Memoirs of a Kansas City Waitress

Stranded on a Desert Island: Grocery Style

2011-07-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

At about ten on Monday night Kati and I finally got around to making a grocery run. Since she doesn’t have a car we tend to go together every other week or so. As is our habit we chatted while moseying from aisle to aisle occasionally dancing to the music piped into the store.

Finally we had wandered through the entire store, grabbed the last two things on our lists (bread and peanut butter) and headed to the checkout stands when the store went completely black! Kati and I gingerly pushed our cart to the front of the store. We watched as employees grabbed flashlights from the store shelves and walked around the store. Out the front windows we could see that all the lights in the neighborhood were out, including the main stoplight. Miraculously one self-checkout kiosk still functioned. Customers began to cluster in some semblance of a line behind the lone checkout counter. The screen of that kiosk froze as the older woman in front of us tried to type in the skew number of her lone Idaho potato.

The manager then announced to the weary crowd, “Since the backup generators aren’t coming on. Customers are welcome to take one item from their cart for free and leave. Employees will reshelf the remaining food.” Customers near the front repeated the announcement for the people behind them until everyone began to play the game of stranded on a desert island.

The guy next to us pulled a rack of lamb from his small basket and booked it for the door before the power had a chance to come back on. Slowly Kati and I began picking through our cart weighing the decision carefully. Hungry, I settled on the bag of frozen potstickers. She wisely chose the package of toilet paper.

While standing in front of the microwave later that night watching my plate of potstickers turn I couldn't help but shake my head and smile. I would just have to visit the grocery store again this week for the fruit, milk, bread, and yogurt I was forced to abandon in that Safeway cart. Because woman cannot live off potstickers alone.

Lessons

2011-07-01T08:51:00.000-07:00

I was reading a talk by Elder Ballard called Finding Joy through Loving Service while on the bus this morning. At the second stop I watched a man quickly stand and offer his seat to the pregnant woman who got on.

I think I'll remember the one lesson much longer than the other. Nice try Elder Ballard, but random bearded man with coffee in hand totally had your Ensign article beat this morning.

Thanks though.

A few loaves and fishes

2011-06-14T15:05:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to the DC area I decided to go down to one of the Virginia single wards to “check out the scene.” As I sat in the back of the chapel I first noticed all the beautiful colors in the mass of seated singles. It then dawned on me how few white shirts or dark colored suits there were. One of my reasons for moving to DC was the greater possibility of finding someone among this large pool of singles, so I began counting the women and men, trying to calculate a rough ratio in my head, was it 3 to 1? Or worse, 5 to 1? I then asked myself if I should assume the same likelihood of temple worthiness for men and women or if the attendance at ward temple night (far more sisters attend than brethren) is a better measure. I couldn’t estimate the gendered differences in sinfulness with accuracy, but even with the assumption of an equal rate of sin among men and women the numbers were not in my favor.

I then thought, “Heavenly Father this is impossible. These numbers don’t add up. There are not enough men to go around. Some of us are going to have to go elsewhere to get a husband. That or live a virginal lifestyle the rest of our days where the only consolation may be that you're the one to teach the primary class with little Tommy who talks about you later in general conference.” I sighed and felt my shoulders droop a little. “Next to these educated super models who sing, play piano, and make time to feed the poor I have no chance.”

The thought came to me, “But Liann, Jesus was able to feed 5,000 with a few loaves of bread and some fishes. All 5,000 were full and still they had leftovers. Getting a husband for you won’t be that difficult.”

“But, God! I’ve counted. Unless you reinstate polygamy these numbers really don’t add up.” The social scientist in me had done the math and it wouldn’t work. Not in this town, a place with one of the largest mass of LDS singles outside of Utah. And not with this girl, a slightly overweight smarty pants who occasionally rants about sexism in the church. Not me. It’s not happening.

There was no response, just a peace I pushed away as I continued counting. But from then on I’ve returned again and again to this thought: “God is a god of abundance.” And I’m still trying to trust that.

Unfortunately I feel so busy these days. Between working 8 hours a day, commuting 2 hours, teaching yoga once a week, recently moving to a new apartment, preparing, planting, and protecting my garden plot (sorry for any bunny lovers out there, they have become the bane of my new existence as a gardener), oh and don’t forget getting in that regular exercise and sleep, along with dating and keeping up some semblance of a social life, then there are the attempts at meaningful prayer and scripture study, recent travel for work, and the time it takes for the two callings I now have in the ward, I feel exhausted, worn out, used up, finished. And I’m not even attending Family Home Evening most Mondays, institute on Tuesdays, Relief Society activities on the occasional Wednesday, and about a half dozen other things.

On top of that I have been hurt, badly, by a few people in the ward. I put myself out there (to girls and guys) and tried to be friendly but then experienced everything from the slight brush off to a full fledged emotional slap in the face. I’m tired of being friendly, I’m tired of caring. I would like to be part of the solution in this ward (many people I talk with feel lonely), but I don’t dare risk lending a hand of friendship these days.

Basically I am clutching a few crusty loaves and dried out fishes close to my chest and saying, “no!” like some two year old, “I won’t share! I don’t even have enough to feed myself! How do you expect me to feed these five thousand? I won’t give it over. I really just need to conserve it.” Yet, I continue to walk around starving, unfulfilled, wondering how anyone budgets out their time, energy, and heart to live successfully.

OK as usual, I’m being a bit over-dramatic. But I do feel I’ve been so selfish lately. And I recognize it’s a problem. I need to give freely, to open up. I told a friend about this recent realization, and he mentioned the law of consecration. The Lord expects my time, talents, along with my money. So I’m starting a new experiment. Pry those crusty loaves and fishes from my own hands and give them to God, see what He can make of my life, my efforts, my heart. Day One hasn’t been too bad. During my morning prayer I sat on my bed and imagined giving my battered heart to God and telling him of my desire to give him what I had been holding back. I felt like the girl in her best dress who finds she’s still under-dressed for the dance but still looks each dancer in the eye. It’s not a lot Lord, but it’s what I have.

Don't Forget Liann: Life is Good

2011-02-16T13:48:00.001-08:00

I am sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I probably feel the lack more than you, I love writing for my blog. I just wanted you to know it's not because I've been sulking around my apartment depressed about the recent breakup, OK so maybe there has been a little sulking. But the truth is I have been so busy I'm afraid I haven't thought of many poignant things worthy of posting. That and I haven't had the energy to write up the ones I've thought of. This post started as a simple apology and became the following:

I think the Lord sometimes puts people in our lives who act as teachers because either (a) they excel at that thing you need to learn or (b) they suck royally at it. Well, I think I have one of the latter. I have a friend who seems to see the negative side of everything. In some ways I don't blame him, right now things are particularly hard for him. But after a recent encounter we had I wanted to go back, shake him, and yell, "Stop throwing yourself a pity party and inviting me to come!" I was tired of hearing his complaints about dating failures, major setbacks in work, and how much he has to do.

What a blessing it is to complain about dating instead of a lack of food. What a blessing it is to be striving worth something so great that you suffer from major setbacks. Some people live their lives with no setbacks because they never take the risks. What a blessing it is to have things you have to do. Having spent much of 2010 unemployed I know what the opposite feels like and it ain't pretty.

So instead of giving him some lecture on pity parties I think I'll just ponder on all the things I'm grateful for. I'll think of my love for teaching yoga, fun coworkers, thoughtful roommates, new crushes, delightful friends, emails that help me feel loved, conversations that make me LOL, and random calls from family. And I'm sure I'll conclude that life is good, really good.

And I'll be right. Life is good. Even when dealing with rejection from guys (note the plural), even when the power goes out in my apartment for 48 hours in the dead of winter, even when working on tedious task after tedious task at work (when I described what I do all day to my roommates they said, "So basically you do homework all the time?" Yep basically.), even when feeling doubt about myself, my choices, and my God, even then, life is really good.

Emptiness

2010-12-15T14:27:00.000-08:00

Remember that shiny and new relationship I wrote about earlier? Well it's not shiny and new anymore. It's broken. Bryce and I decided to break up the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We each had our own reasons for breaking up: him because of me, and me because of him. However, the break up was surprisingly civil, which is the best you can hope for in situations such as these. The reason I want to type this up and put it out into the internet universe is because of what happened to me afterward.

Sunday morning I woke early, got ready, cried a little as I drove to church, and sat on the pew next to my brother. I told him what happened. Aaron turned to me and said, "You broke up? For how long? Or I guess it's a permanent thing." I laughed inside remembering a past relationship with a few not-so-permanent breakups, Aaron's question was a legitimate one. However, this break feels un-fixable on my end. I had done all I could and was at peace with claiming defeat. The question intrigued me and I spent a few moments mulling over what I would say to Bryce if he came back to me to pitch the idea of "us" again.

I stopped dead in my mental tracks. "Liann. Live in the present." The thought resounded loudly in my mind.

This concept of living in the present is one we talked about in my yoga teacher training. When in a difficult or uncomfortable yoga pose people often think, "Oh man! Oh man! When is this going to be over?" Or if you're me you are simply counting your breaths swearing you'll kill the teacher if she doesn't stick to the "5 more breaths" like she promised. Whatever it is, people tend to escape the pain by putting their minds anywhere else but on their mat in that moment.

So I thought, "Well, what is in your present?" The answer:

emptiness

At that moment I could feel the empty space in my chest and stomach. It was as if I could inhale and inhale and never fill that space. It felt wide, expansive. As I looked into that space I felt a little uncomfortable, scared even.

I then asked myself, "What do you want to fill this space with Liann?"

"I could fill it with bitterness, resentment, and sadness." I answered. Which is something I have done in the past. I poisoned my heart so much that it took years and even a 7 month long trip to India before I was fully able to love again. I shuddered.

With that emptiness tugging at me I then thought, "Or, I could fill it with other things." I then thought of how much more time, more emotional energy, more thinking "space" I have now that I'm not dating Bryce. I can make more friends in my current ward, read more books, focus on yoga more, spend more time at the gym, set aside more time for me and God, sign up for that book binding class I found weeks ago, and maybe even spare some vacation days for a trip to Europe next year.

I became hopeful with the possibilities of what I could do with all that empty space.

Whenever I find myself thinking unhelpful thoughts about Bryce and I (things like daydreaming about what I'd say to Bryce if he came back) I stop myself. I remind myself that that isn't in my present. I then meditate on that empty space I found so unpleasant and yet so hopeful. And whatever I feel passes.

While I am still allowing myself time to mourn, to work through the past as it relates to my present, I am careful about what I am filling my present emptiness with. And I've noticed that each time I peak into that empty space within me I find that a few more things have slipped themselves into there and it doesn't feel so vast and scary anymore.

Becoming

2010-11-16T09:35:00.000-08:00

In the last General Conference Elder Scott said, "We become what we want to be by consistently being what we want to become each day."

I've been thinking a lot about that quote lately. It's gotten me out of bed in the wee hours of the morning so I can exercise at the gym. It's also helped me be a little cleaner around the apartment and more thoughtful of my roommates.

Because he's right, if I'm not being those things now, I will most likely never become those things later. But I have to admit all this "becoming" business is quite exhausting.

Grateful for the beginning of other things.

2010-10-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

It’s 2010, the unemployment rate is up, but I, Liann Seiter M.S., have a job. This path has been long and hard for me. This transition into post-collegiate life has been a challenge. I love being a student. I didn’t realize how much I love it until I found myself making cute little flashcards for the Foreign Service Officer exam. Silly me and my obsession with Back to School supplies at Target.

While I may be a bit remiss to leave behind my title as student, I am looking forward to start with my new title of Research Associate at American Institutes for Research. I have been temping there for a few months now, hoping to get an “in,” and well, now I’m in.

When I think about this job offer I have the same welling up of confusing and potent emotions I have when I think about graduating. I am so grateful my heart knows no other way to express it except push water out of my tear ducts.

I take that back, my heart did lead me to write out a stack of thank you cards to people who helped along the way: my parents, the people in the Field Studies office, and a few professors. I was even considering writing a card to God, making tangible the emotion that’s been filling my insides. I ran out of cards before I could write one to God. But I keep thinking of more people I want to thank: past roommates, old friends, fellow BYU grad students. I could not have made it through those years sane without them. So, maybe I’ll buy (or make) more cards and make physical evidence of the emotion which seems to be overflowing right now.

Grateful for the end of some things.

2010-10-08T05:20:00.000-07:00

I recently got word that the Journal of Adolescent Research is going to publish the article version of my thesis (with me as the first author!). My little heart thumps loudly at the thought of all my work being printed in a big, fancy, peer-reviewed journal. Only people with letters after their names do things like that. Wait. I have letters after my name. In case you didn’t know my name is actually:

Liann Seiter M.S.

It even says so at the top of my resume (but only after a colleague suggested it). Before then is just read:

Liann Seiter

So much fancier with those extra letters eh?

In related news, I finally got around to calling BYU to get my diploma mailed to me—apparently there was a hold on my account because I had not turned in an ecclesiastical endorsement for fall semester. That honor code office, always keeping an eye out for my soul even as an alumni. Luckily I got that cleared up. I’m graduated and can have my boyfriend over as late as I want. But thanks to my 40 hour a week work schedule “as late as I want” usually means 11, sometimes 11:30.

I keep thinking that maybe when I get that fancy piece of paper this graduation thing will feel more real. But in all probability I will open that package, sit in the middle of my bedroom floor next to a pile of my laundry and cry.

There’s something about finishing such a hard thing that makes me want to cry. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but it’s something like this: I can emotionally revisit the pain of all those lonely months of working on my thesis, be happy that that damn paper is finished, feel grateful it was good enough to publish, and wallow a little in sadness because I won’t be able to sit around and shoot the intellectual breeze with my cohort in that little grad lab ever again.

I’m grateful. So grateful I don’t even know quite how to express it without a little rambling.

Le Sigh

2010-09-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

A good friend from BYU called me the weekend before last and during our conversation he referred to something in my latest blog post, which reminded me that I have not written in ages!

There are a few reasons for my neglect: I’ve been busy moving to a new apartment, studying for the FSO exam, volunteering as a temple worker weekly, working a temp job, and interviewing for a permanent position at my temp job (more on that later). But really the main reason has a name and his name is Bryce. We officially decided to use the title “boyfriend/girlfriend” about a month ago (a declaration of mutual affection was signed and the title put into effect) and I have been sleep deprived and love sick since then.

Now, while I don’t like blogging about my dating life I did want to “talk” about this one thing: the newness and freshness that comes with the beginning of dating relationships. Having felt battle worn and a bit weary in the dating scene I have been struck by how entirely beautiful it is to start with this clean, (unabashedly) loving relationship.

Do you know what I’m trying express?

We haven’t said any harsh words or gotten tangled in negative emotions—it’s so shiny, and free from problems. Instead of having to work out our differences, we’re having seemingly endless conversations about deep and beautiful things. We’re holding hands anytime we’re together, shyly kissing goodnight at the door, and sending the occasional flirtatious text during the day. Writing love letters and making mixes of love songs. Not to mention keeping each other out later and later. I forgot how fun this could be. It's all that cheesy stuff love songs are written about.

As stated in a previous blog post I felt frustrated when couples would say, “enjoy this time it’s so fun.” I still consider the insecurity of getting into a relationship taxing, but I find the first part of committed relationships quite delightful. While I know this “newness” won’t last forever, I’m certainly enjoying it now.

So for now, Le sigh.

Book, books, and more books

2010-07-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

So as you may be able to tell from the last entry I've been spending a lot of time reading as of late. With over an hour commute on the metro/bus each morning and evening I have had some delightful chance to read. So I thought I'd tell you what I'm reading and what I think about it:

An Accomplished Woman by Jude Morgan: I have been ashamed to admit it in the past, but I'll confess I am a fan of Jane Austin novels. Unfortunately having read all of her works I find that I'm like a drug addict stranded on a desert island in need of a fix. Luckily there is the occasional book like An Accomplished Woman that drifts onto shore to help me cope. This book is delightfully light and for women like me, worth a read.

The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho: I fell in love with Coelho when I read his Book The Alchemist. My hopes for this novel became particularly high when a woman on the metro saw me reading this and gushed about how much she enjoyed the book and likes to reread it to connect with its ideas. I will say I like the concept of getting out of comfort zone to come to a new truth. I enjoyed how the ending brought a new depth and meaning to the entire book. But all in all, I didn't feel the same way I did when I finished The Alchemist--like I had been given a whole new perspective on living.

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy: I find Cormac McCarthy's writing style absolutely captivating and his stories gruesome and disturbing, but maybe still worth the telling. While in India I was consumed by reading The Road, to the point where I stayed up one night under my sheet, flashlight in hand to finish it. His books have a depth that easily insights interesting conversation. I only wish I had people around me I could talk to about the book like I did when I read The Road.

Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus by John Gray: As a snobby sociologist I scoffed at the implications this book has on the continuation of gendered norms. However, a boyfriend once read this book and claimed that it was truer than the Old Testament. When ranking truthfulness of scripture for him it was: The Book of Mormon, The New Testament, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, and The Old Testament. On his recommendation I purchased the book at a used bookstore and read through many of the chapters, but never finished it. This summer I dug that old copy out of my box of books and read all the way through. It has surely opened my eyes and given me a new lens to use when viewing romantic relationships. As the author admits these patterns aren't true of everyone all the time. But I feel like I've had a peak into the other team's playbook, but rather than beating them, it will help me play better with them.

Dune by Frank Herbert: A friend and I decided we would read Dune for a book club with just the two of us. As I've been carrying around this book with me I have gotten into so many conversations with random people about how great this book is. I had no idea. Apparently growing up my nerdy friends were either (a) not nerdy enough or (b) not good friends because NO ONE EVER TOLD ME ABOUT DUNE before now! The characters are layered, the world fascinating but not too confusing, the writing engaging, and the plot intense. My metro rides have never seemed so short! I felt like for a time there I was rambling in the Dune world. I have yet to pick up the next in the series because I have things in this world that do need to get done.

Bonds That Make Us Free by Terry Warner: I was introduced to this book my freshmen year of college in a Philosophy class. I was intrigued so I bought the book, started it, but never finished it. While reading it I look back on my actions in past relationships and see the problems we had in a whole new light. I wonder how different those relationships would have been had I known then what I know now. Not that I feel regret, just a desire to change now. I'm still confused on how to escape cycles of self deception in my own life, but I am looking forward to trying.

I heart my local library

2010-07-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

I have been wanting to write up this blog entry for awhile now, but I have finally pulled together the pictures I took one day while at the library and my thoughts on the topic. So here it is, my nerdy confession: I LOVE my local library.

Soon after I moved to Maryland I found that I did not have many friends (see previous post if you’re feeling sad for me—I did find friends). But job hunting left me with a need to rejuvenate and not many people to go out with to do that. Well, never fear my friends. Your local librarian is always available to be your BFF!

I took my photo ID and a piece of mail, and delightedly drove to the Germantown Library down the road. I signed up and got a card to their “cool kids club” a.k.a. the Montgomery County Library System. In case you’ve never visited the Germantown Library let me enumerate the many wonderful features (which may also exist at your local library):

1—There are tons of books to choose from! While it has taken a little while after graduating, my thirst to read was soon revived. Thanks to this library I have been able to quench that thirst!

2—If the Germantown Library doesn’t have a copy of a book you want, but another Montgomery County library does you can request it! I have a few friends who have heard about my recent love affair with the library and have suggested a few books of their own. But those books weren’t in Germantown. No worries! I got online and requested them. A week or so later I got an email that the books were ready to be picked up and checked out.

3—This library has free wi-fi and quiet rooms to work in. This became critical when I needed a place to focus on job hunting and a place to get some of my consulting work done. Thank you for shh-ing the patrons for me old lady!

4—Last but not least, they have a large selection of DVDs and you can check them out for the small fee of free-ninety nine. Which means if you’re anything like me you have a handful of movies you’ve always wanted to give a try, but were too cheap to rent from Blockbuster. Never fear. Librarians LOVE cheap people, because they always return their stuff on time. And just when I didn’t think things could get any better I found out that when you return your books one day late they give you the benefit of the doubt and don’t charge you! Man they are nicer than my kindergarten teacher, well….wait I wouldn’t go that far. Mrs. Wright was sweeter than apple pie, but yeah they are SO nice.

So, while I don’t have anything too poignant to share I must say I have felt more at home since becoming a regular patron of the G-town Library. There is a sense of community I feel when I am there—something I miss dearly after moving out the geographical boundaries of the Food Co-op in Utah. So, yeah, thanks Ben for hooking us up with that.

I meant to post this with some pictures I took weeks ago, but it's been weeks. I'll get around to adding the photos later (I promise Skoticus!) because I hear they make it more interesting to read when there are photos!

The Unexpected Teacher

2010-07-27T10:44:00.000-07:00

In my yoga teacher training we talked about teachers that come in and out of our lives. In that particular lecture we were talking about personalities who somehow manage to cut deep to our nerves and bring out the worst in us and how those personalities seem to recur again and again in our lives to give us opportunities to practice patience.

Well, this summer I met a teacher, but he wasn’t that type of teacher (thank goodness). He is easy going, quick to be pleased with life, and fun to be around. As an intern in the DC area his influence was brief, but meaningful. He, I, and two other friends spent the summer frolicking around the district enjoying the sights, sounds, and tastes of a summer in the nation’s capitol. In that group of friends I was reminded what an interesting, powerful, attractive woman I am. It feels that this summer I was able to shed my winter coat of self doubt and discouragement. And I learned something I had somehow forgotten along the way: to enjoy the present.

With the end of his internship our little group, while not completely disbanded, doesn't have quite the same dynamics that made it so fun. While a part of me is sad to see this summer come to a close, I feel overwhelmingly grateful.

With his parting I have been feeling a bit reflective. In this state of mind I have thought of other teachers who have come and gone in my life. That is the sad thing with good teachers in my past, they taught me what I needed and then our paths tended to part. I’ve been working to let go of the bitterness of the parting and simply reflect on the sweetness of the interaction.

As some of you may know I have finally grown tired of the hobo lifestyle. As a result, I have started looking for a room in an apartment with other LDS women. I’ve already been to see one place and as I knocked on the door I thought to myself, “I wonder what future teachers live in this house? Will they be a part of my life’s education? And if so, what do they have to teach me?”

Transitions

2010-06-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

“I hate transitions.” I write with a red pen on my legal pad. I’m supposed to be using that pen to edit the latest version of this Strategic Document before emailing it to me supervisor for feedback, but instead I’m using it to silently vent on this piece of paper.

My bad writing habits haven’t gone away. I cringe as I think of Larry’s comment, “Need a transition here.” on draft after draft of my thesis. Sometimes he just resorted to writing the transition sentences for me. As I read the paper in front of me I see that it is starting to shape up, but I need to write a few sentences that connect the paragraphs to each other.

In college one of my favorite writing teachers had us rush write three separate pieces in class. (Rush write means you write whatever is on your mind as fast as you can, not worrying about grammar, punctuation, flow. The point is to just get ideas down on paper and fast.) Our assignment that night was to write a few sentences to connect those three rush writes. The connecting sentences were to be bolded while the rush writes were to remain unedited and in normal text. The next class period he made us read each others' transitions. Some were brilliant, mine were mediocre. He said that it is in the transitions our most creative writing happens.

Is it the same with life—is it in our transitions our most creative living happens? I feel like I’ve been living in transition for the last few months: waiting to finish the last of my thesis and graduate, attending one random month of yoga teacher training, and now living as a hobo in other people’s homes while I job search. I re-read that sentence, “I hate transitions.” I feel that so deeply. At first graduation felt a little scary, the unknown future exciting, my yoga training intriguing, and this move to DC adventurous. Now it all feels stressful. In the last few months I haven’t been able to put on the autopilot. Frankly, it’s been exhausting.

It’s like when you first start dating someone you really like. There is that in-between stage when he’s more than a friend, but not your boyfriend. My married friends talk about how fun that stage is. I think they have completely forgot what it’s like to actually date (or what it’s like to be going to bed alone for that matter). It’s terrible. Sure, holding hands for the first time can be exhilarating and that first kiss delightful. But the chances for you to transition into a dating relationship is about as good as your chances to become an unused phone number in his contacts list. If this is the best part of any given relationship, then I’d prefer to stay single. Maybe I’ll just run off and spend the rest of my life single in some yoga ashram in India.

I’m told I’m supposed to enjoy the journey, but there comes a time in any journey when—after all those hours on a plane—you just want to arrive. Right?

I do hate transitions. They’re uncomfortable and apparently I was never very good at them. I'd rather be here or there, not somewhere between here and there.

One Way to World Peace

2010-05-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve started my consulting position at Management Sciences for Health (MSH). I’ve been hired to write up a Strategy Document for their Family Planning and Reproductive Health Unit. In order to write this document I’ve spent my first few days reading lots and lots of documents about the projects MSH has done regarding family planning and reproductive health. Yesterday I ran across this sentence from one of those documents, “Reproductive health therefore implies that people are able to have a satisfying and safe sex life and that they have the capability to reproduce and the freedom to decide if, when, and how often to do so.”

Now don’t get me wrong the Family Planning and Reproductive Health Unit of MSH is providing many evidence-based programs that help reduce the mortality and morbidity rates of mothers and the mortality rate infants. (Can you tell I've been reading a lot about this subject?) And I find that that services they provide are an important part of health care.

With that said, I also want to say that I just love that I am working for an organization that supports satisfying sex lives for people across the globe. And I can't help but smile when I told a friend and she commented, “I also feel that happy sex is a vital step in ensuring world peace.”

Confessions of an Addict

2010-05-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

OK, so I’ve never really been addicted to a television show before. Well, I take that back—there was X-Files while I was in high school, and that phase before I moved out of Provo when I watched a large portion of Sadie’s DVD collection of Star Gate.

But I have to say I am addicted to this season of 24. It all started when I was living in Jana’s house and each Monday Brooks, Jana, and I would sit down and watch the show. I moved down to DC and missed a few episodes until I realized that the Premonts were avid fans.

Brother and Sister Premont are in charge of the young single adults in our stake and each Monday they have the us all over for Family Home Evening. The lesson, activity, and treats are usually done by 8:00 or 8:30 and I am the only one who sticks around to watch 24 with the family at 9:00. Carolane (their daughter) set the rule, “NO TALKING during 24.” This is the one and only rule, and I think she and I are the biggest culprits when it comes to breaking it. But I think the rule actually reads “No talking about anything except this episode of 24.” During the show we’ll exclaim things like, “I can’t believe he just did that!” or “No! No! No! This is all wrong.” We’ll discuss our hunches in great detail or recap intense moments over the commercial breaks. The whole thing is just delightful. (I feel I’ve been using that adjective a lot, but that’s really how it is).

I didn’t realize how deep this addiction ran until last Monday when I missed our weekly tradition (see previous post for details). And right around 8:45, 9:00 I was checking my watch thinking “Oh we didn’t set the DVR to record 24!” Too shy to admit my addiction I let it go and watched the episode on Hulu later in the week, but it just wasn’t the same watching it alone on my computer. When I ran into the Premonts at church we had our “Can you believe what Jack is doing these days??” talk. And they expressed a similar sentiment that it just wasn’t as fun without the entire peanut gallery.

So, there it is. My name is Liann and I’m addicted to 24. There are four episodes left, so I don’t plan to quit anytime in the next month. I’m not sure what the Premonts and I will do when the season is over—stop hanging out after FHE I guess. Sad. But hey I’ve still got four more intense hours of Jack and the rest of the crew.

The Delightfully Awkward

2010-05-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

Ted and Sheryl (the couple I’m living with) had another couple over for dinner during General Conference Weekend. In the course of the conversation the other couple mentioned that they knew a young, single, Mormon, male, Foreign Service Officer, who happens to be in the DC area currently studying Serbian before he leaves for his next assignment. The four of them decided it would be a great idea to introduce us. I recognized that there wasn’t really a way out of this, so I agreed to the set up, asking that they simply give him my number and have him call me.

No, no, no. They would have none of that. It was as if they didn’t trust the two of us with something as important as this. And by being there, somehow the relationship would have a better chance.

So, Sheryl insisted on having the three of them (the couple and the poor boy) over for dinner! As the day approached Sheryl made her finest fare, set out her best china, and even had water glasses and wine goblets (full of carbonated peach drink). I have to say I was secretly looking forward to the evening not because I wanted to meet this guy, but because I knew this would be delightfully awkward.

And I was not disappointed. I don’t quite know how to tell this story in such a way that captures the whole evening, but imagine four people over the age of 50 sharing stories from the good old days, making references to Liberace, lecturing the boy about the length of his hair, and conversing about the latest shortage of canned pumpkin. Then there was the two of us occasionally trying to strike up conversation, but finding almost every attempt interrupted by the four of them wanting to take part. After dinner we played a game a Yahtzee where Ted did this classic victory dance when he rolled his second yahtzee. (Sometimes I just wish I had a video of my life so I could occasionally replay it for other people.) The guests all left by midnight. Sheryl and Ted said nice things about the boy as we turned off the lights, headed up to bed, and left the massive pile of dishes in the kitchen for the morning.

I know I can’t post this without saying at least something about how the set up actually went. It was very sweet of the four of them to go through all the trouble to introduce us. Luckily the boy seems very nice, interesting, attractive, and has a great sense of humor. I can understand why he was dreading such an evening! We’ll be going out next week, but don’t expect any update. I’m not big on blogging about my dating life. This just happened to be too good of a story not to share!

A Love Letter

2010-05-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Yoga Mat,

It was lovely spending some time alone with you this morning.

It feels like every time we get together lately I’m distracted with teaching and helping other people on their mats. I’m glad we got some quality time in this weekend. I look forward to getting together more often—just you, me, and (if it’s alright with you) my iPod.

Yours truly,
Liann

Progress

2010-04-30T16:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, this job hunt just may end one of these days. Surprising. Maybe not to anyone else, but to me this has been a surprising development. All this volunteering, networking, resume building, cover letter writing, emailing, waiting, planning, hoping, and finally dealing with rejection has felt quite endless.

Don’t get me wrong. I DON’T HAVE A JOB YET, but things are looking up.

I have an unpaid internship with MSH lined up for the summer or until I find a job that pays (as the MSH staff encouraged me to do). I’m lined up to audition this coming week for a yoga teaching position at Fitness First (getting paid for teaching yoga would be a plus). Plans for my Yoga for Runners Class are underway—I just need to settle on a time and a park so I can start advertising. And sitting on my desk is a stack of business cards newly acquired from the Annual Society for International Development Conference—and some of the people actually handed them to me with enthusiasm (so following up with them just might pay off).

I’m still working out the details of exactly what I want to be doing, but I think I have a better idea than when I started this whole job hunting process in mid February. And if you’re a potential employer who has happened on my blog after reading my resume, than the job you have available is exactly what I want to be doing.

So, all in all I’m making progress.

Aunt Liann

2010-04-06T21:17:00.000-07:00

I've never been comfortable with titles. I became an aunt when I was 12 years old so my oldest nieces just called me Liann. But most of my younger nieces and nephews know me by my full title. Whenever they try to get my attention by yelling out, "Aunt Liann! Aunt Liann!" I always want to respond, "Yes Niece Eve (or Nephew Henry)"

Well I decided to take up my sister's invitation and I drove up to New York for my nieces and nephew's spring break. Having received the "Honorary Lindberg" status by Ethan (represented by a circle of yellow construction paper with the word Lindberg penned on it) before I left for DC, I decided it appropriate to walk in the back door without knocking.

Jana, my sister, was making dinner and hugged me hello. Jane, the toddler who would have nothing to do with me the first week I was living there, walked up then allowed me to pick her up and hug her. And the other kids came in with the usual "Aunt Liann! Aunt Liann!" hustle and bustle. It was great to be home--at least "home" is how it felt.

The week was delightful. The older kids and I went to see How to Train Your Dragon in 3D (we sneaked in some candy and ate so much of it I think we all left with a desire to eat veggies the rest of our lives). All of us braved the crowds at the MoMA--each kid bought a postcard at the gift shop and we had a great time finding the originals in the museum. I also read a book recommended to me by Ethan and got the chance to talk about it with him and Kate. Of course we read plenty of picture books and I even lost a round of Settlers of Catan (I'm SO ashamed!).

By the end of the week I realized that I'm starting to get used to this Aunt Liann business.

Speaking of Movies...

2010-04-04T21:24:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else seen the movie Ladyhawke?

Surprisingly delightful, but what were they thinking when they added that soundtrack!? Lots of synthesizer when portraying a medieval story?

Really guys?

Too Practical for Poetry

2010-04-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

I watched the movie Bright Star with my sister this week. The movie tells the story of the poet John Keats who falls in love with his neighbor’s daughter, Fanny Brawne. In case you haven't seen the film this involves a few awkward conversations and several shots of them walking around, looking at each other, then eventually holding hands, cuddling, and kissing in a way that reminds me of the obnoxious PDA I so often saw (and possibly participated in) at BYU. After making their engagement public he moves to Italy for health reasons, dies, and leaves his fiancé to wander among their old stomping grounds alone quoting poetry for the rest of her life still wearing his engagement ring.

Seriously?

I found myself constantly rolling my eyes at the dramatics of Keats and the immaturity of Fanny. Every half hour or so I would blurt out, "The pacing of this movie is so weird!" I don't know if the director was intentionally trying to achieve a feel of poetry throughout the film--i.e. short scenes packed with visual images and emotion. I generally prefer a story based on at least some dialogue and scenes that clearly fit within context and relate to one another (you know the stuff that conveys character development).

Intentional or not I was having a hard time swallowing it all. However, the only other film Netflicks sent to her mailbox that week was a kid’s film. Reluctantly we decided to finish the movie.

As the credits rolled I turned to Jana and over the voice of Keats reading one of his poems I said, "I think I'm too practical for poetry."

She laughed and said, "I was thinking that EXACT same thing!"

We must be sisters.

While there are some poets/poems that do (and I quote) "speak to me." I'm glad I'm not completely alone in the sentiment about my relationship with poetry. Thanks sis.

Job Hunting, New People, and Curling

2010-03-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

I have a few "rules" for myself when posting personal stories on this blog:

1. Have it be positive.
2. If it can’t be positive then have it be either meaningful (which is positive in a way) or funny.
3. If posting a story that is both tragic and funny don’t let it demean people who may potentially read the blog or be recognized by a reader
4. Don’t be TOO personal. It is the internet after all (this may be the rule I break most often!).

Well, for these reasons I have failed to post much on my blog in the last month. I think job hunting may be akin to Chinese Water Torture, although I’ve never had the “pleasure” of the latter. I vacillate between being overwhelmed and being whelmed by this seemingly monumental task. I am living with an older couple (friends of my parents) who are great for funny day-to-day stories, but I’m not quite sure they’d appreciate me sharing them over the internet. They are providing me with free housing and I think that as a guest who would like to stay it’s best to keep their very personal quirks to myself. And finally I am meeting loads of new people which of course lead to fantastically awkward situations, but I’d hate to post these stories about them over the internet only to find out later we could have become best friends if it weren’t for what I wrote about them on my blog!

I do have a great story from a few weeks ago (has it really been that long?). Ted, the father of the household, and I were sitting down to a dinner of leftovers (since Sheryl was out doing RS service that evening). We turned on the Olympics. Since Ted is not interested in hockey he turned the TV to curling. I teased him about choosing curling over hockey, but to no avail, he wouldn’t change the channel. I then insisted that if I was to be subjected to curling I must know the rules of the game. He didn’t seem to know much, so I skimmed the article about curling on Wikipedia and related what I learned to Ted.

By the time Sheryl came home Ted and I were sitting on the edge of our seats with empty dinner plates in front of us, watching the last few ends, and saying things like, “Well we still have a chance to salvage this one, we do have the hammer!” I have never before enjoyed so thoroughly a night of discussing curling strategy and I’m afraid I never will again, but that’s OK because I had a great time.

A Quiet Moment in DC

2010-03-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

For those of you trying to keep up with my recent adventures I've finished my delightful stay in New York and am now residing near the D.C. area. I arrived two weeks ago (to the day) and this story actually took place at the end of my first week here.

I came into the city to meet up with Chrissy, my yoga teacher from New York, to take a yoga class together. I needed to see a familiar face and reconnect with my lovely month of yoga. I'd met plenty of friendly faces that week, but all of them unfamiliar. And while I love to meet new people, even I have my limits.

I came into the city early to get my first look around the place I decided to make my new home. I meandered into a delightful Whole Foods Store, purchased a few things, and snacked on them while sitting and writing in their cafe. Since I had no other intentions than getting to know the area I decided to wander over to the White House.

As I approached the building's "backyard" I saw a few tourists taking pictures, some haggard looking employees trickling out the side exit, and police eying me and my long yoga bag suspiciously. I made my way to the front of the building. As I walked I thought of all that must be going on in there. With Obama trying to live up to his big campaign of change and working to recover from this failed health bill, people must be working all hours. My mind soon hopped back into the seemingly never ending contemplation of my job hunt. As I fretted, strategized, and pep talked to myself I found my legs had brought me to that famous view of the White House.

My mind paused. I just stood there interrupted by only a few tourists who braved the cold and snow to see this famous residence too. I let my mind settle on the majesty related to this nation. While I do tend to be a bit...hesitant in my feelings of patriotism, I have my moments. And this was one of them. As I stood watching the evening fall I felt simple awe. Knowing that no matter what the most recent scandal in government is I will probably continue to feel this lingering sense of pride for what this nation continues to be. It is so much bigger than any one person. And for that brief moment I caught a small glimpse of that.

Alone, but Not Lonely this Valentines

2010-02-14T17:28:00.000-08:00

My sister and brother-in-law celebrated the holiday by joining a group of couples for a progressive dinner that ended with dessert at their house Saturday night. Rather than bumming around the house with the babysitter or (as Bridget Jones would say) spend time with “lots of smug married people” I decided to have an outing to the city.

I made plans to meet up with a friend and her sister in Brooklyn to eat dessert at the Chocolate Room around 7 or 8, but she had to make an emergency run to Ikea (what an emergency run to Ikea entails would have to be a post of its own). For the purposes of this post the Ikea run left me with a few hours to kill. I ate hot dogs with some random friends I ran into during an evening session at the temple. Our happenstance group parted. I took a subway to Times Square for a quick look around and then headed to a jazz bar in the village.

I pulled up a barstool in the corner, ordered a “Virgin drink. Something fruity.” And sat down with my juice to enjoy music and people watching. An older German speaking couple, a flamboyantly gay man trying the wine before buying, a waitress upset about her low tipping table, a bald old Asian man dancing while playing the electric guitar, and the circus of bartenders running around pouring, shaking, and serving drinks were all part of the entertainment.

Between sets the female half of the “older couple” went to the restroom while I felt ready for another drink. I stood next to her empty stool trying to catch the eye of a bartender. The male half of the “older couple” started moving his partner’s coat and offered me the seat.

I said, “Oh. No. No thanks I have a seat” motioning to the seat behind him.

He continued to move the coat and offer the empty bar stool and in a thick German accent said, “When an attractive woman comes by. You always offer her a seat.”

I smiled at the silly notion of sitting between this gray haired man and the gay guy while the poor woman in the bathroom would be left sitting on the other side of the old German, the one at the end of the bar. “Isn’t your...is that your wife?...in the bathroom?”

“Oh she’s not my wife!! She’s not even my girlfriend!! We’re not...uh...” He seemed mortified that I would assume they were in a relationship! “No, I am a kind of tour guide. She is on a tour. She is like my client. We’re both in this tour group. And we were just having dinner.” He couldn’t spit the words out fast enough!

“Well, I just wanted to order a drink. But they’re not looking over here.” I said, nodding to the group of chatting bartenders. “Thank you though.” I finally caught the eye of one of the bartenders, ordered a glass of Coke and walked back to my seat in the back.

Near the end of the set the couple stood and put on their coats. The man looked over to me. With a look of longing he said, “It’s a shame you’re here alone.”

“Oh no. I’m meeting up with some friends later.” Showing him the cell phone in my hand, “They’ve been caught somewhere. So, I’m waiting to meet up with them.”

He waved his hand as if batting away the 'lie' he thought I told, shook his head and gave me a once over glance as if thinking to himself, “if only I was a few years younger.” He said, “A young woman as attractive as you...It is a real shame.”

I smiled and bid them a good night and a good stay in New York. The pleasantries were reciprocated and they left.

I leaned back on the wall behind me and smiled. While I may look a bit pathetic drinking alone, I was quite content with my solitude.

Just Can't Shake the Marriage Lecture

2010-02-07T20:24:00.000-08:00

Tonight's FHE lesson was given by Eve, my four year old niece. Over dinner we asked her what she wanted to do for her lesson and she said she wanted to "read scriptures" and play Hullabaloo for her lesson.

Eve set up Hullabaloo while Jana, my sister, and I got our copies of the scriptures. However, when it was Eve's turn to teach she stood up, walked over to the end table, and started pulling magazines off the stack saying, "Wait, I'm not ready." She pulled out a copy of The Friend, opened the magazine to random page that had a picture of the Salt Lake Temple, and said, "We're going to talk about temples."

Brooks, my brother-in-law, asked her, "OK, what do you want to teach us about the temple?"

Eve, "You get married in the temple."

We couldn't help but laugh a little as Jana winked at me and said, "Well, I guess this lesson is for Liann."

Eve continued with dignity as her audience tried to hold back giggles. She talked about how you get married in the temple "because then you have children and start a family." She took a short topical detour to Joseph Smith's First Vision. Tried to re-find the page with the picture of the temple, gave up, and then concluded the lesson with a reminder that when you marry in the temple "God blesses you." We then played Hullabaloo, had a closing prayer, treats, and played a different game for our real activity.

Singles ward or no singles ward, somehow God still manages to slip the marriage talk in there somewhere.

Don’t have a grocery store nearby? Don’t worry there’s a Starbucks right around the corner.

2010-02-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

I think Starbucks sustains life in New York City. There is at least one (if not 2 or 3) within a 2 block radius from almost any point in the city. And they seem to have plenty of business when I walk by. I’m not sure if the city planner was involved, but seriously I wonder if the city would just shut down without a regular supply of Seattle’s best coffee.

Liann the Yoga Teacher

2010-02-02T20:31:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s over. My month long intensive yoga teacher training is finished.

While I sat with my fellow yoga teachers in our last circle together I felt myself getting quite emotional. However, in classic Liann style I couldn’t express any of it in the moment. (Before any of you laugh out loud I’ll explain.) I tend to express my day to day emotions with copious amounts of words, but when they run deep I find it difficult to say much at all. Later that night I found myself on the train ride home crying into my journal as I tried to write what I felt.

As I sift through my emotions the words that stick out most are: Gratitude, deep and enduring gratitude. A glowing, radiant, yet peaceful happiness. And finally a great deal of sadness that comes with the end of anything beautiful.

Ever since I made this decision, people have asked, “Why a yoga teacher training?” And my answer tended to be a rambling one. While I had my reasons, when explained in the light of casual conversation they just didn’t sound that convincing.

But I never expected to feel the way I do about this last month. So much so that I’m even having a hard time expressing it here. While I think my last few blog entries have been a bit clever they dance around what has been really going on in my life.

So, here it is, for all you avid readers (don’t worry I’m not that delusional about how many there are of you). I AM A YOGA TEACHER (well almost. I’m one take home test and two homework assignments away from being certified). And while I never expected my life to take such a “hippie” turn, I’m very grateful it did.

Rats

2010-02-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

I met my first bonafide New York rat the other morning. I was walking on 55th Street between Park and Lexington as I saw this skinny rat scurry right past me! I’ll admit I jumped and maybe even yelped. He wasn’t as large or fat as I expected a New York rat to be. I mean I saw much fatter Indian rats—although I think those rats may benefit from the Hindu principle of ahimsa (non violence).

Interestingly, Aliza (a friend from the yoga training) told me that the population of New York rats is large because they are able to navigate the grid system here. I find that idea very fascinating somehow.

It's the Little Details in Life

2010-01-31T21:21:00.000-08:00

I have been sleeping in the attic bedroom of my sister’s house. Rather than whistling like a tea kettle my radiator pathetically whispers. Sometimes as I’m falling asleep I feel like I’m eavesdropping on an important conversation just out of reach.

I just love little details like that.

Concerns of a Metro North Passenger

2010-01-30T05:22:00.000-08:00

Is it weird that I worry about my train conductors getting carpel tunnel syndrome? I’ve yet to have the courage to ask one of them whether or not their job training involved a discussion of the potential for a repetitive stress injury from punching all those tickets. But I find myself wondering about it each time they walk by clicking their ticket puncher saying "Tickets. Tickets."

The Dirty Rumor

2010-01-26T18:44:00.000-08:00

Let me dispel one dirty rumor about NYC. When I moved from overly polite Provo I thought this city would be full of pushy, rude, pissed-off New Yorkers. As I also found in Paris, the people in New York are surprisingly quite polite. I’d even go so far as saying they can be very nice and thoughtful to total strangers.

One evening on the subway I asked a man how to get to Union Square. The directions I had been given were a bit sketchy. I knew I had to transfer, but I wasn’t quite sure where and to what subway. I asked a man in the car and he explained where I should go. I must have looked concerned still because he stood and walked me over to a subway map to show me my route!

On Friday night I was sprinting to catch the train, but I ran up down onto the platform as the doors were closing (the next train wouldn’t be coming for quite some time so I was a bit frantic). A group of people on the platform got the attention of the conductor to open the doors.

In the mornings I have become a little overzealous in my new found freedom of jaywalking and occasionally will be crossing the middle of the street as the light turns to green. Rather than honking, the drivers wait patiently as I trot toward the sidewalk.

Today at lunch I watched a man hand a homeless guy a cup of soup and piece of bread bought from the shop he just left.

Tonight as I was going from one car to the next on the train a guy sitting by the door held the very heavy door for me as I went through.

Every door that people hold. Every moment of eye contact that ends in a smile. Every joke shared among a random stranger on the subway. Each beautiful interaction with the people of this city reminds me of the good of humanity. Yeah there are those eye-rolling people who are pushy and impatient. But all in all I have found that most people in New York are just doing their best to get along with everyone else. There are just a lot of everybody else-s to get a long with around here.

For the Sake of Self Transformation

2010-01-25T18:48:00.000-08:00

“Come forward. Bring your shoulders over your wrists in plank pose*.”

Burn there is only burning. This is not the first plank pose of the morning. My arms, shoulders, abs, thighs, calves. It all burns.

Chrissy continues, “Lift through your shoulders. Be mindful that your hips points don’t drop. Roll your inner thighs toward the ceiling. Rake your buttocks flesh toward your heels.” On and on. She repeats herself again and again using different terminology each time.

As I carefully follow her instructions there is more burning. My abs begin shaking, but I refuse to let my hips sink anymore. I will do this right.

“Look forward. Face your sternum to the front room.”

I notice that as my eyes had fallen to looking at a piece of lint on the front of my mat and my chest had sunk into the pull of gravity. I push with all I got while trying to maintain the work in my legs.

“Good. Push your hips up and back into downward facing dog.”

Release. My breath slows and becomes less audible. Calm.

“Bring your shoulders back over wrists.”

I think to myself, “Bring it.” As I picture future Liann at the front of some yoga studio effortlessly demonstrating plank into chaturanga.

My body begins to shake immediately as my breath becomes labored. I tune out of Chrissy’s enduring voice drumming through all the alignment points. Instead I meditate on the alignment points myself—they become a mantra in my head. “Inner thighs up. Buttocks flesh back. Hip Points up. Chest forward. Lift in the arms. Inner thighs up. Buttocks flesh back. Hip points up. Chest forward. Lift in the arms…”

I do hear her say, “Lift your hips up and back into downward facing dog. Slowly drop your knees and come into child’s pose.”

With a smile in her voice she says to us, “You’ve got tapas. Tapas is the willingness to endure intensity for the sake of self transformation. This training is a process of self transformation and I see your genuine effort in trying to achieve that change”

Her words touch each tired muscle in my body, particularly the ones near my heart. I swallow hard and try to put back on my game face. I focus on my breath as Chrissy leads us out of child’s pose and into the rest of practice.

“Tapas.” I think to myself as I sit on the train home that night.

But what about the type of “self” I want to become outside of yoga? Employed for one thing but beyond that I want to become beautifully virtuous in thought and deed, kind, patient with self and others, honest (truly honest), lovely, adventurous (but not recklessly so)…the list goes on.

I think of the girl I used to be and the moments of intensity that lay between that girl and me. Things like struggle with school, moments of intense loneliness, and repeated failures. I think about how each intense moment contributed to this process of becoming a little more like the self I want to become.

My thoughts now turn to the many moments of intensity ahead of me. It’s a little overwhelming, but

Bring it.

I’ve got tapas.

*For those of you not familiar with yoga, plank pose is like holding yourself at the top of a push up.

Theme Song

2010-01-14T19:03:00.000-08:00

If Rocky was a young woman in New York doing a yoga teacher training I think his theme song would be "Dreams" by the Cranberries instead of "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor.

Because after dragging myself out of my warm comfy bed at 6 am, eating, dressing, packing a lunch, walking/jogging to the Fleetwood station, barely catching the 7:03 train, and arriving to the Grand Central Station at 7:40, I often feel the need to blare "Dreams" on my iPod as I brave the cold weather and walk (with a New York pace) the 8 1/2 blocks to my yoga studio in time to change, place my mat down, and feel ready for our 2 hour yoga practice.

But that's just me.

New Year's Resolutions

2010-01-12T19:06:00.000-08:00

As I approached this New Years I thought about what I wanted to accomplish in the next 12 months. Instead of overwhelming myself with a huge list I decided to whittle my list down to 5 manageable goals.

So, here they are Liann's Official New Years Resolutions for 2010:

1. Blog more than I did last year (a.k.a. write at least 5 posts in the next 12 months).

2. Survive my yoga teacher training in New York.

3. Lose weight while doing #2.

4. Find a job (preferably in DC)

5. Come to peace about gaining all my weight back while attempting to accomplish #4.

Thoughts from the kitchen sink

2009-07-20T18:59:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a music person, but today while I was doing dishes I thought about lines from songs that strike me. And I thought I’d share them

1. “Just about the time the shadows call, I undress my mind and dare you to follow.” –Sara Bareillis “One Sweet Love”

I feel like good, deep, meaningful conversation feels a little like this. Sharing something I don’t share with just anyone. It is a beautiful time in a relationship when you feel safe to reveal things about yourself—and in the course of revealing you build intimacy. This line from the song implies for me a sense of intimacy beyond physical intimacy. And that is beautiful. I also have to say there are times when I get done with a conversation and feel I’ve shared too much too fast—as if I was being as inappropriate as a exhibitionist. Anyone else?

2.”Yeah we’re in our twenties now, where not much is plenty now, and not enough food. It’s OK we’re in the arms of the Gypsy” –Shake Your Peace “In the Arms of the Gypsy”

Shake Your Peace was once a local artist—he’s since moved to California. He’s fun and his songs are full of life. I fell in love with this song when I heard the story behind it. He and his girlfriend decided they wanted to live in NYC so they bought an old boat called the Arms of the Gypsy and SLOWLY made their way to a bay in New York. The song inspires me to creatively reach for those dreams I have and to enjoy this very short, unique time in my twenties. One day I’ll have a house with working a/c, money to buy more than just oatmeal for breakfast, along with commitments like a mortgage and children that call me “mom.” This song reminds me that I shouldn’t get frustrated with my lack of material means and instead enjoy this time of freedom, choice, big dreams, spontaneous adventures, and fun people. It won’t last long.

3. “And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud” –Anna Nalick “Breathe”

I don’t know what it is about this line, but I am one who loves to write in my journal. The things that go in there are at times very funny, very quirky, very sad, and very personal. It’s a place where I don’t have to care what someone else will think, I can be myself, I can vent, I can admit those weaknesses that make me feel vulnerable. I don’t feel I’m a very closed person, but I have lines I don’t necessarily let everyone cross. And sharing words from my journal would make me feel very…exposed, even naked.

4. “You wear nothing but you wear it so well.” –Dave Matthews “Crash into Me”

Josh was the one who pointed out this line to me first, and it’s stuck with me ever since. There came a time in my life when I realized that SO MANY women in my life had body image issues—the old, the beautiful, the skinny—they all had issues! I realized that I could either face those nasty thoughts I had about my body or let them haunt me the rest of my life. I am happy to say I have come to peace with my body—the flabby, hairy, stretch-marked bits and all. I’m not saying I’m perfect, I occasionally have days where I don’t feel beautiful, but all in all I’m happy. And one day when a man says to me “you wear nothing but you wear it so well” I hope I’ll be pleased enough with my beautiful body to say nothing—no contradictions, nothing—just accept the compliment like I’ve tried to accept my body.

5. “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love; here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.” “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”

I have several hymns that have touched me at different times in my life, and recently I heard the Tabernacle Choir perform a very beautiful rendition of this song. There are times at church where I just want to stand and say, “Hey guys we all know individually that we are not perfect—far from it, we even have desires to sin at times. Can we talk about this topic as if we were all a little more comfortable with admitting that?” And that’s one thing I love about these lines from this song. There is admittance of a wandering heart, but also a recognition that while at times the heart may want to wander there is an overall strong desire to be on God’s side. This definitely how I feel about my own life/spirituality. Those wandering desires never last too long in the face of my desire to do the right thing.

6. “She asked me if you would be the one for me and me the one for you. Maybe it’s OK to fall in love for just a day.” --Liz Rhodes “Scooters”

I don’t necessarily think this is my favorite line from Liz’s Red and Yellow Album, but it’s a memorable one for me. Liz has just gotten a ride home from a guy on a scooter and her grandma is the “she” in the line. I like the idea of just embracing the moment and yet letting the moment pass—not trying to hold onto what can’t be held onto. Wow, I don’t think I am explaining myself well. Let me try again.

There are times when it’s best not to pull out the camera and ruin the moment by trying to capture it. Instead I feel like these moments shouldn’t be photographed, instead they should be experienced. For example, in India there was a day when I walked home in the rain and two women from the village came and shared my umbrella with me. We couldn’t communicate much, but we did laugh all the way home. While it may have been possible to photograph the three of us there is no way to capture the joy and fun of that small moment.

I also think I get caught up in the whole “I need to get married” fever that is rampant in Provo. Not every relationship will end in marriage, but it does feel good to enjoy a relationship for what it is, not for what we would make it. Sometimes I’m quick to overlook those very meaningful friendships, sad.

On a side note, Liz Rhodes is another local artist whom I’ve heard. While she is better live, I would listen to her album at night when I couldn’t sleep in India. There is a feeling of mystery that comes with being awake at midnight or even three in the morning in an Indian village. And in some ways the melodies of Liz’s songs helped capture that for me.

Looking at all six of these I realize that half of them involve a reference to nudity of some sort. I apologize. I’m not sure why they strike me. Maybe the imagery of being nude involves a lot of vulnerability. We don’t walk around naked often (unless you’re part of a nudist colony…) and well, we also don’t allow people know our innermost thoughts often—especially thoughts about how we feel/think about ourselves. Anyway, let me know your thoughts or even lines from songs that capture your attention.

Smells

2009-03-16T23:41:00.000-07:00

I spent the Saturday afternoon with a roommate, Christiana, shopping at the mall (something we both don’t do regularly). I was almost out of my body lotion and wanted to replenish the stock. My roommate took me into Victoria Secret to try the lotions there. I blushed as we smelled lotions with titles such as Pure Seduction, Amber Romance and Romantic Wish. Christiana explained carefully that every man loves Love Spell, even though we both agreed it really wasn’t our favorite.

We decided to each buy three, since the deal was 6 for 30 bucks. I smelled and smelled each one in the room again and again in classic Liann style. I ended up with two I liked: Sweet Daydream and Endless Love. Christiana offered to buy a 4th and call it quits. But in the end I felt I had to get Love Spell since the patch of my arm with that lotion smeared on it started to smell appealing. She convinced me it was the secret to seducing any man and I felt I just had to have it.

So after each shower I have this small dilemma—what do I want to smell like today? Sometimes I just wipe on the one I haven’t used in awhile. Other times I calculate what men I’ll be seducing that day and lather up accordingly. Do I want to entice him with Love Spell? Or should I hope it’s Endless Love he’ll go for, since that’s more true to myself?

Oh the things we do to amuse ourselves!

Eating my way through my thesis.

2009-02-27T17:00:00.000-08:00

This is a confession that may or may not be appropriate for the internet, but I’ll make it anyway!

Each week I come up with a new plan to be the most productive with my thesis. This week’s solution: eat. Eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I’ve had a few cans of Vanilla Flavored Coke Zero, sugar cookies with the rainbow chip frosting, Wheat Thins with cheese, pasta with oil and Parmesan cheese, at least a pound of Red Vines, and two Reese Peanut Butter Cups!

I think maybe next week I’ll try and come up with a new solution. Between the stomach aches and sugar headaches I don’t think I’m accomplishing what I want to. That and my pants are starting to get a bit tight. Luckily I also unfroze my gym membership this week, so the damage has been limited.

Liann is really LinkedIn

2009-02-20T11:03:00.000-08:00

My friend Natalie recently invited me to join her network in LinkedIn.com. I decided that as a woman soon to enter the job market, websites like this may be helpful in finding that perfect job for me. As I joined I downloaded the contacts from my Gmail account and carefully selected 60 or so contacts to link to (some old friends, a few BYU professors, a couple co-workers, even an ex-fiancé). I saved a few contacts so that I could add a personal note when inviting them to link up. Thinking I was clicking the “continue on to making my profile” button, I accidentally sent an invite to all of my Gmail contacts. That would be everyone I have ever emailed or who has emailed me. The total comes to 514 people—including a sociology professor at Harvard I emailed once, a few ex-boyfriends I don’t talk to anymore, people I only know as “byubabe,” and about 50 city clerks in Iowa I contacted for a research project once upon a time.

I'll admit I was laughing as I was sort of yelling "no, no!" to my computer while rapidly clicking again and again the STOP button at the top of the web browser. I did stay some of the damage and only invited 390 of my closest associates to join my network.

Well, if anything at least I'm very well LinkedIn.

One of the more terrifying ways to die

2009-02-18T19:35:00.000-08:00

I understand that the human race has come up with methods of torture that are more painful than I could ever imagine. But it seems to me that there would be purpose in the torture--something you are standing for, something you refuse to confess. I get that diseases like cancer can bring a slow and yet steady demise. But hopefully there is family there to provide love and support during those long days and painful treatments.

Over Christmas break I spent the 7 days on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. One morning I was eating breakfast and overheard the people at the table behind me talking about a news report they had seen about a woman who had fallen off the side of a cruise liner in the middle of the night. It happened to occur on a Norwegian Cruise Liner (the same one I've been on) and apparently none of the guests knew about it until they got off at port and the FBI wouldn't let the woman's husband off. There was talk among the table as to whether the man pushed his wife off the balcony or not.

As I was first eavesdropping I also wondered if the man pushed his wife. That afternoon I walked around the promenade and thought about jumping off the side--not in a suicidal way. We were leaving port and the boat was carefully maneuvering out of the area. Men in fishing boats were waving to us from their anchored positions. And I thought it'd be pretty fun to jump off, kind of like cliff jumping.

The next night Aaron, Brandon and I were out on the promenade after a night of listening to the bar entertainment. A fellow cruise ship passed us--silently, like two ships passing in the night. :) I watched as the lights on the other cruise ship became smaller and smaller in the distance--so quickly--I never realized how fast we were moving. I was gripped then with the scene of that woman. Wet, a little confused after such a fall, spitting out salt water, gasping for air, clawing her way through the waves, heavy with soaked clothes, watching the boat, thinking for sure it would stop. Then as the reality sets in--the large cruise ship has no idea I'm not on it anymore. The recognizable boat quickly becomes just lights in the distance. I would feel so small bobbing up and down in that big ocean watching my "home away from home" leave me behind to die here in this salty sea.

What was she thinking about right then? So many possibilities at the end I suppose--a determination to live, an acceptance and a lonely farewell to the world, seething anger at her husband, sadness at opportunities soon to be lost, peaceful reflection on a life well lived, or maybe she was just too drunk to be thinking at all. What would I think about? What would I do?

The thought terrifies me. Brandon and Aaron were kind enough not to tease me as I shared my fear with them. I hope I never die by falling off a moving cruise ship.

Rethinking Motherhood

2008-12-22T18:05:00.000-08:00

Now I’ve always thought I’d make a decent mother someday and that I would enjoy nothing less than fulfilling that “greater calling” in life. I’ve done quite a bit of babysitting. I generally enjoy spending time with kids. But I have seriously reconsidered motherhood after spending 5 days and nights babysitting my sister’s five children—and mind you my mom and I were both there. Which makes me even more terrified! There were two women in the house, which allowed for the luxury of a daily nap.

There were a couple of things that really got me about all of this. One, I felt like the worst version of myself came out. After my experience in India I learned not to consider myself “patient,” but this week I found myself wanting to lose it a more times than I care to admit. It’s not a pretty thing to see in yourself. And two, motherhood is so very selfless. I haven’t thought of myself as selfish, but this week I found nothing was about me. As the week progressed I took less and less care of my looks. Not only that, every night I wanted some sort of judge to listen to my grievances and deliver some sort of justice.

I can hear it now. I approach the judge in my pantsuit outfit carrying a folder detailing my case and say:

Your honor there are a few grievances I would like to put forth before you today and see that you remedy these situations. First, my one year old niece Jane was awake between the hours of midnight and 2:13am coughing. I kept running downstairs to get her some water until I was able to locate the infant’s cold medicine and administer it to her. I’d like to get my 2 hours of sleep back.

Second is the case of the 3 year old, Eve; my complaint is that she hit me multiple times and said “I hate you,” and “You’re not my friend!” repeatedly. I would like you to make her say “I’m sorry” and if possible keep her from saying “no” to my every request, suggestion, and mode of comfort.

The 6 year old nephew, Henry, has wet his bed for the second time since our stay. I would feel justified if he would wash the following items: 1 set of sheets, 2 pairs of PJ pants, and 1 pairs of underwear. I’d also appreciate it if there was some retribution since he lied to us regarding the wearing of pull-ups one night.

Your honor, Kate, the 8 year old, keeps forcing me to “play puppies” with her by getting angry when I refuse. Can you simply explain to her kindly that pretending to be kidnapped and then found by a stuffed animal puppy is only so fun for so long to a 25 year old?

And finally I would like for your honor to get my 10 year old nephew, Ethan, to put his Sunday shoes on the first time I ask him, instead of provoking his younger siblings to the point of tears.

In their defense those kids were fun to be with. They are so creative. Ethan made popcorn for our Friday night movie and handed it out like a regular salesman. During the film Eve climbed up and reclined on my lap while Henry and Kate tried their best to cuddle with my two arms. Ethan, Kate, Mom and I also played 2 rousing games of Settlers of Catan to my delight. I also enjoyed going to Kate’s 3rd grade class and giving a short presentation on India. And finally, Jane always had smiles for me each morning even though I wasn’t her mom.

There are sweet moments in motherhood I am sure, but I take my hat off to you women who do this day in and day out. To let it all go and love those kids despite it all is tough. You are amazing and deserve more than just one day to celebrate all the work you do.

Letter from the Author

2008-12-12T19:51:00.000-08:00

Sorry I've been so busy since coming home. Celebrating Thanksgiving with family, buying a cell phone, signing a housing contract, lining up a job, organizing my thesis, and catching up with friends/family has been all I could manage in the last 2 (or has it been 3?) weeks since coming home. I've been thinking about this blog and what to write for a while now. Mostly wondering what to make of the end of this Indian chapter in my life. So, (first) I apologize for bombarding you with three long blog entries in one day. But they felt like three distinct experiences that have come again and again to my mind as I think of all this.

(And second) I want to apologize to regular readers (I've been running into a few and wonder how many more of you are out there!); while my life will remain being of interest to me, it may not be as exciting to you. I will try my best to continue writing and posting the entertaining anecdotes of my life. The next two chapters of my life will hopefully be entitled: "Madly finishing her thesis to finish grad school by April" and "Liann finds the first job of her career in this failing economy." I am planning for more Indian chapters to come, but the future is yet to be seen.

Reentry

2008-12-12T19:32:00.000-08:00

I came from one sort of chaos to another.

India has streets full of people, carts, cars, buses, motorcycles, bikes, ladies selling flowers, begging mothers toting children, shops full of spices, restaurant stalls full of customers, men peeing on the sidewalk, women waiting for buses, salesmen with those useful odds and ends, and sacred cows meandering in and out of it all. Smells, sounds, sights, all senses are deliciously overwhelmed.

I come from a family of 10 children, all of whom made it home to Arizona for Thanksgiving. My house, big as it is, felt just as full as those crowded Indian streets. Boys running inside and out, girls telling jokes to each others' delight, toddlers screeching as they ride trikes around the patio, babies in highchairs crying for more food or freedom, mothers searching for lost kids, my brothers yelling at each other while playing the X-Box, my sisters constantly sweeping up while catching up with one another, and one old dog trying to live on the periphery of it all.

I felt right at home among all the chaos. I spent each successive night roaming from bed to floor to bed as the house guests came and went. I chatted with sisters about babies and with brothers about business. I did crafts with kids, wiped noses of toddlers, and held babies until they cried for their own moms. Overall, I just slipped back into my family's life. Jet lag made me a bit dizzy the first few days, but that quickly passed. Although each night I found myself going to bed early, not at all like I used to be.

So many people asked if it was weird being home. Strangely enough it hasn't been weird at all. I tell them the story about the bus and that tension I felt while thinking about the one world while living in the other (see my post below on my prep for reentry). But since I've been home it sort of feels like the last 7 months of my life were a bit of a dream, some very vivid dream I can talk about in great detail, but still a dream.

My Indian dream.

Goodbye

2008-12-12T19:28:00.001-08:00

I was never very good at goodbyes. When I went to New Zealand and lived with as an exchange student (of sorts) for 5 weeks I found myself tearless at the airport trying to console the other 3 girls with me as we went back to America. I always like the scene in the Sixth Sense where the boy and the man pretend that they will see each other the next day even though this will be their last goodbye.

The boy says, "See you tomorrow."
The man replies, "See you tomorrow." And the man walks off.

I wish all my goodbyes could be that inconspicuous, none of this waving a handkerchief, running after a train, long crushing hugs. I would just like to walk out of your life like I walked into it. And we'll both know what that interaction (long or short) did or did not mean to us; none of this flaunting our relationship through dramatic scenes of parting sorrow.

The Daniels see so many students come and go I feel like all their goodbyes are of the simple, loving, but short nature. I'm sure they miss some students more than others. But they don't make a big deal about it. The first time I left them I know they didn't think I was coming back. They thought I hated India, and well they were sort of right. Only later did I see the value of my experiences in India. I knew (even then) I would come back, if only to prove to myself that I could do it better the second time.

Well, do it better I did. I even came to love the place. Strange that something so difficult could become so beloved.

I came to really love that family, especially Jeeva. Jeeva, the host mother, is a gentle quiet woman. I'm afraid that many students come to see her as part of the background. I think they perceive her as possibly a little dumb and quite submissive. Over those 4 months I was living there in their house I came to respect her more and more as a strong leader in her family, in the church, and among her neighbors.

My last day there Matthew, the host father, had gone into town. The girls, Jeeva and I sat on the porch waiting for 11:30 bus to come. We moved to the bus stop near their house. Jeeva came and stood with me, something I never expected her to do. As I stood by this small woman I knew we had shared a lot. I can't quite describe what we shared, or what made it different to leave her this time, but it was different. I think it has something to do with the many little moments we had together.

• That one Sunday night her Salomane tied me in a saree like the old village women and I hobbled around making Jeeva, Priya, and Salomane laugh harder than I've ever heard them before.
• The sacrament meeting where I watched Jeeva cry while giving a talk.
• The random evenings spent hanging around the kitchen just shooting the breeze.
• The daily ritual (created over time) of finding Jeeva when I got home and asking about her day and telling her about mine.
• The day I made Jeeva and Matthew laugh by sharing my silly thoughts on wanting to pick up the short old crabby ladies on the bus so they can hang on the tall bar (like some monkey bar) and stop pushing me out of my spot.
• The water days where we got Jeeva to come to the government tap (our own "nuclear weapon" to any conflict) to deliver justice and put the other ladies in their place.
• The mornings I woke early and watched with interest as Jeeva dunged the courtyard.
• The times she invited me in alone to eat with her family.
• Hearing her tell about bearing her testimony to the Jehovah Witnesses that came by.
• Listening to her broken English as she talked about what she saw on Guinness World Records Television Show and being amazed with her at all the crazy feats people do.
• The afternoons she put me in charge of their family's little shop while she ran an errand.

In some way all of those little moments added up to a deep and meaningful relationship and I was sad to leave her. Not that I was sad to leave India. It felt like the right time for me to leave. I knew I had had wonderful experiences and would have those memories for a long while.

It was my deep relationships with people in the States that made me homesick while in India. And it will be those deep relationships in India that make me long for that place. My ex-boyfriend grew up in Kenya and Nepal, but always spent his summers in Idaho at his grandma's house. He talked about living in-between, never really having a place he considers home. I don't feel that. I have a home and it's in Arizona. But I am finding that I make myself at home wherever I go by surrounding myself with loving relationships. After enough traveling I suppose I'll always be missing someone from a place far from me.

Preparation for Reentry

2008-12-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

When I came to India I tried to keep myself from daydreaming about my life in the States--I didn't want to crave one place while residing in another. I wanted to embrace fully Indian's "live-in-the-moment" way of life. And for the last seven months that meant living in India. So there I was on my last long bus ride, I was leaving for the States in less than four days. The girls in my group teased me that I would be so weird when I got home. And I knew they were right. I had tried in the last three weeks not to talk too much of home since the girls weren't leaving for another two weeks. I realized I wasn't quite ready to go home. So I thought to myself, "OK Liann you have got start thinking about going home. You don't want to be too weird on reentry."

Thoughts I had previously forced out of my head were now welcomed in with all their vividness. Images of my parents' three-story home, large dinners of Thanksgivings past, warm showers, my overly abundant wardrobe, and my little gray Sentra came and went as I watched the lush green plants of India pass by. More vivid images rushed in: my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews, my friends--all dressed in nice, clean clothes, some with expensive cell phones and new cars. I pictured conversations I'd have with my family, trying to summarize my "foreign" experiences trying to understand what they found important in the last seven months of their lives.

My thoughts were interrupted as the bus came to a stop. The trees gave way to a dusty bus stop. About 10 men dressed in lungis and thread bare button-up shirts swarmed the bus. Each carried a basket full of some fruits or vegetables to sell; most carried cut up cucumbers. Each man rushed to a different window yelling to the passengers inside, sometimes even pushing the bag into the window forcing the vegetables on unsuspecting persons.

Instead of the feeling annoyed like I usually do when I get bombarded with aggressive salesmen, I saw these men for what they were: people, men, most likely husbands and fathers with more than their own mouth to feed. Questions came to mind. How many bags of 10 rupee cucumbers a man must sell in a day to provide for his family? What happens if he doesn't sell all the bags? Is he able to store and sell them again tomorrow? All I know is these men were fighting in this small town bus stand to sell what they had.

I normally don't get emotional about these kinds of scenes in India--they happen regularly. It's just the way of life here--poor people beg every day. Especially after living the life of a villager for so many months (carrying my own water, eating at humble roadside stalls, experiencing the regular power outages) it didn't feel needful to mourn their lifestyle. However, that day the gap between my own life in America and the lives of these men felt so wide. I fought back tears. I had seen so much poverty in the last seven months but not yet mourned it and I wasn't ready to cry over it all here on this crowded hot bus.

I remember talking with a European woman while I was in Thailand who had visited India. She described passing begging children on the street her first day in Delhi. She took them to an ice cream stall and bought each one of them ice cream then went to her hotel and cried and cried over the poverty she had seen. As I listened to her story I felt myself do a mental shrug. "What an overreaction" I thought. Then worry filled me! "Has living in India so long really made my heart so callous?"

I don't know the answer to that. I do know what I felt that day on the bus. I also know I don't feel compelled to dedicate my life to international development. I've seen a little more of the world than some and understand the magnitude of the things I own, but also the burden they bring at times. I'm very privileged materially, but also didn't see much of my father while growing up. So here I am, in America wondering how I'll ever put all these beautiful, painful, and sometimes strange life experiences in some sort of perspective. It's all just piecemeal, no simple and beautiful conclusion--kind of like how they are presented on this blog, one random story after another. That's life I guess. And if struggling with that makes me a little "weird" on reentry...well so be it.

Her Big Fat Hindu Wedding

2008-11-14T21:26:00.000-08:00

I had just convinced myself that I am happy single. Not that it's been hard to convince myself of—I've been unexplainably happy here in India. In this state of euphoria I had decided that I would be able to get home to the crazed dating scene in Provo with my head on straight, my heart open, and my focus on graduation. I didn’t feel the desperate need to find a boyfriend anytime soon—they cause so much heartache, lead to lots of confusion, and take up so much time! And as I said at my 24^th birthday, “27 is the new 24” a.k.a. the age that seems very ripe for me to marry (mature, but not yet at the desperate 30). I’m two years from that “deadline” and in no hurry to rush things along.

However, I found my resolve melting as I watched this wedding unfold. Wait, first I’ll explain: I had been invited to this unconventional wedding by a professor in the Physical Education Department at Bharathiar University. Since the other girls in the group had never seen a Hindu wedding, we thought we might as well postpone our travel plans to watch this American man marry his Indian bride in the Hindu fashion.

Jeff was working for an IT company in South Carolina and had met Vidiya, an Indian working at the same company. They had a Catholic wedding in the states two weeks prior and all Vidiya had to say about that wedding was “It was short.” I laughed. Yes compared to the two day long weddings of Southern India with several ceremonies, clothes changing, etc. an hour long ceremony in the backyard would seem very short.

We came the night before the wedding to watch the many ceremonies surrounding the engagement. And that’s when my perfectly happy single future started looking like it might be missing something important.

Jeff was sitting on the “stage” holding the wedding saree his bride would be wearing the next morning. He was supposed to be presenting the saree to Vidiya’s sister. While holding out the saree to his soon-to-be sister-in-law, an old man from the village stood in front of the two singing old Tamil songs. The man was dressed in a worn button down shirt which was not quite white anymore, a lungi which looks like a long white hiked up to his knees and a towel wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban. He would throw rice at certain intervals during his singing and the drummer would hit his drum to emphasize the rice throwing. Frankly, it looked sort of ridiculous. Having been in India for 6 months I wasn’t much moved to laughter. I’d spent lots of time with Appa dressed this way, but trying to look at it from fresh eyes, this looked quite silly.

Jeff thought so too, but tried desperately to keep his composure, maintaining the dignity of the ceremony. He did well until the man’s singing droned on and on. Vidiya sneaked into the audience, sat on the second row, and started smiling at Jeff. His calm, dignified listening was interrupted as he couldn’t keep from smiling at her—a very shy sort of smile. My eyes darted back and froth between the two of them—yep, it was the look of love.

I watched them both again the next morning—this time I was sitting behind Jeff who was in the audience on the first row as he anticipated the arrival of his bride. His anticipation was killing me! She walked in and he only had eyes for Vidiya dressed in that beautiful pink saree. There are so many clichés I could use, but I must say I don’t think I’d do that couple justice. Their love for each other was so visible. I was touched at her willingness to go through a Catholic wedding and his willingness to go through a Hindu wedding. The sacrifice they were willing to make, the complete acceptance of each other (“weird” culture and all), and the deep love they conveyed in those small glances.

Maybe I won’t be so happy as a lone world traveler. Maybe I would like to have someone like that in my life. Maybe. It's yet to be seen if love will attack me with such force.

Making a Living by His Sweat and Blood

2008-11-07T02:39:00.000-08:00

I don’t want you to think that this is normal—in the 10 months I have spent in India (last trip and this) I have never seen anything like this. Not that there aren’t beggars in India. There are plenty women carrying babies asking for milk money, kids touching your arms again and again repeating “Ma!”, and handicapped people laying on the side of the road displaying their deformities for money. But this, this was different.

I’d seen this “family” before—one man, an adolescent girl, and a small boy about 6 or 7 years old. On Diwalli we watched the man crack his whip and walk down the street to the sound of bells on his anklets. The girl will often play the weird sounding drum—I’m struck by her dirty salwar camis and her missing scarf. The boy often tags along with the drumming girl.

This Saturday afternoon we were standing at Gandhipuram waiting for the bus 96 to take us home when the family began. The man cracked his whip a few times in front of the waiting crowd. The young boy wandered through the mass with what looked like red paint splotches covering his chest. The girl started playing the weird drum while the boy and man emerged from the crowd and started stomping around with their bell covered feet, dancing on this makeshift stage--the road.

When he felt like enough of the apathetic crowd was watching, the man pulled out a knife turned so we could all see as he began cutting his forearm again and again—slicing it like the “cutters” I learned about in my psychology class. My stomach turned as I saw pink flesh. I tried to look away, but noticing the many scars on his arm I couldn’t stop staring. This was not the first time.

Like he had pulled a magic rabbit out of a hat he displayed his bleeding arm to the now fidgety group. He walked back and forth ignoring a bus as it pulled through past him and making a show of smearing some blood onto his own chest.

The drumming increased, but I didn’t appreciate the added dramatic flare. Horror came as I watched the boy lay down on his back, the man kneeled next to him and squeezed his fists over and over again so blood would drip onto the boy’s chest—making one more red splotch. The man then stood, cracked the whip a few times—intentionally hitting his arm with the tip as he wrapped it around himself.

The money collecting began. The girl, boy, and man wandered through the throng their hands out ready to collect spare rupees. The crowd was amazingly still and silent and a few reluctant people gave. The man stomped his feet in front of a group of well dressed Indian men, gestured to his bleeding arm, and stared with pleading in his eyes. It was a look that said, “I’m giving my sweat and blood here—can’t you spare a few rupees?” As I watched his face I could only think, “I didn’t ask you to do this to yourself. I’m not going to give you money, encouraging you to repeat this sadistic performance. There has to be a better way for you to provide. Your children should be in school, not taking part in this.”

I swallowed the bile in my mouth willing myself not to loose the contents of my breakfast. I tried to avoid counting the large drops of dried blood on the boy’s chest as he neared me, but I wondered how many times they’d done this “show” today. I hoped he wouldn’t get too close to me—the blood on his chest. I did what I normally do in India when I want to avoid contact: I gave that practiced blank stare and with it the tight control on my emotions. I have this smooth, apathetic look that helps me keep the tears from coming.

I watched as the family collected maybe 5 or 10 rupees for this little performance—20 cents for those drops of blood. There has to be another way. There has to be. I've thought quite a bit about that family since then, but I don't have any concluding thoughts. I'm still trying to figure out what this very vivid scene means to me.

Crowded Buses: India's Real Battleground

2008-11-05T22:07:00.000-08:00

I meant to write about the wedding I went to this last weekend, but ended up writing more about the bus ride there, which spawned this blog entry. I promise an entry on the wedding will follow soon enough.

As we get near to bus stops women try and reposition themselves for an easier and quicker exit. It feels like when you try and put on that old pair of jeans that you know is just a little too tight for you. You inhale deeply and hold it, button, and then exhale and let the fat muffin over the top of your pants. First the inhale—women squeeze themselves into seemingly impossible walls of people. As I stand next to the seats my hip bones get pressed up against the seat as the women force their bodies pass me towards the door or further into the bus to their “spots.” It’s temporary pain as we collectively inhale, but once the bus starts up again we’ve all seemed to find more comfortable ways to bulge at the seams of the bus. Like the tight pair of jeans—it’s never completely comfortable, but it's livable.

Crowded buses are prime time for tempers to flare. With 3 women crammed in the spot near any one seat, when a woman stands to exit the tin can the battle for the empty seat begins. The oldest women are the dirtiest fighters—using elbows, bags, looks that could kill, and loud Tamil as weapons against you. You thought WWII was bad, you should see these women. The white haired ladies may look old, frail, and remind you a little of your sweet grandma at home, but baby all pretenses are off in a crowded bus.

Megan one time had a woman choke her with her own scarf, elbow her in the gut, and then use the strong arm block to claim the seat in front of them both. Creative tactics woman I have to give you that. I always get the sly ones who slip into my seat while my attention is focused on how to shift my weight and bag to get into the seated position while the bus is coming to a complete halt. Sneaky.

Now the buses sound like complete amoral ground, but every new student soon realizes that all is fair in bus wars, except one thing—pregnant women and women with infants always get a seat, so someone better cough it up before the old women start enforcing the rule.

With long hot days in the city and the reality of riding the whole hour home to Chavadi standing settling I sometimes find a bit of fight in me. But I’m not equipped enough for these battles. In general I wish I spoke a little Tamil, but when those women get to yelling at each other over bus seats the desire to know Tamil burns in me. At least I think the fight is over the seats, it could be an ongoing family feud over land—I’d believe it the women fight with enough passion.

I must say while some women see our white skin as easy targets for open seat stealing, others act as the country’s ambassadors. The ambassadors always try to ensure we get seats while the conniving seat thieves go in for the easy kill. I enjoy talking with the ambassadors and have varied reactions to the thieves. Sometimes I get outraged, other times aggressive, and in rare moments I react with a Christian spirit of “you probably need it more than I do.” Maybe all these bus rides are just tests of character. I wonder if I'll ever pass.

Subject to the Elements

2008-10-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

Due to excessive rain the Indian government declared today a holiday. Seriously? Couldn’t anyone fill in the white non-Tamil speaking girl before she hauled herself and about 150 surveys, envelopes, and pens across sloshy Coimbatore??

It’s cool though. I had a great moment on the bus with the rain coming down thinking about the feeling of drinking hot sweet milk and just watching the rain fall. I do love that Indian villages just kind of stop and let themselves be subject to the elements. They sleep in on rainy mornings and wait out the rain on their verandas on during afternoon showers.

So next time I wake up to pouring rain I’ll know better and roll over on my mat and fall back to sleep because I know that’s what the Indian government would want me to do.

Country Music

2008-10-20T22:05:00.000-07:00

Listening to country music makes me want to sell what I have, buy a horse, move to a good ol' country town, work on a ranch, and fall in love with a boy who loves his horse almost as much as he loves me.

An Indian Palm Reading

2008-10-18T03:49:00.000-07:00

“Let me see your palm.”

I dropped the papers in my hand onto the table in front of the classroom. I looked around to make sure none of the students were finished with their surveys and waiting for me to collect them.

I put my right hand out so she could see the palm—obeying without thought. The woman, dressed in a simple and smartly wrapped saree, pulled my left hand towards her as well. She looked down quickly at the palms now in her hands.

“Put them together.”

“Wha..?”

Before I could ask she pushed my hands closer together. She shifted her position so that both of us were facing the open, sunlit windows looking at my palms as if I was begging to god for a rupee coin.

She stopped pouring over my empty hands and looked at me. “You can go as far as you want in education.”

“You’re reading my palm?” I thought to myself—not realizing in the last quick moments that this Professor and Head of the Applied Mathematics Department was actually reading my palm. Well of course she would say that about my education—I had come to her to get her permission to conduct a survey in her classroom. I had explained I was a master’s student in sociology in the States and showed her the necessary paperwork I had received from the Registrar of Bharthiar. And now the students in her department were sitting filling out the surveys—talking amongst themselves (helping each other with the English)—while this woman read my palm at the front of the classroom.

She nodded and continued stating the facts she had read, “You will have a good marriage. And your health line is deep—good health. You have a good palm.”

I smiled and let my hands go to my side. “How did you learn to…?”

“My father was also a professor, but he had this as a hobby. I learned from him.” She picked up my hands again, pushing them back together. This time adjusting them to face the light of the windows better.

While pouring over my hands she said, “Yes you do have a good palm. You will be good at your education if you choose to continue.” Looking at me she explained, “Some girls will come to my office and I will look at their palms. I sometimes see that their education is short; something will get in the way of their studies. I don’t take on those students because they will not complete the program. I know they won’t finish so I don’t take them on. But you have a good line—you will be successful at education.”

I was intrigued and wanted her to continue mostly wondering if she saw something bad she was trying to keep from me. I tried not to look if the students sitting at their desks were listening in on this palm reading. I didn’t want to draw attention to them.

“You do have a good palm.” She pulled my hands which now hung limp at my sides again to the same position and poured quickly again. “Yes good health and you will have a handsome husband.”

“Thanks.” Feeling like the comment about my husband was more of bonus she had just thrown in for fun. She pulled away and asked the students if they were finished with the surveys. I picked up my papers and watched for students finished thinking, “Only in India would a professor read your palm and not think anything of it.” I smiled and tried to suppress the desire to ask her more about the future in my hand.

A Bucket Shower Thought

2008-10-18T02:34:00.000-07:00

After spending all week getting little sleep, spending at least 18 hours on a variety of buses, and knowing that I would do it all again next week I had a hard time getting out of bed this Saturday morning. I rolled over on my thin mat, smelled my nasty pillow as I pulled my knees under me. I said a short prayer, felt myself drifting back to sleep, and then moved into a sitting position in front of my unorganized backpack of clothes. I pulled out my ziplock of shower supplies. I rummaged through my stuff trying to find my box of soap that was not in the ziplock. I tried to be quiet, but gave up the search, I softly said, “Alyssa you mind if I use your soap?” She mumbled, rolled over to a sitting position near her things, and pulled out some soap then rolled back to her sleeping position.

I grabbed my thin Indian towel hanging from the clothes line above my bed and headed out to the shower. I filled up a bucket of water in the toilet area of the bathroom and placed it in the other portion of the bathroom. I looked at my watch—7:05. No time to dabble. I dumped the first cupful of cold water on my head. Cold!

Now, this is nothing new. With the cooler weather has come cold water to bathe in. I haven’t minded much—it’s usually that first cupful that’s the worse. I usually just shiver, suppress a cry, and follow it with the next cupful while trying to rub my hair so that it gets wet all the way through. But today as I was putting the second cupful I visualized my shower at my last apartment. It was nothing special, but it had a spout that forced warm water onto my body and into my hair.

The thought of not having to try and maneuver one hand to pour water while the other hand tries to scrub the copious dirt off my body—well the thought was powerful. I yearned so badly at that moment for my American shower. Nothing could console me except the thought that I will be leaving the village (and its accompanying cold bucket showers) in two weeks, where I spend a short three weeks showering in a slight upgrade in the bathrooms of backpacking hotels. After those five weeks and a 20 (or so) hour journey I will be home taking a warm shower without wearing my sandals!

As I finished up my bucket shower I was surprised at my feelings. I have taken plenty of bucket showers in the last 6 months. Sometimes I think, “I’m glad I don’t have to do this the rest of my life.” But I never really care all that much—it’s just a thought. Today was a full on visualization and accompanying emotions of longing for home.

Basically what I’m saying is it’s been a very busy (and rough) couple of weeks and I’m ready for this research project to be finished so that I can get home and enjoy the holidays with my family! Good thing too since I’ll be home in no time wishing for the simplicity of things like bucket showers.

A few of my favorite things

2008-10-09T06:01:00.000-07:00

The way Jeeva looks at me, like a daughter and friend.
The way I feel after filling the cistern with water.
Putting my legs up after a long ride home standing on the bus.
The way Solomani and I are now good friends even though we can't communicate verbally.
The way I've come to really enjoy dressing up Indian style! (chuidar, earrings, bindi, bangles, jasmine in my hair, jingling anklets and all)
That Appa knows my name.
Being able to confront my anger and frustrations when things don't go my way.
Drinking hot, thick milk with sugar in the mornings.
Idli. so yum.
Fighting my way up the bus to get a seat.
Standing up for myself while fighting out the water politics--yes it's our turn to fill our cistern, no I don't speak Tamil, and no you will not fill just 4 buckets.
The juiceman at Ghandipuram and how he asks about us when we haven’t come around in awhile.
Sitting around just chatting to pass the time.
Long talks on the long walk to the and from the main road.
The way our internet guy smiles at us when we come in saying "browsing"--yes we're regulars and yes this is the best internet in town.
Hour long conversations on the veranda.
Shopping in Coimbatore. Taking the time to do a little bargaining.
Eating out at a really fancy restaurant for under 5 bucks.
Getting a good night’s sleep on a thin mat and cement floor.
Feeling like this is home.

I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be ready to go home when the time comes. I only have a month and a half left—3 weeks of which will be spent on the road! I know I’m looking forward to getting home to my family, my friends, and my overly large shoe collection, but I will sure miss this place. I’m sure I could think of plenty more to add to the list, but I’ll refrain.

A Quarter of a Century

2008-10-09T05:58:00.000-07:00

I am officially turning 25 (a quarter of a century) in 3 days time. I can't tell you how excited I am. Well, not THAT excited since most likely all I'll do is watch General Conference and share candies with my host family and church friends (an Indian tradition). But there is something magic about 25. I feel like I'll be old enough, but not too old. I can be taken seriously, but don't have to take myself seriously. I'm young enough to dream, but old enough to make those dreams actually happen. No really it feels a bit magical. Things just get better with age and this year I can feel myself just getting better and better all the time.

The usual and unusual happenings in India

2008-10-09T05:52:00.000-07:00

I've been so busy getting research done I haven't had much time to think about posting on my blog. I think maybe a list of the usual, the strange, and maybe the uniquely Indian things I've encountered lately would suffice.

I think I have waited over 12 hours outside the principal’s office at the PSG college over a period of about two weeks--watching her poor assistant jump up and run into the plush red carpeted office every time she rang a buzzer from behind her desk. I just wanted to get permission to do research and a letter stating such, but apparently I didn't have enough clout to avoid the waiting.

The women on the bus may fight all the way up the stairs (elbowing and all) in order to get a seat, but then are graciously willing to hold the varied belongings of those unfortunate enough to have to stand. The other day I was on a particularly crowded bus. Having fought the fight for my seat when a little boy was shoved between the two ladies I assumed he was being entrusted to my care. I spied the mother in between the shoulders of some women between us, and she was surprised to see a white girl holding her young son! They never seem to let us (the white girls) hold their brown babies. He fell asleep on my lap during the 30 minute ride home--beautiful.

I was riding the bus home one night when the driver slammed on the breaks. There was an annoyed cry from everyone standing, but the breaking didn't stop. A car hit the front side of the bus, on the drivers side! I have only seen one accident in India (an amazing thing to me with all the crazy, no logic driving that happens here), but for the first time I was actually involved in an accident. Being so close to home, I got out and stood on the periphery of the crowd to see if the people in the car were alright, then walked the rest of the way home.

A couple of nights ago Alyssa and I were sitting in the dark on the veranda talking, since neither of us could catch a wink of sleep with the power out and the fan not running. She saw something slither and said, "I think I saw a snake." I went and got a flashlight to be sure. By the time I got back sure enough the snake had slithered it's way towards the veranda. We woke up first Marc, a visiting field facilitator, then Appa, the grandfather in the family who sleeps on the veranda. He came wielding his broom (logical, since when we usually scream it's over a spider) when he saw the snake he banged on Matthew's door. Matthew came out, looked closely at the snake, said it was poisonous, and then killed it by crushing the head with a large stick. We all stood there for some time watching the snake twitch post death and Matthew would jump in and say how grateful he was we saw it and were able to kill the thing. In a concerned voice he talked about how his wife often walks out to go to the bathroom in the night without a flashlight--"she could have stepped on it" he said over and over while shaking his head. It felt like having a close call while driving my car--I'm grateful I didn't hurt anyone or anything, but feel scared at how close that could have been.

Having lived in this village for a total of 5 months I've heard lots about snakes (how dangerous they are etc.) but I had never seen them. Well Alyssa and I were walking out to the road for lunch yesterday when we saw a rather large, thick snake crossing the road. We patiently waited for him to pass and then went on our way. Two snakes in two weeks--must be an auspicious time for me.

One other thing. I went to a holiday for work--it's a Hindu holiday where they clean up their workplace and organize things and then bless all the machines and whatnot. I sat for 2 hours watching men put up streamers. I couldn't help but think it was funny watching these manly men carefully rolling the streamers and color coordinating and everything. They would have put Martha Stewart to shame. The women swept up the floor of the small factory and made a kolum (a large chalk design) outside the office door. Flowers were hung everywhere. And when the big moment came for the pooja, the men lit a long line of firecrackers that popped for at least 5 minutes while the priest was running around lighting all the camphor placed on the machines. Like many Hindu ceremonies it was long, drawn-out, and felt a bit anticlimactic, but also worth it. We ate, hung around for quite some time, and finally caught the 3G bus home.

The Answer is 42

2008-09-15T04:21:00.000-07:00

As her field facilitator Heidi and I would talk about how to deal with the unique situations she ran into in India. I remember her saying over and over again, "I don't know the answer." as if there was just one answer. I would laugh and having recently read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I would respond, "The answer is 42."

In the field studies way I would never try to give her an answer (not that I had one to give in the first place). So, we would talk about the cultural, social, and practical implications of what she might do. We would talk about issues like race, gender, or economic status. We would talk about past field studies students and the impact of their choices. We would then surmise how certain actions would be received within the Indian context. After all that, either Heidi or I would say, "I just don't know the answer." and we'd be back to the old response of 42.

I feel that now. I am back in India facing more new and unique challenges and I don't know what the answer is. Life is too messy for simple answers, and yet I wish it were that simple--like the rote memorization Priya used to get a 20 out of 20 on her latest English test in school. I wish the answer was simply 42.

I actually don't like new things

2008-09-08T01:18:00.000-07:00

I've heard many college students say that they like to travel because they like to experience new things, they like getting outside their comfort zone, or they like the adventure of it all. I used to use these kinds of phrases as well when I was trying to explain why I like to travel, but I never felt satisfied with those answers. They sounded right, but I never felt right. And they aren't.

In returning to Coimbatore and Chavadi for the third time now I realize I actually love when new places become familiar. As I shared the village gossip about our neighbors with the new field studies students, showed them the shortcut to the second bus stop, and introduced them to my favorite saleswoman at my favorite store (Pushpam at Sree Ganapathi) I felt a certain joy.

It's hard for me to navigate in a new city. I get lonely when I don't know anyone in a place. I feel out of my comfort zone when I have a hard time communicating with locals. Matthew was kind enough to remind me yesterday how miserable he was when I came to India the first time.

The fun thing for me is to wander around one city long enough to know the place. I love having friends to visit or being a regular at a shop. I get such satisfaction from speaking in my Indian English, head bobble and all. So, it's not that I like new places. I like making new places familiar.

I'll make a good Indian wife yet

2008-09-08T01:14:00.000-07:00

Whenever I did an awkward thing--like drop my clean, wet laundry on the dirt courtyard or go out to lunch with frizzy hair--Matthew would laugh at me. And in my frustration I'd say I'd never make a good Indian wife, and it's good I'll marry an American! In my mind there are three tasks that Jeeva does regularly that used to seem impossible to me: (1) Haul water (2) Wash laundry (3) Cook Indian food.

I've mastered the art of hauling water during my first stay in the village. I used to spill water all over myself while carrying those small jugs back and forth between the tap and the cistern. I'd watch with envy as Jeeva hauled the big jug of water on her hip and then gracefully bend down to pick up a small jug, never spilling a drop. After 2 months of village life I found that grace of water hauling so unique to Indian women.

However, when it came to laundry during my first stay in the village I'd abscond with my dirty clothes to the bathroom and while I showered I'd wash my clothes in a bucket. During my second stay in the village I think I finally mastered the task of doing my laundry. Thanks to Jill and her helpful tips I have learned the art of beating my laundry on a rock. You may be thinking to yourself, "Come on Liann how hard can it be?" Well, like many things in India (like starting that old kerosene stove)--what seems like a juvenile activity, is actually quite difficult and takes great skill.

To do laundry first I buy a small packet of soap powder, fill a bucket half full of water, and soak your clothes in that soapy water for about a half hour or so. I then haul the bucket of soapy clothes and a bucket of clean water to the large rock.

I take the item of clothing (a pair of pants for example) and use a bar of laundry soap and rub it up against the clothes. With pants I make sure to soap up the hem of the pants and the crotch. Then I lift the pants slightly again and again (sort of like kneading bread dough) to get the soap and water consistent all the way through the cloth. Then comes the fun part.

I whack the pants against the rock, a great stress reliever. I first whack the legs, then the top, and then fold them in half and whack the middle. As I whack the pants against the rock, I watch with satisfaction as the soapy water sprays off the pants, taking the dirt and grime of Indian life with it.

I then scoop clean water onto the pair of pants and whack again and again--this time trying to rid the garment of the soap. I do this twice until the water has fewer suds. I ring out the pants and hang them on one part of the line. When I finish all the clothes in the bucket I add some fabric softener to the clean water and let the clothes soak for five minutes. I ring the water out of the clothes one more time and hang them out on the line to dry.

The key to good laundry is doing it when you hear the whacking of clothes on rocks in your neighborhood. The women choose to wash the mornings the government tap is on and during short, cloudy portions of the afternoon, not during the heat of the day--which is when I usually think to do my laundry. They never seem to wash on a day it rains, never. So, when I hear that rhythmic whacking all around me I know it'd be a good laundry day.

The one seemingly impossible task before making a good villager's wife would be to make tasty Indian food. I have watched Jeeva day in and day out cook out of that small kitchen, power or no power. I've woken up many times to the smell of breakfast wondering how does one create such a beautiful scent. Maybe during my third stay here I'll learn to cook...maybe.

Unfortunately, even if I do I learn how to cook, there are tons of other daily tasks Jeeva does effortlessly that I may never master--like dunging the courtyard, sweeping the veranda just right, and running a tutoring program on her veranda in the evenings to list a few. I'm just glad I'll get to marry someone who is grateful I'm college educated even though I lack many practical life skills.

A little less Christian Compassion please

2008-09-08T01:09:00.000-07:00

While in Thailand I read a couple of books, one being the Painted Veil. I was touched by one particular passage. For those who have not read it I'll give a little background (a.k.a. spoil the ending--so don't read on if you don't want to know what happens!): The husband of the main character has died of cholera. It was not surprising since he had volunteered to work in an area of cholera epidemic. So the woman is in a sort of mourning period. There's a lot more to the story which makes her mourning both selfish and yet deep, but I won't try and rewrite the book right here. The main character had been volunteering at this nunnery while her husband was working as a doctor in the area. Now that her husband is dead one of the nuns tries to console her by talking about the love of God and the peace that is found in Christ, something like that anyway.

The main character wants to say the following (maybe even yell it out) to the nun but doesn’t:

"I'm a human being, unhappy and alone, and I want comfort and sympathy and encouragement: oh can't you turn a minute away from God and give me a little compassion; not Christian compassion that you have for all suffering things, but just human compassion for me?"

I sold the book to some bookstore in Koh Tao, but before I handed it over I wrote down that passage in my little black notebook. I'm afraid if I write much more it'll come out weird and preachy, but this passage really spoke to me. Having been on both the giving and receiving end of both that refined and somewhat impersonal "Christian compassion” and that more raw and maybe a bit clumsy "human compassion" I know what the author means. Sometimes you just need to set aside the all powerful, all knowing, invisible God figure for a minute and just connect human to human.

Even though it's been over a year since that moment I remember vividly sitting on the rug in Lindsay's bedroom telling her the painful details of my breakup. She listened and let the tears come to her eyes as I explained the deep sense of loss and feelings of helplessness that consumed my young heart at that time. She knew me, she knew the details of my life and because she had taken the time to know me she understood the deep pain I was feeling right then. She didn't undermine my feelings by telling me it'd all be OK in the end, she didn't remind me that the Lord had a plan for me, she didn't even try to give me some pep talk on the usefulness of trials. She just sat there on that rug and wept right along with me. Her tears meant more to me than any "comforting" words she could have uttered.

And she wasn't the only one that provided a bit of that human compassion. There was Kelvin who held me while I cried all over his shoulder trying not to get snot on his shirt. And Christine who listened night after night as I sifted through my emotions until I found happy ones. And Kjerstin who would call me out on my crap and then show love the best way she knew how--some delicious home cooked food and an insightful and meaningful compliment. And Veronica who coached me through it all—letting me know that I wasn’t alone.

I know, I know you're probably saying, but Liann what about John 11:35? John 11:35 states explicitly that after Mary tells Christ that her brother, Lazarus, has died, Jesus wept. Isn't that real Christian compassion Liann? Well yes, as I read that passage I recognize that maybe Christ understood what it was like to really connect with people, people who aren't so perfect. And maybe the author of the Painted Veil would say, stop shoving Jesus in my face and start connecting with me as Jesus would, mortal to mortal. And maybe I need to cut those trite little pep talks out of my Christian repertoire and just listen to the one that suffers and let her know her feelings are (as Christine would say) valid. It would mean I'd have to live in the moment with that person as Lindsay had lived in that moment with me. And then after living that moment eventually we could together bring Christ into the picture and allow him to do what he does best, provide hope for the future.

Back in Incredible India!

2008-08-31T05:57:00.000-07:00

As I looked at the Immigration form, which the stewardess had somehow tucked between my body and my seat while I was sleeping, I turned it over and read, "Welcome to Incredible India!" I sighed, folded the form, tucked it into the back pocket of the seat in front of me and went back to sleep.

After a great couple of days in Chang Mai I had mixed feelings about coming back. I felt glad to be on the last leg of this trip and grateful to be meeting up with my new group of BYU Field Studies students, looking forward to going back to the village. I was feeling sad to leave Thailand after making some great backpacking friends. I was also dreading all the physical hardships that come with "Incredible India", and frankly I was ready to go home. After spending a full day on a bus and a restless night in the Bangkok airport I was grateful I had the whole emergency row to myself. I sprawled across the seats and slept through most of the flight--sitting up occasionally wiping the drool off my face, gingerly touching my hair wondering how bad it looked, checking my watch and then laying back down to sleep.

We landed, a half hour later than scheduled. I figured that if I was able to get stamped through immigration, pick up my large bag from the conveyer belt, and breeze through customs by 10:00am I'd grab some rupees from an ATM and take a prepaid taxi to the branch building in Chennai and try and catch at least the last two hours of church. It was 9:30 when we deplaned, but I was determined to make it, elbowing my way to the front of the line and booking it through the terminal.

I was out of the airport terminal just as my watch read 10:00! Even the taxi ride worked out great--he only had to stop and ask directions once, well twice actually. I made it just in time to hear the closing hymn--I was ecstatic. I dropped my large bag in the corner of the room, tried to smooth my hair, and asked around to find out which classroom I should be in for Sunday school. After missing two weeks of church in Thailand it felt great to be with members again. I talked with the American wives of embassy workers, some members I remembered from May, and a even made a new friend.

I walked hesitantly out of the air conditioned building to into India, wondering if I'd find it to be so incredible today. I hailed a rickshaw driver bargained a little with a laugh and rode to the Egmore railway station. I felt good to be back. It felt a little like coming home again--especially when we pulled up to Egmore station and I knew right where we were. I told the driver where the hotel was and found myself back in Hotel Regent, that place with the crazy night man from 4 months ago. It felt like I was here yesterday and it didn't hurt that the afternoon hotel manager knew my face and welcomed me with an air of family. I asked about the crazy night guy--we laughed as he said he's still working here, rolled his eyes, and talked about what a pain he is.

Dropping my bag on the stained mattress and peaking into the bathroom I remembered that I had been quite spoiled in Thailand. But now I was back in India roughing it again. There is something about the challenge of this place and yet the familiarity that has made my homesickness pass. Maybe I'm just back into that old "honeymoon phase" we talk about when discussing phases of culture shock, but I like it. I'm back in India for another 3 whole months, incredible!

so strange it was funny

2008-08-31T05:56:00.000-07:00

OK, OK I know I shouldn't have signed up for such a tour, but what was I supposed to do? Alone in Chang Mai, not knowing a soul, and feeling a little too lazy (or maybe too blue) to get myself out to see the place! I was standing there in my hotel lobby (which looks more like a travel agency...because that's what it is with a few rooms upstairs) looking at pictures of people riding on elephants, elephants and costumed Thais doing tricks, and white people white water rafting. I signed up and paid the 1200 baht (about 40 bucks) to the sweet lady who ran the place. She told me not to forget a towel and swimsuit and that the car would come between 8:30 and 9 the next morning to pick me up.

I don't even know how to describe the increasing hilarity of the day. It progressed so slowly into utter "weirdness" that it's hard to pinpoint when it all started and how we as a group bonded as we experienced it together.

So, we sat in the van making quick introductions as we picked up more and more people. We may have talked more, but the tour guide would not shut up, making lame jokes, and rambling on about things he didn't even know much about. The full van progressed to the Orchid and Butterfly Farm--a stop not anticipated by some. A half hour the guide told us. A half hour to see some insects and flowers! Yikes! After checking out the more moth-like butterflies than the beauties pictured in the brochure, I wandered through the orchid part. I talked with the American couple who said right away "You must be the other American we saw on the list {a list we had to fill out for insurance purposes when we first got into the van}"

"Yep." They were here in Thailand for 2 weeks hanging out at the beach. I had been in India for 4 months living in a village doing research. There are some divides that even our united nationality couldn't mend. But we had a pleasant conversation anyway. I felt a little like I was talking to a high school jock and his girlfriend, even though she insisted she just finished law school and he was working in pharmaceuticals.

After trying to make a joke about the ridiculous butterfly wing earrings at the gift shop to the nice looking German couple in our group, they looked at me a little strange. I tried to recover and make another joke, but I felt like the tour guide--being the only one laughing at his own jokes. They did warm up a little, but as I waited for the 30 minutes to be up with a little worry that today would be a long day.

Our next stop was a paper factory that makes paper out of elephant dung. I thought it might be lame and was already tired of our guide reminding us to bring our money and buy something. To my surprise the place was great--they showed us how they make paper out of real bonafide elephant dung. I know because I saw the actual dung used! I bought a large green sheet, thinking I'd cut it up into paper size and mail letters to my nieces and nephews on the elephant dung. What a great sustainable development project.

After the paper factory we went to see the ones producing the dung. The elephant camp was a bit ghetto--we could buy some bananas and feed them to the chained up elephants. The American left the young elephants to feed a large on chained near a tree and the Thais stopped them saying he was dangerous--only after they had fed him two bananas. I must admit that while it was sad to see them chained up it was great to be so close to these beautiful animals. I couldn't help but compare my awe to that which I feel for horses.

Now the camp was down a hill, it was packed down dirt, a building with a large porch with picnic tables and a small kitchen (to provide our lunch), near a river. There were some elephants (mostly young ones) on this side of the river. There were elephants with harnesses on the other side of the river. We were informed that we were to cross the river in a boat. Now first they had to fish the boat out of the water (meaning it was sinking!) and then chain the metal canoe to a set of three ropes which were tied across the river. Four of us would clumsily climb in the "boat," one of the guys would pull us across the river, and then we had to scramble up this hill (holding on to tree roots) to get to the elephant trekking.

I was asked if I'd be OK riding on the neck in that Thai accented English I was still unfamiliar with. I said OK, not really understanding. Well, what this meant was I'd be on one elephant with two tiny Korean girls. The girls were in the seat/harness and I was riding free on the neck holding on to the Thai elephant guide riding on the elephant's head. The Korean girls were great they screamed and sighed at every step while I was trying to not fall off this moving seat of mine. I hated to see the man knock the elephant over the head when the elephant wouldn't move or would be trying to eat the foliage, but I understood having ridden horses before. This is the lot of a domesticated animal. The weather was great and they took us out into this green lush valley with a beautiful blue sky. I couldn't help but imagine riding these elephants in the "olden days." I loved it when the guy got off and let me just ride the elephant, holding on to the head, while he took pictures of us and then prompted the animal from behind. It was great. And yet like everything on the tour did feel a little fake--packaged up for tourists.

After lunch we watched an Elephant Show. An unanticipated perk since we were there with a girl who had paid to stay the whole day at the elephant camp. They were doing the show for her, we just got to watch. It was like watching a low budget circus, I found myself taking pictures and yet wondering why I was. It's like a car accident; you just can't help but watch.

At this point Petra, a single female high school teacher from Germany, and I started talking. Over lunch, before and after the show she and I talked and laughed. She had had an awful time riding on the neck of her elephant. Unlike me, she had INSISTED on riding on the neck only to find out too late that her elephant had a rather large gash on its neck that was spewing blood and puss. I couldn't help but laugh at her retelling in broken English (she speaks English quite well, but when do you learn the word for elephant puss?) Prompted by my laughing she then made a dramatic speech about how she hated our tour guide, his bad jokes, and insistent talking. I laughed some more. We started to enjoy the hilarity of the tour, not just the things we were doing on the tour.

We then got on a bamboo river raft--a quiet and serene part of the tour. I ended up on the raft with all German speakers, but they were kind enough to speak in English on my behalf. We teased Petra about her elephant and laughed some more about this crazy day tour. We were then driven to the Long Neck village.

Now what you have to understand is these people aren't from Thailand. They came to Thailand because they realized that they could provide Farang with a short "anthropological” experience of visiting their village and "learning" about their culture. What they've created is a real tourist trap. The women of the village wear heavy necklaces that are made of brass. They start at a young age so as they grow their shoulders droop and they appear to have long necks. Their neck muscles DECAY enough so that they then need the support of the necklace. It was horrifying to hear as our tour guide explained all of this (except for the neck muscle thing Carl whispered that to me as we stood in the back) SICK. We walked around the "village" which was a few homes and several booths with these shoulder sagging women just weaving. They never smiled and I wondered in that bitter way why the preadolescent girls had to be subjected to such a thing instead of going to school and learning to make a living for herself that didn't involve wearing heavy jewelry for foreigners to see. No one lingered at the "village" and we got back in the car feeling a bit sick to the stomach.

We were then to go white water rafting. We changed into our swimsuits and were loaded into the back of this pickup that was rigged with two large bamboo poles for us to sit on. It wasn't much of a seat. I've been in India for 4 months mind you in some of the most crowded transportation going through some of the craziest unorganized traffic ever. But this was scary. We were driving on this bumpy dirt road near the river and I was having a blast hanging on for dear life trying not to fall out. It was like a roller coaster, but no assurance of your actual safety!

The brown water rafting was fun and not nearly as scary as the ride up the river. But the funny thing was the tour guide. He demonstrated the moves we'd have to make in response to the orders that would be given. He then made ONLY the women get in the boat on the land and practice, saying that women don't always get it. He had the five of us glaring at him as we practiced the moves. The men in our group laughed, but to their credit only when we were ready to laugh at the humiliating thing ourselves. Carlo, Petra and I had now become fast friends and all got in the same boat together. Carlo and I teased Petra that we shouldn't have gotten in her boat since she has all the bad luck. And sure enough we almost fell out because our river guides thought it'd be funny to run up against a large rock. What was even funnier was that we were more afraid of the water getting in our mouths than of falling out of the boat. That stuff was SICK.

Poor Carlo hadn't been told to bring a swimsuit, so as we changed back into our dry, clean clothes he tried his best to dry off in the sun and ignore his now brown t-shirt. We drove the hour back into Chang Mai and made one more stop, a waterfall. We hiked up the short trail to the waterfall, snapped a few photos and made plans to meet up after the tour for dinner. The Austrian guys who had joined us actually bought some fried worms from the assortment of fried insects for sale at a stall near the waterfall. They were nice enough to share and the group made enough peer pressure that we all ended up trying one or two. I ate one and then wanted a picture. Unfortunately, the second one was a little more juicy than the first and grossed me out a bit. The other American almost threw up in the car when she ate hers and insisted on chewing some gum afterwards.

Anyway, it was great to meet some fabulous new people. Traveling Thailand was getting a bit lonely and meeting these people under such “weird” circumstances made it all the more fun!

Being a Tourist in Thailand

2008-08-28T05:50:00.000-07:00

I keep trying to write a blog entry to capture my time in Amritsar, but it hasn't quite worked out. I'll give it another go, but in the meantime I'll tell you what I'm doing now.

I'm on vacation!! If India wasn't exotic enough to sound like a vacation--well it wasn't. I've come to Thailand for a bit of a break from the heat and a chance to fix my really bad farmers tan while reading on the beautiful beaches of Thailand.

I think two significant things have come to mind since I've come to Thailand. One, I have become a world traveler. Even though I have spent quite a bit of time outside the country I've never felt like a 'World Traveler." I'm not much into titles anyway, but that title in particular seems only appropriate for men who charter their own boats through the remote regions of the Amazon. But as I arrived in Bangkok, got Baht from the ATM, found a cheaper bus to the touristy Kao San Road, arrived to find my friend no where in sight, walked around a bit, checked my email, and met up with her at a designated spot. Shannon and I spent the next two days running around a city I didn't know--taking buses, talking with locals, trying new food. Even though Shannon had been in Thailand for the last 3 months, we were both new to the city and enjoyed figuring out the city together.

The significant thing to me is not that I'm in Thailand, but that I'm in Thailand and NOT paniced. Compared to India THIS IS EASY!! I'm rubbing elbows with Swedes, Auzzies, Dutch, Irish, and even some Americans. After Shannon left for home, I decided to travel for a couple of days with an Irish couple, Dave and Nicole. Even then I didn't feel like I was being chauffeured around--I felt like a contributing member tin getting us around.

The second thing, I have returned to the question "Why do I travel?" Why does anyone travel for that matter. I've run into several people who are on long term trips around the world. For those I run into here it's a given--no one asks you've spent (or is it wasted) all this money to come to another part of the world. But talking with Becky online about how her husband would prefer a bigger TV than travel made me suspect that we're maybe I'm more rare than I think.

I've been jovially (and to their credit, tactfully) hit on by some fat 40 year old Italian men in Phuket spending their vacation time at a beach front hotel looking to get laid. I've talked with those who came with the sole purpose of to scuba diving off the great beaches here in Koh Tao or rock climbing at the famous Railay Island. I've seen those who carry around huge cameras with and take photo after photo of the beautiful scenery. I've even run into the men with young Thai girls at their side (and in one case Thai boy) who may be here to take advantage of the sex tourism available in Thailand--the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. I don't really relate to them. The closest I relate is to those who are traveling all around the world--in hopes of seeing it all, experiencing it all. They push themselves to try the food, learn some of the culture, and enjoy what the place has to offer.

I must admit that after doing India it has been hard to really enjoy touristy Thailand. I used to cringe when I heard some field studies participants say vehemently that they HATE being a tourist. I cringed because it's hard not to be a tourist when you are visiting a place you've never been. By definition you are "touring." In order to see Ko Phi Phi in one day we did a tour package--in involved being shuttled around in a speedboat with 20 other tourists to some of the main beaches, then to lunch, snorkeling, and then shuttled back to our hotel. I enjoyed seeing the beautiful place, but hated the constant pleas from the guide to "SIT DOWN," the semi decent sea food lunch, and the scheduled "be back at boat 5 by2:45." While I wasn't capable of chartering my own boat around this beautiful island. I did feel a difference from owning my experiences in India to being shuttled around in this paradise. I guess I don't feel great about being a tourist, but sometimes there's nothing you can do to escape it. I guess.

Hi my name is Liann and I am addicted to shoes

2008-08-03T22:14:00.000-07:00

I have bought six pairs of shoes while in India. Six pairs! Two pairs while in Coimbatore that are safely stored at Matthew and Jeeva's home, one pair while in Delhi, and three pairs while here in Amritsar. All while I'm trying to live a life of simplicity--one backpack and few belongings. I find that I am obsessed.

But please let me explain. There just comes a time when you spy that pair of shoes and think to yourself "I wonder if those would look that fantastic on my feet as they do nailed to that wall," you point and say your size, the man brings them to you and helps you slip your feet in into the pair, you take a few ginger steps around the store and then to the mirror (if they have one). Then the moment of realization hits you, the realization that you cannot leave the store without that pair of shoes. Nevermind that you have at least 20 to 25 pairs of shoes sitting in a box in your parents' attic while you traspe about India in your beloved Chacos, these shoes have just crossed that line from a want to a need.

You bargain as much as you can trying to hide the fact that you will pay whatever you have to in order to walk out that door with your new found lovers. Yes lovers. You pay the pittance you must to release them bondage and take home them home to start a love affair that will last as long as the style doesn't shift. Amazing. I sometimes amaze (and disgust) even myself. The funny thing is I can't wear half the shoes I bought because they are either too sexy, too clean and white, or too impractical for walking around in this country. So I'll have to wait another 3 months (at least) just dreaming up the outfits to go along with these cute little shoes.

Bumming it with the Buddhists in Bodhgaya

2008-08-03T22:09:00.000-07:00

I've had some real beautiful experiences in Bodhgaya, the city where Buddha recieved enlightenment. The town is small and full of monestaries and temples built by Buddhist countries. Bodhgaya was my favorite stop on my last tour of India. Unfortunantly it was overrun with loud and obnoxious Hindu pilgrims dressed in orange. So I missed the quiet of the place. But I still had a few great experiences I wanted to share--

Sitting under the Bodhi Tree where Buddha recieved enlightenment talking quietly with a monk from Cambodia. He's studying world religions at a university in India and his mother who provides for his schooling has come from Canada to travel to these sacred spaces in India. She was dressed in white and he in deep gold robes, both had the shaved heads, and were chatting congenially before we approached him. He told me about what prayers he repeats while fingering his 108 prayer beads. He also talked about why he wanted to become a monk at the age of 13. He was aware of suffering and wanted to escape (or was it learn to deal with) that suffering. I don't know what his life was like in Cambodia, but at 13 I think I was concerned with my own ugliness and awkwardness and not the suffering in the world. The conversation was beautiful and insightful.

One afternoon I sat at the temple and contemplated life as I listened to the breeze in the tree. It was a windy day and I decided I wouldn't leave until I had a Bodhi leaf to glue into my journal, a piece of this peaceful place. I sat and waited and watched as a few precious leaves fell, but people would scury and pick them up. I didn't want to get my leaf that way--I may get my train tickets by elbowing my way in line, but not this. I wanted getting my leaf to be a good memory. After some time I decided that maybe it was time for me to seek after my leaf rather than wait for it to come to me. I walked in the yard behind the tree. I picked up one leaf, but found it was quite dirty, maybe this wasn't the leaf. I kept walking and a small leaf blew towards my feet. I picked it up. I was beautiful--small, light green, with some speckles. I loved it and I loved that it came to me in such a way. I think that's what I love about India--it teaches me to love and appreciate the small things. Enjoy the process not just the outcome.

My last night in Bodhgaya I went back to hang out at the temple. I watched a woman dressed in white water the tree with her water bottle--it was a bit of a process to get the bottle through the bars. She then sat down and started chanting prayers from a book. Her voice was melodic and beautifully solemn as it quietly piered the night. The first morning I walked into the temple a butterfly happened across my path and stayed to flirt a little with me. I thought to myself, "Enchanting. This place is enchanting." And as I walked back up the steps to leave the temple that last night I felt that again. Enchanting. Simply enchanting.

Too Many Posts Too Little Time to Read?

2008-07-19T05:51:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry that it's either feast or famine on my blog these days. I just posted three pieces today that I've been thinking about. I wanted to rearrange the order, but can't manage it right now. So, you'll have to bear with me.

The first is the longest. The second my favorite--I learned something as I wrote it. And the third a fun story I couldn't quite capture in words--hopefully you'll get it though. I also added pictures since I finally got around to getting them off my camera!

Hospital Stay

2008-07-19T05:45:00.000-07:00

The five hour bus ride to Bangalore feels like an eternity. David is now holding his backpack limply and resting his head on it. He looks more and more pale. While I feel the breeze cool my sweat soaked face and body I touch David's dry forehead with worry. The situation is made comic as the baby next to me pours milk on me and my purse. As the mother and father stand to leave the bus I ask the lady's husband with furrowed brow how to get to Wockhardt Hospital, the hospital that a calm and detached voice on the other end of the phone told me to go to. I hate and love SOS international, a phone service for sick students in study abroad programs.

We make it to the bus stand. I help David into his bags and then put on my own. We walk to the prepaid rickshaw stand. I load the little rickshaw with our large bags--I hold David's bag in place with my neck and head. In the back of the rickshaw I see as far as change I only have 4 tens--always the change game in India. I put the 4 tens in one pocket, but hope the driver will break my 100. The driver takes us to the hospital. 42 rupees. I hand him 100 rupee bill and a 2 rupee coin. He says, "I want 10 extra" and points to the large bags. Rage surges within me. I snatch the bill out of his hand, then hand over the 40 rupees from my pocket. He retracts his hand. and says, "10 extra for baggage."

I say, "Fine if you don't want it, I'll keep it." and start handing Dave's bag to him as he stands outside of the rickshaw looking both pale and sun burnt (from the rash he’s had). Again the driver says, "Ten extra for the baggage." I say no. I'm out of the rickshaw bags in hand now. He finally puts our his hand to receive payment and I throw the 4 bills in his direction. David raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes and motion towards the hospital, which looks more like a five star hotel--damn SOS! This is going to be expensive, but I don't have the time to get him somewhere else.

We check in at the reception lobby. A nice man with a trimmed moustache works the desk tonight. His English is good and his smile genuine and calming, not greasy like most Indian men who look at me like I'm the new stripper in town. We get into a room and a female doctor in a lab coat asks lots of questions. She comes back 10 minutes later and encourages David to be admitted. David is hesitant, by the cleanliness of the room and status of the lobby we know this will be pricey. I run back to the lobby and get a pricing list--just to see how much this pretty little room will cost us. It's 2100 a night for a semi-private room (a shared bathroom down the hall but a room with an extra couch made into bed for me to sleep on). That's 50 bucks a night. We go ahead and pay the down payment.

That first night involved running back and forth to the mall getting food, filling out paperwork, going through an orientation, and getting keys, a remote control for the TV, and an "attendee" badge. David gets poked and prodded all night long. We both wake every time a nurse comes in. By 6:00 they bring David his morning tea and at 7 they want him to step out of bed so they can change the sheets. We both roll our eyes and try to sleep a little more after they leave him with a fresh pair of pajamas.

The doctor comes in at 10:00am while I'm out getting breakfast for me and trying to put more minutes on my emergency cell phone. He tells David, "We'll know by Wednesday." He doesn't explain what tests he's running, what treatment he's planning to give, or why he hasn't given David any medication yet. Nothing. Which then becomes a pattern. Each time the nurses come in they never explain what they're doing or why or even what David's vitals are. I finally stop asking because each time we ask the nurse something she just repeats the word in English with some blank stare and says, "yeah, yeah." Sometimes the nurses use gloves and sometimes not. When they don't I shake my fist at SOS!!

Three days like this. 6:00 milk is brought in by the kitchen staff who wear a tuxedos minus the dinner jackets. 7:00 the nurse and one of the cleaning staff to change the sheets. You can tell the nurses by the caps they wear, their white shoes, and light blue uniforms while the cleaning staff wear a dark blue with black shoes. The nurses are all female the cleaning staff all male. 8:00 the cleaning staff wet down the sink and the floor with soapy water and squeegee the floor dry then use a dry mop to finish it off. I am always amazed at how dirty the water gets and how much it smells like a hospital after they leave. 9:00 a guy comes and sprays the room with pest control. 10:00 the doctor makes a formal visit, says very little and pats David on his knee. I run errands in the afternoon--giving David and I some alone time. By dark I come back to the hospital. I make one ice cream run for the two of us after dinner and we spend the night watching some more TV--mostly movies on HBO. We crack a few jokes about Indian hospitals or lame films on HBO and by 11 or 11:30 we turn out the lights. I try to sleep on the uneven couch-made-bed they've provided. The staff at night usually come in once or twice which makes me wake with a start to do who knows what. I sit up and wait until they leave to go back to sleep.

By Tuesday we have a diagnosis, Dengue fever. We've talked about David going home, but nothing was set until we found he had more than just your everyday "Viral Fever." We make more expensive calls home and to the office. They want to keep David at the hospital because his blood platelets are low. I bring the nice night receptionist an ice cream on my Tuesday night ice cream run. And Wednesday morning we are told we can leave today. By 3 in the afternoon we finally get released and try to catch a rickshaw to the hotel I've made reservations for. What a week. I've enjoyed getting to know Bangalore a bit better, India's New York City. But I'll be ready for this to be over--Sunday we fly to Delhi and that night David is going to head home.

Homebody or Lone Wanderer?

2008-07-19T05:37:00.000-07:00

Karthik, my new found friend in India, offered to take me to a hill temple just outside of Coimbatore. We drove in his car, a privilege I've come to appreciate after hours and hours on the bus. We hiked up the steps to the Hindu temple for the god of Karthik, a son of Shiva and Paravati.

The story goes that Shiva told his two sons, Ganesh and Karthik, that he would give a reward to the son who goes around the world and comes back first. Karthik jumps on his peacock and starts his journey around the world. Ganesh simply walks around his parents--indicating that his parents are his world. When Karthik returns to find his brother has won, he goes up to a hill and pouts. This is why temples for Karthik are always built on hills.

So, I find myself climbing stairs with Karthik, the man, trying not to breathe too heavy. We reach the top and drink deeply from the water taps. I don't care if it made me sick it feels great to scoop it in my hands and then lap it up enjoying the sweet taste. We walk around the temple and watch the sun set on the mountain. Karthik tells me the story of god who sees the wolrd, but is cheated of his father's prize. On our way back down we even catch a peak at a real peacock.

And for me? I find myself vacillating between intense loneliness and a deep gratitude for the experiences I've had as a single woman. I haven't tried to avoid marriage, in fact I've spent a lot of time seeking after it. And yet, I still find that wandering spirit in me. I fear that I'll never be completely content with living a quiet life in some quiet part of the world as a wife and mother. And yet, I watch with a bit of longing my married brothers and sisters with their growing families. I hold their children and sense the beauty that comes in family life.

Karthik or Ganesh? Homebody or Lone Wanderer? Are we ever just one or the other?

Honored by the Swamaji

2008-07-19T05:30:00.000-07:00

Visiting the Swamaji

Sravanabellagola is a major religious site for Jain pilgrims. The town is small and set between two mountains made of pure rock. One is small and has a temple complex, the other is large and after climbing the 647 rock steps you get to hang out in this temple built around a 57 foot tall naked statue of a man. I love it. I love every minute of it.

For every Jain temple there is a Swamaji, who oversees the temple. A couple of our group members got together and wrote a letter requesting an audience with the Swamaji. Our requests were granted and nine of us found ourselves in a simple room sitting around a soft speken man dressed in orange robes who spoke English really well. He asked who was in charge. Everyone looked to me "the Field Facilitator." I who hadn't set up this meeting, who hasn't read a thing about Jainism in the last 3 years since I was in India, I who didn't even know who this guy was. Yep, me. I'm in charge. I explained my role as field facilitator and that I had been three years previously. He asks me to move to the front so that I can help "translate" which meant repeat the questions in louder and more Indian English.

During our hour with him I was struck by two things: He is always smiling. It feels sincere, but it makes him look like he's always got a joke he feels is too naughty to say. I was also struck by how this man's religiosity is made possible because others are supporting him. For example, he has made an oath not to ride in a vehicle except for an emergency. He told us proudly he's only ridden in a car 3 times since he made that vow 5 or so years ago. Who gets your groceries? That's what I want to know!

After an hour of asking questions he motioned to his "servants" who brought us cream cotton shawls, necklaces, booklets, and small replicas of the naked monolith. The men quietly put the shawls and necklaces around my neck. I stood as if I was receiving a medal of honor for courage. I then stepped forward and received the gift of a booklet and statue from the Swamaji, handed to me with two hands like a Buddhist monk. I watched as each of the group members did the same.

He exclaimed that our questions were excellent and well informed. He mentioned that this hour was not wasted and that he'd like to meet with our little group again. We set a time for Monday morning and then were escorted to the VIP dining hall where we ate a simple, but delightful Jain meal--no potatoes, garlic, honey etc. Nothing that would cause harm. We laughed over our situation, all nine of us eating at this beautiful wood dining table wearing our cotton shawls and necklaces.

Being white can be frustrating in this country--always getting ripped off. I call it the white man tax. But I also realized that day that being a foreigner interested in and knowledgeable about Indian culture and religion can open up a lot of doors. I sometimes consider my skin as my ticket in, but it does come with a cost.

Has Liann Found a Future Job?

2008-06-30T02:53:00.001-07:00

I talked with a friend from India who owns a company in Sweden. He currently spends 20 days in Sweden and 10 in India each month. We talked a lot about my research and interest in India. Surprisingly enough he was actually impressed at what I am doing! He kept saying, "I know some people who would love to recruit you. Everyone needs a link from America to India."

After our talk I got to thinking...maybe all this wandering around India is actually leading me somewhere! I always thought this was just for the sake of it--some time in India is always a welcome thing. But maybe I'm actually gaining marketable skills!! Maybe just maybe after a bachelors degree and soon a masters degree I will be able to find a company not just willing to hire me, but wanting to recruit me!

And maybe just maybe they'll be turned off by this post if they read my blog, but wow I never thought this weird passion of mine might actually be useful to someone somewhere!

Something Inspiring

2008-06-30T02:46:00.001-07:00

Sydney and I met Katie at church in Coimbatore. White people always stick out in an Indian congregation. We asked her what she was doing here in India. She explained that she was working with an orphanage. What peaked my curiosity was when we asked her what was next for her in life and she responded that she hoped to do this "orphanage thing" for the rest of her life.

Sydney and I took two buses and eventually a rickshaw to "Families for Children" and walked into the office one afternoon. Katie took us around the three different complexes and explained each project There were Infants with physical deformities and other waiting for adoption. There were toddlers, young and old girls, young and old boys, a silk making project, goats, special needs children, elderly care, a doctors office, a physical therapy area, a large kitchen to feed the kids, a smaller kitchen for the girls to learn to cook, housing for volunteers, a paper making project, and sewing projects and bag making for polio victims and poor women from the surrounding area.

It was overwhelming and beautiful the way this simple place managed to do so much good. The director of the orphanage has throat cancer and hasn't been able to visit in the last 7 years, but still keeps up reguarly with the staff and knows what is going on. I wouldn't be surprised if she knows the names of all 400 kids living there.

What was most impressive was talking with Katie, a 29 year old single Mormon who felt the need to come to India. She was drawn to this project through a series of events and here she is feeling the contentment that comes when you know you're doing the right thing for yourself.

Sydney and I caught a bus back into town and ate dinner. Sydney said, "Man Liann you must have been hungry." I looked down and realized two things 1-I was just about to slop up the last of the masala with my last piece of naan and 2-I hadn't said much of anything to Sydney since we ordered.

I looked up and said, "Yeah I must have been...Sorry I haven't been talking." Then I trailed off trying to explain.

She said, "It's OK. we just saw something that was very beautiful and inspiring."

"Yeah." We finished up our meal trying to find words to describe what we just experienced, but it was just hard to capture what we both felt other than saying we were inspired. I was inspired, but not necessarily to open up my own orphanage. No, I just want to find some good I can do in some small corner, something I know God feels pleased that I am doing.

The Village Funeral

2008-06-30T02:33:00.000-07:00

I was walking back from the main road after dinner. Sydney and I heard some drums in the distance. I turned to her and said, "You want to go check out what's going on?"

"Yeah."

We talked about whether it could be the musician caste celebrating the New Moon at their temple. As we followed the noise we realized it wasn't coming from that temple. We found ourselves in front of a hall used for weddings and large gatherings. We hung around and asked the people at the entrance what was going on. A young man from Kerela explained that his great-grandmother had died and this was her funeral. We were invited in to see the woman's body and snack on some bananas (maybe India's version of funeral potatoes) .

Sydney and I hung around to help send this old woman on to the next world--or maybe just back into the cycle of rebirth. We watched as the women in the family danced and chanted around the woman's body--a song of mourning. Sydney and I attentively stood as the family carried her sheet covered body and laid her on a bench (not unlike the one on which we were just sitting) and then remove her jewelry (the worst was watching one of her daughters try to unscrew the lady's nose ring). The family members who wished to placed oil and herbs on her head and in her hair. Little babies were forced to by their mother's hands to rub the old lady's forehead. Our makeshift translator, a great granddaughter who was going to college and at the moment explaining the ceremonies, choose not to participate. One woman then wash the body with 5 large silver buckets of water. The older men and the women argued about the manner in which to do these ceremonies, yelling over the beating drums and animately pointing. They covered her body in a yellow saffron powder. The different families produced gifts of red and white cotton to cover this old woman's body as her remains would be consumed in fire. They offered the gifts after following the drummers in a circle around the funeral pyre and her body. They put their backs toward the corpse as they tossed the cloth on her body.

The grandchildren and great grandchildren lighted incense and placed it under the bench by her feet. Then the family lighted a camphor flame on a tray with bananas and coconuts and placed it at the foot of the woman. Then each one of the guests, including Sydney and I, at the funeral prayed over a camphor flame touching the woman's feet.

I said a quick prayer for the family. And then followed the men as they carried the soaking wet body from the bench to the pyre they had made out of wood and decorated with flowers earlier that evening. The drummers started the procession. The men hefted the pyre onto their shoulders and walked out to the road. The women followed behind. Some young men went ahead and lighted firecrackers--since this was a celebration. The women weren't allowed to watch the body being burned--that was a role for the men. So, we walked until the women around us stopped. We listened and watched the procession continue without us.

Both Matthew and one of the family members at the funeral informed us that we should wash before we go home. Sydney and I took cold bucket showers in the bathroom and got ready for bed as we told the other girls what we had seen. As I laid on my mat listening to the drums continue late into the night. Wondering how the old woman felt about the celebration surrounding her death.

Even though she was under the sheet I could tell she had a small, frail body. I pictured her among the other widows who gather under the large tree by the musician caste temple and realized they probably didn't make much fuss over her in the last few years, but they pulled out all the stops for her funeral. But maybe we're not to different. We wait until someone's funeral to say all the nice things we've been thinking about him or her, when it's too late for them to enjoy it.

Some Thoughts

2008-06-13T03:17:00.000-07:00

Michael asked me to post some of the thoughts I've been working through. Each one of these could be its own longer post, but I thought I'd give you a brief impression of some of things I've been thinking about and struggling through. Let me know what you think.

Poverty--There really are starving children in India. I don't see them every day, but I do walk past nutritionally deficient children in the village. That girl can't possibly be 13 can she?? Strange that I don't finish what's on my dinner plate still.

Feminism--Why has feminism become such a bad word at BYU? Any BYU co-ed who came here and actually talked with these women* would thank their Father in Heaven for those bra-burning women of the 1960s and 70s. I sure have.

*These women=wives who can't travel outside their homes without their husbands' permission, college-age daughters who aren't allowed out past 6:00pm, 14 year old girls who work at factories instead of finishing secondary school because it costs too much money to educate a female, 40 year old women who wear only the sarees their husbands buys for them, and finally women who sleep in the corner with different bedding and use different dishes when menstruating because they are "unclean."

Hidden Environmentalist--Living among my trash here in the village has turned me into an environmentalist. Without the regular garbageman to take my trash away from my home I have to throw it in the pile by the side of the road on my way to the main road. I've started buying 2 liter bottles of water instead of 1 (or usually I just pump my own clean water), I drink out of reusable glass bottles when I buy a cold soda at the nearby shop, and I cringe at all the extra packaging my biscuits come in.

Maybe I would have always been this way had I been on a field trip to the city dump instead of the city's zoo when I was in second grade and third grade. Maybe.

Living a More Simple Life--Between carrying water from the government tap to our host family's cistern every 2-3 days, washing my own clothes by beating them on a rock, sleeping on a thin mat on cement floor, and going "native" by cutting out TP from my bathroom routine things have become a lot more simple. I wish it didn't take coming to India to show me how entirely and unnecessarily complicated I've made my life, but here I am with a "to do" list of things like: eat lunch, write in my journal, and spend time on the veranda with Matthew and Jeeva.

A General Apology

2008-06-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

I know some of you (or I at least hope) that some of you are interested in my travels here in India. I have tried diligently to post a least once a week, but you'd be amazed at the ammount of effort that it takes. Partly it's the physical effort of riding into town for an hour and half and then dealing with uncertain power supply (it always seems to go out when you're just about to email or just about to post something...the fates!!). The other part is this...I don't quite know how to explain this. Yes, I am in India. India, the land in the East that people say with a dreamy voice that drips with exotic spices and beautiful colors. But, it's not like this is an alien planet!! People live here--thay have been for centuries. While their culture is different, which does make things frustrating and difficult, but at the same time more interesting and fun to decipher, it's not that different. I don't feel the way I used to about this place. This place is now just a place I've chosen to be for a while. Just like a couple thousand BYU students choose to spend their summer in Provo (like I did last summer). I'm still me, not any better or worse or any cooler or nerdier for choosing India this summer; and yet I feel like we give a certain prestigue for those who have traveled. I kind of hate the idea of using the experiences I have here as conversation pieces that make me the center of attention. So, as I think about posting all my cool stories about the "locals" I feel a bit of unease. I don't know if this is a sign of maturity or if it's just silly. So here it is, a general apology for those who check back regularly and find I haven't posted anything new. Sorry. I'm still alive and enjoying India, we'll hopefully have long poetic talks about it when I get home.

Eating

2008-05-21T00:02:00.000-07:00

Eating in India is quite the ordeal. Since I haven't done much else this week I thought I would talk about that which I have done besides read textbooks.

You walk into a roadside stand after being beckoned to by the owner. For lunch I usually like a rice meal. So you say “meals” as he brings you a large banana leaf and glass of water. You pour a little water onto your banana leaf and wipe it down with your right hand—cleaning off any dirt that may still be on the leaf.

The man brings you a large portion of rice—that which a large working man could hold in two hands piled high. Then comes sambar, a sauce that is poured over half the rice. Next he brings a series of things and plops them onto your banana leaf. From left to right there are neat little piles of the following: salt, a pickle (which is not the pickle you're thinking of it's a lime, mango, or coconut that has been pickled with spicy red sauce. I one time made the mistake of trying to eat some of it, let's just say I've never tried it again, we'll talk a little later about what to do with the pickle.), and one or two vegetable dishes. Then a tortilla shaped “chip” called a papadam is placed on your plate usually on your clean rice not covered in sambar.

You proceed to eat. No utensils needed, just the right hand. However, there is an art to South Indian eating. None of this juvenal making a mess of face and plate like a two year old.

There is mixing the perfect amount of sambar and rice. The rice is to be sauced, but not saucy. So you take a portion of the samber soaked rice and your white rice and mix with your fingers massaging rice. Then you make a small ball like gob in your fingers and pick it up and bring it to your lips, so that the tips of your fingers are almost touching your lips. Using your thumb you slide the gob into your mouth and chew quickly so that swallowing can begin and the burning sensation on your tounge can subside.

You repeat this, sometimes throwing in an occasional gob of the vegetables and a taste of the papadam (but I like to save a little for the very end if I have enough self control) If you decide to finish the large portion of rice on your plate more samber is needed. This takes me at least one month in the field before I am able to eat an entire rice meal and ask for more rice.

And no, the meal isn't done with just sambar and rice. With a few large handfuls of clean sambar-free rice on your banana leaf you say confidently “rasam” if you like a spicy end to your meal, then he brings a spicy soup and pours it over the remaining rice. Or if you're like me and need a little cool down from the sambar you say “moore.” He then brings out a white milk substance that tastes a little like plain yogurt. This is where I use the salt and pickle (if you're daring enough). You mix your “moore” with your rice (but don't make gobs like before) then dip your finger in the salt and pickle and then pick up a gob of rice and put in mouth. The effect is a lightly flavored plan yogurt rice which I have come to love.

I however, break from traditional Tamil eating etiquette here. I like mixing the salt with the curd rice and then which is according to Tamil etiquette to some I dab my finger with the pickle juice, wipe the juice on my tongue, and then throw in a gob of curd rice in my mouth. It's a unique, but delicious end to the meal.

You then fold your banana leaf toward you to indicate that you are finished. You take your banana leaf to the trash pile and wash your right hand at the “wash.” In a nicer restaurant this involves a working sink. In the village this involves a large bucket of water with a scoop. You wash your hand as your pour the water with your left hand onto your right hand over a designated wet dirt patch.

You then pay the owner 15 or 17 rupees (it's about 41 rupees to the dollar) and leave to the bakery across the road to drink a cold soda out of a glass bottle before walking 20 minutes back to the village.

I remember adjusting to the food being very difficult the first time, but when I got back I was excited to be eating meals, parota, omlets, poori, and all the spicy sauces that go with it. Yum.

It Feels a Little Like Home

2008-05-12T23:46:00.000-07:00

For those who have been interested, sorry I haven't written. I guess I haven't known quite what to write about. I feel such a mix of emotions now that I am here. Here in Chavadi Pudur, a village outside of Coimbatore. I am happy to be here, but at the same time taking bucket showers, washing my own sweaty clothes, dealing with the intervals without power, and sleeping on a thin mat next to five other girls on our cement floor reminds me that most people don't stay in this field study program for more than 4 months.

Yet, eating lunch off a banana leaf with my hand, spending the evening on the veranda chatting with Matthew and Jeeva, and watching the village take a little longer to rise this rainy morning makes this place feel a lot like home.

While I spent the first few days getting everyone settled in—taking people on walks around the village, spending the day showing David Shanti Ashram and the city I have had time to reflect. It's the beginning of 6 months of thinking—thinking about some weird mix of Indian life and culture in comparison to my own, as well as a deep reflection on my self, my past, my future. I come to new ideas, revisit old ideas, settle deeper into some opinions, and begin to question other opinions I always took for granted. The simplicity of life and yet the complication of living in an Eastern world leads to some great think time I don't get in the US.

Coimbatore Fiasco

2008-05-12T23:38:00.000-07:00

The group's first travel day. I tried to warn our group that travel days are exhausting, but nothing can quite prepare anyone for those days. We packed up our overly stuffed bags, hauled them to the city train station, waited 10 minutes for a train, walked from Park station to the Central train station amidst an Indian crowd (more people than a fire chief would feel comfortable in one place), once at the station we take a few minutes to find which platform we are to be one, 15 minutes to go until our train leaves with or without us, we hike over to platform 3, find our train car, and finally drop our stuff by our assigned seats. We sit three to a seat made for the siginificantly skinnier Indian people comparing the sweat stains on our backs—my entire back is soaked in sweat. We spend the next 7 hours chatting as much as possible with those around us.

10:30 pm we arrive to Coimbatore—we then haul our bags across the street and check each hotel to hear “full” from each desk clerk. We quickly negotiate a bad price for a taxi to go to the bus station and look there. Again we hear “full” repeated again and again from each hotel. Now we gather under the awning of a hotel calling the expensive hotels in Coimbatore on the pay phone—surely the Residency couldn't be full tonight as well. No, in their good English I hear over the phone that they too are full.

This is when the situtation turns fiasco. Rain. Lots of rain begins to pour. Well, “Welcome to India friends” I think as I look around me to the other students with their large bags stacked in one corner away from the rain. I call Matthew—not what I had hoped I would have do. His voice is warm and welcoming even though it's 11:30 and I've woken him up. The pay phone cuts out.

I don't know quite how to explain this—but a man on a motorcycle who speaks decent English comes to help. He uses his cell phone to call Matthew back and explain the predicament in Tamil. He hands the phone to me and I hear Matthew laugh over the phone as he hears that it is pouring rain. Matthew says to go ahead and get taxis to come to the village. The girls talk with the hotel clerk inside and coordinates two taxis to come take us to the village.

The man on the bike isn't satisfied that we can make it on our own. Like a typical Indian male, he insists on helping even when it's not needed. He asks to meet the “gents” in the group. I go and get them from inside the hotel lobby. He then lectures the two guys in our group about their responsibility to take care of the girls in the group.

An hour later, the taxis arrive. The overly helpful motorcycle man starts haggling a price for the 9 of us. At this point we don't care. We'll pay the extra $10 as long as it will take us to a dry place to sleep. We load up the one taxi with our things with Ty, Jill, and their sleeping toddler, while the rest of us load into the other. The overly helpful man asks just one thing of Ty, a little alcohol. He is surprised to hear that these 9 Americans don't drink—silly Mormons. Poor man his time would have been better used elsewhere.

We arrive to the village by 1:15. David finds that his bed is on the Veranda with grandpa. The girls realize that they are actually going to be spending 2 months on a cememnt floor, while Ty and Jill think about “baby proofing” their room which is full of motorcycle parts, etc. It takes us another hour and a half to settle down and finally get to sleeping. Ty calls it our baptism by fire. That didn't go quite as I had planned, but what does anyway?

What am I doing here again?

2008-05-01T07:22:00.000-07:00

I left Arizona with a wierd feeling of emptiness. I had no tearful goodbyes, but they were hard without being ultra dramatic. I will miss my close friends and family. I realized that as I was waiting in the terminal for my plane to take off. I had too much to do these last few weeks to even think about it, but in that terminal and on that plane I had plenty of time to reflect on how much I love my family and friends and will miss them.

My first night in Delhi--I paid too much for a taxi, a room with AC, and a taxi back to the airport, my meal in Chennai, and my internet right now. It feels like every Indian is out to get all my money! What a frustrating feeling. As I was lying on the not-so-comfortable bed trying to sleep through jet lag I thought, "What in the world am I doing here?" I didn't really have much of an answer--running away from making major life decisions, doing something hard so I can become a better and more patient person, and doing research to further an academic career I'm not sure I want to persue. They all seemed pretty pathetic excuses for spending 6-8 months in this country! I hope I can figure out why I am here. Why this country and this time. In the meantime I hope I can find what drew me to India in the first place.

Hitting a Man on a Bike

2008-04-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

It was traumatizing, but let’s admit very funny in reflection. As part of my stressful pre-departure week I ran up to campus at 9:00 am to meet with a potential candidate for our fall group in India and then run a three hour long departure meeting for the Spring Summer Group. I hadn’t slept well the night before thinking of things I needed to remember to say in the meeting.

I frantically drive up 7^th north in my car and turn on 7^th east, the worst street in town. I maneuver around students and slow busses. I whip around the parking lot and swing into a parking spot just in time to see a man on a bicycle head toward s me. I stop! I have to admit I even close my eyes and put my hands to my face! All I see the man’s face as he realizes he can’t miss my car. His bicycle rams into the side of my car and he lands on my hood and windshield!

I spent the next five minutes saying, “Are you alright?!?” over and over again. He spent those five minutes saying "I'm fine" over and over again as he winces and walks around testing out his own jostled limbs and the poor bike that took the brunt of the accident. After bugging the poor man long enough and making sure he could walk I run up to campus, late for the meeting that turned out to be cancelled last minute.

What a week! I just wish I could have captured the whole thing on tape. Funny, but at the same time not funny.

Why Memoirs of a Kansas City Waitress?

2008-04-18T14:36:00.000-07:00

We all choose to do things with our lives. Different things. Things that make us happy. Things that never turn out quite right. Things that lead to deep relationships. Things that lead to great regret. Things we have to sacrifice for. Thoughtless things that make our lives interesting. Things that teach us those lifelong lessons we never can quite let go of.

One summer I chose to be a waitress in Kansas City. I choose to do different things with my life now, but that summer, that job—I learned a lot about myself, about people, about a part of the world I never would have learned about through my many books. It may not have been the best decision, but I’ve never regretted it. I hope to continue making choices like that—unexpected choices that make life rich and interesting. I hope I can use this forum to share my choices as well as my thoughts and experiences that go along with those choices.

I’ve hesitated for a long time in starting this blog because I tend to get too personal, uncomfortably personal. However, in the face of this 6 month excursion to India, I’ve given in and started this blog. I hope this can be a place to share with those close to me and maybe it’ll make up for the lack of those conversations we would have had in person. I doubt it, but enjoy the dialogue anyway.