Todo Cambió

I had never lived alone until this year. It was a liberating feeling, opening the door and knowing the house would be exactly like I left it. Those dishes in the sink (if there were any) were mine, and I would wash them when I pleased. The bed was always made and the curtains always open. Just like I liked it. For the first time in my life, I was completely self-sufficient and I was satisfied. I could have my girlfriends over for dinner if I felt lonely, and if they couldn't come over a bottle of wine is as a good a friend as any. I had time to write, work, and create in a pleasant solitude.

All that didn't last too long. You see, the moment you finally get everything you think you want - that's just the time that the world shifts under your feet for better or for worse.

He saw me first. He planned his attack carefully, not calling too much attention to himself and always being sure to put the music in the forefront of our conversations. He was kind and gentle, soft-spoken but direct. He was an incredibly talented musician with a smooth intelligent confidence that I had only seen in movies. He was unassuming, but his powerful energy moved me. I went to a rehearsal at his farm, and haven't stopped singing his music since that day.

Funny what love does.

Today, after a very long week of apartment hunting, moving, and installing internet (believe me, this is NO small feat here in Colombia), I am hopping a bus to Cali to perform his music at the Colombo Americano. The dishes in the sink aren't all mine, but it doesn't bother me. The bed is usually made, and the curtains are still open, but there are differences now. Aguapanela and arepas replaced the coffee. The beer is his, the wine is mine. I share my bed, he shares his clothes. Now we share everything: meals and dreams and all the in-betweens.

I reflect on my time alone and smile. I did it. I lived alone in a foreign country. And now, I smile because he's cooking arepas and we have new adventures to tackle. Together. His music creeps into my ear and I start to hum along.

When To Let Fear Win

The air is smooth and soft here in Vilcabamba, Ecuador. The mountains are a lusty green, and a stream gurgles somewhere nearby. The center of town is full of hippy expats who affectionately call it "Velcro-bamba" for its magical ability to make you want to stay. The sleepy tourist town is nestled in The Sacred Valley of Longevity, south of Loja, and it's rumored that there are at least twenty residents well over 100 years old.

In the zen atmosphere of Hosteria Izhcayluma, a spa-hostel right outside of town, as well as the hopping hippy town square it's easy to forget that this is still a developing country. Poverty does not present itself in these areas, but it is sadly lingering just outside my immediate view. I must always be aware and conscious of that fact while traveling through South America. The hostel's information packet outlines restaurant hours, spa packages, and detailed instructions for various hiking paths around Vilcabamba.

I am intrigued by the hiking paths that range from beginner to advanced and are estimated to take anywhere from two to seven hours. My roommate, Jen-from-Canada, is also interested in a hike. We decide on the blue path rated "difficult" and with an estimated hike time of six hours. The view is said to be stunning and, in spite of my carelessness in forgetting to pack my hiking shoes, I decide I am ready. Adventure!

I glance at the precautions before we leave. It is advised to carry a rock or stick for possible encounters with angry dogs. If they still approach you, raise your hand as if to throw it at them and do not turn your back until they retreat. Great. I am terrified of aggressive dogs. Images of limbs shredding flash in my vision. I push the images aside knowing that I am strong and confident.

Jen and I pack our backpacks with essentials: sunscreen, water, a phone, a couple kinds of fruit, and a small amount of money. We get a map from the front desk and descend down the hill, out of Izhcayluma property. We cross a main road to follow the path which is getting smaller and smaller. The green of the mountain soon envelopes us and the only sound is the crunch of gravel under our feet.

The dirt path gives way to a small stream and my non-hiking boots become watery and weak. I express my concern for these crappy boots in a loud voice as Jen is considerably farther ahead on the trail, when I hear rustling in the grass next to me. Suddenly two dogs start barking and growling ferociously near my ear. I can't see them as the shrubbery is high, but they sound... Angry. I freeze, my grip tightens on the rock in my hand and Jen comes back to assure me we are ok. She holds my hand and confidently leads me away from the angry hidden dogs.

Ok. Ok. I can do this. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently. "No, no, I'm ok!" I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. My heart slows back to a semi-normal pace and I try to take in the gorgeous scenery around me. I feel sick now, however, a mix of fear and dehydration sloshing in my stomach. The sun is hot and the path is steep, but Jen seems unphased. I bolster up my courage, sip some water and continue following my fearless female companion.

Houses scatter the isolated path as it broadens into a small road. I hear music in the distance, but we are the only people as far as I can see. In fact, even the distant highway seems strangely deserted. We hike a bit further up the mountain and out of the brushes, a man appears. He is middle-aged, swaying slightly, and he seems to be signaling something to us. A thumbs up? Or perhaps an invitation. As we get closer, I realize there are more men on the side of the road. They are laughing, looking at us. I think one is peeing, but decide not to look to close. They reek of alcohol.

We pass them after a quick "hola" making sure to keep our pace steady and confident. When the men are out of earshot we discuss the slight discomfort of that situation and reiterate how happy we are to not be hiking alone. The road narrows back to a thin path and I just miss stepping in a large pile of cow shit. It's fresh. "I hope we don't have to walk through a cow field," I say. Though cows are normally gentle creatures, I shudder at the thought of an angry bull charging me for somehow knowing I ate his cousin for lunch. Cow karma. "Noooo," Jen says. "I don't think so..."

We hear a loud moo. There before us is a large brown cow completely blocking the small path. Thankfully it's not a bull, but that doesn't make me any braver. "Do you want to go back?" Jen asks gently again. I think of the drunk men and the angry dogs we'd have to pass in the two-hour walk it would take to get back to our hostel. "No, I'm fine!" I say, shaking, the rock still clasped in my terrified grasp. She moves slowly toward the cow and claps a couple times. It shies away and leaps back through a small gap in the barbed wire fence. Safe again.

The trail indicates that we are to walk along a highway for approximately 300 meters before crossing it and hopping a barbed wire fence for the last half of our trek. I welcome the cement under my feet and the broader range of vision, but I'm still nervous. A taxi drives by and I resist the urge to flag it down and return to the safety of my touristy spa-hostel.

As it disappears around the bend, a truck honks at us from behind. I turn to see a white truckbed slowly pass full of men and, strangely, trash bags. They are smiling at us, but not in a way I like. How easy would it be for them to throw these two little traveler girls in the back of that pickup? They could even cover us with those trash bags when they were done with us. How convenient for them. A shiver runs through me and I tell Jen that I need to head home in the next taxi. My fear has gotten the best of me.

She reassures me kindly that it's perfectly fine. She'll go back with me. A taxi comes within two minutes of my decision and I eagerly stick out my hand. As we climb into the taxi, he says something I don't quite catch in Spanish. "Lo siento, cómo?" I ask. He repeats himself and this time I understand. I repeat the message to Jen who doesn't know Spanish. "He said when he saw us he was scared for us. That this road is very dangerous for two girls to be walking alone. He said we should be more careful." Noted.

I don't know if my paranoia was warranted, but as a woman traveling alone -or even with a very capable and brave female companion- I know that intuition is a powerful survival tool. Although I initially hated myself for "giving up" and apologized profusely to Jen for my ridiculous nervousness, I feel better knowing we are safe. Sometimes when you let fear win, you win too. But just sometimes. Trust your instincts and take whatever path you dare... Just listen closely and keep your eyes open. And maybe carry a rock.

Practice Love

Do your homework. Get good grades. Respect your elders. Clean your room. Eat your breakfast.

Practice love.

What? Who's the hippy in the VW Bug that says THAT to their kid?

Hopefully someday, that long-haired, big-hearted, rose-colored-glasses-wearing-mama will be me.

Pause.

This is the first time I have publicly admitted EVENTUALLY wanting children in a roundabout way. So... now that we've all swallowed that... why is this last rule more obscure? It's surely more important than cleaning your room! And why "practice" love? Shouldn't it just exist?

That's the big question, right? Why doesn't love just exist in all of us all the time? There would be less heartache, less depression, less war, and more tolerance. But love is a practice, just like music and meditation. We must consciously make the decision to try harder and love deeper. We must practice quieting our own useless insecurities to hear the shy whisper of love's song (seriously, Jana? Love's song? Cupid is destroying you). But in all seriousness, so much can be healed with this simple ancient potion: human connection.

When was the last time you said hello to your neighbor? And I'm not talking about a quick "hey" before you close the elevator in front of them... I'm talking about a heartfelt "Hi! How are you?" in a way that someone would actually believe it. When did you look into a stranger's eyes and genuinely wonder what they were feeling? Do you even have time for that? My advice is that you make time because time is all we have.

Let me tell you about the time I consciously started this practice. I've loved deeply in my life, don't get me wrong. My friends and family are firmly rooted in my heart. But actively choosing to practice, especially when I had other things on my mind (deadlines, money, travel restrictions in my chosen country) - that was something different.

So, I'll tell you a story. 

About two months ago, I was rehearsing with a man who had hired me to sing in his band. It was extremely complicated music and I was struggling to learn my part. Not to mention, there was something between us that was distracting me even though we held our professional demeanor quite well. I was getting frustrated as he played my notes because I just couldn't repeat them correctly. It was embarrassing. My timing was off. This was new, and I was fumbling. He kept saying "It's ok! We'll just try again," but I was not so calm.

Suddenly, he stopped playing and put up one finger. "Sorry, just a moment," he said, leaving the piano and turning the corner of the room. I heard some scurrying sounds, and a sharp "shh!".

He returned holding something very small. His hands gently covered a bird's body. A long, thin beak and a frightened eye were all I could see. He explained that the cat had caught the hummingbird when it flew into a spiderweb through the window and fell. Together, we gently removed the web from his tiny wings and released him back into the morning sky. I'd never seen a hummingbird so close. It was brilliantly covered with gold and green specks, and so delicate to touch.

As I walked back towards the piano, the man with the music pulled me close and kissed me as gently as he'd held that tiny bird. I pulled back and said, "But we're not practicing music! We should be practicing!"

He smiled, pulled me close once more and said "Practice love".

And that, ladies and gentleman, is when I started listening.

So your assignment is simple: Say hello to your neighbor and mean it. Replace the rambling insecurities of your mind with something more positive, like a "you can do it!" or my mom's favorite, "You GO girl!". Love yourself. Love others. Love your enemies as well as your mother. Love the crisp morning air, and the sparkle of the snow. And, most importantly, practice every day.

Practice love. 

Chaos and Calm

I recently watched a documentary that invigorated me. It gave me chills and made me think. It forced me to come to terms with some deeper issues in my own life while also examining the lives of others. I Am examines the idea of interconnectedness. That every action, thought and emotion affects those around us. It affects people, plants, water, and even planetary motion. Mind. Blown. So what am I giving to the world? What have I given in the past?

My life has been a constant evolution. I changed families before I was a month old and was a much-anticipated arrival for my mother who's only curse was wanting children and not being able to produce them. The energy on that day (I'm told) was celebratory. My brother was the first to hold me and, as far as I know, he didn't even attempt to drop me. A success story from the beginning!

This was only the first of many drastic changes I would experience in the coming years. We all change every day. Change is natural. Change is good. It makes us stronger, and it makes us grow. How boring would life be without it? But I would be remiss if I were to say that change comes without consequence, and a certain amount of chaos.

Shortly after my adoption, my chaos manifested in Febrile Seizures, a kind of electrical storm in the brain. My poor parents had chosen a blue newborn with a frothy mouth. Well... I always did like being the center of attention. After the hospital came the calm. I was prescribed Phenobarbital, a long-acting barbiturate, and for the next five years could be found sleeping under tables at school and at home. The side-effects caused drowsiness, depression, and a strange disconnectedness. As if I was always on a low-flying cloud. Recent research has shown that the drug may have been more harmful than helpful as it reduces brain activity in children and can even affect nerve stimulation. But I turned out all right. I adapted.

My family moved four times in a four-year span starting when I was seven. I made friends quickly and wrote in my diary or painted whenever I felt lonely. My father worked out-of-state from the time I was fourteen until well after I graduated college, and my mother essentially raised us on her own. I was all right. I adapted. My brother had a harder time.

When the moves started, I was seven, but my brother was fourteen. He'd also moved when he was 7 (I was a baby) and he was also adopted as a child. These moves had more of an impact as he was older and social dynamics were more important and less easy to find in new situations. He started his teenage rebellion with more fire than most, and soon he took my chaos medal for his own.

Drugs, petty theft, and teenage pregnancy became much more exciting than my "but I just want to fit in" problems. My brother stole my mom's jewelry (she got it back), some alcohol, and my chaos. My precious, precious treasure. That thing that made me special. I vowed to get it back.

My brother's deep rebellion leveled out around the time I went to college and for a while... we were both calm. His family bonded as they overcame struggles uncommon for most teenagers. They fell in love raising their child, went back to school, and became role models. I became proud of who they'd become.

But chaos was gnawing at me like a bad addiction. Its electricity brings drama, passion, and excitement. It draws people in and makes them listen, but it doesn't make them stay.

I moved to New York City after college, leaving my first love with the house he was building for us. I broke up the dogs, said goodbye to the family, and moved to a roach-infested 2-bedroom on St. Marks and 2nd Avenue. The next couple years were just the excitement I had been craving. They were filled with danger, stupidity, and they were completely necessary. My beloved friends shared my turbulent struggle and somehow, I think we made it out alive. Perhaps even stronger.

At times it seemed like the storm was receding. It lay dormant and let me play out a "normal" life for a couple weeks; I had days that were filled with routine and structure. But that never lasted long.

My move to Colombia was the most extreme decision I'd made thus far. The news rippled through my family and friends like a Febrile Seizure. They were rocked. I moved with nothing; no job, no friends, minimal clothing and even less money. I had no expectations, just a blind hope that this would finally be the right decision.

The culture was strange to me, the language still difficult, and everything felt different. What shocked me, however, wasn't the turmoil I'd come to expect.

It was the calm.

For the first time in my life I actually took things in stride. I appreciated the incredible nature around me and I felt sincerely gracious for the life I'd been given. I felt so gracious, I wanted to give back to whoever would take it. I felt so loved, I wanted to love. I was so content, I wanted to stay.

So now, there is no longer a need for the chaos I've struggled to claim for so many years. It has no place here in Manizales, Colombia.

Let the light I've been given radiate through everything around me. Let me share my smile with someone who needs it more. Let me live in tandem with the plants that share my breath. Let me love. Let me love you. 

I am so happy that my chaos led me to the calm I now have. I embrace them both in a delicate balance. Thank you for your love.

Guilt of the Gutsy Girl

"Every night I ask myself...Am I giving enough? Am I?"

"God, you're brave!"

"I've always wanted to do what you're doing... but I just couldn't."

"You have such an interesting life!"

"Jealous!!"

I hear these phrases over and over again as I explain my experiences abroad, and my new life in Colombia. Because I am unable to fully accept a compliment, my usual reply is "There is a fine line, between bravery and stupidity!" I cut myself down juuuuust a bit by suggesting I may be jumping into something I can't handle. And maybe I can't handle it. I have always fought savagely with debt and loneliness... but that's normal for a single girl in her twenties who foolishly overspent on a couple credit cards, right?

Despite my hesitation in my initial reply, what I actually want to say is "Thank you." I'm flattered to be thought of in this way, and I truly appreciate your kind words. Hopefully my experiences will inspire you to do something you've always been afraid of. Maybe even something crazy like dropping everything you know and moving to a foreign country.

It's clear that fear has never been a factor for me when making big decisions. I Just Do It, Nike-style, and figure the rest out later. Does that make me a grounded, secure, and financially stable individual? Hellllll NO! But it sure does make for a good story. And people love a good story.

I am a self-motivated, go-getter, kickin-ass-and-takin-names-kinda-chick. I have the nickname "Crazy Aunt Jana" for a reason. I do cool things with my life that I've always wanted to do, and I'm inspiring people to do the same!

So... why do I feel guilty?

A couple days ago, my 62-year-old mother was in a terrible car crash. A semi turned on a green light as my mom was driving straight and plowed over her tiny Volvo. The wheel of the semi ended up on her hood, and her airbag deployed, but all safety structures held strong. My mother walked away without a scratch.

This is not the first time I've been away when something bad happened. In fact, I've always been away. When I was in highschool my Grandpa passed away. I was at a showchoir competition for the weekend and only found out after I returned. My Pappaw (grandpa on my dad's side) died while I was in college, but I had just accepted a trip to Stratford-on-Avon in Canada to see Shakespeare with my theatre class and my parents said to go. I didn't attend the funeral. The last time my mother totaled her car was winter 2012. She slid on black ice and flipped her car three times before miraculously walking away. I was in Woodstock, NY with friends enjoying a leisurely weekend in a cabin. As I walked out of work in a small Brooklyn coffeeshop, my brother called me to tell me that my twenty-something Sister-in-Law had cancer.

I am never around. 

My really cool life has me gallivanting all over this beautiful blue Earth, but I sometimes feel I am failing at being a family member. I adore the sense of community in Colombia, but I cannot feel at home in the community where I was raised. I am always drifting, floating, sometimes running in the opposite direction of the Indiana plains, but I know I would be miserable if I stayed in one place. At least for now.

So what's my conclusion?... I'm not sure. I'm still searching. Bad things happen all the time. It is by chance that I've been away for most of them. No one can be there all the time for every person. But am I doing enough?

Look For the Red Door

The wheels stop turning and the dust settles. At first there is panic. Where am I? Is this where I’m supposed to get off? Nothing looks familiar, and I’m the last person on the bus. The driver settles deeper into his chair and moves his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He doesn’t look at me, but focuses vaguely on something up ahead. The front door snaps open and I gather my bags. My exit is clumsy and my steps are heavy.

As I touch down on this new unsettled ground, I feel something wet slipping around my ankle. It’s cold and grainy and it doesn’t belong. I watch as a strange grey liquid hardens around the empty spaces of my hiking boots. Cement. “How did that get here?” I wonder idly. The cement makes walking difficult, but not impossible. My confusion turns quickly to determination as I seek out the spot I am supposed to find.

I pull out a wrinkled paper from my right pants pocket. The letters are almost illegible, scrawled in a handwriting that is not my own. The paper sticks together from the sweat and humidity of my new environment. Up hill. Turn right at church. Walk 6 minutes until you see a yellow house. Knock on the red door. Ph: +23 945 112 6645.

The walk is longer than I expect it to be, but I eventually arrive at the yellow house. There are three doors in my line of vision. The first is grey and crumbly, sharing a distinct likeness to the material in my shoes. I walk closer to examine the cracks, to feel the rough edge of an old habit. Suddenly,  I feel a looseness in my boots. Small sharp rocks are poking through my socks, but there is space to move my foot. The cement has cracked. I untie my shoes and pour out the remaining gravel bits, dust off my socks, and return my feet to their trusted guardians.

The second door is white and sterile. It reminds me of a horror film wrought with disturbing medical experiments, like making a new body out of old skin. I shiver and try to pass, but before I can reach the third door a voice calls out. “You’re going to the wrong door!” I feel the hair on my arms stand up and take guard as an old man’s voice hisses again, “Don’t go to far. You know you can’t come back if you go too far!”

I can’t see him, but I can feel him. He doesn’t feel right. I turn towards the direction of the place I am supposed to go and smell bread baking. The scent is familiar, delicious and alluring. I follow my nose a few more steps until I reach the red door. I stop to look at a simple design carved into the border. Light curves decorate the frame and are dusted with gold sparkles that shimmer just slightly in the afternoon sun. It’s beautiful, and suddenly I feel like I have been here before. Did I dream this place?

I wrap my hand around the wooden knob and turn slowly until I hear a click. In an instant, all the doors vanish into the same cloud of dust made by the bus. When the dust settles I realize I have returned to my apartment; everything is just as it was, but everything is different.  I recognize the bread smell from the bakery next door, and the sun beams through my open windows feel like a warm embrace from an old friend. My bed is made and my neighbors are listening to music. I take off my boots, and a tiny piece of gravel rolls out reminding me of my voyage. I smile.

I am home. That feels right.



Red Door image found at www.thehomeguru.com

Writer's Block

My writing has been stagnant lately; hard and immovable like dried BBQ sauce on a kitchen countertop. Perhaps it was the vacation I just enjoyed on the Caribbean Coast. Perhaps it's the stress of money troubles (so why was I on vacation?...) or the learning process of my new job. Or perhaps it's just me. My brain sticks to the side of my head like that dried BBQ sauce.

Justin, my best friend and co-protagonist in my article "A Long Goodbye", is also having trouble as of late. Perhaps he too has been enjoying too much sun. Perhaps he's overwhelmed with the duties of a seemingly meaningless temp job in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe the plastic people are suffocating his true creative soul. Maybe he's just drained. 

When one has writer's block the only solution is to keep writing, no matter how dry and sticky one's mind has become. We started writing five sentences twice a week based on a topic of the partner's choice. I've decided to share our meaningless jumbles as a way to distract from the fact that I've got nothing else.

These stories are very real and very much made up. For extra fun, I will not tell you the author of each paragraph. Read on, reader.

POWDER
I'd forgotten I'd put powder in my shoes until I saw the traces of my bare feet on the wooden paneling. I knelt and looked at the blank space between my toes and the sole, the curve to the heel, there on the floor. Just ahead, another foot, and then another - pale, vague reminders that I'd already been through here. Unmoving, I followed one print to the next, across the room, through the balconied daylight, until they disappeared down the shadowed middle hall.

FEAR
I wake promptly at 6:28am, just before my alarm is set to desecrate the early morning silence. My lids flutter to cloudy alertness and I inhale; the breath stretches vertically from my chest to my back. There is no heaviness of commitment, no panic of promise. The fear that once controlled me has been left in the dry, unyeilding soil of The States. There is just me now.

WEATHER
They say people who live here get tired of the sun, grow weary from the brightness, ask for clouds, pray for rain. I haven't found myself doing any of that - but the HEAT; my god, the heat. "At least it's not humid," my mom says, but when it's 105 degrees for a week straight humidity's about as consequential as a bible at a gay bar. I want the sun, but can leave the heat; I may have backed myself into a corner.

BOWL
He insists on ordering our drinks in Spanish but butchers each word, the sounds splattering like a dirty chop job, despite his Colombian background. He thinks louder is better and tries to hold my hand. My cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment as he stares expectantly, smiling proudly. I avert his gaze and instead turn my focus to the stale popcorn in the center of the table. "Anywhere is better than here with him," I think as I submerge my hand into the bowl of cardboard corn.

LOCK
I left him, unslaked and naked, and walked to the door. I threw the top dead bolt back, made for the next one. "...that one's not locked," he said from the bed, and I glanced at him, hardly able to. I opened the door, took four steps outside, and lifted my face to the Yucca Valley sun - hot and dry at 9am; it alone in the sky, me alone in the hotel parking lot - and breathed, and breathed.