On Americanah

I recently finished Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The book was a Christmas gift from my brother and man, was it good. I had been meaning to read it for awhile. I can't see it being for everyone, but it completely fed my interest in present-day racial relations in America, along with religion and culture in present-day Nigeria, the immigrant experience and even a bit of the class and race in the U.K. Oh and it was also a novel. It seems rare for a book to be so thought-provoking in exploring the American racial dynamic while also being a novel.

I had heard a couple of interviews with Adichie after Americanah came out in 2013 (like most books, I was pretty late to the party. It was on my to-read waitlist for awhile). She's an extraordinarily talented writer and I wondered how much of the main character's experiences as a Nigerian young woman living in the United States reflected Adichie's own similar experiences.

I loved too, Adichie's exploration of the American view of the continent of Africa as one singular country with little urbanization or access to mainstream American media or knowledge of the world. I was quick to believe something similar for awhile, but through understanding the process and effects of globalization and worldwide consumption of the American media industry, and the irony of the American media industry classifying nearly all non-American or European music as "global" or "tribal," I think the United States might be the isolated nation, not an entire continent.

Book cover image obtained at http://chimamanda.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/americanah.png  

Springtime in North and South

I spent a few days in Florida last week. The time spent with both my Mom and the sun were glorious and relaxing. I think the funniest part of the experience though, was the flight commentary upon return to Manchester, New Hampshire. The flight was direct from Orlando and once the gray skies and snow came into view upon landing, the conversation went like this:

Young woman behind me: "This sucks."
My Mom, next to me: "It's like we're back in the Arctic!"
We laugh.
Flight attendant on speaker: "Welcome to Manchester, where it is 27 degrees."
140 passengers on plane: Collective groan.

*Ten minutes later in baggage claim, luggage appears and is coated with snow.*
(Presumably Floridian) Toddler: "Mommy, what's the white stuff?"

That same day, I was happy to find the New Hampshire temperatures were in the high forties. I set out on a walk, joined by furry early spring wildlife.

Central Florida wildlife

Central New Hampshire wildlife

Even though the Granite State looked like this,

and I missed this...

I remembered distantly that sometimes New Hampshire looks like this,

or this,

or this,

and that March is just a scary month of transition. I think. 

Peace & Balance

Seven months ago I moved to the lakes of New Hampshire. They've been extraordinary months of change and adaptation and learning. They've also been filled with moments of discovering a balance between personal and professional, family and friends, and social distance and closeness.

Sometimes I've felt a bit like I did during the eight months I spent in Scotland two years ago. I ventured to both locations alone, living on my own and slowly engraining myself into the community. And in both, after finding acceptance and happiness, I found peace, a joy and comfort in each day.

There are still many moments, when I'm unsure of the next step or hesitant of the barriers lining the path forward. Yet there is so much comfort and encouragement between this peace and healthy balance, far less fear and more confidence in venturing forward, even when not certain.

Sunrise above the clouds, yesterday morning

Thoughts & Images on February

Over the still world, a bird calls walking solitary among black boughs. -Louise Gluck, End of Winter

Some months can be so easily forgotten. February brought with it enough change that I can't see how that might occur. The quick loss of my grandmother and an unexpected professional success that continues to bring change and ideas and so much to consider and march forth with. Both are new, embracing a change and knowing that little will be how it was before. Yet there was, and continues to be, so much good, when love and peace surround loss and new opportunities arise.

Bitter cold was paired with these changes, the type that arrives every year, but seldom for such a long period of time. Recently, Mount Washington, a mountain an hour north of my home recorded the second lowest temperature anywhere on earth for the day. But there was so much sunshine throughout, empty skies at night full of bright lights beyond earth and mornings accompanied by a warm glow. The sunshine was familiar, a reminder that love and warmth is never far, in endings and beginnings.

A horse living nearby appeared to escape one day.

Horse vs. bus (Horse was safely escorted back home soon after).

My ball game has had to wait.

The risk of scurvey has too.

Sunsets & Clear Skies

It's funny how a weather pattern can feel so personal and fitting. Late last week, I said goodbye to my grandmother with a sun setting outdoors, staining the sky orange. In the days since, clear skies and bright sunsets have continued. Despite the cold days and nights, when I see the clear sky, I think of that moment, but also the broad challenge of living how I should, how she did, and working to embody the love, inclusion and consistent sweet spirit and kindness she spread.

Nature has a way of allowing us to feel closer to those we love and miss. It's as if the natural surroundings are so beautiful that we believe they must be shared between the two worlds. It feels natural to turn to when there is no clearer answer, it's unexplainable, physically beautiful, and calming. 

Skiing & Skiing

Growing up in New Hampshire brought a healthy taste of every outdoor winter sport.  I feel fortunate for the experiences and instruction and the choice to stay busy and active in the winter certainly speeds up the season.

With the exception of ice skating, I can't say I have any natural ability or strong and loving interest in any of the outdoor winter recreational activities. Usually I get wimpy and chilly and have grown to prefer exercising inside during the winter.

Yet each time I go out to ski or snowshoe, there's always a thankfulness afterwards. For the woods and land and natural beauty that surrounds. And for the ability and knowledge to exercise outdoors, to know how to ski or hike or skate.

I had been meaning to go nordic skiing with the students where I work for the last couple of months and had even had my skis in my car at all times, but the ski team timing was always challenging to my workday or to the daylight left, or I was just super wimpy. Until recently! I threw my wimpiness aside and went out on the trails with one of the students who I had been promising for a long time I would ski with.

As a side note, her skiing talent resembles that of an Olympian. Despite some initial struggles with conquering hills, I found a deep peace and calm while on the trails. The feeling of weightlessness and thrill when steering down each hill brought a freedom I hadn't experienced in a while.

When my eyes began to water because of the cold and the speed I was traveling down the hills, my vision blurred and I remember knowing that all was well. I could only see a sea of white but I knew that there were senses beyond vision to know place and purpose.

The next day, I joined a friend in backcountry skiing. We brought his two large dogs and climbed higher until skiing downhill, just as fast as the previous day, but on much shorter and heavier skis and using a different technique for stopping and turning.

The same experience I had the previous day arrived. I was so happy to be skiing again. I shared both experiences with individuals who were so kindly adamant and willing and interested and committed to showing me the joyous side of winter I had chosen to forget.

More than Marking Genocide

I admire nearly every one of Nicholas Kristof's weekly columns in the New York Times. His column was required reading for a college journalism class I was in a few years ago, and his thought-provoking writing and reporting makes him easily my favorite journalist for exposing issues beyond American borders. He focuses on the plight of women and children around the world while bringing light to issues of poverty and human rights violations in nations seldom covered in mainstream American media.

Over the weekend, the Times published Kristof's latest column, titled "Heroes and Bystanders." Writing of 2015 marking the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz and the beginning of the Armenian genocide, Kristof wrote of the likely global discussion and remembrance the anniversaries will spark, yet he explored further what the anniversaries should spark:

"...the lesson of history is that the best way to honor past victims of atrocities is to stand up to slaughter today. The most respectful way to honor Jewish, Armenian, or Rwandan victims of genocide is not with a ceremony or a day, but with efforts to reduce mass atrocities currently underway."

Kristof does give credit to humanitarian intervention in Kosovo, Sierra Leone, and more recently in the eastern Congo and for the Yazidi minority in Iraq. All atrocities which have seemingly slowed when pressure was applied by the international community.

Yet that intervention, through awareness, discussion, acknowledgement and an understanding of the truth, will always be needed.

In recent coverage of the decade-long war in the eastern Congo, two quotes have stuck with me:

"Imagine nearly 6 million people dying in the middle of Europe and yet we're silent" (Claver Pashi).

"Millions of Congolese people have lost their life as a result of the crisis and it has warranted almost no sustained and enterprising reporting from the media of the world. It has obtained no great purchase on the popular imagination" (Howard French).

I like Kristof's proposal for 2015. History shouldn't be marked, but knowing today's truth should be.

Adaptability

I've come to find that much of life advancement is about adaptability. Each of us does it in pursuit of the next mountaintop. It's a positive trait, to change and better oneself to conquer society through education or the workforce. I've found much happiness constantly adapting the last five or more years. Yet I've begun to think on adaptability too, how easy the act can be in diminishing what once mattered and was important before the adaptation began. Particularly what happened to those interests and skills that were once naturally there, before the mountain ranges were placed and advancing towards them became the goal.

I recently began to uncover those. I love my chosen career and current job, yet I've begun to crave those natural and fitting interests. I joined the cast of a musical and a local choral society. I began painting and drawing again and researched local dance classes. I set goals in my writing, realizing that the poetry and short stories I wrote vigorously only a couple of years ago -- even this blog, began to fade into the background as the next mountaintop was scaled. When focusing on the goal, there's no time or reason to think of these interests. They were put aside without question for adaptability. And then one day, I wanted them back.

Now, looking clearly at both, I know they can be co-managed and co-loved. Mountaintops by weekday, creativity by weeknight and weekend. Sounds a lot like a work-life balance.

Navy Skies

Most of my recent residences have been rural places where the stars and sky are bright. Yet I think my current home in Holderness, New Hampshire might be where I see the stars and moon brighter than anywhere else.

sunrise, Holderness, New Hampshire 

I remember at 13, learning about distant galaxies in earth science class and standing outside my home in Concord, New Hampshire on spring nights, staring at the sky in fascination as I found each galaxy. Yet the strongest natural memories existing today of that home in Concord are of the deep woods, surrounding wildlife, bitter winters and humid summers spent outdoors in the garden.

Concord, New Hampshire

When I lived on the east coast of Scotland, in a tiny university and fishing town, I walked at night (particularly in December when night far outnumbered day) through an open field to my residence. I remember gazing at the stars and night sky from that field, the new, unfamiliar tilt of the constellations I remembered seeing in the American northeast. Yet it was the sea air and early spring flowers I remember, not the night sky.

East Coast of Scotland

In northern Vermont, the stars were bright, particularly in the most rural of areas, but it was the crisp and clean air quality, especially in fall, that I remember best.

Northern Vermont

I live alone and am out in the evening most nights. Occasionally I leave a porch light on, but when I don't, the dark walk between car and house is startling. It's dark and quiet and I don't like it much until I feel safe enough to realize that I know this place and these surroundings. It's then that I look upwards. Nearly every time, the stars are brighter than anything I can remember. But I've noticed too, that the sky is never quite black, no matter how late into the night. It's always a shade of navy. I've tried to figure this out, why it doesn't appear to be the dark sky that I remember or imagine it to be, it's always a little lighter, a little more beautiful and colorful with more stars shining through than I thought possible.

Memories, Race and Images

Greetings.

I'm not sure why it's been so long. I try to only write when I feel the want and need and lately it hasn't been there. Instead, memory and the speed at which time passes has been a constant theme. It used to be that occasionally words and ideas would need to be written, but recently, it's been memories emerging suddenly.

Words spoken, sights and people seen, and the smallest gestures have been coming back. Sound and smell and taste suddenly bring back so much from the past. It's introduced a reminder of how quickly life changes and how and why we adapt to our surroundings.

It might be the shift of season that's caused me to think, but opportunity and possibility and choice are such strong and positive forces too. The last few months have flown by. I've embarked on changes in location and career and have been happy, realizing too how strong my memories are of this past summer shortly before the changes and of the summers and seasons before this year and what I've gained from each passing season.

Like many others, I've been angered by racial relations in the U.S. that both are finally receiving the media coverage and mass American attention span they deserve, but also are sadly proving the division of race and class existing in the United States. It's made me think back to learning of Civil Rights throughout my public school education. I don't know what's taught today to students, but if the curriculum is anything like the one I absorbed, it makes me wonder why racial relations of the 1960s are taught (despite being extremely important and thought-provoking) when so much of the violence and laws today on race and discrimination mirror those of 50 years ago. Perhaps if we didn't add these events to history class and chose to introduce them to young students 20 years later, more could be positively changed for our world today.

I'm trying to figure out this space of writing too, and thinking more about how we perceive ourselves and others. Much has changed since beginning this blog two and a half years ago and I no longer want to use this space to write about myself but am working on finding a balance and focus elsewhere. We'll see what happens.

(NH) White Mountains and moon.

I attended a conference for work at the Mount Washington Hotel in early November. 

I was originally terrified of the ghost potential, but enjoyed a pleasant ghost-free stay.

Just hanging outside college counseling (at my workplace).

Woodstock, Vermont.

My grandmother's typewriter.

Concord, Mass.

Finance land and 9/11 memorial, New York City.

Holderness, New Hampshire, late December.