To Be Mzungu

Us Mzungus at the market, putting on that sunscreen

When I was studying abroad in Uganda, one of the first things we all learned is that Ugandans refer to Westerners - perhaps mostly white Westerners, as they tend to stand out more - as "Mzungu".  Well, that just means "white person", right?  Or wealthy American?  Or colonialist?  Or whatever... no big deal.  Sure, it was maybe annoying to be called this along the streets, or by our homestay families, but it seemed a small burden to bear compared to the way western countries have interfered with African countries - or the fact that westerners often refer to Africa as a country.

But no - Mzungu does not just mean "white person".  Sure, if you look it up in English this is probably what you'll find, and think, "Oh yeah, that's just like Gringo/Gringa, or whatever".

No - "Mzungu" in Swahili means "one who moves around" "to go round and round" "to turn in circles".... "without purpose".

What?!

How did it take me almost 10 years after my study abroad to hear about this?

I learned this from browsing through The Art of Failure: The Anti-Self Help Guide by Neel Burton through an article on humility I was perusing (let's say grad school can make you think a lot about yourself... "Am I a failure?").  I found it within the first couple pages, where the author was talking about the usual: Westerners (huge generalization, I know) are always trying to do too much and doing this "running around in circles" thing and getting themselves all stressed out, feeling unhappy:

"One of the central tenets of the Western worldview is that one should always be engaged in some kind of outward task."

"In contrast most people living in a country such as Kenya in Africa do not share in the Western worldview that it is noble or worthwhile to spend all of one's time rushing around from one task to the next."

Going back to Thomas Merton and his No Man is an Island reflections, he describes this challenge of the doing and the being - where if you do too much, you stir up a great cloud of your activity and can't see where you are.  It's the flurry of activity that should be avoided - that space where you lose track of your human being-ness.  I read in another article by Omad Safi, The Disease of Being Busy, that we're human beings, not human doings.

Safi says in his article,

“Tell me you remember you are still a human being, not just a human doing. Tell me you’re more than just a machine, checking off items from your to-do list.  Have that conversation, that glance, that touch.  Be a healing conversation, one filled with grace and presence.”

From what I could tell of Ugandans, they had definitely tapped into the "being" part of life in a way that any Westerner could learn from, even those not necessarily consumed by a flurry of activity.  It's just in the most basic questions that we tend to ask each other, "How are you doing?"  I mean, there's that classic Hollywood story plot: busy person transformed by relaxed person leads to heart transformed.  It's in Chef, Hook, Up, Elf and other movies that have more than just one-word titles.

I'm certainly no expert at this, especially now, especially in grad school.  I'm a mzungu for goodness sake.  I am not sure I will ever achieve the perfect balance of being and doing, hence, perusing a book like The Art of Failure.  But that's the thing, right?  It's not about perfection, acheivement, blah dee blah - but more about accepting yourself, always.

Maybe when we stop moving in those circles and we can move with purpose.

Sounds like a good plan, mzungu.

A Walkabout

Fresh air!  Out of the house!  To Portsmouth!

We undertook a small adventure through the rather unfathomable 30 inches of snow which fell in Portsmouth yesterday.  After being sentenced by the storm to our home for a number of hours - seemingly countless and perhaps suffocating - the fresh air couldn't have been more welcomed.  In fact, the sun was so wildly bright that we wore sunglasses due to the intensity of its reflection.  

I dare say, it was quite beautiful.

(I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately and it's started to infect my speech)

This is our own little turn about the town:

I think this is what they call "snowed in".

The entry way is blue now. 

So is the sky

Bigger than a car, bigger by far. 

Not sure what this guy is doing. 

No, please no more. 

Icicles Icicles

And Bicycles!

Coffee, coffee, coffee

Graffiti people

Such a joy to find shoveled sidewalks!

Where are you, Summer?

Bouldering

Capped with a room on top

Down the alley

"Frosted like a wedding cake"

A lovely shade of blue

Lamp post with color

Up the bricks

Red, white and blue

What a mess

Yet another a shade of blue

Snowflakes inside, too. 

I don't think anyone will be parking here.

All the houses, all the colors

Thank you, Sun, for coming out today.  It was such a pleasure. 

Waffles

Snowstorms are endearing when you have nowhere you need to go.  I awoke to some shouting in the driveway and thought, "Is that my landlord?"  Next, I heard a knock on my door - it was my roommate saying we had to head outside to move our cars for the plow truck.    

Ah, it was my landlord.

I can't say we were thrilled to be woken up - more like, not thrilled - but we did make fresh waffles afterwards, with coffee, fresh whipped cream, maple syrup and blueberries.  We listened to the Acoustic Covers playlist on Spotify and my roommate finished painting the entryway while us other roommates tried to do grad school work ("tried" being the key word).  We heated up the root vegetables we had cooked last night (with this recipe) and nibbled on the brownies we had also made, throughout the day.  We were thankful to be inside, and not driving around all day and night plowing out driveways, and not out in the storm in any other way, shape, or form.  Thank you, plow people.

Homemade waffles make it better.  Coffee makes it better.  Bourbon hot toddies make it better.

Pride and Prejudice makes it better.  Downton Abbey makes it better.

Being together makes it better. 

That's the good stuff: people making it better. 

Blizzards whip that up in us.

Snowy Morning with Szymborska

The Comforter Mountains

I woke up, to stay inside.  The strength of the white light from behind my curtain pushed me right back into bed as soon as I peeled it back.  What the snow said to me - clear as day - from behind the window pane was, "Don't move.  Put on the hot water and stay where you are."  

So I have, and I did.  I wouldn't want to mess with the snow's instructions.  Coffee has been made, crackling candle has been lit, and poetry from my bookshelf has been accessed.  

I often wish that reading poetry and literature were a part of my graduate program, as contemplations and stories about life help me to think about people in reality.  Instead, we learn about people through a psychological lens or a systems lens - 

What is your race, culture or class and how does that affect you?

Are you a leader that could be described as "patient" or "competitive"?  Then, choose the five cards that you think best apply.   

As helpful as it is to think of yourself in these terms, these lenses could also be balanced with an even larger, more poetic description - 

We live, we die, and are equal in this sense - how should that influence how we work and live with others?  And how can we think about larger than life questions?

Wistawa Symborska is a poet who caught my eye years ago in a Nobel Literature class.  She passed away, not too long ago, and her poems touch on the dark and light aspects of life in thoughtful and at times humorous ways.  Here is one or two from Poems New and Collected...

Smiles

The world would rather see hope than just hear

its song. And that's why statesmen have to smile.

Their pearly whites mean they're still full of cheer.

The game's complex, the goal's far out of reach,

the outcome's still unclear - once in a while,

we need a friendly, gleaming set of teeth.

Heads of state must display unfurrowed brows

on airport runways, in the conference room.

They must embody one big, toothy "Wow!"

while pressing flesh or pressing urgent issues.

Their faces' self-regenerating tissues

make our hearts hum and our lenses zoom.

Dentistry turned to diplomatic skill

promises us a Golden Age tomorrow.

The going's rough, and so we need the laugh

of bright incisors, molars of goodwill.

Our times are still not safe and sane enough

for faces to show ordinary sorrow.

Dreamers keep saying, "Human brotherhood

will make this place a smiling paradise."

I'm not convinced. The statesman, in that case,

would not require facial exercise,

except from time to time: he's feeling good,

he's glad it's spring, and so he moves his face.

But human beings are, by nature, sad.

So be it, then. It isn't all that bad.

***

Over Wine

He glanced, gave me extra charm

and I took it as my own.

Happily I gulped a star.

I let myself be invented,

modeled on my own reflection

in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance

in the stir of sudden wings.

The chair's a chair, the wine is wine,

in a wineglass that's the wineglass

standing there by standing there.

Only I'm imaginary,

make-believe beyond belief,

so fictitious that it hurts.

And I tell him tales about

ants that die of love beneath

a dadelion's constellation.

I swear a white rose will sing

if you sprinkle it with wine.

I laugh and I tilt my head

cautiously, as if to check

whether the invention works.

I dance, dance inside my stunned

skin, in his arms that create me.

Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,

Minerva from Jupiter's head -

all three were more real than me.

When he isn't looking at me, 

I try to catch my reflection

on the wall. And see the nail

where a picture used to be.

***

Here's to blankets of snow, words, and fleece.  

Happy snow day. 

Chipping Away

Chip

Chip

Chipping away,

Chipping away

The entry way -

Brown, green, tan and white

The paint chips fell,

Away to the floor

Away to the floor

Chip

Chip

And So It Begins

Grad School Rears It's Ugly Head

John Updike is one of my favorite authors.  He seems to effortlessly and precisely articulate the psychological atmosphere of every story he tells.  I heard once that he made a point of writing everyday.  Here is a little poem he wrote about... well, this:

January

The days are short, 

The sun a spark,

Hung thin between

The dark and dark.

Fat snowy footsteps 

Track the floor.

Milk bottles burst

Outside the door.

The river is

A frozen place

Held still between 

The trees of lace.

The sky is low.

The wind is gray.

The radiator

Purrs all day.

Today in a podcast with Seth Godin, a marketing guy talking about The Art of Noticing and Then Creating, I heard that, "The only people who are good at the beginning are lucky."  He spoke about art not being "following a manual, reading a dummy's book, looking for a map. It tends to be people who work with a compass instead. Who have an understanding of true north and are willing to solve a problem in an interesting way."

The challenge seems to be trusting what pulls you - or, compels you - and to realize that creating something good requires lots of work, commitment and the risk to do something interesting.  John Updike noticed and created books and books of literature, with lots of discipline and persistence.  To me, Grad School possibly requires a similar kind of effort (although I do not write everyday, like Updike).  So does building into your day robust healthy habits, even on the days "between the dark and dark" or going out on a limb and contributing ideas that are out of the ordinary, or perhaps - extraordinary.

Here's to persistence towards what pulls you and hope that it will get you to where you want to be.  

Montréal

Montréal froze the top layer of my face.  At least one wooly scarf is needed to begin to protect a face from the wet and dry cold air colliding from the prairie and the ocean.  Once out of my brother's apartment, I choked for just a minute on the gentle daggers of air.

As we walked to the ice skating rink, my legs began to numb and the moisture from my breath into my scarf collected nicely around my mouth and under my nose.  Sniffle sniffle pat pat.  My mascara froze and then melted away above my eye shadow when we arrived inside the ice skate rental room, painting the tops of my eyes like a war paint, or eyelid claws.  I took a second to warm up my toes, since they have been known to turn a frightening shade of white in the cold.  My boots were now decorated with sludge from the street and my shoelaces crackled when I untied them.  I loosened the laces on the skates and forcibly shoved my feet into them, using my minimal arm strength to pull the laces as tight as I could which still left a generous amount of space for my ankles to wobble around.

We continued onto the ice, my brother holding my hand as I wobbled around on the skates for a number of laps.  These were soon replaced with superior hockey skates and my brother's faithful hand released.  We ventured out to the natural ice of the river - I shuffled my feet slowly while holding the railing - where we skated for a bit until I gracefully fell down onto my knees.

I scooted elegantly to my feet and glided on.  We skated back to the rink and soon headed inside for a cup of hot chocolate to liven our spirits, fingers and toes.  After ice skating, we walked over to Old Port where I was able to grab a glass of "hot wine" and hug the heater with my feet.

This is all to say, Montréal, that I have fallen for you - time and time again.

Québec

Québec sleeps 

underneath 

thin blankets of snow; 

wind whips white 

sheets across the beds. 

Lavender light 

from a lazy sun 

falls 

through 

the air

draping over 

branches and barns.

Cattails stand: awake, 

glowing in the golden hour,

before they all 

turn in.  

Downhill

The Living

My Winter Break Iceberg is Melting

My friend and I teared up watching the last episode of Gilmore Girls, where the community come together to give Rory a going-away party. The town organized it themselves, with secret meetings, because they must squeeze in a party before their daughter drives away. As we watched the camera span over the faces of the whole community staring and smiling up at Rory as she tried to thank them for the party without crying we almost lost it ourselves. 

There have been many moments like that this break, where I've been a part of the everyday - the quirky, spontaneous, mundane and lovable everyday.  Marie Howe writes about it in her collection of poems, What the Living Do - that everyday, living, thing that we do.  This is written in light of the deaths she has known, in particular for her brother John, who died at age 28.

What the Living Do

Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil fell down there.

And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those

wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. 

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep,

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:

I am living. I remember you. 

Here at home there are unfinished house projects, trips to the grocery store, bringing in of the firewood - and the winter wind literally just pushed the door wide open a few minutes ago. This break I've done nothing more thrilling or exciting that to experience the everyday - without epic journeys or transforming travels.  Annie Dillard talks about the everyday in The Writing Life:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, or that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time. A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order - willed, faked and so brought into being; it is a peace and a haven set into the wreck of time; it is a lifeboat on which you find yourself decades later, still living. Each day is the same, so you remember the series afterwards as a blurred and powerful pattern. 

The most appealing daily schedule I know is that of a turn-of-the-century Danish aristocrat. He got up at four and set out on foot to hunt black grouse, wood grouse, woodcock and snipe. At eleven, he met his friends, who had also been out hunting all morning. They converged at "one of these babbling brooks" he wrote. He outlined the rest of his schedule. "Take a quick dip, relax with a schnapps and a sandwich, stretch out, have a smoke, take a nap or just rest, sit around and chat until three. Then I hunt some more until sundown, bathe again, put on white tie and tails to keep up appearances, eat a huge dinner, smoke a cigar and sleep like a log until the sun comes up again to redden the eastern sky. This is living... Could it be more perfect?

My winter break was perhaps a combination of these two descriptions.  Instead of hunting, replace it with watching House of Cards and instead of wearing white tails, replace that with staying in pajamas as long as possible.  There seems to be an important balance between enjoyment and work, schedule and free time - enjoying the everyday but also getting away from it.  I'm glad to have gotten away from my everyday for almost a solid month and now may just be ready to do some work again...

Sleepyhead

Winter, you make it so hard to get up in the morning.  You and my warm bed create an alliance that is almost impossible to defeat.  It's also cruel that you've pulled the shower into it as well - that nice, warm, inviting shower.  Not only does that shower throw me back out into the cold air, but you freeze the floor which freezes my feet - whistling through the door and the windows and attacking my face and hands when I walk out the door to find my car held hostage by your elements.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a little about Winter, too, back in 1885 - when I imagine it felt even darker and colder, as people relied on candlelight and horses to get around.  Being Scottish, he knew harsh winters. I have experienced that bone-chilling cold over there - where my pants actually froze to the puddle I was standing in.  Here is his portrayal of the loveliest of seasons:

Winter-Time

A Child's Garden of Verses, 1885

Robert Louis Stevenson

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;

Blinks but an hour or two, and then,

A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,

At morning in the dark I rise;

And shivering in my nakedness,

By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit

To warm my frozen bones a bit;

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

The colder countries round the door.

Black are my steps on silver sod;

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

Stories can save us from our own downward-spiral existential woe-is-me thinking.  As unique as experiences can feel, we can also hear from others - resonate and find empathy and understanding. What a gift writing, sharing and stories can be to help us get out of bed in the morning. 

Islanders

"Every man is an island. And I stand by that. But clearly, some men are part of island chains. Below the surface of the ocean they are actually connected." - Will (Hugh Grant) About a Boy

My friend's tea cup collection

I have fond memories of the words of Thomas Merton. My friend and I used to venture down to the end of Ocean Street, to where the sidewalk ends, and read or journal on the concrete wall overlooking the waves.  I passed along No Man is an Island to her, having found passages in it inspiring at that point in my early/mid twenties; we would read our favorite ones aloud.  These months of ocean-bonding were precious, as we spent many afternoons by the water either reading by it, eating by it, drinking by it or jumping into it as the days became unbearably unbearable that summer.

In About a Boy, a self-absorbed Hugh Grant tried to hang on to his island mentality yelling, "I am island!  I'm bloody Ibiza!". His philosophy is sabotaged by the friendship between him and a boy who followed him around, seen by his reluctant concession that our islands are "actually connected". Recently, I came across an article touching on Merton's beliefs, noting that he believed in the "promise of paradox".  The author, Parker J. Palmer, talks about paradoxical thinking as...

"...the key to creativity, which comes from the capacity to entertain apparently contradictory ideas in a way that stretches the mind and opens the heart to something new. Paradox is also a way of being that's key to wholeness, which does not mean perfection: it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life."

Perhaps we have two hands, two eyes and two feet to hold, see and move towards these paradoxes - constantly seeing double and living in that tension.  Like the tea cups above, we are beautiful holders but also breakable - prone to dust and cracks. I have found that one of the most challenging things, is the delicate balance of our own strength and vulnerability - protection and risk, safety and challenge... the extremes are always there.  Wholeness is not perfection, but in fact two broken people sitting on a shore trying their best to live in this crazy wilderness. 

Sounds of the Seasons

Trying to find a new Paint program is challenging, none seem to have all of the components of the original.  I guess I took for granted how great that little program was... now I'm here with a Mac trying to find a good one again... watching Gilmore Girls as Lorelie drags Luke out of bed to go sniff the snow, him freezing - you might know what I'm talking about.  Then just like that the snow comes down in a magical moment in the center of town, and she says, "Welcome, friend."

Today was beautiful and freezing, the air choking you as soon as you take a deep breath of it in.  A friend and I decided that our exclamations of the seasons differ from month to month.  Here is my depiction of the "Sound of the Seasons" as I have experienced them on the East Coast:

Captured above is the "wah"s and "ah"s and "yay"s and "yah"s... along with a "hey" written in April when I finally begin to think that the end of Winter is near and then a "please" in May, when I pray that the leaves will finally appear on the trees in New Hampshire.  Last year, they were not on the trees as of the beginning of May and I had to pick the ice off my car at the end of April.  I felt like Lorelie towards the end of the episode, as she's shoveling out her iced/snowed over Jeep, exclaiming, "Me and snow!  We're through!... It's the stuff that stalls your car!  It's the stuff that buries your car!..."

OH, Winter. 

Pennsylvania White and Blue

I've done a lot of driving this past year, from New Hampshire to Oregon and back (and other road trips in between, before and after).  I've learned how to take photos from the driver's seat - which is something I wouldn't necessarily recommend (may cause you to almost find yourself in a ditch or another car).  I love my car and my camera; my two favorite possessions (or in the top ten, at least).  I didn't always appreciate the Pennsylvania farmland scenery that I've driven across many times - I used to think of it as the same blah farmland - but now I really love it.  I find it peaceful and calming, especially in the winter - the white really helps the farmland's complexion.  It makes it sparkle.

I love it when the blue sky is out so bright and mixes with those purple tones with puffy white clouds.  There was a moment when I was caught in a snow cloud, suddenly surrounded by gray, unable to see very far in front of me.  It was that kind of weather that your windshield wipers make worse (dang it!).  I tried to clean my window, but the water would ice up.  It brought me back to the part of winter that I deeply dislike: driving in the bad weather, walking in the bad weather, and shoveling the bad weather.  But soon enough, I was beyond the cloud and back in the bright blue sky sunshine again (bizarro weather - reminds me of Scotland).

There are a ton of big trucks on the PA roads and I am confused as to how one can actually go 55 mph in some of those parts - nobody is going that slow (that I can tell) - and there are cops everywhere.  There was one part of the road where the traffic abruptly slowed up.  I could see that something was in the road, and I wondered if it was a car (hoping that it wasn't).  People seemed to just be going around it, so I figured it couldn't involve people.  As I got closer, I saw that it was two giant wheels unhinged from half of a truck's trailer bed!  It was surreal to see such a large object sitting in the middle of the road.  I was glad that I hadn't been driving by the truck at the moment that this part of his trailer somehow fell off.  The rest of the truck seemed to be fine and was pulled over to the side of the road, the driver looked like he was on the phone inside, probably wondering what the heck he was going to do... it was crazy.

I kept chugging along, listening to my tunes and watching the sky, taking photos and the like... finally returning to the other side of the Delaware river and sprinting from the car to our house.  Another successful journey through PA and little road trip to a dear old friend all finished.

Cup of Steel

"When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up, we would no longer be vulnerable.  But to grow up is to accept vulnerability... To be alive is to be vulnerable." 

Madeleine L'Engle

My camera caught the coffee strangely there - it looks metallic...  We are, in fact, drinking metallic coffee - made of sparkling creamer and fibers of little thin steel.  There's a line in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn that goes like this, describing some of the women in the narrative,

"They were all slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft fluttery voices.  But they were made out of thin, invisible steel." Betty Smith

So, we put some steel in our coffee this morning and hope that it helps us shovel the driveway (it did).  Then we'll put some steel in the baby's bottle.  Even though we're grown-ups, I suppose, we can learn a lot in the way of vulnerability from this little tiny 8 month old - as she chews her toys and tries to eat her feet.  She's a drooling mess wearing clothes that have ears and ruffles.  And somehow she trusts us without thinking that we won't take care of her.   

Here's to being alive. 

Love Bones

Rediscovering New Jersey: Skyline Drive, along the Appalachian Trail

“Our invented philosophy — the self-made scaffold our lives and visions cling to — is harder to speak out loud. It’s hard to even write it down. And yet, we must try! For we hang our very beings on these invisible bones.” Barbara Mahaney, Invitation to December

As much as I would rather be out West hiking around beautiful trails and enjoying the warm dry sunshine, the feeling of community present here has become such a wonderful gift this season.  To get out and see a landscape is rejuvenating, but so are the precious hugs and joyful smiles of people I get to see again.

To be present in a place that has spent years showing me how to love is a gift.  This is not to say that I am in any way perfect at it, but I'm reminded that these are the invisible bones and scaffolding that have supported my soul. These are the people who redirect their steps to give me a hug and ask how I'm doing.  They give me a ride home - even though it is adding 40 minutes to their journey - because they want to catch up with me.  These are people whose "I'm so sorry about your grandmother" mean so so very much, since you know that they know how much she meant to you.  They have given me comfort (and love) in these moments that I have not received from my year of graduate school and moving around.

Love is refreshing; to feel known is relaxing.  If I were to begin to articulate my own invented philosophy, I would have to start with love.  We often talk about compassion in social work - even compassion fatigue - and maybe this is because we don't want to talk about the love you can have for a stranger in a way that comforts them in times of difficulty.  I don't think love ever becomes fatigued, does it?  We talk about boundaries and detachment but what about love?  These are words that carry so much weight and this is one of the heaviest.  Feeling loved - "attached" as they say in psychology - can bring me to tears; it moves me.

As much as I love the West, the West will never love me back.  This is why to be loved in community is a gift, which also comes with its own challenges.  But we must continue to try and to hang our very beings on these good and strong invisible bones.

Reminder

A Little Bit on Hope

From a walk through Millbrook Village, New Jersey yesterday.
I love the long shadows of winter and that bright blue sky. 

The other day on my drive down to New Jersey I was listening to an On Being episode with Quaker singer Carrie Newcomer.  It was the Thanksgiving episode where the interview was woven in and out of her folksy music; it was the perfect peaceful combination to listen to after a stressful semester.  

Do you ever hear something or think something and feel the need to write it down before you forget it?  During this episode, Carrie spoke about hope and I went back and found the transcript online to remember the words exactly.  It goes like this:

"And then there's like a hope that's gritty - It's like, the kind of hope that gets up every morning and chooses to try to make the world just a kinder place in your own way.  And the next morning gets up, and does it again.  And the next morning, gets up, and you have been disappointed.  And you do it again.  I wanted to write about the kind of hope that's faithful, that kind that Niebuhr talked about: 'anything worth doing will probably not be achieved in one lifetime... so we are saved by hope.'  And that's a harder kind of hope to live with, because it's easier to be cynical.  I mean, when you're cynical, you're never disappointed."

When I think about hope, Emily Dickinson's poem pops into my head.  Her rendition of hope is this:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers - (314)

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without words - 

And never stops - at all - 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird -

That kept so many warm - 

I've heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

I like holding the two of these together, thinking of hope as a belief that is a choice and requires faith, but also something that rests and perches inside of us.  

Here's Carrie singing Betty's Diner, a Joni Mitchell-esque song about people in a diner.  Being in New Jersey, where there's a silver diner melting on the corner of most towns, it seems appropriate to post this one.

Here's to hope!

Frosty Morning

"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe." John Muir

 I woke up to a blue sky day and the ground covered in sparkling frost.  There's something about waking up and either being outside or heading outside and grabbing some of that pure, fresh morning air.  It was cold when I opened the door after putting on my boots and setting out across the driveway in my plaid pajama pants.  The sun rises over the small hill in our backyard and casts shadows over our deck illuminating stripes everywhere.  But this morning I photographed the grass across the way and the hill of our neighbors' property.

In the spirit of Frost, I thought I'd add a poem by Robert Frost.  

Dust of Snow (1923)

The way a crow 

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued

May the New Year bring many sparkling moments which change the course of our coldest days.  

Happy New Year!