of tombstones and desire

In the ears for this evening:
Bon Iver
Gregory Alan Isakov
Chris Bathgate

In the air:
The scent of a vanilla/patchouli candle
Fresh baked cornbread and steamed kale
The berry-acidic waftings from a glass of merlot

On the mind:
What shall become of us all? And What shall we leave behind?

Today I seized coffee in both hands from the adored café of choice and booked over to Gordon to spend a tremendously productive afternoon with my friend Jesse. He was nestled in on a couch with his political science work, today featuring a long article on the Catholic perspective of "the image of man" while I sat- beginning my blogging adventure for http://www.afaint.wordpress.com as the new primary blogger. My first blog assignment from the non-profit's founder was to write on this idea of why we should care- about each other, about the world, about (in this case-) East Africa specifically.
So posed to me was the question: why give a shit?

In the end, I determine that it all boils down to a bridge between the sociological perspective on humanity and the Christian perspective. Somewhere between the scientific & social evidence that we are definitely not whole creatures outside of relationship with each other and the Biblical idea that we are created to be stewards of each other and this earth is the reason and motivation to care for one another.

Ultimately, we all long to be longed for. We desire to be desired. We learn communication through communicating with others. Our futures are pushed, encouraged and guided by those who invest in our lives, and we become better, fuller people by investing ourselves into others in return. We inherently desire to be in relationship with one another and we suffer when we go without even the most basic of human interactions.


So in the end- what will become of us? Will we invest in the lives of others and better whatever community we end up in? Will we leave more behind than a simple tombstone in a yard lost with thousands of others or will we leave some greater impact on this world?

A friend of mine in Uganda passed away a few days ago from a tragic boda accident. He was bright, he was stubborn, and his faith was strong and admirable. We rode fifteen hours in a bumby, stinky, dust coated bus through the Ugandan countryside down to Rwanda. I will remember him for his humor, his style, his mind. His ability to make everyone laugh. I will remember Fahad Philip Kasozi for the time he selflessly and patiently invested in us as American guests in his home-country, in his school, in his life. He taught us, he learned from us, he lived with us and he loved us. I will remember that, and he will be more than one more grave in the red dirt of Africa.

What will we leave behind?

of crockpots and caviar

for MaryBeth... and our Ugandan connection.

As I sit in Atomic writing my FINAL COLLEGE PAPER ever, I am slowly and analytically taking in the very essence of my college experience.
This final paper is for my self-designed "thesis" of the Sociology of Food and I am at the point where I am reading through, editing, cropping, adjusting, highlighting, deleting, and tweaking all parts to make it a comprehensive, logical piece about... FOOD. I'm laughing to myself to see the connections and theories I've developed about such obscure ideas as "the social constructs of edibility" and the "frameworks of social identity within food culture". All that is to say: my paper covers everything from aphrodisiacs to appetite, crockpots to caviar, dining to disorders.
I can't help but see how much this paper is the cumulative exression of my college experience in the exploration of communal living, communal dining, the expression of self and group identity through even "minute" venues as fashionable diet choices to dinner table displays, the social pressures and consequences of dieting, cultural implications of dining and the study of diverse people groups, and on and on and on. In short: an introductory study to people, to community, to growth, to sex, to fashion, to diet, to group mentality, to self expression.
It all comes down to what can be cooked in a crockpot, and who can afford to eat caviar.

in the wings

I am officially rejoining the international travel realm again on March 12, 2012.
A great friend of mine that I went to Uganda/Rwanda with is setting off TOMORROW on an indefinite backpacking trip through South America. He's flying into Colombia, then venturing over to Peru and eventually Chile. I'll be flying into Chile on the morning of the 13th and meeting him in Santiago for another alli-and-sean-abroad adventure.

If anyone has any exciting Chilean tips or contacts- let me know! :)

.table for one.

There is a supreme beauty in dining alone.
If you're aware of yourself.

As an adolescent I distinctly recall refusing to enter my junior-high cafeteria alone. I had to be flocked by my friends, and should they break for the restroom mid-meal I would go with them, unable to sit abandoned at a table for even two minutes. I reasoned that in such event I would immediately be noticed by all other attendants in said cafeteria as the girl who eats alone or as the fat kid who eats even when she's alone. Illogical? Or culturally instilled in my brain?

What is it about our culture's concept of food that does not permit single-dining habits to be "normal"? Why is it so rare for a person to take themselves out for a fine meal…alone?
What is the paranoia that sits hand-in-hand with entering a restaurant in search of a table for one?
Why does it make us SO uncomfortable?
I reason this: perhaps it's jealousy…or intimidation…or in essence- fear.

To confidently enter a restaurant alone and enjoy a meal solo is to have a solid understanding of yourself. You must be unwavering before stares of curiosity, judgment, and pity.
You must be alright with knowing that some people are thinking you have been stood up.
You could not find a date.
You have no friends.
You are weird.
you are an other.

You must wear high, stylish boots, strut with your head held high, order a beer, and smile sweetly when the hostess asks hopefully, "Two tonight?" and you answer, "No, just one."

This kind of picture (: the girl dressed nicely, no visible major social short comings, enjoying her meal in the corner, unaccompanied) exudes a radiance of self assurance and pleasure in life. I believe this is something so far off target for the majority of people in our culture.
We use our relationship statuses as accessories to portray our hold of power, our social place, our inherent personal image in a crowd.
To dine alone is to use your own developed resources to paint your face with independence- to break the mold of social co-dependence as means of definition.
It is, in essence, to be undefined.
To be other.
And we fear the other.
And we admire the other.
Simultaneously.

To face the girl with the dinner alone is to see ourselves as wondering, "What would people think if I were eating alone? What would they think of me? How would I look to them?"
It is to challenge your own strength and, in refusal to be found wanting, decide that she is the weaker, that she is the other.
To see this is to be threatened by the challenge of independence, of self assurance.

Other socially deviant gestures may be a slap in the face what is "normal" but involve action on a belief outside of oneself. Wearing a t-shirt about abortion, boasting an opinion, for example- all marks your group orientation with a community holding a united opinion. But to eat alone in a crowd of groups is to stand defiant in yourself, to not NEED the social support systems to identify yourself. To be an unidentified character with such complexity behind you as to have risen above circumstances which usually exceed personal victory.
To delight in being set apart.
To enjoy and appreciate your own company.

To listen to your own heart, as The Alchemist said.
To hear the gentle voice that instructs you to sit still amidst social orders that try to improve your image, change this, believe in this…think what we tell you to think.


There is a supreme beauty and calm in obeying your heart's desire to accept yourself, love your own strength, and enjoy an occasional table for one.

Swedish Tea Sets

remembered from January...


“…Sweden is incredible. All is white and old, European looking and stylish. It’s maddeningly spectacular…”
Beatrice took me, our second night in Sweden together, to the family home of her dear friend Carl Hugo. Carl Hugo had just returned home from a stay in the emergency room due to a sudden heart attack which had sprung forth of his chest during a spritely game of squash. His parents thus invited some of his friends over for a heartfelt gathering of condolences and support immediately post New Years, post-hospital release. Among the attendants was myself, and Bea, her friend who is a dentist, a marvelously beautiful blonde Swedish woman and her adoring African boyfriend- Inya.
It was Inya who captivated my attention.
I can still play the scene back in my mind step by step- I was smiling politely through the rather dull conversation which, naturally- as it was primarily among rather conservative friends excluded me- was occurring on the couches of Carl Hugo’s posh living room. The doorbell set forth such a magnificent motion of events. In came Inya and the Lady- elegant, unknowingly gorgeous, and they seated themselves across the carpet from my perch.
Inya was black.
In a wintered country of white snow, white skin, white hair- it was a thrill to my heart to see a Nigerian within my scope of vision. It was a mere few seconds until we established our African connection and then we both were lost in the merriment of our own conversation.
Carl Hugo’s mother provided white linens on the dining table, delicate china, typical Swedish holiday desserts and the most robust coffee for her guests as we sat discussing miracles, the establishment of Dutch churches and dentistry.
Throughout the entirety of th evening- my eyes kept darting the smoothly polished upright piano in the corner. At this point, I had not been able to touch a piano in months, and now here one stood, keys exposed, and the only thing between the keys and my desperate fingers was a rather formal tea party of Swedes.
By the end of tea-time, I had shamelessly offered that I had played piano for years and “My! What a lovely piano you have!” to such welcomed demographic that I was asked- nay, begged to grace the company with my notes.
I sat shaking with overwhelming happiness on the bench and delicately, timidly, danced my fingers through a melodic step through the key of D, nearly bringing myself to tears.
My heart has never felt so at home- so rescued. So clearly elevated above its abyss of deprivation, I could feel it rising in my chest with each treble trill. Then, beauty of all beauties- my eyes fell to the hymn book propped on the piano and I cracked it to Silent Night and let the haunting melody drip from page to resounding chords as Inya quietly, worshipfully sang along behind me. I heard the gratitude in his voice recognizing the unanticipated holiness of the moment and I only pray he felt my consumed, wrecked companionship seeping from my heart to the notes in that silent night, that holy night.

10.07.2011 atomic.

There’s a woman sitting outside the window, crying. Her lips are shaking, her shoulders and convulsing and her bottom lip seems to be quivering three times faster than her speech appears to be coming out. Behind her oversized aviator sunglasses I imagine her eyes are overflowing with whatever sadness she has brought to the glimmering silver café table she sits at with her friends. The one woman with a low cut tank top contradicts her choice of shirt with a home-knit scarf and a white man with pointedly tattered clothing is also donning a Muslim-like head scarf. Furthermore boggling than the attire of this strange company is the very obvious fact that only a small pane of glass separates my world from theirs. It is only this window between my quiet afternoon of motivated work on my thesis over an oversized mug of apple cider and their moment of smoking, wild hand gestures, and spilling emotion on the sidewalk. The glass allows sunshine to pass through, allows gazes to penetrate- but conversation and understanding are unable to pass.

the urge to fly.

(Thriving Ivory)
This time last year I was in Rwanda with 31 other American students and a bunch of Ugandan students. We were travelling to different Rwandan cities and memorials of the Genocide of 1994 by day- cramming ourselves into buses, driving across the dusty roads through small towns of waving children and stern-faced adults. By night- we were being hosted by the nuns of Presbyterian guest houses and served piles and piles of sweet bananas and various rice-based meals before Becky and I would lead yoga in the open courtyards under the stars.
Here in New England there are no large buses waiting to swallow me into the melee of mixed races and backgrounds- offering bonding and cheesy sing-a-longs and lifelong friendships in exchange for my willingness to sit on a rugged seat for the duration of our travel across the country- across the border- etc. In New England I hear dogs barking and trash pick-up outside my apartment that I share with four other girls, rather than monkeys and exotic birds screeching in the dawn light from a cement dorm of about 20 girls that I grew to love out of natural inclination to befriend those around me when I knew no one. Here in New England I have to put on a helmet to ride on the back of my best friends’ racer motorcycle; there is no more access to boda bodas with Ugandan men who will drive me anywhere on their motorcycle taxis for less than an American dollar.
This time last year I sat atop a cement ledge on a gazebo-like structure in the Rwandan hillside in part of a guest house overlooking the city of Kigali. I remember writing an ode to September- missing the New England fall with its pumpkins and apple cider and changing leaves and natural ability to change everything about itself in time with the season. I wore a skirt and had a tan and long hair and sun-induced blonde highlights. I was eating mangos and breathing in the equatorial air of East Africa. Today, after a very exciting year of waiting to experience the Autumn I missed last year, I walked from Atomic back to my apartment via all the small streets that weave through Beverly- sporting their New England old home porches with the beginnings of reds gracing the tree leaves along the way. A cool breeze swept around my whole body as I clutched my cappuccino and my essays of Wendell Barry.
I’m happy with the coming of Fall but the cool gales of Autumn are sweeping up more than leaves and pushing along more than cigarette butts on the gutter line of my street. It’s bringing back that nostalgic state of mind that keeps you rewinding all the things you’ve loved, you’ve lost, you’ve dreamt of. It’s pushing all my desires into a heightened frenzy: do I stay here, do I go back to Uganda, do I go to grad-school  out west? Abroad? Ay mi dios- no se!
While it’s all whirling around in my mind, my body is exuding this faux message of calm- sprawled on my floral couch that Amelia picked up from a mansion in Manchester by the Sea, ripped jeans marked with holes from Fisher Farms and paint from past projects… basking in the chilly breeze through the window and listening to Thriving Ivory. I’ve only been back since January, and since then I have moved from one apartment to another for a weekend…back to the original apartment, and out again to this new place I’ve been in now for a month. And still- despite the living on my toes, a new job, classes at two schools and taking mini adventures through new parts and new mountains of New Hampshire and Maine on a regular basis- still I’m fitful. Still I can’t be still. Still I fight the urge to fly.