Influence.

This was the thought of the day over at Design is Mine yesterday. I couldn't agree more. Graphics by Sean McCabe.

I love.

On Creativity.

Officially Fall, The Most Perfect Time of Year.

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.
~Roald Dahl

Photo is my instagram from The West Village, last weekend (unofficial fall ;)

Some of the best advice I've ever read ...

... That I happened upon this summer. It resonated so so strongly with the entire struggle of my past year, and years prior. You forget that not every great is born painting picassos or writing Joyce. You forget, when it's you sucking at something, that most of the beauty comes from that struggle and that most greats poured a lot of sweat, crumpled a lot of hard work into the trash, and got up every morning knowing they could do more. That they could be better.

From "To the Wedding"

I was at a dinner party last weekend. A birthday, at a restaurant, with really fantastic people. It was the kind of evening where you start talking and laughing, and while you bounce from conversation to conversation, it feels as though there is never so much as a breath in between. You move places at the table, you eat only because food is dropped in front of you, and before you know it it's the next day. You feel as though you were part of a greater whole whether you know every individual at the table or you were meeting some of them for the first time. This is my favorite kind of night. Perhaps it didn't hurt that it was on my favorite island, and included a raw bar and dirty martinis, extra dirty. But even minus these pluses it was perfect. These are my favorite nights, and it wasn't until coming home that I read a quote from a book that perfectly described how these nights morph you from 16 individuals to one moving creature. It was the perfect way to kick off summer, and I hope there are many more such evenings to be had. Happy weekend.

"Everyone at the table in the orchard sits down to eat. With the meat they will drink dark wine. The guests start to touch each other more often, jokes pass quicker. When somebody forgets, somebody remembers for him or her. They hold hands when they laugh. Some take off things they were wearing before - a tie a scarf, a pair of sandals which have become too tight. The cutlets on the board demand to be picked up and stripped clean with teeth. Everybody shares.

The wedding guests are becoming a single animal who has been fed well. A creature half mythical [...] Probably as old as man's discovery of fire, this creature never lives more than a day or two and is only reborn when there is something more to celebrate. Which is why feasts are rare. For those who become the creature, it is important to find a name to which it answers whilst alive, for only then can then recall, in their memory afterwards, how for a while, they lost themselves in its happiness."

- To the Wedding // John Berger
Image courtesy of alecvanderboom.com

April in Providence.

"Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of light within whihc we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change. Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. In the forefront of our move toward change, there is only our poetry to hint at the possibility made real." - Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider

#Makeitcount.

All the quotes that flash in these four minutes are quotes you know. Just the same, their words we can never hear enough.

The Children.

 

 "Every Child comes with a message...That God is not yet discouraged my man."  -- Rabindranath Tagore 1861 - 1941

As with every trip to a truly economically devastated area, it is so difficult to see the children being forced to live the way they do. I mean, somewhere like India, you feel it more strongly with the adults as well--as wonderful as it is, India is multi layered--and imperfect--and their caste system prevents much upward mobility as we know it. You are born in the economic state you die in, and instead of doing more in this life to provide more for yourself and family, Hindi's do it for karma, and to come back in a better way in your next life. 

But again, seeing the children is always the hardest part. The hardest part, yet there exists a funny duality of seeing their simple joy, unaware of what they lack. I always joke with friends with children in the US, that you buy them all these fancy toys and they want the plastic bottle/the carboard box/the thing you were just about to flatten and toss. Well the same rule applies in India but there is no expensive toy collecting dust on the kitchen counter. Everyday as we walked around there were children laughing and playing. Styrofoam trash became swords, bottles become bats, empty wagon backs become perfect surfaces for jacks (they especially love badminton with no nets) . Like all children they smile and cheer. But theyve just slept without heat. They've gone to the bathroom in the sewer on the street, and their family may or may not be willing or able to send them to school. 

In 1991 Food For Life, a global organization, began feeding the widows in Vrindavan (a whole other severe social issue I won't attempt to address here). From there they grew into feeding kitchri to children (rice/beans/veg), and from there grew into the education of girls (read their whole history here). Since their first night class 10ish years ago, they have grown into a full time school for girls -- two of them actually -- that educate and feed 1400 girls from Vrindavan's most destitute families (a state I promise you can't wrap your head around sitting at your computer in a heated room with a full belly). Malnourished become strong and healthy. Girls that would never be given the chance to learn to read go to college.

The different arms this organization has added on to their central schooling system is unbelievable (education of older women, ways for them to make money, rehabilitation of cows, the list goes on), and all of it is funded by private donors. For something like $40 a month you can send a girl to school, feed her three meals a day, dress her in a uniform, possibly give money to her family so they can afford to not have her work, and contribute to a savings account that will give her some safety net when she eventually goes off to college.

Now I know we all see commercials on tv asking for monthly donations and it's impossible to know if the money is going where you want it to. What I can say from visiting this school is that this organization has their sh#t figured out. Like all people in India, Food For Life seems to embody the phrase "waste not want not." Oh, and they are opening another school in nearby Goverdon. A facility that will educate 1700 girls (class sizes average 30).

I'm already daydreaming about how and when I can get back there to volunteer (in fact a certain friend who gets her summers off and might read this, is part of my scheme to spend next summer there). In the meantime I think two less meals out a month would more than support a girl for her entire month. A staggering thought. I know it's difficult to feel attached to causes that are very far away and you haven't seen first hand. But it's rare that I'm as impressed with a group as I was with Food For Life Vrndavana, so I thought I would at least share. If nothing else, it's a reminder that like these children, we all have reasons to find joy in the world, and most likely many more than we account for every day.

                                                                      

New Beginnings

 Because it is still January. And because I love this quote ...

"Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place."  - Rumi

Photo taken in the beautiful Jamestown fog, this past September.

Happy New Year

“It’s never too late or early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit…you can change or stay the same, there are no rules. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

 My view very early this morning, looking over Manhattan from Williamsburg. New mornings, like new years have such potential and promise. May your New Year begin this weekend full of hope and love. See you in 2012

x Lizzy

A friend from RISD told me to watch this Ted Talk a while back. It's only now that the dust has settled from my first semester that I've had a chance to.
I agree with every word. Watch it, I think it will resonate with you too. x

It's funny moving. People that were steadfast in your life sometimes disappear. People you didn't expect much from become important life cheerleaders. And of course, there are constants. I stumbled upon the quote above after overthinking a few particular relationships this past few weeks. I think it's a good reminder.

I hope you have a beautiful fall weekend, and I hope I figure out how to work in being more present here. The exercise of writing is lacking in my life right now, and I miss it dearly. In other news I really enjoy the woodshop. Who knew ?

Rest In Peace Steve Jobs

"You can't connect the dots looking forward you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something: your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. Because believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart, even when it leads you off the well worn path." Steve Jobs

Your Greater Good

I love finding perfectly stated thoughts. This was found here. And I couldn't agree more ;).

Keep Calm

I think this is a mantra that might be running through my head often for the next two years...

And this ...

And in the interest of positivity I will will myself to think this ...

And this ...

[Images courtesy of Keep Calm Gallery]

"At this table we sing with Joy"

I was at a beautiful wildly fun wedding this weekend. The Bride's brother shared this poem by Native American poet, Joy Harjo at the reception. If you ask me, almost all the best moments of life + friendship happen around a dinner table--both reheated leftovers on a Monday night, and an expensively styled 10 top in a tent.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

[Photo by Penny De Los Santos]

Perfect High.

Last post pertaining to 180 Degrees South, I swear :). But all of this reminded me of a poem one of my NOLS instructors shared with us while we were in the field. It made me smile to myself because of how many people I could insert as this searcher, that would never see themselves as such. And who doesn't love a new Shel Silverstein discovery ?

The Perfect High - a poem by Shel Silverstein

There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you,
'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high.

But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
and the great things he wrote when he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried PCP, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, booze just made him cry. Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . .
He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high.

Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats.

"What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . .
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet,
I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda shit is this?

My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kinda crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll kill your guru ass!"

"Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree.

Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come.

But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree."

"Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea--
Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some shit than it is to give them the truth."

Wanderlust.

Did my photo yesterday seem random for my post ? Well I was trying to show a journey, as you may have concluded, but also it's from a documentary I watched this past weekend :: 180 Degrees South. The filmmaker traces the 1968 journey Yvon Chouinard (founder of Patagonia) and Doug Tompkins made to Patagonia. If you haven't seen it, definitely rent it. It not only inspires you to find true passion, but also to find your bliss in the outdoors (even if they're not your true passion). Yvon's says "You learn that what's important is HOW YOU GOT THERE, not what you've accomplished." Listening to the main character talk about busing tables and sleeping in cars to always reach the best surf, or maximize his time climbing is a good reminder that it's not all salary, and it's not all keeping up with the Jones'. We look at ski bums and think "they haven't grown up yet." But maybe they have. Maybe they're so happy on their skis that that the "getting there" more than overrides where they're headed. I saw the tag above on an etsy site, and really liked the message. Knowing many "wanders" myself, I have to say I'm jealous of how present they are in their days, and happy they are with their lives.

No One Survives Alone

A friend send this along to me from the Harvard Magazine. Actually, with no explanation. Not sure if he just knew it would speak to me, or because my sister goes to Harvard or what. Regardless, I do love it. I like that this kid is not trying to reinvent the wheel with his graduation speech, but instead reminding us of one of life's most important lessons, that can be said in so many ways and on so many levels :: The Journey is the Thing (and I really like his addition--that no one does it in solitude).

From May/June Harvard Mag ::

Congratulations on making it to this day.

Twelve years ago, I stepped away from playing an auto-racing computer game with a friend to answer a ringing telephone. The call was from my parents’ doctor. The next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat of a 1992 Mercury station wagon, watching my mother speed through red lights like one of the characters on the computer screen. Fifteen minutes later, as we pulled into an inner-city emergency-room parking lot, I learned that my father was dead. I was 12 years old, almost exactly half the age I am today.

At the time, that seemed like a pretty rotten thing for the universe to do. And, for a long time, I didn’t talk about it much. My thoughts on the subject were mostly expressed through my actions, which, during my career as a middle-school student, were likely to wind up with me in front of a principal, a police officer, or even a judge. Which, in turn, I took as further evidence that the universe held something deeply against me.

What I didn’t realize at the time is that if my father—a man who almost never brought his work home with him—hadn’t died, I never would have been at his funeral to hear the story of an 80-year-old African-American woman he’d helped sue a racist cop who’d pushed her down a flight of stairs. Or that his payment for the years of pro bono litigation had been a sequence of sweet-potato pies.

Likewise, if I hadn’t kept getting into trouble, an important adult in my life would have never told me I had to start doing community service after school, which means I never would have had to do art projects with a six-year-old boy named Tyshawn, who lived in the motels outside Trenton, New Jersey—and who’d had a much worse life than I’d had. Which means I, at age 14, never would have become a friend to Tyshawn, and he, at age six, never would have become one of the greatest teachers in my life.

If those things hadn’t happened, I might never have come to the knowledge that domestic public service ran in the family, or, more importantly, had the epiphany that it was something I could take great joy in doing. And if those revelations hadn’t come, I probably would never have had the opportunity to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Harvard with all the extraordinary people who populate Lowell House, or help get a president elected with all the extraordinary people who populate the state of Ohio. I certainly wouldn’t have had the opportunity to share this happy afternoon with all of you.

There is a trite version of what I’m saying, which is that “when God closes a door, She opens a window.”

There is also an elegant version of what I’m saying, which is that “Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, Falls drop by drop upon the heart, And in our own despite, against our will, Comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

I don’t know who came up with the first one. The second one comes from the ancient Greek tragedian Aeschylus, though the line was more famously used by Bobby Kennedy on April 4, 1968, when fell to him the heartbreaking task of informing a huge African-American crowd at one of his campaign rallies that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had just been assassinated. That was in Indianapolis, Indiana, the only major American city that didn’t erupt into riots that night.

Perhaps the looting and burning and killing didn’t come to Indianapolis because Kennedy had reminded the city of an ancient truth: that in the midst of great hardship is often born the seed of great insight, and even success.

The reason I am sharing this with you today is that we are entering a phase of our lives in which at least some of the things we love will be taken away from us. They may be loved ones, or things we hoped were true about ourselves, or dreams we had about who we planned to become. Though many of us have survived childhood with a lot of these things intact, there has never in the history of humanity been a person who didn’t have to lose at least one thing that he or she cared about.

I hope for all of us that these things will be weathered by the years as little as possible. But I also hope that, when the storm clouds do inevitably gather over some part of our lives, we will be quick to locate the shards of light that just as inevitably will pierce that darkened sky, and follow them up to new heights.

It may be, as Thomas Mann once wrote, that happiness and success often signal decline because they need time to reach us, “like the light of an overhanging star, which, when it shines most brightly, may well have already gone out.”

Whether or not that is true, I have come to trust that sorrow and despair often signal the beginning of a great ascent. And that is because they leave us in the valley beneath a great mountain. And it’s in the climbing that we learn to see again—as for the first time—everything it is that we love about living.

That’s the end of my speech. But before I go, there is a larger point I need to make: that no one survives alone. Somewhere sitting in the audience is my mother, who not only kept food on the table and kept me in school, but also stuck with me and continued to love me even when I seemed to be doing everything I could to make her life as difficult as possible. So thank you, Mom. You’re an inspiration and I wouldn’t be here without you.

And thank you all, for four—well, more than four—wonderful years, and for letting me speak to you today.

And congratulations, class of 2010-11. Thank you.