I want a soft couch bathed in sunlight with a table covered in books at arms length. I want to be surrounded by quotes that speak to life and hardship and challenges and the beauty in mundane, simple things. I want to be in love again. I want maps to cover my walls, not so that I can boast about the places I've been, but so that I can plan trips to see the ones I love who live there. I want music to move me to tears. I want my camera to capture what words never can. I want love to fill every corner of every room. The deep, profound, unquestionable type of love. 

To Regret or Not to Regret?

In my spare (ha!) time I like to peruse strangers' blogs. I find them an intriguing insight into another's thoughts; it's like a window into someone else's mind. Fascinating.

Tonight, I found a hurting blog post who's interpretation of heartbreak made me stop and reflect:

"Thoughts: Regret is Just Love Spelled Backwards

People in the end are just regrets. They are the email you shouldn't have sent. They are the phone call you shouldn't have made. They are the late night you should have walked home alone. They are the streets you should have never walked down and doors that should have stayed closed...

...People in the end are just a series of events we wish we never experienced."

See, I differ in my opinion of past loves; I find this pervasive regret sad and unfair to both parties. It may not have worked out in the end, but that doesn't discredit the happiness, the intimacy, the countless beautiful moments and laughter shared together. I have never, not for a moment, regretted the year we had together, the months I waited, or the tears we shared. And so, I'm countering with my own "thoughts":

Thoughts: Evolve is (ev)Love Spelled Backwards

People, in the end, are teachers. Windows into the secrets of humanity and the universe. They are the ones that forced you to be vulnerable and taught you how to trust. They are the text messages that made you smile at midnight and the hand to hold down countless cracked sidewalks. They are the reason your eyes have more smile wrinkles and the reason there's the understanding of heartbreak hiding in their depths. They are the ones that taught you what you value most - in life, yourself, and in others. They taught you the science of cuddling and pillowtalk, the beautiful riskiness of trust, of and how far you're willing to compromise. They are proof you tried. People, in the end, are a series of teachers that help you discover, and evolve into, who you truly are. 

Good news: My major was approved! I will officially be graduating in June as a Global Health and Social Justice major. Cool.

Good news: A book I conducted research for and helped write was sent to the publishers today at the University of Guadalajara, Mexico. Should be published by Spring 2014. Cool.

Good news: Get to go backpacking through Anza Borrego next weekend for free as the professional photographer. Cool.

Bad news: Exhausted and sick. Can't get out of bed. Ever again. #drama

Yo soy

"Forget about enlightenment. Sit down wherever you are and listen to the wind that is singing in your veins. Feel the love, the longing, and the fear in your bones. Open your heart to who you are, right now, not who you would like to be. Not the saint you're striving to become. But the being right here before you, inside you, around you. All of you is holy. You're already more and less than whatever you can know. Breath out, look in, let go." -John Welwood

Breathe

I lay on my mat tonight, eyes closed, limbs trembling, listening to the sound of my breath.

Each inhale and exhale were deep, powerful, purposeful and soothing. I've learned to really listen to my breathing, pay attention to my breathing; it centers my mind and balances my racing heartbeat. It's therapeutic, whether in the midst of a warrior pose or in the last five minutes of that really intense exam. What I love though, is how your breath has different sentidos. Each part has a different feeling, sentiment, and imagery.

It sounds like the ocean. With each inhale your breath mirrors a breaking wave; crashing upon the shore with life-giving momentum, intensity, curling ripples of oxygen and peace. Desperate and overwhelming, it's easy to get lost in the inhale. But it's that speed and force and power that fills your body, lifts your chin, and gets you through the day. And each exhale is the retreat of the wave back into the vast sea. A release of tension, stress, worry and control. It drags at the grains of sand and fragments of shell as it smoothly pulls back into the dark depths. The shore of your lungs slowly empties until your breath finally tapers off into a quiet whisper between your lips.

It's magical really, if you think about it that way. That your breath is like the tide, ebbing and flowing. Rising and receding. Deep, profound, complex, full of life and mystery.

It's as if the sea were in you. 

White Girl

I met a man in a classy bar a while ago. With shiny leather shoes and a smart, gleaming watch, he seemed intelligent. Sophisticated. Interesting. And I had on my turtle-shell glasses, pearls, and a glass of cooled scotch. 

We began to talk.

A mutual friend had mentioned my time in Jordan to said man and Señor Shoes ventured to turn the conversation more....international. "What were you doing in the Middle East?" he asked, slightly amused. I gave him the quick shpeel, "public health work addressing health conditions inside Jordan's biggest refugee camp" and his eyes lit up. 

"Refugees? You worked with refugees? That's so cute!....Haha, did you get your refugee fix?" 

This face is how I feel about it a week later. In the moment, I could've slugged him.

"Refugee fix?" I frowned. "Not sure I understand."

"You know, white girl goes to the desert to work with refugees. Was it exciting? I mean, it seems crazy exciting! But, well, what do you want to actually do?"

White girl? What do I actually want to do?

"You make refugee camps sound like going to the circus...like something to be entertained with. Like I was just there to get a profile picture." 

"So you did get your refugee fix!"

I just excused myself.

Way to completely undermine, minimize and patronize me and what I'm passionate about. Way to stick me in a racist, sexist box of stereotypes and generalizations without actually stopping to realize that the color of my skin or hair shouldn't sabotage my credibility or goals.

Yes. Thank you Captain Obvious, I am white. And blond. And a woman. Therefore, genuinely caring about the world, it's realities and people, the pain and suffering, the triumphs and challenges is inherently inconceivable. Naturally.

And in those moments, as I walked away from Señor Shoes, I heard another voice in my head....

"Is it because you wish you had culture? Don't base your life off your white man's guilt..." 

Tonight marked the third night in a row I've stayed up past 2am working on my major proposal. Tomorrow I meet with the academic dean and will defend this major I've dreamt up and designed over the last seven months. Global Health and Social Justice: Development, Urbanization, and International Migration. It's powerful, it's holistic, it's raw, challenging and will actually prepare me for the real world; unlike the theoretical bookwork UCSD seems obsessed with. Yesterday I got both the Director of the Global Health Minor and one of Anthropology's leading indigenous rights professors to sign off on my proposal and I literally couldn't breathe from pure joy.

And now I'm terrified silly. I've rewritten my proposal into five drafts, each one different sizes...one is a single page draft, the next is two pages, then three pages, four pages and five. No matter what they ask for, I'll have. I've organized and reorganized the proposed classes, practiced defending it to the mirror, read the entire general catalogue over...twice.

I'm ecstatic and terrified, thrilled and apprehensive, incredibly proud and unbelievably nervous.

And it's not because I'm a white girl who wishes she had culture.

I have culture. So does every single person on this massive, complex planet. And I don't have white-man's guilt or burden. There is unnecessary pain and death in the world and I happen to have spent six years in college and too many SallyMae loans figuring out how to help alleviate it. Has nothing to do with the color of my stupid skin. Or my hair. Or the fact that I happened to be born with green eyes.

White girl's gonna show Señor Shoes and everyone else that passion shouldn't be dictated, or limited, by the color of your skin. I thought we were bigger than that.

Purple yoga mat

My yoga mat is purple. Purple with violet elephants running down one side.

This afternoon, the warm, golden sunlight came streaming through the windows onto the hardwood floor as we shook. Panted. Stretched. Our yoga class is for beginners, but it's incredibly challenging. Cords are used to pull your legs and arms in directions thought impossible moments before. Arturo, the instructor, has learned my name and tells me from across the room "stretch Risa, stretch further. No! Further."

In surfing, there's a desperate sensation when you've been under water a few moments too long where your lungs start to gasp for air. They convulse in upon themselves, stretch against themselves, and you become acutely aware of each cell of your lungs. You feel each one, so furiously bent on living, surge and pulse with life, propelling you to the surface where you can finally gulp the sweet, sweet oxygen.

Yoga is similar. You stretch and bend in ways that make your muscles scream in delicious agony. You hold perfectly still in bizarre poses as your sinewy muscles gasp and cramp and pull at your joints. You listen to your heartbeat as you force yourself not to shake, pull your sacrum back towards the floor, lift your chin towards the ceiling, and breathe. Let it burn, just don't forget to breathe. And when you think you'll collapse in upon yourself, the pose stops. And you can finally relax into yourself on that wonderful, safe mat.

I found myself pressing into my purple, elephant mat as if it were the only thing in the world that could offer me security, stability, and a refuge during the tortures of yoga. As soon as I could get my body flat against my mat, silently whisper cuss words at my understanding elephants, close my eyes and melt into the mat, I'd be okay.

My yoga mat is purple. Purple with violet elephants running down the side. It's tangible representation of peace and sanity.

Feed the soul

Today was a day spent entirely in the pursuit of therapy. 

Two co-workers-turned-friends from my summer days at Jamba Juice and I hiked up to Potato Chip Rock. The morning was overcast, the trail quiet, the desert scenery dry and rugged, and our hearts racing as we scaled the mountain. My legs have since turned to jelly and I know they'll be sore in the morning, but it was worth it. 

And my day ended at Torrey Pines State Beach, sitting alone on the shore....silently thinking about the world. Synchronizing my breathing with the crashing waves. Just listening to the gulls and sand and chilly breeze. I have mountains of homework before me now, but when does that ever change? Honestly. It was a "feed the soul" kind of day. 

Blacklight Party

Tour guiding isn't just an amazing job, it's an amazing group of tight-knit friends. I've known some of these people for nearly three years now and we've shared so many happy, crazy memories.

From 5am pancake breakfasts at Denny's before Triton Day, dressing up as super-heros and sharks, feasting on ethnic food before calling newly admitted freshmen, and flash mob dances on Library Walk...this group is random and spontaneous and down for any adventure that comes our way. We're paid to be cheerful, upbeat, happy and enthusiastic...so what happens is a dynamic group of incredible friends.

And last night was our first black-light party. The requirement to come was that you had to glow, so we had neon shirts, glow sticks, body paint and highlighters to make the night as colorful as possible. I love these people.

Women's Protection and Empowerment Coordinator

Tonight was supposed to be an incredibly productive, writing-filled evening...but it dissolved into hours spent scanning IRC job postings in New York, D.C., Berlin and Tanzania. My glasses were illuminated with the reflection of job description after fascinating job description and my heart danced with the idea that somehow, someday, maybe I could do something like the careers described there.

And then I found "Emergency Response Team: Women's Protection and Empowerment Coordinator". 

• Expected to be deployed in the field for up to 75% of the time and must be able to deploy to the site of an emergency within 72 hours of notification.
• Rapidly and effectively design, develop and manage the IRC's on-site humanitarian response to meet the immediate needs of the affected population. 
• Promote and protect women and girls' human rights and meet the safety, health, psychosocial and justice needs of survivors of sexual and physical violence. 
• Represent and coordinate with other agencies, local government, donors and other stakeholders to promote delivery of best practice humanitarian assistance, 
• Assist in the development and launch of new technical policy, procedures and training materials

...

Let me just remember how to breathe. 

That is me. That is everywhere me. That is me all over. That's it. That's exactly it. 

The only thing I still need is "3+ years of experience developing and managing technical projects including time spent in emergency/conflict areas."

So. I'm officially going to meet with the IRC Regional Coordinator in San Diego to figure out how I can start working on that experience. Now. 

Like, right now. 

What's Important

I sat in class yesterday and re-evaluated life. The professor carried on enthusiastically about health behavior models and social determinants of health, but my mind was light-years away trying to pin down what, really, do I care about. What is important? 

Global health work, that's a given. Portions of my life will undoubtedly include travel, foreign languages, dirt, NGOs, grant-writing, boots and living out of a backpack. That said, I've realized there are a few beautifully important things I want to stabilize whatever life, careers, and relationships come my way. I sat in class and realized that it's important my future life allows me to:

Have an actual home

Raise chickens

Tend a vegetable garden

Bake bread. Regularly.

Have hardwood floors and big windows and antique maps on the walls

Meditate

Travel

Invest in people

Read with my kids. Voraciously

Put on pearls and go to the ballet

Live simply

Splurge on the important things: the arts, books, plane tickets, perfume, and his cologne

Family dinners

Love.

I want love to seep through the walls, through the conversations, through the joy and anger and laughter and challenges. I want love to engulf my future home and family. I want it to manifest itself in quiet deeds and kind words, back massages and sips of wine. I need love to be rejuvenating, therapeutic, raw and vulnerable. I want it to be honest, challenging, patient, real. I want it to pick me up off the floor when I'm overwhelmed with the pain of the world. I want it to be what pulls us closer when life is too much. I want it to be what keeps us going, keeps us laughing, keeps us humble, keeps us together.

Mary & Martha

I don't know where to start with this post. I'm not an overly-emotional person, but I watched this tonight and cried. Multiple times. For multiple very, very different reasons.

----
I am white. A white, blonde, American woman who lives a very privileged, safe, successful life. Most likely, I will never have to watch my son die of malaria, or typhoid, or malnutrition, or cholera. I will never have my daughter writhe on a hospital bed as her little heart literally explodes with disease. My son will not die like the baby I held in Jamaica because the only doctors are hours away by bus. My daughter will not die because of contaminated water like the limp girl I cradled in a sweltering refugee camp in Amman. My children will not slowly starve because of tribalism, sectarian fighting, and policies created in plush offices oceans away.

But millions, millions of children will. Every, single, year. Millions of mothers and millions of fathers will watch their children writhe. Suffer. Starve. Silently, feverishly fade away.

I watched this and cried, remembering the little faces I have seen. The little hands I've held. The little, and big, bodies I've hugged. Knowing that there are thousands and thousands and thousands who die of preventable diseases, suffer from preventable disabilities, and face preventable starvation, mutilation, blindness, and pain....whom I will never know.

I cried. I cried because the pain and suffering is so real, so tangible...but it takes a movie like this, a class here and there, a UNICEF poster here, to remind us that people are literally dying of poverty. Lack of mosquito nets. Lack of $5 antibiotics. Lack of safe drinking water. Lack of a safe place to sleep at night. I cried because I am so, so, so privileged, so sheltered, so safe...and the disparity is so, so, so huge.

----
There is a scene where Mary begins receiving letters back from government officials about her grassroots campaign to fight against malaria. She's ecstatic, hopeful, naive and passionate....and she'll fight. Even just to save a single life. Prevent one child from meeting her son's fate. But her husband looks her in the eye and says "Save a life, lose a marriage." Bomb dropped.

And I cried anew. She faced the awful choice between advocating for a bigger cause, using her status as a white, American, woman to fight for those who have no privileged platform...or her marriage. And I cried. I cried because I gave up a man who didn't believe in me or my goals. Because I once looked a doubtful, unyielding man in the eye and chose mosquito nets and vaccines and un-named impoverished communities in un-named far-away places. And I cried because, deep down, I'm terrified of ever having to make that choice again. Is that a thing? Do you have to choose? Why? I cried over strong women in humanitarian aid and the reoccurring theme of unsupportive partners. Does that keep popping up because it's good narrative drama, or because it's a real problem?

----
And I laughed and cried at the power of two passionate women. It might be fiction, but it's powerful all the same. Two women, who'd seen enough pain and death, rallying to change one thing at a time. To solve one problem at a time. To tackle one obstacle and save one life at a time. It was beautiful.

And I was beaming. 

90-year old

I'm back home. Well, in a new room, new house, new context...but I'm back in San Diego. The day is still spent running into people I haven't seen in months and the ever-burning question: "how was the trip?!"

 How was the trip? Magical? Contemplative? Insightful? Wearying? Beautiful? Beautiful.

But it's a strange thing being home again. I feel as though my soul has aged decades and I'm still in the process of determining what exactly that means. I'm busy on campus, again. Work has started and, between the tours office and transfer orientation, my days are a consistent string of long hours and lots of people. Which is satisfyingly rewarding, but I've discovered that my evenings are sacred. Once I return home, and find the refuge of my room, my energy is spent. Gone. The best I can do is cook dinner, pour a glass of wine, turn on soft flamenco, sift through emails, update my calendar, read for a bit....and sleep. It's perfect. It's when I silently reconnect with the world, with my own heartbeat and thoughts, and put a gentle close on the busy, busy day.

But I get called out for it. "Do you ever go out?" one roommate quipped as I slipped into my pjs. "It's a Friday night!" the other reminded me as I sipped aforementioned glass of wine.

Indeed. It is.

And I'm incredibly happy with my pjs and flamenco. My blankets and wine. I may have turned 90 over the summer....that definitely might have happened. But for now, in this moment, I'm going to give 90-year old me her space.

10 things I learned in Rome

 1. Walking is always best. Public transportation (the metro or bus 64) will save you blisters, perhaps, but you will miss the countless beautiful moments hidden in unexpected back alleys.

2.  That said, invest in a good street map beforehand. Particularly if it has interesting tips and historical facts.

3. Watch Roman Holiday and track down the spots where Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck went.

4. Italian food is divine. Italian restaurants are not. Overpriced and with disappointing quality, stay away from any tourist cafe or restaurant near main attractions (so, basically all the restaurants). That said, here is a link to one woman's favorite places...

5. The Vatican is a total zoo. Beautiful and magnificent (getting to see the Sistine Chapel is absolutely awe-inspiring), but your stress level will probably rise with the masses/throngs/swarms/mobs of tourists who crash into you, step on your feet, forget deodorant, or have forgotten how to move.

6. Always tip the street musicians. They bring beauty and life to the streets. Let them know you appreciate it.

7. If you can, go in the spring or fall. August is awfully hot and most shops (and night clubs) are closed since the Romans are all on vacation themselves.

8. Grattachecca. Found only in Italy's capital, this shaved ice, fruit juice and fresh fruit chunks is hands-down the very best way to quench thirst during the torrid August days. The best, and oldest, one is lemon and coconut. You shouldn't pay more than about 4 euro for one (at the most).

9. Make friends with a gelato worker. If you go enough, they'll start giving you discounts or extra scoopings.

10. Explore at night and learn some Italian. Not only is the temperature a good 10-20 degrees cooler, but seeing the ancient monuments lit up is breath-taking, and this is when you'll get to meet new Italian friends to explore with.

11. And go with your best friend. :D

Free Wifi

Starbucks in Madrid has us pegged. The barista with grey eyes smiles when we ask, again, for the wifi codes along with our espressos. 

Madrid is a patchwork of color, languages, and mouth-watering cuisine. Mom and Spanish-Dad found a little flat tucked inside a colorful courtyard; drying laundry and wailing toddlers are our constant companions. Additionally, we are deep in the heart of the most ethnic section of the capital city. Renown as a low-rent district, it attracts a vast array of immigrants; over 50% of the population is estimated to be of foreign origin. Popular amongst squatters, drug dealers, socialist youth, and newly arrived immigrants, the area bears an eclectic aura, the "buenos dias"s laced with heavy accents. Our neighbors are Moroccan, Senegalese, Sri Lankan, and Bangladeshi, though countless other languages, dialects, and traditional dress frequent our narrow streets. I adore it.

Our apartment

El Metropolis

Guitarist outside the Prado Museum (who has an amazing CD)

Street musicians at El Rastro

And in the metro

Goofing around with a blue balloon outside the Reina Sophia Modern Art Musuem

Reach for the Skies

After a 10-hour work day, my feet are swollen, my hands bruised and my back sore...but I'm settled in bed with my favorite celtic band, a bowl of colorful fruit salad, surrounded by wrinkled papers with handwritten notes scrawled across them in countless flurries of ideas and thoughts. I'm trying to create my own major and the effort is both invigorating and daunting. I love the freedom I'm allowing myself, the ability to customize my studies into a perfect culmination of passion, knowledge, interest, and challenge. It's difficult and I'm not guaranteed the faculty committee will approve my proposal - a major like this has never been done before. The unprecedented nature of my idea adds pressure to be perfect, so the late night moon has caught me many times with steaming Turkish coffee (from last year's bedouins), tired eyes, pencil in hand, and pages upon pages of an evolving rough draft proposal.

Each morning I tell my tours to dream big. Wide-eyed highschoolers with astronomical GPAs and SAT scores stare at me when I tell them to look past the stats and percentages of a university...go somewhere you can thrive, I tell them. Go somewhere you can grow. Somewhere that allows you to dream big. Not just allows, but encourages....supports....partners with your dreams. I'm lucky to be in a place that lets me try new things, invent my own curriculum, propose my own education. We'll see if it gets accepted though...for now it's more coffee, polishing rhetoric, and daydreaming at the sky. 

If all goes well, I'll graduate with a:

B.A. in Global Development Studies: Public Health & Social Justice