Please write!

Rachelle Marquart

Peace Corps

PO Box 9536

Pretoria 0001

South Africa

This address will serve as my contact information until mid-September, 2009. I look forward to hearing from you!

Top Ten Things I Will Miss (in no particular order)

1. The 15-minute-or-less commute…to anywhere

2. Springfield Conservation Nature Center…many the miles

3. South Creek Trail…favorite bike ride

4. Friday Night Art Walks…perfect summer night

5. Hockey at Jordan Valley Ice Park…Go Ice Bears (and Girls)!

6. Missouri State University…the people, the perks, and naps by the fountain

7. Dancing at Martha’s on Drag Show nights…best ever

8. My hair dresser…YEARS of worry-free cut and color

9. Mama Jean’s Natural Food Market…local organic delights

10. My Apartment…my happy place/twinkly white lights/naps by the fireplace/my neighbor

Top Ten Food Experiences I Will Miss (in no particular order)

1. Wings @ Coester’s (RIP)

2. Spinach Dip @ Ebbets

3. Mac ‘n Cheese @ Springfield Brewing Company

4. Market Street Chicken Sandwich (I think) @ Mille’s Café

5. Goat Cheese & Spinach Quesadilla @ Maria’s

6. Margarita Pizza (with Spinach) @ South Ave Pizza Co…I think I like spinach?

7. Brain Freeze Frozen Beverage @ Tropical Liqueurs…sometimes, tequila is good

8. Fried Mushrooms @ Patton Alley Pub

9. Oreo Concrete w/Chocolate Ice Cream @ Andy’s

10. Original Margarita (on the rocks w/salt) @ Cheddars…even though they raised the price

To those who taught me, took a chance on me, believed in me, helped me, hurt me, laughed with me---To those who cried with me, hugged me, thanked me, corrected me, challenged me---To those who supported me, drank with me, danced with me, walked with me, talked with me---To those who tolerated me, smiled at me, called me, texted me, loved me….THANK YOU.

For it is you who I shall miss the most.

Lately, it seems, everyone around me is counting down to a significant event. The usual suspects are, of course, involved: wedding, birth, graduation, job, and retirement. With the addition of a common-law marriage countdown, I cannot help but admire the smorgasbord of life-altering events ready to pounce on those near and dear. And, just like Rudolph, I wanted to participate.

There are several logical choices available for scheduled anticipation: last day of work, last day in Springfield, departure for Peace Corps service, and completion of Peace Corps service. But, after only seconds of thought, I decided to honor the underdog of anticipated events…menopause. What?

According to the results of a hasty Google Search, the average age of menopause onset is fifty one. So, in roughly eight-thousand-and-something days, I will embark on the journey to the underappreciated adjective, post-menopausal. While it is quite possible that extreme mood swings, hot flashes, and sleepless nights may grace me with their presence sooner than predicted, the “ticking clock” captures the glory of the dreaded symptoms and the magnitude of the event. What more could a girl ask for?

Climbing up the stairs of the arena, I made a quick scan for an aisle seat. As I settled into the environment, my eyes darted abruptly from those around me chatting excitedly, to the JumboTron magnifying the ceremonial-setup below. So perfectly were the maroon chairs aligned and the podium centered. Just as my admiration for the display peaked, the orchestra cued the crowd to stand.

Side by side they marched. And although the sounds of their soles hitting the floor could not be heard over the murmurs of friends and family or the song of the instruments, the prideful rhythm of the marching graduates penetrated the noisy crowd with an energy that truly stirred emotions. The energy was a magnificent reminder of the incredible achievements accomplished during the course of a college career; but not so much the academic learning as the human gestures and interactions along the way.

After they called her name, I dismissed myself from my seat. And, within just a few steps outside of the engagement within the circular barrier of commencement, the inspiration disappeared. Casual discussion was being had, laughter was echoed throughout the empty arena refreshment stands, and parents were reluctantly entertaining unruly children darting in and out of the entryway doors. As I joined those in routine movement, making my way back to paid productivity, my mind tried desperately to hold on to the empowerment.

Instead, however, it filled with amusement. Amusement for the happiness experienced by those earning degrees and the hopefulness that accompanies the joy. As I was walking, I could not help but think of their tomorrows and the unexpected disappointments in those future journeys. While I am not sure if this was a result of my own experiences post-graduation, discussions I have had with others, or the truth of the infamous real world, the reality of my reaction made me smile. An expression that transported me into the shoes of those graduates and their families, perhaps out of a longing for the innocence of that day and those preceding it, wishing I could encourage them to freeze-frame the moment…or, at the very least, savor the experience.

I could not be more appreciative of the lessons learned during those first few years of “real” employment. For in those moments of struggle, questioning, and disappointment I discovered my true self and her idea of success. A success that looks much different than the one defined prior to degreed status. But there is a certain beauty about that first look at the professional world as a traditional college graduate; a beauty that, if remembered, can positively redefine the means of self-discovery for those just starting their path.

Almost like unwrapping a Christmas present, I admired the presentation, but was eager to get to the content. The file folder contained so much information; too much material for a quick scan. On top of all the paperwork, however, was a letter. Closed with a hand-written signature from my Placement Officer, and a personal note of congratulations, I was welcomed to Peace Corps South Africa.

Overwhelmed with curiosity, I plunged into the rest of the material for more details. And as I read my upcoming responsibilities, should I accept, I could not help but feel honored. Honored to have been chosen out of so many qualified applicants to assist with, and be a part of, an incredible learning process. My duties as a Resource Specialist for the Schools and Community Resource Project will allow me to not only instruct learners directly, but to guide and mentor those already dedicated to the cause. To serve in this capacity, finding creative ways to bring out the best in those already serving, with little to no resources, is an unbelievable opportunity for which I am truly grateful.

In addition to working inside the classroom environment, I have been charged with bridging the gap between the schools and their communities, as well as assisting out-of-school youth with life-skills development. These duties are bound to be as equally challenging as the assignments mentioned above, but I am just as equally excited about contributing as needed.

South Africa’s history is rich with hatred and segregation; there is much healing that needs to be done. Yet this task is not something that can be forced, only supported. And even in that support, there is likely to be resistance…on many levels. With that understanding, I cannot learn enough. Even though I read and read, I am not sure I could ever possibly “know” as an outsider. But, maybe, a lot of respect, patience, and a sincere effort to “know” and understand will be enough to make a positive impact where welcomed.

When I made the phone call to accept my invitation, and was then informed of my official placement in the program, I hung up the telephone engulfed in a bubble of gratitude. I truly do believe this is a life-changing experience; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am thankful to the Peace Corps for giving me a chance to serve. I am grateful to the citizens of the United States for providing the means for this program to exist. And I am thankful to the countries around the world who have invited the Peace Corps onto their soil.

While I cannot possibly predict the journey I will begin on July 21, I hope to execute it with intelligence, class, and professionalism. So that regardless of hardships and disappointments, I will make the people of the United States proud to call me their own. This same hope extends, also, to the people for which I will be serving. Their stories, I believe, are just as important as our own, if not more so, and deserve to be shared and appreciated….for, if nothing else, a better understanding in the mission of world peace and friendship.

Do I wear it? Do I not? As the car headed towards the start line, I knew I needed to make a decision soon. Although the raindrops splashed steadily on the windshield, I looked up at the sky with hopes of seeing blue in the distance. My expert meteorology skills---also known as, a blanket of grey equals storm---revealed otherwise. So when the car came to a complete stop, I grabbed my baseball cap and headed straight for the start-line porta-potties.

Less than ten days prior, I purposely reviewed the weather forecast before signing up for the half-marathon. Late registration comes with a lovely appreciation gift disguised as a more expensive entry fee, so I was trying to justify the expense with blue skies and sunshine. And much to my delight, the content of the forecast revealed just that. With the memories of Hurricane Ike aftermath still fresh in my memory bank, I was looking forward to a different race-day experience. But, alas, Rachelle + race = rain.

Normally, when listening to the national anthem, I clasp my hands together in front of my body and hold a more formal, upright position facing in the appropriate direction. But this morning, as the voice saluting our great nation echoed down the corral of thousands…and the fog lifted just enough from the St. Louis Arch to reveal its monumental status…and the words of Woodrow Wilson etched so perfectly on the exterior of a building energized my civic pride, I rose my hand to my heart and welled up with emotion. For in that moment, I felt so fortunate to be able to celebrate the awesomeness of human will in the heart of my hometown…in the spirit of greatness; for each participant has a story.

Leading up to the race, I had done very little training. In fact, upon registration, I had actually not planned on running. My intention on this day was to “wun”; a word I like to think I invented to mean walk, sometimes run….or to run in a way that looks like walking to others, but very much feels like running to the participant. But when those around me started moving their Asics to the rhythm of achievement, I could not help but absorb the influence.

The snail’s pace I so much enjoy allowed me to admire and appreciate the known landmarks of our Gateway to the West. The route took us past the Cardinals stadium, the Anheuser-Busch brewery---which was surrounded by a wonderful beer stench I happily acknowledged out loud…probably not to the amusement I had assumed of those around me---a Clydesdale horse taking shelter from the rain under a restrictive canopy, the Soulard Farmer’s Market, and other beautifully designed buildings. At this point, each step I took---much to my surprise---was effortless.

Somewhere between mile seven and eight, my attention started moving from the admiration of my surroundings to the agitating pain in my right knee. Gone for so long, but never forgotten, the pain I had experienced before wanted to make a comeback. Trying to ignore it only made it worse. Then came the battle of reason: “Rachelle, stop trying to run; you were not even planning on running in the first place!”…”Rachelle, you’ve come this far…you were not even planning on running…you can finish it out.”….”Damn you, knee; I was doing well, and thoroughly enjoying myself!”

After several walk breaks to ease the pain, an experiment with apple-cinnamon Goo, and a hilarious encounter with a highly motivating runner, the last mile marker made itself visible. I threw back the water handed to me at the last hydration station, embraced the pain, and vowed not to stop again until I reached the finish line. Their words were so positive; so confident. “You’re almost there! Just after the hill, you’re done!” Wrong. As I reached the top of the hill, I found my desire to see the stopping point increase with each step. Doing some major motivating self-talk, I continued to shuffle my hobbling-self past the energized, wet, crowd. As the finish-line came into view, all I wanted to do was reach it…and pass a few people on the way. With carabiner in hand (yes…I ran with the carabiner that holds my keys because I “train” holding my keys; not porta-potty friendly) and a smile on my face, I reached the end with strength. And, just like that, I completed my first hurricane-free half-marathon.

When I refreshed my email, my eyes casually glanced at the new text in bold. Peace Corps: Application Status Update. I leaned in closer to the screen as the words, “Oh my God,” slipped quietly from my lips. After double-clicking on the new arrival, the email then linked me to My (Peace Corps) Toolkit where the update would be revealed.

The second my eyes caught glimpse of the word, “Congratulations,” I let out a squeal of joy. And, as quick as I expressed my relief verbally, I was up out of my chair to share the moment. Before my hilarious attempt at a mediocre toe-touch, which must have been stored somewhere in the high-school memory bank as an accurate reaction in celebration, I hugged a couple co-workers with delight.

My level of excitement surprised me a bit. As I felt my heart beating through my chest, I knew I had actually become concerned that this opportunity I had been working towards for a year may not become a reality. Having already said goodbye to one of the student organizations for which I served, and preparing to end my affiliation with another later that evening, the news could not have come at a better time. I was starting to wonder if I would possibly regret leaving my students.

Almost as sudden as I had abandoned my computer and seated position, I moved back towards the screen. Did I read that right? Doubt grabbed a hold of me for just a moment as I re-read the statement, “Congratulations! You have been invited to become a Peace Corps Volunteer.” Lost in relief, I reached for my cellular phone and made the only phone call I would make. Even at eight in the morning, my parents shared my excitement.

That moment of knowing, it seems, was all I needed. With my employer preparing to hire for my position, and my students beginning to seek guidance elsewhere, I was eager to make strides forward in my journey. The location, assignment, and departure details for my Peace Corps service have yet to be revealed. However, I find that I am content with whatever those may be. And while those are soon to be exposed, I also find that I am still enjoying the present….instead of focusing on tomorrow…because there is so much beauty in today. I honestly don’t want to miss a minute of it.

I stared at the radar map, hoping to see nothing. Instead, I found myself referencing the snow accumulation key, trying to convince myself that a few inches wouldn’t be enough of a concern to cancel the spontaneous adventure. The blizzard warnings, however, made enough of an impact to postpone departure twenty-four hours. By then, surely, the roads would be ready for Rachelle.

Twenty-four hours came and went, and I was on my way to New Mexico. Weather.com informed me that I might face a “wintery mix” between Tulsa and Oklahoma City, but that prediction seemed harmless compared to the previous day’s blizzard. In addition, blue skies and sunshine were forecasted for Texas. So, naturally, I envisioned windows down and sunglasses by late afternoon.

Lost in a sea of white, my windshield wipers were beginning to cease their full range of motion due to the accumulation of precipitation on the windshield itself. Following closely behind a large semi-truck, taking advantage of its snow-cleared tracks, I rolled down the window with hopes of removing some of the packed “wintery mix” from my front shield of glass. As chunks of slush poured into my car and onto my lap, I laughed at my failure to predict this action. Going twenty miles an hour, all I could do was hope that the truck in front of me didn’t exit off the highway before the roads started clearing.

At the last toll booth in Oklahoma, the snow had already begun to clear. This booth was one of two not manned on the main route headed west, and required the same dollar as before. I retrieved four quarters out of my quarter holder specifically created for the state of Oklahoma, also known as a film canister, and threw them in the plastic receptor. And, I waited patiently for the red light to turn green, giving me clearance to continue forward. No green light. Immediately, the following went through my head: I paid, I don’t want to pay again…I need those quarters for the return trip, maybe the machine is broken, I’m not trying to scam the system, I hate Oklahoma’s toll roads, I just want out of this state, no one’s around, I’m going. Then the alarm sounded. Three feet out of the gate and I put on the brakes. I looked up, to the right, to the left, and actually waited for the armed troopers I thought might be hiding somewhere to come arrest me. The words, “But I paid…really!” were already starting to form from my lips. When I realized no one was coming, and I decided that a ticket was likely in the mail, I proceeded on to Texas with some laughter and some ease.

When I opened the car door with camera and ink pen in hand, I had no idea that the next few minutes would find me hopping from dry patch to dry patch throughout the mud field hosting ten Cadillacs buried in the ground. Earlier in the year, during my first road trip out west, I had made a special stop at this very place in Amarillo—the Cadillac Graveyard—to leave my mark as expected. Hoping to find my name still visible on the graffiti-covered vehicles, I instead found mud covered shoes and unreachable cars due to the melting snow from the blizzard the day before. This, coupled with the random television reporter who decided to join me once I was headed towards the cars, hastened my abandonment of the quest and my desire to reach my pit-stop for the night.

As I pulled into the driveway in Clovis, New Mexico, I couldn’t help but admire the moment. For this was the driveway of the stranger I had met during my last journey out west. Since then, we have become friends, and I can’t help but treasure the beauty of the situation. Doors really are always opening around us; sometimes, it seems, we are just blind to the opportunities.

The next few days produced beautiful scenery in two National Parks, and interest in uncovering governmental secrecy of extraterrestrial findings. Carlsbad Caverns left me wanting more with sold-out cave tours and grounded bad flights, but gave me an incredible experience nonetheless. And, despite the eighty-mile-an-hour winds that forced me to stack rocks on the corners of my tent—tricked my mind into imagining creepy experiences outside my tent—and prevented me from summiting the highest point in Texas, Guadalupe Mountains National Park gave me memorable conversations with strangers and rangers, hikes, and a visitor center to charge my cellular phone. Roswell, too, rose to the occasion with alien art, twinkly lights and enough UFO paraphernalia to summon even the most stubborn spacecraft.

But the true beauty of this trip wasn’t found underground, in the mountains, or in the weather balloon myths. It was found on the journey home. As I crossed into the state of Missouri from the land of tolls, I melted into a sincere appreciation for my surroundings. Hills and color never looked so inviting; trees conjured up a joy so intense I surprised myself. Even the Bible verse billboards, staggered with Adult Video store advertisements, made me happy. And when I drove onto the college campus that night for my student organization meeting, I found myself wanting to pause in the happiness…the happiness I have right in front of me…in Missouri…working for a college…working with young minds full of hope and passion. While I think most of this reaction was a result of my future departure and all the emotions associated with it, it definitely triggered an awareness I hope to embrace these next few months.

I clicked “Send” on the second email and, in the moments following, felt a sudden wave of emptiness. All of the reasons I was still in Springfield instantly vanished; I was on the outside looking in, longing to belong once again. And, just like that, I went from staff member to fan, advisor to friend…and, a few weeks prior, from employed to unemployed by July 31, 2009.

When I applied for the Peace Corps approximately a year ago, I had no idea what to expect, from the process or myself. In May 2008, after a two-hour phone interview, I was nominated to serve as a volunteer in Sub-Sahara Africa teaching secondary English for a program departing in April 2009. Although I would be vested in retirement by late January, April was the earliest I was willing to depart in an effort to fulfill my commitments to the students for which I was serving at the University. Although I knew I had several more obstacles to face before the nomination became a reality, I don’t think I knew quite how long the process could take.

One thing I did know, however, was that regardless of Peace Corps placement, I needed to leave Springfield before another academic year began. Not because I dislike Springfield—quite the contrary-- but because it’s time for me to move on, to be uncomfortable, to be challenged. I have been in Springfield since August of 1998. And, in going on eleven years, I have evolved from student to employee; from friend to wife to ex-wife; from fan to staff member; and from employee to advisor. Needless to say, it’s been quite the journey.

So, after receiving medical clearance, my hope was that I would be departing Springfield by April—July at the latest—and that I would know of my “plans” by the start of the New Year for adequate departure preparations, disclosure, and celebrations. The New Year came and went, as well as the six-week-advance-notice deadline Peace Corps is required to give for all invitations that would have been for an April departure. It was clear, at this point, that my initial “plan” would need some tweaking. The time had arrived, regardless of knowledge about my future, when disclosure of my intended departure was necessary. And so, I disclosed and resigned; giving up a lot of something for nothing, at this time.

I am currently a Priority Applicant for the Peace Corps. The volunteer organization, like many others, has faced recent financial hardships and an increase in competitive applicants. The program I was nominated for filled very early, with mostly health-degreed applicants focusing on the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Apparently, regardless of the global economic status, a postponed departure is a fairly common occurrence. My Placement Officer has recently informed me that she is considering me for programs in the July-September timeframe. Seeing as I will be unemployed in August, July would be nice.

It would not be accurate for me to state that I am confident this plan will become a reality. In fact, due to past experiences, I refuse to react to forecasted opportunities (aka: plans). Instead, I prefer to focus on what I am experiencing in the now. This approach seems to serve me better, affording me happiness regardless of outcome. Should the Peace Corps not work out, “Plan” B is just as exciting; “Plan” B = anything but the Peace Corps, something outside of Springfield, Missouri.

Am I worried that I quit my job in the worst economy since The Depression without another job in place? Absolutely. But am I excited that change is on the horizon? Without a doubt. For me, this decision symbolizes the beauty of freedom and the power of choice. And while I may be risking comfort, stability and security, never taking a chance on change would be worse than any discomfort, instability, or fear I will encounter. Whether my exhale is the Peace Corps or “Plan” B, I am looking forward to it.

People are passionate about many things, but two things are certain: religion and politics. Folks know what they believe. And while some are willing to state their beliefs candidly, others tend to keep their thoughts to themselves. But why is that? Is it out of formality? Is it an attempt to avoid conflict? Or is it merely a public relations move to avoid irresponsible judgment that could possibly prevent relationship development, personally or professionally? Maybe just a fear of judgment itself?

There was a time in my life when I would publically state my beliefs. These statements, however, were not ones of pride, but of arrogance and ignorance. My beliefs were “right,” and I was confident of such. As a result, I was quick to lose not only my ability to see, but to hear as well. I was so focused on being “right” that I didn’t stop to question the reasons why, much less learn about others’ beliefs and the reasons for them. It was as if I had a product to sell, and was going to convince you to buy it…or at least admit it was the best one on the market.

Since then, my statements have turned into questions. Questions allow me to learn; to better understand beliefs, behaviors and actions. They also allow me to assess the situation with regard to my own disclosure and whether it will serve as a similar learning tool for another in a dialogue or just trigger a sales pitch and sermon. Unfortunately, I have heard more sermons from those with differing beliefs than I’ve had discussions. I truly believe that once we acknowledge the existence of multiple truths, greater solutions will evolve. The difficult part, however, is getting past the passion; the blinding truth.

So, in an age where self-disclosure is not limited to dialogue, is it wise to do so without explanation? Is the one-line Facebook entry regarding religion and politics a statement for judgment, true or false, or simply a means of truth? What liberal means to one, however, may not mean liberal to another. If someone claims Catholicism, is it an actual belief or one that is followed blindly from upbringing? To the person who claims it, I guess the answer shouldn’t matter.

When I first started my Facebook Profile, I left these two items blank. I thought that I was doing so to prevent false judgment from those I work with professionally; an allowance to judge me strictly on direct interactions. However, now I wonder if it was an action to avoid judgment in general, resulting in possible rejection? So I ask; is it smarter to avoid disclosure of beliefs that, for better or worse, tend to trigger a passionate response, positive or negative, when trying to create a level playing field for productivity and understanding? Or is it simply just a dismissal of self which ultimately leads to misunderstanding?

Lately, my conversations and experiences have revolved around the prescription; more specifically, the “right” way to live. Is there even such a thing? It is my opinion that an ideal way to exist, according to societal expectations, does indeed penetrate the very fibers of our being. But, I do not believe that this image we have been sold is, in any way, the “right” way to live...only a mere sales pitch. One, I am afraid, that makes the world around us operate successfully, although, in most cases, miserably.

The prescription that I speak of is the one that faces college graduates in their last semester, or, really anyone in their twenties: job, husband or wife, house, family pet, kids, grandkids …preferably in that order. This is the very prescription I, myself, once coined as “right.” But what, exactly, is right about it? Stability, security, love, belonging, and purpose all come to mind. It actually sounds pretty good. Then, why is it that this “right” seems to be “wrong” for so many?

Is it the trapping sensation felt when financial obligation commits you to one location and, possibly, one vocation? Is it the predictability and isolation of “forever” with another human being? The exhaustion of parenting that is different from the Norman Rockwell painting? Possibly. But I think that might sound a little jaded. Realistic, perhaps? Maybe.

Without question, there are associations with the prescription that are desirable, but I do not believe it is the prescription itself. A job, at the very least, gives a person purpose; and, if not purpose, financial stability. In a perfect world, it would do both. If, by chance, these objectives could be fulfilled outside of employment, I believe satisfaction could be achieved. Along those same lines, a significant other is supposed to symbolize companionship and love. While I do believe this could work, I also believe that these same needs can be met with other people. It is my opinion that living amongst many provides a more balanced, possibly positive, environment for all human beings...especially children…than an isolating immediate family experience. With the support of many, men and women are lifted of the burdens to themselves and each other as members of the opposite sex, but also as parents. Women help each other raise children and serve as a necessary support system for one another, while men can feel understood and appreciated within their own gender. In short, the community at large benefits from such strength, physical and emotional, in numbers.

Is this concept realistic? As previously mentioned, under current survival circumstances, it is not for the majority. The world, as we know it, works because of the prescription. Communities are built because couples buy houses. Those same couples find work in the area to pay for their house. In most cases, kids follow to create a family. Finances become a huge priority for the family, making the job an even more important necessity. And once the kids are in school, relocation is nearly impossible. It is the prescription that keeps businesses booming and houses off the market. If everyone was free from obligation, personal and financial, there would be significant instability.

It would be irresponsible of me to suggest that the prescription isn’t right for anyone. In fact, I think it works for many. But is it something people choose because it makes them happy, or because they have been told it will make them happy? And how could one really know if it will make him or her happy until he or she experiences it? More importantly, are people limiting their options to marriage, mortgage, and birth children in an attempt to achieve the desirables of love, companionship, stability and family?

While I am certainly grateful to those who follow the prescription, and would never foolishly rule it out, I am hoping to keep the options to achieve my desirables limitless.

On the day the 44th President of the United States was inaugurated, I held on to a popular reaction. It had seemed, to some, that this act of ceremonial tradition triggered a difference in the world’s appearance. Some felt that on this day life looked differently, in a positive way. This expression quickly reminded me of my own thoughts not too long ago.

Over the holidays I did some traveling. One might even say that I enjoyed something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I visited my old place of employment in South Carolina, explored a new city, stayed in other people’s homes, and lost myself in the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. And, as usual, I acquired some miles along the way. It was during these very miles that I found myself dissecting my own reactions to change.

Could it be that the sunset experienced in a new location looks more beautiful than the same one experienced at the place we call home? Are the hills of another state more attractive simply because of their location? The rivers more serene? Time, itself, more meaningful? When I reflect on my disclosed summaries of trips I have taken in the past, I remember promoting the grandeur of all that I had seen with a tone of excitement. The sunsets were, in these testimonies, indeed the most beautiful, the hills were more attractive, and the rivers more exquisite. Somehow, time WAS more meaningful and had to be treated as such.

Could it actually be the change in location that defines these moments more positively in our minds? The newness of the experience? Do we get so wrapped up in the change, and our need for it, that we cloud our vision of its truth? Is it better because it is, or because we need it to be? We want it to be?

When I left Missouri’s borders for the New Year transition, I came back with a new challenge. The challenge to see the place I call home with a new set of eyes; to find the same beauty in the sunsets of Missouri as I can anywhere else in the world…the same inspiration from the hills…the same serenity from the rivers. If I choose to see my state, my own backyard, differently…I believe I will.

If it’s Sunday, it’s Meet the Press…or, if I slept in longer than usual, that other political show with George Stephanopoulos. Regardless, it is a time for me to watch and listen to those who govern our nation, as well as those who critique their decisions. With green tea in hand, this morning was no different.

As I listened to the roundtable discussion that seemed to jump from one conflict to another, I found my thoughts wandering elsewhere. I began thinking about many of the conflicts facing the world today, not to mention those of our own nation. And, like most, my first reaction was sadness and frustration. But, almost just as instinctually, my second reaction was one of appreciation.

Not too long ago, I had a conversation with an older Korean man who dialogued with me about the importance of good and evil. His basic argument was that the existence of evil allows good to be understood or appreciated as such; the idea that the struggle of life allows its counterpart to exist. And this is exactly where my mind wandered to with regard to all of the world’s advertised pain and suffering.

Is it possible that these very conflicts are necessary for the world to be balanced? While it is shocking, even to me, to advocate this very idea…the idea that peace and violence provide a healthy balance to existence…it also brings about a resolve that is very calming when troubled with the question, “Why?”

When I reflect on the purpose of many that seems to revolve around the troubling nature of things---problem solvers, peace keepers, employees of homeless shelters, civil rights advocates---I can’t help but question if life really would be better without conflict. Would we really appreciate good? Can worldwide peace truly exist? Or is it in our nature to create conflict for a purpose, which may or may not involve balance?

I cringe at the idea of war; I get uncomfortable around guns; and I cry when shown visions of genocide. But, it is my opinion that those reactions are a direct result of their counterparts. Worldwide peace will, I’m afraid, continue to be a lifelong purpose for mankind. But its achievement, if accomplished, will be extraordinary due, mostly in part, to the suffering that preceded it.

With presents packed into leftover retail bags placed strategically in the trunk, and a homemade potato dish releasing its scent throughout the entire vehicle, we headed out for our traditional holiday travel destination. After several minutes of temperature control adjustments made solely through indirect comments from each traveler indicating an uncomfortable state, the radio's tunes and the repetitive sound of the tires on pavement began to lull me into an isolating fog. Although every now and then the voices in the front seat pulled me off my train of thought, I mostly found peace in my stare out the back seat window.

I have found that my travels in the back seat of a vehicle allow me to really see my surroundings. Not that I do not physically see the same things when in the front passenger seat, but I feel as though my obligation to the driver as a companion of sorts somewhat distracts me from the immediate environment's details. In addition, the front seat experience does not allow me adequate processing time to appreciate these details as I feel I could. This holiday was no different.

While riding along, I saw rearview windows blocked completely with beautifully wrapped presents; brightly colored paper and metallically shiny bows. I saw dogs of all kinds moving frantically back and forth in their spot of the vehicle, pacing almost with a curiosity of the excited energy spilling out onto the roads this very day. There was an older man and a boy walking alongside an outer road, bundled up from head to toe, holding hands and moving forward with intention. There were even other faces in the backseat of cars looking out into the world with expressions that, too, symbolized inner reflection and thought. With each passerby, I couldn't help but wonder about his or her story; who are these people, really? Even within my own traveling vehicle, I wondered this very question.

A couple weeks ago, during my visit to Barnes and Noble, I was meandering through the Bargain Books section of the store. It was then that I came across several unabridged collections, and the very notion of my own unabridged version; the unabridged version of Rachelle. Does anyone really know this version of me? Do I?

There are so many aspects of our life, while maybe not forgotten, are certainly edited…removing the raw experience and all the emotion and thought associated…so that we may move forward and focus on the now. It seems that holding on to each and every detail of the past would cloud the present and future; maybe making the ability to grow a struggle in itself, if not impossible. But even in the chance that we truly know and embrace the unabridged version of ourselves, is it even possible to share it with another? This then begs the question, "Do we really know each other?" I sometimes think I know just as much about my own family as I know about the stranger in the back seat of the vehicle passing by. Yet, somehow, the titles and frequency of exchange have convinced me otherwise…despite the lack of personal disclosure.

Here it is; the official first day of winter. And, I can honestly say, I have spent an abnormal amount of time today trying to stay warm. According to the weather folks, it is negative-something degrees outside. And whenever the weatherman says, “Minus,” I automatically visualize my important limbs…minus fingers, toes and the tip of my nose. At one point today, I was actually wearing my stocking cap…INSIDE my apartment.

My heater is on. I stare at my fireplace imaging warmth since I ran out of heat-producing materials a couple days ago and have yet to acquire more. I have even placed a down comforter on my couch for cocoon-like preservation when in a non-movement state of being. None of this, however, has seemed to alleviate the arctic tundra that is now my living environment (and I’m pretty sure the Ben & Jerry’s I had for dinner didn’t help any either). Maybe I just have a cold? If so, I’d like to trade it in for a warm! All joking aside, the colder weather has definitely affected the behaviors of all living creatures near and far.

Every morning on my way to work, I can’t help but notice a flock…maybe a group…possibly a collection of birds that gather on a particular telephone wire. While I cannot be certain it is the same birds every day, I can be certain of their presence; same place, same time…approximately same amount. It might even be the exact same amount, although I have never taken the time to count.

Just last week, I noticed a slight change in the birds’ placement. They were closer together. It was as if they were snuggling to stay warm on their wire. I chuckled and thought to myself, in tough times even the birds stick together. They do what they have to for survival; for a better existence.

This thought just happened to coincide with a demanding time at work. With the help of a new computer software system, coupled with a traditionally busy time of year, our office staff was buried in task with little to no end in sight. It almost seemed hopeless. But just when emotions were running high, our leadership rallied the departmental troops. And with a couple days of cross-training, and a few more days of hard work, the office load was tackled. What would have taken weeks to finish, was completed in days.

Just like the birds gathering for warmth, this teamwork effort exhibited in a time of crisis brought me great joy. It truly is amazing what can be accomplished when living creatures work together for the greater good. Anything is possible. Although this time of year usually makes me overly sentimental, these kinds of actions make my heart sing year round. I truly believe that when we allow love and kindness to rule our actions, we leave less room for the stuff that prevents us from greatness. Collectively, our greatness is redefined.

After I parked my car, I hesitated briefly before reaching for the door handle to exit. Was I really going to do this? Will I really be able to enjoy myself? The uneasy feeling, although subtle at first, was now penetrating my thoughts loud and clear. Surely the sensation I will experience after walking through those doors will be worth this initial guilt.

As I approached the doors, I found that the excuses I had made for my behavior in this moment during the walk from my car to the entryway were starting to work. I was getting excited. Once my feet crossed into the environment that brings me so much pleasure, I let go of all my worries. That is, until I was asked for my proof of commitment.

Almost instantly, my smile vanished. The excitement was replaced with shame. I glanced down into my wallet and saw my true companion staring back at me. It was in that moment, when my eyes looked longingly at my Borders Rewards Card, that I vowed to never step foot in Barnes and Noble again (no promises). I paid for my soy milk Chai Tea Latte with a simple debit card, knowing in my heart that refusing the acquisition of a Barnes and Noble Rewards Card was the right thing to do. This was a test of my loyalty, and I think I can confidently say that I passed with flying colors…minus the part of seeking another’s companionship, spending time and money happily.

While it is clear that I didn’t truly have hesitations about venturing into a Barnes and Noble, it IS true that I would have preferred a Border’s experience. And that got me thinking about the impact of our preferences on limiting new experiences. Is it possible that our preferences are formed more out of habit than pleasure, with pleasure deriving from comfort? Sure. Is it also possible that our preferences are formed strictly out of comparison of isolated experiences? Of course. In conclusion, as long as my preferences don’t falsely impact another experience negatively and are open to being replaced, I will continue to enjoy them as such.

She said our wait would be twenty to twenty-five minutes. I looked at her skeptically seeing as the journey for name submission, alone, took five. Nevertheless, I smiled thankfully and proceeded to use my compass to navigate through the Black Friday crowd to reach the spot where my parents were waiting (slight exaggeration). They had managed to find two seats on the cushioned booths that lined the entrance walls. I happily stood in front of them, as all other seats were taken, and observed those standing elsewhere.

Restaurant waiting-“room” time can be quite interesting. People-watching is heightened with dialogue that tends to amuse strictly out of intrigue, and minds start to wander, often out of hunger. Since we were waiting to dine for brunch, and I was focused on breakfast food, I found myself wandering more than watching. Just as I started thinking about all of the chickens it must take to produce all of the eggs being cooked and served in this particular restaurant on this particular day, I noticed movement to my right. Booth Vacancy Alert! As I looked around for the notables whose absence would give me seating clearance: elders, expectant mothers, children, etc, I was surprised to find myself in green-light status. Just as I was about to plant my rear next to my folks, two teenage girls swooped in for the kill. I laughed.

What did this remind me of? It only took a second before the childhood memories of circular movement and plotting came flooding into view. Of course! Musical Chairs. I should have known. All those years of training wrapped cleverly into an enjoyable activity. Adults have known about the limited restaurant-waiting-area seating since the beginning of time, right? What better way to communicate the vital skill of seat nabbing than in a “game” that can be played all throughout the formative years?!

To the girls’ credit, once they realized I had been contemplating filling one of the seat vacancies, an offer was made for exchange. Although I declined out of amusement for the moment, I was motivated by the gesture. It reminded me that while our competitive nature does tend to surface instinctually, it can be controlled for a better outcome.

There are some things that should never change. The twenty-four hour availability of A Christmas Story during the holidays for cable and satellite television viewers (of which I, for better or worse, do not hold membership), apparently me in grade school (according to yearbook dedications which I can only assume meant nothing since most, if not all, of those instructing me to “never change” also informed me that they loved me like a sister “LYLAS”…which I am starting to seriously doubt, unless they secretly meant a Cinderella step-sister, seeing as I haven’t heard from them since), and my annual Thanksgiving celebration.

Since my cesarean debut onto this earth, I have spent Thanksgiving in or around the city of my birth, St. Louis. I truly believed Judy Garland said it best when she said, “Meet me in St. Louie”….fair or no fair. Whenever my mind would even dabble in the tradition of Thanksgiving and all of its warmth and merriment, it would picture the Gateway to the West. You can only imagine my disappointment, then, when my folks announced that they want to travel for bird consumption this year; they want to come to Springfield.

As if in a cinematic moment, flashes of Thanksgivings’ past ran quickly through my mind. Beautiful table settings, fireplaces, grandma’s pies, and laughing faces all danced across my vision bank waving goodbye. Granted, the fireplace was electric…grandma hasn’t baked pies for several years…and the laughing faces really haven’t gone anywhere. Nevertheless, my perception of tradition was about to change.

Surprisingly, after a brief adjustment period, I found myself getting excited about the opportunity to give back to those who have given for so long; to redefine the Thanksgiving experience. And, almost immediately, the change brought with it other doors of opportunity. As a result of my local presence for the holiday, I have been invited to join my friend and her family the morning of Thanksgiving for the city’s annual Turkey Day Trot. Already, these additional faces have enhanced my day of thanks.

Sheryl Crow once wrote that, “A change would do you good.” And, in most cases, I think she’s right. It’s quite possible that the race finish line on Thanksgiving morning may represent the start of a new tradition. And, for that possibility, I’m truly thankful.

It started about two weeks ago. Exhaustion replaced tired in the end-of-the-day-feeling department. Indoors replaced out of doors, and dark beer now rules Middle Earth. My Chaco sandals have been inching closer to storage space, and my freshly painted toe nails are being suffocated by cotton, polyester and wool material practically twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

If it looks like seasonal change, acts like seasonal change, well…experience tells me it must be seasonal change. More precisely, winter…ish. The calendar that hangs on the cork board in my kitchen area declares that winter begins on December 21. But my nose tells me otherwise. Every year, there comes a time when the very tip of my nose becomes chilled on a regular basis. A chill so noticeable, and slightly alarming, that it encourages me to resolve its nature and my nose’s discomfort. I have worn scarves. I have cupped my nose with my hand to generate heat. I have buried my nose underneath blankets. I have even Googled “nose hat” in hopes of finding a solution. With the exception of the “nose mitten,” a sketchy looking contraption that I could not justify payment for, but found quite humorous, I have not found an adequate resolution to the Big Chill that does not involve relocation. My favorite season, to date, IS California.

Despite my literary aggravation for colder weather, however, I actually enjoy its challenge. It forces me to change my itinerary. Gone are the days of weekday outdoor activity until dark: thirty. Adjustments must be made to satisfy my activity level. While I could easily see myself taking naps after work, watching hours of mindless, albeit funny, television and creating an extra layer of insulation with starchy meals and dark beverage, I must resist this…what I can only assume…natural state of being. I mean, what’s not natural about hibernation, stagnation, and a “winter coat”? It’s instinctual, right?

With that being said, should a person surrender to the body’s reaction during seasonal change, or resist its needs for the sake of our own desires? And, in doing so, does that create a negative reaction from the body resulting, often, in illness? I am stubborn enough to force my exhausted body to attend an indoor cycling class after work because I am used to doing outdoor activity. But does the maintained fitness that is a result of the exertion truly benefit the body when done against its will? I’m not sure I’m willing to sacrifice my desires to test the theory.

Fact: I did not use the duct tape during my travels to California and back. However, it would have been quite the visual display had I decided to use it on the massive crack that emerged on my windshield (that I still have not fixed) somewhere between Oklahoma and Arizona. While I am glad I did not pursue such a ridiculous remedy, I am thoroughly enjoying the laughter that is a result of the consideration.

Duct tape aside, I can confidently say, this trip was held together by other people…complete strangers. When I suited up the Honda two Thursday night’s ago to head out towards the land of tolls (Oklahoma)--not to be confused with trolls…although, I wouldn’t put it past the state to charge for meeting one at an advertised “Free Restroom”—I could have never predicted the remaining ten days of travel, regardless of “plans.” That first evening, as I pulled onto a street heading towards a woman on her cell phone waving her hands frantically to assist me with direction, I knew I was in for a good time.

Each night that I couch surfed—once in Oklahoma City, twice in Flagstaff, and once in Alamogordo—I was greeted with unique individuals with interesting life stories. The generosity displayed through food, drink, conversation and entertainment…not to mention a place to sleep and shower…was overwhelming and beautiful. Contrary to popular belief, one based primarily on fear, strangers can be kind and trustworthy. Granted, there are some legitimate fears associated with such an idea, but that brings us to individual responsibility and common sense. I did not put myself, I had hoped, in living situations that would require me to use my knife (yikes), the random screw driver in my car (that really wouldn’t have been useful unless I was in my car), or my magical roll of duct tape.

The only time I felt slightly nervous during this adventure was the drive from Flagstaff, Arizona to Alamogordo, New Mexico. While I did have some concerns about the bears in Yosemite slashing me or my vehicle to gourmet pieces, as well as the health of my knee on the downward slopes of the hikes I wanted to pursue, nothing compared to the isolating feeling of this commute. The uninhabited space engulfed my singing-Civic-driving self for hours without cell phone service or, for the most part, another vehicle. The towns I passed through were, indeed, ghost towns. The one gas station I stopped at, in Arizona, gave me a free Snickers bar just for visiting. That can’t be a good sign.

While I cannot minimize the moments of this trip, spent alone or in company, that moved my spirit and penetrated my soul…all occurring in the National Parks, of course…I cannot say enough about the power of solo travel. It, in my opinion, opens the door of opportunity. To approach and be approached is much easier for the self and others, and the time alone allows you to truly engage in your surroundings; a humble awareness of sorts. Surprises are inevitable.

In short, this trip was incredible. But, it was made even more so by all of the people in my life who weren’t able to physically accompany me. Knowing I had people who were following me on Twitter, who include me in their lives as a friend or loved one, who care about my journeys and expressions…made the experience better. It really wouldn’t be the same without people to share it with…before, during and after. Here’s to friends and family…who, at one time, were complete strangers.

Duct tape. If it worked for MacGyver, it should work for me. Right? Any awkward moment, broken bone, or bear I encounter, can easily be remedied by the King of all tapes. At least that is what I was thinking when I tossed the roll of grey magic onto the camping equipment accumulating on my living room floor.

In a few short days, I will be launching my trusty (and I say that with great hope) 2002 Honda Civic out onto The Mother Road for a ten-day trek to California and back. The easily identifiable attractions include a celebration in Fresno, California, my beloved Yosemite National Park, a hike into the Grand Canyon, and maybe a sand dune sled at White Sands National Monument. All of which will include me, myself and I.

My mother would tell you that this aspect of the trip is her least favorite. She seems to think that solo travel, especially for a female, is not a wise decision. And, according to her, that is just a drop in the bucket compared to possible dangers on a “wilderness” excursion…not to mention two or three of them. However, what my mother fails to understand is that this trip, above all others, is one in which the company is abundant (and I'm not talking about multiple personalities here...although I do tend to talk to myself a lot).

Seven strangers, in three different cities, with four different couches have agreed to be a part of my adventure by letting me stay in their homes as I travel back and forth across six western states. This doesn’t even include all of the people I will meet during my National Park experiences, or the festivities in Fresno. So even though I have registered with Twitter (RMarq) to keep my loved ones posted during my solo experience, I can honestly say that my concerns with safety are almost non-existent. These people, the ones I have yet to meet, are the true attractions of this road trip down good ‘ole Route 66. As the story goes, this time around, the journey is the destination.

It is that time of year again when Mother Nature debuts her fall fashion line. The red hues and golden highlights decorate the trees with intention. The change, although predictable, is always exciting and anticipated. Yet, it isn’t very long after the colorful show before the leaves fall from their branches to the ground beneath. One afternoon, last autumn, as I watched several leaves fall gracefully from their host, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were actually falling or letting go.

What exactly is the difference? Well, in my experience, a fall is usually unintentional; an unplanned, often unwanted, action. Letting go, on the other hand, is a choice; an intended action that is made consciously. So, is it a fair assumption to think that a leaf falls unintentionally from a tree?

While I cannot say for sure, I am pretty certain that the life cycle of a leaf is planned in advance. It is a predictable process, similar to our very own life cycle. Therefore, although maybe unwanted, I believe the leaves actually choose to let go when following their natural cyclical state of being to pursue the next step in their life cycle.

There have been times in my life when I actively chose to let go of people or struggles. But, I also recall times when I reluctantly, or unintentionally, let someone or something go. The assumption was that doing so was the best choice for me at the time regardless of desire or, in the case of doing so unintentionally, the course of time. In those situations, I guess I could say that I fell into letting go. So even though letting go was a choice…it was a choice that wasn’t necessarily planned and was, possibly, unwanted.

As I walked with the students and a couple fellow staff members down the streets of the University, passing out organizational information and candy to those who had come to enjoy the annual parade, I started thinking about the word Homecoming. What exactly does it mean to the University and its constituents? Do the students, alumni, faculty and staff really think of the University as home? Or is the word just a representation of an annual celebration of school pride, with a slice of football and a sprinkle of Greek domination?

We are often told that home is where the heart is. But, what are our options? Does this mean emotional attachment to a location or, literally, wherever the heart is? Is it, maybe, as simple as permanent residence? As the marching band sounded off in the distance, and the smell of hotdogs started to radiate from the football stadium, I realized that in all cases it is a sense of comfort.

Whether the attachment is a blood line, familiarity, or a solid connection to the self in the moment, the idea of home is a pleasant one when based on the above declaration. So, I continued by asking myself, where is my home? Is it in St. Louis where I grew up? Is it in Springfield where I have spent the majority of the last ten years of my life? Is it in Long Creek, South Carolina where I acquired a strength that redefined my idea of existence? Or is it anywhere I happen to be in the moment?

At the end of a long day, I look forward to going to my one-bedroom apartment in Springfield. Therefore, I assumed this was my definition of home. But, after some reflection, I realized that home actually means going to a place where I find comfort, and confidence, in being myself. And, truthfully, that can be anywhere I want it to be.

I was just about to wrap things up when it happened; the automatic flush. My face scrunched with disappointment. As expected, the back-splash from the forceful disposal met me halfway. Why couldn’t it have waited? Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do? Wait until you part ways with its structure?!

After practically jumping off the toilet to avoid another drizzling that was sure to follow in the footsteps of flushing, several thoughts swam through my head. How sanitary is the automatic flush, really? Is it actually better than the manual flush if the bum gets splattered by the force of a flush so powerful it could swallow the contents of Mary Poppins’ bottomless bag?

With sustainability making its way into the world today, I considered the possibility that an automatic-flush toilet saves water. But then I remembered that the toilet decided to flush three times during my brief visit; once when I entered the stall, once before I was ready to throw in the towel (so to speak), and once when I actually rose from the occasion.

Just as I became certain that the automatic-flush toilet was not an improvement over its manual predecessor, I remembered the dance. This is the activity that takes place when the task is complete, but the porcelain gatekeeper won’t let your friend(s) through. And since you can’t very well leave without wishing them a proper farewell, you attempt to activate the gatekeeper.

A few waves of the hand, shortly followed by some up-and-down movement…all behind closed doors…and you are on your way. It’s only a matter of minutes before you join the likes of John Travolta and Ginger Rogers. Before you know it, you have secretly vowed to execute the splits if that will make the damn toilet flush. Suddenly, you have become prisoner in a public restroom stall.

In conclusion, I am not sold on the automatic-flush toilet. If anyone thinks otherwise, speak now or forever hold your pee..ace.

As we shoved forkfuls of delicious southern-style food into our mouths, our discussion somehow wandered down memory lane. There we were, sitting around the same picnic-style table in the same kitchen of the same historic house, only eight years later. The stories that tied us together all those years ago were still prominent in our memory banks, and enjoyed once again. It was then that our past grasped on to musical representation.

Excited about the idea, we happily debated back and forth regarding the song best suited to represent each of the summers we experienced as co-workers. After much laughter, we agreed to disagree and moved forward with the conversation. But, the idea of annual song representation remained an intriguing one; one that was never quite forgotten. So when another friend of mine recently wrote a Facebook Note with a similar concept, my mind decided to play along.

Which songs would make up the soundtrack of my life? While this task seemed like an enjoyable one when first acknowledged, it swiftly became an overwhelming mental project. How could I possibly pick the appropriate song, one that would accurately summarize three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, for each year of my existence? With so many songs to choose from, including those not yet experienced, I was bound to pick wrong.

The first mental scan for this daunting project produced the following, and not in numerical order: Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7XLeYMUZY4&feature=related), Beer Run by Todd Snider (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pyCPhIjmk-s), Landslide by Fleetwood Mac (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX6WHvxTYHs) and Carolina in My Mind by James Taylor (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNjLUPqckWY). The second questionable scan produced hilarious, even inappropriate, considerations and, of course, alterations to some of the initial candidates for compact disc inclusion. After much thought, I decided that this task was not worth the effort I would likely exert into the final product. The entertainment factor, I’m afraid, would quickly turn into one of accuracy. Even as I say that, however, I recognize that there is no “right” soundtrack for Rachelle. Because each moment I experience brings with it a new perspective on life that, in turn, alters my perceptions of my past. Therefore, ultimately, resulting in an ever-changing soundtrack; one that would take a lifetime to get "right."

Everywhere I go, I find it. It’s almost impossible to ignore it. My car, the floor of my apartment, the chair at my workplace, and my clothes all have this in common; loose strands of my hair. I am not exactly sure when this started becoming more of a “situation,” but it has definitely escalated since the strands have gotten longer.

Maybe the length just makes it a more noticeable deposit. Regardless, this sizable loss of physical attribute makes me wonder if it’s normal. Should I really be able to stuff a pillow with my monthly losses, or try my hand at Build-a-Bear…with my hair?! Granted, I may be exaggerating slightly with the afterlife possibilities of my shiny string-like accumulations, but maybe not by much.

As I picked off yet another strand of blondish, organically shampooed and conditioned hair from my jet black fleece, I realized something of great magnitude. I can never commit a crime. Not that I have any desire to do so, but from a CSI perspective, it would not be in my best interest. The amount of DNA I deposit on a daily basis, through the shedding of hair alone, is enough to consider me for the sequel to Hansel and Gretel. The detectives could follow my trail of hair all the way to California and back. In short, I haven’t got a chance.

While I have not yet decided on a solution to this growing frustration, I have weighed out my options. There is, of course, shaving my head entirely. But, to be honest, that is not even an option I would consider at this time. Another possibility is to permanently wear a swim or shower cap. Or, maybe, I could just wear my hair in a bun all day…every day. Huh.

Even though I am slightly intrigued by the reactions I would produce sporting a swim or shower cap twenty-four-seven, I do not see myself adopting any of these solutions mentioned above in an effort to reduce my unintentional litter. I guess I can continue to ponder this “situation” and the creative ways in which it might be remedied. In the meantime, I will continue my lifestyle as a hunter and gatherer, cleaning up after myself, and be grateful to have hair on my head. Knowing I have that to brush to the side makes the side effect of its cyclical loss even easier to brush aside.

Several years ago, I bought a variety packet of wildflower seeds. The desire to grow something, at the time, was fairly strong so I didn’t hesitate at the purchase. As I sprinkled the seeds into the pot of soil, I proceeded to visualize their potential. Not only was I eager to see which flowers would emerge, but curious as to the quantity and their timeline for maturity. Will all the seeds grow into flowers? Will some grow more quickly than others? Will the growth of some restrict others’ progress?

Unexpectedly, I find that I’m once again asking myself these very same questions, but in an entirely different context. As an advisor of a student organization, I am fortunate to work with a variety of students. And, like a packet of wildflower seeds, each one has potential. So, I would like to assume, with the proper care, these students will blossom into the flowers they are meant to be. If I follow the directions on the back of the packet, or in the Student Organization Handbook, I should produce a beautiful display of wildflowers. Right?

But how do I know when I’ve watered too much? How do I know when they’ve had too much sunshine or, possibly, not enough? How do I know if I’ve helped or hindered their growth? How much of the result is my efforts compared to the seed itself?

The packet doesn’t come with a guarantee, and neither does a student. Sometimes even the right conditions aren’t enough. And even those, although intended, aren’t always likely. All I can do is continue to nurture the best I know how, and hope that the seeds find exactly what they need from the mix of nutrients, and dismiss what they don’t, to blossom into greatness.

A couple weeks ago, after just a brief encounter several months before, a University employee from another department invited me to lunch. The idea had been mentioned in passing, almost as a courtesy, for quite some time, but was finally becoming a reality. As I watched her pay for my food, a custom of the Korean culture, I felt honored by her gesture and eager to learn more about our differences. By the end of this meal, we were friends. It might even be safe to say that she considered me a friend the first time we met. The hesitation I normally observe in developing relationships was not present. She was ready to value, accept and include me in her life, without reciprocation. No hidden agenda, no skepticism. Trust and love was given, not earned. I immediately belonged.

So I cannot say that I was surprised to be invited to a private picnic for the Korean students, faculty and staff from the University at a nearby park this weekend. When asked what to bring, I was told “an appetite.” Upon arrival, I was welcomed by all and offered a seat at the elder table. My eyes and ears couldn’t absorb enough information. There was so much to learn; so much to enjoy and appreciate. As my eyes darted from each menu item, the older gentleman to my left assisted me with descriptions and proper consumption techniques. That is when I learned he also worked at the University as a professor and proceeded to engage me in wonderful philosophical dialogue.

While I had to speak in an attempt to be friendly, I could have happily just watched and listened the entire afternoon. After lunch, the host organization put together some games and activities for the group to enjoy. Everyone, including myself, was invited to participate. Language interpretation was provided. The afternoon ended with a group photograph and hugs goodbye.

Two weeks ago, I would have never thought I would spend an afternoon in the park eating authentic Korean cuisine and being welcomed into a community of people so excitedly. While I usually tend to embrace others and welcome them into my world, I admittedly do so with hesitation. Whatever it is I am trying to protect does not compare to the power of community. Ultimately, I was reminded that my independence does not have to equate to isolation.

Moving right along in the direction of our destination, we suddenly paused to admire yet another insect. In this case, however, there were many. The wing span was small, but the wings themselves were lovely; a beautiful bright yellow. Such eye-pleasing butterflies, I thought. Wait. Where did they go?!

After several flutters along in multiple directions, these “butterflies” would settle down into a camouflaged state of being; blending ever so cleverly with the natural habitat. Are these grasshoppers? Surely not. I looked at my friend who had suggested this day hike and stated my intentions, “I must know more!” So, I charged at these insects with the movement of my body to encourage movement from their own confusing identity. I can’t say that I actually charged AT the insects, seeing as I was still uncertain as to where they were directly located. But, short spurts of speed towards the supposed locations did, indeed, result in a flurry of sunshine wings. These splashes of color decorating the sky around me would only last momentarily, however, before I was once again searching for their location.

What are these creatures? Can they really be grasshoppers? Perhaps clever butterflies? These moments of curiosity, coupled with entertaining but ineffective investigative measures, produced nothing more than fond memories. But, they did stimulate my imagination. Just as I was convinced that I had discovered a new species of insect, and sorted out possible names, I came to appreciate the lesson behind the experience. Things aren’t always what they seem.