Meditations on Suburban Living

In my mind, the word "suburb" plants pictures of smiling Caucasian-Americans, golden retrievers, two-story houses with oddly-placed Roman facades and quintessential white picket fences--a pastiche that makes me uneasy and Sam Mendes' an Oscar-winning millionaire.

So, why, my friends may wonder, am I currently living in one of the richest suburbs in America?

That's a good question.

In the three weeks that I've been living in Rockville, Maryland, I've heard coworkers call it the "Orange County of the East Coast" and the community college that I teach at "Harvard on the Pike." As I look around my neighborhood, I don't question their comparisons.

The streets here are all named after high-class universities: Duke, Yale, Fordham, Rutgers. The elementary school is called College Gardens (doesn't it just inspire images of carefully planted cabbage-patch children emerging one day as proud college graduates?). And the houses themselves are certainly suburban-worthy: Witness the panels of wood nailed to the side of each window, simulacra in one of its most absurd and unquestioned forms, and ADT Security signs outnumbering "Welcome" mats 2:1 as the preferred way to decorate your doorstep.

All of which got me thinking: what draws a person to the suburbs anyway?

I realize not everyone spends every minute of their lives thinking and rethinking their decisions in quite the same way that I often do, but the environment in which your children will be raised, your middle-aged decades will be lived out--that's the kind of decision I'd expect people to reason through. I suppose there are some standard answers:

1) Safety. The suburbs are presumably "safe" because they are removed from the dangers of the "inner city." And few things are as effectively mythologized as the dangers of the inner city. The gehenna known as the ghetto, the "urb" that spawned the "suburb," is the boogie man for all suburbanites, the sprawl that keeps the outskirts skirting.

2) Peace. It has been said that peace is not the absence of war, but the presence of justice. Something to continue to ponder.

3) Quiet. The suburbs lack the predictable noise of the city: the congestion, the block parties and backyard barbeques, the street games, the teen hangouts, the unhappy neighbors who broadcast their domestic difficulties in surround-sound through apartment walls, ceilings, and floors. But there's more: The suburbs lack, too, the noise of the forest, the ocean, the river, the mountain because with every tree in its place and every blade of grass carefully trimmed, the cacophony of chaotic creation is carefully controlled.

Which may explain why, for the past two days, as I've walked through my neighborhood to work, I've had Thoreau's quote, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation" stuck in my head. As I look around my "peaceful," "safe," indeed desperately "quiet" neighborhood, it's the desperation--not the peaceful, safe quiet--that seems to strike and echo in my mind.

As this is only a meditation, I don't have any good answers to my question, Why do people move to the suburbs? I know I live here because my house is a half mile from my office, which means I can walk/bike to work and avoid "THE COMMUTE," the devil spawn of the suburbs that keeps my coworkers in their cars 15 hours a week compared to my 15 minutes a morning and evening of "fresh" (relatively speaking, of course, to the exhaust-choked Beltway) air.

I suppose I'm luckier than many, too: My suburban streets border the Upper Watts Branch Forest Preserve, which means for at least 5 minutes of my mornings and evenings, I'm able to imagine the ghosts of what once was, as I did this weekend. On Sunday, I veered a few hundred feet into the preserve by means of a blink-and-you-miss-it trail off the sidewalk. I walked until I couldn't see the curbs or corners anymore, and let my eyes trace the towering trunks upwards, following their spines up to the sky. After a moment, my eyes adjusted and I realized that the treetops were swaying in the gentle wind, each massive white oak waving gracefully to the other. I stood still, my head tilted up, humbled by how wrong I have ever been to think of a tree as anything other than the most alive of creatures. Each timber was as lithe as any dancer, delighting in its fluid and natural movements. While I watched their coup de theatre, I sighed and said thank you, and as I left the preserve, I whispered an apology to the remnants of what must have once been a great ocean of gracious, waving oaks. I think now that there are many kinds of reservations, and they all give witness to a terrible failure to coexist.

So, while I may not yet see the suburbs as a likely environment to nourish my soul, I am finding moments here to practice what is called "spotting the sacred." And I think this is vital. I imagine this will be easy to do when the cherry blossoms arrive, with their pink-petal presages of spring, but sometimes, spotting the sacred can be difficulty at winter's end, when seeds planted before the snows fell have yet to resurface after the snow's melt. In these moments, it's easy to wonder if our work from the past will yield a harvest--or if the things we've cared for, prayed for, waited for, hoped for, have faltered in the cold and gray. This moment before rebirth, like the second before breaking the water's surface and taking in a desperate breath, can seem to stretch us beyond our belief, tempt us to turn away, to lose faith. But we have signs if we are willing. Even now, I can see the buds emerging on the tips of the trees on my street. But I have to look for them, or I move too quickly past, and miss a moment meant to remind me that life has a way of reemerging. Even in the suburbs.

In light of the upcoming Homelessness and Hunger Week and Faith in Action Weekend, I'm posting these email excerpts from a discussion this past summer between Dave Kunes and I:

"Just finished "To Hell with Good Intentions." I guess I share
quite a few opinions w/him--main reasons I passed on the Peace
Corp match his arguments about the evangelism of American
values. I really, really reacted against some of his claims,
though--I absolute disagree that one should "stick to one's
own country" and it sounds like Illich would go further and
say stick to your own culture/class (would he say gender and
race, too?). Whose country? Whose class? Am I poor because I
was born homeless? Rich because my parents now make 125,000
dollars a year? These things are fluid and can be changed very
quickly. Best not to get too attached to my own identity,
perhaps?

I think Illich's opinion could be better balanced w/Dr. King's
argument against the white moderates in Letter from a
Birmingham jail. You familiar? He rails against those who
won't take a stand--the fence-sitting black sympathizers who
still empower white segregationists. He says they're more
damaging to the cause because they give an air of legitimacy
to the wrong thing. Volunteerism won't save the world, no. But
I still think we need solidarity and unity in resistance...and
I still think that witnessing a situation first hand is an
effective way to do that. But I guess it's one of the reasons
I'm fairly sure I'll stay in the States to do community
organizing...I agree w/Illich on that point. I'd do far more
damage trying to "lead" people from another culture--I need
them to teach me, not the other way around. Same thing w/the
poor, the marginalized, etc... I need to learn from them (and
others) what I can do to stop exploiting everyone w/my white,
educational, English, American privilege. Then, when I'm
talking to the white, middle class population that I do
"belong to," I'll have some authority to speak up and say,
this isn't right. "We" need to stop.

I think of my ex who speaks to men across the country about
sexual assault, trying to convince them that "Their strength
isn't for hurting." I think he has to do that work--he can't
really help women who're hurting unless they turn to him--and
few are going to seek him out for that, you know? But he can
talk to college men about violence, gender, his own bias, and
try to convince them that the work to end sexual aggression is
not just on the shoulders of the Eve Enslers and the
"feminazis." He can stand in solidarity w/women and do his
part--educated the men.

The inherent paternalism in volunteerism, though--it's
disturbing, no? That's why I tell some people that I'm going
to Palestine on a fact-finding mission--I don't know how I'd
really help these kids--or the people taking care of
them--other than to say, "I'm listening. What the hell is
going on over here? Is there anything you'd like to say to
people 'out there'?" And then do my best to fairly relay their
messages. Screw the voice for the voiceless, right? Let's just
be megaphones.

You know one problem with Illich's argument, though? He
doesn't address that many of the same things we do in
volunteering are only paternalistic because of our motives...
I'll give you an example. If a tornado tore through my
neighborhood tomorrow, and I started helping my neighbors pick
up the debris, search for survivors, rebuild, I would not be
'volunteering.' Change a few variables, and the whole scenario
changes. Volunteering in New Orleans didn't begin necessarily
as paternalism--everyone was in it together, and we still need
to be. Same with the inner cities. The US needs stronger
inner-cities and rural areas, we need more children educated,
we need less exploitative and environmentally damaging
industries. ALL of us. We need a new definition of "neighbor."
Why should the Rio Grande stop us from calling someone our
family, our neighbors? If I start placing permanent lines
between me and others because of culture, race, language,
nationality, etc...I don't see how we're ever going to get
over our problems with violence, competition and exclusion.

Illich is right to point out that the volunteer can and often
does more damage that s/he thinks possible. We need to be
very, very aware of this...but I'm not sure I would ever tell
someone not to volunteer. I would just say, don't stop there
and don't kid yourself. Ladeling soup at a soup kitchen is not
all you can do, and if it's all you do, you're probably making
the situation worse. So wise up. Try eating lunch at the
shelter for a while instead of serving it. Ask questions. Get
to know people. And for God's sake, don't pretend that
sleeping in a cardboard box as a fundraiser is the same as
being homeless. Call it what it is. A visual stunt meant to
provoke, to educate, not to simulate. Cause that's not
possible as long as your privileged. And forsaking privilege
may be a useful tactic, it may not be. Think long and hard
before you burn that pile of money and try to forget that
you're literate.

Perhaps we shouldn't get too caught up in refusing privilege.
If we can temporarily acquire power in a way that doesn't
destroy our souls, it might not be a bad thing. Remember the
thing about freeing the torturer as well as the tortured? Can
we do that without lawyers, politicians, protesters? Maybe we
need people on the inside, too. Maybe we need Howard Zinn as
much as we need Mother Theresa. Maybe. I might change my mind
on that one, though--maybe we wouldn't need Zinn if everyone
was Theresa. Yeah?"

Later email:

" One problem w/Illich, myself, and any other person that argues
that volunteerism is paternalism is that we have assumed that
to have no possessions or little worldly power is to be
inferior (that to have less is to be less) when I think we
both know that the opposite is more often true. Having
possessions can be just as stifling and debilitating as having
none. More so, probably. And until we can understand that
giving truly is better than receiving, and we can give as
freely as we receive (and receive with true humility), then
we're in a pickle, yeah? I forget this sometimes when I start
using words like "privilege" and forget about the blessing
that poverty can be. I've seen both sides. I'll say again--I
miss when my family had less money. We were closer to one
another.

Another thing. We need to think about giving and receiving
differently. I think often about the humility it takes to
receive help....and the humility it takes to give it. They
really are closer than we think. Illich touches on this--but I
don't think his tone helps us to understand that deeper
problem here. Often, when we say "help," we mean "you lack
something." And that's not always true---what if we turned the
idea a bit? What if we thought instead, "Hey brother? Can you
help me out? I've got too much--this $$$ a burden on me. I
need someone to help me carry it." Or "I'm bored. I need
something to do. Can you help me out? Got any uses for my time?"

Should we volunteer? Can we do it with pure motives? Of course
not. But I don't think we can accomplish something purer by
isolating ourselves--For me, I know that I've had to shift my
attitude and let go of the idea that I'm ever going to be some
kind of savior. I can't do that. When I go to a place like
tent city, I'm trying to meet people and make friends.
Seriously. I can't do anything else. That's why I'm so
hesitant to start handing out cash and doing favors. I don't
buy friends in any other situation that way. How can I expect
someone to view me as an equal if I automatically begin
pointing out our differences?

Let's be beggars who beg people to take our possessions, to
help us use our money, our time, our talents, to test our
convictions, etc... Not because someone else needs it--but
because we can't survive if we hoard it. Too much power, too
many possessions, too much security--don't these rob us of
things far more valuable?"

I don't necessarily stand behind everything I wrote in that post 100% today (my opinions are necessarily fluid--I change them as I receive new ideas, information, and criticisms), but I still think it's an opinion that needs to be heard. And I only wish I'd had the courage already to live with less. Help? Anyone?

I'll be posting soon on my thoughts on returning to the States--things have been herky jerky crazy since August--but I thank all of you who still check in periodically to listen to my babbles. My appreciation of YOU is sincere :).

On Bare Feet

I like to feel the world's surfaces with the bare skin of my feet.
Fingers may have more nerve endings but
toes have been waiting longer to caress the earth's skin
and so seem to appreciate it more.
My feet do not discriminate. They love the light and the dark, the heavy and the soft, the wet and the dry.
The moss-covered rock is a squishy pleasure
that need not compete with the gritty-grey sidewalk cement.
They make love with them both.
And the sand between my toes is as much at home
as the spring grass' shoots that tickle the tips of my toenails.
The cracks between my fingers have never appreciated these sensations as much.
They have been overstimulated and desensitized to the surprising texture of the world's carpets--the gardens, beaches, hills, seashores, ocean floors, tiles and blacktop.
They little mind the difference between hot and cold,
Only noting in a passive scientific difference the fact of freezing and boiling
and pragmatically, they avoid them both.
But my toes and the rough pads of the soles of my feet, the caloused edges and the soft, sheltered arches remain eager to touch the world more.
They have been restrained too long, too often, in a puritanical society's need for the illusion of propriety and cleanliness
but they love to be dirty, to be stained with the sediment,
to remind the rest of my body that we are never long cut off from the land,
that we are married to the soil that will one day reclaim every atom in our bodies
and give them back to the earth to travel for as long as life will go on living.
When I curl my toes, they hug this earth close, and whisper, Thank you.

July 31st, 2008 3:02 p.m. Patra, Greece at the Port

Rereading the past few weeks entries, I see how much I focused on the "negatives." I know there were many beautiful moments on camp, though, and I'm going to try to focus on those in this writing.

Every morning, a little after seven, Petras, Kataskinosi's leader, with his wild curly salt-and-pepper Greek afro, collection of camp trinkets dangling from his thick neck over his even thicker torso, would ring the cast-iron bell in the center of camp, bellowing cheerfully to everyone in his booming voice that could carry with no megaphone over the tops of the cream-colored, canvased tents, "Kalimera!" On the first morning, a children's chorus returned the call with high-pitched enthusiam--"Kalimera!!!" This was the way each day began on camp. The other internationals and I would groggily pull ourselves from our thin, stuffed mattress and creaky, metal cots, the beds groaning outwardly to match our inner protest at our early morning rising, and head in a half-sleep for the kitchen. After our own quick breakfast of hot cocoa and freshly sliced bread with sweet strawberry jam (not jelly, the Irish women would laughingly point out to me), we would hurriedly wash the 200 cups and dozens of silver pitchers filled with chocolate milk and corn flakes that children tore through each morning.

The kitchen was an interesting experience by itself. There were some teams that worked with efficiency and found ways to turn peeling buckets of potatoes and cutting red onions until we cried like sentimental grandmothers at weddings into a good time. There were others that made each rack a congressional committee hearing debating the best way to wash a plate, stack a rack, dry a spoon, or mop a floor. There are simply some activities that will convince even the most hard-headed supporter of democracy that totalitarian dictatorship could be a better way of organizing society. Luckily, I was on the former kind of team much more often that the latter, and as a result, my belief in teamwork was preserved, and I slipped easily into a familiar role--quietly and quickly doing each minute task for the benefit of the whole. I never minded the work, as I have always found something inherently pleasant in manual labor. Thus, each shift in the kitched passed, a time for us to help make the real work at Kataskinosi happen.

While we tried to spray more leftovers down the sink drains than we splashed into our faces, the Greek volunteers coaxed each of their campers in the Kataskinosi community. The children, some as young as 5, none older than 16, needed this coaxing, as many came with their defenses high, and their distrust obvious. These attitudes were understandeable, for the children aren't just any boys and girls at any summer camp. They are Elefsina's living examples of the lost boys from Never-Never Land, children whose parents have figuratively and in some cases literally abandoned them, the future of Greece told they don't matter by nearly every authority figure they should have been able to trust. Because of countries that turned them into refugees and parents that turned them into virtual orphans, these children are leary of any who might hold out a helping hand. The exception was seen in campers from previous years. They had tasted something different at camp before and came with their arms open, smiles wide, ready to love and be loved for the next 3 weeks. Their exuberance was encouraging, as it hinted at what we could hope to see in the new arrivals by the end of the camp.

The most obvious challenge to these rays of hope was Dmitri--a slight, young boy with a blonde crew cut and quiet frailty that temporarily disguised the anger he carried. Dmitiri would strike out often at anyone, throwing debris into the tents, starting fights with other campers, cursing volunteers in fluent English, "Fuck you, bitch. Go fuck your mother, you asshole."At first, he would only let a few children near him, even less adults. More often, he could be seen by himself at a distance, provoking a nest of bees, kicking a deflated soccer ball as though it were being punished, sulking aimlessly by the basketball court. Slowly, though, and with expert care and the beautiful patience of determined love, the Greek volunteers began to bring Dmitri around, like Theo tickling Dmitri's skinny, little belly, whose subsequent giggles would be surprisingly childish, full of a simple giddiness otherwise rarely seen. There were the other children, too, who would pull Dmitri into their play. One of these moment in particular caught my attention.

When he's not on camp, Dmitri lives in an SOS village with other orphaned and abandoned children, who share one " mother" and room for every six of them. Dmitri isn't without relatives, however. I know, for instance, that he has at least one grandmother. So why doesn't he live with her? Most likely because his grandma isn't the kind to bake cookies and spoil her grandkid rotten. Instead, she's the kind to throw a pot of boiling water on him, leaving rough, sinewy scars all over his neck, torso and arms. Understandeably, Dmitri is self-conscious of the scars; I even overheard one volunteer mention that he was shy to remove his shirt in front of the other children in his tent.

Knowing this made a simple gesture by the other children even more beautiful. Near the end of the camp, the children got ahold of some washeable markers and began drawing temporary tattoes on anything with a bare patch of skin. The Greek volunteers soon had full-back tattoes of dragons, swords, and crosses (the goth-metal-grunge-punk movement is still alive and well in Athens), while most of the children were covered with colorful doodles. One day, I came across Dmitri, who had his shirt raised up to his neck while another of the more artistic boys sketched on his skin. For one of the first times at Kataskinosi, I saw Dmitri calm--and seemingly happy. I sat down next to him on the bench, talking to some of the other volunteers who were nearby (it was always best to approach Dmitri nonchalantly, in a sort of non-committal, accidental way). A few minutes passed--then I casually reached over, picked up a skinny red marker, and took Dmitri's thin arm into my left hand. I looked up to make sure he was still ok--he was--and then I gently drew a little cartoon heart on his forearm. Just as casually, I set the marker down and returned to the conversation. A few mintues later, I leaned my arm over towards him--he paused, picked up the same marked and sketched his own version just below my elbow.

Dmitri became a point for me to direct loving thoughts. I would momentarily reach out to him, and gently ruffle his little blonde hairs or give him a light pat on the shoulder, thinking as I passed, "You are loved, little buddy. Please know, you are loved." At the beginning of camp, he never spoke a sentence to me that wasn't laced with obscenities, but his silent expressions at the end of Kataskinosi showed that a different boy lived not far beneath that thickly guarded, scarred shell. On the last day of camp, as the children sobbed and hugged and laughed, climbing aboard the busses that shuttle them too quickly from this utopia back to their families, Dmitri quitely climpbed into the van that would return him to the SOS village. I caught a glimpse of him through the open sliding door and impulsively ran over to say goodbye. When I reached the opening, he looked up as if to say, "So what happens now?" I paused and held out both arms, hands open. Briefly, he hesitated, then climbed back out and into them. I folded his fragile little arms around my belly and squeezed hard. Then, just as quietly, he stepped back into the van. I don''t know if he understood what we were all trying to tell him, but as the door slid shut and the van began to pull away, all of the volunteers shouted to him, "Yasso, Dmitri!!!! Yasso!" I hope one day he'll remember that sound and recognize it as love.

There were of course other moments as well. I'll try always to remember the sunset of Hydra, the most beautiful I've ever seen, as well as the view from Poros with the ruins of the temple of Zeus behind us--proof that no man-made monument to any god--in his own image or otherwise--can outlast or outshine the monument of nature to its Creator. Greece pulled me in, bit by bit, with its proud and mysterious history and its natural grace, from the ambitious hilltop acropoli and peaceful monasteries to the friendly caravans of stray dogs and humble white-washed villages. I'll remember Greece as the home of cities that sparkled silver in the sun, with Mediterranean-blue shutters and burnt, desert sun-colored rooftops, the hanging garden terraces with fuschia Oleander blooms and nimble black and white mountain goats that could travel with thoughtless confidence over crags that I itched to climb, glimpsing the mountains and valleys from angles I could only imagine.

There was the midnight hike, the most difficult rest of my life (it could not properly be called a sleep) on a bed of rocks and goat droppings in a cold-to-the-bones wind and midnight-to-morning fog. It was nothing short of mystical, though, to see the mountains and rising sun suddenly appear whenever a break in the thick, low-lying clouds would roll over us. There was the 1st hithhike in Aegina to the sea; the beautiful generosity of the Elefsina woman who shared a handful of hard candy with us; the flourist who gave me a single orange and pink rose, whose petals easily recalled a sunset just before the sun slips below the horizon line; the Athenian men and women who would constantly misdirect us with their well-intentioned instructions to Athens' maze of monuments, metros, and buses; Mr. Vasilis in the kitchen, offering his "hello, baby" as an English translation of his obvious Greek warmth; Spilios with his kindness and sincerity; Dmitri, the Belgian with a magnetic vulnerabilty and a mysterious soul that is clearly beautiful, even from a distance; Niamh (pronounce Neve), with a never-ending supply of Marlboros and Irish idioms and her paradoxically straightforward confidence and self-conscious timidity; and all the rest, too many to name individually but impressive each in their own way. I think almost daily of all of them.

Although so much of the Kataskinosi community remained for me behind a wall--one I couldn't seem to penetrate with my lack of emotional and mental strength after leaving Palestine--I knew I was witnessing something both special and not impossibly unique. Their experiment in loving community and social justice begun by the first George Pirounakis in the 60s, and carried on by future generations that seem to have inherited his gene for hope, compassion, and perserverance, touched me even from a distance and encouraged me to find my way of being real even when I feel most vulnerable and likely to retreat. I may not have been the most consistent in my pursuit to do this these past 3 weeks, but I do know I tried and I loved people in my own inner way--even if I can't be sure they were able to witness it, I hope they still received it. I don't know what these next few weeks will offer, but I hope to give a little of what I have received on my trip so far. Love, respect, generosity, compassion--I've seen and received them in abundance these last two months, and I want to begin to return it with awareness and freedom. I hope I can do this now, where whatever I give will likely be received with no hope of return and where I can be optimistic of its future harvest in a land and among people I only fleetingly touch. This is the hope that Kataskinosi gives to its children--and that it gave to me.

July 19, 2008 approx. 4:00 p.m. Kataskinosi

A few scattered beats are jumping around in my head right now...I'm feeling really on edge. We'll see how well this wrting helps to calm me down. I've been thinking al ot about art, music, and writing lately and about how I want to push forward creatively. I'm trying to trust that I will have to wade through a lot of bad writing until the good stuff emerges--but that it will emerge. It will take some committment but I think the will is gradually growing in me. I have so little to write right now. Mentally, a lot has been hitting me, and I'm still spinning from Palestine. I'm having such a difficult time focusing here and truly connecting to people. Truthfully, I'm looking forward to leaving. I'm excited to move on, but I also know it is better for me to stay present here. So I must try that, too. Already, it has been a short and long time since I left home, but I know more about myself because of it. I see myself as more "American" (and a woman, for that matter) than ever before (going to countries where I am constantly seen and judged first by nationality and/or gender has really raised an awareness of both of these aspects of my identity). And I want more to help change the reasons Americans are often seen as dumb, insensitive, proud and selfish. While I agree that many Americans espouse one or two or even more of these qualities, I also feel that we are, like everyone else in the world in his/her own way, unfairly stereotyped and not seen as full people. If we are ignorant, that can change. The same is true of our pride, isolationism, and selfishness. I do not think we are unkind or evil. I do think we are distracted, and I would want to work for a more focused, genuinely loving culture in the States. I only hope it is still possible. I suppose these thing have to start within one's self--so it begins with me. In other words, I've got to engage. And that begins here in Athens. So I've got to keep pushing, keep opening, even though I'm so tempted to retreat into reflection and quietness here. Still, I'll keep trying.

Some meditations:

On Faith and Confidence

"Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging (one another); and all the more, as you see the day drawing near...Strengthen the hands that are weak and the knees that are feeble, and make straight paths for your feet, so that the limb which is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed." author unknown

"Love one another as your self." Jesus of Nazareth

Confidence--to have faith in
words with common roots--confide, confidant, fidelity

What does it mean to have self-confidence? To have faith in one's self, to trust one...to trust one's abilities? one's loyalty? one's convictions? Does self-confidence have its roots in experiences (the past) or in faith and hope (the future)? Perhaps it should rely on both, being skeptical of the former? What leads to a lack of self-confidence? When does one lose faith in one's self, stop trusting? Perhaps it is related to when one begins lying to one's self, no? When a person knows s/he is capable of self-deceptions, of nearly unconscious self-denial, self-confidence is difficult to preserve.

So how is this trust rebuilt? First, it must come through honesty. Being honest with one's self will begin to rebuild trust, and eventually, self-confidence. Two, it must be tried and built upon new experiences. As time passes, and honest action occurs, one's faith in one's self will grow. This is especially true as one experiences great challenges--and remains honest and patiently steadfast through the challenge. Success in these times is not absolutely necessary to the rebuilding of confidence but the honesty is. Finally, eventually sucess in one's goals and actions is likely needed--although it shouldn't be the prerequisite to building self-confidence. But without the acheivement at some point it is likely that any other attempts to build self-confidence will be stalled or undermined. Therefore, it may be very important to have many short-term reasonable but still demanding goals upon which confidence can grow. These goals can be of any nature, from the mundane to the banal, from a promise to make one's bed everyday to an unwavering commitment to do one kind act for a stranger each day. The goal should be concrete, a step beyond what one does comfortably or habitually, and able to be done on a regular basis. As one succeeds over and over at achieving these goals, self-confidence should grow.

Closing impressions:
Self-confidence should be deeply linked to self-love and self-respect. It cannot be separated from sincere self-care. A person who does not truly care for her/his self will not have self-confidence. But one who treats him/herself with truly humble respect (not self-worship, but love) will grow in love for others as well because s/he will see the need for con/fidence with others and extend that love of her/his self to her/his cocreation. For truly, we are all part of the world's self, and we will learn confidence in others the more we learn to confide in our selves.

On Peace

If there is to be peace in the world, I must have peace in my heart.

What are some qualities of peace?
compassion mercy just actions love care
understanding forgiveness absence of fear

What are some enemies of peace?
anxiety striving for perfection anger fear selfishness
apathy misdirection self-righteousness distraction dishonesty

Is it necessary to understand my fear and own selfishness in order to have peace in my life? What is it that I fear? Why, now, do I fear being alone? It has never mattered to me much before, but recently, now that I seem to have "lost" it, I am afraid of losing love. I must be able to draw on the love that exists, in plenty, in the world. I must receive love, and not be anxious of the places it seems not be. For I must know that if I love myself--and all of the rest of creation to which I am connected--then I will never lack love. And if I receive love from God--whose love is infinitely eminating through the Spirit & the spirit of Creation--there is no amount of bad energy that can ever last against this love God has & gives to me.
But if I hoard this love--fearing its scarcity or the possibility of losing it--I will have already lost it. For it is in giving that we receive. When I give love, share love, I make love and can reap the harvest that I sow. This love can be found in all creation--the trees, the fields, the air, the grass, the people, the sea, the mountains--they all can love me and hope to be loved by me. So why this longing? I must recognize that if God has made a temple in me and rests the Spirit here --I am full of love. There is no part of me that God does not love. I am struggling right now to hope in this truth, but I will pray for it to take root & grow. I pray now for seeds to be planted in my mind and heart that say--I am loved. I am love. I have love. I give love and need love and have an infinite supply of it, if I will draw it from and give it to all that I am connected to.
I pray to have an open heart and the will to love others without a need to see that love have any end achieved other than itself. Remember Dmitri--how you love this child without knowing him, how your heart opens to him and how you are able to desire no response from this child except that he know and receive love and that it somehow manifest itself in his life. Let your attitude toward all be the same. Love your "enemies," the "strangers" among you--from an insecure position, without the guarantee or even likelihood of receprication. Love, and peace will follow.

July 12, 2008 approx. 11:30 @ Kataskinosi

I've been on camp for one week now, and I continue to have mixed feelings. I take nearly all responsiblity for the negativity I'm projecting and I hope to change my attitude--and change it quickly. For instance, I woke up today grumpy. I don't know why, really, I just know that I'm head-achy, sore, tired, and kind of cranky. I'll pray and read som in a bit, but I'm growing tired of having to do this so often here. I wonder, too, if it's just me: I'm remembering, though, the need to change the environment around me if I feel negative coming at me--not the other way around. So I continue to pray for the ability to relax and respond to the people here.

I do know that I need to face myself--this is part of the problem and will have to be done before I can move forward much more. I don't know know how/when to do it. I almost feel as though I need a guide--God guide me--and I pray for the ocurage to do it--and the discipline to stay with it. An honest look at myself will be hard for sure but it is needed.

I don't have much more to write--my thoughts are still really scattered right now and I know that will continue to battle some old demons right now--insecurity, fear, jealousy--so I pray for the patience, confidence, and will to be giving, compassionate, and loving right now. And I give myself permission to be quiet right now--I know that I often try too hard to project myself as I want to be instead of growing naturally those things within that I too often artificially project. I must be patient with myself right now.

Short term goals:

• Look for what is good, funny, or beautiful today. Appreciate it.
• Try to reach out more to others.
• Focus on opening up more to specific people. I don't have to be there for the whole camp.
• Let go of the need to "succeed" here. If I regress this week, look to learn form it and grow the next. Whatever happens, learn from this experience and don't let guilt hold me down.
• Don't think so much--try to act more on 1st instincts--then guage the fruitfulness of it.
• Praise God in big and small ways today.

It's Monday morning, the first offical day of camp in Athens. I'm a mess of emotions right now. I miss everyone back home--and I know my homesickenss is amplified by the fact that I won't see them for another two months. I miss everyone at the last camp. And probably the most responsible for my emotional state right now is Athens itself. I'm anxious of the need to reach out to people. And the language barriers are ridiculously difficult. Whenever I meet someone for the first time, it's already difficult because of culture, character, age, gender, race, socioeconomic background, you name it...Compound all of these possible "barriers" w/the obvious inability to simply communicate w/another person and making connections becomes quite difficult. It's always so hard, too, to distinguish a personality characteristic from a simple language problem. A person might seem very distant and shy when in fact they can be quite outgoing and assertive--when in their own comfortable environment. I think that's my problem. I've always been resistant to too many changes--and a little reluctant to eschew all comforts. And now I'm having to face a weight that isn't able to be quickly counterbalanced with family, friends, or any other familiar person or place. Even Igor seems incredibly distant, althought the distance is my doing, I think. I'm very much inside myself right now, and I'm not sure how quickly I will reemerge here in Athens. I feel that when given a specific task, I'm able to open myself to it, but otherwise I'm uncertain. Which shouldn't be something that necessarily inhibits me. But it has put me on edge. I know, though, that the thing which is tearing me down the most right now is that I won't return home for another 2 months. And I'm learning that "newness" has less and less pleasure by itself for me. I'm not sure I know why--but I do know that there are few places that I feel truly connected to a community in and I miss that connection. I feel that I had it in Dallas--I was connected to people I truly loved and felt truly loved by. I refuse to pretend anymore that Michigan couldn't be the same--that it isn't--and I think I must acknowledge that there is something else truly bothering me. I feel an overwhelming claustrophobia right now--although I know that I am here by choice and should I wish, I could go home tomorrow. These realizations surprise me, because I didn't think I'd miss everyone so much. But I really do. I've not gone this long without talking to or seeing my family, I think, since I left them 7 years ago. I do not quite know how I could (or will) survive w/out them one day.
I wonder again, why I am here. Athens isn't a place I feel any affinity for. Greeks aren't particularly familiar to me. I think one of my challenges these 3 weeks will be to find the beauty in all of this strangeness and to connect despite the lack of easy or obvious ways to do this. I must be patient with myself as well--it took me about one week to feel capable in Palestine. If after 2 days, I still feel a bit of cultural aftershocks, I think that's ok. This is a big step for me, surrendering so much of my self to another people and place, and I think I need to give myself some time to be ok with all of it. For now, I'll set some short-term goals for myself:

• talk to somone new each day
• reach out more to the local volunteers
• trust my self
• be patient
• put everything in context: I have 3 weeks and 2 days at camp--that's all. So in the grand scheme of things, this won't seem but a moment. I need to soak it up as much as possible and return with my new way of seeing. I may or may not make incredible lasting connections, but I can make lasting imporessions and take with me lasting memories. This I must do if I am to grow on these trips.

I'm halfway through my stay in Palestine and already grateful enough for two lifetimes that I was able to be a part of the Zajel Youth Exchange. I've met wonderful people in the local volunteers, at the Asker Refugee Camp, and in Nablus. I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye in 7 days but I am appreciating each moment I have and soaking up every second until then.

I have so many stories but I'll only share one for now.

Today was a difficult day for me emotionally. Since I have arrived in Nablus, the local volunteers have been careful not to overwhelm us too quickly with the realities of the occupation. While they are obviously trying to help us realize the effects of the Israeli military and settler actions, they also try to show us the other side of Palestinian life so we don't turn to defensive despair or cynicism. As a result, we often experience a sort of sling-shot effect from the sadness, anger, and shock of touring refugee camps and listening to survivors' stories to the joy and excitement of dabke, canafe, Turkish baths and French-Arab hip-hop concerts. But today, no amount of lute playing and playfulness was going to keep me from being hit hard by the occupation.

We just returned from our first weekend off--I traveled w/some of the other volunteers to Jericho, the Dead Sea, and Ramallah. Despite a few hairy situations smuggling our Palestinian friend Mahonad through checkpoints and onto Israeli buses, we had a fantastic time playing in the mudbaths at the sea and dancing at the Snow Bar in Palestine's party central. After such a relaxing and wonderful weekend, then, returning today to the Askar Refugee Camp was bittersweet.

Of course, I was more than excited to see the children again, and today, I was helping to lead the art corner. I decided to show the children some famous paintings that convey and elicit strong emotions, such as Matisse's Jazz, Munch's Scream, and Van Gogh's Starry Night. Then, we asked the children to draw different emotions, like happiness, sadness, anger, and hope. While happiness and hope were represented differently for most of the children, with some drawing Christmas, family, flowers, or just colorful, gestural lines, for anger and sadness, nearly all of the children drew images of the occupation.Although cathartic for the children, it was desperately painful to watch them translate their childhood memories of these emotions for us. I had to quickly learn the Arabic words for explosion, tank, soldier, gun, prisoner, blood, and death. After the last group had left, I cried quietly as I packed away the colored pencils, crayons, and drawings.

I could continue writing this message--I could tell you about the lesson on the geopolitical history of the occupation we had tonight from my wonderful new friend Saed Abu-Hijleh, an instructor at An-Najah University. I could discuss in detail the reasons the Palestinian land has been reduced to a little over 10% of its original size in only 60 years as Israel has expanded its military and settler presence in both disputed and occupied territories or write about the nearly 1,000,000 internally and externally displaced refugees who are being told to "compromise" with Israel now for "peace." Or I could attempt to tell what it is like listening to Saed describe witnessing the murder of his mother, Shaden Abu-Hijleh, a peace activist in the Palestinian resistance who was assassinated by Israeli soldiers while she was embroidering on the front steps of her home. Perhaps reading some of his poetry about the experience would come close: http://www.remembershaden.org/poetry.htm.

But it wouldn't be enough for me to convey what I'm feeling right now--to help you understand why a simple arts and crafts made me weep today. I would have to tell the stories of every minute of the last 60 years and every second from here after until the occupation ends and a peaceful AND just solution has been reached.

Instead, I'll simply post a few of the children's pictures for you, and ask for you to do 15 minutes of your own research on the situation. Give the website http://www.palestineremembered.com 15 minutes of your time--give these people 15 minutes of your heart and mind. Then, perhaps we'll all begin to understand this a little better. For now, that's all I can ask of myself and any of you.

Much love,
Nik

Less than 48 hours until take-off. I'm beginning to feel the first waves of nervous energy. I still haven't a clue what to expect, but I'm trying not to let the easy path from that point be one of fear or feebleness. I feel unprepared (I am unprepared). I also feel excited, though. I know I need to take this experience in vignettes...if I view it as a whole, I'll be overwhelmed by the number of things I'm going to experience in the next 10 weeks. So I suppose I'll focus on the first segment of the trip--Israel. And I'll take it from there.

Goals for myself:

Be friendly.
Be kind.
Try something new each day that makes me a little nervous.
Shed insecurity about being "the stupid foreigner."
Don't panic.
Walk slowly.
Don't shy away from people.
Really listen to others.
Try to really see them, too.
Learn something each day.
See something every day that could have been easily and sadly overlooked.
Give myself permission to make mistakes.

I'm sure I'll add to this list as I begin this trip, but for now, this'll do.

Notes from Paris:

May 13, 2008
The engines have just fired in our 30-seat Mesaba. As the flight attendant recites her instructions, I worry about this flight, this trip--I hope mom and I can grow closer on it. I really want to see her smile--today she looks so sad. She says she's tired--and that much is obvious but I wonder what is tiring her. Hopefully, this trip can lighten her a bit... She seems to me now a scared old woman--I've never seen before my mother's age so clearly through her nerves and fear as I can on this little plane.

May 14, 2008

Paris--I'm still looking at her from a distance. She is hard to know... So far, here is what I've found:

It is easy to get lost in Paris. Every beggar has at least one dog. The French kiss everywhere, from inside the Notre-Dame to the corners of Rue de St. Honore, in the Latin Corner, along the Seine--at times it seemed like the whole city was embracing--très merveilleux. French cherries taste better.

I have fallen in love with many things already:
The way the French smoke--wrists limp, elbows bent, with their cigarettes gracefully extending like a sixth finger from their hands.
The Seine at night.
The markets in Les Halles.

Et le cathedral Notre-Dame.

The cathedral was somber and mysteriously beautiful. I saw her first at dusk and entered her shadows. The candles below the crucifixes lit Jesus' gaunt cheekbones, emphasizing the man's humanity and suffering in their awful angles. Walking through the aisles, I felt the tightness of inexpressable emotions in my chest. Although I felt a brief release in front of the statue of Jeanne d'Arc--my confirmation saint--for most of my walk through the dark Cathedral, I was strangely detached. Yes, I found the history intriguing and the architecture stunning, but the saints--the 1,000 plus years of faithful sons and daughters--I wanted to connect more to them--I wanted to remember where our body has walked before--and I couldn't.

I suppose this journey to Paris is a test for me. This city for all of its supposed romantic passion is also cooly rational. In fact, the cathedral was rededicated to the goddess of Reason during the revolution! The city's passionate self-reliance challenges me--I feel a pull towards a similar spirit, one that would allow me to embrace something I've tightly contained my entire life due to a mix of self-conscious timidity and self-aware restraint. I know that I could use myself to manipulate and self-empower, but I am also aware of the fruitlessness of that pursuit, and I suppose I find it preferable to contain myself for now. Still I connect to Paris' hold on Reason, although not as an unemotional thinker; I'd like to believe that I am capable of deep analysis and intense, worthwhile critique while still surrendering to overwhelming emotion--in love, in suffering, in compassion--from time to time. And yet, when these two--emotion and reason--intersect with my faith, I feel as though I am certain to deny at least one, if not all three. That is what I felt in the cathedral--an unholy self-denial.

Still, Paris, my stone-faced mime, has charmed me much already. I want to know her more.

May 18, 2008
Slowly, I'm learning what it means to be the foreigner--always feeling detached, a bit like an observer at a zoo (but who's on the outside of the glass?). It's an effort to connect. This is why I'm so thankful for my conversation with Duyap in the Jardin du Tuileries. Between my broken French and his drawings in the dirt, I was able to understand much--I was especially able to see his loneliness. It must be hard to be lonely in Paris, I think. I wish I could have talked with him more. And the Filipina in Le Sacré-Coeur--she was beautifully kind to me. She asked me if I, too, was on a pilgrimage. My answer was hesitant. I suppose I am thinking of these travels as a bit like a pilgrimage. But I wonder what I'm hoping to find on these trips of mine--I'm more certain than ever before that the answers I am seeking can not be found in any one place--but I don't know how to find that which I am seeking in myself. The way--I still seek it.

May 19, 2008
Do I desire justice or mercy?

(Later entry)
Just finished reading Into the Wild. Christopher McCandless--it's hard to believe he was a real person, even harder to accept that he's now dead. Younger than me, so brave, so reckless, but still, I understand why. I just don't understand how. I'm too afraid, I know. Of what, though? Of death? I didn't think I was--perhaps, I'm still not too afraid...not so afraid that I won't risk death for a proper reason. I am afraid of hurting the people I love. That much I know...I know, too, that I am afraid. It's important to recognize that, at least. I was honest on the Algiers Ferry when I told Adam that I'm too afraid to leave security, but I want to be unafraid--no, I want to have courage--to do the thing I want to do even when I am afraid. That I am still learning. I want to be able to lose it all. But I have not learned yet to be brave enough.

Take these stupid French scarves. Since I have arrived in France, I've wanted to buy a scarf. Why? I wasn't sure. I don't need a scarf; I have half a dozen back home. I realized that I didn't even want a scarf--I wanted security, belonging, acceptance--and that scarf became a symbol of those things--a totem. I think, in a way, that's always been my Achilles' heel. I've been willing to sacrifice much for those things--but I don't think they can be pursued as ends.

I dreamed last night of Grandpa. In the dream, he told me, "With every blessing comes fear. You're afraid what you've been given will be taken away." I'm still puzzling over this message and what it means for me right now. Is the fear necessary? Must the blessing come with it? Why do I avoid both? I hope to embrace what McCandless found--that happiness must be shared, dreams must be lived fully, meaning does not come only through the worship of human relationships. I haven't discovered yet where meaning can be found (or if)--but I am encouraged, for now, at least.

(last entry)
Why is it considered brave to die for another, just to kill another to save oneself, but foolish to die in attempt to save one's self--not one's body--but one's being? What honor, what courage, what meaning is there in eeking out a meager, safe, long life? No greater love--how can I safe my brother or sister if I am not myself saved? One must not let fear of death in an instant permit a long, meaningless death over a near century. What point security without sacrifice? What point life, without the possibility of death?

May 20, 2008
Went with mom to Versailles today. Have to say I had a hard time appreciating it, as it was a bit like touring a plantation mansion. The gardens were strangely beautiful, though; I have acquired an appreciation for cultivated nature. I'm not sure I like it any more or any less than the wild, but there is a certain peace found in a garden that is different from the peace I have found in the woods.

My last night in Paris. I went for one last walk along the Seine. For me, that river is all the beauty and sadness of Paris. I don't wonder why it has become the muse of so many writers--or why it has been an accomplice to so many murders. As I walked along it, basking in that greenish-gold light that surrounds the river at night, I thought of everything I learned to love about Paris in the last week. The frequently embracing couples, the French shop-owners, the fathers with their children in the gardens, the fountains, the gentle cadence of the language when it is softly spoken between friends in intimate conversations. This is what I already miss from the city--what I will hope to revisit one day.