despite the conditions they live in... If any community deserves a sustainable center to call their own, it is the community TfH serves in Croix-des-Bouquet.

Of the 130,000 dollars needed to initiate the building of the Earthship, we have yet to raise 40,000 dollars. If the funds are raised by March, the Earthship is expected to be built before Haiti's rainy season commences in May. 40,000 seems like a lot of money. To raise 40,000 dollars by March seems nearly impossible.

But, then again, to execute the first successful slave rebellion seems impossible. The Haitians did it. To overcome corrupt presidents and faulty politics seems impossible. The Haitians did it. To sing songs in the street after your country was devastated by an earthquake seems impossible. The Haitians did it. To work day in and day out as disease seeps through your country seems impossible. The Haitians do it. To smile, to sing, to love, to laugh, to share, to live despite barely having your basic needs met seems impossible.

The Haitians do it.

Every dollar matters. If you have no dollar to give, or even if you do, please share this e-mail, share these resources. This isn't for me, this isn't even for Transparency. This is for Haitians, people who deserve a place of gathering, a place of safety, a place of empowerment.

Please help them by donating here: http://transparencyhaiti.co/donate After you put in your information, there is a line where you can state your purpose for donating. Simply type, "Earthship" and your funds will go directly to the building of the Earthship in Croix-des-Bouquet.

My greatest thanks to you all, My deepest love I share