Serendipity

I recently had two experiences that really made me think about the complications of our society, and the resulting disconnect that pervades the human race. These were two encounters that easily could have drifted by me, going entirely unnoticed and forgotten. But I’m currently in a serious mode of examining the way we behave toward one another as humans. My thesis project has me immersed so deeply in this question that I am frequently the victim of what results from my own excessive amounts of empathy. At times it seems to ooze from my every pore. It’s not that empathy is a bad thing. Actually, right now, it’s such a good thing. It keeps me going and feeds my desire to complete my project with thoroughness and integrity. But empathy can be emotionally draining. It’s really difficult to feel that you bear the weight of the world on your own two shoulders. I don’t know why this is my reality…it just is. I think I’ve always felt this way, but I’ve never done anything about it. I guess I’m ready to try to do something about it. It’s about time!!

So on to these two experiences. I should preface this with a short explanation about this thesis project of mine. I’ll just say that I have been studying poverty. Rural poverty. You know, those members of the human race whom we never think about…because they are in essence invisible to us? We don’t see them, and so we don’t think about them. There’s another piece to the reality of rural poverty in America, and it’s a very important one. It is about race. The rural poor are, in many locations in our country, disproportionately of one ethnic minority or another. This is not a coincidence. So I have been reading and reading and reading about the cycle of poverty, why it exists, why these people behave the way they do (including things I’ve never understood such as their political beliefs)…and I have to say I’ve come to a deeper level of understanding. Not that I can say I’ve walked in their shoes, or even come close, but I’ve been able to set aside judgments and see through to the core—to the human aspect of these folks. They’re just people, like the rest of us. OK, so on to the experiences…

A couple days ago I was on a Portland city bus, heading downtown for my (unpaid but super-cool) internship job. I’m listening to my iPod because it allows me to drown out all the action of “the crazies.” But over my music, I begin to hear a ruckus, so I turn it off and listen…and watch. There are several people yelling at each other, calling each other names, threatening to fight, ready for mutiny. Finally the bus driver tells them all to shut up or get off the bus, and they do (shut up, that is). I didn’t hear it all, but I believe there was some sort of racial component to this argument. I could see in the eyes of at least a few of these fighting people that they were just fighting because this is what they’ve always had to do. I witnessed what I’ve only been reading about. I sat in the presence of Portland’s poor. Though not rural, they are still poor. And they fight—with each other, with everyone—not because they are bad people, but because it’s what they know. They’ve lived their lives fighting—probably for everything, even survival—and so this is what they do. It breaks my heart. I see these people so differently already…and if nothing more comes from my studies, it was worth it.

Fast forward one day to Tuesday, November 4. Election Day. I was in a bar with some friends, watching the results as they poured in. It was truly a celebration, and it was great to be in the presence of so many people who were passionate about the change we so desperately need in this country-in-shambles. The election had been called. Obama won. I’m sitting in my seat, watching the crowd, and I make eye contact with an older African American man. He looked to be near tears…with hope. We connected for just a second, didn’t say a word, but his eyes said it all. He was overcome with emotion at the realization that a black man was just elected to be his President. Obviously my eyes communicated something as well, because as he walked past me, he gently placed his hand on my shoulder for a moment, and kept walking. I will never forget his face, or this interaction.

I think I am overcome with the realization that we are all members of the human race—locally and globally. Yet we live and breathe and exist in such a segregated fashion that we are born ignorant and we continue to breed ignorance. These two experiences were truly serendipitous events, arriving in my lap at a time when I am engrossed in these questions about humanity. And it brings me back to a beautiful quote that I have posted on the wall above my desk:

“The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms…” –George Santayana

Expression

Most of us feel the need to express ourselves in one form or another. Those who are not inherently good at the typical expression process (verbal human interaction) tend to find other ways to do so. And this is how we get art. For some it is visual art, for some it is music, and for others it is writing. I believe that for anyone who feels the need to create art, it is a very personal thing...and isn't necessarily about making something beautiful. It's about making something that is an expression of the creator. And as we all know, with any kind of art - some will get it, some will identify with it, some will hate it, some will think it's pointless. Some will view another's art as the concrete thing that communicates the artist's madness. But that's ok. The point is expression. And so I express...

A little piece of my in-progress thesis project:

Temporarily Trapped in Temporality

Everything is temporary…whether we like it or not. Life has proven this to me – in some big ways. I’ve now taken this big idea, and realized it can be synthesized down to a minute scale. I’ve had a revelation. Transient is the word. And yes, temporary is the word. This can be a comforting concept in some ways…to know that any discomfort, any pain, any irritation, any frustration – it’s all temporary. Unfortunately this also means that any pleasure, any elation, any grand feelings of gratitude or love – all temporary as well.

People just don’t live the way they did “back in the day.” People don’t stick around – a physical location or a metaphorical location. People are transient. They come and go. In and out. Old friends, new friends. Old neighbors, new neighbors. Old loves, new loves. It’s life. It’s transient…and temporary. Life itself is temporary, after all.

Fill Me Up

I have recently identified this feeling I’ve been having: a sort of emptiness. It may seem odd, but I’ve discovered that too much time with people, too much socializing, too much having fun to be quite frank – leads me to a feeling of emptiness. Drained. Wrung out. Sucked dry. Viscerally parched. It has caused me to lose sight of myself. I apparently require a lot of introspective solitude, and without it, I don’t even know who I am or where I am going.

I decided that I desperately needed to do something about it, so I dedicated this weekend to myself, and to making myself useful. I’ve been feeling the need to do something useful with myself and with my time. So Friday morning, the first day of school, I got up well before dawn to meet Nancy Hiss and help her draw names on a Portland sidewalk, something she has been doing for well over a year now. Nancy started her Iraq Names Project on Memorial Day of 2007, and has been at it ever since. She draws the names of those who have died in Iraq, in the chronological order of their peril. She is using her artistic skills as her vehicle to peacefully bring awareness to the astronomical number of deaths, and most importantly, to honor each individual and recognize that behind each death is a human being with a name. She has drawn over 4000 names and covered a continuous line of over 14 miles of Portland sidewalks. Once again, I am humbled by the dedication, devotion, and heart a person has put into a project that means something to her. And it made me feel just a little more useful to help.

After helping Nancy, I went straight to a full day of school (where she is my teacher!), and then straight to my family’s cabin in the woods, by myself. I had never been there by myself but it was the one place I could think of that would allow me to be away from people completely. And so I went…with the intention of having no communication with anyone for a couple days. I needed to shut out the noise in my head, because with quiet comes clarity. When I first arrived, I had to fully fight the urge to call someone, anyone. I wasn’t sure what the heck I was going to do – no internet, no tv (i.e. no distractions), no connectivity whatsoever, other than my trusty cell phone. Fortunately, I got over it. It was only the first night that was difficult; after that it was smooth sailing.

I took a solo bike ride around Crater Lake, something I try to do every year, but again, I’d never done it alone. When I arrived, I was disappointed to see some fires burning in the area, causing the lake to look all hazy and much less vivid than it typically is. Once again I found irony in the metaphor: I come here to seek clarity and clear the haze from my head and what do I find but more haze?! But of course…during my ride, the haze cleared – both in my head and around the lake. This ride gave me a run for my money – it’s pretty brutal; it is a constant shift between long, arduous climbs, and downhill screamers. It requires non-stop flipping between crawling up and bombing down (i.e. pain/suffering and adrenaline/elation). I thought I was going to die toward the end, but convinced myself it was only physical pain and I could handle it. I did end up speaking to a few people but they were strangers and the exchanges were brief, so I’m not counting this as cheating on my non-communication weekend! I was happy as hell to have finished, and to have just narrowly avoided the “FALLING ROCK” that I’ve seen all over the road and warned about on signage…but never actually seen falling until I literally barely escaped being hit with it! Talk about wake up call…I could have been maimed (or worse)!!

The remainder of my weekend was spent reading and doing homework, and I am happy to report that I feel full again…hydrated, rather than parched.

Last Days of Summer...

As the official last day of summer drew to a close (more like a screeching halt with torrential downpours…yes, I mean that literally and figuratively), I could not help reflecting on what a crazy summer it has been for me. I also couldn’t help struggling with whether the end of a season should be seen as a conclusion, or instead a fresh, new beginning. It has been a summer of reflection – there is no doubt about that. I’ve made new friends, new enemies, and through this process, become better acquainted with myself. I guess because I’m such a reflective person in general, it is difficult for me not to get caught up in the (sometimes dangerous) swirling sea of self-examination. I have come to realize that simply by nature of being me, I incite major responses from people. Sometimes they are incredibly good and profoundly rewarding; other times they are incredibly upsetting and throw in my face the ultimate challenge of avoiding self-deprecation. So far I think I’ve won the battle, but there have been moments…

…moments when I’ve felt the need to flee, to withdraw from human contact in general. Then I have to remind myself that this is what the old Audrey would have done…oh yeah, I’m supposed to be behaving like the new and improved Audrey. I feel like I have been saddled with the exhausting task of constantly needing to explain or justify myself to someone…at times to the point where I feel that I have to justify my existence. It is exhausting, emotionally and physically. It throws me into a tailspin that at times feels like it will send me catapulting across the universe, losing limbs along the way. I generally come out of this storm on top – accepting the fact that I don’t need to justify myself to anyone. Accepting the fact that what others project upon me is a reflection of their own reality - not mine. This is what I truly believe; however, it is at times a difficult concept to remember and the process of coming back around to this belief is never an easy or comfortable one. I guess life’s not supposed to be comfortable; what fun would that be?

Fortunately I've come to believe that acceptance of self is the most important thing for me. I’m not like everyone else, and therefore I am not liked by everyone else. So my challenge lies in reminding myself that…and knowing that there is no one I have to live with other than me. I cannot escape myself so as long as I live with integrity and self-respect, all will be right in my world…somehow, some way.

Ask and you shall receive...

I’ll just cut to the chase. No dawdling through this entry to get to the meat of it. Yesterday I got some really good news. I’ve secured an internship with Portland Spaces Magazine. It is a requirement of my Interior Design program that I complete an internship for school credit. I’ve been struggling for a while now, unsure of where to pursue said internship, as I don’t really have any interest in the typical opportunities of playing receptionist or organizing the materials library for some XYZ or BSS architecture/design firm.

Experience is experience, but I wanted an experience that spoke to me. And so I asked. I asked if it was possible for me to do something atypical for my internship credits, and I received a yes. Given that I am not a journalism student, this is actually an amazing opportunity for me to enter the world of writing as a possible career. I am proud to say that I had to submit writing samples and go through an interview process in order to get the position…and I could be considered the underdog, given that journalism has not been my educational focus. I don’t know exactly where this will lead, but I do know that this is step one in a direction that I want to go. Moral of the story (‘cause you know I like these): ask for what you want and pursue it with passion. That’s how I roll.

Fresh. Seasonal. Local.

I had an experience in Seattle this last weekend that reminded me of being in Italy, and for that I am enormously grateful. I visited my aunt, who always provides good food, good wine, and good company. My kind of girl! One evening we went to a little dinner party with some friends of hers and I have to say that it was quite an impactful experience. The company was great. Their welcoming nature harked back to the Italian spirit that I miss so intensely.

I take the stance in life that every single encounter I have, whether seemingly insignificant or not, comes my way for a reason…for a purpose. (Now, sometimes that purpose is easier to spot than others!) With these people, I didn’t have to dig very deep to find purpose. Conversation topics ranged from political to environmental to travel experiences to food and wine to swamis and yoga/meditation retreats to public transportation and urban planning to learning how not to scrunch up (technical term, I know) one’s forehead. All these topics struck a chord with me. It was super cool.

And to top it off, I ate one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had. It also brought me back to Italy. Fresh and simple is all it takes for amazing food (well, an amazing cook doesn’t hurt, and we had that too). We ate a meal that, sans wine, was composed entirely of food that was either caught or grown by someone at the table. Fresh, seasonal, local. It’s what makes Italian food so good, and it’s what made this meal so good. We ate some fabulous salmon that had been caught mere hours before it entered our mouths, and an abundance of beautiful vegetables from the gardens of some really talented people. I sat at this dinner table and had to say, “I’m sorry but I can’t describe how good this is without using the F-word.” To which I received a resounding, “Oh don’t worry, you can use the F-word at this table!” This is when I knew for certain they were my kind of people!!!

love it or loathe it.......OR.....love me or loathe me?!

I read this statement in the blog of an American living in Rome: “Rome has this effect on some people, it just draws you in and never lets you go.” How true, how true. I don’t know precisely why, but for those of us who seem to be affected by Rome, we are really affected. It’s not just me; it’s actually quite a prevalent phenomenon. Rome seems to be one of those love it or hate it kind of places, with not much room left in between. Oddly enough, this is something I can relate to. I’m fairly sure that I’m a person who is either loved or loathed, with not much in between. I don’t think many people say about me: She’s alright, I could take her or leave her. Nope, it’s more like one of the following: She’s such a bitch; I can’t stand her or She’s amazing; I love her. I kind of like this about myself; it probably means I’m not a boring person. Controversial, yes. Mundane and boring, no.

Because I’ve been feeling lonely for Rome, I’ve been spending time re-reading things that I wrote while there. It’s making me nostalgic and sad but also bringing me back to the feelings I had there, which is just what I need. I NEED to feel those feelings. I’ve started to feel that it’s as essential as breathing is to me. I have been feeling afraid lately that I’m getting quickly sucked right back in to my American life, and while that’s good on some levels, I don’t want it.

You know that thing about square pegs? Well, it really is difficult to fit a square peg into a round hole…yet that is precisely what I feel I am trying to do by attempting to incorporate this Italian way of being into life here in America. We are just so much more structured and rigid here! It’s how it works, and going against the grain just makes one seem like an irresponsible person through typical American eyes.

I did have a revelation the other day, though. It’s very simple; it just relates to a bike ride. I am typically a bit “rigid” with my bike rides. By that I mean it is my form of exercise, which makes it something that I like to push myself at physically, in order to reap the rewards of physical exertion AND the mental clarity that comes with it. I have a hard time looking at biking as anything else, so when I started going on some more leisurely rides with new friends who are new to road biking, it was a bit of a mental struggle. It took some doing to wrap my mind around this concept of taking hours to do mileage that I could complete in one single hour. Stopping along the way, taking in a view, sitting in the park watching a tiny turtle float in the pond. It’s weird that it’s more difficult for me to consider being this way at home, yet it’s what I did in Italy. I don’t know if it’s about cultural acceptance, or just some crazy wiring in my brain. Whatever it is, the moral of the story is that it was beneficial for me to recognize the value in slowing down, literally.

So when I say to myself: I want to feel what I felt in Rome. Why can’t I feel that way here? I have to take myself back to this concept of the leisurely bike ride. It doesn’t mean I don’t still fantasize about being back there; it only means that I can try to incorporate a little bit of a different way of thinking, because it’s just a healthy thing for me to do.

I can hear it now: all the advice I’ll receive that now tells me It wasn’t Rome; you can just live that way here and everything will be hunky-dory. You’re just being so dramatic, Audrey. You’re just never satisfied, Audrey. Before anyone considers shelling out any advice remotely resembling this, please refrain and understand…there is much more to it than this. Rome and Italy have a lot more to love than their pace. That is, I guess, if you’re one of the lovers, rather than loathers, of Rome.

I will apologize because I’m sure all this Rome talk is getting boring for everyone…well, except for you, Jaime (and me of course). But unfortunately it’s what I have to write about at this juncture in my life. As I quoted in the beginning of this entry, “Rome has this effect on some people, it just draws you in and never lets you go.” Indeed it does, and clearly I am one of those people.

What was your favorite part?

As I speak to people about my trip to Rome, this question has been posed to me over and over: “What was your favorite part?” Oh my. This is an impossible question to answer. This is not the fault of anyone asking the question, because how could they know how ridiculous it is? It is, however, absolutely nonsensical from my perspective. I think some people could probably return from a trip like I had and say that oh yes, my favorite part was…the food…or the architecture…or the weather…or going to the beach…or blah, blah, blah. For me, though, my favorite part was no single thing, no combination of things, and it certainly was not anything tangible. It was my experience. The way that I felt. The way I feel now, having had that experience. The fact that I am awake and self-aware enough to recognize how pivotal that experience was to my life and future. The fact that my previous levels of anxiety and worry (which at times could be considered fairly astronomical) are virtually nonexistent now. Somehow, Rome taught me more about life than I ever could have imagined.

There are so many things like this that it is nearly impossible for me not to laugh (hysterically, inside) when someone asks that question. My answer is one that I’m not very good at verbalizing…mostly because I find the doe-eyed stares that I receive in return really frustrating. Many people look at me like I’m crazy. Once again, misunderstood. So I resort to explaining it verbally to the few who understand it, and writing this for the rest of the folks. I am blaming no one else for this; it is something that is lacking in my communication abilities. It’s also the reason I feel I need to write. There are no confused doe-eyes staring at me as I write. I can say whatever I feel. Maybe my reader will make sense of it, maybe not. But I don’t have to be face to face with it. Cowardly? Maybe. But it works for me.

Family Reunions...oh the joy

First of all, let’s just put it out there on the table: it is in my nature to be a sarcastic person. Since maybe a good 90 percent of those reading this blog are likely to be family, I have to give this disclaimer up front. I love my family, but jokes about family reunions exist for a reason. OK, OK…so it’s not really that bad. If you ask any of them, I’m the weird one. So we’ll go with that. But here we go:

Item #1 (and this will be no surprise to anyone who knows me):
Children. Being in the presence of too many of them (more than, say, two) makes my skin crawl. They’re like little creatures that I don’t understand. I see a herd of them and it makes me panic just a little. I realize we need these creatures in order for our civilization to survive, but I happen to think there are already enough in existence and we don’t need more. I have these conversations with my friends frequently. [WARNING, generalization on the way; may offend some!]. Stupid people are breeding. So many of the educated, intelligent, young(ish) people today are choosing not to have children, while those who are…ahem…not so educated and intelligent, are breeding with no abandon. What is this going to mean for our future? It’s scary. But not scary enough to make me think that I need to make one myself.

To clarify, I am not saying that everyone in my family who has kids is stupid. I’m simply saying that the presence of so many of them makes me think about these things. I feel very out of place around a bunch of people with kids, because I just don’t get it. Feels very suffocating to me.

Item #2
Feeling misunderstood. I’m old enough now to recognize that I’ve lived most of my life feeling that I am misunderstood. That is no one’s fault; it just is. However, being around family tends to make one see the history and recognize where all these f’d up ideas come from. In many ways, I’ve been conditioned to believe and behave the way I do…even if it’s toxic. So what happens when I change and grow, and exchange these toxic beliefs for some that are more healthy? I’m even more misunderstood. Family dysfunction has very deep roots (not just mine, but in general). It’s a fascinating topic but (haha) just another one that seals the deal for me that I’d never want to have children. Why would I want to be responsible for molding, shaping, and likely screwing up, someone else’s life? I think my time is better spent figuring out my own.

Item #3
Grandparents. I’ll turn my sarcasm around on this one. My grandparents never cease to amaze me. I can only hope that when I am their age, I have even a fraction of their passion and commitment to whatever it is that I feel passion for. I’ve come to realize that we all don’t need to be passionate about the same issues or causes, but we should all have something that we feel strongly enough about that we want to take it on…to do our part to make a difference, in whatever realm it may be. I am so inspired and humbled by their commitment to fighting for what they believe in. (In case you don’t know, my grandparents are likely some of the most politically active 85 year olds around…)

Here's a nice little photo of a hibiscus from my parents' yard...

for the love of a bike

I had forgotten how serious my love for my bike was and is. I didn’t even really feel like I missed it while I was in Rome, and honestly wasn’t too eager to hop back on it when I got home. Though once I did, the love returned…in full force! Me, my bike, and a summer morning - can’t beat it. Everything else in life seems to move to the back burner while I’m pedaling. And somehow I can even find myself appreciating the beauty of Portland from my perspective on the bike. Everything seems more clear, most namely my head. Reminds me of a line in a song by Blue October:

But in my head…
There’s some shelves that need cleaning,
From basement to ceiling

Yeah, thanks to my bike for helping me out with that. I wonder if it is strange or inappropriate to use a blog post to thank my bike? Guess that’s the benefit of having a blog about nothing: anything goes…

Italiano 101

Let me begin by saying that I find it really difficult to learn a new language as an adult. I consider myself fairly adept with language, yet it’s still a feat that at times seems impossible. As part of my desperate attempt to cling to Rome after having left, as well as my desire to go back, I decided to continue with Italian classes during the next year. It’s a pathetic attempt to keep myself at least somewhat connected, and to feel that I would at least be more prepared should I make it back there. I know that I’m making progress, but man it’s so overwhelming! I feel like I’m treading water. It is one thing to learn some words and phrases, but actually trying to speak and communicate in a new language makes me feel really stupid and inept.

A discussion from my Intercultural Communication class about language barriers and how they affect people emotionally just resurfaced in my mind, because, again, I identify. The feelings one experiences when not being able to fully communicate what they intend, are often vastly underestimated and misunderstood. I empathized with a Turkish classmate who has been in the U.S. for a year and speaks English quite well. He explained that even though he can communicate fairly effectively in English, he is not himself when doing so. The idiosyncrasies and his personality are lost. He is a funny person but he can’t be funny when speaking English. I can’t imagine how much time it takes in order to become “native” enough in another language and culture to actually be able to feel truly comfortable. This student claimed that he desperately wanted to just PAY someone to sit and listen to him speak Turkish, even if the person could not understand a word he was saying. It nearly made me cry because I could understand, albeit on a much smaller scale. What an isolating feeling it is…and one I think we could all benefit from understanding. As we see the troubles immigrants in our country experience, maybe a little empathy is in order. It is not as easy as we assume it to be, and I believe they should all be commended for making an attempt, because language is only one small component of adjusting to a new culture.

Re-Entry Shock

My re-integration into my native country has, on the surface, been a piece of cake. However, deep down at my core, it is anything but easy. I have been functioning on autopilot; I have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like I’m in a time warp and that I never even left. I got in my car after not driving for three months and everything was exactly the same as it used to be. I didn’t even need to think. I drove down the same streets and nothing had changed. Again, I didn’t even need to think. I feel like a zombie. It’s terribly disturbing that I can make my way through my days without even being conscious. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and before you know it, a life has gone by unconsciously. Maybe that is what was so personally important to me about my Rome experience. I had to live every day consciously. I had to think about nearly every move I made. I suppose after a certain amount of time in any given place, this can change. Maybe this is why I’m not sure I’m cut out for being in one place for the rest of my life, or even for long periods of time for that matter. These are all questions I don’t have answers to right now but questions that I am committed to exploring.

I had the fortune of taking one of my summer quarter classes as an intense three-day cram session the weekend I returned to Portland. The only reason this was a positive experience is because the class was Intercultural Communication, and it could not have happened at a more appropriate time for me. Much of what was studied was extremely thought provoking and helped me to understand many of the feelings I experienced in Italy, as well as what I am experiencing now, after getting back home. There is actually a cycle of stages that one goes through when entering another culture and then returning to the home culture. This cycle of course only really applies when one actually spends enough time in another culture and engages enough to become somewhat integrated into the new culture. It was eerily accurate to the experience I had and am having. I experienced every stage just as it was spelled out on a chart in black and white. Go figure…right now I am in “Re-Entry Shock.”

I am finding myself quite depressed as I experience this place I call home. It feels so quiet, so dead, so mundane. Again, I feel like a zombie. I went to the grocery store today and felt like I didn’t even know what to do there. It wasn’t even one of the giant big-box stores; just a small, local chain – a store I used to love. I found myself completely overwhelmed with all the choices, to the point where I didn’t even know what to buy. I just stared in disbelief, not knowing what to do. It’s too much. Everything here is too much. Troppo!! Troppo!!