Reflections on September, Happiness and Scotland

I once thought that September was the quickest month. With school beginning, it seemed that the month passed faster than any other. October's excitement-filled long wait for Halloween passed slower.

The last two years have proved how fast every month seems to move and how positive change can be. A new routine, place, people, names and experiences are all wonderful occurrences. I think I write "two years" because it's how I've measured my own personal changes: a year in Scotland coupled with personal triumphs and challenges, the discovery of a love for writing, interaction, the natural world and photography, followed by a final year of American college and a post-grad summer, accompanied by experiences, travels, friendships, ideas, books, pieces of writing and personal growth that I would have thought impossible more than two years earlier. I don't know if I would recognize myself today in comparison to a few years ago.

I've recently found myself at the place where it all began: school (in September).

Throughout college, I pondered if an alternative route to teaching in one of America's most disadvantaged regions was for me. When I gave it my all and the offer arrived earlier this year, I chose to decline, for want of something different, yet unsure of what that was. Throughout the summer, I completed somewhere between 15 and 20 interviews and ultimately settled into two retail positions that I loved. After 7 and 9 weeks at each, I accepted an offer at a boarding school near New Hampshire's white mountains and began the transition.

Holderness, New Hampshire

More than a week in to the position, I feel that I've settled exactly where I should be right now. I don't work directly with students, but in a combination of advancement, fundraising, writing and marketing. I've joined student clubs and sports teams to get to know the high school students better and each day has been more positive and exciting than the last. The community of a small school feels familiar, yet new and exciting.

Plymouth, New Hampshire

And as a side note, because I must, please know that this post and future posts reflect my opinion and ideas solely, not that of my employer.

Plymouth, New Hampshire

I've thought often that happiness and fulfillment tend to arrive when purpose and goals and direction are achieved. 

While everything has been a bit crazy this past week, the Scottish referendum cannot be forgotten. It was exciting, nerve-wracking and fascinating to watch Scotland on the international stage. I loved the example of a democracy in action with more than 85% of Scots choosing to vote. In short, I'm pleased with the outcome, I expect and hope the United Kingdom will continue to reassess its role and the power each of the four countries hold in the decades ahead, but continued unification, togetherness and representation for today seems like the best option. In the meantime, I have no doubt that recognition of and celebration of Scottish culture will continue both in Scotland and around the world.

September 2012, St. Andrews, Scotland

October 2012, Perthshire, Scotland

Mornings

I really love photo essays in journalism. Words can bring description, but photojournalism and photography in general brings the visual explanation that words need to work harder at. I don't have the best camera, but I like capturing detail in nature and find the light to be best in morning. Below are a few morning photographs taken in the last two months. All photographed were taken in New Hampshire or Massachusetts. 

A Few Words about Post Offices

I recently accepted a job and moved to a new town a little over an hour northeast from my parents home where I've been living since I graduated in May.

In the midst of moving, planning to move, packing to move, purchasing items to move and continuing with my two jobs in Vermont (I have a little over a week remaining at both), I paid $30 to the federal government for a 3 by 5.5 inch post office box about a mile from my new apartment.

My payment was processed in Washington and I filled out a U.S. postal service application once the fee was processed. I was assigned my box and keys yesterday.

Something about this tiny small town post office was adorable. The office is wood paneled with a 1970s-era faded world map on the wall near the envelopes and stamps for sale.

The rows of boxes in the main lobby are metal and glass with iron hinges and detail. I can't decipher if the boxes are extraordinarily old and historic or only a few decades old but with a pronounced style.

On the subject of mail, I find snail mail to be one of the more exciting parts of life. Since returning from Scotland, I've closely maintained e-mail/skype correspondence with friends from afar as a simple, constant, free and enjoyable way to remain in contact.

A couple of friends and I though, have begun snail-mailing on a regular basis. Every few weeks when I write or receive a letter from England or Korea it brings not only excitement and (often) laughter when reading, but the feeling that the world is accessible and small, which sounds strange as the internet has proved this one thousand times more than snail mail has, yet despite the 5-7 days to England and the 10 days to Korea, the postal service still appears impressive in today's global society.

Today, Korea's arrived. 

A Return to Joynalism

A few mornings ago, late August.

I started freelancing this week. I had a chance encounter with an editor in the cafe of one of my workplaces (King Arthur Flour). Thinking I worked in the publicity department at King Arthur, she introduced herself and when I told her that I worked in sales but held a journalism degree, we spoke the language of freelance. I received my first assignment soon after.

It's been a nice return. When I discovered my trusted voice recorder had reached it's last leg, I enjoyed researching and purchasing a new one, conducting the necessary background research before the interview, compiling questions, and this evening, driving down dirt roads to my interviewee's home in rural Vermont.

The hard-hitting questions were a tough return, but I think they've always been tough. It's where the challenge in journalism lies -- between the commitment to a powerful, thought-provoking article and the risk of an uncomfortable or challenging interview.

P.S. I originally intended for the title of this post to sound Boston-accented, but I think the 'joy' part works too. :)

Reflections on Ferguson

I've long enjoyed the "Best American Series" of essays and poetry, published annually by Houghton Mifflin. I recently began "The Best American Essays of the (20th) Century." I've digested an essay a day, and with every year of the last century represented, I've jumped from 1928 to 1941 to 1957 to 1963 thus far.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letter from Birmingham Jail" representing 1963 is my current favorite, and the most thought-provoking of the few I've read. While I'd read the essay before, one passage in particular often sticks with me, even more so this month:

"I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial "outside agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere in this country.

It's a choice of thought that I've struggled with before, the belief that certain geographic areas are immune, that we live in an equal society, that we don't have issues of race or class or discrimination, that our surroundings are safer and more just than others. It's a mistake made far too often, a belief of separation.

This past spring, I wrote a book about race for my senior thesis. Focusing on the homogenous state of Vermont, which at nearly 96% white, is one of the whitest and most liberal in the nation, I interviewed black and white Vermonters, local and state law enforcement, government officials, civil rights attorneys, veterans of the Civil Rights movement and educators. In the process, I attempted to prove that due to it's homogenous nature, Vermont lacked a civil rights moment and while socially accepting, issues of racial acceptance remain. While geographic regions experience different racial demographics and different experiences with racial inequality, I believe we share a responsibility of awareness relating to the discrimination and racial inequality within the United States.

In a similar light, I've watched the events in Ferguson, Missouri unfold these past two weeks and have thought often of the history of American racism. I heard it in the interviews I conducted while writing the book and I understand it better today: a 400-year history of what whites have done to blacks in America cannot be erased in 50 years.

In this light, I began to think of what's changed in American racial relations in the past 50 years; yet in doing so, immediately noticed the disparity between the amount of legal changes, not the unmeasurable societal changes.

I focused on unconscious racial biases in the book, on how we perceive, react, and act towards those unlike ourselves. In reflection of Ferguson, it appears that racial acceptance in the United States has yet to be achieved. Between media perception of young black men, the socio-economic divide present between black and white and police brutality, we're holding ourselves back as a people and nation from true, progressive change in racial acceptance. The legalities might exist, but full racial acceptance hasn't occurred.

In the meantime, I wonder at the possibility of choosing to not sit idly by, but to choose to travel the extra mile and actively work to understand, recognize, acknowledge and prevent our own unconscious racial biases. Perhaps in doing so, we may positively define the next 50 years of American racial equality.

Two!

Two years ago this week, I began this blog. Since then, I've discovered an immediate and long-lasting love for writing. I've never before celebrated this anniversary-of-sorts, (although a year ago at this time was crazy busy between an internship, travel, and moving) but as I've thought more about writing this summer, I've realized this is where it all began.

I've discovered a sense of expression through writing in these two years that I had never understood, nor truthfully knew existed. This blog has grown from my daily life and experiences by the North Sea into a bit more about what surrounds each of us: place (travel, particularly), race, religion,  literature and photography.

P.S. I've never written about this before, but I had a lot of fun dreaming up a url name for this blog. At the time, "Live How You Love to Live" was a favorite reminder I had thought up. It remains so. 

Reflection on Writing, Sky and Sleep

I attended a blogging panel at the Bookstock Literary Festival a couple of weeks ago and began to think deeper about this blog. While I've always enjoyed writing, the hope that it may someday be an integral part of my future has grown with each year, each opportunity, and each supportive and inspirational person.

As I've thought about this platform that I've used for nearly two years, I realized that I don't typically stick to any schedule of writing, and I did not set out, nor am I setting out, to be a blogger. Rather, (I hope!) a writer. I'm often transitioning here to different areas of writing, from stories and experiences in my own life, to literature, places, ideas and people that I believe have made, and can make, an impact on our world. In relation to this blog, I hope more than anything else, that I allow anyone reading to think deeply.
                                                       

I've been working more than usual lately, and had today off and a faraway appointment scheduled. It was an early morning of conquering three states by car and returning home sometime in the afternoon. It had been a while since I had been home by 3 p.m. and the first order of business was to return to my bed with a book. The end of the drive had been punctuated with brief thunderstorms bringing ribbons of lightning between bursts of sunlight.

Once at home, I lay beneath two skylights as the thunderstorms came and went, the sky changing from shades of blue, to gray, to white. At some point, I fell asleep. Dreams occurred and I woke tangled in a purple afghan my Mom had made and the sound of her voice downstairs. In that moment too, I thought that naps might be some of the best uses of time. As a side note, I've noticed that naps tend to end in one of two ways: waking to sheer misery and fogginess while emerging from a deep sleep, or waking to happiness, renewal and a sudden love for the surrounding world. This nap, thankfully, should be included in the latter. By this point, the storms had ended and the sky appeared somewhat yellow, or orange, or as I thought in that moment, a faded golden.

In Search of of an American Religion

Late last week, I ventured to Sharon, Vermont in search of the birthplace of Joseph Smith, the founder and original prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. In the summer of 2010, I read one of Oxford University Press' "A Very Short Introduction" books on Mormonism and continued reading from there. Recently, I've enjoyed reading and following the writing and actions of Joanna Brooks, Kate Kelly and other Mormon feminist leaders.

Sharon, Vermont

I learned long ago that the LDS church is not a religion for me, but I hold respect, interest and appreciation for the faith, and am particularly interested in how the LDS Church has spread throughout the world through its missionaries, and how the faith is one of few sects of Christianity that was founded in and had monumental religious experiences occur near exclusively in the United States. Further, the intersection and influence of religion and culture is interesting. I see Mormonism as interwoven with American history, especially westward migration and the freedom to worship.

When I arrived for my visit, I was greeted by a mile-long driveway lined with oak trees. A sign informed visitors that the property is owned by the LDS church and that both a worshipping house (a bit different than a temple, as anyone is permitted to enter) along with a visitor's center and walking trails were available. Colorful flowers were planted sporadically and the location was physically beautiful, a bit like a postcard capturing summer in Vermont.

I was greeted by a female missionary who appeared to be in her sixties. She was friendly, kind and outwardly beautiful, with a long skirt and modest clothing, upholding the Church's guidelines of the physical appearance of a missionary perfectly. The tour began with a focus on genealogy, a popular and cherished topic for the LDS Church. A poster board displayed an intricate spider web diagram in which Joseph Smith was shown to be distantly related to Sir Winston Churchill, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, and both the Bush Presidents. I wondered if these names were carefully chosen, or if Joseph Smith held no distant relation to political leaders who might be less favored by members of the church. The tour wasn't extraordinarily fascinating, but explained a bit about Joseph Smith's early years at the turn of the nineteenth century living in Sharon and later, West Lebanon, N.H., working on farms and overcoming life-threatening illnesses with the assistance of doctors at nearby Dartmouth Hospital.

After watching a 20 minute video about Joseph Smith's life in upstate New York where as a teenager, he discovered the golden plates and founded the church, I emerged into the sunlight, where I was greeted by a large framed picture of the LDS Church's current president and prophet, Thomas S. Monson. The man was wearing a suit and tie and something about the image immediately made me feel uneasy and uncomfortable in the confrontation that a major religion was in the hands and power of an 86-year old man. In the seconds that followed though, the papacy and Catholic Church's hierarchy of powerful men suddenly occurred to me.

I spoke with my missionary guide about these beliefs. We spoke about our own religions (Catholicism for me, Mormonism for her) and of our respect for the commitment's of our respective religions in working for others. She finished our tour by showing me the granite monument representing Joseph Smith's life, planted a hundred feet from the home he was born in. The monument stands 50 feet tall, with the base and inscription, but the 38.5 feet of polished stone is seen as the most important, with each foot of granite representing a year of Joseph Smith's life. 

A few years ago, I pondered religious conflict and a lack of acceptance and peace between people, and after some time, came to my own personal belief that every religion (with the exclusion of religious beliefs endangering or putting individuals at risk of harm of any kind) is true and absolutely valid in our world. I believe too, that a better and more cooperative world can be built upon religious understanding and acceptance. We can accomplish far more with our time and lives through understanding one another. I do not identify as Mormon, but the I see the faith, like many religions, as beautiful and true.

Elie Wiesel's Night and Day

I have many favorite genres for books but desire above all else, to seek literature and writing that works for the world, that tells a necessary and untold story that remains with me, that changed my view and urges me to work harder for others, for myself and for our shared surroundings. Literature that dives into culture and religion will always be favored. I was attracted to Nobel Peace prize recipient and Holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel's trilogy of Night, Dawn and Day but as my local library held only Night and Day, I skipped Dawn and found both to be extraordinary.

I preferred Night of the two. I had greatly enjoyed the Diary of Anne Frank earlier this year and found Night to be a companion of sorts, the latter part. Wiesel's descriptive writing, short sentences and autobiography of his experiences in Auschwitz and later, Buchenwald as a Romanian-Jewish teenager during World War II were powerful and can't thoroughly be explained or appreciated here.

I've read many powerful endings to pieces of writing in journalism, poetry and fiction, and think that any ending that carries a lasting effect of any sort is powerful writing. When I finished Night about a month ago I felt immediately then, and remain confident now, that Wiesel's ending lines were the most lasting I had ever read in literature. I listened to the book as an audio-book while driving and I can remember so vividly exactly where I was and what I watched as I heard his last two sentences. Describing seeing himself in a mirror for the first time in years two weeks after being liberated from Buchenwald, Wiesel writes,

"From the depths of the mirror, a corpse gazed back at me. The look in his eyes, as they stared into mine, has never left me."

Day was far more fictional in comparison to Night although select themes did appear to arrive from Wiesel's own life as he writes in the first person of a Holocaust survivor living in New York and contemplating the existence and power of God in the modern day. I felt that Wiesel closely examined the Jewish faith against the backdrop of a city of immigrants, and the emptiness the main character experiences in his relationship with God as he works to understand the injustices seared into his memory from half a world away decades earlier. Day was far less direct than Night, speaking instead to general and familiar issues of memory, loss, and recovery after tragedy, yet in the context and frame of a tragedy that few will ever experience or understand.

Coast

I've long loved and felt a connection with the ocean. I grew up about an hour away from the coast and the occasional summer day trip or vacation on the ocean brought forth a love for the sound of waves, the natural plants and species of the ocean, and when brave enough, (specifically with New England/Canadian beaches…) the excitement of swimming in the bitterly cold water.

In galleries, it's typically the seascapes I gravitate to, the mixture of blues and whites, a blend of sea and sky that's simple to become lost in. The coast influenced my time in Scotland, too. Although I never swam in the North Sea, the image of the still water in the mornings, or the white-tipped waves before a storm, the sounds of waves and seagulls in the evenings, along with the reflective and healing powers that an ocean horizon seems to possess only supported my interest and love.

A few days after visiting southern Vermont, I met up with Megan, a friend from high school and her sister Lyndsay. We headed east and arrived in Rye, New Hampshire. The day was less than ideal for anytime spent near a coast, with cold summer temperatures and heavy clouds for much of the day, but we walked the length of each beach and high piles of coastal rocks regardless, laughing and noticing the abundance of seagulls. When the sky turned blue in the early afternoon and the sun did appear, we fell asleep in the sun.

Rye, New Hampshire.