needs, etc.

Air, water, food, and shelter. That’s what they told me I needed in elementary school. This knowledge was attained in any other fourth grade lesson provided to my classmates and I by Mrs. Nold. I guess fourth grade was the time educators assumed you would begin looking outside of the realm of your parents, and that needs may someday need to be attained, and won’t always just be there for you to wake up to.

I imagined these things in a primitive fashion, as the idea of only basic needs being met was primitive to me. I mean, we didn’t have much, our couches didn’t match, our kitchen sink was plastic for a while, and carpet was sort of a luxury, BUT we did have couches, and sinks, and un-carpeted floor.

The basic home in my childish mind, based on primitive elemental needs, was made of mud bricks. Shelter. You’re in the middle of no where, all you have is your hands and basic tools fashioned from rocks and stones, so where do you get your walls for this shelter that will pair nicely with the water you will find and the berries you will eat? Dirt, mud, sun, stacked, and there you have it: shelter.

In my past mid-west life these needs were attained on my own accord.

Air was prevalent.

I signed a year lease, which meant my landlords paid for my water. I think I got the better end of the deal on that one. It was a garage apartment, and I don’t think things in the realm of pipes and wiring and plumbing and meters were completely separate. I paid them a monthly fee, and included in this agreement was the price of all of the water I was capable using.

Food wasn’t very difficult to come by either. While working at palace cafe, I could consume all of the soup and bread that my body could handle, and I could handle a lot of tomato bisque. A six inch vegetable subway sandwich put me back $3.26, and a breakfast bagel could be consumed for under that.

My shelter was more than mud. but not much. Home was one large room, a little kitchen that, regrettably, rarely got used, and an even littler bathroom.

And yet, despite my basic needs being met, there was still cause to leave. I chose to go the route the offered the most flexibility. Basic needs, nowadays, come with commitment. You want to live here, and find shelter? Totally fine. We’ll need you to sign a lease, though. You can totally have some water, too. But you’ll have to pay your water bill, of course. This will, consequently, alter the amount of income you will need to make, which means the consumption of water has a direct impact on where you will need to work, and consequently, your daily life. And unless you plan on spending your time gardening, food is going to cost you, too. But you’ll get a steal of a deal on the air thing. That’s totally on us.

My basic needs are all now provided by others, and nothing of me has anything to do with their daily acquisition. I breathe this very air because of my host’s hospitality. Their water is filtered, somewhere around forty-three times. There is constantly food to be found. And my room is above the second floor, which rests above the basement. All of this space comprises my shelter.

My basic needs are being provided, in abundance, by others. And yet, still cause to leave.

I listened to a pod cast on NPR a month or so ago that spoke of scientific and physics based truths that us writers and laymen like to take out of their context and apply to the mundanity of life. One is the idea that we aren’t of consequence, or special, and no other place on Earth is really any better than any other place in the galaxy. The Mediocrity Principle. The man being interviewed said that once he learned of this truth, a weight of pressure was lifted from his being.

His step father had always been fascinated with the symphony, and always dreamt of living in New York City. He packed up his family, transported them to the other side of the country, and lived out a dream-like disaster. Everyone suffered. The Mediocrity Principle meant, to the step-father’s son, that finding the perfect place was a futile endeavor, and all of our grandiose notions about places we’ve never been are only notions, nothing more, because nothing is any better than anywhere else.

This is why Physicists are likely annoyed when we do this: scientific physical principles don’t transfer seamlessly to the impractical human being. I simply don’t agree with the stepson. And that’s where I find myself. My basic needs are met, and I genuinely agree that happiness can be found anywhere, in a variety of circumstances.

But the rest of the forth grade lesson, I think, goes something like this:

Students! Quiet! Listen! Take notes! Now that I have gone over your basic needs, I would like to explain a little more. You are all different, and you will find varying levels of shelter to be more suitable. Some of you will like to share shelter with a lot of other people, and some others will only be okay with being the solo occupant of your space. Some of you may even want to invite some kind of animal to live with you, and you will be required to leave your space from time to time and take this animal you have chosen for a walk. Some of you may find that dancing brings you joy, so you may want to find your shelter near places where you can partake in this activity. A lot of space may be one of your living requirements, so some of you may need to spend more time working and gaining an income that affords you this luxury. Also, some of you may actually enjoy building this shelter, and being involved in the process. The process may be a nightmare to others, so don’t worry. You can find places that are already made. Some of you may even be lucky enough to find someone of like mind that will help you figure all of this stuff out. If you don’t, it’s okay too. You may prefer making decisions on your own. Oh, and there’s not a handbook or protocol. If they tell you otherwise, or say anything about a standard course of action, they’re lying. Tune them out. Along the way, you may find yourself in a shelter that’s unsuitable, but don’t worry. Life is full of possibility, and things can always change. Class dismissed.

political fables.

This is kind of fun.

I am living in Washington DC. I am not political. Washington DC is the political center of the US. People that LOVE politics, policy, foreign relations, ISSUES of all kinds...they come here.

At a party I attended Saturday evening I was literally, at one point, the only person in the room that was not a fellow. And I am not talking about fellow as in gentleman, or beau. I mean a fellow for a trust, a position that they likely attained because of a masters degree that specialized in an issue that would, somehow, complement the trust that brought them on board.

In the other room was a young lady that had received some kind of award (they usually offer two per state), and she works in the office of DC education chancellor. A little political trivia for you, in case you are blind to the political workings of the district, like I was before arriving: The Chancellor has done, some would say, some astonishing things for the school district, and along the way, has upset many...I think she may have gotten rid of some teachers or something...an act that may have been seen as necessary in the long run but disrupted the immediate lives of some. Anyway, DC is an incredibly democratic district. Here, the primary vote is the vote because there aren't even enough republican votes to nominate a republican primary for mayor. The mayor appoints the chancellor, and said mayor that appointed the current chancellor just got voted out of office. Apparently, he was arrogant and somewhat full of himself. That's what I've heard anyway. This means the chancellor may be out too. The incoming mayor has blatantly not been a fan of her actions. Her future is a little up in the air.

Some of the other party goers, they speak other languages. Mandarin and Arabic, specifically. I caught a ride home from an environmental engineer that works for the EPA. Her husband works for the Navy as an engineer and can't actually tell her what he does. When asked, the most she gets out of him is, "If you only knew".

My arrival here in this governmental-political-environmental-energy-not-for-profit-fellowship-appointed-mecca was a little less informed, more experimental, and open ended. I find all of this fascinating, to a point. It's interesting in theory, and I feel privileged to be getting such an education, one that wouldn't be attained so thoroughly simply through residing in the place, I presume, anywhere else in the country.

The "to a point" part of the interest indicates that I will make an exit. The first few months here were, honestly, quite difficult. Frustration came from throwing this active creative into a sauna of a place where waywardness is frowned upon, the account of just where you went to school is important, and the the humidity is so thick that leaving the house is hard enough and running in it is more like a fable, which goes something like, "in the heat and humidity, the dear runner left the house daily to run in the caustic temperature and moisture and it was joyous and grand and she felt like it's right where she should be, and then she lived happily ever after, running along into the sun, the end".

But the first few months are over, adjustments have been made, and the second half will be much, much more enjoyable, filled with autumn runs, dinners with new friends, wine education, consumption, and the appreciation of growth through change. This is not a fable.

Nor is the fact that our vice president is driven to work each morning that he's here in a motorcade, with sirens and lights and fake psych you out black vehicles featuring black tinted windows.

sparkle.

There's so much wisdom to be gained from a decision, but it filters down in in layers, and seasons, and full understanding takes time; sometimes years.

We are making our way through the year, already having passed the half-way point. The beginning for me held extremes, of which I am grateful. There was training, which included extensive runs, while preparing to leave a nest wedged cozily into a sturdy Tulsa tree, and a falling; for what, I do not know. I only know that there was one, and in relation to the consequences that came from conscious decisions made, the landing itself was painful. I think painful landing was a the decisions pre-requisite. It's lessons are filtering down, in layers, and the understanding is taking time; will likely take years.

My friend Bruce would have told me all of that, I believe, had we had the time. When I told him of my upcoming adventure, and all of its branches, his eyes sparkled with excitement for me. Nodding his head in affirmation, he coined the phrase that will always belong to him, telling me to "turn up the volume." That's the truth that filtered down to him, after years of risky decisions made. He told me briefly of some consequences, even of some regret, but those truths didn't alter his life's sentiment. I would propose that the pain and difficulty, the confusion and guilt, self-deprecation and doubt, that are often consequent of risky decisions? Making your way through those things makes the sparkle brighter.

Before leaving, he let me know he was free, and that the doctors had told him it was gone. He had made the decision to cut off his long silver pony-tail months prior, before the effects took hold and took it from him. He was going to beat that, too. His look was different. Had you asked me before, I would have said that the ponytail added to his essence, and was a part of all the things that made up such a human as him. Funny thing though: When it was gone, he was still Bruce, and the sparkle was still there.

And now that I have the eyes to see, and am coming out of the difficulty of risky decisions made, I would say that the sparkle came from what he continued to make it through. It was made brighter because of the traveling through consequence, and the coming out on the other side. I would imagine that when I told him of my upcoming risks and falls, somewhere in the back of his head, he was aware of the difficulty I would face. And yet he encouraged me anyway, without warning, wanting my sparkle to get brighter from the working through, too.

I learned of Bruce's passing via the web a little over a month into my journey. He had beat it, the journey of cancer. And that, to me was the right answer, and a sense that the universe had literally made a mistake ensued. People often say things like, "he had lived a good life, it was his time, he was in a lot of pain, etc." A gut wrenching NO was the reaction to that sentiment. He wasn't finished, and the sparkle was genuinely extinguished too soon.

My heart sometimes feels like a little league coach, edging me on, pushing me further, and after sliding into base with a skinned up knee and bruised upper thigh, it gives me a hearty pat on the back! "Good job kid," both Bruce and my heart would say. Turning to look, my response goes something like, "ouch, that hurt." They look at me knowingly. "Of course it did," they would respond. "Why the heck didn't you TELL me IT WAS GOING to HURT?" "We wanted to see you slide," they respond. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Keep going."

a long batter story, revised and revisited.

: : : disclaimer : : :

This is actually a post I wrote while living for a summer in South Korea! Since I know some of my readers are new and likely haven't gone back and read every post in my blog's history, I am reposting this one. I made some changes to enter it in a writing contest, so if you think you've read it, technically, you haven't. And fear not. It is being read and edited by my talented copy editor of a cousin, so if there are mistakes they will be remedied before it's mailed.

Food seems to be the most consistent memory, the element that anchors the past days of life with all that come after. My love affair with pancakes started early, and helped begin my life's list of memories. Looking back at my childhood table, I can still see the glass bottle labeled "Griffins", with stray syrup streaming down the side. The same stray stream would end up on the plate, the table, and my hands. Breakfast for dinner was, and still is, a favorite. Part of the appeal is the shroud of rebellion. It’s supposed to be breakfast, not dinner; Consuming it out of its intended order is something wrong that feels so right. Shortly after the beginning of the pancake tale, memories of sitting at my grandma’s kitchen table arise, and I see my childhood self staring up the walls smeared with ornate wallpaper, my hands resting on her plastic gingham table cloth, waiting with great anticipation for the circular goodness she was tending in the skillet, making with love, for me.

Somewhere close to the time when my age hit double digits, I began to take the pancake matter into my own hands. An innately early riser and the first one up on Saturday mornings, pancakes continued to find relevance in my life. I remember studying my father's effortless pouring of pancake batter onto a sizzling griddle, from a mix that only required the ability to read, measure milk and crack an egg. This would have been one of my earliest “I can do that myself” affirmations, and came forth around the beginning of adolescent independence. I no longer needed someone else, namely an adult, to make something of value present in my morning.

Smashed in the middle of adolescence striving for adulthood, I was invited on a road trip to South Carolina over spring break. This kind of trip is a right of passage for college freshman, and was, appropriately, a turning point for my pancake story. The more southern of the Carolinas was home to a friend, and much of our trip was spent at her house. For me, that meant much of the trip was spent in the kitchen with her mother. Exposure to a new way of doing something you've been doing so ordinarily for so long adds a vibrance that has previously been missing. Mrs. Blees put strawberries in her salad, cut up fresh pineapple instead of canned, and added oatmeal to her pancakes. As if that wasn't enough, she paired her from scratch pancakes with homemade orange syrup. This pairing, whole grain oatmeal pancakes with tart orange syrup tasted and looked like something out of Martha Stewart Living. I scribbled her recipe down and tucked it into my suitcase. I was the same teenager that arrived a few days prior, but having driven myself across half the country, I was a teenager that felt more aware of her capabilities, in both life, and pancakes.

My early twenties consisted of testing those very capabilities. They were quintessentially awkward; Both my twenties, and the pancakes that made their way to my early twenties tables. There were the South Beach Pancakes, which had both oatmeal and cottage cheese in the recipe. During my no dairy coupled with no friends phase, I made for myself light and fluffy soy pancakes most nights of the week, which were usually covered in sugar-free syrup. Awkward is probably an understatement, but regardless of their ingredient or intended purpose, pancakes were faithful, and chivalrous.

Leaving behind the sunshine state enabled me to leave behind my pancake wrong turns. I headed home, to reconnect with tradition, and reaffirm what I knew to be true. Many a Saturday, my roommates and I could be found on our front porch, leaves swaying in the wind, with a pancake breakfast before us. The chosen syrup on my more adult less awkward table was now real maple, but I still didn't discriminate what had made up my beginning. Most Sunday mornings I could be found at the breakfast table of my parents, alongside my grandparents, eating whole wheat pancakes prepared for me by my father and listening to stories I had already heard but knew I would one day miss. The pancakes were still made from a mix, but had changed from buttermilk to whole grain. It seems my parents pancake taste refined over the years too, though the syrup was still Griffins.

Going with the theme of testing capabilities, the summer of two-thousand-and-eight found this mid-westerner living in South Korea. The traditional breakfast fare on the Korean table threatened to bring my pancake journey to an abrupt halt. There were mixes at the grocery store, but my inability to speak or read the language left me confused and insecure; my grocery bag was usually filled with cereal, eggs, and bread. I began to genuinely miss, dare I say long for, a plate stacked with the circular deliciousness that had always been so easily attained in every other corner of my story.

Because of our history and their ever consistent presence in my life, I have always felt a sort of distinguished kin-ship with flapjacks. They have served me well, and in one humble form or another, proved to be unwavering. That is why I approached, with seriousness, a trip to Butterfinger Pancakes in the city of Seoul one month into my Korean stay. It was not just a trip in search of breakfast. It was a journey. And due to the fact that my fellow pancake soldiers didn't know exactly where the shining establishment was located, and were following directions written by someone with pancake batter for brains, it became more like a quixotic pilgrimage. We were so, so hungry. I mean really hungry. We were searching for the iron griddle on empty stomachs. Our appetites had to be wanting, we told ourselves. We also weren't planning on getting lost. After a subway ride, followed by a walk in one direction that was followed by one in the opposite, multiple trips to the same street and multiple attempts at asking for directions, and also the passing of an hour and a half, we found access to our generation's savior: the internet, and consequently, our destination. The result? A conquering sense of bliss.

There was a wait of fifty minutes. We would have waited longer. The menu was thorough and beautiful, on a laminated legal sized menu of brown craft paper, with bent corners and daring pancake concoctions (stuffed mozzarella and tomato, anyone?) and endless breakfast options, covering both sides of the page. I decided on the blueberry right after reading the “none of our fruits are canned” disclaimer at the bottom. One could find irony in the fact that they, as relayed to me by the kind Korean waitress, “run out of blueberry”. I ate, with a noble amount of devotion to the cause, every single bite and scrap and crumb of the harvest grain and nut pancakes I settled with.

I sat back in the chair of our high top table, looking at the sleek interior of the pancake house, and at the empty plates of my equally stuffed friends, and I was thankful to have people in my life that also get what is so very great about pancakes, as it felt like a validation of my history. I was even more thankful that they did not yield when faced with obstacles, like hunger and confusion, but endured and pressed on, like true pancake knights.