Occupation Occultation

With an unexpected Tuesday off, I decided to make the trip to Jerusalem’s Holocaust History Museum. In the West Bank, it’s easy to witness the suffering of the Palestinian people as a result of the Israeli occupation. I thought it would be good to get out and remember the suffering of the Jewish people that occurred as a result of the Nazi occupation of Europe. Any educated outsider who lives in the West Bank long enough is aware of the parallels that exist between the Nazi treatment of Jews and the Israeli treatment of Palestinians. Sara Roy, an American Jewish academic who is the child of Holocaust survivors writes in her book Failing Peace: “I have always felt that if people ‘outside’ knew, saw and lived – even in small part – what Palestinians do every day, they would be transformed and the boundaries between them would shift, creating possibilities that now remain abstract.”

I knew that directly facing the parallels between the two occupations would be a morally jarring experience.

My day started at the Qalandia checkpoint, which must be passed through to get into Jerusalem from Ramallah. Qalandia is a gloomy place. Sometimes it’s easy to get through – a matter of 15 minutes – and other times, like today, it’s an hour-long ordeal of metal bars and detectors and faces behind glass. Qalandia is intentionally unpredictable, irritating, and controlling. It will quickly turn your attitude from upbeat to anger. After 20 minutes, the line I had chosen still wasn’t moving, for reasons unknown. When standing in line, you can’t see the soldiers behind the glass ahead; the only way to know to enter is by a clicking noise that indicates that someone has released the turnstile. Three people, maximum, get through at a time. Sometimes it’s one. Or like today, it’s none.

There are about 30 of us waiting in this motionless line; through the glass to our left and right are other lines of 30+ people. The people in my line start getting restless, including me. There’s no reason to hold us up, except to remind everyone who is at the mercy of whom. In front of me, older men and women stand solemnly silent. They’ve been dealing with this for a long time. Finally, a Palestinian man starts banging on a locked metal door next to the turnstile. He continues banging. No response. I feel like joining him, but instead I move to a different line, thinking the soldiers checking the first line must have decided to go to coffee without telling anyone. Naturally. We all stand there like idiots, unable to access the information we need to make a basic decision on which line to choose to get to our destination. My impatience is turning into anger and sadness at this reality and the larger picture that it reflects. I’m reconsidering my trip to the Holocaust museum. Why should I honor the past suffering of a people who are now inflicting suffering onto another?

Finally, the line I was previously in starts moving, as does my current one. As I wait in the turnstile to enter the space for showing passports and permits, I can hear the harsh tone of the soldier on the other side of the glass. He is yelling at an older Palestinian man through the glass. The man just bows his head, continuing to place his permit against the thick glass. The soldier looks about 18 years old. My blood boils as I watch this 18-year-old boy dishonor and attempt to humiliate a man far into his years, who has probably already suffered plenty at the hands of Israelis. I enter I.D. check with two young Palestinian men; the soldier yells at them too. Not every Israeli soldier is like this, but those that are breathe ignorance and perpetuate hate. He doesn’t scream at me, the foreigner, but I scowl at him. I want to ask him why he’s yelling at the Palestinians, why the other line wasn’t moving, why . . . but I don’t. The worst part about being a foreigner here is recognizing your impotence to do anything about the injustice you see all around you. And, worse, knowing your country blindly supports it.

After an hour, I make it through the checkpoint and look for the buses that wait on the other side to carry us to Jerusalem. The IDF have detained a group of four young men. Flustered and still angry, I go back and forth about whether or not to visit the Holocaust museum after a direct experience with the Israeli occupation this morning. I go anyway.

Once in the museum, the discomfort begins. The parallels between Nazi occupation of Europe and its treatment of Jews and the present Israeli occupation of Palestine and its treatment of Palestinians are glaring. I’m close to tears several times, not because of the past suffering of the Jews, but rather the recognition of the hate that has been perpetuated long after the Holocaust’s end. In her essay Living with the Holocaust, Sara Roy writes:

“Israel's occupation of the Palestinians is not the moral equivalent of the Nazi genocide of the Jews. But it does not have to be. No, this is not genocide, but it is repression, and it is brutal. And it has become frighteningly natural. Occupation is about the domination and dispossession of one people by another. It is about the destruction of their property and the destruction of their soul. Occupation aims, at its core, to deny Palestinians their humanity by denying them the right to determine their existence, to live normal lives in their own homes. Occupation is humiliation. It is despair and desperation. And just as there is no moral equivalence or symmetry between the Holocaust and the occupation, so there is no moral equivalence or symmetry between the occupier and the occupied, no matter how much we as Jews regard ourselves as victims.”

As I walk around and read the panels explaining the displays behind them, I’m shocked, dumbfounded, overwhelmed. It hits me that if the words such as Jews and Nazi occupation are removed and replaced with Palestinians and Zionism, the history being told remains true for the present. One panel reads:

“Despoiling the Jews was an integral part of the Nazi policy. Property and possessions of Europe’s Jews, who had been part of their countries’ economic and cultural life for hundreds of years, were systematically plundered. With their rise to power, the Nazis progressively began banishing Jews from economic life, and, in 1938, established confiscation of Jewish property into law.”

Today . . .

“Despoiling the Palestinians is an integral part of the Zionist policy. Property and possessions of Palestinians, who had been part of their countries’ economic and cultural life for hundreds of years, are systematically plundered. With their rise to power, the Israelis progressively began banishing Palestinians from economic life, and, in 1948 - , established confiscation of Palestinian property into law.”

“In Eastern Europe, the Germans incarcerated Jews in severely overcrowded ghettos, behind forces and walls. They cut the Jews off from their surroundings and their sources of livelihood, and condemned them to a life of humiliation, poverty, degeneration and death.”

An excerpt on Jewish ghettos under Nazi occupation: “surrounded by walls, and under strict and brutal surveillance, the Jews were cut off from the outside world.”

Palestinians live behind forces and walls. They live under strict and sometime brutal surveillance. Palestinian communities have been split in half by cement walls, cut off from their families and friends. Palestinian landowners and farmers have been cut off from their sources of livelihood – denied of their land and water. Palestinians’ homes continue to be demolished by Israeli forces. Palestinians constantly suffer humiliation, poverty, degeneration, and death. Just look at Gaza.

Familiar words and present day realities were everywhere in that museum – “refugee camps, expropriation of land, occupation.” Palestinians live in the shadow of the Holocaust; they are the heirs of this tragic human history.

I cannot eloquently put into words the moral discomfort, and at times, repulsion, I felt walking through that museum. It’s like trying to grasp the worst of humanity, because only through knowledge and truth can we overcome it, but feeling terribly afraid of full comprehension. This truth is so ugly. No wonder why most people prefer to stay blind, ignorant. We are all guilty.

________________

I return to my side of the wall and to confusion, naturally. I had fallen asleep on the bus ride home – my mind exhausted from thought and emotion. I wake up to a bus that hasn’t moved in awhile, and jammed traffic as far as I can see. I get off the bus with the rest of the Palestinians, following their lead, not really knowing what’s happening or where we’re headed. We’re just outside the checkpoint again, and for some reason, all movement has ceased. A lot of people are walking – an exodus on foot from vehicles and towards Ramallah. We continue walking for 15 minutes. The road leading to Ramallah is motionless. No traffic moves on it. The side of the road headed to the checkpoint is packed tight with cars. The bumper-to-bumper traffic extends for at least two kilometers. I’m still clueless as to what is happening, but everyone around me seems to think it’s normal. After a kilometer or so, a man points me to a bus that will take me into the city’s center. I ask him what’s going on, and try to memorize the word he says since I don’t know its meaning. When I get home, I ask the Palestinian couple I live with what the word means and I explain what I saw. “Ahh,” they say, “they shut down the checkpoint. That’s normal. Happens all the time.”

________________

“Today, Jewish identity is linked, willingly or not, to Palestinian suffering, and this suffering is now an irrevocable part of our collective memory and an intimate part of our experience, together with the Holocaust and Israel. The question then arises, How are we to celebrate our Jewishness while others are being oppressed? . . . . “What have we as a people made from our suffering and perhaps more importantly, what are we to do with our fear? Are we locked into repeating our past while continuously denying it? . . . . if we hate, then Hitler wins.” Sara Roy

A bit of humanity in Hebron . . . of all places

Today I took a trip south to Hebron. Hebron is a controversial city, in which some hundred number of Jewish settlers have taken residence in the old portion of the city, often right on top of the Palestinians (see picture below). Hebron is home to the supposed tombs of Abraham and the rest of the biblical patriarch and matriarch gang, so it’s a holy site for Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. Besides religious reasons (go figure), it’s also controversial because of the way Jewish settlers have treated the Palestinian residents over the years. The city is divided into two areas of control, H1 and H2. The Israeli military controls H2, the old city of Hebron where the tombs are located and where Jewish settlers have taken residence. Over the years, due to the burden of living with curfews, settler harassment, checkpoints, and a foreign military presence, the Palestinians have mostly moved out of H2, leaving the old city of Hebron devoid of its former life.

I can confirm. Old city Hebron is a. ghost. town. It’s eerily quiet. There are only a few Palestinian shops still open, and they rarely have customers. We chatted over tea with one shop owner, Munir, located just outside the Tomb of the Patriarchs. He has a wealth of knowledge on all that has happened in Hebron old city over the years; he also has a great sense of humor about it all. I left Hebron with the same attitude, actually.

One of the streets that lead to the tomb is divided into two lanes by a short concrete barrier. Palestinians walk on one side, Jewish on the other (see picture below). Now, this barrier is 3 feet tall, maximum. Jews and Palestinians can easily see the other walking; in fact, they could give each other high fives over this barrier (one day?). So, what’s the point in having it?? There are a few soldiers standing around making sure everyone stays on their designated side, but REALLY people!? We have to split them up like little children? We have to make this separation even more artificial? One little boy, Ahmed, decided he was going to walk down the Jewish side with us (as foreigners we can choose either side to walk down). The soldiers ignored his actions at first, maybe because he was walking with us, but once he arrived to their “booth,” they shooed him onto the Arab side. I think he must do this a lot, because they weren’t that serious about shooing him. Thanks to Ahmed for driving home the idiocy of the barriers we build!

About the Israeli soldiers hanging around on this day. Let me restate that old city Hebron is a. ghost. town. In other words, the Israeli soldiers are beyond bored. They have no real unrest to tamp down. Since the streets are empty, there are no suspicious characters to intimidate. So, the Israeli soldiers on this day were pretty much like every other soldier around the world - killing time on some lame assignment. Or, flirting with American girls that walk by. . .

I’ve seen enough to be biased. I’m fully against the occupation and I hope that in the near future Israeli soldiers are not permitted to enter Palestine. But today, in Hebron, I wasn’t able to just throw the IDF into the “bad guy” category (they usually make it pretty easy). Today, they – the “occupier,” the “bad guy” - were much more human to me than they normally seem behind thick glass or sternly demanding IDs at random intersections.

My friends and I were the only people walking around the ghost town this afternoon. Two Israeli soldiers shuffled about on top of a roof nearby where we were standing. I’m certain we were the only people they’d seen in hours, so they were naturally curious. We’re standing in the middle of a deserted round a bout, and we hear from a distance:

“Where you from?” (thick accent; rising intonation rather than the usual bark)

We look up at the soldiers, and move toward the building on which they’re standing.

He asks again: “Where you from?”

Us: “We’re from America”

Soldier: “America?”

-Pause. The two boys exchange something in muffled tones. And out comes. . .

Soldier: “You love Israel?”

-I imagine the previous muffled conversation was about whether or not to ask such a stupid question. Not like they could leave the roof and take us home or anything, so why not leave us totally unimpressed. We’re not sure how to reply to this, because a) we know what they want to hear and, well, they do have guns and power b) it’s one of the dumbest questions we’ve been asked in awhile.

Me: “No, I’m from America. I only love my own country.”

-Even getting that out was hard. Love is a pretty strong word, and my feelings for my country are much more nuanced.

Soldiers: giggles

Me: “And you’re welcome . . . for that gun and for your uniform since my country paid for it.”

I know, I know - such a bratty third grader thing to say, but I couldn’t resist after his ignorant, ethnocentric question. But in the end, we were laughing with the two soldiers. Everywhere we went that day, the Israeli soldiers asked “where you from?” and tried to make conversation.

Now, some Palestinian sympathizers would be quick to make the case that the Israeli soldiers were only being friendly to gain legitimacy with foreigners, when in reality they are actually really evil and do evil things. And while I’m absolutely certain that as a whole the IDF have done horrible things to Palestinians, today they were just boys. Just curious, bored, 19 year old boys flirting with American girls because it’s the most excitement they’ve had in weeks. I bet some of them don’t fully understand what they’re doing, politically, morally, whatever, and maybe some of them understand but also think it’s wrong. Today, in Hebron old city, they were human. And that’s something that’s easily forgotten in the midst of so much “us” versus “them.” We’re all guilty of the destruction that stems from that mentality. 

Above live the Jewish settlers. They throw trash down.
 There hasn't always been a net there.

Barrier. Jews to the left, Arabs to the right. Sound familiar? It's been done before.

P.S. I tried to add the location of this entry via a google map tool, but it only listed "Hebron, Israel"as an option. Ekh. Zionism.

Subtle Yet Pervasive

There’s something about the weather in Ramallah tonight that is especially eerie. It’s chilly, gusts of wind keep slamming my balcony doors together, and the clouds overhead are moving so fast that it’s spooky. My apartment is making new noises and the doors in the house are moving with the wind flowing through. I just heard a cat screech loudly outside, making this night more like the setting for an old-fashioned scary movie than a typical Ramallah evening.

This doesn’t bode well for my mind. I’m processing so much. So much that some aspect of the Israeli/Palestinian issue has been in my dreams every night lately. For the last two weeks, my dreams have been very vivid, often waking me up. One night I dreamt that Jewish settlers were throwing stones at me, then at children, and I was paralyzed with shock, then outrage. . . then I woke up. On other nights, I couldn’t remember exactly what I dreamt, but I woke up with my mind conflicted by my lack of ability to do anything about everything happening here. I see and hear so much that I’m not morally or politically comfortable with, but I’m in no position to act on anything I’m taking in. I think they call it cognitive dissonance. It could just be that my mind is on backlog with all of the thoughts I am working through, and is now using my sleeping hours to continue processing, saving, internalizing.

Just like a haunted house, or scary movie, or otherworldly feeling, the Israeli occupation, absolutely wrong on all levels, causes the observer great distress and discomfort, but yet, it’s often so . . . subtle. Not always - sometimes it’s really in your face, like the Qalandia checkpoint, or when Israeli soldiers pop up out of nowhere and shut down an intersection in the middle of the West Bank for a “flying” checkpoint. No denying the IDF is king of these parts (far inside the 67 borders, be certain). But there are all these subtle, insidious, quietly evil signs of occupation that are as disturbing, if not more so, than the in your face soldiers-with-big-guns-shouting-in-Hebrew signs of occupation. Like, Israeli settlements on the top of hills (good security strategy) deep inside the West Bank, that are marked by signs in Hebrew deep inside the West Bank, that have a road leading to them built by the Israelis deep inside the West Bank, roads which have light posts with the Israeli flag on each of them deep inside the West Bank, that, from the bottom of the hills, where the Palestinians live, in a country they aren’t even allowed to call official, one looks to the top of the hills, above the layers of olive trees that the Palestinians have cultivated for centuries, and one sees a big, bold Israeli flag flapping in the wind amid the red roofs of settlements, deep inside the West Bank.

As I was noticing all of these subtle signs of occupation during a two-hour bus ride to the northern city of Jenin and back, I kept thinking about the power of each one of these reminders, or, as they are more popularly known, “facts on the ground.” I kept glancing at the Palestinian passengers in the bus with me to see if they too looked up as we passed by yet another Israeli settlement, or if they too were curious as to why the IDF had choked off an intersection with their dull brown jeeps and camouflaged soldiers. Nope. Just me quietly disturbed/sad/mad/confused/conflicted/add emotion here. Powerful, yes. So powerful are these signs of occupation that they’re becoming normal. “Accept this.” “Accept occupation.” “Accept that you will never have your own country.” “We aren’t going anywhere – in fact, we’re everywhere, as you can see.”

Subtle yet pervasive. That’s a powerful strategy. 

Take-aways from a Discussion with Sandy Tolan

Last night I went to a book discussion event held by Sandy Tolan, author of “The Lemon Tree: An Arab, A Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East.” You can read about Tolan here http://sandytolan.com/about and more on “The Lemon Tree” here http://sandytolan.com/the-lemon-tree, but basically it’s a historical narrative of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict told via the collision of two families and two histories – one Israeli and one Palestinian. The book was recommended to me before coming here, and I used it as a “primer” of sorts - an entry narrative into the more than half-century-old conflict that I never learned about growing up, nor during my Latin America focused academic studies.

Of course, I had my copy of the book signed. I also learned that Tolan is living in Ramallah similarly to me, which means I will likely see him around since this place is so small. All of these things are cool in their own right, but the most important impression that I took away stemmed from Tolan’s personal journey into the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. He, like me, was born in the U.S. Midwest, was raised Catholic, and only has vague memories of any mention of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Such a mention could be summed up as “the Jews needed a homeland after such mind-shocking persecution, and in Palestine (er, Israel), they found one.” No reason to question that.

My parents were undoubtedly progressive and critical thinkers in the sea of conservative America, and as a child I can remember heavy conversations after nightly news with Dan Rather, but the Israeli/Palestinian conflict never stuck out as a particularly important world headline. Why should it, after all? We had no ancestral connection to either side, and it wasn’t at the heart of our nation’s foreign affairs. I can’t remember the first time I heard “Palestine,” but I can promise you it wasn’t before college. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I spent my college years studying Latin America, so news of Israel/Palestine was just headlines that didn’t stay in my mind for long.

Listening to Tolan talk about his former ignorant background on the conflict, and then listening to him speak passionately about his recent and current involvement in this small but twisted part of the world, made me feel better about my own presence here. I often feel ashamed of my lack of historical knowledge on Palestine when I’m sharing food or drink with Palestinians, Palestinian Americans, or Americans with Middle Eastern academic backgrounds. I didn’t grow up reading Mahmoud Darwish, and Edward Said or Sara Roy was never on my syllabi in college. And even though I’m devouring relevant literature on the Israel/Palestinian conflict, I still have a lot to learn. But I’m coming around to the idea that coming in with fresh eyes is an advantage. Cynicism, apathy, boredom, numbness, and jadedness are pretty abundant here – rightfully so. It’s too early to tell the impressions I will take away from my time in Palestine, but I’d like to think that the fact that I’m taking away an impression is important.

I come from the land of Palestinian ignorance. And I’ll go back, at a minimum, with an understanding of what the word “occupation” means for Palestinians. That’s more than what 95% of Americans know. And who knows, maybe this is the first encounter of a life long relationship. It will certainly shape the rest of my life. This place has a force unlike any other country I’ve spent time in.  

All Signs Point to Palestine

I can remember thinking to myself not too long ago that I would never want to work on anything having to do with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Mostly because I was flat out uneducated on the issue, but also because I thought “Aren't there enough people working on that issue? What’s the use in one more person getting involved in something that appears intractable?” I knew some basics about the conflict, but not enough to have an opinion. I was a Latin America girl – I spent high school and college learning Spanish and the history of ancient Latin American civilizations and conquistadors. I planned on spending my life lying in a hammock and taking inspiration from Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Che Guevara's diaries when I wasn’t busy managing education or economic development projects in rural Nicaragua or Bolivia.

But something happened along the way that changed my course. During my three month, solo backpacking trip through Europe, I jumped at an opportunity to step outside of my cultural comfort zone. Andalucia – southern Spain – and its Moorish architecture and mosques turned churches stunned me. Two civilizations blended, perhaps clashed, into a fascinating, eye-pleasing landscape. I knew the Spanish one. I wanted to know the other one. Flights to Casablanca, Morocco from Madrid were cheap, and I bought a round trip without the slightest hesitation. Morocco, as European as it may be, was a new civilization for me - a different language, history, and human story, about which I knew nothing. From that trip I recognized a need to learn about the world outside of the Western Hemisphere.

By the time I moved to D.C., I had mastered the Spanish language. I no longer had to think to speak Spanish. It was time to move on to language numero dos. Stuck between French and Arabic, I finally decided I should go for the tough one first, before I lose such ambition. Then, I needed a summer internship. Then, I started meeting people who knew people in Palestine. Then, I learned of large foreign aid disbursements in Palestine. Then, my other internship plan fell through. All signs pointed to Palestine.

So here I am. Immersing myself in modern history’s largest foreign affairs dilemma after claiming I wanted nothing to do with it. And quite honestly, I didn’t. I didn’t come here to become an activist, to throw myself in front of bulldozers, to go to Gaza (although it's tempting), to protest with the Palestinians, or to sympathize with one side more than the other. I came here to learn the human story behind all the headlines. Politics so infrequently reflects the realities of the common human being. 

Most foreigners that come here - nearly all of them that I’ve met - arrive with an opinion already etched in stone. Most foreigners are not totally foreign to this conflict; they usually have a stake of some sort. I had the advantage of arriving here as fairly impartial, and frankly, pretty politically and historically ignorant of all things Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

Three weeks, two historical books, and dozens of checkpoint turnstiles in, I am no longer impartial. I’m trying to stay balanced in opinion, but the combination of historical illegitimacy and hypocrisy and present day Israeli politics inevitably provokes shock, and a bit of disgust and outrage – even for the less opinionated like me. I had no idea what occupation really meant, and I still have much to learn, but with just my tip-of-the-iceberg experience, I can understand why Palestinians have resorted to violence to achieve the ends they have sought. I have yet to visit some of the more contentious areas in the West Bank, or see bullet-pocked and bulldozed Palestinian homes - and I’ll never live to experience an Israeli raid on my home in the middle of the night for no legitimate or expressed reason and a denial of my human rights – but I have a feeling the more I see, the more I’ll feel. At the suggestion of a friend, I’m planning to end my time here by spending a weekend on a Jewish kibbutz in order to round out my experience a little more.

I miss this experience. I miss riding triple on an old moto without helmets on rocky roads winding the mountains of northern Nicaragua, skidding around and thinking that we were certainly going to crash. The guy on the back of the moto in this photo, Leonardo, would always drive really fast just to scare me, treating potholes like ramps and getting some "air," while I screamed at him to slow down.

Their intent was always to freak out the foreign girl. There was a strip of our daily travel that was deep in the mountain forest, and we could always hear the howler monkeys as we passed. My coworkers were determined to convince me that the shrieks actually belonged to gorillas and there were incidents of them emerging from the forest to attack passing vehicles.

I miss being squeezed between two of my male Nicaraguan colleagues in our beat up truck, as they competed for the other earbud to my Ipod and over who could give the best compliments. I miss afternoons spent trying to get our truck up muddy hillside roads, which requires a lot of initial speed and two hours of up . . . and slow slide back down. I miss having to submit to the circumstance around me, forced to accept that I had no control over the situation and may as well find a comfortable tree stump to sit on and wait.

I'm so bad at letting go of my false sense of control when I am living in the U.S. I have this mentality that it's my country, my territory, and so I should have greater control over my circumstance here. I am surrounded by all of this technology that ensures I get what I want, when I need it, and exactly how I like it. If I have a problem, there is a number I can call, a service I can solicit, a quick solution. If I am lonely, I can just pick up my phone, text someone, and create a sense of human interaction.

We have successfully made human existence less vulnerable to the whims of the universe, but I can't help but think we've lost a lot in the process.

Ironic how sometimes in life we are called to be strong by being vulnerable. We have this concept that strong means unflinching, impenetrable, stoic, and tough. But if we only offer that version of strong, we shut the door on so much of the human experience. We miss out on our shared humanity. I've found that out of vulnerability can emerge really great things - gems of wisdom, overwhelming happiness, relationships, and peace. Most importantly, I am a better friend when I expose exactly who I am - flaws, hang-ups, inner conflicts, all the usual junk floating just beneath the surface.

Because, who the hell wants to tell their stories and share their thoughts with someone unable to relate? Someone who seems to have all their crap together? C'mon, none of us are there and we never will be. That's why there is death. So let's take our common existence and build on it.

Maybe tough is overrated.

The Unease of Easy

I've always wondered what it's like to be weak, to not handle an unpleasant situation in the most upright, truthful, graceful way. I usually take the higher route, albeit with a few slips, but I've never decided "screw it, I want to take the easy path in dealing with this" and, well, not deal with it all. Until recently.

The story is this: something unpleasant happened to me. I could have dealt with it properly and honestly like I usually do, but I was tired of striving to be good at everything and be strong all the time. So I let myself be weak, and I avoided the truth and made up my own reality that better fit my image of how things should have happened or how things should be. Contrary to my weekly yoga practice, I resisted the unpleasantness of this passing moment in my life. I didn't use my breath. I fought. I relived moments long gone. I was that cartoon character, punching the air around me, so caught up in adrenaline and the culmination of anger that I didn't even notice the other person, my scapegoat, had left. I was fighting myself.

I learned there is nothing at all easy about the "easy" path. Rather, I just ended up with all this negative energy and a lot of shame. The easy path didn't excuse me from dealing with unpleasantness, it just prolonged it. And in prolonging that moment when I would have to accept a reality I didn't like, I made it harder on myself. The truth got heavier, and the shame of having taken the lower path made me smaller. I contracted. I was less than the full person I am quite capable of being. As a dear confidant told me, I had "lost the twinkle" in my eyes.

This was all very temporary - a period of a month or so. But it provided a lot of insight into how uneasy the easy path can make a person. Had I accepted unpleasantness from the moment it was pushed onto me, it would have hurt, but it would have been over and I would felt proud of the way I had handled the situation. Shame, I learned, is a very strong, corrosive emotion and much harder to carry on a daily basis than any uncomfortable truth.

In yoga, we hold poses long enough that it becomes uncomfortable. My body starts trembling and my mind looks for an escape. So many times in a pose, my mind is:

". . . how can I make this easier, how can I quit this pose without being alone (since everyone else is still holding the pose), what can I do instead of be in this moment, ugh I hate this pose, why am I here, this is stupid, why is this not easier . . ."

My mind seems to conspire against me in a tough moment, signaling that I should just quit and do something easier. My body responds by falling out of the pose, or moving a lot. My body, my life, cannot maintain stillness without the quiet of my mind. I look around and the people next to me are still holding their pose. Why is this so easy for them? Why aren't they struggling like me?

Do you get it? Yoga is a metaphor for life. In my pose, in that moment when I feel uncomfortable and look for an escape, my teacher's voice in the background reminds me: use your breath. If you look at your neighbor to compare, you will lose focus and fall out of the pose. If you let your mind talk you out of this pose, your body will fail you. Then, you will feel frustrated and angry. If you let yourself fall apart, everything around you will fall apart.You are strong enough to power through this moment. Prove it to yourself.

This is just a moment and it too shall pass.

I had a conversation today that directly connects to the blog post below.

The maintenance man at my new apartment is a Cameroonian political asylee, meaning he was granted protection in the United States due to an actual experience of or fear of certain religious, political or racial persecution in his home country. He told a friend and me his story of political torture in Cameroon, how he got out, about his family still living there, how he hasn't kissed his wife or children since 2006 when he fled, how he used to be a seaman but is deathly afraid of planes, etc. He showed us his crooked finger, part of the bone still shattered, where they tortured him with pliers. His eyes were sincere, grateful, sad, full of his life story. We asked him if he likes living in the U.S. We wanted to know is he was happy, to which he replied: all I want is a long life with my family. I am grateful for every day of life in which I can live without fear of death.

Do you know where I am going with this? That's all he wanted. Life. Not a certain kind or a certain set-up or a certain number of years or a specific way or path or filled with certain things. He just wanted breath in his lungs, movement in his body, food to eat, a place to feel home, loved ones to endure it with.

My eyes got a little misty at his reply to happiness. It's so simple and grateful. Here I am, counting up all of my "points," calculating my good and bad, getting frustrated when a couple of things are "off" in my life, restlessly striving toward some aim of perfection that I (and my society) have created for myself, and complaining.

Wake. Up. Jessi.

The only hope I have is that I have chosen a career that will continually humble me and remind me of how shallow and petty I can be.

New Year Reflections

In between first year semesters of graduate school, I’ve been able to wind down a bit. The rush is coming again soon, and I’ve taken some time to read humbling books and do a little soul searching and reflection after many months away from a single profound thought on life. I’ve been licking wounds lately, contemplating a disappoint in an area of life that I can’t seem to get right, and probably won’t ever get right due to the career choice I have made.

I’ve been dwelling too much and letting it get me down, and it is time to turn my thoughts around. My favorite line in the movie “Vanilla Sky” is by the character Sofia: “every passing moment is another chance to turn it all around.” We can change our lives by changing the way we perceive our obstacles and our circumstances. It’s a profound decision in a brief moment that can change it all. A good friend recently reminded me that every time she has gone through this type of disappointment, she has been transformed and come out a better person than she was before. Absolutely true in my experience. My mom recently told me “nobody’s life is perfect. Ask around and I’ll bet you see there is one area in everyone’s life that they are not satisfied with.” I look at mine and absolutely everything, EVERYTHING, but one thing, is right. It’s better than right. It’s totally amazing!

So on that train of thought, I got to thinking about the last year in my life and I am blown away by the magic of it. Wouldn’t it be good for all of us to dedicate a chunk of time at the end of every year to reflect on the transformation within us in just a brief year of the many years that life is for most of us? A year is so brief, but so much can happen and change. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone kept track and reminded us, awakening us from our mental and spiritual slumber and lazy state of mind?

About this time one year ago, I was hiking on top of a glacier in southern Argentina with my friend Macala. I hiked a freakin’ glacier! Glorious! It wasn’t even on my list of things to do! I spent New Years in Mendoza, Argentina hiking around the Andes Mountains, contemplating a skydive, and toasting cheap champagne with my traveling buddy, wondering what the next year would teach me.

I applied to graduate school, unsure of the path I was on, starting to doubt whether what I wanted to do with my life was even a legit career. I was humbled, insecure, confused and worried. I saw graduate school as a way to confirm the path I was on. After four months spent analyzing every single line in every single essay, I sent everything off and tucked that dream away. Best not to hope too much.

Back to Missouri, where I stayed for a month while planning a move to DC. Even if I didn’t get grad school, I was going to get somewhere. To DC, where I stayed with a family who would take me in like one of their own, becoming a second family and place to retreat when the city life got to me.

Found a nice paying gig at a restaurant way above my level of sophistication. Not sure why they let me in. I tried to memorize wines, aperitifs, and . . . what the hell are sun chokes and dendi sauce? Still a Missouri girl in some ways.

Got accepted into every graduate school to which I applied; even one of the most highly selective programs, where I was one of 95 candidates. I can still feel that glory. It was the confirmation for which I had been yearning. I hadn’t been wasting my time all these years, traveling to other countries doing volunteer work! Then, I got a scholarship to one of the schools. OH MY GOD. Take my breath away, jump on the bed, cry for joy, kind of happiness. That phone call to my parents was one of the greatest moments in my life.

I reconnected with a friend from my past who was living in DC, who offered me a deal on rent I couldn’t refuse. The story is random, hilarious and what life is made of. We got along so well that a temporary arrangement has become long-term. Hadn’t seen or talked to him in seven years, and now he’s my roommate.

I fell in love. After many years without it, I remembered how amazing it feels to be adored and to adore someone. It was so, so, so good. And then I lost it.

I started graduate school and felt more overwhelmed than I ever have in life. Hello, stress. I made an incredible friend, Jenny, who is like me in so many ways it is frightening – right down to our damn initials. It’s third grade sort of girlie connection. Even our professors confuse us. I found a group of people that perceive the world in the same way that I do. I found camaraderie after many years of searching.

I trained for and ran my first marathon - 26.2!!! - in a time I am proud of: 4:30. I pushed my body through limits it has never crossed, and my body stayed strong during 5 months of wear and tear. I formed an incredible relationship with my body, and decided it deserved restoration for all of its hard work. Enter yoga. I discovered a yoga practice that fulfills me physically and mentally. I found an exercise that restores my inner and outer.

I began studying my third language, turning scribbles into sounds and letters, forming a new connection and respect between me and people from a different part of the world. I studied with cab drivers at 1:00 in the morning on my way home from work. Scribbles to phonetics, strangers to friends, unknown to respect.

I saw New York at Christmas, just like in the movies. I stayed in a high rise in New York with an equally blessed friend of mine from my days in Nicaragua. I reconnected with my Nicaraguan expat friends and strengthened my friendship with each of them.

I welcomed so many new, incredible people into my life. Each on his or her own determined, ambitious, inspirational path in life. Each doing his or her own part to chip away at the coldness and cruelness in the world; each cultivating a skill that will help him or her make the world a better place in a small way. They are soldiers, nurses, intelligence officers, international law students, policy wonks, development wanna-bes or practitioners, and story-tellers and writers.

I found a place to call home, a city that has everything I want right now. I found an apartment in my favorite part of that city, next to the family I love, the new friends in my life, the diversity I crave, and the coffee shops and dive bars I need.

Maybe I lost in love. Maybe the tally marks are beginning to take their toll. Maybe I am tired of pretending I care about how the wine pours into a glass or whether its Sancerre or Chablis or Blau & Blau just for a paycheck. But if those are the only problems I have in a year full of monumental, positive, glorious changes that have brought me a huge amount of happiness and joy . . . a hundred pluses and one minus = still a lot of pluses.

May this blog entry be a motivation for you to do the same for your own year. Take time to reflect on all the magic. Look at the negative too, and find the good that came from it. I bet you still have more pluses than minuses.

How can you make new year resolutions without reflecting on the power of a year in your life?

Just when I thought maybe I was losing the ability to feel strong emotions for anything, happiness or anger or sadness, someone served to show me that I can still be totally overwhelmed by my emotions. At the most inconvenient time. Not sure to take this as a positive reminder or a damning reality.

Ooh life, you are full of ups and downs and so many in-betweens. Always asking me to prove that I can. Always requiring that I push forward and find my inner strength. Sometimes I think it might be nice to give up every now and then, to be weak and let the whole world know it. Crawl to a safe place and stay there. But, that just never seems like a real option. So, here we go. May I amaze myself.

26.2 Miles Further

Wow. One day after running my first marathon and I feel amazing. I feel like I can do anything today. Well, that’s not true. I am unable to stop smiling.

After 5 months of training 3 and 4 times a week; forfeiting my weekend nights in order to be in bed early so I could run 8, 12, 15, 20 miles at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning in 90% humidity with a cruel sun beating down on me and my running partner (or a 2 hour run in the pouring rain – oh yes we did and no it was not liberating); and having to manage this huge commitment around full time graduate school, twenty hour work weeks, and Arabic classes; fighting sore muscles week after week and a strained IT-band; I did it. I ran a freaking marathon!!! And I never walked once!! I never gave up!!

Let’s talk about those last 6 miles. Miles 20 – 22 were hard. We were crossing a seemingly interminable bridge, the elements were whipping us around, and half the runners around me were walking. It was discouraging and it was silent. Everyone had lost energy and the adrenaline was gone. Disappointment was abundant on that bridge. It was every woman for herself now.

Miles 22 – 26 were insane. They were the ultimate test of perseverance. I have never felt such a mix of physical and mental exhaustion and, predominantly, fear of failure. I had missed my supporters on mile 19 and therefore hadn’t had any calories since mile 15 (they had all my Clif bars and gels). I was running on empty and my head was foggy. I felt light-headed and couldn’t concentrate to get back into my running zone. I needed food so desperately that I fought back tears of frustration. At one point, I screamed out for food and a runner threw me some jelly beans. Thanks mystery man. I nearly ate the paper wrapper. No shame.

With my body running on empty, all I had left was head and heart. So, as they say, I dug deep. I spent a mile doubting I could finish the race without walking. Then I spent a half-mile talking myself out of walking, reminding myself that training had shown me that walking is just as painful as running after 20 miles. May as well endure the pain running and get this marathon over with. Finally, I went back to the most important lesson I had taken away from 5 months of marathon training. Progress is painful and pain is progress. Pain is important and can be a positive force in our lives. Pain is a teacher.

So, as one sign read in those last 3 miles read, I “embraced the suck.” When I saw the crowds and heard the cheering at the finish line, I felt a euphoria coming over me. “Holy crap! Here it is! It’s over!” The last 0.2 mile was a hill, but I embraced that too. I sprinted up that damn hill and across the finish line. Where the hell did that energy come from? The human body is incredible.

Everyone told me that I would want to run another marathon after my first one. Had someone said that to me during mile 20-26 or right after finishing, I probably would have replied with some vulgarities. I spent 3 miles cussing my decision to run a “stupid ^%*$%#@” marathon. But today, the morning after, I am thinking it isn’t such a crazy idea. Maybe I will run a marathon again someday. First though, I need to get back to some friendships and other sources of happiness that I’ve neglected for three months.

Undoubtedly, running 26.2 miles was one of the most awesome things I have ever done. I learned so much about my body (mostly that it’s amazing) and even feel quite natural talking to, say, my knee or treating my body like a good friend. Yes, I have a relationship with my body. It has been awfully supportive of my stupid ideas (running 26.2 miles). We are buds.

I also kicked an inhaler habit during my training. Since being diagnosed with asthma at 8 years old, I have strengthened my lung capacity to 90% from running regularly for the last 6 years. Even so, I always used an inhaler before exercise as a result of some scary exercise-induced asthma attacks years ago. When I started running 10 and 12 miles, however, I realized that there was no way the steroids in my lungs were pushing me through the longer mileage. The physical need no longer a possibility, I began to think it was a mental dependency. So I stopped taking it before my runs and carried it instead. After some getting used to and rough starts, I stopped carrying it and decided that I no longer had exercise-induced asthma. The power of mind over matter.

Mostly, though, from marathon training and running as well as the onset of graduate study, I am keeping this pain theme in mind. Pain as progress; progress as painful. Perseverance and determination will get me through anything. I am often overwhelmed, stressed and tired from trying to balance far too many things in my life. I complain too much, throw pity parties, feel lost, get angry with the wrong people, lose patience and forget to have fun or relax. My ambition makes me crazy at times; I am my own worst enemy, for sure. But when I cross a 26.2 finish line, beat an chronic illness, speak in a third language, graduate with a MA – when all the work pays off – it is ALWAYS worth it.

Please forgive my complaining along the way.

A New Phase

Well, it's official - I am a full time student again. I have successfully made it to 25 years old without having a "real" job and have taken another step in the direction of turning a passion into a career.

While graduate school does bring to mind onerous research papers and late nights downing cafe lattes in order to finish the text for tomorrow's class discussion, let's remember that if you love what you do (or study), it's a glorious burden. I've also not lost sight of the reality of entering the workforce - long hours, grunt work, minimal responsibilities, computer screen glaze-over . . . doing what you don't want to do in order to do what you really want to do is a reality of every career field. I am queen of the means to an end. I have had several mundane, lowly jobs (gas station attendant, office cleaning lady) to get where I wanted to go (Western Europe, Argentina, Washington D.C.).

Which is why I am going to try to love every minute of the next years, even the mental break downs associated with three research papers due in a week's span. I have always said that I want to be consumed by my passion. I want to think and discuss and read about international development so much that my head aches. I want to be surrounded by people who view the world and our role in it the same way as I do. I want to discover different countries, cultures, livelihoods, languages and new problems and all of their potential solutions.

And I never want to forget the reason why I got into this field. It's a field with an impossible goal. Free the world from poverty, ignorance, disease, starvation, slavery, corruption and war. Problems, problems, problems. I love problems.

So today, on the first day of classes, I am thinking of the incredible journey I've had in getting to this point, the mystery of what lies ahead, and . . . Freddy. Freddy was the first severely malnourished child I came across in Nicaragua. The child whose state of being made me feel hopelessly impotent but determined to never forget that there is more need out there than can be taken care of.

I am absolutely small and, yes, quite impotent in the face of the world's problems, but I can't imagine spending life any other way than trying.

The Life of Comfort

After reading the blog of a kindred spirit and phenomenal woman, and thinking on the topic of comfort for weeks now, I decided to finally get it out of my mind and on . . . paper. . . this screen, that is.

As I watch many of my friends happily settle in to the life of comfort, I find myself wondering why it is that I find this type of life so unattractive. I mean, let's face it, life would be much easier if all I wanted was a husband to love on, a house to make it in, and kids to carry my love forward long after I am gone. My mom half jokingly laments that I don't have these simple goals. She reminds me that if it were so, she wouldn't have to worry about me in dangerous places or not having an income and all those other stabilities; she could just hop in her air conditioned, cushioned vehicle, drive to the neighboring town, help me raise my children, and grow old with me. We could live in a bubble, happily ever after. I understand the appeal and perhaps could have succumbed to it, but I got a taste of all that could be. Life could be bigger than any adjectives in my vocabulary . . . if I were willing to give up comfort and ease.

I have to help make the world a better place and won't rest until I feel like I've given it all I can. Yes, it's a goal that, in the strictest sense, will end in "failure," because the world will never change. No matter how hard I fight, there will always be poverty, war, death, genocide, corruption, greed, natural disasters and rape. So then, as some people ask, what's the point? Why not just realize the fruitlessness of these goals and live for a family? Raise a family well and live in peace. A life of peace and comfort.

Because the best kind of peace is hard earned. The best kind of peace, the kind that lets your soul finally rest, follows hard, long battles. Comfort can't be appreciated until you've gone so long without it you've forgotten how it feels. Because I feel most alive when I have no idea what awaits me and I have to think on my feet. When every day is a challenge, I constantly grow. I am a permanent child, filled with exuberance for life, in anticipation of what is next because there is always a next. There is always a curve ahead when you push limits. When you welcome, even look forward to struggle, life is one long adventure. Life is learning, continually expanding. Because there is no glorious height like knowing you have accomplished something you previously thought impossible.

Because life is so big, so huge, and now that I know, I can't live just one little shred of it.

Climb a mountain, jump out of a plane, run a marathon, fight a war, bike across the country, sail around the world, sell the clutter in your house and build an orphanage, struggle for a noble cause, turn your creativity into an art or business, turn dreams into reality, do whatever they tell you is impossible . . . and feel the burn of being truly alive. I have my doubts as to whether a life of routine and comfort can make my body and soul ache with so much life.

I once read that there are two types of people in this world. Most people live their life in the gray - life is not really great but it's also not really bad. There aren't any horribly painful moments, but there also aren't any blissfully happy ones. They live on a certain level and never depart from the track. Then there are those who choose to open themselves fully to the bad and the good, to all the depths each direction can take them. They don't shy away from awful pain because they know it will be followed by dizzying heights. They live in black and white.

I opt for the lifestyle that sends ripples through my soul. The closest to God I can feel on earth - whether it's on my knees in pain, or crying from joy. I want to be repeatedly shaken by life. I don't want to have to drink to feel high. I want life's experiences to make me tingle inside.

Immeasurable Prosperity

What a wonderful summer it has been for me. I'm only working 40 hours a week, sometimes less, and making great money. I have enough downtime to read for hours without end, enjoy the sun's rays, sleep in and fit in long runs 4 times a week. I am definitely living the easy life.

This morning I woke up early to fit in an 8 mile run, stopped by the grocery store on my way home, walked the mile home with my arms full of bags, made a huge breakfast with coffee and juice and sprawled out over the newspaper to read of the world's woes while I rested in comfort. The only "struggle" of my day - running - was one I chose. How wild that I have been born into a life where I get to choose my struggles. One in which I opt and actively seek out degrees of hardship.

In this same morning, I also gave in to looking up round trip tickets to the nearest rough-around-the-edges country where I could escape from the modernity that allots me the former daily routine. Such contradictions. I have the economic freedom to put myself amid lives marred by unchosen, sometimes extremely wretched, struggle for as long as I see fit, get back on the vessel of modernity and return to the relative ease that the industrialized world cushions me in.

Choice. For the most part, I can choose the kind of life I want. Very few other countries in the world offer that to their inhabitants. I choose how to expend my calories, pass my hours, spend my money. As I read the book "Development as Freedom," by Nobel Prize winner Amartya Sen, I am more convinced that choice is at the heart of development. Choice is what I wish for the people I've met in the hills of Nicaragua, the shanty towns of Ciudad de Juarez, and the slums of Buenos Aires.

I want the little girl from Hilapo Dos whose long silk-like hair, big eyes, coffee skin and bashful smile pulled me out of myself to be able to choose between babies and books. I don't will her to have all the choices I do, for then she would only be confused and overwhelmed, but I want her to know the delight in choosing which path she shall take at life's forks. I want there to be a fork in her road. I want her to discover that not only does she love her boyfriend and native village, but she loves the way she feels after solving a difficult math problem, passing her knowledge on to a class of children, or turning her entreprenuerial ideas into a small business. I want her to feel, however fleeting the moment, that she can shape the small world around her.

When I think about choice as a measure of prosperity rather than GDP, unemployment rates, fiscal deficit or any of the other numbers we have become narrowly focused on, I realize that while times are numerically hard in our country, we are still free. We all still have a choice. Even the begging guy on the corner who has been evicted from his home has a choice. He doesn't have to stand there because there are numerous homeless shelters with a bed and a meal for him. He doesn't have to starve. The single mom with three kids and not enough money to pay the bills isn't without hope. There are non profits everywhere that exist solely to help people like her. Our government even has a system designed to help her. There are jobs that don't require complex skill sets that offer employment. Our economy, no matter how sickly, accomodates everyone.

On the other side of the spectrum, walk into the wrong zone in a war torn country, choose a religion, cross the wrong person in power, unknowingly build your hut over an oil reserve, demand rights, or sometimes just be the unlucky ethnicity at the time . . . and face certain death.

So even when life's choices become heavy, say divorcing a spouse and splitting up a family or spending life less happy than we had hoped, remember, we still have a choice. There are women in this world who would be murdered for that choice.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Twenty-five years in and life is fantastic. So many more plans in my head, but to be morbidly honest, if I died tomorrow, I would die satisfied with the short life I lived.

If you died tomorrow, would you be proud of the way you lived your life? Would you close your eyes with a faint smile of satisfaction? Would there be any hushed regrets, repressed dreams, that you held buried by the years? Would you wish in those last moments that you had done something that you had talked yourself out of because it was too childish, irrational, difficult or odd?

Not me. Perhaps that's a good measure of "success." To die satisfied with the years you've had - many or few.

You know what I love about believing in fate and a higher power? I never know who will end up in my life, for how long, what he or she will contribute, or how many times this person will come in and out of it, but I am sure it's exactly what's meant to be. It could be argued that this kind of irrational trust is a coping mechanism for the unfairness of life's whims, but I find it absolutely magical believing life is working for me, not against me. So when I spend the morning hitting it off with a handsome stranger and part not with a number or a promise or an expectation, but a "well, maybe I'll see you again," I love knowing that, yes, maybe fate should have it that way. Maybe next week, maybe four years from now, but yes, maybe. And if fate shouldn't, I don't want it anyway. Trust.

When I was 19 years old and out of the country for the first time, I felt an intense sense of liberation. My first step out of my comfort zone awakened a part of me I didn't know existed. Something similar to the peace sign emerged on my upper back while in Costa Rica. Not representing world peace - I never fully bought that. It represented inner peace, something worthy of striving for. A profound trust in this life.

Still a long way to go, but I'm getting closer.

Ask anyone who has known me a long time to describe me in one word, I will bet on them saying "intense." It's a label I have been given over and over again. It's one that I never came to accept, until recently.

Intense. Strangers thought it was weird, my boyfriends dumped me because of it, and my friends joked about it - not always in an innocent way. I hated the word. I flinched when I heard the word and my name used in the same sentence. I went on the defense. The fact that I was intense and passionate in a part of the world where most people prefer normal, calm and the comfort of routine was a burden. One that my dear parents and family, my allies, did their best to help carry and nurture.

Now I realize that my intensity has an awesome purpose. I'm intense because I am signing up for a career that is extremely intense. I have an overabundance of energy because I'm going to need it when humanity's flaws and evil tendencies get in the way of good intentions time and time again. Failure is a given in international development and it's going to take a lot of passion to get back out there and try again. If my life turns out the way I have it in my head, I'll be working alonside the military and other federal officials in fairly dangerous places where I'll be riding in armored vehicles and may need a military escort at times. There is a good chance that my career will require bursts of activity and focus followed by rest and return to "normalcy." Intense? Yes. Perfect.

So, as it turns out, my intense personality was the difference between a predictable, average life and one that is full of mystery, excitement, opportunity, fun, ambition and life-changing experiences. A life focused on mortgages, retirement funds, 401ks, the grind for the next 60 years . . . or . . . a bunch of unknowns that whisper of endless possibilities.

If you aren't intense, you can't stand out in the crowd. I don't want to blend in. I don't want an ordinary life. I want an extraordinary one.

"Intense." Why, thank you.

After seeing a dear friend of mine, Stephanie Kleven, twice in two weeks due to her proximity (she lives in Philly), I realize how important this decision to move to D.C. was for my social needs.

God bless Missouri. I'm glad I was raised close to nature, with humble beginnings, solid values, the slow life, and zero materialism. On the other hand, I am a total skeptic of easy questions and simple answers and ends. For some unknown reason, I have always questioned simple conclusions, the average path and conventional reasoning. Curiousity was the death of my content Midwestern spirit and I set out to search for different answers.

Only in my travels did I collide with like-minded questioners. Free spirits on a search for something they couldn't explain. Not content unless they were in discovery. Pushing limits for the thrill of it and not writing anything off as impossible. Searching for something bigger than themselves. These were the people I needed in my life. These were my kindred spirits.

Now they are close. They live in D.C., Philly, New York, Boston. . . for the moment. Until they, too, head off on the next adventure. Chasing dreams, pursuing ambitions, starting non-profits, disappearing on long bike rides for the fun of it, acting on their (calculated) whims, studying what they are passionate about, plotting wild adventures in savage-like countries, pondering cross-country road trips, and, most importantly, never saying never. Never assuming the answer to life fulfillment is as easy as A, B, and C, but positive it's about living out A through Z. Shoving as much life and as many different types of livelihoods into this one life we are given.

I have amazing friends leading extraordinary lives. They never cease to inspire me. I could not even begin to guess where life will take them. Much to my relief.

From the doorstep of my apartment, I have an amazing six mile loop. Within four blocks, I pass Iwo Jima, followed quickly by Arlington Cemetary. Ten minutes in, I am crossing the Potomac and coming up the backside of the Lincoln Memorial. This stretch is gorgeous when the setting sun reflects off of the Potomac. Within 15 minutes of having left my apartment, I am running on the National Mall. No matter how many times a week I run it, I never tire of running up and alongside the Washington Monument at sunset and looking across the reflecting pool to the Lincoln and to my right at the Capitol. It is a rush every time. I love the architecture of all the buildings lining the mall and the power they represent.

Just another reason to love where I'm at.