Sweating the Small Stuff

An Open Letter to the New Year’s Resolutionists at My Gym

Dear New Fitness Enthusiasts,

Happy New Year!  I understand that, every January, we are encouraged to take stock of our lives, encouraged to take a look at what’s working, and what’s not, where we’ve been, and where we might like to go from here.  I understand this—really I do.  It’s culturally embedded into how we identify ourselves.  I do it, too, this taking stock.  I think about things that are working well, and things that might need to change.  Inevitably, many of these life-changes concern diet and fitness.

I have, on and off, been a member of various and sundry gyms since my early twenties (I seem to have been born without what some people refer to as a “working metabolism”—I need to do some research on that someday).  Currently, I am a member at Gold’s, mainly because they offer me a discount based upon where I work.  Win-win.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Under no circumstances could I be considered a “gym rat.”  I am a woman in my mid-forties who goes to the gym six days a week out of sheer habit and an unwillingness to stop eating French fries.  My workouts are hardly challenging, but they are workouts nonetheless.  Because of them, I allow myself unfettered access to the aforementioned fries.  It’s a sickness.  I’m not working on it.

Typically, I do cardio (either the elliptical, stationary bike, or hill climber) on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are for weights (alternating upper and lower body, respectively).  For the past 8 years, I have been a part of the “Morning Crew” at Gold’s, the crowd who shows up at around 6:00 and is out by 7:00.  We all recognize one another, and sometimes exchange a nod, or a “good morning” as we pass from machine to machine.  We are familiar with one another’s routines, and generally do a pretty good job of staying out of each other’s way.  We don’t like waiting around for equipment to open up.  It’s early.  We’re grumpy.  We haven’t had our fries yet.  We want to get home.

Imagine, then, our frustration, New Fitness Enthusiasts, when there is a line to use the machines on the cardio deck!  We are happy for you (really, we are!) that you have decided to take your health more seriously.  We are happy that you are realizing that lying around watching “Property Virgins” and eating Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches (sugar is sugar, folks) isn’t serving you as well as it once might have (assuming that, unlike me, you used to have a “working metabolism”).  

This happens every January.  In fact, those of us who comprise the Morning Crew at Gold’s are used to it.  We anticipate it.  But that doesn’t mean we enjoy it.  We take umbrage at having to wait to use the newer elliptical machines (the ones with the television sets built right in!).  We resent having to play “shark” around the better equipment (I, personally, like the Cybex).  We don’t like being closed out of our fitness classes. 

So for now, we will be patient.  We will toss one another knowing glances as we watch you circle the gym, clipboards in hand, making sure you record every rep at every station.  We’ll wait.  We were there once, too.  We’ll show you our utmost compassion, because deep down, in our heart-of-hearts, we know that by mid-February, you’ll be gone, and we can have all of our stuff back.  

So for the next few weeks, enjoy your workouts.  Go forth and sweat.  The Morning Crew will be watching, and waiting.  Patiently.

Sincerely,

Lauren

 

No Expectations

"If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed."

                                                     --Sylvia Plath

 

This quotation may seem a bit bleak for the beginning of a new year, but for me, personally, it presents a solid challenge, something that I very much need to address in this new year.  Let me provide an example to illustrate what I'm talking about.

Yesterday, Sarah and I headed out into the wilds of the Chuckanut Mountains to tackle the Fragrance Lake Trail (my very favorite local trail--challenging yet doable).  Now, normally, I like to time myself, estimating how long it will take me to hike the two miles (and 1,100 feet) up to the lake.  But today, since I had company with shorter legs and a lot less focus, I had to give myself a pep talk.  "It's okay if you don't make it all the way to the top.  You've been all the way to the top dozens of times.  It hasn't changed.  Nobody is watching.  Nobody is judging."  But even still, even with the self-imposed pep talk, I was worried.  "I'm not going to get my exercise!  I shouldn't have skipped the gym this morning!  Guess I'm done eating for the day..."

Really?

So up we went, my girl and me.  Every 20 feet or so, she would stop, noticing something new and different and fascinating.  "Hey, I wonder what this is?"  "Hey, I wonder who lives in this hole?"

Christ.  At this rate, I'll never get to the top.

And this is exactly what I'm talking about--about how expectations can ruin a perfectly good outing with your daughter.  Here I was, thinking "What's in it for me?" completely disregarding what this experience might mean/be for her.  Pretty selfish, eh?

The one forest item that caused Sarah to consistently stop in her tracks was fungi.  (Who doesn't love a good fungi?)  There were white ones and orange ones and big ones and tiny ones, all pleading to be paid attention:

Another time-consuming ascent activity involved Sarah transforming into a super hero.  She would "hear" a phone ringing, answer it, get the address of the emergency, and leap into action, describing what the emergency was (a fire set by a cat chewing on Christmas lights, or a bank robbery).  Here she is taking a call:

Finally, after nearly 2 hours and 1 mile covered, we arrived at the half-way point, marked by a rather dramatic overlook onto Samish Bay:

At this point, it was 3:00, and it became clear to me that we wouldn't have enough daylight to get us all the way up to the lake, and back down again before darkness fell.  And yes--this freaked me out a little bit.  I didn't get the strenuous workout that my holiday-sedentary body had been craving.  I didn't get any time to contemplate the year that had passed, or the year that was just beginning.  I didn't get to have it "my way."  

But that's okay.

See, that's the thing about me and expectations.  Mine are, and always have been, exceedingly high.  Because of this, even the best of events/parties/travel fall woefully short compared to the picture I had created in my head.  This problem goes hand-in-hand with my perfection tendencies.  Add perfectionism and high expectations, and you get a toxic cocktail of frustration and disappointment.

This has to stop.

We made it down to the bottom of the trail at around 4:00, which left us a little time to scamper across the street to the beach and watch the sun set beyond the Olympic Mountains.  To my pleasant surprise, the tide was out when we arrived, so we were able to investigate some tide pools and sandstone formations as we watched the sky become show-off-y:

Had I tried to race up the extra mile to the lake, we wouldn't have gotten to explore the rocks and tide pools.  We wouldn't have met a lovely mutt named "Charlie."  We wouldn't have seen kayakers and beachcombers passing us by.

And this is my point.  No matter what you plan for, what you "expect," I think that a force far greater than you or me has other outcomes in mind.  When I fixate on how something "should" turn out, I automatically close the door to other possibilities that might be equally as positive (if not moreso).  I could be purposefully closing myself from experiences that I need to have, all because I don't think (or don't even know) that I need to have them.  I need to trust that force more.  I need to be fascinated by fungi, and receive calls from people in distress, and look for tiny creatures inside of tiny shells beyond the surf line.  I need to not get my proverbial panties in a wad whenever something doesn't go exactly according to the way I had planned it.  After all, what do I know?

Last New Year's Day, my Word of the Year was "intentionality."  I still believe in intentionally, in doing things with clear intention.  However, I don't believe that intention necessarily needs to be saddled with expectations of what should happen.  What happens is what is supposed to happen.  That's what I'm going to focus on from here on out--with no expectation of ever perfecting it.

 

Here Comes the Sun

Today, I celebrate the return of the sun.  As a symbol of this celebration, I look no further than the doorknob to my bedroom.  Let me explain.

Today, the sun rises at 8:00 a.m. and sets at 4:15 p.m.  This is approximately 4 seconds more daylight than we had yesterday.  This is a big deal, especially when the sun is as scarce as it is around here. Although, I have to admit that, lately, the sun has been hanging around quite a bit.  I am grateful for this in so many ways.  Until I look too closely.  Until I notice the dust bunnies pooling and eddying underneath my sofa.  Until I see the haze on the outsides of my windows.  Until I notice the cat hair flying through the air with the greatest of ease.  The sun (literally) shines a light on these subtleties, and reminds me of what a casual housekeeper I tend to be.

But at this time of year, the sun also does some amazing things.  The angle of repose is so low that beams of light shoot straight through my kitchen, and highlight things such as crystal doorknobs (above). The beams of light also land on my sun catchers just so, sending explosions of rainbows throughout whatever room they're in.  That doesn't happen in the summer, when the sun is relentless and attacking me straight from above, taunting me at 4:00 a.m. and not relenting until nearly 11:00 at "night." 

You see, here's my dirty little secret: I like a softer, gentler sun.  I like a sun with latitude.  I like a sun that let's me know it's there, but by whispering, not shouting.  And here's another little secret: I like dark and stormy days.  The kinds of days where it's best just to sit tight, brew some tea, grab a book, and put off whatever needs to be done until the next day.  I like the coziness of it all.  No pressure.  

It's a good thing that I live where I do, because I get to have the kind of weather I want--the gentle winter sun, the dark and stormy days, and rarely a day above 80 degrees.  It's kind of like what I imagine living on the Irish coast would be like (with perhaps a little less charm and no national health care).  

So while I welcome the sun, illuminating my doorknobs and pointing out my casual housekeeping, I need time to prepare--time to prepare for the cacophony of light that is to come.  Give me this time to heal. Then bring it on...

Occupy Black Friday

I have never been one for crowds.  I don't much care for loud noises, either.  (The only exception to this personality trait would be a U2 concert or an Ohio State football game, both of which are made tolerable by my deep-seeded passion for them.)  The thought of voluntarily heading to a Big Box Store at midnight (really, not 5:00 a.m.?) the day after Thanksgiving holds about the same appeal for me as a trip to the E.R.  So, this year, I thought I'd try something different (different than just sitting at home and watching yet more football).  

I'd been meaning to head down to our local "Occupy Bellingham" site, but just hadn't found the time.  Well, I just hadn't made the time (because, really, we can make the time for anything we want).  The fact that it was a lovely day made my decision even easier--so off I went.  I wasn't really sure what to expect.  I knew that our crowds weren't exactly crowds--more like dozens.  I also knew that, for the most part, there had been no drama, which is always nice in a protest movement.

When I arrived, a fellow by the name of John, a commercial fisherman, was there to greet me (yes, I'm told that each occupy site has a "greeter").  

John told me that he sees his role as similar to that of a campsite host.  He knows who's staying where, and he's in charge of making sure that the camp runs smoothly.  He pointed to a "chore chart" that was hanging from a covered tent in the center of the site:

He also pointed out a list of items that would be appreciated as donations (food and blankets, mostly) and where the "kitchen facilities" were:

John told me that the crowds have gotten smaller since the weather started turning ugly.  In the days before Thanksgiving, we had 65 mph winds rip through the area, and more heavy winds Thanksgiving day.  He told me that tents were rolling down Holly Street, and lots of folks just decided to bag it.  Can't say as I blame them.

Then I got to thinking.  I wonder if this is the reason that protest movements don't last too long or accomplish too much in this country--because, generally, we don't like to be uncomfortable.  It's why fruit in California goes unpicked.  It's why factory jobs go overseas.  But this is not the case everywhere.

Take for example Leymah Gbowee, the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize recipient for ending the civil war in Liberia.  Here's a excerpt from her bio:

Leymah Gbowee shared the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize in recognition of her work to end civil war in her native Liberia in 2003. Gbowee left Liberia during its First Civil War (1989-1996), but returned with her children after living as a refugee in Ghana. In 1998 Gbowee began volunteering with a Luthern-affiliated peace effort called the Trauma Healing and Reconciliation Program, which sparked her interest in peace activism. Encouraged by mentors she met in West African peace efforts, Gbowee attended the first-ever meeting of the Women in Peacebuilding Network; shortly thereafter she became the coordinator of the Liberian Women's Initiative, which inspired her to start a nonviolent women's movement that crossed religious and ethnic divides to call for peace and civil rights in Liberia. The Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace involved thousands of women working together, using prayer, sit-ins, threats of a sex strike and peaceful demonstrations to protest violence and oppression. Gbowee and her fellow activists continued to bring pressure on African leaders during rounds of peace talks in 2003, leading to the end of 14 years of war in Liberia and the election of the nation's first female president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. Her story was featured in the documentary "Pray the Devil Back to Hell," and in September 2011 Gbowee published her account of the Liberian women's peace movement in "Mighty Be Our Powers: How Sisterhood, Prayer, and Sex Changed a Nation at War."

She made an appearance on The Daily Show a few weeks ago, and actually mentioned the fact that Americans don't have the wherewithall to withstand the inconvenience of a prolonged sit-in (but she said it much more eloquently than that--see the interview here):

 

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
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And, to a certain extent, she's right--I certainly am not camping out on Holly Street.  I have a job and a family to take care of.  But is that a good excuse?  Certainly, there are other ways that I could become involved, but would they be as effective as being there, over the long-haul?  (Side note: the documentary based on Leymah Gbowee's experinece, "Pray the Devil Back to Hell" is amazing--you should see it.)

I sometimes feel like an imposter, becuase on the surface, I'm all about living sustainably--it's part of what I do for my life's work, plus I garden, I recycle, and I talk to my daughter about creating a reverence for the earth, which can only provide so much for so many.  Yet, I drive an SUV, and I travel by air--a lot.  I like my laptop, and I love my digital camera.  I try to tell myslef that it's not an either-or proposition, that I don't have to cook by campfire, eating only what I can manage to grow or kill.  But still.

When I think about the top 1% controlling the vast majority of the wealth in this country, I get angry.  When I see scenes like I saw over the weekend of customers being pepper-sprayed at Wal-Mart just to get to cheap electronics, I get even angrier.  Where did we go wrong?  Who made the all-mighty dollar the arbiter of what is good and right in the world?  When did commerce replace relationships?  And why have I been sucked in to this crappy narritive, along with most everyone else i know?  

Whith Christmas on the way, I'm feeling edgy.  There are things I really want (several of which require an electric cord), but what do I really need?  Ah, isn't that the question?  Maybe the reason I detest the greedy 1% so much is that they force me to take a close look at the 1% within me--that part of me that I pretend doesn't exist, but is there, lurking beneath the surface.  

So here's to Bellingham's own, tiny occupy movement.  I will donate what I can to their cause (short of pitching my tent alongside theirs).  And I will try to go easy on myself, finding a balance between want and need, too much and not enough.  

During our Thanksgiving dinner, the topic of Black Friday came up.  Without missing a beat, Sarah chimed in and proclaimed, "Well, there are more important things than shopping."  Amen, sister.  Amen.

U2-y

 

When I was in graduate school, I made the majority of my money doing odd babysitting and tutoring jobs (and believe me, some of them were truly odd).  One of the standing gigs I had was for a professor in the English department (I think) at Ohio State.  She had a toddler who needed to be entertained for the majority of the day, but who was not allowed to watch any sort of screen (which I get, but these folks were harsh) or spend too much time outside (diseases and all).  The kid was nice enough, had a pretty even temper (probably due to lack of screen and outdoor time) and we got along pretty well.  One day, when we were playing "chase" (my least favorite game of all time, when you literally chase the kid around the house), he finally collapsed in a fit of laughter under the dining room table and proclaimed, "That was U2-y!"  

What?

Turns out that one of his favorite adjectives to describe something favorable or entertaining was "U2-y" (as opposed to funny or lovely).  Apparently, his dad (who I don't remember ever seeing) was a big fan of U2, and turned the band's name into an adjective of the highest order.  "My GOD, that coconut cream pie is U2-y!"  "Oh, baby, your abs are so...U2-y!"  It has a funny sound, doesn't it?  Sort of like "cutie-patutie," only with more of an edge (literally).

Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes knows that I am a hard-core U2 fan.  I can remember back to the "War" and "October" days, when U2 was considered edgy (literally).  You could hear the punk influence--the gritty, industrial sound of Dublin in the late 70s.  The Clash.  The Ramones.  The Dead Kennedys.  The Sex Pistols.  Remember that?

Then, in 1987, when I was a sophomore in college, "The Joshua Tree" arrived, quickly followed by the companion documentary, "Rattle and Hum" in 1988.  *Swoon!*  I was hooked.  These guys were for real, and I was completely seduced.  Not that Bono is technically sexy, but my, oh my...

I think what gets me all riled up is his swagger.  I'm pretty sure that I'm taller than he is, and frankly, he's not THAT much older than I am (re: he ain't no spring chicken).  And that mullet he sported in the 80s?  Really?  But honest to Pete, he just "does" it for me.  That confidence that borders on arrogance.  That total "rock star" persona.  What saves him, of course, is his philanthropic nature, which, if you're as rich and famous as Bono (and really, who's richer or famouser?), you're morally obligated to do. I like that in a rock star. He understands that he's a character in his own performance.  He's post-modern like that.

As a fan, it's tough for me to pick a "favorite" U2 song.  I mean, where would one even begin?  I feel like I grew up--really grew up--with these guys.  They came to me in college, and have been with me ever since.  I don't even know how many times I've seen them in concert--three?  Maybe four?  Most recently up in Vancouver, where they rewarded me with an amazing mix of old and new material.  (Thanks, guys.)  But if Bono were holding a gun to my head (which he wouldn't, but just for the sake of argument), it would be a toss-up for favorite song.  I'd have to choose between "Bad" and "One" (because, really, Bono is a bad boy, and who doesn't love a bad boy?).  If forced to narrow it down even further, "Bad" would come out on top.  

 

Yeah, that's right.  It's the long-haired, vest-wearing, wouldn't-hurt-to-get-to-the-gym Bono of the 80s.  Just the way I like him.

On Saturday night (October 29th), Showtime is debuting the documentary "From the Sky Down," which chronicles the making of "Achtung Baby."  When that album first came out in 1991, I must admit, I wasn't a fan, mainly because it wasn't a carbon copy of "Joshua Tree," (which many critics believed to be the apex of U2s discography).  But, because I'm a fan, I bought the CD (crazy new technology back then!), and you know what?  The songs grew on me.  "One."  "Mysterious Ways."  Good stuff, really, and some of the stuff I now look forward to the most at concerts.  I believe the point of the documentary is this was a transformative album for the band, where they set off in a new direction, and happily, their fans allowed them to do that.  And hopefully, they'll keep doing that for years to come.

When I'm on a long car trip, I like to play a little game called "Who Opens?"  The rules are simple--toss out the names of two relatively similar bands, and have your traveling companion decide which band is the headliner, and which band opens.  For example: Van Halen/Aerosmith.  Who opens?  (Obviously, Van Halen, but only if it's Sammy Haggar on vocals.  If it's David Lee Roth, it gets a little dicier.)  The Rolling Stones/The Who.  (I think The Who open for the Stones, but that could be argued.)  But who would U2 open for?  Answer: NOBODY, because they're the biggest band in history!  More influential than Elvis or the Beatles?  Probably not, but that's just timing.  For sheer...bigness, U2 simply can't be topped.  They've had some ups and downs (the Popmart tour comes to mind), but for 30 some years, they've been relevant.  Not a lot of bands can say that.

So, if you're looking for me on Saturday night (and why wouldn't you be?), I'll be at home watching Showtime, and reminescing about where I was 20 years ago, and where I might be going in the future.

Rock on.

 

Oh, Oregon...

Having barely recovered from my Great Mongolian Adventure, last week found me traveling down the northern coast of Oregon.  This is nothing new, as every September, my mother, daughter and I hit the road armed with our camping gear and state park guides to brave the elements of our Pacific Northwest environs.  For the past five years, we've examined every nook and cranny (and trust me, there are lots of them) of Olympic National Park, the-park-that-has-it-all (in my opinion).  This year, however, we decided to get a little crazy, and veer farther south--you know--see where the roads would take us.

Well, as it turns out, U.S. 101 takes you pretty much directly to Oregon.  With a quick stop at Cape Disappointment State Park in Washington (best, and most accurate state park name EVER), we headed south.  

Now, here's the thing.  One of my favorite films of all time is "American Beauty."  In that film, there's a scene that focuses on a plastic bag dancing upon the wind.  In this particular scene, the character (the creepy neighbor kid) is talking about how he filmed it because he wants to remember.  "There's so much beatuy in the world," he says, "I feel like I can't take it."  And that resonates with me.  It's the best articulation I've ever encountered for why I take photographs.  Part of it is because I do, indeed, have a shitty memory, and I want to remember things.  But the other part is because there really is so damn much beauty in the world--I want to caputre it and look at it again and again, and feel grateful for having done so.

 

Not that everything on these little mini-vacations always goes according to planned.  Ask my mother about the 20 stitches it took to sew up her leg after a mishap with a rock on a hiking trail.  Or ask Sarah about the agony she was forced to endure because her scatter-brained mother left her Nintendo DS charger at the motel room in Cannon Beach.  Ah, there's much drama, to be sure.  But the beauty always outweighs it.  Always.  (For the record, my mother is just fine, and we'd like to thank the good folks at the emergency room in Lincoln City, OR for their competency and concern.  Sarah, however, is not faring so well, and grows more jittery each passing day as she flows through the symptoms of DS withdrawal.)

Next week, I'm heading to Vermont and New Hampshire to visit some schools that have built their curricula upon the framework of sustainability, and place-based education.  I imagine I'll feel a bit overwhelmed with beauty there, as well (New England in the fall--just sayin').  

There really is so much beauty in the world.  All we have to do is look for it.  Perception is everything.

Narrowing it Down

While in Mongolia, I took over 3,000 photographs.  Yeah.  3,000.  It feels ridiculous to type that, but it's true.  I remember when I took my first trip to France, in the spring of 1989.  I was there for an entire academic quarter (10 weeks) and thought I had broken some kind of insane-photo record with 10 rolls of film!  TEN ROLLS!  Seriously, I thought I needed counselling, because that was SO MANY!  I mean, why not just be satisfied with two, maybe three rolls, tops?  But TEN?  My god, that was 240 pictures!  Hell, now, with digital cameras and all, I can shoot through 250 frames in a single afternoon in the mountains!  Going digital nearly 8 years ago (the conversion coincided with the birth of my daughter) gave me permission not to discriminate, not to limit myself because of the high cost of getting the film developed.  Now, why just take ONE shot of that interesting leaf, when I can take TEN and choose the best one?  It's every photographer's dirty little secret: for every good shot we get, there are hundreds left to languish on our hard drives.  C'est la vie.

Now, being preternaturally hard on myslef about virutally everything, I inevitably come to the conclusion that most of my pictures are no good.  They're not framed quite right, or they're a tad over or under exposed.  And since I'm not real good with digital editing software, if it does't come out of the camera looking good, then I don't usually bother.  But sometimes, sometimes, I get some images (the snooty word for pictures that I hear other photographers use) that I rather like.  I'm posting some of those images here.

By far, my favorite images fall into either one of two categories: nature or people.  For example:

Sometimes, I like to photograph objects:

Often, I like to get really, really close:

I've tried to think about why it is that I like taking pictures so much.  Part of it, I think, centers around the fact that I have a crappy memory.  I mean, really, really bad.  A former student came up to me the other day and said, "Dr. McClanahan!  Hey, how're you doing?"  To which I replied, "Um...great..."  She could tell I was struggling.  She told me not to worry, and reminded me of her name, which I then recognized as obvious.  But I think another part of it is that I just appreciate things that are beautiful.  Not that every photo I take is of something beautiful, but I try to find beauty in the initial ugliness:

Mostly, it's just enjoying being in the flow--enjoying documenting what I see and do.  If you want to see 1/10th of my photos, go here:  http://www.conceptualframeworkphotography.com 

Here are two photos that may be my favorites of the entire Mongolian trip.  On my last day in Tsetserleg, I was sitting on top of one of the surrounding hills, looking down at the city.  As I sat, enjoying the view, a teenage boy came riding up on his horse.  He was looking quite regal, wearing his traditional del, poised confidently atop his horse.  However, upon closer inspection, I noticed that he had a baseball cap on, and was talking on his cell phone.  "That figures," I thought.  The old and the new finding a way to coexist.  That about sums up Mongolia...

Transformative

I have always advocated for a year of mandated travel between one's senior year of high school and freshman year of college.  Even if college isn't in your immediate plans (our economy being what it is today), I still think that travel should be mandatory.  Especially for Americans.  And not travel to Canada, or Europe, or Australia.  Those don't count.  I mean the kind of travel that shakes you up a bit, gives you a stomach ache, makes you a tad uncomfortable.  The kind of travel that completely stretches your edge.  Peeing outside.  Going for at a minimum of 5 days without access to hot water.  Not knowing exactly what part of the animal you're eating.  Transformative travel.

I know that I have experienced transformative travel when I begin to question who I am, and what I really (really) stand for.  I know that I've experienced transformative travel when I find myself getting pissed off when things aren't going "my way."  I know I've experienced transformative travel when I start to use the phrase "these people," as in "God!  Why do these people eat this stuff?  Why don't these people understand what I'm trying to say?  Why do these people choose to live like this?"  Choose?  Well, maybe.  When I'm traveling in places that make me uncomfortable, the prima donna in me comes out--the entitled American who enjoys niceties such as "schedules" and "clean water."  How dare I behave so arrogantly?  

I always surprise myself when these thoughts pop into my head.  Stateside, I'm a pretty easy-going person (well, most of the time).  Live and let live, you know?  But when I travel, it's as if I bring with me all of the judgment and guilt and loathing that, as an American, I've learned to stuff deep down into my pockets. After all, one doesn't think to ask why in America.  This is not to say that I don't love being an American.  With the exception of the Bush years, I am incredibly proud to be an American, and of the fact that in America, opportunities abound at every turn (although recently, that's an arguable statement).  But sometimes, I gather up all of my opportunity and privilege and take it completely for granted.  Sometimes, it leaks out of my pockets and sounds a lot like entitlement ("What do you mean my car won't be ready until tomorrow?  Don't you know that I have places to be?").  

Look at this guy's face.  Look at that joy, that vitality, those lines that tell a million stories of a million triumphs and tragedies.  Does this guy look as if he lacks anything, just because he doesn't live in a "traditional" house, and doesn't drive a "traditional" car?  This, THIS is why I believe that travel should be mandatory for ALL Americans--travel to places where people grow what they eat, pack up and move what they have using a cart and a yak or two, and leave virtually no footprint on the land.  Is this guy thinking, "Gee, I wish I had a new big-screen TV"?  Maybe, but I doubt it.  

The people in Mongolia were among the warmest, most generous, most hospitable I have ever met.  When measured against our standards, they have very little.  But what they do have, they share gladly, and with an open heart.  You have to if you want to survive a typical Mongolian winter.  I mean, look at these faces:

Okay, granted.  The kids above were showing off thier new motorcycle (or rather, their dad's new motorcycle) but still.  The point is, transformative travel forces us to look deep inside ourselves, and ask "What do I really need to survive happily in this world?"  The answers are always simple--family, friends, basic food and shelter.  Me and so many of my friends have these things--in abundance--and yet we're filled with angst.  Is the lesson that we should sell all of our possessions and join a monastery?  Maybe.  Or maybe it's more like trying to be grateful for what we have, and recognize that it's all only temporary.  Maybe it's that not taking a shower more than once a week won't actually kill you.  Maybe it's realizing that food tastes better when it's made with genuine hospitality.  

For me, transformative travel is grounding.  It grounds me in who I am at my core.  Where I grew up, people were judged on what they had, how they looked, and who they knew.  But I know that those things aren't who I am at my core.  When I try to distill my essence into one question, it comes down to: How do I react?  How do I react when my stomach won't cooperate?  When schedules don't exist?  When something gets stolen (long story, but I didn't really need my iPad anyway).  I'm happy to report that more and more, I react with a, "Hmmm...okay.  That's interesting."  I need to give up the immediate labeling of situations as "good" or "bad."  They just are.  I need to get curious, and to lean into my discomfort.  All I can control is how I react.  And man, I'm here to tell you that THAT mindset is truly transformative.

So here's to a new personal and professional goal of trying to connect with as many different people from as many different cultures as I can.  I want to encourage my students to get out there and transform who they think they are--now--while they're young and their brains are still squishy.  Thank you, people of Mongolia, for teaching me a little more about you, and a lot more about me.

Stretching My Edge

 

Tomorrow, I leave for Mongolia.  Seems crazy to write that sentence, as this trip has been a long time coming, but alas, here it is.  I'll be spending three weeks there, part of the time as a member of the Bellingham Sister Cities delegation, and part of the time as a Western professor, working with high school kids on how climate change is affecting their nomadic way of life.  Most of our time will be spent in and around Tsetserleg, in the Arkhangai province, right in the middle of the country.  We're staying at the Fairfield Guest House, which from the description on the Internet, looks downright homey.  I like homey.  I also like running water and "Western-style" toilets (toilets that you sit on, as opposed to holes that you squat over).  I'm funny like that.

I'm not sure what this obsession is--to travel to places where I need to bring my own water filter and hypodermic needles.  It's always been difficult for me to sit still--to stay in one place for any length of time.  While some like to shop, and some like to garden, I like to go.  Anywhere.  Preferably wild.  I've tried to weave this love of the open road into my work life, to justify it somehow (morally and financially), and so far, I've been pretty successful.  Between Alaska and Asia, the past few years have racked up some frequent flyer miles.

That's actually the part I dread--the actual getting there.  I'm not a fan of the 14 hour flight.  I tend to get stuck near the back of the plane (once in the very back, with a seat that didn't recline).  Psychologically, there's something about being stuck inside a great metal tube, 35,000 feet above the surface of the earth, with 300 of my closest friends crammed in next to me.  The boredom can be overwhelming.  Although, I must admit, the Asian airlines are pretty swanky--plenty of food, my own remote control (complete with HBO, movies, television series, the works), hot towels, etc.  But after a point (for me, it's about 8 hours), I start to get a little--edgy.  I start to get that feeling like if I don't get off of this air-bus soon, I'm going to scream.  So I scream inside my head.  A lot.  I plot my next move, either to go to the bathroom (which is always fun on an airplane) or to troll the aisles, trying to prevent blood clots from forming in my legs and exploding when they reach my heart.

I remember a comedian once talking about how we all bitch and moan about air travel, when really, we should be amazed.  AMAZED!  Because if you think about it, it truly is miraculous.  But people are people, and they complain.  Complain that the Wi-Fi isn't working fast enough, that their seats are uncomfortable, that there's a delay because of thunderstorms in Dallas.  What they really should be thinking is, "I'm sitting in a chair--IN THE SKY!  This is AMAZING!"  And it is.  It's one of those things that I don't really want to understand (I never did take physics in high school).  I'm just glad that it's there and it works.  (Oh, and yes, I do see the irony of jetting about the world studying the effects of climate change on delicate ecosystems.  I'm working on that.)

According to my psychic, Jackie, Mongolia is a place that I'm going to fall in love with.  As she told me in July, "Oh, you'll be back.  Many times."  (So much for my carbon footprint, eh?  At least I recycle with evangelical fervor).  The woman who is organizing the trip, Bolor, is from Tsetserleg, but now lives in Bellingham.  She runs an amazing non-profit organization, Blue Sky Education Project, that raises funds to send Mongolian kids to school (Mongolia is known as the Land of the Blue Sky--sort of like how Montana is Big Sky Country--the places look almost identical). We'll be staying with many of Bolor's friends and relatives, sometimes in ger (or in Russian, yurt) camps like this:

I ask you.  Oh, and if you haven't seen the movie "The Cave of the Yellow Dog," you should.  It takes place in the area I'll be visiting, and it's a charming story.  Check it out on Netflix.  You won't be sorry.

As I sit here, typing away, I'm nervous.  I always get nervous before a big trip.  It's a combination I suppose of nerves and excitement.  I've done a pretty good job of packing ahead of time.  My dining room is the staging area, and I'm going to try to have everything packed before Sarah returns from theater camp this afternoon.  I'm taking my camera equipment (duh) and a carry-on with all of my essentials.  I'm also checking a bag that contains gifts for some of the schoolchildren we'll be working with, and some extra rolls of toilet paper (just in case).

I've heard it said that when you're in the midst of what you love to do--whether it's painting or running or skydiving or whatever, you enter a state of "flow."  I feel that flow when I'm on the road, doing work that I beleive is valuable.  I feel it when I'm taking pictures and telling stories and helping kids get a good education.  I feel it when I'm working in cooperation with others, and when I'm hugging my daughter.  Good ol' Sarah--she's excited for my trip.  She tells me that it will help me "stretch my edge," a phrase that she learned earlier this summer at her outdoor adventure camp.  Kids know a lot about stretching their edge.  Almost every day provides them new opportunities.  And the same goes for us, too, if we invite those opportunities in for a sit and a nice little chat.  "Why, hello, opportunity, it's nice to see you!  Have you lost weight--you look AMAZING!"

Wish me luck (and friendly yaks).

 

Bed, Blueberries, Beaches and Benevolence

Yesterday was a good day.

You know how when your body sometimes tells you that you need to slow down?  That you need to stop worrying about being "productive" and focus more on simply being "present"?  Well, that was yesterday for me.  When I woke up, it felt like someone had broken into my room in the middle of the night and laid one of those dental x-ray aprons across my chest.  I was feeling heavy.  A bit "lead-laden."  Since Big D Daddy was out of town, and Sarah was still asleep, I decided to do something so indulgent, so decadent, so grossly selfish that I shutter to even put it into words--I read a book in bed.  In the morning.  God help me, I didn't get up and go straight to e-mail, or laundry, breakfast, or (God forbid) the gym--I stayed right in my bed, with my x-ray apron pulled snuggly up to my chin, and simply read.  For pleasure.

I know.  It's insanity.

At about 10:30, my late-to-bed, late-to-rise child came to see what was going on.  When she saw me lying there reading, she said, "Oh, goody!  Snuggle time!"  And snuggle time we had--well into the afternoon.  Sarah made us toast and jam, and we ate breakfast in bed (sinful--I know!).  

Why is it that we (well, I) feel so goddam guilty about relaxing?  Why have I completely bought into the notion that unless you're busy--all the time--your net worth as a person begins to dip, and the powers that be cluck their collective tongues and whip out their notepads, officially placing you "on record"?  Part of it, I'm sure, comes from my job, where to be busy is to be earning your keep, "deserving" your rank, pulling your weight.  But come on--I know better.  The agreement to engage in too much work is ridiculous.  I doubt I will have inscribed upon my tombstone: "Here lies Lauren.  Man, she sure earned her keep."

But it's not just WORK work that I feel guilty about not doing--I feel guilty if my house isn't clean, the laundry isn't done, and the refrigerator isn't stocked (preferably with fresh, organic ingredients that I will lovingly craft into an amazing meal later that day).  WHERE DOES THIS COME FROM??  Certainly not the family I grew up in (not that we were slobs, but the producers of "Hoarders" would've taken a keen interest in our storage areas).  

I remember when I was in graduate school, I was fortunate enough to have Dr. Patti Lather as a professor for my qualitative research methods class.  We all looked up to Dr. Lather, and admired her for her outstanding body of work, especially in the area of feminist epistemology.  One day in class, she told us something that has stuck with me, "Sometimes, good enough is good enough."  Yeah.  Let that sink in a minute.  Sometimes, good enough is good enough.  Good.  Enough.  I tell this to my own students today, but I'll be good and goddamned if I don't have a difficult time prescribing to that myself.

So yesterday, I decided to take the day off.  No cooking.  No laundry.  No cleaning cat hair (that act alone will, someday very soon, drive me directly to the nut house).  At around 1:30 or so, Sarah was getting antsy, so I sent her outside to harvest our blueberry crops.  We planted three bushes last year, and after about a dozen or so rock-hard berries last summer, we're now seeing the bounty (funny what some fertilizer and some water will do).  She picked about 2 cups worth, which I told her to put in the refrigerator and maybe (maybe) we'd make some scones tomorrow.  But not today.

At about 3:00, Sarah suggested that we get ourselves up and go to the beach.  We had been talking about it, but frankly, our weather has been so wet and cold this summer, it didn't sound like such a good idea.  But yesterday, the sun burst forth, temperatures crept up close to 70, and I thought, "Oh, alright."  I shoved my x-ray apron aside, and we got ready to go to the beach.

Upon arrival, Sarah's engineering mind kicked in.  "I want to make a sailboat!"  Okay.  Sure.  Get on that.  Mommy needs to rest.  And by golly, Sarah did!  That kid, using only rocks, shells, some wood and some feathers, made not one, but three sailboats--and they actually sailed!  As she was making them, her thoughts naturally turned to God.  "Mommy, what does God look like?"  Personally, I think God looks like either, a) Bono, or b) a rotund African woman, but being the teacher that I am, I turned the question around and asked her what SHE thought God looked like.  "Well, I think he has a beard, but I'm not sure."  Okay.  Pretty establishment.  I asked her about Jesus, and she said, "Well, he was a real person, so he looked a little different.  Not as old."  Hmmmm.  I wondered where she was getting her information.  It's not something we talk a lot about at home.  Usually, when we say "Jesus," it's because something boiled over on the stove, or we came across a particularly large spider.  "But," Sarah said, "They're both really, really nice."

Which Testament have you been reading?

I remembered one of my very favorite David Sedaris essays, from "Me Talk Pretty One Day."  It's called "Jesus Shaves," and in it, Sedaris and his compadres are trying desperately to learn conversational French.  The are explaining the concept of Easter to one another, only with the vocabulary of four-year-olds.  When describing God, they tell each other, "He have of the long hair, and live above my head with your father."  "He nice, the Jesus."  

I like that in a deity.

Our conversation didn't go much beyond God and Jesus's physical appearance--there was no talk of the miracles performed, or of the spiritual game plan behind them.  Just beards.  When I told Sarah that sometimes, I like to imagine God as a woman, she could totally go along with that.  "Yeah, that could happen.  I mean, two women can get married, you know."  Yeah.  I know.

After Sarah's boats were launched (she was impressed to learn that Jesus was a carpenter, too), we took a break for dinner, but then returned to see if she could still see them, floating towards the horizon.  By the time we got back to the beach, however, the boats were long, long gone.  Sarah was proud of her handiwork, stating, "I hope they have a great adventure!  Maybe they'll sail all the way around the world!"  Maybe, Sarah.  Maybe.  Maybe they'll sail to a mystical land, where your worth is measured in terms of the hours you spend loafing around, in terms of the quality of your friendships, rather than in terms of the size of your retirement account.  Maybe, if those little boats are lucky, they'll sail to a land where it's okay to admit that you like Hamburger Helper, and watching TV, and wearing your pants more than once between washings.  I imagine that Heaven is a lot like that.  I imagine that Gabriel and Michael are rather light housekeepers, and that whipped cream and spray cheese are abundant (although I'm really not a fan of the spray cheese).  I imagine Heaven to be a place where you can unbutton your pants and take a deep breath, and not have to be worried about missing a workout.  I imagine Heaven being a lot like being a kid, where you can stay in bed until 1:30 in the afternoon, and nobody thinks you're lazy or strange.  

A girl can dream, can't she?