Read my Blog – Page 2

Ashes, Ashes

Published March 15, 2017

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Your children’s games of holding hands, skipping–

We ring around the rosey and you marvel at the way centripetal force pulls heavy on our legs.

Your laughs are contagious. Everyone want to join.
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They rally to the cause smiling. Laughing

You’ve fistfuls of posies in your hands, in your pockets,

spreading the fragrance and smearing it in our noses.
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I once admired your energy and spirit, held you up as my friend, prevented you from falling.

But you were too afraid to tell me you didn’t want me to play.

But I am already in your backyard.
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I am the kindergarten teacher?

YOU are a boy, but you are not innocent.
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Brother Underwood

Brother Underwood

Published February 8, 2017

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When I was a little girl, I used to love going to church. Our pastor was named Brother Underwood, and he was a warm soul. He would touch our little faces as we walked in on Sundays and called us by name. his hands smelled of lilac lotion and felt warm on my face.

One day in Sunday school he called all the kids to the front pew for a special lesson that I’ll never forget. He handed us all toothpicks and Q-tips, and squeeze toothpaste from a tube. “Try to put it back” he challenged. His words never raised above a whisper. It drew us in, like a secret. None of the adults in the room would hear his message.

We each got a turn scraping the toothpaste with our tools. Each of us was sure we would be the victor. We couldn’t.

Once you say something, once you do something, you can never take it back.

No apology will ever repair all future doubts. No excuses can repair disappointment.
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Sick of Being Sick

Sick of Being Sick

Published January 23, 2017

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These lungs sputter like a car running low on fuel.

My exhaust fumigating, contaminating the precious air.

Just Breathe.

I can’t Breath! This chest backfires, coursing microexplosions.

Convulsing.

Violent, like blood smeared highways. Thick liquid.

Unfamiliar taste.
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Letters to Myself

Letters to Myself

Published November 13, 2016

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[05 Mar 2010|11:57am]

I am so excited because I know that, no matter how much more time I have on this earth, I will look back on these past few month knowing that these are the best years on my life. So Kelli, when you read this in the future, remember waking up in Kait’s room and having chicory coffee. Having waffles made with applesauce for breakfast, stepping outside to the beautiful weather, going to work,then a party at which you dressed up as a cowboy. You had amazing friends, you went to the gym every day, and fell in love with your own life.

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[06 Apr 2016|9:26 pm]

Girls will woo you. They’ll smell like warm plops of rain against the August Kansas asphalt — like road trips through the Mohave desert with no A/C and 2 gallons of water in the passenger seat. It will be the best memories you ever had, but it’s not the girls that made them:

When you grasp your fingers into the bark of a 150-year-old walnut tree — barefoot and in dress — and pull yourself up, dusting the dirt off your knees. When you sit down for a greasy burger in Santa Cruz after cycling all day through rolling hills, sand pits, ice plants, and highways through army bases long abandoned. When you paint blue and purple sunflowers on recycled canvas, reminiscent of home — When you rip out soiled carpet and sand smooth the oak underneath giving it new life and creating a home. When you learn to make your father’s chip beef gravy and serve is with fresh,butter biscuits at 7am — clipping coupons as the sun rises over the beach in your backyard.

You did that.

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Learning from the Mayan: Empowering Women

Learning from the Mayan: Empowering Women

Published November 13, 2016

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Empowering Women to Find the Purpose in Life
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I do not know exactly how to describe the intense feeling of being lost. All the sounds in your life that have always brought you comfort are gone. If macaroni and cheese make you feel home, it is suspecting you will never eat it again–nothing even remotely close. It is feeling being utterly alone and at the same time unable to find even yourself, nothing around you is yours, not even your job. Not even your voice. All you have to define yourself is the clothes you happen to be wearing and the hard seat under your butt. I have felt that a few times in my life. Both times I was doing amazing, life changing things, but I was living in someone else’s life.
Don’t get me wrong. I am happy. But I have had intense moments of feeling lost–without a strong sense of self or purpose. All of the things I am doing do not add up to the person I thought I would be. Maybe that is good because it means I am flexible. Or maybe it means I do not know who I am or how to pursue it. And today I found myself sitting in on a strange meeting I never expected to happen, one that has me thinking about the pieces of my life that fit together.
“I don’t know. She some lady that works with indigenous women. I told her I would have a meeting with her…” Luisa explained to me 10 minutes before the lady was supposed to arrive.

“She sounds interesting, but I do not know what we are going to talk about.”

I’ve come to learn that I am not a meeting person. I love talking to people, but I cannot have 3 and 4 meetings a day like my partner does. She is the master of networking, and I am the master of sneaking out of meetings. I’ve found (though I am not proud of it) my attention span for networking and meetings significantly decreases, even more, when the other parties are speaking in Spanish. The lady did sound cool. I am a feminist with a passion for indigenous people, but I REALLY wanted to get work done.
I got lost in my computer, and when I looked up, she was standing at the table next to us.
There was desperation in my soul to listen to her. With my limited Spanish, I understand the big picture of what someone is saying 80% of the time but always miss the subtleties. It’s like going to a movie and understanding the plot, but never the dialogue:

When she was 22, she had to move to Guatemala for her husband’s political asylum where she encountered indigenous women for the first time and was mesmerized by their contentment, maturity and wise perspectives of themselves and the world around them. She explained how they understand their equality with men and do not have to stress over it. At the same time, they understand their feminine obligations as mothers and their responsibility to the world. These women all had a clear sense of purpose. They were connected, very deeply, with their god and their spiritual selves. Through these women, she had learned to help other women. The has studied the sacred Mayan traditions, and while she is Christian, believing in God, she uses the Mayan rituals to connect with her God and find answers to her insecurities.

“The indigenous people are dying.”

Even though we do not actively slaughter them like we have in the past, their children are growing up and leaving the villages longing for technology. We think they are just poor people, but their knowledge about the spiritual ties to the earth could save us all from hopelessness and that feeling of not having a purpose. We cannot let that knowledge die with them.

Something in her story spoke to me. Maybe it was the way I’d been feeling so confused about my direction in life. Maybe it was the way I felt so alone and confused.
I’ve often questioned my purpose in life. At least 6 times in my life I have had people approach me to tell me they had a message from God about my purpose, but I never know whether to be moved by their conviction or freaked out. Once, I spent 4th of July with my best friend at the time watching fireworks from the top of a parking garage when a girl told me I was going to be an important force in the universe and I cannot be afraid. I had chilled for three weeks and still remember her face and name…

Now, in this meeting, staring at the aged and ageless face of the beautiful woman in front of me, I thought about that feeling of being lost and I thought about the face of Jedidiah that fourth of July. The next date she was hosting a ceremony was December 9th, and I would be gone.
I will fly back early from Lima. It just feels that important to me.
Luisa and the woman were both shocked. The next day we got a message saying she would host a private ceremony for us. We packed our bags and headed to the mountains.
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Internationality: Our Biggest Strength and Weakness

Internationality: Our Biggest Strength and Weakness

Published October 31, 2016

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Our biggest Strength and Enemy
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I like to tell people that that coolest thing about our team is the coincidences that brought us together. We are a diverse team: Juan and Luisa are cousins from Colombia. When they were teenager Juan came to live in the US, and they were devastated by being separated. They’ve been best friends since birth, even across thousands of miles. Eva is from Austria. She met Luisa and Juan by a fluke and agreed to travel across south America with near-strangers. And I am from the US. I’ve lived a seemingly normal life until I recently quit my job as a high school English teacher to join the NomadApp team and travel the world. I met Luisa at a bar, and three days later invited Luisa and Juan on a road trip to Minnesota. In a normal world, we never would have met. In this universe, it was fate.

Combined we speak 6-7 languages, and we all come from different educational backgrounds. The first time I met Eva was in New York City. We took THIS picture, and could not stop talking about how miraculous it is that we even ended up in the same photo. How many impossible things had to happen to lead up to that moment?

We are a family now. We share everything, and because we have to pack light, I mean we share everything. Deodorant, brushes, computers, phones, passwords, food, beds and floors alike. We know far more about each other than we care to, but there is something pretty magical about living this lifestyle. Sure, you never get alone time (which is a challenge in itself), but you’re never lonely. Its these little things that are the fibers that hold us so tight to one another, but despite the fibers, our biggest fears are the inability to stay together.

A few weeks ago there was tension in our team. Not the kind of tension where we were at each other throats, but there was a heaviness looming in the air and we couldn’t quite shake it. Little disputes about what to do next: pursue investors, continue traveling and promoting the app, apply for accelerators. Time is running out. Visa’s only last for so long. How should we prepare for the app launch? In the midst of all the tension in the team, Juan was probably the most heated.

Let me paint a picture of the usual Juan: this is the guy who skips from park bench to park bench asking me to do “parkour” with him. He’s the definition of happy-go-lucky. He has infinite amounts of energy. He is the only one I know that can literally jump out of bed and be ready to leave the house within three minutes of waking up. He is optimistic to a fault and always looking for the next adventure. And you can count on him talking all day about the fans he talked to on snap chat…So when Juan is quiet, there is something on his mind.

When we talk to investors, they also want to know our weak points, our faults. Truly, we have the gambit of skills: experienced programmers, graphic designers, top-notch social media marketers, communication specialists, financial advisors. Aside from the occasional lack of patience, we tend to think of ourselves as the perfect team. But our biggest asset, that diversity, is also our biggest enemy.

When we sat down for a meeting over a drink, we were finally able to talk about our thoughts, our words finally parted the dense air: “What are we going to do to stay together?”

A few weeks ago, when we went to Niagara Falls, we were so excited to have to opportunity to walk across a bridge into another country. Another stamp in our passports! We proudly marched up to the bridge in our “citizen of the world” shirts, ready to proclaim another trophy. As we approached the footbridge, we noticed big iron gates and signs posted everywhere “DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PASSPORT.” We scanned the signs to find out that only two of us could cross. Selected solely on country of birth, Eva and I were granted the privilege to pass, and we left our companions behind.

I feel a certain amount of guilt having been born in the USA. In many ways, I have more privileges than my Nomadic family simply because of where I was born. I didn’t ask for that privilege, and even though it works in my favor, I do not want it. I feel guilty that there is nothing I can do to change the rules. What makes the people of one country require more restrictions? In a few weeks, I am going to Colombia and need nothing more than my passport and a few shots. Meanwhile, in a few months, Luisa’s visa expires and she will have to apply for a new one if she intends to come back to the US–a privilege not guaranteed. I’ve come to find out there are a number of countries I can enter without a visa, but the people from those same countries must have visas to come here. This inequality strikes me off guard. If all men are created equal, why are they not treated equally? Why does the internationality of our team have to be our biggest obstacle, when it is most certainly our biggest strength?
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My first literacy Narrative: Mom

My first literacy Narrative: Mom

Published October 16, 2016

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Learning to Write
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My earliest memory of writing was in preschool. My family of four, my mom, my older sister, me, and my mom’s boyfriend (who we affectionately call Rocket) lived in a run-down, two-bedroom house near the train tracks on the south side of town. My sister, who was five years older than me was obsessed with reading and writing. And although I was not old enough to comprehend how words on a page could form images in your brain, I was eager to participate in such rituals.

One day, I recall exclaiming I was going to teach myself how to write. I took a pencil in my little hand and grasped it like I was holding on to the handlebars of my bicycle, clenching my fists around the tiny piece of wood, and I pressing it against a yellow, striped notebook. Carefully, I’d move the pencil up and down on the page as my wrist scanned left to right, watching the grey lines flake onto the page. The tip of the pencil was running up and down hills creating meaning, I was sure of it.

“Does this say something?” I’d ask my sister, waiting and watching her face for excitement.

“No.”

And I’d tried again.

“No.”

All she would say was no. Not “close!” Not, “almost.” It was painful and discouraging. How had she learned to make words? I’d scratch the page with the eraser end of the pencil, leaving desperate, pink shavings in my lap. Then, I had an idea.

I thought of my mom’s writing — how her letters were not like the hills my sister wrote, but roller coaster loops. And so a reassessed my plan, adding a loop to my strategy. Taking my pencil in my hand, I coaxed it up and down and added the loop, ending with a few more hills and a curled end.

“What about this?” I inquired. It must have been the 20th time, and my sister was exhausted looking up from her book in annoyance. I was distracting her. Her face was strained, her eyes slanted.

But then her face changed. The corners of her eyes relaxed. Her lips moved from pursed to gentle and parted.

“Actually…yes,” she paused “It says Mom. In cursive.”

I was like a baby speaking my first words. I felt overjoyed at my ability to teach myself something. Not only had I written something, it was something that had the ability to make my mom proud, to give her joy and move her. I expected praise, but Corrinn was not impressed. She went back to reading her book.

I studied the word on the page, the straight parts, the curves, and my favorite — the loop which turned my stomach with excitement. I took my pencil in my hand again and copied those beautiful shapes in the page. Mom, Mom, Mom, I wrote, preparing to share it with my mother the moment she walked in the door. She would be so proud and understand the amount of time I took to carefully practice those lines.

I sat on the couch looking out the window, watching the sunset, waiting for her car to pull into the driveway. It was cold by the window, and the heat from my impatient forehead created flog against the evening, so I traced the letters on the glass. Mom. Where was she? I dreamt about her reaction and woke up to the sound of the door closing. “Hello!”

Oh no. I’d missed watching her drive up.

I rubbed my eyes, and frantically searched for the notebook which had jammed itself into the crack between the cushions and the back of the couch. I ran to her and held up the notebook like a masterpiece. I was an artist, and I’d save my lifework for her. She smiled down at me and praised my sister for teaching me how to write my first word.

I gave my sister a glare and ran back to my room in silence.

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Run Away With Me – Craigslist Poem

Run Away With Me – Craigslist Poem

Published October 16, 2016

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Missed Connections Post Id: 5480836772
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You said this to me joking around. I remember we were driving down a rusty, autumn highway.

Dust rising up around the tires. Cow manure smelled like freedom.

I lost myself in the wind, saw our pasts blowing across the brittle prairie grass.

I imagined driving west until we ran out of gas. Then we’d fuel the car on love.

If you ever meant it. I would think about it again.

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