365 Days Of Love. Day 42

Last year, around this time, I read my first Tom Robbins book. It was one of those books that I didn't want to stop reading, but because I never wanted it to end, I self-pryed the book out of my hands after only a few pages of word swallowing. The question that perpetuated the book was

How do you make love last?

I won't tell you the end of the book, but I will recommend everyone pick up a copy Still Life With Woodpecker. It is, by far, the best book I've ever read regarding love and relationships (through the lens of absurdity-you'll understand the latter part of this statement when you read the book). The question that drove Tom Robbins to write, though, has been haunting me lately.

How do I make love last? How do I keep my spirit open and inspired every day?

The answer(s) to this question seems too reaching, but so necessary. Perhaps, the pursuit to this answer will be the mysterious treasure hunt I've been looking for since I was little. All I know now is that love lasts when it is is sought. Even when sought, though, the degree to which love embodies itself within me is varied. This leads me to ask,

How do I make the greatest love last?

I went on a run and a bike ride today and I contemplated these questions. This post has no conclusion, no answer(s). Yet. Perhaps as the days of love unfold into words on this internet blog, I'll figure it out.

365 Days Of Love. Day 41

I think love is indescribable.

Today, my students and I read a NPR article with snippets from multiple news sources regarding the death of Trayvon Martin. After reading the article, I fielded their many questions and offered some of my own to fuel a class discussion. Each of my 7 class periods came to the same conclusion

Racism is ingrained into our society, Miiiiissss.

Yes, that’s called institutionalized racism. It means that policies and practices in our country better serve certain populations.

Miiisssss, is that racism like when white people and black people couldn’t eat at the same table in restaurants?

No, Miiisss, it’s worse, it’s worse because racism now is hidden. People think everyone is being treated equally, but we’re not.

Yes.

The love within the fourteen-year-old bodies of my students is indescribable. It’s as if they have special glasses, to see into the motives of society, to wean out what is unjust and rally behind what is fair. Nearly every single one of my students wrote a letter to Trayvon Martin’s family, offering their support from afar. Below are some of the things they said

I think that people like George Zimmerman should not judge people only because of their skin color.

I know how it feels to be treated different from other people. To make fun of you or laugh at you just because you’re different. I hope justice will put George where he belongs.

What George Zimmerman did to your son was not acceptable because that is called racism.

It looks like racism is taking over the world

I love you and you have my support

I’m so mad because the police don’t do nothing to the man who killed your son

I’m going to pray for you that racism will not exist

I know I’m a stranger to you but I want you to know that he (Trayvon) will always stay with us. His memory will always be with us.

I know it will take more than words to stop it (racism). It will take action and I will do anything I can.

I’m writing this because I care about ending racism.

I know I’m only 13, but I’d really like to help

On my desk, there is an overflowing folder, letters to Trayvon’s family peeking out of every opening. The genuiness in the words, despite lack of vocabulary and command of the English language is profound. My students express an innate ability to love people whom they will likely never meet, but people who are seeking the same thing they are, justice. As I watched my students write, Bob Marley playing in the background, I thought,

They are love

Not a single word can do my students justice. They, and the molecules of kindness that have contributed to their cultivtion are simply indescribable. Today, my students taught me that loving is an innate quality that can be found in all of us. A quality that, when challenged, is

beyond words, beyond action, beyond life itself.

Indescribable.

365 Days Of Love. Day 40

I teach the most amazing students in the world. I will stand by that statement until the day I die. The kids in Roma are beautiful, so very beautiful.

I asked my 8^th period to write an essay answering this question, “If you could change anything about the school, what would it be and why?” Many of my students had thoughtful responses, but one was special, special because it initiated a unified reaction from the whole class. Special because it had nothing to do with uniforms or school lunch or acrylic nails, it had only to do with character.

Roxy is 14 years old. She’s tall, her face is dotted with middle school induced pimples, and she’s not a size 0.

Roxy, though, emits beauty. When she smiles, which isn’t often, my heart begs to escape through my rib cage and encourage her to never ever stop smiling. To preserve the integrity of Roxy’s response to my question, I’m going to record it exactly. Please don’t hold the grammatical errors against her, please don’t let them distract your eyes from the content of her essay.

I would like to change a lot of things about school that I don’t like. The thing about school that I don’t like is the fact that some students discriminate other students just by the fact that they are intelligent, they are colored, or that they are not that pretty. They think that only because they are pretty they can have everything they want in the world. I think that intelligent students are very good students that don’t need to be discriminated just because the fact that they are “nerds” how people call. They should be treated as equal as everyone else. The discriminality between students should not be tolerated in schools or anywhere else. There is no reason to be discriminative to others just because of their personality. They, the principals, should not tolerate this in schools. They need to be very careful because when you are not watching those kind of things happen.

After each student responded, they traded papers with other students and that student had to agree or disagree with the initial argument and offer support to defend his or her opinion. Brittany responded to Roxy, this is what she said

I agree with you because all that you said it true theres a lot of girls in this school. I don’t like to call names but I am pretty sure you know who they are. Not only girls but most of them are the boys, by the way being “a nerd” it would be awesome because you can be someone in life. I don’t care if people are ugly or not but the most important thing is how you are, like some of the people’s attitude I like and one of them is you. What you said about the principal is great even I want that to happen.

At the end of class, I read some of the essays aloud. With 4 minutes of class left, meek Brittany said, “Roxy’s Roxy’s, Miiiisssss, read Roxy’s.” Roxy begged me to keep quiet. When I shook my head, refusing her plea, she buried her face in her sweater. I found the oversized bubbly handwriting I knew was her’s and I started reading it. The rest of the class was immediately engrossed. I held back tears as I read the essays of the two girls. When I read

By the way being “a nerd” it would be awesome because you can be someone in life.

there were a few “woots” and “hollas “ and Roxy peeked her head out of her sweater, surprised by the support of her classmates.

By the time I finished reading both responses, sweet Benito, who is definitely considered a leader in the “popular crowd” started clapping. The union of his hands turned into the union of everyone else’s hands and that turned into communion. The communion of 14 year olds rallying around the idea of acceptance based on character, not size or acne or even intelligence. Character.

Roxy and Brittany taught me that loving is seeking to know the character of others. Benito taught me that loving is encouraging those around you, unifying those around you.

I teach the most amazing students in the world. I will stand by that statement until the day I die. The kids in Roma are beautiful. So very beautiful.

365 Days Of Love. Day 39

A few weeks ago, corps members in my region of the Valley and myself were invited to a local couple’s home for a quaint networking event. As soon as we arrived, they welcomed us into our home and insisted we explore it as if it were our own. We looked awkwardly at each other and started shifting from side to side, talking about what to talk about with our hosts. Recognizing our slight discomfort, Mr. Lopez, one of the hosts, invited us to the garage, where (good) wine and whiskey were set out on a table for us.

We pretended that it was normal for us to drink out of crystal wine classes (as opposed to plastic cups better suited for small children) and as we sipped, we stirred and started conversations with the Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, and the other guests. At one point in the evening, Mr. Lopez spoke, praising Teach For America and its efforts in the Rio Grande Valley. After he spoke, my roommate, Jade, spoke. Her speech was simple, highlighting people who made enduring change by doing simple, loving, things each day. The evening ended and I felt inspired. Inspired by the kindness of our hosts, inspired by the words of the speakers, and inspired that I was able to partake in the inherent connectivity between people.

Last night, Jess (the other 8^th grade reading teacher, my dear friend) and I went out to eat as a last ditch effort to calm our nerves before our students took their final standardized test today. Before the appetizer came, we had already finished one drink and had covered conversational topics ranging from work to romance. As nerves turned into giggles, we noticed two familiar faces through the tinted glass of the door, Mr. and Mrs. Lopez.

The two of them sat in the booth behind us, helloing as they passed us. Per my tendency to suck down liquid as if I were living in a dessert, I needed to use the restroom before our food arrived at our table. With as much grace as a person with a walking boot can manage, I strolled (quickly) to the bathroom. On my way back, Mrs. Lopez called me over to her. Jess joined me, and the two of us stood at the end of their booth as they told us about their granddaughter, who had just been accepted to all ten colleges she applied for. With pride, that only grandparents can exalt, they asked us, “How would you decide what college to go?” We shared words of (24-year old) wisdom, which led to more questions, which led to a relatively lengthy conversation, enjoyably lengthy.

Our food arrived and Mrs. Lopez lovingly dismissed us to our table. The two of them left as Jess and I spooked Mexican rice into our mouths. As they passed our table, they wished our students good luck. Jess and I looked at each other, mirroring each other’s expressions, and remarked reflectively, “they are so sweet.”

Moments after Mr. and Mrs. Lopez exited through the same tinted glass door we saw them through earlier, our server came to our table.

“That man paid for your meal.”

Jess and I had two drinks each, an appetizer, and we each had an entrée. I’m assuming our bill was near forty dollars. I’ll never know for certain, though, because without warning, without self-commending, Mr. and Mrs. Lopez paid for our meal. I was reminded of Jade’s speech, small things, mini acts, create enduring change.

This semester alone, I’ve had three near strangers buy me lunch, three mini acts that have induced smiles on my face, relief to my checking account, spirit to my soul.

Mr. and Mrs. Lopez reminded me that loving is little things. Things like inviting guests over to your home, paying for someone’s meal without letting them know, valuing the opinion of someone.

I’m most humbled by all the mini acts afforded me in life. These small gestures have fused to create an image of humanity that is beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than the love that drives them.

365 Days Of Love. Day 38

“You need to learn to love yourself as much as you love others”

More often than not, I’ve let my feelings about myself be dictated by unimportant societal expectations. If the number on the scale rises to a value that doesn’t seem acceptable, I grow anxious and start devising ways to add more workouts into the fleeing hours of my day. When I take pictures alongside my gorgeous friends, I wonder, “Why can’t my nose be smoother? Where are my boobs? Why is my butt so big? Why do my legs resemble the thickness of Ms. Trunchbolt’s from Matilda?”

Beyond the rash critique of my physical appearance, I’m often questioning my character as well. “Why did I lose patience with my students? How come I spoke poorly about one of my friends? Why didn’t I write grants? E-mail my ever-growing network? Was it really necessary to sit stagnant for those 23 minutes afterschool while I drank my chocolate soymilk?”

I realize some of my self-criticism is warranted and some is relatively absurd, but in my attempt to become a better version of myself, it’s become inherent.

On Saturday, I was unleashing my self-doubt on one of my dear friends, Katie. After she denied many claims of inferiority made by me, she bluntly stated what I needed to hear most,

“You need to learn to love yourself as much as you love others.”

The words immediately embedded themselves into my brain with force created by Katie and the plethora of people who have told me the same thing previously. My brain, nails of truth piercing it, drew a conclusion.

Likely, the most prominent thing holding me back from being a better version of myself is the fact that I find it so easy to criticize myself, so easy to be angry at myself, so inherent to highlight my negatives instead of praise my positives.

One of my greatest fears is losing humility. Per this fear, I’m constantly singing self-doubt into my soul. These are not the songs that lift me up that make me fly. Rather, these songs weigh me down with the burden of some unkind messenger. These songs, written with unwarranted notes, prevent me from realizing

Who

I

Am

I will always need improvement. My exterior will never resemble that of a 5’10” model, but if I can begin loving myself perhaps my interior will sow light.

Katie taught me that loving others isn’t rooted in self-loathing. Rather, loving myself only lengthens the ray at which I can love others.

365 Days of Love. Day 37

Most obviously, wedding season is upon us. Two of my dearest friends are getting married this summer and recently, Facebook has blown up with notifications signaling the upcoming nuptials of my friends or their “engaged” relationship status.

I love weddings. I love the flowers and the dresses and the smiles. I think my most favorite wedding was one that I wasn’t present for, though. My most favorite wedding was the wedding of my parents. So many great things have come from that day, from their communion.

I don’t know the exact story of their initial meeting, but I think it went something like this. My mom was driving between Brookings and Mitchell; her friend and her took the back roads, I’m assuming as a means of arriving to their destination sooner. Something went wrong with her car that temporarily stalled their trip. After notifying my grandfather, he sent my dad (who worked for a friend of my grandpa) to help my mom. My grandfather wasn’t trying to be a matchmaker, rather, he knew my dad was familiar with the roads my mom was traveling on, meaning he’d be able to be of maximum assistance. I’m not sure if it was love at first sight, but when my dad helped my mom, it began what is now a relationship that I am in awe of.

After my parents started dating, they were engaged and married within a ye

ar. Considering this as their offspring is absolutely bizarre to me. My paren

ts both seem so practical, especially my dad. When I

was little, we’d take family vacations, and my dad would

pack the car with snacks, blankets in case the car broke down, games for us kids.

Every detail that could be planned, was. The evolution of mapquest and Garmins has only increased the detail to which he plans. It’s nearly unthinkable that my dad, such a well-planned and practical person, proposed to my mom after dating her for a few brief months. As bizarre as it seems to me now, though, I’m certain that it was one of the best choices either of them ever made.

I’ve never seen my parents fight. Neither of them have ever said an ill word about the other in front of me. When they make decisions, they make them together. When one cooks, the other does dishes. While roadtripping, if one is tired, the other one drives. Together, they have embody what I envision as a loving marriage, a wonderful relationship. I think my parents are exceptional individuals, not because they have exceptionally wonderful chemical makeups, but because they choose to love each other and love the decisions they make, both independently and

together.

My parents choose to wake up next to each other every day.

My parents choose help my brother, my sister, their families, and my self.

My parents choose to visit my grandparents regularly.

My parents choose to encourage me to spread my wings, even though it means our inevitable geographical separation.

My parents choose to love each other, every single day, they choose to love each other. They met, quite literally, by accident,

but they choose to spend each day together, each day in love with each other.

My parents taught me that loving someone is a choice, a choice waiting to be made by each of us.

365 Days Of Love. Day 36

Mystery and adventure.

Prior to joining Teach For America, my planner and "to do" list were a source of pride. Lately, though, they've become annoying confines that my life has been reduced to. This (shameful) reality led me to reflect on moments of feelings of freedom in my life. It's been these moments that I've found it most easy to love.

Immediately, I was reminded of my first trip to Haiti.

My friend, Isiah was expressing his love for Haiti and the innate freeness and relatxtivity Haiti allows. These expressions were coupled with concerns of being limited once he moved to the United States. The company in our presence agreed and I said something about how it is in our power as individuals to feel that way regardless of setting. One person differed and said that it was much more difficult to possess those feelings in the States.

At the time, I had JUST finished my first year of teaching and I was riding the promise of a jobless summer filled with romance, adventure, and mystery. Had I been in Haiti or the States, I would have felt free and relaxed because I had no responsibility beyond myself, I had no place to hurry to, I had no schedule, I had nothing beyond my previously met physical needs of survival to concern me.

As I type this, though, I feel far differently than I did that night in Haiti. I don't think positivity is promoted by the purging of negativity in lists of, "I do this and that and my life is so hard because of A, B, and C." I do, however, want to live in the formable confines of freedom that I lived in nearly 10 months ago on that roof in a place I was barely getting to know. Realizing I cannot leave my current locale nor can a reunion convene that includes the company I was with, I've been left wondering how such vibes can be (near) consistently present?

Rarely am I a conclusive person (ends are boring only unless they are needed, but how often are they really needed), but I think feelings of freedom and relaxivity are born out of adventure and mystery.

Prior to going to Haiti the first time, I wrote a blog post in which I promised to, "follow the story." I had no expectations, all was a mystery. Upon arriving at PAP, I was stranded solo at the airport for nearly 3 hours, it was an introductory adventure. Per mystery and adventure, we are left without any expectation beyond the pursuit of the story. In daily life, it seems hard to adapt a "follow the story" mantra because I fear it won't lead to the 4 years of academic growth my students are desperate for or the date(s) to accompany me, the perma-bridesmaid, to my friends' wedding, or the crossing off of my endless "To Do" list. But, how much more fun it is to follow the story than to try to create it.

Moments of adventure and mystery are easiest to love because they lack an agenda, a "to do" list, they are written for us.

I think loving is appreciating the unknown and embracing the adventures life affords us. I'm still learning, but I think this is what great love is made of.

365 Days Of Love. Day 35

I'm relatively young and there is so much I have yet to learn, but as I've learned from those around me and the greater Universe, I'm being taught that expectations can be detrimental and the unexpected can be wonderfully joyous.

Shortly after I turned 20, I was living in New Jersey, and my friend Brittany came to visit me. On the second day of her visit, we dolled ourselves up as much as 20 year olds can, and (independently) found our way to thee City.

I had lived in North Jersey for nearly a year at the time and I still hadn't tried the pickles (and deli sandwiches) from the famed Carnegie Deli. As if the Universe deemed for Brittany to go there, we spotted the red sign above the deli shortly after exiting Port Authority.

We entered, positively flustered.

As is the case with so many NYC restaurants, we found ourselves sitting next to strangers. After a few bites of pickles and an extensive look over the menu, we ordered and convened conversing with the couple next to us. Although we were consuming famous sandwiches, commentary regarding the food was limited, conversation with the couple, though, was ceaseless. After near cleaning our plates, and per the couple's suggestion, Brittany and I ordered cheesecake to share for dessert. The couple ordered some triple layered chocolate cake. The four of us ended up splitting the two desserts.

Shortly thereafter, our bills came and Brittany and I dug into our wallets to pay for the 58 dollars worth of food we managed to put down. As we pulled out 20s, the couple swooped up our bill. We looked at them questioningly, to which they responded

"We insist"

Brittany and I could have paid for our lunch, but they

insisted.

It was unexpected and it was wonderfully kind and it was joyous. This wonderful couple taught me that loving is doing unexpected acts for unexpecting people.

365 Days Of Love. Day 34

Jade and I were friends on Facebook before we were friends in real life. Our e-connection was per our same post college graduation plans (TFA in the RGV). One day, while procrastinating my senior thesis work, I was perusing Facebook and I noticed Jade posted a link to one of my favorite songs.

“Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

I commented on the link, promising near nightly dates intermingled with dance parties and lesson planning as soon as we reached our (soon to be) new home.

Despite our placement in a region that spans 200 miles, Jade and I were offered teaching positions in schools 12 miles apart, in an area of the Valley laden with taco stands and carwashes. As suggested by TFA corps members before us, we chose to live on TFA Lane, a row of small houses on a locally owned ranch. Jade’s home was three houses away from my own.

Ignorantly, I expected my transition to the West Valley to be as graceful as the ranch we lived on. On the contrary, the day I arrived, anxiety accompanied me from sunrise to the lulling whispers before my heavy eyes conceded to the night. Although I mercilessly racked my spirit for enough energy to convene dance parties and hysterics, the burden of responsibility that I hadn’t quite mastered always victored over fun. During this time, I thought the only way to be successful was to deny feelings of insecurity, deny bouts of weakness, and pretend like I was immune to the stressors begging to infiltrate my soul.

Eventually, I turned to stone, bypassing recognition of every single emotion. I couldn’t cry or laugh or smile or even get angry. I could be, I could go in and I could go out, but I couldn’t feel anything.

A Facebook conversation with Jade revealed that she was feeling similarly. After a few baddduups of chatting, I zombied to her house for what would be one of many conversations commenced on her sand-colored suede sofa. After few exchanges, we were both crying. Doubts were expressed, desires to be elsewhere spoken. I was weak in her presence, but more importantly, I was truly me, shedding the unreasonable expectations I had created for myself.

I felt as if my soul was finding its way home. Our kindred spirits sang.

When I talk about whims and romance and the Universe, Jade doesn’t need justification or explanation. Rather, she adds depth to my understanding, offers light where darkness previously resided.

We’ve road tripped, eaten mango raspas drenched in chamoy and sprinkled with pickles, sat in dirt while undergoing a spiritual awakening at a West Texas concert, laughed to no avail (despite the embarrassment of our company). We’ve been angry and bitter, sad and depleted, but each moment has led to the furnishing of the home within, the home of my soul.

In unison with the tiny droplets of sweat that form on my fingers as I type, tears are flooding the outskirts of honey brown eyes. Perhaps the mist that clouds my sight is a result of my exhaustion, more believelably, though, it is likely the consideration of Jade and I’s inevitable separation.

The tears that fall are laden with gratitude, with light, with soulfulness. Although physical distance will soon span between us, my soul carries the stories created by the singing of our spirits.

Jade has taught me that loving is creating a home for my soul.

365 Days Of Love. Day 33

When we stripped down to our skivvies in the middle of a city street, I knew we’d be good friends.

I moved to the Rio Grande Valley in June of 2010. The nightI arrived, a veteran Teach For America corps member was hosting a pool party at his house. Before attending the party, I met, in the flesh (we had previously met via the telephone), Jess, the corps member who I would be teaching 8^th grade reading next to in Roma.

I don’t recall our introduction as being anything extraordinarily special. I remember she was wearing a blue cotton dress that made her similarly colored eyes glow. Her New Jersey accent reminded me of my friends from the East Coast, her ability to command conversation without being overbearing reinforced the idea that New Jersians are wonderful people to be in the company of.

Together, we attended the party in our street clothes, not actually thinking we would bear our barely clothed bodies to a pool of strangers. Once we arrived, sipped down some liquid courage, the pool’s waves enticed us. As planned people, we both had our bathing suits in the car so we teetered to my street parked Saturn, grabbed our suits, and looked questioningly at each other.

Would it be grossly inappropriate to change in the street? Probably. Is anyone going to know? Probably not.

After a few confirming words, we both quickly stripped in the street and slipped our bikinis on as if it were totally normal to use nature as a changing stall.

Our introductory night was only the beginning.

Since that night, nearly two years ago, Jess has been a paired source of humor and solace.

On our second trip to Roma, Jess was pulled over while driving my car 38 mph over the speed limit. We handed the police officer my South Dakota insurance and her New Jersey driver’s license. Jess turned Jersey immediately as she explained her confusion about how the speed limit could go from 65 to 30 within a ½ mile distance. As he shook his head and unsympathetically collected our multi-state documents, I used my sweet South Dakota style, apologizing for breaking the law, especially as new residents of the RGV. He hurried to his car, verifying our legitimacy, and returned to our car. He returned our things and said, “Be safe.” I said, “And the ticket?” He replied, “Be safe.”

We deserved a ticket, but somehow the combination of New Jersey and South Dakota, saved us. Together, we were special or lucky or silly or safely unsafe.

My first year of teaching, when I got stung by a scorpion in my sleep, Jess let me crash her bed until our house was adequately bug bombed and I saw my bed as satisfyingly safe again.

When Jess received harrowing news about someone close to her, we had a sleep over in my bed, even though hers was a door away.

In my first year of teaching, when I felt like a hopeless failure, she was there to laugh with me, cry with me, walk with me, reason with me.

Over the summer, after two and a half hours of being stranded at the Port Au Prince airport (and fearing my life), I called Jess for help. She contacted the organization that I was volunteering with and shortly after, I was safely retrieved.

This year, I’ve spent many conference periods in her classroom, strewn across her desks, asking, “How will I make it?” Her response has always ensured I do.

Perhaps we’ve been mildly reckless at times (or life has been reckless to us), but I’ve always known safety within the realm of our friendship.

Jess has taught me that loving is creating friendships of risks and joy and comfort, friendships where being safely unsafe is an alright thing.

365 Days Of Love. Day 32

Prior to graduating 8^th grade, my middle school principal rendered a departing gift for my friends and I, a certificate indicating our induction into "Dr. Blumer’s Whiner’s Club." Laughingly, we accepted the award while reminiscing about our final year in middle school.

Generally, such an award, would lead bystanders to believe that my friends and I were disliked by our principal. On the contrary, I think our “whines,” whose root’s ranged from rules regarding gum chewing to our desire for our table to be first in line at lunch, were enjoyed by our principal. These whines and Dr. Blumer’s consequential (humorous) responses formed a connection that continues to resonate in my life.

When the 2010 earthquake devastated Haiti, Dr. Blumer was there to experience the rumbles. When I took my first trip to Haiti last June, he was one of the first people I told. Prior to leaving, Dr. Blumer fielded my questions about malaria medicine and bug spray as well as offered some of his seemingly infinite wisdom about Haitian culture and its beautiful people. Both times I went to Haiti, I returned to the states excited to share stories about my travels with Dr. Blumer.

Recently, Dr. Blumer wrote me a letter of recommendation for the school I’ll be working at in Haiti. In it, he wrote,

One of the best things about technology is that it has allowed me to stay in contact with Natalie. It is her blog that demonstrates her insightful writing and her enthusiasm for children and the underserved of our world.

But it has been her trips to Haiti that have captivated her interest and her soul. Having been to Haiti several times, it’s her connection to the people that is most impressive. In a short time she understood the issues, but more importantly she connected with the people and now would like to assist them to a brighter future.

The first time I read his letter, I thought, “Oh, he speaks far too highly of me.” As I read it over and over and over, I realized that he sees me as the person I aspire to me. He sees the best in me, the part of me that wants so desperately to weed out worse in me.

Dr. Blumer has undoubtedly had hundreds of students. In middle school, he didn’t have to consider me special enough to create an award for me. Recently, he didn’t have to share stories with me, listen to my stories, recommend me for the job I’ll be starting so very soon.

He did, though.

I’m undeserving of his generous words, I’m undeserving of his time, and I’m certainly underserving of the light he sees me in.

Dr. Blumer has taught me that loving is sharing a story, listening to the story of others, and allowing the inherent spirit within to dominate the light in which these stories are shared.

365 Days Of Love. Day 31

I think one of the greatest lessons I've learned is that I have to love myself in order to love others. I've started and re-started this post so many times. Although I've had so many people teach me so many different things about love, I'm racking a seemingly empty brain tonight, because I'm having such a hard time loving myself.

It's really easy for me to write about other people, even when it relates directly to my life, even when their story is extremely personal to me. Writing about myself, though, is hard.

Really really hard.

Right now, I'm finding it really hard to love myself because so many things I've found my identity in have been stripped from me.

I've long claimed that running depletes my energy to that of a normal person, rather than a hyperactive 24-year old. Since fracturing my foot two weeks ago, I haven't been able to run. Assuming my two-week break from the pavement would result in a healed foot, I anticipated going on a run this evening. As my foot ached with the passing of the day, I questioned premature anticipation. As I shimmy my foot around, testing to see if the pain I feel is actually real, I know my running shoes and sweat will have to wait. It's not that I'm dependent on running, but it has been a part of my day for my adult life's entirety. Losing it has caused me to lose a little facet of myself, so it seems.

In addition to postponement of gym shorts and running shoes, my classroom has been converted into a state assessment boot camp of sorts. With our end of year test in a week, my students have been confined to two hours of reading, two hours of math, and an hour of social studies and science each day. I have six group of students for an hour each and I'm required to hold their hand while doing assessment-like passages. Reading has been reduced to two pages of text and circling of A, B, C, or D. As I coach my students through this, I can't help but think I'm adding to the demise of their critical thinking skills. When I think of myself as a reading teacher, I imagine students invested in humanitarian themed texts, discussions and questions, debates and action. I hate that I am expected to be a "teach to the test" teacher, I hate even more that I've let myself become that teacher.

I know this post isn't joyful or happy or encouraging, even. To me, it's been a purging experience. Purging of the expectations I have of myself, expectations that I can't be fully me if I don't have all my ducks in order or if everything isn't going my way. I've been able to purge negative feelings I have about myself, purge the things that have made it so hard for me to see the love that is. Here. There. In each moment.

I've said it before, but it seems so real now. Loving convenes within.

365 Days Of Love. Day 30

It's been such an unfortunate respite from my loving keyboard and nightly dates with my Macbook. I was away from home without my computer charger. I’ve become so dependent on these posts, they force me to reflect and reflection forces me to process and processing enables me to love a little bit better, love myself, love those around me, love living.

I feel as if writing as become an unavoidable part of who I am. When I write, I feel like I am doing what I was created to do, as if the Universe is satisfied because writing is so satisfying to me. Perhaps this is a lie I’ve told myself in order to avoid dissipating my dream of becoming a published writer or perhaps I am discovering what it is that I love.

Considering this discovery as a reality has shed light on my luck, per se.

I am so lucky to have a dream to aspire to. I am so lucky to have people in my life who tell me, “I miss your posts, your blog is my favorite, I’ll buy your book one day.”

I am so lucky to have the inner security that has led me believe in myself.

I am so lucky to have been told and showed for my life’s entirety that I am worth taking care of, supporting, encouraging.

I am so lucky to know words.

I am so lucky to have quick fingers.

I am so lucky to have five keen senses.

I am so lucky to know what it is that I love.

When I consider the privileges that have been bestowed upon me, an undeserving soul, I am overwhelmed by the potential that should inevitably, therefore, be expected of me.

Before my mind becomes lost in expectant thought and my soul becomes crushed by fear of failure, I am drawn to the black keys that my fingers have been courting. I write because my life and the wonderful people in it have led me to these keys, these words, the cultivation of these thoughts.

Because I have been loved, because I have been given, I have learned what it is that I love.

365 Days Of Love. Day 29

As a child, my brother, sister, and I would always tag along with our dad to wash his car. I doubt that we were ever much help, but we thought we were working hard and I’m certain we enjoyed the quality time with our dad. While summer days were filled with car washing (and other chores), I distinctly remember summer nights where we would drive to the convenience store to get a slushie. Considering these miniature outings now, they resonate with me as a time of togetherness, family.

Yesterday afternoon, in the company of a good friend, my roommate and I passengered as our friend chauffeured us to the carwash behind our house. As soon as the car was in park, he took the lead, scrubbing the Texas-sized bugs and dirt off my car and we stood there, doubting that there was much we could do to stop the human car-washing machine in front of us. Eventually, we grabbed a couple rags and scrubbed the tires and shammied the interior. As we buffed my car back to shiny, we shared simple conversation.

After approving my car’s cleanliness, we all hopped back in, Jade and I politely requesting we cruise to the local raspa (snowcone) stand. Unlike childhood, I didn’t order a cherry slushie, but I did slurp down my mango, chamoy (pickled plum sauce), chili, and lime raspa just as quickly as my childhood self sucked down the bright red icy juice.

Raspas in hand, we ran to a another friend’s house to pick up a newspaper clipping he reserved for us and then we stopped at one of the six Dollar Generals in our little border town and picked up the necessary ingredients to make gluten-free cocoa krispie treats. Before stationing ourselves on our fastly wearing couches for the night, we rented a movie from the nearest redbox.

Our night convened in sugar-induced laughing fits while we watched Bridesmaids and indulged in our recently made treats.

Last night, for the first time since I’ve lived on the border, I felt like I had family aqui. Perhaps it was the activities that resonated so closely with those I participated in with my family as a child or perhaps it was the people I was with. Regardless, I felt like I was innately close, inherently tied, to the people and activities that passed my time.

My roommate, our friend, taught me that loving is family, even if blood isn’t the common bond.

365 Days Of Love. Day 28

Early yesterday morning I trekked into the nearest city, an hour away, for a doctor’s appointment. On my way home, I stopped at the grocery store to buy a (very) few groceries to get me through the day. As I meander through the store, the Mexican candy aisle called me ever so sweetly. Alongside a Spanish-speaking grandmother, I loaded my cart with chili covered lollipops, japones (crunchy peanuts), and fruit rollups doused in a spicy chili covering. I took my cart of meager nutritional value to the speedy checkout and wafted out the store as best I could in my new walking boot.

En route to my car, I tore a corner off the japones wrapper and immediately started dipping my fingers in to grab the crunchy balls. As I lifted each individual snack to my mouth, I thought,

How remarkable how much my preferences have changed after living in a community for a year and half.

Prior to moving to Roma, I would have scoffed at chili-covered candy. Had anyone ever told me that fruit rollups drenched in spice are better than the regular ones, I’m sure I would made gagging faces before they finished their description.

Prior to moving to Roma, I thought the border was a booming mecca of tourism and well-planned novelty shops. I’ve learned that it’s a land a limbo, not quite Mexico , but not quite recognizable as America either.

Prior to moving to Roma, I neglected to think about the 14-year olds affected by the achievement gap as real people. I knew they existed, but I didn’t know how profoundly their stories would impact my life.

Prior to moving to Roma, I thought drug violence was a problem Mexico had to deal with, not America. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I see buildings burning in nearby Mexico, my students’ families could very well be in those buildings or at the receiving end of a bullet. Reality, my students are forced to consider trafficking as a career, not because they are bad or because their parents don’t care, but because they’re simply not options.

Roma is marking me, changing me, engulfing me.

Roma is teaching me that loving is learning from a community.

365 Days Of Love. Day 27

Spring Break 2012 started yesterday at 3:38. I rushed wildly out of the school (by wildly, I mean as fast as my crutches would carry me), hopped in my car, and relished in the reality that I wouldn't be retuning to work for an entire week.

Lovely.

In the 36 hours of break I've had, I've bought and bike (and returned in), taken the hour drive to the city nearest to me twice, seen a movie, and slept later than I have all year (9:45 folks). Spring break is certainly better as a teacher. Certainly certainly certainly.

What I'm learning from this lull in life is that my routine rushing race of life inhibits me from getting to know those in close proximity to me. My running buddy and I had a day long date yesterday and it was absolutely joyous, there were even talks of a sleepover as our night concluded. Additionally, I've spent a considerable amount of time with my roommate, real time, though. And real time is entirely different than our sauntering morning zombie-like conversations or evening exhalations after an exhausting work day.

Spring break has taught me that loving is slowing down, even if only for a bit, because slowing down helps us to meddle with those around us.

365 Days Of Love. Day 26

Instant Friends

The second day of my second trip to Haiti, I was sauntering upstairs, searching through my disheveled backpack, hoping to find a tank top that I had seemingly forgotten to pack. Mid rummage, I looked up as a girl walked by.

"Hi, I'm Kiah, I'm Corey's sister."

I introduced myself in return, conceited my tank top hunt and went downstairs for breakfast. Kiah came down shortly after and we conversed while dousing our eggs in ketchup. As we shared stories, I felt connected to Kiah, as if our first meeting as a reunion of longtime friends.

The week I was in Haiti, Kiah and I were near inseparable. When traveling, her and I would scrunch into the very back of the Ford Explorer, giggling like little middle school girls at a sleepover. During the day, we wrangled community kids to play sports or make crafts. At night, we'd walk to the store by ourselves and attempt to order beer or juice in our (very) limited Creole. I acted with Kiah as I act with my closest friends, the ones I grew up with. There are few people that I'm vulnerable with, but immediately, Kiah was one of those people.

Recently, I was jumbling some internal conflicts around my head. When I couldn't draw any summative conclusions, I sent Kiah a grossly long e-mail. Less than an hour later, she responded with one equally as long. We've spent a week of our lives together, but I feel as if Kiah is a dear friend.

Kiah taught me that loving is being open, open to the instant friendships that the Universe has destined for us.

365 Days Of Love. Day 25

Sweet Jesus

I’ve fallen wildly in love with my students. Even as I scornfully correct them or re-direct their behavior, I love them. Both last year and this year, though, certain students have stuck out, pulled at my heartstrings a little harder than the others, sneaking into a place within me that I didn’t know existed.

This year, that student is Jesus. Although I know his named is pronounced HEY-sus, I frequently find my mind referring to him as Jesus, like the savior. Bizarrely, I’ve been able to easily adapt the Spanish pronunciations of everyone’s else’s name, but neither my mind nor my lips want to refer to Hey-sus as anything but Jesus. Until recently, this misspeak has been an enigma to me.

The puzzle started piecing together on Thursday. Jesus sauntered into my room before my first period and excitedly asked me if I’d seen the KONY 2012 video. Ashamed, I told him I saw it all over my Facebook Newsfeed, but I hadn’t viewed the video yet. Within the confines of our school’s shoddy phone service, Jesus and I tried, unsuccessfully, to watch the video. As we waited for the short 30-minute film to load, Jesus excitedly told me he wants to donate, he wants to do something, he wants the action kit and the bracelet,

he wants to help.

Whether looked at through a religious lens or not, Jesus (the savior) helped people. He clothed the homeless, nurtured the orphans, empowered the prostitutes,

he helped.

Sitting next to my sweet Jesus, I realized, this 14 year-old boy has the heart of Jesus. He lives in one of the poorest counties in the United States, his parents work tirelessly in their family’s restaurant across the border in Mexico, while supporting Jesus, his brother, and sister here in the States. He’s growing up in an educational system that produces students who are years and years behind academically. Despite realities that most people would use as leverage to be helped,

Jesus wants to help.

This morning, Jesus and I sat down together and made a rough action plan. He’s cultivating a group of kids and I’m gathering the list of important politicians to call in reference to the KONY 2012 campaign. After Spring break, we’re having a call-a-thon of sorts, where we’ll flood the phone lines of politicians and “annoy them like the bankers do us” (Jesus’s words) so they are compelled to act, compelled to capture Joseph Kony.

Jesus could easily be apathetic, defending himself with a plethora of hurdles. Instead, sweet Jesus wants to help. Like Jesus, Jesus has taught me that loving is helping, despite hurdles and setbacks. He’s taught me that loving is believing in the power of one and then two and three and four and many.

365 Days Of Love. Day 24

My junior year of college, I worked at a coffee shop outside of Minneapolis. I loved going to work every day, even if it meant waking up at 5am to make it there on time. I loved smelling like coffee, creating espresso drinks, preparing the pastry case. I even loved the smell of bleach left on my hands after washing dishes. My most favorite thing about working at the coffee shop, though, was having the opportunity to interact with so many people from so many backgrounds.

One of my customers soon became my one of my dearest friends. He would come to the coffee shop every day right as the morning began to lull a bit. His order was most often simple, black coffee with lots of room for cream. He would entertain me with stories about his childhood in Ethiopia and I would express my longing for travel and adventure. Initially, our conversations lasted only the amount of time it took me to fill his coffee cup, but one day, he said something that perpetuated our conversation…

I can’t remember exactly what is was, but it sounded something like this, “touch people, you have a beautiful spirit, connect with people.”

Our conversation changed after that. We no longer shared surface level stories, but instead, developed a friendship centered on a mutual desire to live in a balanced world. We talked about love and how it develops and how it can be cultivated in so many forms. He sought to learn from every moving thing and insisted that his barely walking daughter was a wise teacher. We read books and shared reviews, and passed them along to one another with the expectation of passing them along to yet another person when we were done. At a time in my life when so much emphasis was placed on student loans and career paths, GB help cultivate a desire for simplicity and equality within me. As the layers of worldly want began to shed, I too could see that my spirit, as are the spirits of all people, was beautiful.

This notion changed my life lens. My priority was no longer to make money or get married as soon as I graduated, but rather, I wanted to connect with people because connecting with people made my spirit beautiful. It made me happy and I believe when we are happy, the Universe is happy too, more equal. GB and I still talk today, although infrequently, each message sent is filled with love and a desire to tie with more people.

GB taught me that loving is getting to know our beautiful spirit selves.

365 Days Of Love. Day 23

I adore my students.

Tonight, we had parent teacher night. My students, both the well-behaved and ill-behaved accompany their parents (and siblings) to my brightly adorned reading classroom. Never have I made it through these nights without tears. Tears of fear, fear that the burden placed on my 14-years old's backs is too heavy for them, fear that they won't make it, fear that I'm not an adequate enough teacher for them, fear that society will suck them up and strip them of their beautiful benevolent beats.

Last year, my student Lucy came into my room with her mother. I started checking off the all-important, "tell me about my kid" list and then

I stopped.

Lucy was perfect, she read more than any of my other students, answered all of my questions thoughtfully, and meticulously tried to better herself. Her mom had certainly heard the same wonderful things from all of her teachers, I searched for something special to say, something that was unique only to Lucy. As I stuttered and stammered, I could feel the ball swelling in my throat. Her mom's eyes softened and a sweet grin crept onto Lucy's face, comforting me.

Through the tears, now slipping down my face as if they were on a glistening water slide, I looked at both of them and said,

Lucy's spirit is beautiful, the world needs it. These eight words were a catalyst for a slew of other words

People need Lucy's conversations because they are enlightening and encouraging

People need Lucy's questions because they are thought- provoking

People need to see Lucy's work ethic because it's unmatched by anyone I've ever known

People need to be exposed to Lucy's meekness because her humility helps her grow

................................................................

We need Lucy, the world needs Lucy.

As words waterfalled from my mouth, Lucy's mom nodded her head and Lucy profusely thanked me. It's so much for a 14 year old to hold, the world's thirst, my Lucy, though, gracefully balances the world's water glass.

She has taught me that loving people is seeping into the world and quenching its thirst.

365 Days of Love. Day 22

It's hard to stay angry in such a generous community.

I literally hobbled into work today. Normally after long runs, I have stretched tendons or sore ligaments and my walk is less than rhythmic. Today, though, every step wobbled induced a piercing pain at the top of my foot. Noting my disfigured facial expressions as my toes graced the ground, the school nurse (a onetime doctor in Peru) called me into his office. We've had a handful of morning sessions together this year due to the heightened frequency of my long runs. He uses his fingers as methodic drum sticks on my feet, massaging the tendons and ligaments until they are near painless. Today, he repeated the magical motions and asked "pain? pain? pain?" as he tapped my tendons into place. Every session prior to this morning's ended with a much less painful foot and a straighter walk. Today, though, I squirmed off his table and stepped on my foot only to find the pain was still as potent as it was before the doctor started tick tocking it.

I sleuthed out of the nurse's room and was immediately greeted by two counselors. They gasped in horror when they saw me walking, the inquiries started immediately. Stress induced tears formed in my eye as I recalled the events of the weekend, my swollen body, and the stinging pain at the top of my foot. As my eyes narrowed in anger at another running related injury, their eyes softened in sympathy. I left dragging my left leg as their resounding "let us know if you need anythings" comforted me down the hall to my morning duty.

Moments later, the two of them shuffled to my classroom door like middle school girls wanting to tell me about their newest crush. The giddiness in their demeanor was slightly disconcerting considering my condition. Before I could ask any questions, they told me my principal made a doctor's appointment at the local medical clinic for me to get an X-ray recommendation.

An hour later, my principal accompanied a substitute teacher to my classroom and offered to drive me to the doctor. I promised him that my driving foot was fine, but it took serious persuading for him to allow me to take make the trip independently. I left school enlightened by the circle of generosity that surrounded me at work.

My enlightened spirit, however, dissipated quickly between 3 three hours of waiting in two separate (15 miles apart) medical clinics (one for a recommendation, the other for the x-ray), and a lethargic pharmacy worker who, after promising me "my size" crutches could only provide ones that befitted a full grown man. In the respites away from people, driving from one clinic to the other, stopping at the pharmacy in the time between, I cussed and demanded the Universe tell me why I lived in a place that had healthcare that seemed similar to that in a developing country. I was angry and every effort to calm myself ended in a rapid heartbeat and a less than satisfied soul.

After being away from work for nearly 4 hours, I returned to school with crutches that were far too big and a disheartened spirit.

My students in my 8th period jumped at any opportunity to help me, I didn't even have to ask them. As I stumbled around picking up garbage while they completed their first assignment, they watched me carefully, prepared to hop up and save me if I misstepped. Soon, many of them were on their own feet, organizing desks alongside me and passing back last week's assignments to their classmates. Each offer of help washed away the layers of annoyances piled on me by my morning de doctors.

As soon as the final bell of the day rang, I crutched out to my car only to return to the doctor in order to deliver my X-ray CD to him. Different from my first visit, I was hurried back to a patient room almost immediately. The doctor came in, diagnosed a foot fracture, and demanded I rest until I didn't feel pain anymore. When I told him my students would have a crabby teacher if I couldn't run, he laughingly suggested I try swimming or biking instead. We exchanged a few jokes as he wrapped my foot. As I started to depart the clinic, he looked at my crutches, baffled by their size. I graphically detailed my experience at the pharmacy, ending with an obviously exhausted sigh. He ended up buying the crutches from me (even though I insisted I would happily donate them) and led me to a place that would positively have "my size" crutches.

It was impossible to be angry anymore. As I drove home from the medical supply company who provided my crutches, I reflected on how kind people were to me today. I'm the least deserving of such kindness, I so easily get this "I shouldn't have to wait two hours for the doctor" attitude instead of realizing how lucky I am that I even have a professional who can diagnose such a small ailment. Today, people were too good to me, these are the people that inspire me to be better, to be kinder, to love more.

My community, Roma, is far too patient with me, far too kind to me. It teaches me that loving people is giving sin expectations of anything in return.

365 Days Of Love. Day 21

This is bizarre, I know.

I dread getting my eyebrows waxed, even though it's a near necessity once a month. I feel like I'm abnormally hairy for a woman and each time I step into the nail salon, I feel like everyone's eyes are saying, "oh, that girl should probably try to get laser hair removal at sometime in her life."

The same woman waxes my eyebrows each time I go. She's an older Asian woman who understands English perfectly, but speaks very little of it. She frequently reverts to her native tongue, which makes me think she's commenting to her coworkers about my hairiness or just overall unkept appearance. Despite her commentary, in the two short years I've been here, I've learned to love our short interactions.

She always asks me how I'm doing. Although her eyes sadden a bit when she sees that I've let her artistic work on my arches fall by the wayside, she meticulously pulls and plucks to ensure I look 12 times more womanly when I leave than when I came in. When I give her a tip, she acts as if I bought her family's house or paid for their groceries. I feel like no amount of money is enough for the magic she works on my face. She's genuinely sweet, in her snappy Asian way.

The woman at the nail salon has taught me that loving is doing a really good job at what you do. Even if people aren't grateful (ie: me letting my eyebrows turn into shameless monsters on my face).

365 Days Of Love. Day 20

Normally, on Sundays, I look forward to a 7:17am alarm, reminding me my long run will commence in a short 43 minutes. This Sunday, it was a 5 am alarm that sprung me out of bed with the promise of a new course for a new long run.

The Mardi Gras marathon in New Orleans was my second marathon, but one of many road races I’ve run since I religiously started pounding the pavement when I was 17. Tagging my shoes with a time recorder and filling my pockets with quick energy gels reminded me of past dates with the pavement all that those wonderful runs have entailed.

My first half marathon was in Watertown, SD. My friend Jamie and I had been training all summer and we excitedly piled into her mom’s van the day before the race for our first 13-mile run together. As we trekked around the lake, chasing the feet of those in front of us, her mom followed us, sweetly shouting words of encouragement out of her van window. My 17 year old self felt like 13 miles was an insane amount and Kim’s encouragement served as the fuel my mind needed to make my way around the seemingly vast body of water. Beyond that, Jamie’s sister and dad surprised us as we kicked it at the finish line. Jamie's family has since been my second running family. Every holiday, Jamie and I tie our laces to go for a run. Her mom offers us water before we go and provides more water when we return. So many runs have been fueled by Jamie's family.

My first marathon was in the Twin Cities. As a first time runner, I had no idea what miles I'd want cheering or ibuprofen or quick snacks. I did know, though, that I could easily run 13 miles so I asked my mini cheering section to go to mile 14 or 15 first. As I rounded the twin lakes in South Minneapolis, barely knocking off miles 1-10, I desperately wished my parents were there to cheer for me. I watched as people held up, "I love you" or "You're so hardcore" signs and yelled out the names of those around me, but my lack of individualized cheering started to take a toll on my mind.

And then

At mile 11, my cousin's boyfriend, Matt started yelling my name. "Nat, Nat, let's go Nat! Do you need anything? Are you okay?" He followed me throughout the race, camera in tow, sharing the same positive encouragement. My parents, sister, brother in law, grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins, and co workers filled in the empty miles, making it impossible to quit, even though the thought crossed my mind multiple times. At mile 23, my aunt ran a quick few steps with me, stamping a smile on my face as I trotted the final 3 miles.

At mile 22 yesterday, three of my friends held a sign made in my honor. One of them chased me down the street, challenging the crowd to cheer for me. These friends drove 14 hours through the night to watch us run 26.2 miles, a 4 hour race on a Sunday morning. When I got done running, I had text messages from my mom and sister. My parents in South Dakota and my sister in Minnesota were tracking my race in New Orleans. Such a small running world, such a world of encouragement.

I love running. Secretly, I love muscle soreness and the cycle of pain my body inevitably endures at finale of every long(er) run. I'm humbled that, although they may not be dancing with cement for 4 hours one morning, my friends and family are right. there. with. me.

365 Days Of Love. Day 19

I apologize the short respite of love posts. It’s not because I’ve run out of resources, but I’ve been slightly preoccupied the past couple of days and it’s been hard to find to reflect and even harder to find time to write. But, as I sit in the Houston airport and initiate the posts again, I’m reminded of the innate joy these little blurbs bring to my life.

Where to begin.

New Orleans.

Friday afternoon, two of my friends and I flew to New Orleans. After settling into our French Quarter hotel, we explored the city a bit and, of course, indulged in many eateries offered by the City of Soul.

Being in a spirited city immediately induced new energy in me. The uneven sidewalks, beautiful storefronts, and constant wafts of pralines embraced me, creating a longing for city life. I’m by no means a well-traveled person, but what I love about going places is hearing the story it has to tell.

The fresh fishy smells wondering through NOLA’s streets told me the city survives off the bounty of the surrounding bay. The boats sleuthing by told stories of fisherman and sea-goers, nets of crawfish, and the generous restaurant owners who have mercilessly perfected the art of seafood for their patrons.

The chipping paint and rusting window sills made mention of the struggles written into NOLA’s heart. The Superdome, although home to the infamous Saints, resonated with me as a place of refuge. Even the convention center, in flawless form, whispered, “I was once a shelter, I held those who lost their homes in Katrina, I look flawless, but I bear the burdens of people’s loss and love.”

The people.

From the overly helpful hotel front desk lady to the wonderfully innocent server we had at our final New Orleans supper, everyone acted as if we were family. Sunday evening, before departing for dinner, the front desk woman offered me her jacket, seeing my body tremble in cold. I told her I was a terribly messy person and I would most likely accidently spill something. It didn’t phase her, though, she still insisted that it would pay her no bother to share the warmth of her leather jacket with me for awhile. Another man, in a brief interaction, introduced himself as a children’s book writer. He shared the title of the book and his e-mail address, requesting a review sent as soon as I had a chance to look at the book. At a short Saturday lunch respite, our server noted that I didn’t eat the bread accompanying my sandwich. As she swooped up my plate, she asked if I had a gluten intolerance. When I nodded my head in confirmation, she mentioned, in a grandmotherly tone, that they have a menu of entirely gluten free choices. I felt as if she extending some unwarranted sympathy towards me, looking out for me. NOLA reminded me that people humanity is trustworthy. Humanity is beautiful.

New Orleans taught me that letting a place tell you its story is love.

365 Days Of Love. Day 18

In second grade, I made up stories about all the travels my grandparents did (truly, they lived in France right after their marriage, and I thought that afford me the right to talk about them as if they were world explorers). The same year, my parents bought me my first pair of Nike tennis shoes, pure black, ankle high sneaks with a singular white swish on the outside of each shoe. My poor second grade friends now not only had to listen to stories of faux travels taken by my grandparents, but also had to field my aspirations of becoming a famous basketball player because of my new size 12 sneakers. Some friends played privy to my conversation, but most of them found the monkeys bars and tire swing more enjoyable (I don’t blame them).

One friend, though, always offered her ear, no matter how redundant my record player stories got.

Ashley.

The stories, which started in second grade, haven’t ceased (although the legitimacy of them is far more reliable) and Ashley is still listening.

The summer before sixth grade, my sister babysat Ashley and her brother. It was this summer that I spent hours and hours in Ash’s basement as the two of us generated stories of romance between Barbie and Ken or shared our disdain for our fellow friend’s liking of milk with ice. Days turned into nights and endless summer sleepovers began. These sleepovers lasted throughout middle school and high school and laid foundation for memories that are sewn into my veins, my insight, myself.

We went through a chef stage, where we insisted everything we cooked (made mostly in the microwave) should have been on the menu at a prestigious restaurant. During one of our creative moments, we attempted to fry tortillas to make taco salad shells. We nearly started Ashley’s mother’s kitchen on fire. Realizing we failed, we dumped the grease onto the sidewalk on otherwise flawless walkway leading up to the house. Needless to say, the sidewalk is still no longer flawless. Today, when I go to Ashley’s house, the story of chefdom sizzles as I step over the remains of the grease stained sidewalk.

We grew up jointly managing a concession stand during heated summer days and bussing tables on the same restaurant as the sun set. Weekends, throughout the year, were spent traveling to soccer tournaments together or cheering for our brothers at hockey games. Many a notes passed between our fingers regarding crushes, complaints, “I’m sorrys,” and subsequential “I forgive yous.” Phone batteries were exhausted and computer keys worn out after long nights of chatting with the latest instant messenger. Books of words, chapters of stories are indebted to my friendship with Ashley.

I treasured how honestly me I could be with Ashley. Whether my ideas were crazy or noble, whether my stories were boring or intriguing, whether I matched or looked more fitted for a circus, Ashley took me in.

Due to geographical location, I see Ash far too infrequently. However, each time I do, it’s as if time somehow stopped in the months that passed. It would be too cliché, and not nearly enough, to say we pick up where we left off. Rather, we pick up as if we never left off. Laughter immediately laces our beings as stories of our ever- evolving lives turn hours into disappearing breaths of air, enveloping into the invisible time that stands between us. As I animatedly talk about new lovers, new jobs, and old frustrations, Ashley listens as if I’m detailing some triumphant story about the 2^nd coming of Christ. Ashley has always listened. For nearly my entire life, I’ve had a friend that has made me feel valued and important simply because she’s been kind enough to offer her ears, to absorb my stories.

Whether talking about tennis shoe swishes or struggles, Ashley has taught me that loving is listening.

365 Days of Love. Day 17

I've been abnormally anxious all week. I'm tempted to type all the things I've had to do just to seek some e-pity from anyone who may read this. I'll refrain because in reality, there are people with far fuller plates than myself. Unfortunately, my anxiety has deterred me from seeking some spiritual insight regarding lovely reflections.

Until today at 4:23 in the afternoon.

I've been coaching tennis since mid October. Our district tournament was scheduled to convene on February 18th, but had to be postponed due to a One Act Play competition. As soon as talks of rescheduling surfaced, I knew there was a good chance I'd have to miss my kiddos' last tournament, my last tournament in South Texas.

Sure enough, the tournament was rescheduled for the weekend of Brittany's bachelorette party. Although I was initially saddened by the news, excitement to see my (seemingly) long lost girlfriends made it really difficult to think about anything beyond getting my laundry done and my carry-on bag packed.

Saturday morning, after spending much of Friday night giddily talking about weddings (for some) and new relationships (for others), I busted out my winter running gear for the first time in a year and hit the Minneapolis pavement, accompanied by snow flurries. As purple painted the tips of my fingers and my eyes squinted to see the road in front of me, thoughts of my tennis kids crossed my mind.

Did all the players get on the bus okay? Blankets and rackets in tow?

Did they get their breakfast tacos in the morning?

Ah, who's going to make sure the two (pre-diabetic) Alejandras don't eat sugary snacks between matches?

Reminding myself I was over a thousand miles away from them (and quickly getting lost in downtown Minneapolis), the thoughts escaped me as quickly as my body heat did in the freezing morning.

Reaching my hotel, I swiped the card in the elevator to get to my 8th floor room. I stripped and showered immediately, hoping to expedite the necessary defrosting. Upon positively exiting the shower, my phone acted as a negatively charged magnet, calling me to it.

WE WERE RAINED OUT, TOURNAMENT WILL BE RESCHEDULED!

Rain in Roma? Rescheduled? Ay ay ay.

The tournament was rescheduled for this weekend, a weekend that has been booked as "NOLA Marathon" in my planner for the past three months. Woo, again, any hope I had of seeing my kids chase neon yellow balls with rackets was dismissed.

Today was our final practice. Knowing this was also my last day at home before the marathon, my head coach led practice and invited me to embark on a final training run around our rural school grounds. After splitting some chili-lime Corn Nuts with willing 7th and 8th graders, I took off on the rock sprinkled, un-mowed grassy grounds surrounding our school. As I dodged holes and anything else that wou

ld result in unwanted pre-race injuries, I heard the sweet strokes of my tennis kids' coming from the nearby courts.

I heard Uriel scolding himself after missing a shot.

I heard Amy singing along to her ipod and I could envision her dance-like stroke, in perfect tune with her voice.

I heard Stacey's laughter, always laughing while maintaing her spot as our number one player

I heard JR's constant connections to NatGeo and The History Channel

Ricky's excuses, Steven's odd outbursts, Alex's jokes, Siji's sweet sweet endearing encouragement to his friends, Alejandra's quickly spoken input to everyone else's

conversations

My tennis kids. The 13 and 14 year olds that have managed to make me huff and puff like a dragon and laugh like a child seconds later. The same kids who have made 14 hour Saturdays at the courts so enjoyable. Kids who have filled 6 ams with questions and curiosities, insisting on explicit answers regarding the number of new balls they'd get, where we would eat lunch, who they were playing with, when we'd get home.

When I finished running today, I retreated to the courts to aid in the completion of practice. After correcting a few strokes, wishing many "buena suertas," I bid farewell to my kids with the promise of a carne asada (BBQ) if they came back from districts with a boys and girls team trophy. By the time I re

ached the school, a good 100 steps away, I could still hear them,

"MIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, we hope you win your race! MIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, we miss you! MIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, GOOOOOOOOD LUCK!"

I love the love that bounces within my tennis kids.