You Can Still

Since leaving mine, I've had to find my Sunday Church in other ways and because I firmly believe that there is not one single place I've been that has shadowed me from the ubiquitous presence of my Sassy Octavia Spencer God, it hasn't really been that difficult.

Mostly, it happens when I go to the mountains. Mountains bring me straight to my knees, and always have. Sometimes the mountains make me cry because they're so majestic, or because I'm so tired from trying to conquer them and knowing, deeply understanding, that I could never. 

Tatranska Lomnica, Slovakia

Sometimes it's because I'm too hot and my body starts to send alarms from my pelvic base to the top of my head; this body cannot sustain life, this body cannot sustain, this body cannot.

Yanama, Peru

Sometimes it's because I'm too --

Digression: I'm in a cafe and there is a child who is legit dipping her croissant in water before eating it and I'm not sure whether or not I should intervene or if it's just because her soft baby skull still has soft baby teeth, but she just turned around to smile the sweetest baby smile at me so I suppose she's alright. 

...anyway. Sometimes it's because I'm dragging around much more than my backpack. Turns out, you can do something with the intention of freeing yourself and still realize that you're bound, critically bound, to the laws of nature and the parameters of this universe. 

Lofoten, Norway

But also, I've found my Sunday Church inside the walls of actual churches, but churches that don't look anything like the ones in which I grew up. I've wandered into ornate temples etched with gold and red and blue, massive statues wishing me peace as I carefully circumambulate them. Gods I've never met greeted me there like an old friend because, as it turns out, God is all the same no matter where you are. I had to go pretty far to learn that, but perhaps I can save you the trip by just letting you know that this is a core truth. This is what lies beneath interpretation and culture and misinterpretation and religion and skin.

Wat Chedi Luang, Thailand

We talked about the person of Jesus as much as we discussed the teachings of Buddha. I asked a Thai monk for blessings and he obliged, bringing me deeper into his mother-tongue prayers than I had thought possible. 

Chiang Mai, Thailand

I stood reflective amongst ancestors that aren't mine but may have been in the beginning, might be in the end. I walked through Torii gates and crossed the metaphorical threshold between the physical and the spiritual, letting that transition bathe me in warmth. 

Kyoto, Japan

I began to let myself pray deeply, breathe rhythmically, worship wholly, cry softly. I began to leave my cares in the hands of whoever occupied those sacred spaces. I began to blossom because you can blossom if you open up just enough to let some light inside.

Wat Phra Singh, Thailand (photo: Brandon Reed)

Sometimes I need to remember what it was like to set those intentions. Sometimes I need to gently remind myself that no, you left that prayer behind, you do not need it anymore. You released it; it is a butterfly and you should not try to snatch it back. It's delicate. Leave it.

Aguas Calientes, Peru

You can, simultaneously, actively not want something and still be a bit envious of those who have it. You can deny ever having been in love and still think fondly of him every time you sip a cortado. As my sister and I briefly discussed yesterday, you can suck and still be brave. You can text your therapist every day and still be mostly okay. You can be mostly not okay and still be a valid human. You can be 29 and still roll your eyes and bleed through your jeans. 

And regardless of the way things are right now, it is true that every little thing wants to be loved -- not just admired from a distance.

Not just admired from a








distance. 

Laos and Now

I've been meaning to tell you this story for a while, but I've been busy absolutely smashing it lately. As it turns out, Doing Better and having your Dreams Come True is pretty bad for writing. But it is good for living, and at the minute, that's probably more important.

Having been a few places in my time, folks often ask me what my favorite country is. For this, I don't have a simple answer but fortunately, I don't think anyone is looking for a simple answer. I generally have two (three, four) suggestions: the Slovak/Polish High Tatra mountains, my former home Iceland, Tasmania for obvious and surprising reasons, and Laos.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting pretzel-legged on a deck that overlooked the Mekong river, chatting with some new friends. I don't really remember what particular poison was being passed around nor which card games were being played, nor do I remember which melodies were wafting through the air. Instead, I remember our piles of sandals lining the deck and that I was just really happy to be there.

Down the street, we could pay about a dollar fifty for a plastic bowl filled to the brim with whatever delicious, unidentifiable, mushy foods we could fit inside. We would stroll through the market, stopping for coconut pancakes or to speak with young students learning English, running our fingers through wooden windchimes and ending our evening with freshly sliced pineapple; juice running down to our elbows every time we took a bite.

Most nights were quiet if you wanted them to be; it was easy to settle in and drift off into a peaceful slumber. But one night, I woke with a start because somebody was pounding on our door and saying something about a "fire" and how we should "get out" and "pack our stuff" and "burning" and "let's go." 

I calmly opened the door and walked out onto the deck, and peering through a thin grove of banana tree silhouettes, everyone's beloved Utopia bar was burning -- or rather, being consumed by hungry flames reaching for the stars. 

Startled and afraid that the barrier of banana trees would not be sufficient to shield us from any rogue flames, I returned to our room and suggested that we pack our things and move to the street. 

When your entire life fits into a backpack, it's surprising how quickly you're able to jam everything inside when push comes to shove. But once we reached the calm nighttime streetscape and threw our backpacks into a pile...what then?

I began to notice a shuffle, a rumble in the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. I saw folks with bins of water running from house to house, spigot to spigot, and heading straight towards the conflagration.

So, I followed.

I ran, barefoot and blind, towards the end of the street where women were handing out bins and running the outdoor faucets. We lined up, filled up, and sprinted as steadily as possible into the flaming structure, so as not to lose too much precious water on the way in. 

While I was filling my bin, the woman told me: "We didn't call the fire department." And that's all she said. 

Confused, I wondered aloud if maybe someone should? But by the time I formed that thought, my bin was full and I was on my way to the fire. Inside the bar, folks were holding flashlights to light the way for anyone carrying water to the burning balcony. It was slippery, we were barefoot, there were rocks and furniture all askew in the darkness. It was a maze, an obstacle course, a death trap with the flaming light at the end of the tunnel being just as dangerous as what it took to get there. Men from the village were climbing steady beams to get a better vantage point and aim, and we were passing bins of water to whichever one of them needed one. 

This went on for what seemed like forever, but it was probably something closer to an hour. Once the flames were under control, we cautiously (but probably not cautiously enough) entered the smoldering structure to snuff out any remaining embers with buckets of water. It seemed unreal to me -- the mighty Mekong was just down the bank, but we didn't have a viable way to pump that water up to where we needed it. We also didn't have a way to involve the fire brigade, because the donated fire trucks were from European towns with much wider streets and they would have never fit down ours.

Instead, it was up to the neighborhood to save the neighborhood. Well, the neighborhood as well as the neighborhood's guests. Apparently not as eventful for the neighborhood as this night was for the neighborhood's guests, the untouched bits of the bar were up and running within a day or two of this catastrophe. The yoga balcony was in shambles, but the pizza oven was back in business, thank the Universe.

But at the end of the night, we returned to our rooms and re-unpacked. We were soaked, we were somehow unburnt, our ankles were miraculously unsprained, and we were filled with adrenaline and pride for a community that, in one fell swoop, became ours.

Here's the point.

I want to always be the kind of person who runs towards the burning building with water, but I also want to always be the kind of person who can lie on a pillow next to a pile of ashes, and sink into my own head while staring at the part of the ceiling that hadn't burned down. 

I want to find productivity with my community, but solace within myself.

My vibe over the past few months has turned incredibly inward, in spite of all of the new outward necessary things. Since moving to Oslo I've found a new community but I've also sanctioned a great percentage of my time for myself, and just myself.

A few months ago, my heart broke. Really, really broke and the thing that hurts and sucks is that there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody had done anything wrong. But to salvage whatever I had left looking forward, I decided that it was okay. The things I had needed from that relationship just weren't going to be available moving forward, and I would have to find them somewhere else. 

Grief is nonlinear. Fortunately, life is nonlinear so mathematically, that means that there exists a nonzero chance that at some point, my nonlinear grief and nonlinear life cancel each other out. Unfortunately, though, there's pretty much an equal chance that they'll constructively interfere and in that case, I will never stop crying.

Either way, whether it's because I've reframed my needs or met a ghost or that I'm killing it at work or got a new therapist that I adore, I've decided that I don't want to fall in love right now. Nevermind romantic love; I don't want to fall in platonic love for a little while. Just until it's right again. Just for some quiet. Instead, I want to learn how to better self-soothe, manage, survive without so much heavy reliance. 

I just want a tiny quiet space, and it has to be okay if that tiny quiet space occupies the, as I've said before, vast and nebulous real estate inside my own head. I enjoy spending time in my room and singing Icelandic lullabies to myself while I do the dishes. I enjoy rest, and I have time for it. I do not need to be tougher; I need more peace. I need foundation work and to understand my wide extroversion but more importantly, my deep introversion. I want to be free.

I can be free now.

Calling Home

One of the more interesting things about working abroad is being someone's token. If you are one of few who represent your demographic, then you're probably somebody's token...that. And let me tell you, being the token American over the past three years has been an interesting game.

It's easy for me to get lost in conversations about the US. It's impossible to explain the US to a northern European because we make absolutely no sense to folks here, but since I was brought up during our slow and sneaky transition into late-stage capitalism, the US is something that I understand -- even though we make absolutely no sense. 

Generally, the number one things that Nordics ask me are fundamental questions: why, and how? Why is it so upsidedown over there? How could you come from such a place? It's exhausting to try and answer these questions. I can't represent all of the complexities and intersectionalites, so I can't see it from every angle. But over the past several years, I've visited six continents and have been able to look towards the US from several different vantage points and recognize that, while I've generally assumed that our biggest problem is patriarchy or some iteration of that, our core crusher is probably more likely to be late-stage capitalism. Not just capitalism, where I can enjoy a variety of competitive pricing models and available products in every color and style, but rather the hypocrisies and absurdities of late-stage capitalism. 

Late-stage, where we'd be pressed to find one single decision in Washington that hasn't been made without filling somebody's pocket. In recent decades, it likely hasn't been so glaringly obvious until the current administration took office but every time an insane proposal is put on the table, I've learned to trace the potential monetary gain, were that bill to pass. This isn't a new problem, but it seems to be a relatively new emergency. It takes time for economic policy to thread its tendrils through a society, and what failed Reaganomics has done is, well, failed. Or succeeded, depending on your persuasion. It eventually made the rich richer and kept the poor as poor as humanly possible, which we don't always recognize because there are folks out there who still vote for the smoldering ashes of whatever the American Dream looks like now. If you aren't in a state of mind where you can lift your head above your own small world, of course you'd vote against your best interest and often even the best interest of others. You'd vote for people who look like, seem like the person you were told you could be if you just worked hard enough. 

This, of course, is generally not true because it takes far more than hard work to overcome systemic biases, policies, and levels of privilege. But it took a lot of wrestling before I could throw in that "of course," because I'm bred for capitalism and brainwashed to think that my worth is equivalent to my deliverables. Capitalism says that you don't automatically deserve benefits because you aren't special, but I've come to find that more socially-geared policies say that you do automatically deserve benefits because you aren't special. 

It's antithetical to what we were taught, but the US is unstable at best with its resulting very sick, very overworked, very underpaid general population. So for me, my only chance at survival in academia is to leave the US. Folks over here say that they feel sorry for the US and that I am more than welcome in Norway, while folks that haven't ever left the US (much less their own communities) still assume that we're able to compete globally, and compete at a gold standard.

Here's the rub: we do not stand a chance. Not empirically, not in reality, and not when we're fundamentally looking downward but have somehow convinced ourselves that we're looking up. It's a puzzle of perspective and truth, and those two words have somehow easily become enemies of one another.

To be clear, I'm not here to compare our situation to the refugee crisis. I am not a refugee. I do not qualify for asylum, regardless of how impossible it is for many folks to fundamentally live in the US. We do not have structurally firm foundations. We are not good stewards of wealth. The US is a third-world country with first-world resources which directly points to a misuse of power, unsustainable greed, outright lying, and a population that has proven itself too apathetic or too exhausted to believe it can get any better than this. 

I love my home, and love requires accountability. However, home usually starts to feel like I'm on the wrong meds because chaos lives in the US. It's a part of the air, so we don't recognize its ubiquity unless we've been gone for a long time. So for now, being an ambassador of the US is my societal job as a US citizen living abroad. Representing us, conversing about us, voting from abroad, and continuing to participate are mandatory activities for me. 

I'm not sure I've ever really been in love, but I've certainly loved. And love is messy, patient, kind, difficult, painful. It always protects -- how are we protecting vulnerable populations in our communities? How are we protecting ourselves from bad governance, hurtful policies, and violence? It always trusts -- how are we being good stewards of our resources, our wealth, and our privilege? It always perseveres -- how are we showing up for civic duties? Are we brave enough to talk? Are we patient enough to listen? Are we going to the source or would we rather just hide in our own biases? 

It's naive to think that accountability exists in Washington without having some other ulterior motive, but as it stands in the absence of an appropriate tax structure, it seems that we've been largely forced to self-govern from city halls and state offices rather than rely on DC. So, that is where we start. 

I am critical of self-sustaining communities that rally together to pay for a child's medical bills because in basic functioning societies around the globe, children do not have prohibitively expensive medical bills. However, even though the problem is much bigger than us, our interpersonal relationships are where we can start to improve. 

My advocacy style has always been one-on-one. I've brought that to Norway with me, even though Norway will take much better care of me and my friends than the US ever would, regardless of how hard I've worked or how cleverly I've played my cards. We waste so much energy trying to survive in the US that we never get around to breaking our own bad habits.

So, I am trying to break mine by critically questioning the things that make no sense and talking with folks who are farther along than I am. Conversations are a great way to learn. I suggest we all do the same. 

A Brief Guide to Jetlag and Solo Travel

Get on a plane to Sydney, then Cairns. Watch Frozen but also way too many installments of the Conjuring series. Deplane. Wonder why you're holding all of your tension in your shoulders.

Try to hail an Uber. Fail to notice that your cellular coverage isn't great at the airport, so wonder why the only available Uber is something called scUber, a $3,000AUD Uber-sponsored sea trip to the Great Barrier Reef. Wonder how you could possibly board a ship from the airport. Be grateful that you are headed to the reef for one-tenth the cost on Saturday. Finally find enough data to hail an Uber.

Find the Airbnb. Realize there is no key in the front lockbox. Walk around the block to use the electronic gate. Finally drop your barely-holding-it-together rucksack on the couch and head for the shower. Realize that the shower head only stays up if it's pointed straight out. Realize that the slightest move turns the water freezing cold. Appreciate the shampoo and conditioner bars gifted to you by your sister-in-law. 

Go to the grocery store. Notice that there is a US-emulating breakfast cereal aisle, but the only brands available are Nestle and Kellogg. Talk yourself through the moral dilemma of choosing between patronizing Nestle (and the problematic bottled water industry) and buying Kellogg (when John Harvey Kellogg was a huge enormous creep.) Decide that modern Kellog cereals would have mortified the late John Kellogg, who (among other things) stole the concept of granola from someone else...but ultimately purchase an Australian brand of granola instead. Also buy TimTams. 

Get some work done. Be relieved that work is still a resource because you rolled into Australia on fumes from your Icelandic account. Be thankful that Iceland has a responsible tax structure and you don't have to worry about Iceland anymore.

Go to bed early. Before that, post one last Instagram from Singapore and watch old episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. Sleep fast. Have a super strange dream. Blame it on your airplane movie selections.

Repeat, with different nouns, every 3-15 days for five months. Realize that you do the most, and you're so fortunate, and that you'll probably turn out alright.

Happy travels. 

Tropical Beach, Okinawa, Japan