A bit of poetry...

Sitting in front of a computer screen

Because I promised myself

I would spontaneously erupt in poetry

Whenever I could

Because words give substance to

Fleeting moments.

They help me to hold

What I experience

(and often forget)

And share it (timidly).

***

My soul overflows with

Unsuppressed belly laughs.

Courage surges – pushing

Aside reservations.

We’re friends here.

Stories spoken

Over a meal

Fixed together

Become prayers

Making holy

This interchange

Of hearts and souls.

(Imagine that –

deep-fried eggplant

catalyzing

what is sacred).

We meet in these moments

Of untapped potential

And we bring life to them

With words and looks that say:

“Sister, you’re not alone.”

In the day-to-day,

In what seems mundane,

I begin to believe that I

Am resigned to that which

Passes me by.

And maybe I miss moments

Where what seems ordinary

Goes careening into

The extraordinary.

Let love seep in (like the warmth that radiates from your coffee cup into your whole body)

I recently rediscovered this piece I wrote a while back, after living in Spain for about a month. It still very much speaks to where I am at right now. I hope you enjoy!

***

One of my favorite things about Spanish life (perhaps coming close behind the daily siesta, which is awesome) is the café culture. You can order a café con leche (way better than Starbucks, trust me), and linger for hours without fear of being bothered every five minutes (they don’t tip here), or being pressured to buy something else, or having to make room for the next party (the café next door is probably better anyway).

Maybe the Spanish air is getting to me, but crazy as this sounds, I’d really like to get a café con leche with Jesus sometime. I’d like to know what he thinks of my latest adventures, like the weekend I spent practically dancing my way through the narrow cobblestone streets of Córdoba. (On the other hand, I’m far less curious to know how he felt when I spent an entire afternoon alternating between napping and Facebook).

I imagine he would sit across from me, with a gentle, laughing smile. I would tell him about my new friends and the way the birds swarm in the trees near my room at night. He would chuckle upon hearing me describe my language slip-ups, and he would appear saddened – tears of empathy in his eyes – to hear of my pangs of longing for friends and family who are far away.

He’d probably let me blabber on incessantly, nodding his head encouragingly, only occasionally breaking my monologue to say something like, “go on,” or “then what?” or “how did you feel about that?”

And then finally it would come time to go home, because after three hours of this, you really do need a siesta, and I would turn to him and say, “thanks for the coffee,” because of course he treated, and I would be just about to push open the door when I would realize that I had never asked him, at least not with any intentionality, how he was doing.

So I would walk to the bar (because of course he had to ask the bartender about his family), glancing at my watch on the way over (because 5 minutes of lost siesta time is precious), and he would smile at me and introduce me to the bartender, and brag about the man’s kindness toward every one of his costumers.

Then he would let the bartender attend to a new customer, and look at me intently, as if to say, “Well? You have my attention. Now what do you want?”

And I would feel rather silly, not knowing what it was I wanted to say, and it would be quiet for a moment, and then for a minute, and then for two. Him gazing at me with eyes full of kindness, me feeling less and less inclined to say anything at all that would break this sweet silence.

Then suddenly, disarmingly, he would speak into the silence, and his words would hang in the air and send life shooting through my veins, like a plant that has long been without water.

And I cannot tell you what he would say (because that’s just between him and me), but I will tell you this much.

He really loves me.

***

This is my prayer lately:

“May your unfailing love rest upon us,

O Lord,

Even as we put our hope in you.”

– Psalm 33:23

I long to rest in his love: this radical, sacrificial love that never quits, never falls short, never fails.

I want to remain still long enough to let him in, to let his love seep into the soil around me and be soaked up by my roots, bringing life to that which was dead in me.

In a despairing world that is so quick to choose the route of self-sufficiency, I choose the path of trust.

May we linger, soaking in the moments of solitude we are given, allowing Love to usher in the optimism and courage we need for today.

Things I love and things I love (to hate)

Uy! Lo siento!

It's been an awfully long time since I've updated this little piece of the interwebz.

I have no good excuse, except to say that I've been relishing the slower-moving Spanish culture that deems it appropriate to lounge around at a café for hours with friends and take a siesta every afternoon.

That said, I have a lot of catching up to do. I'm hoping to write some more detailed blogs soon, but in the meantime, here's the short and sweet of what I'm loving and what I'm not such a huge fan of here in Granada.

Top 10 things I love and things I love (to hate) in Granada

1. Tres chic children. LOVE. Granted, kids are almost always cute, (allowing for tantrums, food-slinging babies, and biting -- I can't deal with biting), but put a 3-year-old in a pink polo shirt and he just gets 10 times cuter. (Speaking of pink, I'm always surprised by how many boys wear pink, both children and youth -- not so many adults though). It seems as though all Spanish children are dressed to the 9s. There are childrens' clothing stores everywhere (my tiny street has two very posh ones). I have no clue how parents can afford to dress their children so well, but hey, during the two months they can wear that shirt, they sure make it look adorable.
2. Walking to class. LOVE/HATE. I really do enjoy being able to walk everywhere, but the hill to my college is positively massive. It's a 20 minute walk, uphill all the way. On the upside (no pun intended), my calves are getting a killer workout. That is to say that by the time I collapse into bed at night, pain is shooting through my legs. I'm hoping that will wear off soon...
3. Motocicleta madness! Impassioned hate. I can't begin to count how many times I've almost been nailed by a motorcycle, often times because they aren't following traffic signals. Motos are hip, cheap and convenient. (Girls wear sandals, dresses and big jewelry). They are also deadly.
4. Being known by the locals. LOVE. I got a haircut once at the salon in my neighborhood, and now every morning when I pass by on my way to class, Carmen and Jesus wave and say hello. Once, Carmen demanded that I come in and tell her how I was doing. She even styled my hair for free the other day.
5. Fruterías. LOVE. Fruterías sell the best fruit you've ever tasted, at ridiculously low prices. Whereas tomatoes in the U.S. are picked before they are ripe, making for a tasteless fruit, tomatoes here are fresh. You have to eat them in a couple of days, before they go bad, but man oh man are they good. I bought a fruit called chirimoya the other day and shared it with friends. You peel off the green outer skin and scoop out the white flesh inside. It looked like monkey brain, but it was a delicious, squishy, rich fruit -- the best comparison I can come up with is a mango/guava hybrid. They're grown in Latin America, so if you have a chance, try one!
6. Dog poop. HATE. Almost all the dogs I've seen have been incredibly small, but they make up for their size by being prolific poopers. And their owners are atrocious pooper scoopers. This combination makes for sidewalks that are not friendly to sightseers. I'm looking down at my feet a lot more than I'd like.
7. Siestas. LOVE. I don't think I've had so many successive napping days since I was a toddler. The days end up feeling longer, because I stay up later with more energy, rather than trying to get as much done as possible on an exhausted brain.
8. Professors' teaching styles. Rather than hate, I'm just going to say that I dislike this particular facet of attending a Spanish university. Professors in Spain are infamous for their lectures -- many will just sit at a desk and talk at students for a solid two hours without any visual aids, notes or student participation. I have fascinating professors who allow for questions, but I don't think my professors will be the most engaging teachers I've ever had. Having to concentrate extra hard just on what someone is saying makes this lecture style particularly exhausting. Thank goodness for siestas.
9. Young people walking arm-in-arm with old people. LOVE. I crossed paths today with a dredded-20-something guy walking an elderly man down the street, their arms linked. This is something I never dreamed of seeing. Young people -- think high school/college age students -- walk arm-in-arm with grandparents, going on errands or just out for a stroll enjoying the sunshine. The kind of community I see going on here all the time makes me smile. People really love to be around each other, especially with family.
10. Live music in the streets. LOVE. Accordions, violins and guitars are all fairly common sights, and people play very well. While wandering through the Albaicín the other day, my friend and I stumbled upon two Irish young men who were playing guitar (they were some of the hippies who find cheap places to live - often in caves - and smoke weed together every night in the plaza looking over the Alhambra). Anyway, only one of them was playing, because they only had one guitar. And he was playing with such tenderness - practically caressing the instrument - as he played a Nick Drake tune. I'll leave you with the original.

As they say in Spain, no hay prisa -- there's no hurry. Take time to enjoy your coffee today. Spend time listening to your family members talk about their day. Stop and listen to any music you stumble upon in your day, be it in the streets or on Pandora.

And then share it with those you love.

A world of paradox in Córdoba

I was jarred, to say the least, by the strangeness of my circumstances a couple of days ago. To call my whereabouts paradoxical would be an understatement.

I’m still feeling caught off balance, for lack of a better word, but I’ll do my best to describe what happened in order to hopefully achieve a bit of clarity.

On Sunday afternoon, I found myself sitting in a pew of the Córdoba cathedral, staring at the ornately decorated ceiling and feeling slightly sick to the stomach. The elaborate décor was nauseating, especially after having spent a long day in 100+ degree heat.

But the over-the-top architecture was but a small part of the strange feeling that was beginning to build inside of me. During my visit to the cathedral, I felt an oppressive weight that threatened to push me into the floor.

This was no ordinary cathedral. The Córdoba cathedral is superimposed within the confines of what was once the second largest mosque in the world (only Mecca was bigger). It is located in a city that was the capital of the Muslim world for hundreds of years.

The Catholic Kings defeated the Muslims in 1236, and in a show of power and religious domination, built the cathedral in the middle of the mosque.

You could say that history repeats itself.

The Muslims had built the mosque on the site of a Visigoth church, which had replaced a Roman temple in years prior.

Every succeeding religious/political group (because this site is deeply intertwined with both sides of the coin), took pieces from the people they conquered to tell their own story of victory. This is a common historical phenomenon. It’s actually identified by psychologists as victor’s amnesia, where the winner tells their version of the story, forgetting the story of the people who were defeated.

What’s not so common is the way in which the Córdoba cathedral/mosque personifies this phenomenon so explicitly. Only in Córdoba can you see a catholic crucifix juxtaposed with Arabic architecture, swirling arches and words from the Koran on the same wall as the bleeding Christ.

The Catholic church allows its members to worship inside the cathedral, but attempts by Muslims to use the mosque for its intended purposes have been denied.

Could this possibly get any weirder? Actually, yes, it could.

For me, the paradox of the Córdoba mosque/cathedral became intensely personal when I realized mid-conversation with a Spanish friend that it was the 10^th anniversary of the September 11^th attacks.

I was an American in Spain, in a city that was once the Muslim capital of the world, in a building that was once a Muslim mosque, turned Catholic cathedral and is now a bizarre and beautiful mixture of both worlds, 10 years after the tragic attacks that are oft attributed to religious fanatics of Muslim origin.

I don’t write this merely to be provocative (although the experience certainly provoked confusion and wonder in me). Primarily, I want to raise a big question:

“Are we willing to listen to the whole story?”

There are so many layers to any story. At some occasions it’s just more obvious than at others.

Dirt and brick and stone and mortar.

Blood and tears.

Prayers and petitions.

Things are not as simple as history textbooks, or newspapers or friends and family make them out to be.

What is more, many of us have the luxury of being born into a lineage of victors. Politically, religiously, geographically, racially, economically… I could go on, but I don’t want to belabor this any more than I already have.

Truth be told, I often don’t pay too much mind to the oppressed, the grieving, the poor, the marginalized… their voices are very, very quiet. And there are a lot of other voices that are very, very loud.

But on Sunday, those small voices were louder still. The whispers of mourning wives, starving children, expelled communities, homeless gypsies, imprisoned fathers… they all swirled together in a cacophonic choir that made my soul shudder and want to cry:

“Will we be people of compassion or hatred? Will we be communities of justice or tyranny?”

Oh, that we would listen! That we would be people of compassion, listening to the voices of those who have come before us and those who live among us, who do not yell, and only sometimes can manage a whisper. I long for this world to be transformed by communities of people enacting justice for those who cannot stand for themselves.

God, help us. We’re going crazy down here, and we sure can't do this alone.

Leave your hand print

I saw this "graffiti" on a wall in the Albayzín the other day. (There's a lot of unique and often-times-beautiful graffiti in Granada).

I was reminded of my first trip to Costa Rica my freshman year of high school.

My team was painting a local high school. The walls were light blue. The trim was dark blue. And then someone had the bright idea to smack their hands, covered in dark blue paint, onto the light blue, freshly painted walls.

Of course I couldn't help but join in on the fun.

That day didn't exactly end well. We had to paint over the hand prints (and I distinctly remember blaming one of the Costa Rican students for initiating our gleeful art party, something I'm not proud of). But I've always been rather fond of hand-printed walls.

We long to leave our mark wherever we go.

We scrawl our names on bathroom stalls and carve our allegiances into trees. We long for the Employee/Student/Ridiculously Good Looking Human Being of the Month award to be hung on a wall where it will proclaim our significance to the world.

Graffiti: it's what we do.

However, I'm convinced it's the invisible hand prints -- the impact we have on the people around us -- that are of eternal consequence.

There is something within the human spirit that compels us to strive for significance. When we pair that with an inspired compassion for the people around us, we begin to move from selfishness to generosity.

I was inspired today by this quote from Ray Basile that I read on the Edge Project:

“Before you arrived you mattered.

After you arrived you mattered.

When you leave you will matter even more.

You will leave behind a beautiful footprint.

Because you matter, I will be forever changed.

You will not matter any less when you’re gone.

When we choose to take the risk to love without

holding back we make people matter.

My only hope for you now is that you’ll care for

yourself like you matter.

I’m counting on it because you matter so very

much to me.

I love you and I will miss you.”

Word.

Rhythm in my soul

I imagine there are few experiences comparable to one’s first encounter with a live performance of flamenco. For me, the experience was life-giving. Two days later, I can still feel the rhythm of the music throbbing through my veins.

Should you ever find yourself in Southern Spain, promise me this: that you will go to the caves of Sacromonte to see a performance of flamenco music and dance.

Tucked deep in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada are the caves of Sacromonte (“Holy Mountain” – so named for the relics of Spanish martyrs who are buried here). The whitewashed caves and houses that cover these hills are home to the gitanos – the gypsy people who call Spain home.

The world owes a great debt to the gitanos – an incredibly marginalized people who have contributed a quintessential element of culture to this country. Thanks to the gitanos, the music readily identified with Spain is flamenco.

I knew coming to Granada that seeing a flamenco show was of paramount importance. Since taking a class on the intersection of literature and music in Spanish-speaking culture, the emotion and passion of this art form have captivated me, even though I was only watching videos on YouTube. (Check out this video from Estrella Morente, one of the greatest flamenco singers of all time).

I consulted with a guy who works at the cafeteria at my colegio to find out the best place in the city to catch a flamenco show.

The caves of Sacromonte, he told me. Definitely.

And then, as a seemingly unimportant afterthought, he added,

I have a friend who has a cave.

“What?!” I thought. “OK, we just arrived at a whole new level of awesome.”

He gave me his friend’s name and him down online. After a few phone calls (and a bit of haggling over the price), my friends and I were set to see a performance of zambra (a style of music and dance created by the gitanos that is similar to flamenco).

A few hours later, we found ourselves in a small-whitewashed cave called La Canestera. (I didn’t realize it at the time, but apparently this cave has played host to many famous visitors including Henry Fonda, Debbie Reynolds and Ernest Hemingway). The walls were covered in photographs from past artists and visitors, and from the ceiling hung copper pots and pans of a myriad of shapes and sizes. The rustic decorations stood in contrast to bright light bulbs (housed in antique lanterns), whose light bounced off the metal objects, making the room sparkle.

The audience was small – some 35 people – and the setting was incredibly intimate. We were seated in chairs that lined the inside walls of the cave, with the “stage” running its length and the artists seated at one end.

And then it began.

One man began to tap his foot on the tile floor. He was quickly joined by the woman next to him, who began to stomp, and then to clap. Soon, the artists were all stomping, clapping, punctuating the silence of the cavern with their sharp, complicated rhythm.

It seemed as though every artist contributed a different beat, and yet every single sound was woven together seamlessly into an intricate tapestry by the sweet melody of a guitar.

I was drawn into the music, my heartbeat reverberating through my body. My body was involuntarily participating in this divine song, as if it had always known how, but I had never presented the opportunity.

Then the voices – oh! The voices!

A middle-aged woman began to sing in a low murmur – a kind of deep, soulful groaning. And then she grew louder, her rich alto voice resonating throughout the room, soaked in longing and steeped in sorrow.

The clapping and stomping continued, as one voice after another joined in, adding complex layers of melody and harmony. Every voice was distinct – their owners were young and old, male and female – but they came together in a chorus that swelled into peaks of joy and subsided into aching sadness.

The energy was positively infectious.

The dancing began: Swirling skirts, pounding heels and clicking castanets added beauty and intricacy to the music.

Each movement had its purpose. Every gesture told a story.

The emotion of zambra is incredibly intense. Everything is done with intentionality. The dance is sad and seductive, jubilant and full of agony.

The performers ranged in age from a young teenage girl to an old woman. Watching the woman at these two extremes as they performed solos was fascinating. The younger was exacting, performing each movement with vivacity and with a suppressed smile that occasionally made its way to her lips for a fleeting moment. The older woman had a confidence and a grace that must come with years of learning to take oneself less seriously. I wouldn’t have thought it possible in a dance that requires so much downward movement, but she floated across the dance floor. It was remarkable.

The passion of the artists and the life they brought to their art was overwhelming. On multiple occasions I found myself short of breath.

Wide-eyed and enraptured, I had forgotten to breathe.

…

When have you found yourself completely caught up in the moment? I’d love to hear your story!

I was born for you;
what do you want of me, dear?

Look at all that has come from your wish:
the forests, the streams, the mountains,
the fields, every creature:
are these not your
playmates?

Do we give you comfort, God,
in Eternity?

We were born for you; don't be shy, Beloved.
Just tell us what you want

But in a language
that makes us
smile.

-- "Your Playmates" -- Santa Teresa de Ávila

Sunrise in Spain

I am sitting at my desk in my one person room, marveling at how, for one thing, I have a one person room for the first time ever in my college experience (and my own bathroom too!) and for another, that I'm in Spain.

I think it first hit me when I flew into Madrid’s Barajas airport at sunrise yesterday. The sky was stunning. I admit I don’t see too many sunrises, but this one was particularly beautiful, deep shades of orange, red and yellow, manipulating themselves into a myriad of shades as they bounced off the clouds.

Not a bad way to start off this adventure…

I was blessed to have a good friend send her friend to find me at the airport, and after some wandering around and a major fail when I tried to use the pay phone (what did we ever do without cell phones?!) we somehow managed to bump into one another. He graciously helped me to figure out the Metro and get set to go on the bus that drove me the 6 hours to Málaga, where my friend lives on the Southern Spanish coast.

My family hosted my friend this summer for a month, so to be able to meet her family and see where she lives (when she’s not hard at work in Madrid) was wonderful. I’m grateful for their hospitality. I was served an incredible dinner of tuna salad, Spanish tortilla (made of egg and potatoes – it’s really quite good), tiny shrimp in a spicy sauce, clams, shrimp (with head, feet and tails still attached), calamari fried in olive oil and bread, with grapes and a melon I had never had tasted before for dessert. It was excellent, but all through dinner my friend’s mom kept bringing out different items, and right when I polished off one kind of seafood, I had to find room to try another. Next time I'll know to eat more slowly!

Spaniards eat late, and by the time we were all said and done, it was around 10. I was tired, but I really wanted to see the ocean. My friend took me to the playa, where for a few minutes I swam in the Mediterranean. The warm water came as a pleasant surprise in the cool of the evening. I floated on my back watching the lights of planes flying into the Málaga airport and the smattering of stars above them.

Today my friend drove me to Granada. I was immediately taken in by the city's charming streets. They are incredibly narrow, often cobblestone, and some of them date back to Roman days. The buildings also are particularly striking – many of them appear to be ancient. Apparently there’s a law in Spain preventing a new owner of a building from tearing up the building’s façade, so as to preserve the historicity of towns and cities. It’s no wonder that the center of Granada looks like it is stuck in time.

We wandered through Granada, stepping aside against the walls occasionally to allow for a passing bus. The buses here are small in order to navigate the narrow streets, and in many spots, cars are not allowed -- just buses and taxis. This makes for relatively stress-free walking in the city's centro. The bigger concern for me was the cobblestone streets. When we were walking downhill I was particularly cautious and found myself looking down a lot, especially after I saw a woman fall. Tall clumsy girls and rock-covered streets don’t mix well.

And oh, does it get hot. It was in the mid 90s today (around 34 Celsius) and it wasn't miserable, but I made the mistake of walking all over the place without any water! The saving grace is to find a bar or restaurant and buy a drink (that comes with a free tapa). For just two Euros I got a Fanta and a delicious vegetable dish that made for a perfect snack. Or, if you’re really lucky, you might stumble across the fun discovery I made today. There are fountains with small spigots that pour water into a large stone basin below. You just go up and stick your mouth under and take a gulp! They are fine for drinking from, unless marked otherwise. Sometimes they stick the spigot into the head of a lion, which I think takes a drinking fountain to a whole new level.

Speaking of new levels, I took a bus up to el Mirador de San Nicolas, which is an outlook that offers an incredible view of the Alhambra, a palace from the days when the Moors ruled Spain. We listened to three gypsy men playing flamenco and singing while taking in this spectacular feat of architecture. La Alhambra sits on a hill overlooking the city, and the people who climbed to its highest tower must have had an absolutely stunning view. From where I sat, they looked like ants on an enormous, intricate sand castle that the ocean hasn't been able to wash away, despite the tides of intense change and the turbulence of conflict... (let’s hear it for cheesy-trying-too-hard-to-be-profound metaphors! Ole!

Hasta pronto!

Be generous - what I learned from a lifetime of savings bonds

I went to the bank today to cash in a handful of U.S. savings bonds that have been sitting in a lockbox for years, some of them as long as two decades, building up value.

These pieces of paper did absolutely nothing for the last twenty years except gather dust. Oh, and they provided an impetus for me to conjure up ideas of how I could use the money when I cashed them in. Someday. In the very distant future.

For a few of these pieces of paper, that day came today. The feeling of being handed a receipt with the total of the transaction was surreal.

All the waiting ended. Today.

Maybe that sounds rather melodramatic.

But get this: there’s a story to these bonds that is, I think, worth telling.

Before I could talk, heck, before I could do much more than spit up and cry and sleep, my grandparents and my great-grandmother began to invest in my future.

They entrusted my parents with a financial gift that bespeaks volumes about their character. The bonds I cashed today are representative of their generosity, their trust in my parents and their hope that I could do something worthwhile when I grew up.

Their ongoing generosity was a vote of confidence in my character – in the person I would become.

So I thought of them today when I handed the teller my endorsed bonds.

I thought of my great-grandmother, whose kind heart and generous spirit leaves an imprint on my soul today, years after her death.

I thought of my grandparents, whose legacy of generosity has radically impacted my own family, and, consequently, all of the people we come in contact with.

And I gave thanks.

While I’ll admit it was rather satisfying to make the government pay up, I was saddened to part with these pieces of paper.

Those bonds were a tangible reminder of an intangible gift.

People have believed in me since the moment I was born. Money is only a small piece of that. Really it’s the manifestation of something entirely invisible but far more powerful. When I was just a snot-nosed kid without any work skills to speak of, my family believed in me.

That’s some heavy responsibility.

I’m forced to ask myself a difficult question: What will I make of the opportunity I have been given?

Imagine with me for a moment:

What if there were human beings all over the world who were never offered comfort or confidence, wisdom or encouragement. Their dreams could never percolate because they were constantly pushed under the surface by people who called the would-be dreamers useless or stupid. The voices of disbelief would say that people will never amount to anything and everything is going to hell in a hand-basket anyway.

That would be a tragedy.

I resonate personally with these words spoken by Jesus to his friends, when they wanted to know if they were going to be held responsible for the way they lived. He told them:

“When someone has been given much, much will be required in return; and when someone has been entrusted with much, even more will be required.”

I have been given an invaluable gift: the gift of belief.

I become a thief if I fail to entrust others with the gift I have been given.

That’s the thing with generosity. Passing it on is requisite. Only once you have been generous can you experience the beauty of what others have done for you.

My hope is that we as human beings would become generous believers, living with open hands, encouraging tongues and a communal consciousness of the people to whom we owe our very lives.

May we walk the path of generosity and humility trodden by the many ordinary people with extraordinary hearts who came before us.

You are never alone.

And I believe in you.

Shine!

Sometimes I have this feeling when something in my life is so good and so right, that I really shouldn’t be the one enjoying it. Like maybe there’s a cosmic game of roulette being played today, and good luck just happened to come my way.

I have an amazing family, incredible friends, the opportunity to go to a great university without having to pay truckloads of cash, the chance to pursue my passions without worrying about how I’m going to make ends meet.

On my wiser days, I look at my life and I think, “What in the world have I done to deserve this?”

Then I’m reminded that I haven’t anything at all to earn what I most value in my life. I was born into much of this blessing.

So much of what I have is, at its essence, a gift.

There is much in my life to be thankful for.

The fact that I find myself asking the question, “How do I respond to this gift?” shows just exactly how far I have to go toward becoming the person whom I was created to be.

The response seems as though it would be so natural. Unfortunately, for me, most of the time it isn’t. My hope is that with practice, when I experience good, the outflow of my spirit would be:

· Gratitude. I must be continually reminded to participate in the enjoyment of what I have been given and the recognition that the Giver is not me. Throwing my hands in the air and dancing with abandon is a laughable, odd and incredibly helpful spiritual practice that reminds me that I’m alive and I owe my whole life to someone else…

· Generosity. People who have been given much ought to give much. The overflow of gratitude is generosity. The choice to be generous is one I must make every single day with my money, my time and my life.

One of my favorite words of late has been the Hebrew word owr, which means light. There is a form of the word which exists as a verb – a doing word that means “to become light. In English, the word often used is shine.

I am of the persuasion that people were created to shine – to bring beauty and life and hope to the world through their love of each other and of their Creator.

I cling to the idea that I am being transformed day by day to look more and more like the true light. I am grateful that I am in process, that my heart is being softened and that I am being shaped into a more grateful and generous human being.

On my good days, I have to take the time to remember this.

On my bad days, I have to hold onto this hope for dear life.

Love does crazy things. That’s why I choose to shine.

Celebrate good times, come on!

I tend to take myself way too seriously.

Don’t get me wrong: I love a good time.

However, somewhere along the line (I think in high school), I became convinced that fun without purpose was somehow a lesser-than form of enjoyment. A couple of years ago, if you were to have called me a Debbie-downer, a party pooper, or a goodie-two-shoes, I would have begged to differ. But you would have been right.

My good intentions to infuse life with meaningful moments and purpose made me controlling, stressed-out and worried that I was failing when an experience didn’t live up to my self-righteous expectations.

That makes me sound like a total loser, I know. Let me assure you that I have my moments of fleeting exuberance; joy, even.

However, life is too short to be lived as a vivacious control freak.

What I’m learning is that sometimes, you go into something expecting to enjoy yourself, and you get something meaningful along the way. Finding the purpose in life is a lot like the cupcake I ate today for my friend’s birthday. It was vanilla, with Oreo cookie crumbles on top. When I bit into it, I was pleasantly surprised to find an entire Oreo in the center of the cupcake (you know you’d be excited too!) You have to eat the cupcake to find the hidden surprises.

OK, that was a lame metaphor. Allow me to defer to the incomparable Henry David Thoreau. I love the way he puts it:

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life… to put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die discover that I had not lived.”

When we pursue what is beautiful, what is genuinely good and what is worth celebrating, I think that before long, we’ll be surprised to find we’ve stumbled right into the meaning we were searching for. (At least at this point, I’m not really sure as to whether we can create any meaning on our own anyway).

I long to delve into life with celebration, starting with a few small things…

Flailing my arms to Florence and the Machine.

Smiling at strangers.

Giving flowers to a friend on her birthday.

And eating more cupcakes.

My 20th birthday wish... clean water for 100 people

On March 15th, I'm going to be 20.

While I could sit around fretting about turning the big two-zero, thinking about all the things I have yet to do, the reality is that I've been blessed to live a really incredible life in my 19+ years on this earth. I’m in college, doing things I’m passionate about with people whom I love.

Many people don't have that chance.

1 billion people in the world lack clean drinking water. For lack of this most basic resource millions will die before their fifth birthday.

When you don’t have clean water, everything else is secondary. Survival mode kicks in, as families spend hours of the day trekking for miles to get filthy, bacteria-ridden water. Kids don’t get an education. Women don’t have time to pursue opportunities to better themselves and their families. Dirty water and lack of clean sanitation are the culprits behind 80 percent of the diseases in the world.

So for my 20th, I want to help other people gain access to clean water. Because when you have clean water, everything changes.

$20 can provide one person with access to clean drinking water.

So I'm asking for $20 for my 20th from everyone I know. (The amount is up to you! Even a dollar makes a huge difference).

Every penny of the money raised will go directly to fund freshwater wells in developing nations. I have been inspired by the passion of the folks at charity:water. This organization cares about helping people connect with the cause they are supporting. Every dollar is "proved" when the projects are complete, and photos and GPS coordinates are posted using Google Earth. So you'll see in the next couple of months exactly where you made a difference in the world. Cool, right?!

My goal is to raise $2000 by my birthday, March 15th. That’s enough to provide 100 people with clean water.

My birthday wish this year is that 100 people would be forever changed because they received a simple, life-giving gift: water.

Call me crazy, but I am convinced that we really can make a difference in the world. That when we come together to do something beautiful, lives are changed forever.

Please join me.

http://mycharitywater.org/laurenturns20