365 Days Of Love. Day 69

Last year, in a blustery 37 degrees, Roma I.S.D afforded students and staff a snow day. Since we had an unexpected day off in early February, an unexpected day was tacked on to the end of the school year. To prevent the added day in June this year, district officials built in a weather day on this sunny April day.  Since weather has been well above 37 degrees all year, we haven’t cashed in our weather day and,  although students are at home, likely perusing facebook or (hopefully) reading a book, my coworkers and I are passing time shuffling around our classrooms, consolidating old lessons plans, and preparing end of the year units.  Whereas my classroom isn’t quite at comforting without my students, I’ve filled the void with a constant stream of  “This American Life.” All the episodes have been wonderfully intriguing, but one was especially thought provoking.

The title was “Our Own Worst Enemy.” It detailed people who fought against themselves. The first act resonated with me. It dealt with people who ate food regardless of the vomit or swelling their consumption induced. I’m notorious for this; beer and bread reap havoc on my intestines, causing discoloration in excretions, but simply dangle a micro-brewed beverage and slice of vegetable filled pizza in front of me, and I’ll concede to self-discipline immediately. As the episode went on, I felt less connected to the people’s stories, but was engrossed in the theories being shared across the internet radio waves.

One man married at age 19 only to “come out of the closet” in his early 20s, divorce his wife, and live a life of sexual “promiscuity” until he found Jesus in a Southern church. He shared that his confrontation with the good lord led him to believe that his sexuality was a sinful lifestyle that warranted suppression. He went on to start a “Ex-Gays” ministry that insisted members oppose homosexuality and any facet of the homosexual lifestyle as if it were a dirty communicable disease. What started as an adult only ministry eventually expanded to include a similar “program” for teens who admitted to being homosexual. Whereas the adult ministry was a choice, teens admitted to the program were generally forced to attend by their parents. As can be expected, teenagers were appalled that they were being forced to attend an “anti gay” ministerial program because they didn’t feel shame over their lifestyle (rightfully, in my opinion, its not a shameful lifestyle). One particular teen’s story caught national attention, which ignited protests outside the ministry’s doors. The flame behind the protest was a gay filmmaker. After weeks of shouting and sign holding (the filmmaker behind his camera the whole time), the filmmaker and ministry leader agreed to meet. Both expected a tense sharing of words, but were instead surprised by the happenings that unfolded.

In a very abridged version of the rest of the episode, the ministry leader admitted that the gay filmmaker was profoundly genuine. In fact, he noted that the filmmaker was so comfortable in his skin. He wasn’t angry or defiant or defensive, he was calm and self-secure. The two continued to meet and as friendship evolved between the two, the ministry leader started to shed the ideas that backed his ministry. To fill the fast dissipating void, he sought self-confidence. He sought to know himself in a way similar to the way the filmmaker knew himself. He wanted to be comfortable in his own skin, calm and undefensive. The ministry leader no longer calls himself an Ex Gay. Rather, he is gay and unashamed about the journey his sexuality carves for him.

As the host of “This American Life” asked final questions to the two men and my pile of papers dissolved on my desk, I thought

Isn’t this the secret of life? To be comfortable in our own skin. When we’re comfortable in our skin, we’re not exhausted by efforts to keep up with the unkeepupables and even better, we’re not on a persistent mission to convert others to lifestyles we deem fit. Rather, we’re able to trust that just as we’re comfortable, each individual deserves that same comfort, even if his or her skin isn’t the same as ours. Love abounds when we trust that lifestyle is unique per person and self-comfort wears multiple masks depending on that uniqueness. 

365 Days Of Love. Day 68

On the surface, my grandma Verna and I don’t seem to have much in common. She’s a devout Catholic and I’ve been quoted saying, “I don’t believe in religion, Jesus is the ultimate hippy.” Years ago, she predicted to my parents that I would become a nun. I’ve always been wave lengths away from considering a life of holy service. My grandma handles her money extraordinarily well and I’ve been guilty of extraneous spending. She can sit and play cards for hours and I bore of sitting before the deck is shuffled. Despite our differences, I’ve always considered Grandma to be a strong and generous woman (and, in her older age, humorous as well), but until recently, I hadn’t experienced a kindred sort of connection with her.

Before I returned to the cacti of South Texas for my second year of teaching, I visited grandma. I took along my laptop so I could show her pictures of my trip to Haiti as well as other summer adventures. After her initial wowing at the thinness of my Macbook air, we started flipping through pictures.  

When we got to the pictures from my trip to Haiti, her eyes changed. There was a sadness in her voice, similar to my own when I consider those impoverished, as she inquired about the standard of living these people were subjected to. Over and over she said

So beautiful, they are so beautiful

Ohhhhh

Wow

Gorgeous

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I knew she felt the same way I did about the people I encountered in Haiti and as the pictures tapped across the computer screen, I realized that I inherited my grandma’s vision of humanity. We both saw the same thing when we looked at those pictures, we saw people living in conditions that were far shabbier than they deserved, we saw people who were spirited and kind and loving despite the confinements of their world.

The kindred connection that previously felt astray awoke within me. I don’t run full force into the stories of humanity because I am unique, I do it because my grandmother has taught me how to view humanity.

Grandma Verna gave me sight, sight to see the beauty within individuals, sight that enables love. 

365 Days Of Love. Day 67

Until a few years ago, my grandparents owned a restaurant in our hometown. The first time I worked there, when I was 14, I often handed a coke to someone who insisted on drinking pepsi or was oblivious to the many varieties of ways an egg can be cooked. I felt uncomfortable and insecure at work and I approached the people I worked with fearfully. After a couple years of faulty serving, I decided that perhaps I’d be suited for a different job. So, throughout high school, I earned spending money babysitting and holding part-time jobs at local businesses. It wasn’t until the summer before my senior year of college that I returned to my grandpa’s restaurant to work.

At the time, I had bounced around to four different colleges and lived in 5 cities and had gathered that humanity was incredibly kind. So, as a 21-year old, I lacked the fearfulness that staggered my initial serving experience. The second time around, I approached the people who entered the restaurant eagerly, excited to hear stories of their travels. My new approach proved decidedly rewarding.

I met a group of women from Washington State who left me with their address and telephone number and a invite to stay at their house if I was able to swing a trip to the Vancouver Olympics I referenced in our quick conversations.

An older man recited Chaucer to me in Old English.

This wonderful elderly woman, who ordered the exact same thing every time she dined with us, invited me to accompany her children when they came to visit.

Two younger boys, about my age, were en route from London to California and nearly out of money. I bought their breakfast and they insisted I take 10 dollars to buy myself a beer after work. Their carefree story inspired me.

Another group of hippy looking men I met were English teachers. Although promising that they were highly professional during the school year, they hungoverly sauntered into the restaurant, unshaven and adorned in burlap sacks converted to sweaters. I insisted on serving them because unknown to some, I have my own burlap sweater. We talked about Hemingway and Walt Whitman and concepts of Literature. It was if I was afforded a college-level literary discussion, I felt learned and enlightened.

That summer created slews of stories., told to me by weary travelers or hometown regulars. That summer taught me something too, though. That summer taught me that humanity wants to be heard. Stories aren’t meant to be secrets, kindness isn’t reserved only for those in a tight-knit circle.

That summer, at my grandpa’s restaurant, I learned that loving is trusting humanity and then, listening. 

365 Days Of Love. Day 66

The summer after 5^th grade my friend, Jon, hosted a co-ed campout. At the time, his best friend, Tony, was dating my arch nemesis from another elementary school, Katie Budahl. My best friend, Brittany and I knew Katie would be sharing a tent with us and we were fully prepared to be the evilest almost 6^th graders known to man.

The campout started and Brittany and I did our best mean girls, but per Katie’s humor and entertaining oddities, our evil personas quickly dissipated. The ultimate game changer happened on a four-wheeler ride in the cornfields.  Mid ride, Katie stood up in the ATV’s passenger basket and consequentially fell off into a pile of natural fertilizer. Shocked at first, Brittany and I hopped off and asked if she was okay. Her bright white teeth shone before she could answer, and out of her mouth sang the most amiable laugh ever. Soon, we were all laughing.

That laughter started the spine of my friendship with Katie. In fact, that laughter set the precedent for what would become my most hahaha-ing friendship.

One time, Katie jetted across a busy street in front of my car, I nearly hit her. When she slid into the passenger seat, we laughed.

Another time, we stole traffic cones. I was the first culprit and as I ran up the exit ramp, dragging the bright orange plastic behind me, the driver of the getaway car started to inch out of my reach. My soccer player legs enabled me to catch up to the maroon Camrey, throw the cone in, and hop on someone’s lap. As soon as the traffic cone and I were safe, Katie and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

This other time, as captains of our soccer team, we received an awful lashing of words from our coach. As he screamed at us in our hotel room, we laughed (being a teacher, I know how incredibly annoying this is, but at the time, his reddening face and near-cracking voice was absurdly humorous). We laughed so hard that we peed our pants. As seniors in high school, we peed our pants.

In breakups, we laughed. In wins or loses, we laughed. In trouble or joy, we laughed. It was as if the combinations of our souls knew that laughter was a superior means of living than the anxiety we chose independent of each other.

Sometime, in college, we stopped laughing.

The circumstances that caused the cease-laughter are unimportant now. Katie and I lost almost all contact. When I thought of her, I felt bitter. I didn’t understand some of the choices she made and I had no desire to share any part of my life with her. Through Facebook and friends, I found out she was engaged. I swore not to go to her August wedding despite the fact that I’d be in South Dakota. When I received the invitation in the mail, it proved to be a soul-searching catalyst. After minimal coaxing from my ever-kind mother, I checked the “I’ll be attending” box and put the RSVP card in the mail.

Still feeling reluctant about my attendance, I carpooled to the wedding locale with two friends and my mom. We shifted in our seats, perusing the crowd, waiting for Katie to walk down the aisle. The bridal procession commenced, the church doors triumphantly opened, and there was Katie. When she spotted us in the crowd, she smiled and just as they did years before, her bright white teeth and flawless smile erased any ill feelings I had allowed to stew within my soul. I smiled back, a real smile, and I felt months of missed laughter stirring inside me.

On Christmas day, I ran in Katie’s neighborhood. Missing her and her friendship, I detoured from my normal route and quickly found myself knocking at Katie’s door. I waited minute and heard no response. Just when I was about to leave, I heard her mom singing Christmas carols. This time, I knocked a little louder and was welcomed eccentrically welcomed into the house by Katie’s mom.

Katie skipped down the stairs in her most memorable outfit, sweatpants and a t-shirt. After hugs of hello, we started talking and the laughter that started stirring on her wedding day matriculated. As we recalled old memories and caught each other up on recent happenings, we laughed. It felt so good.  It felt so much better than bitter.

Katie taught me that loving is laughing. Choose to laugh even when bitterness begs to infiltrate, choose laughter. 

365 Days Of Love. Day 65

I think I can tell this story.

Now.

My senior year of high school, I was required to take US Government. I requested to take it first semester because I was flirting with the idea of graduating early. My request was granted and when September started, I filed in my window seat at AT’s US Government class. Although I had many friends at the time, my closest friends were my running shoes and the still sunned pavement. Per my near obsession with running and my (girl) friends’ budding relationship with weekend partying, I felt isolated around people, which only acted as a catalyst for longer runs.

The longer I ran, the skinnier I got and although I wasn’t intentionally restricting food, calorie counting and label reading rapidly became a side hobby. My friends and family commented on my frail frame, and my response was always, “I’m healthy. It’s healthy to run. I’m doing what’s good for my body.” I was impossible to argue with the more commentary garnered about my size, the more I ran, the more I monitored my food intake. In defense of my friends and family, they had my well-being in mind (although at the time, I didn’t see it that way).

One commentator, though, regardless of his said intentions, proved to be grossly destructive. AT

The exact date has become clouded in memories that I’ve spent considerable time trying to erase, I believe it to be sometime in November. AT urged our class to study for an upcoming test. I slipped my bony hand into my backpack, pulled out my notebook, and before I recall the dates surrounding the Stamp Act and Boston Tea Party, I was interrupted.

“Nat, come here please.”

What? Why was AT calling me? I didn’t cheat, I never talked out of turn, I wasn’t at risk for failing. Burried in my mom’s baggy sweat pants and a too big t-shirt, I sauntered to the hall where AT was waiting for me.

Turn around. No, all the way around

Nat, I’ve noticed you’ve gotten really skinny.

Nat, I had an eating disorder. Let me tell you about my eating disorder.

Nat, I want to help you.

Nat, if I were 18, I’d want to date you.

His hand slid across my face, his eyes perused my body like a hunter eyeing his terrain.

How much did you weigh last year?

110

How much do you wear this year.

95. I run a lot. My first true love broke up with me, I stopped eating, but I eat really healthy now.

You have a problem, Nat. I want to help you. I want to help you. I want to help you.

Eyes

Hands

Eyes

Hands

Eyes

Eyes

Eyes

Why is he looking at me?

If you gained weight, it’ll go to your boobs. Your eyes are sunken in. You were so beautiful. You are so beautiful.

Test? Studying?

I’d date you if I were 18. Don’t you want boys to date you?

Class. We have class.

Nat, come to my room tomorrow morning.

I want to help you

Help you

Help you

Help you

I didn’t go to his room the next morning. Instead, I wore clothes that fit me and reveled in the fact that my school was on block scheduling and I wouldn’t have to see AT.

Reveling was short-lived because the next day, I had AT’s class.

Nat, why didn’t you come to my room? You looked nice yesterday, your pants showed off your nice little booty. Tomorrow, come to my room?

Scared. Insecure. I thought I could trust him..?

I went to his room the next day. He rolled his eyes at the student studying and motioned me to the hall, where he met me.

Problem. Help. I can help you. I can save you. Let me help you.Hands. Eyes. Save. Me?

I’m okay, I’m leaving to go to college, its been a rough semester. I’m excited for change.

I can help you. I will save you. I will measure you body fat with the scale the wrestlers use, underwater. Naked. Then, you’ll know you have a problem.

I’m leaving. The only response I could generate was to run. And so, I did.

For the longest time, though, running wasn’t satisfying. Each time my toes nestled into my running shoes, I heard AT.

You need me. You need me. I can save you.

Help

Help

Help

I didn’t need saving from an eating disorder or an unhealthy relationship with running. I needed saving from AT, from a man who zeroed in on a problem, exploited it, and led me to believe that he was the Christ-like savior that could offer me redemption.

Salvation, though, came uniquely, through a most unlikely means.

I was living in New Jersey, I hadn’t seen AT for years although I felt his presence in the hatred I felt for myself and my body. It was late April and I experience an eureka moment

I didn’t want AT in my life, I didn’t want his stone-like hand to harden any more of my spirit. With that, I forgave him. I whispered

I don’t need you

I never needed you

Where insecurity reigned, undeniable confidence slowly seeped into my soul again. Where feelings of uncertainty and hatred resided, peacefulness began knocking. Where lies had subsisted my every thought and action, truth telling took over. Running from AT only ever exhausted me, but when I recognized him for what he was (a predator), I was able to forgive his ill actions and through that, I gained myself, my soul, my spirit.

AT didn’t teach me how to love, he taught me fear and hatred and shed a heavy veil on my life for too long a period. When the veil tore, though, and I chose forgiveness, I learned how to love.

Love me, love living.

365 Days Of Love. Day 64

I've lived a lot of places and each place some wonderful woman has assumed the position of my "mom." Although all my "moms" have been wonderful, I'm most marked by Ann, the woman who took me in while I was living in New Jersey.

The family I worked for in New Jersey was overly generous and wonderfully welcoming and although they treated me much like their own family, I marked myself as "employee" and never really allowed myself to fit into their mold. As a result, I felt familyless and, in my quarter of their really large house, really really lonely.

I'm not sure how it happened, but someone suggested I attend a church about 20 minutes away from Kinnelon, where I was living. The night I decided to attend, the worship pastor asked for prayer as his wife lost her best friend in a rare birthing situation. Months after this encounter, the worship pastor, Steve and his wife, Melissa, along with Melissa's siblings acted as my brothers and sisters and it was through this encounter that I was introduced to a progressive church service, Emergence. I started attending regularly and after a few weeks, I joined a bible study hosted by Ann (Melissa's mom).

The first time I met Ann, I was amazed at her ability to remain honest and compassionate. At times, her house seemed a buzz with anxieties and she calmly fielded them all, offering solace, but not negating to "tell people how it really was" in the most sincere way. To me, she embodied strength, kindness, and sun-like energy. Weeks after our first encounter, I was at Ann's for far more than bible study. Every Sunday, I'd snuggle into a couch or chair and watch football with her family (this is where I trace my love of the NY Giants), eat bagels, and partake in a wide array of conversation. Somedays, I would talk to Melissa as she worked out or sneak away and work on homework. No matter what I did, I felt as if I belonged. The family feeling I lacked at my nanny family's house, I felt in abundance at Ann's.

When I was hospitalized for mono, Ann was one of my first visitors. When I felt insecure, Ann drilled words of praise into me. When I struggled to make decisions, to be bold, Ann lit a fire under me. When I left NJ, Ann promised (a promise she has many times kept) to always have a place for me.

Ann showed me that loving is assuming benevolence and genuineness.

365 Days Of Love. Day 63

Before I went to Haiti the first time, I alluded to advice given to me by my friend Sam (it had been passed down from his father). In a moment of nervousness, Sam told me, “follow the story.”

These three words have since become my life’s mission. When I’ve been in a bind or I’m straddling to choices, unsure which to make, I remind myself of Sam’s advice. I’ve always viewed Sam as a really wise, but remarkably humble person. Since I started the “love blog,” many days have come where I’ve considered writing about Sam, but I’ve shyed away because I fear my rendering of the story he’s written into my life won’t do him justice. Last night, though, Sam and I made dinner together and today, my fingers ache to write his story as perceived from my angle.

Sam and I are both teachers in the Rio Grande Valley. Last year, he lived with someone I dated so we innately spent a fair amount of time in each other’s presence. Sam’s demeanor is extremely easygoing and his witty, but calm personality, is effortless to be around. When we first met, I remember feeling comfortable while conversing with him, but knowing he was a Yale graduate, I intentionally avoided prolonged periods of exchanging words solely because I was insecure in my ability to keep up. Sometime immediately before our first year of teaching commenced, I met Sam’s girlfriend, Emma. Emma is impossible not to adore and we immediately became close friends. Per my friendship with Emma, Sam and I became closer too.

I’ve seen Sam, in a social setting, two fistfuls of times, but each time we’ve shared updates on our classrooms or detailed adventurous travels that we’ve taken or jointly wished Emma was closer, I’ve left feeling inspired. I no longer fear conversing with him, but rather crave it because I know that inevitably our conversations will lead me to think something new or ask a question that will beckon new investigation.

Last night, while we were making tofu stir fried in almond butter sauce, we talked of topics that I haven’t breached with people I see every day. For hours, as our hands onioned and peppered with the sauce’s ingredients, we talked. Even when the night drew to an end and I slipped on my Minnetonka moccasins to go home, we were still talking. Sam is one of those special people. I’ve never met someone more genuinely interested in the lives of those around him, more willing to listen, more willing to peacefully challenge misspeaks, more willing to make bold choices without first experiencing a panic attack. I’m honored to have such a friend as Sam.

Sam has taught me that there is a story everywhere, in everyone, to investigate and that is loving.

365 Days Of Love. Day 62

I started a letter to a friend yesterday, I'll probably never send it, though. Words, for me, are more powerful if they are directed at someone specifically. I've started many letters that haven't reached completion or entered an envelope, but through these letters, I've lost myself in writing.

Yesterday's letter went like this

As with subject lines on emails, I find it difficult to start a letter. When I was little, I was taught to begin with a salutation as such

"Hi, how are you?"

As an adult that seems too simple and too overused. Ah, somedays I wish my only responsibility in life was to write, to play with words until I could create the most perfect combination of letters and syllables. I think I ultimately want to be a writer, but I never want to lose sight of the chase. Many times I've really wanted something, but once I've received it and settled into a routine with it, I've become bored by it or dissatisfied with it. I never want writing to be more than a chase. I want to be a writer, but I always want to chase writing too. Do you think that's possible?

I think loving is chasing something, even when you get it, keep chasing it.

365 Days Of Love. Day 61

Last March, when my friends and I were at South by Southwest in Austin, we were soberly enjoying a concert series that highlighted bands from Spain. The lead singer of one of the bands was wildly extroverted. He leaned off the stage, keeping his balance only by standing on the very tip of his toes. His mouth would open wider than my head every time he sang the final note of a song. His outfit, a tight red suit only added to the madness ensuing on stage. As he and his band entranced the audience, we were approached by a fellow festival-goer.

Pretty good show, isn’t it?

We conceded and shared our shock (and mild horror) at the lead singer’s limberness, which induced a response, which turned into a conversation. The man who approached was Charles McNair. He introduced himself as editor of Paste Magazine, a music centered publication rooted in Atlanta. After establishing that he was an Atlantanian, Jade and I shared our familiarities with his “neighborhood.” The three of us debated whether Jade’s suburban hometown actually constituted as Atlanta and I shared that “I lived right by the Friday’s and Fresh Market, on Peachtree, you know?”. Through laughter and slight disbelief, we shared our journey to Austin with him.

Through our re-telling of Spring break 2011 happenings, we disclosed that we were Teach For America teachers in the Rio Grande Valley. He brightened as soon as we said “Teach For America” and then shared how he supported TFA and thought we were doing “great work.” We relayed student stories and school frustrations to him and he bought us a each a beer as a means of offering his solidarity. With that, the Spanish boys (you’ll recall from a previous post) we met earlier in the night started playing, begging our ears with their electric sound. We thanked Charles for the beer and conversation and initiated a mission to have eye sex with each band member (mom, dad, grandma, sexually conservative readers, not to worry, eye sex involves no dismantling of clothes).

Before the night ended, Charles, void of business cards, scribbled his name and e-mail address on a piece of paper and handed it to us accompanied with an offer to help any of us with anything he could. I kept his note tucked in my wallet and later, when I bought a new wallet, I transferred it along with my credit cards and ID. Although I considered tossing it, assuming even if I did contact him, the likeliness I’d receive a reply was small. By the grace of the Universe, though, I stored it behind my South Dakota driver’s license, and at the end of last summer, I contacted him.

In August, I drafted a lengthy e-mail to Charles in which I fully disclosed my aspirations to be a writer. I explained how I wanted to work in underserved communities and give voices to those who aren’t heard by mass culture. The e-mail was long and before I pushed send, I considered that he might not 1) remember me and 2) respond to me. Feeling more bold than usual, I navigated my mouse to the box marked “send” on the screen and clicked it, breathed in, and snapped my laptop shut. Simutaneously, I felt a sense of relief and deep fear. Very few people know my aspirations beyond, “I want to be a writer” and I just word vomited paragraphs to a near stranger detailing my hopes of writing the stories of the world’s voiceless.

Weeks passed and I didn’t hear from Charles. Eventually, I forgot about the e-mail and drown myself in beginning of the school year tasks. Sometime in September, my inbox rang with promise. Charles, despite his busy writing life, responded to my e-mail, expressing excitement and a desire to act as a mentor of sorts. He suggested we talk on the phone and a couple weeks after getting his response, we meshed our schedules enough to spend a brief 5 minutes in non-e-mailed conversation.

Since then, Charles has relayed book suggestions and offered words of wisdom as I seek to realize authorship. Today, I received a package from him that included a vintage copy of one of his books, one that he thinks will act as a guiding light for a young writer like myself.

The Universe uniquely ushered Charles, a busy and very important man, into my life. From that initial ushering, I’ve gained insight and gifts rooted in my desire to write and his belief that my desire will actually matriculate.

Loving is believing in the dreams of others, I think Charles taught me that.

365 Days Of Love. Day 60

I truly do have the most incredible people in my life. Many times, I feel so undeserving of the kindness that is afforded me by those who I've met along my journey.

Today, at the climax of my afternoon slump, my phone notified me of an unread e-mail. Upon sitting down at my computer and opening my gmail account, I was elated to see the e-mail was from one of my friends, Silentor.

Silentor and I met two summers ago at Teach For America Institute in Houston. He was a Miami corps member and I was a Rio Grande Valley corps member and we were in the company of hundreds of corps members from across the country, all preparing to enter classrooms in America's most underserved communities. Silentor and I both student taught at Hartman Middle School, where he quickly became known as the “Haitian Sensation” and I quietly went from my teaching classroom to my learning classroom, holding friendly conversations with everyone, but not being extraordinarily extroverted. Considering the two of us, we're seemingly opposite in nearly every measurable way. He's Haitian (but grew up Iowa, ironically, my homestate's neighbor), I'm so ethnically mixed that the only term to even deem as my race is “Umm, American?” He's really outgoing and the best kind of loud whereas I'm relatively quiet until I feel absolutely comfortable. He went to a popular state school in Iowa and I attended 4 different colleges, all pretty small. Despite our differences, Silentor and I have a connection that has brought us uniquely close, though.

Last Spring, right after I decided to volunteer in Haiti, I received an e-mail from Silentor. In it, he detailed his plans for returning to Haiti for the summer to teach. I responded to his e-mail, caught up with him via his facebook page, and suggested we “keep in touch.” Thankfully, my suggestion surfaced. We've been in less than frequent communication since the beginning of the school year. After I found out I'd be moving to Haiti, our communication has exponentially increased. I've learned that he's helping to implement all sorts of empowering programs in Haiti as well as building a school. He sends weekly updates regarding the progress of his work and I look forward to reading each one. Props to Facebook, Silentor and I have also been able to chat about my upcoming move and he's proven to be a great source of wisdom in regards to what I should expect come August.

All that being said, simply seeing his e-mail in my inbox at 2:00 today was the equalivent of an afternoon cup of coffee (which, by the way, I'm still successfully refraining from). As I read his e-mail, though, I felt as if I were taking in far more than afternoon coffee. After providing an update on his new school's progress, he wrote this

I wanted to share another great joy with you. In 2010 I decided to join Teach for America in order to help close the “AchievementGap” in the more underdeveloped communities in the U.S. It was an honor that they had selected me as one of their future teachers. Even though I did not finish my 2 year commitment but being part of Teach for America is an experience I will not forget it. I met so many wonderful people from over the country who had similar visions and desires I had in bettering others who were less fortunate within our own borders in the areas of education. Recently, I been in contact with one of the Teach for America teachers I met while I was in training. Her name is Natalie! She contacted me after reading one of these emails you are reading right now. Awesomeness! Anyways,she shared that she love all that I am doing for the people of Haiti and that she is glad that she had met me. This makes me happy! She goes on to share with me that she has also been to Haiti before and that she has a huge heart for the people there. She is so in love with the people of Haiti that this coming August she has decided to move to Haiti for 2 years to work with a school in Port-au-Prince. This young lady is expressing “acts of love” not only in the U.S. but also abroad. In August she will be done with her two year commitment with Teach for America and then she is going to give up her comfort zone to become a difference maker in Haiti. This is joyful!

Like Natalie, I have love and knowledge I want to share with those who needs it most . A simple “act of love” is better than none at all. If we do not show it, who will? Myself and Natalie has step forward to do what we can; Not only in the U.S. but also here in Haiti. Even though she will be in a different part of Haiti, she is one I will always keep close contact with. Please keep Natalie in your hearts and thoughts, for this is a huge step she is about to take. I have to say, I am proud of someone I barely know But I feel that I know her heart and visions for those in need and the way she shows it is by doing simple “acts of love”

Frankly, I don't deserve the kind words he said about me. I haven't “closed the achievement gap” in South Texas and I'm not moving mountains in Haiti, but I was flattered to be recognized as someone who is trying to “share with those who need it most.” Silentor's e-mail reminded me of the power of connectivity. I have long felt that my purpose in life is to learn as many stories as I can through my connections with as many people as I can. Sometimes, burdened by my responsibilities and feelings of inferiority, I lose sight of my pen and paper and neglect to connect, neglect to listen to the stories of those around me. Silentor's story is bountiful, filled with chapters of perserverance and generousity. I am honored to be connected to such a story, to have such a story contribute to my own.

Silentor reminded me that loving is connecting

365 Days Of Love. Day 59

“When a person accepts a broader definition of reality, a broader net is cast upon the waters of fortune.”

Last year, I fell in love with Tom Robbins. I was introduced to him by my friend, Jade, when she lent me her copy of his book Still Life With Woodpecker. I read each page slowly and most pages more than once. To the unread eye, such a story that involves a man blowing up a hippy festival and later falling in love with a princess from Seattle likely seems absurd. When Tom Robbins and I first met, I too thought he was a little absurd. Then, I read his words more carefully, I opened my mind wider, and I understood the coded messages written into the pages of his book. Messages of adventure and mystery, and yes, a bit of pleasant absurdity as well, messages that tested the limits of my ill-informed confines, messages that broadened my definition of reality.

Tom Robbins and I are together again. This time, though, I’m reading Skinny Legs and All. Whereas Still Life With Woodpecker was about making love last, Skinny Legs and All is about a woman who separates from her husband (who she never really loved) in a ramshackled journey to discovering her identity. My short summaries make both books seems rather contrite. Quite the contrary, these books are far from contrite, they are shaping a new wider reality for me and that is beyond explanation.

This morning, as Mr. Robbins pulled me out of sleep by telling me a story about the protagonist, Ellen Cherry, undergoing an attitude revolution after committing a bold gesture. The words, that jolted me out of my stupor were

“When a person accepts a broader definition of reality, a broader net is cast upon the waters of fortune.”

I fell immediately in love with Tom Robbins all over again. These words challenged me. Who am I to define reality? Rather, reality cannot be defined because it’s been created by the multitudes. Instead, reality can be accepted and in that acceptance, we can choose action to contour our reality or apathy to suffer in it.

I can’t end this post the same as all the other posts, not after spending the morning lost in the unique words of Mr. Robbins. I want to know what it’s like to let reality rush me and respond by widening, simply to let in more reality. I think that's like letting love in.

365 Days Of Love. Day 58

I had duty in the gym this morning, meaning, along with two other teachers, I monitored sleepily rowdy (yes, it’s possible) 8^th graders before the breakfast bell rang. My duty time is the time I usually drive to school which doubles as the time I have my morning phone dates with my sister and my nephew, Bennett. I don’t get phone service in the gym, but as soon as I started the sloth-like walk to my classroom, my phone buzzed notifying I had two missed called and a voicemail. Before greeting my 25-person breakfast club, I listened to the message, it was from my sister

Hi Nat. Bennie brought me my phone this morning and said, “Nannie, Nannie! So. I thought we’d try to give you a call.”

Initially, I smiled, happy that my 1-year old nephew thought of me before 8 am this morning. As I thought about it more, though, sadness sort of stifled my smile. What if Bennie only ever associates me with the phone or the computer (we skype pretty frequently)? What if he grows up and says, “I have this aunt, Natalie, I see her on the computer, but I have no idea who she really is. Actually, I don’t even know if she is a real person because I hardly ever see her.”

I’m extremely grateful that I’ve been afforded experiences in life that have enabled me to live in 6 different states in 7 years, volunteer in two different countries, take a job opportunity overseas, but in all honesty, sometimes I fear that when I follow my dreams, people I care so deeply about won’t ever know me beyond the sound of my voice, my pixeled computer face, or the words in my blog.

Missing my sister and nephew’s phone call this morning forced me to consider how much I really miss. In the midst of tears, induced by reflecting upon so many memories those dear to me have created that I’ve participated in only by viewing pictures, a bare beam of light seeped into my sadness

I don’t have to be there. I just need to be the most genuine me wherever I am.

To be genuinely me is to ask the wind, “Where are we going?”

So far, the wind has responded, “Areas far away from your family, but close to your soul. Areas that will challenge you and frustrate you, but mold you and better you.”

Perhaps seeking the wind’s guidance runs the risks of being little more than a face on a computer screen or a voice on the telephone. Deeper down, though, I trust that as I blow through the life path set before me, Bennett, and those dearest to me will know the most genuine version of me and that will bring us wildly close.

Sweet Bennie’s message this morning taught me that loving is genuine, across miles and over seas, loving is simply being genuinely me

365 Days Of Love. Day 57

Recently, I’ve felt generally bogged down. In part because this time of year at school always seems to inundate me with paperwork and trivial tasks, but also because I’m getting ready to move and there’s always unexpected expenses with lugging my life from the tip of Texas to South Dakota.

Last night, I returned home from a meeting, slouched on our chaise lounge, dug my macbook air out of my 6-year old backpack and started entering meeting statistics into a google document. As I was finishing, I heard the bzzz bzzz of my phone. Expecting to see my sister’s name (truly, she’s the only person who consistently calls me), I nonchalantly fumbled for my phone. When I found it in the mess of paper surrounding me, I was surprised to see a new caller show up on the screen.

Arnold.

Arnold and I met the first time I was in Haiti. Our first night at the compound together, we shared conversation about teaching and the achievement gap. Throughout the week, we enjoyed nights on the rooftop comparing the relaxivity of Haiti with the hustle and bustle of the states. I felt immediately comfortable with Arnold, as if my oddities didn’t need explanation, but rather, sort of synced to his own.

Our best day shared was at the beach. We sat on the rocky shores collecting rocks and sharing fried plantains and french fries. At one point, I took three rocks and piled them on top of each other to create a mini statue of sorts. Arnold looked at it and commented, “You’re really creative.” Nearly a year later, I still think it’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

Knowing that a conversation with Arnold would require my full attention, I ignored his call until I finished working and stowed my belongings. Then, I plopped onto my bed and nervously retrieved my missed calls and waited until I heard his voice on the other end of the line. We talked for an hour about topics ranging from his law school to my upcoming move to Haiti. At one point, in the first quarter our conversation, he recalled a conversation we had in Haiti when I told him I wanted to be a writer. His recollection spurred a tangent of chasing dreams as we each vocalized what we’d ideally like to do in life. It was beyond refreshing to put words to what have become my self-secrets, to the dreams I don’t share with anyone for fear of sounding too lofty or too idealistic.

At one point, I prefaced one of my statements with, “this is going to make me sound really naïve” and then I shared my dream of purchasing land in Haiti one day and starting a big community garden. I could live there three months out of the year and the community could sustain and utilize the garden while I was in the States. When I finished detailing my plan, nervous his response would be something like, “you’re crazy” he said,

Can we collaborate on that?

Later, when I hung up the phone, surprised how quickly the hour had passed, I felt renewed. I sunk into my pillow and inside my chest, it felt as if an independence day firework show was convening. No longer was I worried about figuring out how to rent a U-haul trailer before June 7^th or how to take apart my homemade bed. A new sort of urgency had overcome me, a peaceful urgency to be consumed by my passions, to expend energy on following the (not so beaten) path to my dreams.

Arnold taught me that loving is really putting words to my dreams because there are other people who are likely dreaming something similar who want to

collaborate.

365 Days of Love. Day 56

My uncle Dan is incredibly creative. For Christmas, my sister enrolled him to make a connected frame of photos that spelled my parents' last name. He scavenged naturesque areas around his house to find landmarks or natural bearings that looked like the letters of our (very long) last name. When my parents unwrapped the gift, our entire (very large) family was wildly impressed. I looked at it and thought

how incredible

Yesterday, I spent a fair amount of time creating little treasures of my own. Per geographical location, I have limited access to groceries. Despite missing many needed ingredients, I made my own raw granola bars. For lunch, I indulged in a produce-rich sushi by wrapping organic peanut butter, apple slices, and agave nectar in kale. Mixing and mashing and creating induced a sort of excitement in me, I felt empowered or slightly more self-sufficient. Upon reflection of the results, I'm elated to have healthy go-to goodies for the week.

As I slid in and out of my kitchen yesterday, I felt as if I was calling on my uncle Dan's creative spirit to guide my hands and judge my measurements. Dan taught me that loving is creating, small or big, incredible or simple. Loving is simply creating.

365 Days of Love. Day 55

There is something so special about dancing.

Just now, I slipped on my most comfortable dress, turned my Blue Grass pandora-playing computer up as loud as it would go, and I bounced around, knowing not a soul could see me. When I'm dancing, I feel like as if the musical notes become my toes and fingertips. I feel as if I no longer control myself and considering so much of my life is heavily under control, I like the moments when all is lost.

When I stepped back into reality (my living room) and sat down at my computer, I initially felt lost as to what to write about. Still tingling from my pre-writing solo dance session, my spirit whispered

write about the woman who taught you to dance

I started taking dance lessons at Linda Feteral's studio when I was in first grade and I continued until I was 17. In the 11 years I took lessons, I was never as serious about it as I'm sure Linda would have wanted me to be. She encouraged us to wear leotards and tights and I would wear razor back tank tops and soccer shorts. Although our levels of dedication to dance differed, Linda always welcomed me into her studio and I would work hard to be as graceful as she was.

I've never put words to this, but I treasured the one hour a week at Linda's studio because it was a time when I could dance and when I danced, anxieties were lost with the notes of the music.

Linda taught me loving is listening to the music and moving with it.

365 Days Of Love. Day 54

Last year for spring break, two of my friends and I road tripped to Santa Fe. While there, we met two bands (Foster the People and We Barbarians), who were en route to Austin for South by Southwest. After conversing with them until the bar closed and then inviting them back to our hotel room to meet our two, ill-trained dogs, (disclaimer, for the mothers and grandmothers reading this right now, no activities took place that you would frown upon), we decided that these boys were cool enough to follow to Austin.

Alas, a few days after meeting them, we packed my Honda Element and drove to Austin. If you're unfamiliar with SXSW, it's one of the largest music festivals in the country. Austin goes from a relatively quiet quirky city to a jam-packed metropolitan area, filled with musicians and hipsters and men who have more hair than women. Miraculously, shortly before plowing into the city, by the grace of some Austinite god, we found a hotel room that allowed two dogs and offered a shuttle service to the music festivities.

The hotel was only the first gift Austin afforded us.

Before checking in, we went out to eat and realized, in the presence of all the hip people around us, our teachery selves were in need of a makeover. We called a salon that was two buildings down from the restaurant in which we were dining and they had openings for all three of us. Nearly unheard of in a city, let alone a city hosting such a huge event.

A hotel and haircuts. Thank you, Austin.

Post-haircuts, we were still three days unshowered. As soon as we lugged our bags to our room, we each took our turn at digging the dirt out of grossly expanded pores. As our self-makeovers completed, we snapped a few "beginning of the night" photos and proceeded to the SXSW shuttle. On our way downtown, a woman from Canada gave us a free shuttle bracelet.

A hotel, haircuts, free shuttle rides. Man, Austin.

Once arriving downtown, I paid for the two non-braceleted rides and, in turn, was given a shuttle bracelet so I could ride free for the rest of our time there. We didn't pay for a single shuttle bracelet, but ended up, through the generosity of others, with two.

A hotel, haircuts, 2 people's free shuttle rides. Woo.

The next part, though, this is the kicker. Our first step

s into the chaos that is SXSW were met with people singing in the street, shelling out flyers, and drinking beer. Seeing the consumption of the grainy goodness, my friend, Jade, remarked,

I want a beer

Here, have ours...

Yes, as soon as her words were spoken, a band of Spanish men were handing us beers and introducing themselves in their sweet Spanish accents.

Austin was so kind to us and it taught me that loving is trusting humanity. Truly. Simply trusting.

365 Days Of Love. Day 53

My aunt Tammy is one of the strongest people I know. My uncle Butch, Tammy’s husband, died in a car accident when I was a year and a half old, leaving Tammy with three young children. Sadly, I don’t have any memories of my own of Butch, but through years of listening to stories told about him by my family members, I’ve gathered he was kind and hardworking and personable and…missed. Generally, recalling memories of Butch begin with laughs, but end in tears and unfinished stories, stories that are too hard to finish because his life was ended seemingly far too early.

Although I have no recollection of my uncle beyond what other’s memories have told me, I do have an ammo of memories surrounding my aunt and three cousins. I simply cannot imagine the struggle one must overcome after finding out her husband died, but when I consider Tammy and my lovely cousins, I’m awed at how gracefully she conquered such a feat.

When I was little, time at Tammy’s was sure to be adventurous. Her and my cousins lived in a small town and we could easily run around after dark without fear. I remember one particular visit to their house, I fell ill and my grandmother said I couldn’t spend the night. I remember feeling so defeated, knowing I was going to miss out on an exciting endeavor, only to witness the events from my sister’s retelling. At Tammy’s we got away with a little more than we did at our own house, but we were always safe and even more, we were happy, fueled by mysterious fun.

Tammy’s three children also act as a testament to her strength. Her oldest, Casey, and his wife have found their niche operating a hunting lodge, something they’re both passionate about. Jeremy, the middle cousin, recently married an amazingly sweet woman, Rachel on what would have been his dad’s birthday. I’m closest to Sara, Tammy’s youngest. She has four beautiful children and recently moved into her mom’s old house. She’s so dedicated to her family, traveling all over SD for wrestling tournaments for the older two boys while towing along the two little ones.

Tammy and each one of her kids embody my image of strength. When health problems or tragedies or joyful news of unexpected little ones have arisen, they’ve handled it with serenity. Moments where I would have been in a tizzy, Tammy has remained calm and steadfast, as if her family’s well-being depends on her serenity and strength. Through loss and gains, moments of hopelessness and moments of joy, Tammy is strong.

The words I know can’t do Tammy’s journey justice, this story doesn’t depict my admiration for her. She has taught me that loving is excavating inner strength and allowing it to embody you, every action, every moment.

365 Days Of Love. Day 52

I’ve not quite met a slew of challenges lately. I wanted to run a marathon in under 4 hours, but finished in 4 hours and 1 minute. I wanted to eat a completely vegan diet, but was tempted by chocolate and caramel and pralines. I wanted to do Insanity, straight through without breaks, but I indulged in a 4 day respite when I road tripped to Georgia. And, the list goes on.

Reflecting on these “not quite met” challenges, I took to being really critical of my self-discipline. I’m sure some would argue that I’m fairly disciplined and my response would be

but only to a degree.

I workout 6 days a week, eat healthily most days, work 9 hours a day, pay all my bills on time, but all of these things seem natural, not challenging. In addition to my “not quite met” challenges, I’ve reconnected with an old friend, who is wildly into fun outdoorsy activities that I wish I was good at. I’m envious of the time he spends rock climbing and slacklining, wishing that when I had the chance to embark in such adventures years ago, I would have taken them. I didn’t, though, when I lived in mountainous South Western region of the US, because I was too scared of not meeting the challenge, scared that I’d fail in front of people who were really good at being adventurous and outdoorsy.

All these reminders of unmet challenges or missed opportunities have resulted in a spirit of slight regretfulness as well as a questioning of myself.

Am I disciplined?

Am I confident?

Am I adventurous?

Experiencing a bout of insecurity, I egged myself to sacrifice coffee, as a test of my discipline and ability to meet a challenge. The first day of my experiment wasn’t awful. My head pounded like the tapping feet of river dancers and I experienced moments of chills and inversely, moments of sweats. On the second day, I woke up with a pounding headache. Normally, I wash my hair with my head hanging upside down (I’ve heard it makes it curlier), but I couldn’t because it felt as if hail storm was occupying my skull. By the time I got to work, I was nauseous and hot. Before 8 am, I threw up 4 times and I spent the rest of the day with the trash can by my side and my water bottle snuggly situated between my fingers. Today is day 3 without coffee and I feel almost normal. I’m yawning more than usual and my head feels slightly cloudy, but I’m not miserable.

More than the peace of my physical comfort, I feel proud of myself. Every morning, when my roommate’s coffee has been brewing, I’ve denied myself the indulgence. Yesterday, when I was miserably sick and throwing up, I knew one cup of coffee would suffice to help me make it through the day, but I didn’t partake in the gas station run that would have resulted in such a fix. I’m meeting a challenge, a seemingly contrite challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. As a result, I feel like my will is a lot stronger, I feel more confident, I feel like I can meet more challenges and that’s a lovely feeling.

Perhaps, this summer, I’ll overcome my insecurities about regarding rock climbing and slacklining and maybe I’ll eventually convert to a raw food eater, like I’ve been considering for so long. Or maybe, I’ll just pursue other challenges. Regardless, my coffee stripping experience has taught me to embrace things unknown, things difficult.

As cliché as it may seem, I’ve learned to love myself a little more through this challenge and that lifts my spirits.

365 Days Of Love. Day 51

Opportunity can be frightening.

Last night I spoke to one of my dear friends, who doubles as my partner in Haiti relief work. After an initial few minutes of catching up, we dove into development talks regarding an orphanage in Haiti.

We’ve both visited the orphanage multiple times and each time has proven to be just as heartbreaking as the time before. The children wear smiles, but they don’t wear shoes. Some run barefoot under the protection of ill-fitting dusty clothes, but others are only partially dressed. All of them are dusted in dirt and grime. Each time I’ve been there, snot has crusted itself on the tips of their little noses and ashy black dirt has found its niche in the slits of their brittle fingernails.

When I move to Haiti, the orphanage will be “my project." Corey and I repeatedly stressed the need to “start small” and be okay with starting small. With this mantra in mind, we expressed the need to immediately set up a reliable water source followed by a food source birthed out of a huge garden that I’ll plant upon my arrival.

From there....

We can bring down clothing and and lifestyle supplies like soap and lotion

Perhaps we can inspire our nursing friends to join us for health screenings and clinics

Then, a school with trained teachers

Corey’s art and sports programs

And then, and then, and then….

Starting small turns so big so quickly and big is frightening. I think one of the most devastating things about working in Haiti is seeing how big the need is and feeling hopeless when I consider methods of filling it. Often times, I wish some fateful being would bestow thousands of dollars on me so I could easily fill the needs I see. I’m often reminding myself that change comes in small steps through far from small amounts of work, that everyone starts out as ordinary and those who work relentlessly evolve into extraordinary. Ultimately, what I hold onto, though, is this

Fear is okay when it inspires, but when it prevents you from acting it becomes destructive.

Naturally, I want to be overwhelmed by what is expected of me. In the past, when I’ve been overwhelmed, I’ve worked really hard for a period of time and consequentially burnt out. Understanding that I am in control of my fear, my anxiety, I’m committing to seek inspiration through these emotions. Disabling fear is not productive, but inspiring fear results in action. As a final reminder, I am starting small and being okay with starting small.

The love I have for the children of the orphanage has gifted me with opportunity. The resulting fear has taught me that loving is fearing only enough to be inspired to action.

365 Days Of Love. Day 50

If you were to cut me open, I would bleed coffee. On a normal day, I drink half of the coffee pot before 7am and usually throw back two or three more mugs in the afternoon. Last year, once, I accidently bought decaf coffee and only made it through half of the school day, I felt as if my brain was shaking. There have been other times where I’ve been unable to indulge my caffeine addiction and each time, I’ve found it hard to complete coherent sentences or partake in a napless day.

This addiction has always been a bit bothersome to me and it has certainly been annoying to others. I can’t go camping without Starbucks VIA and a means of heating water. I’ve prolonged already lengthy road trips to hit up a coffee joint for lattes or iced coffee. I don’t like that my lifestyle is so dependent on the bitter black liquid. And, to that end, I decided to give it up. Cold turkey. Starting today.

In preparation for my fast, I stocked up on green tea at the store yesterday and I’ve been telling myself that the headaches and brain shaking sensation will only be temporary. This morning, though, I received wisdom from a friend that I’m hoping will help me successfully strip coffee from my diet as well as endure other "challenges." Tom, a magnetic sort of friend in Texas, shared this with me after I told him about my coffee cutting adventure.

You can do it! Lots of water and a non judgemental attitude towards any physical discomfort, everything is an experience.

After I read his text message, I made a decision to embrace the impending headaches, apologizing to the sectors of my brain that I’ve made dependent on coffee. Pain is an experience and as an individual, I can be guided through that pain to experience its inverse, peace.

In relation to caffeine headaches, this seems near trivial, not unimportant, but a minimal pain to attempt to embrace as experience. But, if the same philosophy is adapted to other parts of my life, it becomes more powerful. Instead of shunning lonliness, I can embrace it as a means of an experience in self-discovery. When I feel frustrated or betrayed, I can consider those experiences in a growth light as opposed to the darkness I generally associate with such situations. Each experience, then, can be learned from and hopefully, I can evolve through them.

As day one of my journey to be a more loving me progresses (without coffee), I’m considering what Tom taught me about loving. Everything, even discomfort, is an experience.

365 Days Of Love. Day 49

More often than I'd like, I find myself saddened by the world around me. I love watching and reading the news, but too frequently, I am questioning humanity once I've finished. Why would a trusted football coach rape children who trusted him? Why would a wannabe cop kill an unarmed teenager? Why? Why? Why?

When these questions keep me up at night, my mom fields them gracefully and reminds me that I can't allow such things to prevent me from living and enjoying my own life. Each time she relays the reminder, I (over the phone) nod my head in agreement and mumble "I know.." I've never been satisfied worrying about the shortcomings of humanity, but I'm also not satisfied with forgetting them either.

Late last night and early this morning, I was driving through Louisiana and Texas. In the light of the bright, full moon, a thought came to me.

I might never know why some people do the things they do, but I know I have faults and I can work to better myself. If I can be a better version of me, maybe it deepen my understanding of humanity or maybe it'll promote balance within the connectivity of humanity. I can only control me.

With that, I'm beginning an experiment or rather, a journey. A journey to a better me. This experiment has yet to be fully thought out, but when I question humanity, I'm going to question faulty qualities in myself and seek to dissipate those ill qualities and replace them with better ones. This post is written on 3 hours of sleep and a 19 hour car drive. As the journey matriculates, I'll elaborate. It'll be more worth reading, I promise.

365 Days Of Love. Day 48

I've never left my true friends, even though miles have separated us.

When I moved to Georgia, I lived out of my car and slept with one of my friends or their families. After an initial two weeks of being truly nomadic, I nestled into the extra bedroom of Becca and Tj's apartment. There wasn't space for all of their wedding gifts, outdoorsy equipment, and me, but they welcomed me as if they inhabited a mansion and I was no burden at all.

Becca and I met when I was 18. We both worked at Kids Across America as camp counselors in Golden, MO. She visited me when I lived in NJ and invited me to be a bridesmaid in her and TJ's wedding. I've seen Becca and TJ fewer times than many of my other friends, but each time I'm with them, our time passes so freely that I feel as if her and TJ have authored many chapters of my life.

Even know, I type this post from their couch in Ringgold, GA. When I told Becca (two days ago) I was coming to Georgia, she immediately asked if I was going to stay with them. I rolled in last night and in the brief moments I've spent with her and TJ since my arrival yesterday, I've been reminded of why I so easily moved to Georgia years ago. Becca and TJ are kind and generous and easy to be around, they are helpful and caring.

I know this post doesn't do them justice. I want to blame it on my exhaustion or my mixed feelings about being back and Georgia and my inevitable return to Texas, but really I don't have the words to describe the niche I've found my friendship with Becca and TJ.

The two of them have taught me love between friends doesn't ever stop, it doesn't leave when physical bodies are separated. They have taught me that love lasts.

365 Days Of Love. Day 47

I will only ever have this moment once.

This semester, I’ve been to Haiti, Minnesota, New Orleans, Washington DC, and as my fingers dance across my keyboard, my roommate and I are en route to Georgia. There are few things that renew my spirit like the road, a journey, and the promise of reunions upon arrival at my destination.

Since Monday, my roommate and I have been flirting with the idea of going somewhere for our long Easter weekend. We wanted to get out of Texas, which is quite a feat considering we live at Texas’ lowest tip. Via conference period text message conversations, we threw back and forth ideas about where we could go. Each idea was coupled with the anxieties of practicality: do we have enough money? Will we be able to function at work if we spend a considerable amount of the weekend in the car? Is it safe for two stressed out teachers to drive through the night? Fortunately, our young spirits (and Jade’s flipping of a coin) urged us to hurriedly load my Honda Element and hit the road.

We left around 5:00 Wednesday evening and we’ll arrive around 12:00 Thursday afternoon. I pseudo slept from 2:00 to 5:00 in the morning, but otherwise, I’m relying on adrenaline and caffeine, both proving their reliability thus far.

Somewhere on the border of Texas and Louisiana, deep in road induced thought, I reflected on all that has come before me, each moment that has fused with the next to create the very present moment. Then, like a storm hits after the calm, I realized

I will only ever have this moment once. This is the most powerful moment, not a moment for complaining or worrying or considering the practicalities of life that will haunt me for many moments to come. This moment is fleeing and this moment and in this moment there is no worry or no sadness or hate, this moment is perfect.

It’s been a beautiful thought to shape our journey, moment by moment. The open road, a travel companion (and her dog), and the Southern States taught me that loving is living in each moment, every most powerful moment.

365 Days Of Love. Day 46

I met Ben when I was 20. We were both attendants in the wedding party of our friends Becca and TJ. I arrived at the locale of the wedding on an unseasonably cool North Carolinian day. Flying in from New Jersey, I expected sunny weather and my strapless brightly colored dress afforded no insulation from the brisk wind.

Then, there was Ben.

Before I had been formally introduced to him, he stood in front of me, hardwear mountain jacket outstretched, saying, “Here, take this.” Stuttering, I thanked him and said “You must be Ben? Becca has told me a lot about you.”

Ben met all my “criteria.” He was older, left handed, sporty, played an instrument, drove a Jeep, and his name was Ben (my favorite name).” (I feel like inserting my present day commentary here is necessary for my reputation, I no longer have such a bizarre criteria.”) We spent much of the wedding weekend together. First, in North Carolina, finding excuses to take walks alone or burning up the dance floor in a way that only his sweet Southern charm could provoke.

Near the end of the weekend, I returned his jacket. I intentionally left my phone in the pocket, hoping he’d add himself into my phonebook. As it seemed, he and I were on the save wave length, and when my phone was returned to me, my phone book had a plus one.

Two days after the wedding, I went to Becca’s parents house in Northwest Georgia and Ben went to Athens. The following day, though, much of the wedding party reunited in Atlanta. Katie, another bridesmaid and I, were at the fountains in Centennial Park. When Ben met us there, I had already invoked my childlike qualities and sprinted through the fountains and I was flattned on the hot Georgia concrete wishing myself dry. As soon as Ben saw I was already wet, though, he suggested we take a jaunt through the fountain together.

As we dodged huge bursts of water and slid across the slippery concrete, in the midst of many little kids doing the same thing we were, Ben grabbed my hand and we kissed. It was romantic and spontaneous and whimsical, it was everything I thought I wanted. Later that night, Ben and I went out to eat at a New Orleans style restaurant and walked through the streets of one of Atlanta’s artsy neighborhoods eating honey suckle flowers and gelato. Back at Becca and TJ’s, we stayed up all night watching Across the Universe and conniving about when we could see each other again.

Early the next morning, Ben returned to Athens for class and Becca took me to the airport. Before we separated Ben invited me to meet up with his family at their condo on the beach in July. I agreed, not knowing how I was going to afford a plane ticket on my babysitting salary. Sitting on the plane from Atlanta to Newark, the thought of moving to Georgia for the summer crossed my mind. By the time I landed in Jersey, I had made my decision.

I was moving to Georgia.

Less than two weeks later, with 400 dollars to my name, I packed my silver Saturn, drove through the night and surprised Ben (he knew I was coming, my arrival time was undisclosed, however) at his Athens apartment. For weeks, I bounced around Georgia, staying with Becca and TJ in Atlanta, Ben in Athens, and Ben’s parents in Northwest Georgia. As the meager funds I took with me to Georgia began to dwindle, I was forced to make a decision: I could move in with my aunt and uncle in Minneapolis and go to school or I could work for Becca’s sister-in law in Atlanta and make my spontaneous move more permanent. Fearing I’d lose Ben, I chose to stay in Atlanta even though I knew the best decision for me would have been returning to Minnesoooooota.

Shortly after I made that choice, I became the worst version of myself. I was moody and ungiving, I nagged Ben about every single little thing. I became jealous and temperamental. I was nothing like myself because I chose to give up myself for someone else. I didn’t choose to stay in Georgia because it was best for me, I chose to stay there for Ben, even though he never requested it. I was miserable and I made everyone else around me miserable too.

Inevitably, Ben and I broke up and I had no idea what to do with myself. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I hated the possessive, insecure girl I that had embodied herself in my skin, but I couldn’t seem to engage the independent free spirited woman that I aspired to be either.

I moved to Minnesota in December, weeks after Ben and I broke up, to live with my aunt and uncle and finish school. I spent many nights, curled up with the dog Ben and I bought together, questioning my inner-self. I feared that I had driven away the only person that I could ever love, my left-handed adventurer who met all my criteria. Even more, though, I was frightened that the person I had been after deciding to stay in Georgia would never leave my skin.

I longed to be sweet and free and fun again.

Through some intense, sometimes ugly, self-reflection, friends, and red wine, I was able to sift through the muck and uncover a satisfying version of myself again, version of myself that sought inner-peace and self-security.

Ben is a wonderful person and he was a lovely boyfriend. My relationship with him taught me that loving isn’t sacrificing yourself for someone else, or even for a relationship, loving is remaining independent while sharing your life with others.

365 Days of Love. Day 45

I graduated high school in December and commenced classes at Oklahoma Wesleyan University in January. I had a few friends already attending classes at OWU so I settled in to college life relatively easily. Just prior to my arrival, my high school track coach started coaching at OWU so without much consideration, I joined the track team.

On the first day of practice, I met Stephanie. Immediately, I was envious of her long legs, wishing they were connected to my torso, wishing they would propel me around the track for 2400 meters. Stephanie was a sprinter and jumper and I was distance runner so the only part of our respective practices that overlapped was the whole team warm up. In those mile jogs and 20 minutes of stretching, Steph and I would strike friendly conversation with each other.

I admired how calm she was and how sweet she was to everyone. Her thoughts were conveyed in softly spoken words. She approached every situation with peace, even if it wasn’t an innately peaceful situation.

One night, Steph and I ended up at a mutual friend’s house. Both of accompanied guests and were unfamiliar with a majority of the other people there. We settled in next to each other on a soft couch, worlds different than the campus furniture we were used to, and pretended to be really into the soccer game on television. Soon, we started talking and soon after that, I felt like we were far more than teammates, we were friends.

After that night, Steph and I were near inseparable. We sat next to each other in algebra, jogged slowly at track practice to make our conversation-filled warm ups last longer, shared jars of peanut butter at track meets and challenged each other to biscuit eating contests at post meet dinners at Cracker Barrel.

We failed our first ever college Algebra test and spent the following weeknights in the library studying. We would have sleepovers that much mimicked my sleepovers in middle school, nail painting, giggling over boys, popcorn consumption, and movies that were seen but not heard over our incessant conversation. In everything we did, Steph invited an air of peacefulness and laughter.

At the end of the semester, I left Oklahoma Wesleyan for good, but Stephanie and I remained close friends. The summer after our first semester at OWU, Steph started dating our friend Lance and they got engaged on December 21^st, my birthday. Steph asked me to be a bridesmaid in their June wedding and I honorably accepted.

In November of 2008, I was living in Atlanta and I had just broken up with my first serious boyfriend. I found it impossible to eat and my constant crying was becoming worrisome to my friends. Through Facebook, I found out Steph and her family were Georgia bound for Thanksgiving. I called her immediately and minutes into our conversation, we had plans to reunite at her aunt’s house for my favorite American holiday. I left Steph and her family that day renewed, pieces of my fused by the company I was in.

In January of this year, I was traveling back to Texas and stopped in Tulsa for the night to stay with Steph and Lance. Although it had been years since I’d seen them, the peace they welcomed me with created the illusion of visiting close family members.

Stephanie and I talk infrequently and we see each other only when our fate’s briefly align, but each communion is a continuation of the last, energized by the innate peacefulness that engulfs our friendship.

Steph has taught me that loving is escorting a spirit of peacefulness, in every friendship, in all situations, with all people.

365 Days Of Love. Day 44

Growing up, we lived 4 blocks from our elementary school. Unless it was bitterly cold, my sister and I, along with our neighbors, walked to and from school.

One day, in first grade, I walked home from school by myself. Waiting for me, dangling from the door handle, when I arrived was a Disney-themed umbrella with a colbalt blue handle, stuck with a note for me, but no indicators as to how it got to our shiny gold door handle.

As soon as my parents walked in the door later that evening, I asked if they had given me the umbrella. They looked at me, questioningly, and shook their heads no. The next day at school, I asked my teacher. Her response mimicked my parents’ exactly. I exhausted my 7-year old social circle, but none of them could give me any answers as to where my Mickey Mouse adorned umbrella had come from. My mom suggested that perhaps my grandparents placed it on the door handle while I was at school. When I asked them, though, they promised me they didn’t.

When I was a little girl, I was always digging in the sandbox, trying to find my way to China. I’d create treasure maps for imaginary jewels. I always wanted an adventure, a mystery, but when such a puzzle was afforded me in the mysterious gifting of the umbrella, all my efforts at solving the puzzle led me nowhere.

Despite the anonymity of the gift, I loved my umbrella so much. Much to my mom’s refusals, I’d open it and strut around the house like I was stuck in an Island Hurricane. I loved the sound of the crisp plastic, I loved looking at the characters and creating stories in my head about their daily interactions. Every day, I wished for rain, so I would have reason to skip to school holding the rounded cobalt blue handle, shielded by Goofy and Minnie and Mickey.

To this day, 17 years later, I have no idea who left that umbrella hanging on our door handle. Assumingly, it was one of the people I asked when I was 7, but he or she has managed to keep it a secret.

The umbrella gifter taught me that loving is gifting without recognition, gifting to induce a mysterious treasure hunt, gifting to feed the adventurous spirit within a little girl.

365 Days Of Love. Day 43

I met Jesika the first time I was in Haiti. She arrived at the HAC compound the day before I left. Per her own nonprofit, she had been to Haiti several times and was very familiar with the compound community. In an effort to be absolutely honest (and give this story the credit it deserves), I thought Jesika hated me when I first met her. Every question I asked was returned with a terse response. Eventually, I stopped asking questions and offered simple smiles when I saw her in passing. Either out of social pressure or a desire to make amends, I friended Jesika on Facebook after I returned to the States.

So many of Jesika's Facebook pictures and status updates were about Haiti and Transparency (her own nonprofit). I knew she loved Haiti and the people, I knew she had been captivated by them just like I had. The imaginary veil my insecurity initially established between Jesika and I started fluttering, sheering out of a mutual desire to see Haiti prosper.

One August morning, shortly before the school year started, I received a Facebook message from a stranger, Hollie.

hi miss natalie! I couldn't help but notice you are friends with two of my most very best friends! Will and jesika! And they dont know each other so i am quite surprised! Very small world! just wanted to say hi. Cheers!

Hollie and I exchanged a few more messages and the puzzle pieced together like this

Hollie and Will dated a long time ago and have remained dear friends since then.

Will and I met in New Jersey and have been friends since

Hollie and Jesika worked together in LA and are still best friends

Jesika and I met in Haiti

After learning of these rare connections, I felt as if the Universe desired me to be close friends with each one of these people. The already thinning veil waving between Jesika and I tore in two. From being friends on Facebook, I respected her and her work in Haiti, but our absurd connection induced a desire to really get to know Jesika, to learn her story.

After I excused our first introduction as a result of my own insecurity, having nothing to do with her, Jesika and I started to be actual friends and I've grown to admire so much of what she stands for. Jesika has dedicated her life to empowering the people of Haiti. She works tirelessly to build connections that don't result in personal gain, but rather growth for the people of Haiti. She's given up countless things in her own life to build an organization dedicated to offering programs to Haitians that will help them sustain themselves and their communities.

Jesika embodies love for others, she transports it from the US to Haiti, from one community in Haiti to another, from the heats of people here to the hands of people elsewhere. I am indebted to the Universe for insisting that her and I be friends.

Jesika has taught me that loving is living for a cause.