Joy Bandits

Once, I heard a story. I was in a tent in Georgia protesting the S.O.A. and a Jesuit told us of building refugee camps. He told us that when they start a camp, they form three committees which are markers of civilization, as he sees it. The Committee of Education and The Committee of Infrastructure are commendable but predictable foundations of civilzation, what struck me in his story was the third- The Committee of Joy. I tried to start a subcomittee at my high school a few years ago. They were the Joy Bandits. We armed them with bandito masks, a bag of candy, a cache of jokes and immunity from JUGS and for a few short weeks the buzz of their existence created great joy in homerooms across our great, ahem, land. I hope the Joy Bandits are like Menudo and they can ride again.

Last Picked in Dodgeball

It's way worse in grad school then grade school. In grade school, even if you are last picked, you still get a game that has a bouncy redball or a large, worn parachute to play with. With the aid of these distractions, you quickly forget that insecurity. In grad school, the game has no bounce- it's a group paper that everyone is dreading and when you are last picked it means you are left with the Regurgatator who can only spit back, verbatim, things the professor has said. And you are left with the Looney Bin, who thinks that classes in education are therapy sessions only thinly disguised and so, out of some lame form of politeness, you and the other girl in your group who seems sane, let her go on and on about how she has been stalked by students before. And instead of writing that paper that you had wanted to be publishable, so good that Obama would read it and hire you for The D.O.E., you know you are gonna be lucky just to make it through the project with all your marbles intact. And you long for the days when losing your marbles was just something that happened at recess.

Weary

A woman is cemented to the concrete outside of a Dunkin Donuts on a warm Autumn Day while my radio is throwing the words 'economy' and 'crashing' in my ears. My face is overwhelmed by the heat and the traffic of a five-way intersection in South Boston. It made me sad to see her. She didn't look dead, just really beat up by life, by heroin. Dunkin Donuts was this Faustian presence, beyond the reach of a listless arm that couldn't reach no more.

The greyhound and a phoney smile

Fearful of the decapitating Canadian riders as I boarded the greyhound, I armed myself with David Sedaris' new book and the accomadatingly packed breakfast from the nicest B&B people in all of Ashland, Oregon. When I saw that the woman across the aisle from me was a Pamphlet Reader, I decided to jot a few notes down about what I observed. Her pamphlet was called: Failure is not an Option and I would occasionally catch a phrase as she studied each page intently: The hardest thing you'll ever have to do is try and save your family. The first crisis to be conquered is our attitude. So what do you have to loose if you try God's way. With glimpses of these gems and allusions to the Apollo ride and B-list celebrities circa 1973, I thought that I was collecting good fodder for a witty little character sketch. Her plastic baggies full of assorted snack foods and her white velcro sneakers, with back-ups in the other plastic baggie made me chuckle while I kept my hip-new American Apparel sweatshirt on to avoid the dirty grunge of my well-used seat. As I listened to my ishuffle blaring music of what you might call the emo-variety, I impudently thought of how lucky I was to be surrounded by such fodder for stories. Then, I watched Pamphlet Reader carefully open yet another ziplock, this one full of hallmark cards addressed in scrawling penmanship to Nurse Wanda at the Sisikyou County Jail. She lingered on every mark on the cards, even if it was just a signature after the pre-printed joke that involved cute bears. She caressed the words with her eyes and the tips of her finger. She stared at the particulars of each card and safely returned them each to envelope, to baggie, to the gift bag that stored them all. Lovingly appreciated, her each precious action scolded my snooty tendencies and my ridiculously superficial approach to capturing the world around me.

Family time and Moonshine

When you see a really beautiful moon, my sister Kate one time mentioned, do you ever feel guilty the moment that you turn your eyes to go to bed? I mean, when is it okay to stop looking at a beautiful thing? In these past two weeks of travel through a beautiful part of the world, part of my family and I have had the luxuries of eating good foods, looking at beautiful things and enjoying each others' company. I think that is why the Emily character in Our Town really annoyed me last night; she seemed a bit preachy about how often we do not stop and really realize how wonderful the world is. Maybe Thornton Wilder was onto something, and perhaps his reminder of appreciative and grateful living from time to time is a good thing. But Emily seemed to flail about the stage, a bit whiny, just before my parents and brother and I are about to go back to our normal life cycle and she pissed me off. Because, sometimes recognizing the world's beauty needs to stop so the world can keep turning and being simply beautiful, instead of reflectively beautiful. It has been a beautiful trip.

The fog of Tourism

It was funny that the fog hit as soon as we awoke in Astoria, Oregon. It's funny because we had allotted two days to travel and admire the natural beauty that is the Oregon Coast. It's funny because we couldn't come up with a plan B, so there was a bit of tension sprinkled into the car ride. Was the fog in the way or part of the beauty? When your whole goal for a day and a half is to drive and appreciate beauty, real Purpose begins to feel a bit foggy. Then you get out of the car, go for a wee walk in the wood to see an old spruce tree or a lighthouse, or Devil's Churn and you ohh and ahh like the Fourth of July and you really mean it because Damn. That is just a work. And you feel awed by your own smallness as well as the world's bigness. And you feel a bit foggy about a lot.

sculptures and a troll

The Olympic Sculpture Park was a destination; we bopped in and I struggled with my inability to appreciate the giant orange traffic cones. I walked through the great steel sculpture with my brother and let his appreciation rub off on me, yet I still couldn't shake the feeling that this was just in-between space. It didn't feel like a destination, it felt like an attempt to make barrenness demand attention. I know, I am obnoxious and blind to some greater truth. When my old friend Dan happened upon the troll under the Aurora bridge, I felt more appreciative of the sculpture. I was in awe of its size and I felt a childlike appreciation of its scariness. That it rested under the Bridge of the goddess of the Dawn allowed me to imagine that stories existed which made the sculpture seem more significant. That it is was a real VW, made the monster seem more alive.

Hutmacher Estate

In Northwest North Dakota, near Watford City and the North side of Teddy Roosevelt National Park, we stopped by the renovation project of the Hutmacher estate. This sod house had been inhabited until 1979. Yup. They had a television at that point, and a deep freeze. The Hutmachers had lived in it since the beginnings of the 20th century when Papa Hutmacher decided that he didn't want to pay taxes (being a German from Russia, he had a natural disinclination to support government) so he committed himself to earning less than 500 dollars a year. They dug coal in their back 'yard', had cattle, grew a small garden and used local (and by that I mean walkable) resources like rock and sod and cardboard to build the estate that had multiple buildings. I helped deconstruct a wall (just like a good grad school student), I slung mud up on the roof to help the roofers, I applied generous linseed oil to all the wooden remnants and I ate a lot of prairie dust. The wind was angry that day, my friends, and the dirt was loose. My movie star sunglasses came in wicked handy, but I was dental flossing dirt out of my teeth for days.

Thinking of Home; Eastend, Saskatchawan

I think the art of Taking For Granted is a means by which we feel at home. When doe-eyed Rusty arrives at the frontier (in the Genesis chapter of Wallace Stegner's Wolf Willow), his innocent idealism and yearning to be something other than what he is robs him of finding a home. He is trying too hard, and that doesn't work anywhere. It reminds me of the first feelings of being in love--the exhilaration of first kisses, everything feels new: you remember that you are still potential, that life can be whimsy, sunsets are for watching and the city that you have known your whole life is a new playground of adventure. But it isn't until you learn to be able to graciously take that person for granted and practice that as an art instead of a right, that you get to feel happily at home with someone else. And in the meantime, all the knowing on-lookers just find you annoying and naive as they roll their eyes in your oblivious direction.

He wanted to see everything, miss nothing, forget nothing.
It wasn't until I was annoyed at folding laundry that I felt at home in a foreign land, that I had made it in Dublin. Before that moment, I had geekily glorified in ogling the varied (minimal in comparison to the States) boxes of detergent at the grocer. 'How COOL, that one uses 'brilliant' as a marketing line, this one looks like it was made in the 70s!' The first few loads of laundry had me humming with the quaint sounds of the dryer, or admiring how cute it was the the dryer was so low-performing. I really appreciated that I had to hang some clothes to dry because it made me feel so REAL. It wasn't until I was bored by the monotony of folding a shirt knowing that I was just going to dirty it again later, that the realness of the place actually set in. My capacity to not be enamored, to be bored by the parts of life that are, actually, boring, was the truth that welcomed me home. Really.

Momaday

When I watched this sunset between Shaunavon and Eastend and battled some serious mosquitos to do so, this Momaday quote came to mind from Way to Rainy Mountain:
"...Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest moments of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of noon and all the colors od the dawn and dusk."

In what spirit did the food come to us?

Dr. Phil Baird asked this question when he presented at the Streeter Symposium and I have deemed it my vocation to explore the foods of North Dakota. From oatmeal pie, to bierocks, to Pie Day at the sons of Norway, I have been committed to exploring all things culinary. I know, my life is very difficult. Our first stop on our great pilgramage to Eastend, was a great family restaurant called Fried (pronounced 'freed') Family restaurant where I dined on this scrumptious meal of kraut and keilbasa and knefla (potato dumplings). When I licked the plate till my tongue hurt, the waitress offered us a pumpkin turnover with ice cream. How could I say no? She called it something that sounded like: fleulkafsoiafda. I am not sure I spelled it right, but I ate every last bite without stopping to contemplate its meaning or purpose or spelling, just enjoying its flavor and the kindness with which it was offered to me, for free by the Fried sisters. The spirit of the food flavored it nicely.

Albino Buffalo

Dr. Phil Baird gave us some Lakota perspective when he spoke to us at the Streeter Symposium. He told us that what our maps have named Devil's Lake, his people call Spirit Lake. Originaly called Mini Wachun it meant the ability to give and take life. That we called that the work of the devil was an interesting decision of translation. He also told us that when White Cloud was born in 1986, it was a sign that we are in hard times. The last time an albino buffalo came, she stayed with the Lakota through the difficulties. White Cloud has been joined by two more albino buffalo, in August 2007 and May 2008. They are reminders of the magnitude to which we are back in hard times. Later, someone told me that the wasichu owners of White Cloud were breeding for albinos, on purpose. I learned these stories in the middle of the Coteau, a word which means: a place of division and a place of transition. I am still trying to translate the stories.

Monastery

Many of my summers involve pilgrimage; two summers ago I headed to Alaska for an eight-day silent retreat. While there, I learned that there is layering to silence. There is that first bump into the silence of not speaking to anyone else, of avoiding eye contact because it is an intrusive form of communication. Then there is the second layer of internal silence. It was in the search for and practice of that silence that made me see the world differently and let me experience serenity. Sometimes I can visit that place of silence in the 'real' world, or in Shavasana at the end of my yoga practice. There is something visually silent in the wide open prairie that reminds me of it. Kathleen Norris speaks of this in her book Dakota:

Both Plains and monastery are places where distractions are at a minimum and you must rely on your own resources, only to find yourself utterly dependent on forces beyond your control; where time seems to stand still, as it does in the liturgy; where your life is defined by waiting. (17-18)

Maybe seeing the Plains is like seeing an icon: what seems stern and almost empty is merely open, a door in some simple and holy state. (157)

Wrangler

I walked into Wrangler's Cafe and it looked like the basement of Holy Redeemer Church, Kensington, Maryland, just before people came down after mass to awkwardly mingle over bad coffee and too small danishes, sitting on chairs with ripped vinyl. It was hot. It smelled hot. The frying that was happening in the back seemed to be in competition with the heat wafting in from outside. Though the frying pan had the advantage of liquid oil, there was heat hotter than moist in the air by the grain elevator. I heard the room stop when we entered; I blamed it on my over-sized sunglasses and my outfit-by-Target. Everyone seemed to stare right at me and even with trips to Prague and Greece under my belt, I never felt so foreign. They were still stopped and looking and I didn't know if I should sit or Wait To Be Seated; I didn't know if I had snuck into a town meeting, or a restaurant or a secret society of those who snub east-coasters. Things became a blur of belt buckles and denim and Sunday bests and I was relieved by the cool from the fridge door that Sandra opened to collect her homemade kuchen because it meant that she was getting it to go.

The vast

The first is on Route 94 heading West to the Benedictine Monastery in Richardston, West of Bismark. The bright yellow is canola, and it radiates more in real life, of course. Can you tell how when you look at this vastness you really can see the earth's curvature?
The second shot is evening falling on the way home from the Arts Festival in Wallhalla. I have spent much of my time here with my mouth agape looking out the window. It reminds me of my mom, when we were driving around Ireland for a month, and even on day 27, she would repeatedly say: Look kids, the sheep. I stare out the window after hours of driving and think (sometimes say): Look, the sky.

Tally at Sheyenne National Grasslands

four cars
2 escaped horses
uncountable mosquitos and raindrops
15 seminarians
2 fearless leaders
1 Arnie, the happiest yellow dog
5 ticks on Donna
3 'exotic' colors of condoms at Kojak's: red green AND yellow
1/2 pound burger
3 pitchers of Amber Bock
0 veggies
1 fine adventure

Ludefisk

When revelling in the rejection of something foreign, is it fair to say I tried? I conquered? I understand the otherness of this thing? When that thing is a piece of cod that has been cured in lye to the point of jellification, I think so. So did the 88-year old Norwegian woman sitting next to me at the Hjemkomst Center. She paused the hymns that she had been singing to pinch her face, roll her eyes and say, "I never touch the stuff."

Kathryn, North Dakota

I stopped and observed the insides of the oatmeal pie, in hopes I could make sense of its delectablity. It was the end of my meal that started with Knemfla and could have ended with that bison burger on a homemade bun; but, I wanted to taste all of the things I hadn't heard of on the small menu at the Rusty Spur cafe . That is how I explore; does that make sense? Or does it make the kind of stupid sense that got me to stop eating the oatmeal pie and to look- as if that could help me understand it better.

Tourist

When, in her lilting voice, Dawn Charging talked about the people in the city who thought their burgers flew in on the buns, the farmers, in their suspenders, and the researchers, in their NDSU green laughed, and I knew she was talking about me. When she mentioned that she could sew up any calf from a young age, I realized: I may never get my hands into that kind of dirt and I would always be a visitor in North Dakota and maybe always a tourist.