Today I listened to a Speaking of Faith Episode that was played a few weeks ago, which is a replay from last year. It is titled “Stress and Balance Within.” I hadn’t thought much about balance on the spiritual level until this year. This summer it has been one of my main topics to reflect on along with being centered and moderation. I had never even heard of balance on a spiritual level or thought about being centered and using moderation with everything, but this year it seems everyone that I talk about spirituality with brought these essential topics up at some point, if not multiple times. When I was doing a career counseling activity with someone I know who is trying to get a masters in counseling, he picked up on my lack of balance. When he suggested I think about teaching, because of my love for kids I responded with two reasons why I didn’t want to teach. My first reason was that I thought the track to teaching was much too straight forward for my indecisive ways. Secondly I told him that I did not want to lose my love for kids by getting burned out. I enjoy the six-week program I work in every summer, because right around the time I feel drained from the kids it’s already the last week or two of school and then I appreciate them again, because I realize I won’t see them for a long time.
His response was that he understood from the forms and questionnaires I filled out that one of my “career anchors” (Something that is necessary in a career for me to be happy) was “lifestyle.” He explained that means that I will have to have a career that goes with my lifestyle and not lifestyle based on my career, but he also questioned me about having commitment issues (if he only knew). He also expressed concern at my second reason. He asked if I get burned out, because I do not have the proper training to teach. I responded with how busy my mom always is and he decided that I have balance issues. I began reflecting on my current lifestyle and I realized my entire family has issues with balance. My mom has problems balancing work and her life so I feel that while the students benefit from this, her health suffers either physically or mentally. My dad has problems balancing money…not in the literal sense. He balances a checkbook fabulously. I mean that he saves and complains about how tight money is, but then splurges…only to stay up all night worrying about it and growing angry at the way the rest of us spend money. I am not blaming my balance issues on my parents, but the aspiring counselor thought that I had never properly learned balance. I also think about my siblings’ lifestyles in contrast with my own, and although we are all very different I do not see much balance from any of us.
Dr. Esther Sternberg spoke on this podcast of Speaking of Faith. She works on the mind-body connection from a molecular level by looking at genes, hormones, and neurotransmitters. She is using science to show the connection between emotions and health. She talks about how vacations are not a luxury, but a necessity. As a society we do not encourage balance. Cell phones are almost a necessity and weekends are rarely times of rest these days, to name a few examples of our off-centered lifestyles. Not to mention the way people look at me like I am crazy when I mention taking a night to reflect alone. It’s like Adam (the atheist) said when we were talking about the way people do not understand introverts. When you tell someone you want to spend some time alone they take it personally and are confused like, “So do you just wanna take a shit or what more do you need to do alone?”
I learned the hard way what ignoring myself for the sake of others does to a person and this podcast only confirmed the need for balance in my life. The fact that my imbalance was just illuminated by someone else this week makes me feel confident about all of the time I have been spending as a hermit. I think everyone should take some time to really think things through.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Piercing Apathy
I walk in broken streets with broken souls and tourists
wearing happy faces and college sweatshirts. I hate this place.
New Orleans is too damn cold. I close my eyes, but can’t ignore
the memory of tortured screaming souls crying atop floating houses.
It slaps me in the face with undeserved suffering.
I see her crying alone. She wipes Her tears on Her
sleeves and avoids My eyes. She walks fast and determined,
like Me. Her sandy hair is like Mine too. It could hide traces of the
sun if she saw it, if we saw it. We prefer the moon. It does not burn.
She disappears in a crowd of meaningless faces. I hope for her safety, even though
I don’t remember what hope is. The hours escape without letting me grasp them.
I find her in a t-shirt shop. Her gray sweater hangs off her shoulders like Mine.
At home, My despair paralyzes my mother. Here, Her despair paralyzes Me. I want to
die and she is dead. Empathy forces a smile at her. She walks toward me. Her request is small,
but the alcohol she breathes makes my burning stomach turn. I hand her my cell phone.
My fear distracts me from the moment when Her hand and My hand Connect. She
hangs up after no Connection. Vulnerability floods out her pores the way floods
poured out her soul into the ocean. She looks around desperate and scared like Me.
She asks for the time, but looks to her watch. She looks at her left wrist.
I look at her left hand. It’s swollen like an inflated rubber glove, but there is
no doctor to bring her back to life. My heart races in fear for Her, for Me.
My blood turns cold as hatred flows through it. Hatred for the cold world,
hatred for what she has done, but mostly hate for myself, because I know that
immobilizing darkness she lives in. It is blacker than the blood that has broken
inside of her hand. She is hopeless like Me. We are no longer Beautiful.
I am naïve. I do not know heroin like Her and she does not know
heroines like Me. She might have in brighter days, before depression killed her soul.
I try not to imagine her first shot, but see a young girl unable to
cope with a broken heart and broken dreams. Her arm shakes from fear;
she pierces the needle into her skin. She is anxious to fly, even with broken wings.
My mind hurls dark images at me, darker than the blood broken inside her hand.
The blood that hurts for it’s fix, it’s relief. I try not to see her lying lifeless in a
dirty room. When Her weak arm betrays her, she jabs the relief into her thigh. I hate this
place. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see this. I close my eyes, but can’t help
but see her shaking, sweating, moaning cries of death in a dark alley. It is darker than
the blood that has broken inside her hand from when her veins refused to take that
poison. She stabs relief between each finger. I stare at Her hands. The
hand she pierces with is small, like Mine. I need to vomit like she did last night.
Tangled, sticky hair reminds her of the suffering and tears she does not remember.
I am scared. I Disconnect, Detest, Dehumanize, like People who live in fear.
“I hope it all works out for you,” I say. She smiles a hopeless smile
like the one I have forced too many times. She is genuine, thankful,
and human. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to act. I swallow vomit.
It hurts, but I will not let it out. I will not let it out. She is broken and
dead; I am broken and living. How can I pretend not to know her? We are related by
blood; we both bleed red. I know everything, but love her like family.
I pretend not to notice the connection. I laugh when my friend says, “crazy druggie.”
I laugh until I cry, since I can’t cry any other way. I wipe My tears with My sleeves.
wearing happy faces and college sweatshirts. I hate this place.
New Orleans is too damn cold. I close my eyes, but can’t ignore
the memory of tortured screaming souls crying atop floating houses.
It slaps me in the face with undeserved suffering.
I see her crying alone. She wipes Her tears on Her
sleeves and avoids My eyes. She walks fast and determined,
like Me. Her sandy hair is like Mine too. It could hide traces of the
sun if she saw it, if we saw it. We prefer the moon. It does not burn.
She disappears in a crowd of meaningless faces. I hope for her safety, even though
I don’t remember what hope is. The hours escape without letting me grasp them.
I find her in a t-shirt shop. Her gray sweater hangs off her shoulders like Mine.
At home, My despair paralyzes my mother. Here, Her despair paralyzes Me. I want to
die and she is dead. Empathy forces a smile at her. She walks toward me. Her request is small,
but the alcohol she breathes makes my burning stomach turn. I hand her my cell phone.
My fear distracts me from the moment when Her hand and My hand Connect. She
hangs up after no Connection. Vulnerability floods out her pores the way floods
poured out her soul into the ocean. She looks around desperate and scared like Me.
She asks for the time, but looks to her watch. She looks at her left wrist.
I look at her left hand. It’s swollen like an inflated rubber glove, but there is
no doctor to bring her back to life. My heart races in fear for Her, for Me.
My blood turns cold as hatred flows through it. Hatred for the cold world,
hatred for what she has done, but mostly hate for myself, because I know that
immobilizing darkness she lives in. It is blacker than the blood that has broken
inside of her hand. She is hopeless like Me. We are no longer Beautiful.
I am naïve. I do not know heroin like Her and she does not know
heroines like Me. She might have in brighter days, before depression killed her soul.
I try not to imagine her first shot, but see a young girl unable to
cope with a broken heart and broken dreams. Her arm shakes from fear;
she pierces the needle into her skin. She is anxious to fly, even with broken wings.
My mind hurls dark images at me, darker than the blood broken inside her hand.
The blood that hurts for it’s fix, it’s relief. I try not to see her lying lifeless in a
dirty room. When Her weak arm betrays her, she jabs the relief into her thigh. I hate this
place. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see this. I close my eyes, but can’t help
but see her shaking, sweating, moaning cries of death in a dark alley. It is darker than
the blood that has broken inside her hand from when her veins refused to take that
poison. She stabs relief between each finger. I stare at Her hands. The
hand she pierces with is small, like Mine. I need to vomit like she did last night.
Tangled, sticky hair reminds her of the suffering and tears she does not remember.
I am scared. I Disconnect, Detest, Dehumanize, like People who live in fear.
“I hope it all works out for you,” I say. She smiles a hopeless smile
like the one I have forced too many times. She is genuine, thankful,
and human. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to act. I swallow vomit.
It hurts, but I will not let it out. I will not let it out. She is broken and
dead; I am broken and living. How can I pretend not to know her? We are related by
blood; we both bleed red. I know everything, but love her like family.
I pretend not to notice the connection. I laugh when my friend says, “crazy druggie.”
I laugh until I cry, since I can’t cry any other way. I wipe My tears with My sleeves.
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Gray Area of Faith (Adam the atheist and Adam the priest)
Recently I was talking to lisa about attending Peace Day in the Park. I told her I would be attending with Adam. She responded with, “Adam the atheist or Adam the priest?” which of course made me giggle considering how black and white that made it sound. While talking to Adam (the atheist) this evening we were discussing the spiritual views of Karen Armstrong the ex-nun who is now a religious scholar and no longer religious. He asked if she was an atheist, but I responded with “Well, I don’t know that she believes in God per se, but I think she is still spiritual. I can’t really tell, because once you leave organized religion it all gets to be a gray area.” I began thinking about religion and spirituality as a whole after this conversation. My initial response was that the religious spectrum could be similar to the scale used in psychology about sexual orientation, where very few are entirely gay or straight or exactly in the middle. Most of us lean one way from somewhere in the middle. I thought about my brother who is atheist and believes that everyone should be and compared him with the regular attending “church people” who believe that everyone should be like them. I realized that beliefs are all a gray area, because it is so complex. I feel like everyone judges faith and people in general on one question, “Do you or don’t you believe in God.” Everyone has different ideas of God. Some individuals' God hates other people who believe in the “same God.” I don’t think this praising of a higher power can be summed up in one three-letter word.
My friend, Adam (the [aspiring] priest) once told me a story that I believe came from Buddhism. The story was something about how 3 blind men come across an elephant. One man has a hold of the leg; another has a hold of the trunk, while the other has a hold of the tail. Each man describes what he feels. Each man’s description is different and missing the big picture of the elephant, but that does not mean he is not describing the elephant. He claims that is what religions do. They each describe pieces of truth that they can cling on to, but no one will ever see the whole elephant, because we are all blindfolded.
I feel so restricted spiritually. I feel like I could just fly if someone would unchain me, but everyone is afraid of where I might fly. I once talked with April about how despite everyone’s fronts of having strong faiths, we are all so vulnerable and feel better to know we have support. That is why everyone pretends to care about your belief system and feels offended when you disagree with his or hers. There are very few people in the world who will accept you for your beliefs alone when you do not adhere to a particular label. They all want you to see their truth, which isn’t necessarily the truth you are seeking. Everyone can talk religion and their beliefs, but I know very few people who live it. The people who seem to live it the most are usually the ones who are open with the fact that they can’t live their faith at all times. The people who I feel most spiritual with are the ones who are exceptionally self-aware by realizing their weaknesses and accepting them (whether they believe in God or not). That is an incredibly difficult task, and while everyone (myself included) can claim to be accepting of his or her faults I find that not to be the case. That kind of acceptance takes a lot of meditation, mindfulness, and maturity, which is scorned upon in our technological society. My friends get upset when I want to spend a night to myself, just sitting outside. I feel self-conscious when people see me sitting alone outside, doing nothing. I always have the protection of my ipod, computer, or phone around just like everyone else to let people know "I have stuff to do. I am important." I find the more I sit outside alone the more at peace I feel, but the more isolated I feel when I am with my friends and other people my age.
I believe the reason that I am feeling spiritually dead is because I am undergoing a big transformation that will be beneficial in the long run. I find that I feel a lot less instances of paranoia that someone is watching me or judging my thoughts, but a lot more moments of peace and self-acceptance. I read a lot of spiritual books still, so I know that there has to be something in me that seeks more than anything I have ever come across spiritually. I have many mentors on every aspect of the belief system and as helpful as they all are, I don’t like the way most of them don’t entirely support my beliefs if they are different than their own.. I feel frustrated, because I feel that I am supportive of most people’s belief systems, but very few are supportive of mine. I have many people that “tolerate” my beliefs, but I think that should be a given. I am okay where I am at, which could be a first. I don’t feel like I need to change anything about where I am at, and that makes me feel good. Maybe maturity is not so far away.
My friend, Adam (the [aspiring] priest) once told me a story that I believe came from Buddhism. The story was something about how 3 blind men come across an elephant. One man has a hold of the leg; another has a hold of the trunk, while the other has a hold of the tail. Each man describes what he feels. Each man’s description is different and missing the big picture of the elephant, but that does not mean he is not describing the elephant. He claims that is what religions do. They each describe pieces of truth that they can cling on to, but no one will ever see the whole elephant, because we are all blindfolded.
I feel so restricted spiritually. I feel like I could just fly if someone would unchain me, but everyone is afraid of where I might fly. I once talked with April about how despite everyone’s fronts of having strong faiths, we are all so vulnerable and feel better to know we have support. That is why everyone pretends to care about your belief system and feels offended when you disagree with his or hers. There are very few people in the world who will accept you for your beliefs alone when you do not adhere to a particular label. They all want you to see their truth, which isn’t necessarily the truth you are seeking. Everyone can talk religion and their beliefs, but I know very few people who live it. The people who seem to live it the most are usually the ones who are open with the fact that they can’t live their faith at all times. The people who I feel most spiritual with are the ones who are exceptionally self-aware by realizing their weaknesses and accepting them (whether they believe in God or not). That is an incredibly difficult task, and while everyone (myself included) can claim to be accepting of his or her faults I find that not to be the case. That kind of acceptance takes a lot of meditation, mindfulness, and maturity, which is scorned upon in our technological society. My friends get upset when I want to spend a night to myself, just sitting outside. I feel self-conscious when people see me sitting alone outside, doing nothing. I always have the protection of my ipod, computer, or phone around just like everyone else to let people know "I have stuff to do. I am important." I find the more I sit outside alone the more at peace I feel, but the more isolated I feel when I am with my friends and other people my age.
I believe the reason that I am feeling spiritually dead is because I am undergoing a big transformation that will be beneficial in the long run. I find that I feel a lot less instances of paranoia that someone is watching me or judging my thoughts, but a lot more moments of peace and self-acceptance. I read a lot of spiritual books still, so I know that there has to be something in me that seeks more than anything I have ever come across spiritually. I have many mentors on every aspect of the belief system and as helpful as they all are, I don’t like the way most of them don’t entirely support my beliefs if they are different than their own.. I feel frustrated, because I feel that I am supportive of most people’s belief systems, but very few are supportive of mine. I have many people that “tolerate” my beliefs, but I think that should be a given. I am okay where I am at, which could be a first. I don’t feel like I need to change anything about where I am at, and that makes me feel good. Maybe maturity is not so far away.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Breathing
I am very spiritually frustrated lately. I require more time and effort to attempt to center myself, but I am proud of the way that I am making time to do so. Instead of doing what other people want me to do I am taking care of my mental health. I learned the hard way what happens when you ignore it too much. I have found solace from just sitting outside and breathing mindfully. Attempts to pray are not helping, writing is not helping me as much as it used to, and I just don’t feel present and observant to my surroundings like I would like to be. The strange thing is, that everything else is going fine, if not good. I feel like even though the depression was most likely Biological, losing my faith may have sparked it. I had been fighting for years to believe and I grew exhausted and frustrated to the point where I stopped trying. Now that I am doing better I am looking for a type of spirituality/faith that works for me.
I don’t think I will ever be able to join one organized religion again, but I will always need people to talk about spirituality with. I need people that are open minded and confident enough in their beliefs to be open-minded and not push their beliefs on me. I love talking with my friend Adam. We have very different ideas of faith, but at the same time we have so much passion and common ground that we both feel more understood with one another than with many of the people who might claim our same religious “label.” I have many mentor figures in my life that I like to talk spirituality with. They come from many different denominations and belief systems. I really do not care what religious beliefs someone holds, but instead I judge them based on their actions and love. I can sense someone with a genuine sense of faith or spirituality from a mile away. They just glow with a love for life and every thing in it. Some may argue, “If someone believes racism is acceptable, but is nice to different races, then that is still wrong.” I agree. I think if they really believed that racism was okay, it would be clear that their friendliness was not genuine and/or they would probably talk about it even if only in the privacy of their own home. By them admitting to being racist, that would be an action that would be worth judging someone over. When it comes to belief in different religious views I think actions speak louder than anything else. The people that are preaching to everyone usually have a lot of their own issues they are denying, where someone who is doing good works out of love whether it be for a god or not are the people that really inspire me.
I don’t blog as frequently, because I spend all of my writing time working on pieces to take to the writers group I am in. We meet once a week and with work, friends, and trying to relax, I have to spend all of my writing time with a purpose. It is a great challenge and it keeps me motivated. I wish I always had something encouraging me to write so often for fun. I want to blog about a chapter of a book I just read. I wrote some quotes down, but I do not have time to really reflect on anything, because I have to find or write something to take to writers group tomorrow. I just keep breathing.
I don’t think I will ever be able to join one organized religion again, but I will always need people to talk about spirituality with. I need people that are open minded and confident enough in their beliefs to be open-minded and not push their beliefs on me. I love talking with my friend Adam. We have very different ideas of faith, but at the same time we have so much passion and common ground that we both feel more understood with one another than with many of the people who might claim our same religious “label.” I have many mentor figures in my life that I like to talk spirituality with. They come from many different denominations and belief systems. I really do not care what religious beliefs someone holds, but instead I judge them based on their actions and love. I can sense someone with a genuine sense of faith or spirituality from a mile away. They just glow with a love for life and every thing in it. Some may argue, “If someone believes racism is acceptable, but is nice to different races, then that is still wrong.” I agree. I think if they really believed that racism was okay, it would be clear that their friendliness was not genuine and/or they would probably talk about it even if only in the privacy of their own home. By them admitting to being racist, that would be an action that would be worth judging someone over. When it comes to belief in different religious views I think actions speak louder than anything else. The people that are preaching to everyone usually have a lot of their own issues they are denying, where someone who is doing good works out of love whether it be for a god or not are the people that really inspire me.
I don’t blog as frequently, because I spend all of my writing time working on pieces to take to the writers group I am in. We meet once a week and with work, friends, and trying to relax, I have to spend all of my writing time with a purpose. It is a great challenge and it keeps me motivated. I wish I always had something encouraging me to write so often for fun. I want to blog about a chapter of a book I just read. I wrote some quotes down, but I do not have time to really reflect on anything, because I have to find or write something to take to writers group tomorrow. I just keep breathing.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Writers Block
Jane Bowles was a writer that was influential to the beat movement. John Ashbery was a critic for the NY Times Book Review, and he claimed she was “one of the greatest writers of fiction in any language.” Jane and her husband wrote together, but when Jane’s husband’s career took off without her she struggled with writing. She was frustrated with the way he wrote with ease, when she always had to work diligently on hers. She claimed she was “dying of writers block.” She used her creativity for other things and only wrote a few short stories throughout the rest of her life.
Natalie Goldberg is a talented writer of today. She is acclaimed for writing books about writing, and is an influential writing teacher to many. She claims that writers block does not exist, but is when we let our own critical voice stop us from sharing our ideas. She suggests writing everyday to practice, even if that means writing, “This is such crap. I can’t write anything.” Supposedly, this will get old and the good stuff will come out.
I understand where both are coming from, because lately I have been doing as Natalie Goldberg says and writing a bunch of random crap that is more like brainstorming, but it doesn’t lead to anything. I can see how Jane would claim she is “dying of writers block,” if this lasted for the rest of her life. Jane grew depressed as she approached death and died alone at a hospital in Spain in 1974. I think she grew depressed, because she stopped writing. I believe that everyone should write, even if it’s just a journal or list of random thoughts. I think it is a healthy way to deal with things, but I also think there are particular people that just have to write. I think I will always have to write, which is why it would be so nice to have it be a part of my career, but no matter where I end up I will be writing. I also realize there are events that will come in my life that will make me feel that I am unable to write. I have already faced some of those events, but I know I will always go back to typing like crazy at early hours of the morning or scribbling down random thoughts that don’t follow the lines in my notebook and are almost illegible.
I think my problem is that I am being too critical of my ideas, because I have less time to write these days, which means I feel pressure to write something good when I do have time. I used to write all of the time and would eventually come up with something. I want to do more poetry, but feel inexperienced and intimidated as a result of my lack of training in it. I love my writers group, because I feel like that is helping me improve and push myself, but part of me feels like I can’t grow as a writer until I start more English classes again. I realize with the two academic writing classes I have in the fall that I will probably not do much writing for fun, but I think academic writing helps me grow as a creative writer too. It gives me confidence and forces me to articulate ideas more clearly. I am blogging, because I have writers block, but am trying to follow Natalie Goldberg’s suggestions and just write. I used to have to do this for independent study a lot. Write on everyone.
Natalie Goldberg is a talented writer of today. She is acclaimed for writing books about writing, and is an influential writing teacher to many. She claims that writers block does not exist, but is when we let our own critical voice stop us from sharing our ideas. She suggests writing everyday to practice, even if that means writing, “This is such crap. I can’t write anything.” Supposedly, this will get old and the good stuff will come out.
I understand where both are coming from, because lately I have been doing as Natalie Goldberg says and writing a bunch of random crap that is more like brainstorming, but it doesn’t lead to anything. I can see how Jane would claim she is “dying of writers block,” if this lasted for the rest of her life. Jane grew depressed as she approached death and died alone at a hospital in Spain in 1974. I think she grew depressed, because she stopped writing. I believe that everyone should write, even if it’s just a journal or list of random thoughts. I think it is a healthy way to deal with things, but I also think there are particular people that just have to write. I think I will always have to write, which is why it would be so nice to have it be a part of my career, but no matter where I end up I will be writing. I also realize there are events that will come in my life that will make me feel that I am unable to write. I have already faced some of those events, but I know I will always go back to typing like crazy at early hours of the morning or scribbling down random thoughts that don’t follow the lines in my notebook and are almost illegible.
I think my problem is that I am being too critical of my ideas, because I have less time to write these days, which means I feel pressure to write something good when I do have time. I used to write all of the time and would eventually come up with something. I want to do more poetry, but feel inexperienced and intimidated as a result of my lack of training in it. I love my writers group, because I feel like that is helping me improve and push myself, but part of me feels like I can’t grow as a writer until I start more English classes again. I realize with the two academic writing classes I have in the fall that I will probably not do much writing for fun, but I think academic writing helps me grow as a creative writer too. It gives me confidence and forces me to articulate ideas more clearly. I am blogging, because I have writers block, but am trying to follow Natalie Goldberg’s suggestions and just write. I used to have to do this for independent study a lot. Write on everyone.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Growth
Today I found all three of my journals from trips to South Dakota. They are always short, because we stay so busy on the reservation. I am glad Jon makes us keep a journal while we are there, because I don’t know that I would have made time to write my first trip. It is so fascinating to see how I grew from trip to trip. The South Dakota trips were a huge part of my coming into my own identity. I don’t think that I would have been a different person if I had not gone, but I do think they helped me realize who I was at a faster rate. I am not claiming to know entirely who I am, and I don’t know that I ever will. I had a conversation with a friend of mine in her mid twenties up at school, and when I told her I still had a hard time understanding who I am she said, “I’m twenty-five and I still struggle with that.” We began reflecting on self-awareness, and I don’t know that there is ever a stopping point. It coexists with growth, because it never stops completely.
I think the South Dakota trips helped me push aside any feelings I felt of depression, because they would jump-start my spirit again. Even as I reflect on them now I can’t help but feel some of the power they made me feel. If it were not for the South Dakota trips, then I probably wouldn’t have became friends with Drew, which means I probably wouldn’t have ran cross country. I would have never met April, who has influenced my life in too many ways to mention. If I didn’t meet April, then I would not be friends with Adam. Adam is my first peer that understands and encourages my spirituality, and I have needed someone my own age to do that for so long. If I had not gone to South Dakota, then I would not have met Ryan who is extremely supportive of my writing and is always someone I can message about a new book or spiritual idea. If I would not have gone to South Dakota, then I don’t think I would like Jon or even think about keeping in touch with him. I am thankful for all of these relationships and my life would be very different without them.
I am going to include some excerpts from the three journals. A lot changed from journal to journal, but I also noticed I had many of the same struggles and feelings throughout them. I also noticed plenty of symptoms of depression that I didn’t recognize then.
August 12-18, 2004 (TRIP #1)
8-13: Night Prayer
“I noticed when I met individuals [on the reservation] they would look down as if to shake my hand, but they would not make the first move. It was almost like they didn’t want to be rejected. When they saw me extend my hand they would always smile. It made me feel honored to meet them.”
Here is a poem I wrote at Wounded Knee. I was only 16 (and it shows). I like the last two lines though and it is enough for me to remember what I felt and where I was.
I am sitting above people superior to me.
It’s not fair the way things happen.
They were so proud, strong, wise, and young.
The wind touches my cheek like it is comforting me.
I listen carefully, hoping for advice.
I can feel the presence of their spirits.
It makes me realize the lack of mine.
8-20-04
“It is hard to explain how I feel regarding this trip. I felt so uncomfortable and stepped so far out of my comfort zone. I think that helped me grow yet it separated me from my friends here. It makes me feel alone.”
March 29-April 3, 2005 (Trip #2)
3-30
“I have mixed emotions right now. I really don’t want to be pessimistic, but I do not feel like I am making a difference at all. I see so many teenagers that seem to be in defense mode against us. That is improving, but we are not here enough to help them face everything they struggle with or for them to relate to us…Everyone here has such different motives. I know we all want to help, but I can’t help but wonder, are we all selfish? I know we are not better than any of the people we are helping yet they suffer so much. It makes me feel very guilty.”
4-1
“Experiencing nature by hearing the wind on the rocks, the birds all around, and just inhaling the pure, fresh air was nice. It felt very spiritually cleansing, although I still do not feel the spiritual strength I am hoping to accomplish. I pray that tomorrow will go well and I will become stronger in my faith.”
August 1-7, 2006 (Trip #3)
8-2
“I am once again struggling with my faith. I am sitting in the exact same room where I was writing about fighting for my faith two years ago. A tremendous amount has changed, but I am still struggling in the same way. This time I can communicate my struggles better, though.”
8-3 (At Wounded Knee)
“I am at the left foot of Lost Bird’s grave. The breeze is hitting my left cheek, as well as my back. I feel numb to all of this. I don’t feel happy, but I don’t really feel sad like I have in the past. Sue is playing her flute and it is calming. I am thinking about Mimi, and I don’t feel fully present in the moment. I feel like I need to breathe to take it all in. The wind is blowing dust in my eye and I keep getting lost in my selfishness. Life is tragic. When I look at someone’s gravesite I like to imagine what their life was like when they were happy. I often wonder what made them laugh. When I look out at the hills I feel unreal. It’s like I don’t exist. I think that is what death will feel like. It’s not a bad feeling. I kind of like it.”
8-6 (Closing Night Prayer)
“This week I was reminded what it feels like to be alive. I was so numb and almost in a state of weird depression. I came to understand that I can be articulate and strong. I was also reminded of my spiritual doubt and trust issues…I forgot what it feels like to be in an environment where people really do care about my spirituality…I was reminded that I do need people, but I can stand alone.”
I think the South Dakota trips helped me push aside any feelings I felt of depression, because they would jump-start my spirit again. Even as I reflect on them now I can’t help but feel some of the power they made me feel. If it were not for the South Dakota trips, then I probably wouldn’t have became friends with Drew, which means I probably wouldn’t have ran cross country. I would have never met April, who has influenced my life in too many ways to mention. If I didn’t meet April, then I would not be friends with Adam. Adam is my first peer that understands and encourages my spirituality, and I have needed someone my own age to do that for so long. If I had not gone to South Dakota, then I would not have met Ryan who is extremely supportive of my writing and is always someone I can message about a new book or spiritual idea. If I would not have gone to South Dakota, then I don’t think I would like Jon or even think about keeping in touch with him. I am thankful for all of these relationships and my life would be very different without them.
I am going to include some excerpts from the three journals. A lot changed from journal to journal, but I also noticed I had many of the same struggles and feelings throughout them. I also noticed plenty of symptoms of depression that I didn’t recognize then.
August 12-18, 2004 (TRIP #1)
8-13: Night Prayer
“I noticed when I met individuals [on the reservation] they would look down as if to shake my hand, but they would not make the first move. It was almost like they didn’t want to be rejected. When they saw me extend my hand they would always smile. It made me feel honored to meet them.”
Here is a poem I wrote at Wounded Knee. I was only 16 (and it shows). I like the last two lines though and it is enough for me to remember what I felt and where I was.
I am sitting above people superior to me.
It’s not fair the way things happen.
They were so proud, strong, wise, and young.
The wind touches my cheek like it is comforting me.
I listen carefully, hoping for advice.
I can feel the presence of their spirits.
It makes me realize the lack of mine.
8-20-04
“It is hard to explain how I feel regarding this trip. I felt so uncomfortable and stepped so far out of my comfort zone. I think that helped me grow yet it separated me from my friends here. It makes me feel alone.”
March 29-April 3, 2005 (Trip #2)
3-30
“I have mixed emotions right now. I really don’t want to be pessimistic, but I do not feel like I am making a difference at all. I see so many teenagers that seem to be in defense mode against us. That is improving, but we are not here enough to help them face everything they struggle with or for them to relate to us…Everyone here has such different motives. I know we all want to help, but I can’t help but wonder, are we all selfish? I know we are not better than any of the people we are helping yet they suffer so much. It makes me feel very guilty.”
4-1
“Experiencing nature by hearing the wind on the rocks, the birds all around, and just inhaling the pure, fresh air was nice. It felt very spiritually cleansing, although I still do not feel the spiritual strength I am hoping to accomplish. I pray that tomorrow will go well and I will become stronger in my faith.”
August 1-7, 2006 (Trip #3)
8-2
“I am once again struggling with my faith. I am sitting in the exact same room where I was writing about fighting for my faith two years ago. A tremendous amount has changed, but I am still struggling in the same way. This time I can communicate my struggles better, though.”
8-3 (At Wounded Knee)
“I am at the left foot of Lost Bird’s grave. The breeze is hitting my left cheek, as well as my back. I feel numb to all of this. I don’t feel happy, but I don’t really feel sad like I have in the past. Sue is playing her flute and it is calming. I am thinking about Mimi, and I don’t feel fully present in the moment. I feel like I need to breathe to take it all in. The wind is blowing dust in my eye and I keep getting lost in my selfishness. Life is tragic. When I look at someone’s gravesite I like to imagine what their life was like when they were happy. I often wonder what made them laugh. When I look out at the hills I feel unreal. It’s like I don’t exist. I think that is what death will feel like. It’s not a bad feeling. I kind of like it.”
8-6 (Closing Night Prayer)
“This week I was reminded what it feels like to be alive. I was so numb and almost in a state of weird depression. I came to understand that I can be articulate and strong. I was also reminded of my spiritual doubt and trust issues…I forgot what it feels like to be in an environment where people really do care about my spirituality…I was reminded that I do need people, but I can stand alone.”
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