Anatomy of a Setback

Sometimes they feel sort of heavy, sometimes kind of prickly.  Sometimes they feel like rain, and sometimes they feel like a punch in the stomach.  They're a pay cut when you're saving, an injury when you're training, and a rejection letter when you're counting on an acceptance one.  I experienced one of the latter variety this morning.  Latter?  Latterest?  Most latt?  Whatever the case, I got rejected this morning.  It hit me square between the eyes and I didn't even see it coming.  Nope, I didn't ask a brawny dreadlocked surfer out on a date (because that would be weird). 

The email was from a school I had applied and interviewed to be a teacher at.  It was a stellar school with glowing recommendations from parents and a sparkling building full of fun elementary décor.  Having interviewed twice and emailed a handful of times, and even having recommendations from parents at the school, I thought I had a chance.  Being my optimistic, gung ho self (and wearing my power suit with a pink scarf to the interview) I figured "Why wouldn't they hire me".  Well, they told me why.  I didn't have any experience. 

In the spirit of the title of this entry, I will take you through the anatomy of my setback. 

Phase 1: That Sinking Feeling

It's a disappointment/shock/sad cocktail, but instead of drinking it, it gets dumped on your head.  It makes your shoulders slump a bit, and maybe even causes your feet to drag.  You've.  Been.  Rejected.  The length of time it lasts hinges on past experience, temperament, and nature of the situation.

Phase 2: Defensive Coordinator

After you pick your slouching frame up off the floor, you start swinging.  No experience?  Really?  I've worked with almost every kind of kid inside and outside the classroom and you say I have no experience?  And anyway, how the heck am I supposed to get experience if no one will hire me without experience?!  This blind rampage ends as soon as you realize it isn't doing you any good.

Phase 3:  The Whatever

When you stop swinging, you start shrugging and hmph-ing.  Who needs them anyway?  I didn't really want that job to begin with.  Whatever.  I have bigger fish to fry.  This phase ends as soon as you realize you're being silly and still not doing you any good.

Phase 4: The Dawn of Reason

As distance accumulates between you and the moment of disappointment, reason begins to light the landscape.  I realized this setback was quite minor in the broad scope of things.  There are parents who have to support families and have gotten stacks of rejection letters.  I don't even have a dog to support.  I'm a recent college grad living in a tough economy.  Did I really expect to get the first job I applied for?  Get real.  This phase doesn't necessarily end, and may accompany the next phase.

Phase 5: The Rebound

Hopefully, this rollercoaster you've been riding since you read that email serves as a catalyst for future action.  One rejection and giving up?  Pfft.  I thought I was made of stiffer stuff.  Turns out I was.  I applied for four new jobs.  That might not be enough.  I might need to apply for 60 before I get an acceptance back.  I'm sensing a character building moment...

Whatever your setback, if you killed your geraniums (again), or pulled a muscle at the beginning of the season or even lost another loan to Ditech, it's ok.  Be sad, be mad, be indifferent, just make sure you get to the part where you get back up and keep going.

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Daring to Dream

History of the American Dream

1700 - I want to climb every mountain, ford every stream, and learn how to say "What up, dude" in Algonquin

1800 - I want the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and a cup of tea without a darn import tax

1900 - I want a house with those newfangled electric lights and a fur coat

2000 - I want to own my own house with a white picket fence, a family with 1.5 kids and affordable insurance premiums

Whether you were born a hundred hours ago, or a hundred years ago, you have a dream for what you want life to be like.  As Americans, we value freedom to own stuff and do what we want.  We like the financial freedom to own that house or that Ford F250.  We like the freedom to marry who we love, have the job we want and go to Vegas and play slots if we want.  As Christian Americans, we often have an American dream that's pretty mainstream, with some alterations to include a few "churchy" things. 

Sometimes I think about my Christian American Dream life.  It usually looks like this…

Little Mrs. Sunshine is happily settled five minutes outside Medium-Sized Americancity down Pastoral Scenic Lane.  She is married to Mr. Sunshine who works in town as a Some Career That Isn't Particularly Prominent or Stressful.  They have 3-5 beautiful children (particularly beautiful because Mr. Sunshine is so darn dashing), an average American dog, a flock of chickens and a Jersey cow. 

Mrs. Sunshine occupies her time teaching her children literature, geometry, history, physics, and various other subjects; tending her large vegetable garden; entertaining friends and family by throwing fabulous parties; serving as a Sunday school teacher and youth small group mentor; guest writing for various magazines and occasionally running 5ks and dancing the night away with her husband. 

The Sunshines live just out of town in a spacious stone home, not unlike the one the Jennifer Aniston lives in on Marley and Me.  It is always clean because the Sunshine children love helping their mother with chores.  They usually practice singing in three part harmony while they clean.  The refrigerator is full of produce from the gardens and orchard.  The Sunshine house is always featured on the local news during Christmas, when it stands aglow with Christmas lights.

(You probably have your own version.  Maybe it includes a New York City studio apartment and yellow coffee mugs and a cat named Moses.  I don’t know.)

Funny how if you erase those 11 words in that middle paragraph, you'd have no idea that I call Jesus the most important person in my life.  You'd have no idea from my American Dream life that I'm supposed to live in a way that's different, distinct, and, in the old school lingo - holy.  Not distinct like living in a commune in the woods, but distinct like having dreams bigger than anyone else because I serve a God bigger than any obstacle.

My Christian American Dream boils down to being

surrounded by things I like

comfortable

free from hard things like financially stress or disease or misunderstandings

a mom and wife to people who are easy to love (aka no stomach flu, no complaining, no crayons on the walls)

admired because I have a gorgeous, well behaved family, throw great parties, and have my life together

What if we dared the Christian American Dream to be a little more creative, a little bigger, a little more of a dream?  What if we challenged it to be a little more original than adding 11 words to someone else's dream? 

What if the average Christian American Dream was transformed from

I want the stuff I think will make me happy, and if it happens to include missions or VBS, cool.  I want to be comfortable and unstressed.  I want the results of hard work without the blisters and dirt hard work demands.

to

I want to shine the light of Jesus wherever I go.  I want to serve instead of be served.  I want to be a part of God's answer to the prayer that His people have prayed for thousands of years: "Your kingdom come, Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven". 

What if my Christian American Dream became: I want a dream I could never accomplish on my own.

Go ahead, dream a little.  I dare you.

Little Miss Sunshine

Too Young to Fight

Dear Church,

I recently staffed at a camp called The Pilgrimage to Uluru, led by a group called Fusion, whose motto is "Build people up, help people grow, because people matter".  On this trip, I traveled with 30+ jr. high and high school students on a bus for 11 days from Victoria to Uluru and back.  The student demographic was mixed, but many of the students came from situations that are "less than ideal" at best. 

Jake's grandma was a part of the "Stolen Generation" of Aboriginals taken from their families and given to white parents.  He experiences racism at school because he isn't white.  On the trip, Jake quickly became one of our strongest role models.  People looked up to him, and he set an example of cooperation and team spirit. 

Steven's grandma was also a part of the "Stolen Generation".  His mom has cancer and is unable to take care of him, so he lives with his sister.  He has white and Aboriginal blood, so he doesn't fit in on either side.  He gets made fun of at work, school, and on the sports field.  He also emerged as one of the leaders on the trip, quick to help when there was work to be done, and encouraging toward others.

Crystal's family history is one I can't keep track of.  The blue eyes set on her fair face sparkle just like her name.  She looks like she could be 12, but she's 19.  She gets the jitters when she doesn't get that nicotine fix.  She probably knows all the things smoking can do to you, but in a situation like hers, it's not a surprise she goes for the fix anyway.  When she was telling her story to the group, it was almost too much.  A brother lost in a car accident.  A fiancee lost.  Several miscarriages.  A broken family.  On the way home, we were talking about Halloween and she said she usually takes her siblings trick or treating.  She has the 3 year old on one hip, the 4 on the other, and the baby strapped to her back.  The neighbors give them candy, and they give Crystal a cigarette and a beer.  She said you need it after putting up with the kids all night. 

These are just a few of the young people I met on this trip.  I could tell you more stories about teenagers who feel like no one in the world understands them, or no one thinks they're really capable of much.  If they were adults in their 30s, you could easily say that it's their fault they didn't try hard in school or they are able to fix their problems because they're adults.  These kids were born into these problems.  They didn't have a choice to be born into a different family with a different income or different addictions.  They're too young to fight things or know how to begin to repair broken relationships or set a good foundation for future relationships.  Their first impressions are already tainted because of where they come from.

Before you start digging out your checkbook, or Googling a list of non-profits geared towards youth, let me tell you something else I learned on this trip.  They don't need your handouts as much as they need your hands and hearts.  They need wise mentors who believe in them and spend time teaching them about life.  They need your love.  I can promise you it won't be easy.  Human growth is slow and sometimes stunted by circumstances.  If you treat it like charity, they will resent you.  They might not say thank you until 20 years later when they're raising their own kids.  That's beside the point, Church.  VBS is nice, but it only lasts a week.  If you want to be at the real heart of the action and the real action of the heart, be a mentor.  You don't need a degree in sociology or counseling or have lots of experience.  Just show up.  Be a good example.  Share the Love. 

Much love from the fourth pew and beyond,

Little Miss Sunshine

Unbending, unbroken... blubbering mess of human

I'd decided that this trip, I'd just be camp staff.  Being camp staff means you keep an eye on your kids, have nearly inexhaustible energy, happily put in long hours, and hold jr. high girls when they're crying their eyes out because they don't want to go home.  It means you become a super hero.  You say all the coolest, funniest things, are the most gung ho about whatever's happening, and have at least one super power.  (Options include singing, juggling, playing sports, etc.)

I've been doing the camp staff thing since I was about 16 - my first junior counselor gig.  I've staffed weekend youth retreats, inner city kids camps, VBS, outdoor adventure camps and intense academic camps.  In one sense, it's not that hard.  You show up, go through training on small group dynamics and large group games, paint your nails in your team color, and pack your bags.  You cheer cheers, sing songs, and use tricks to remember however many names you need to.  They feed you, they give you a bed, they hand you a schedule, and you obey.  I guess it's kind of like the army, except I don't think the army usually involves dance parties and arts and crafts. 

Camp is a place I love to be.  It's a place where kids get away from their difficult or confusing circumstances for a little while.  They are challenged in many different ways.  I get to be loud and gung ho, which is part of my natural state anyway.  Camp staff people are usually a wonderfully fun crew who love working with young people.  The food usually isn't too bad, and there's always dessert.  I've had some amazing experiences at camp as a student and as camp staff. 

While there are plenty of easy things about camp, being a good camp staffer can also be excruciatingly difficult.  Sometimes you have kids who don't want to be there in the first place.  Sometimes you have kids who are rebellious, disrespectful, and uncooperative.  Sometimes you have kids who are just weird or awkward.  Whatever your luck in the small group draw, you have to love them, make sure they have what they need, and do your best to get to know them and their baggage in an effort to show them Jesus, the ultimate healer. 

Even if you have the most placid, happy campers in your small group, you still have to think of meaningful ways to challenge the heck out of them.  That's just in small group, which doesn't happen that often.  The rest of the time, you have to keep track of them, whether they're at meals when they need to be or flirting with Mr. Popular.  Basically, you're their mother, sister, best friend and youth group leader 24/7.

That sounds like a challenge, eh?  I mean, just being camp staff is kind of a lot in itself.  Well, I decided that's what I'd be, just camp staff.  I wasn't interested in growing myself, in being challenged in my thoughts about the underdog or race relations or following Jesus with every inch of me.  I'd be there for the kids, but I wasn't in the mood to be changed.  Right.  As if that's a good attitude to go to camp with.  I'm happy to report, I failed miserably.

Slowly, as I heard these kids' stories, my heart was softened.  As we learned about the Stolen Generation and some of the racial tension that still exists, my heart was broken.  The climax came the last night we were camped at Uluru.  After our large community festival and ending ceremonies, the kids had the opportunity to go to bed or go to a prayer vigil where they could reflect on what they'd learn and talk to God about it.  The small group leader I was working with split the night into shifts so one of us didn't have to be there the whole time.  I took the second shift and sat with one of my small group girls. 

That's where I cracked.  My proud, self-sufficient, I'm just fine camp staff girl cracked and gave way to a blubbering mass of crying human.  It was like God set off a love bomb in my face.  Bam.  He loves me, and He loves those kids, and I don't have the right to say I'm done growing.  I don't need to be Princess Sparkling Super Staffer on my own, because "my own" runs out after a while.  And boy, was it good to just cry for a while and rest knowing that God's hand was with us. 

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine  

C-A-M-P

It has arrived a bit earlier than I had calculated.  That is to say, instead of feeling sick Friday morning because I've been at camp for 11 days, I felt it Thursday night.  But I've been downing peppermint tea like it's going out of style and had soup for breakfast and lunch, so I'm well on my way to overcoming the usual camp hangover.  I still feel like there are ogres living in my lungs trying to keep my every breath captive.  Also, coughing up a cheese grater is not good for morale. 

But, let's face it, how could one not get sick after being on an 11 day road trip with high school kids, living off of 6-7 hours of sleep and that spent in tents in a sleeping bag?  There are other physical signs I've been at camp besides the nasal congestion, dry scratchy throat and ogres living in my lungs.  There are a few bruises, mosquito bites, and boy is that Chaco tan getting dark again!  It's the mark of camp.

This was no ordinary camp.  It wasn't even called a camp.  It was called a pilgrimage.  They called it The Pilgrimage to Uluru.  Our little van drove to Ballarat, where we met the rest of the Victorians and Tasmanians and stepped onto our temporary home for the next 11 days.  SG and I didn't really know anyone going on the trip, though we'd met a few of them at training events.  Little did we know how dear those faces would become by the time we stepped off that bus for the last time. 

If you want the cut to the chase version, here it is.  We drove to Uluru (Yulara), camping in tents along the way.  We took 30+ jr. high and high school kids, and went with the organization Fusion.  There were several purposes of the trip including personal growth, reconciliation between whites and Aboriginals, multicultural education, fun, getting away from the busyness of normal life, spending time thinking about and talking with God. 

In honor of our 11 days of experience, I'll share 11 things we learned...

1. Unperfumed high school boys are the strongest smelling mammal on the planet. 

2. High school girls win the award for most piercing scream when confronted with a mouse or spider. 

3. The flies are just as bad as they say.

4. You know you're growing up when you're doing a risk assessment before climbing a tree.

5. Behind every attitude and sassy comment there's a story with baggage.

6. Most of the time, the way God works in people is sloooowly.

7. There's something magical about candlelight and singing.

8. Sunrises are worth getting up for.

9.  It's a really, really big rock.

10. Young people have the potential to be responsible, capable leaders.

11. Growth and challenge should never have an age limit.

One of the difficult things about camp or travel or a great hamburger is that only you can experience it in that way.  Even if I were to fill a page with enough adjectives to satisfy Charles Dickens, it wouldn't mean you'd experienced it.  You could understand it, to a degree, but you wouldn't quite be able to feel the very weight of that great rock pin your heart to the earth or feel the delirium of two 4:30AM mornings in a row.  I want you to catch a glimpse of that red dirt and understand the giggles that an American forging an Aussie accent can elicit and how proud I am of the team and how we worked together.  That said, the next several posts will be dedicated to glimpses of the trip. 

Much love from bed with lots of tissues (think Meg Ryan on You've Got Mail, just without New York and flowers)

Little Miss Sunshine

Wherein Little Miss Sunshine Visits the Rainforest (Adventure in the North, Episode 3)

Not far from the main streets of Cairns lies a small train depot.  At this particular train depot, we found ourselves at 8:00am the next morning, having taken a shuttle driven by a man named Rob (who looked much more like a Rick or a Steve) to the depot.  At the depot, I found a café and on the café menu was listed "American cup of coffee".  Being American myself, I was attracted to the offer for a cup of my home country, but wasn't sure how that could be accomplished.  Upon inquiring, I learned that it was "percolated" coffee, which is a rarity in Australia, where most people drink French press or "plunger" coffee or instant coffee.  You're more likely to find a pink kangaroo than a regular old coffee pot.  I ordered some "American coffee" straightaway.

Like a couple of Wild West adventurers, we stood on the platform until the train came in with its metallic groanings and stepped aboard.  As the train chugged and wended its way up in the mountain, we caught whiffs of sweet and spicy jungle plants.  Later the scent changed to the heavier one of sunshine and green vines and rich earth.  Twice, the drifting aromas were punctuated with the sound of rivers flowing vertically, tumbling down the craggy precipice to resume its placid horizontal journey. 

Near the top of the mountain, the train ended its journey at Kuranda, a little jungle hippie town nestled in the towering palm thicket.  We hiked up the hill and took the quintessential picture by the "Welcome to Kuranda" sign.  Then we shopped.  There were candy shops, opal jewelry shops, Australian photography galleries, cafes, and souvenir shops by the dozen.  We left the river of tourists streaming down the sidewalk to venture into a small hippie shop emanating incense-y smells.  They were having a headband sale, so we bought a few.  I rather think my head is the wrong shape for headbands, as they have an impertinent habit of sliding off my head, but I bought them anyway. 

At lunch, we listened to a street musician playing his ukelele, which he did masterfully.  More shopping without buying things, a honey tasting, and we were pooped.  We hiked back down the hill and got in line at the Sky Rail station.  The Sky Rail is a great way to go down the mountain because they put you in a giant glass bubble strung on a line and send you slowly bobbing down the mountain suspended high above the ground.  You could call it a gondola, but that reminds me of Venice, not jungles. 

The views were stunning, and we had a couple of stops along the way to get out and sightsee, before jumping back in a bubble and continuing the journey.  As we dropped down for the final descent into the valley, we could see dark patches of reef, islands, and the town of Cairns, bordered by its sugar cane fields.  The shuttle took us back to our hotel, where we inquired at the front desk about the whereabouts of a theater (cinema) and show times for The Hunger Games. 

While my first impulse is usually to resist bandwagons, I am almost inevitably drawn to them, The Hunger Games and Downton Abbey being the most recent.  So we saw The Hunger Games, which I'm going to stop italicizing now because I can't be bothered, and you know that I know it ought to be italicized.  First of all, how annoying for a movie to have two leading love interests.  Of course you fall in love with Melbourne-born tall, dark, handsome Liam who plays Gale.  He's the best friend lover.  Then enters bakery boy Peeta that Katniss competes with in the Hunger Games.  He fights for her and protects her and is ready to give his life for her.  What's not to love about that!?  Then they go home and there's Gale again, still as dashing as ever.  Needless to say, I haven't figured out what's going to happen.  I think Suzanne Collins will probably have to kill one off dramatically in book 3, which I'm still waiting for from the library.  It'll be a tearful goodbye to one of the heroes, but at least I'll have some literary crush closure!

After watching the movie, we sat down to dinner and gushed about the movie - casting, costume, book/movie integrity.  The next morning we treated ourselves to breakfast out, checked out of our hotel (late, oops), and caught a plane back to our temporary little home.  On the plane, we sat with an American guy who was traveling in Australia/New Zealand for 10 weeks.  He'd been in the Air Force and was reenlisting in the National Guard.  He was a fabulous extrovert, chatty without being annoying.  He told me he'd gotten his Master's degree in Intelligence, and then he told SG his name was "...George".  He hesitated.  If he did intelligence, he probably got a B on his final in "small talk alias creation".  People don't name 26 year olds, George.  His name was probably Jason. 

So ended our grownup vacay.  We finished the night with hang out time and communion at Cath and TJ's new abode. It was good to see the friends again.  I had a conversation with Joel about the comical genius of Danny Kay and showed Sam and TJ how I'd been practicing my Aussie accent.  There was also a whole group conversation in which SG and I tried to sort out the differences between puddings, cakes, slices, and sponges.  Ohhhh, culture, how it permeates us like  holes in Swiss cheese . 

Love from Down Under,

Little Miss Sunshine    

Wherein Little Miss Sunshine Goes Snorkeling (Adventure in the North, Episode 2)

After feasting on our breakfast stores, we packed our trusty map and set course for the Reef Terminal, where departing ships, eh, departed for the reef.  We climbed aboard the scurrrvy ship and sailed (motored) off for parts unknown (Green Island).  Upon disembarkation (is that a word?), we saw a fleet of large sting rays flying through the water and turning on a dime in unison.

In the middle of the island stood a cluster of huts, or restaurants and equipment rentals disguised as huts.  After picking up our snorkel gear, we kerwhump kerwhumped (that's the sound flippers make when you walk) into the shallows and were soon flip flapping through the water toward the deep, blue sea.  Following the advice of two of our wiser (read: older) friends, we linked pinkies to keep track of each other (shark attacks) and as a mini telegraph line for fish spotting communications.

As we were flipping and floating, I was praying so hard that we'd see a sea turtle.  AND WE DID.  In that outing, we saw TWO.  Sea turtles!  We also saw coral that looked like brain and mazes and folded velvet and waving spaghetti.  There were schools of tiny fish and bigger angel fish and even bigger grouper.  After a few hours of snorkeling, it was time for a food break, so we bought lunch at one of the huts.  Since we watched Jiminy Cricket's warnings as small children, we knew we should take a walk after lunch before swimming again or the dreadful swimmingtoosoonaftereating-itis would get us.  The island was pretty… island-y.  Coconut trees leftover from a coconut plantation, vines and grasses grew thickly in the center of the island.

Eventually, the danger of swimmingtoosoonaftereating - itis left and we returned to the water, this time, near the jetty.  I really wanted to catch an underwater look at those big rays we'd seen earlier that morning, but instead we saw giraffe vacuum cleaner rays.  We were almost on top of them before we saw them fluttering through the grassy seabed.  Their technical name is not giraffus vacuuminus cleanerus, I just call them that because that's what they look like.  Now when I say they look like giraffes, of course I don't mean the necks, because rays don't even have necks.  I mean they were a chestnutty color with tawny dapples.  The vacuum cleaner part happens when they stop for a moment over the sea bed and start heaving and sucking up something (food?) like a vacuum cleaner.  Their tails were quite long and don't you think for a second I wasn't thinking about the Crocodile Hunter and having one of those things plunged into my dear little aorta.

Soon after that, I left to get on the snorkel tour boat, unfortunately without my pinkie promise snorkel buddy.  I was one of three snorkelers on the boat, and the other two spoke Japanese.  I don't speak Japanese, but I tried to smile and have eye conversations like "Oh, isn't this going to be fun" and "Gee, I hope you see some great stuff out there" and "What great weather this is for snorkeling".

They stopped the boat a mile or so out from the island, sprayed our goggles with anti-fog solution, pointed out the boundaries and let us loose.  Kerwhumping your way from the beach into the shallows is quite different from kerwhicking your way down a boat ladder and plunging into ocean you can't see the bottom of.  By "quite different", I mean I got water up my nose when I first jumped in because I'm scared of the ocean as an inanimate entity capable of killing me.

Daunted but not entirely disarmed of my sense of adventure, I flip flapped off, peering through the jade green hazy water aglow with shafts of sunshine.  I came to my first mountain, at least it looked like a mountain.  Colorful forests swathed it with their foliage and flocks of wildlife peppered its sides.  Only, instead of pine or spruce or oak forests that you're used to, they were coral forests of teals and orange and lime and magenta.  Some were smooth, others covered with tiny nodes.  And instead of flocks of herons or herds of deer, there were schools of tiny fish flitting around like water bound butterflies.  Just like mountains above water, these great, rugged monuments of coral seemed to come in ranges and were divided periodically by steep valleys.  Peering down through the haze to the sandy canyon bottoms, I kept expecting to see the sinewy silhouette of a shark.  No such luck.

Just living with the possibility of seeing a shark kept me on my guard.  There was no pinky warning to let me know if I was about to be devoured.  My drive to survive was turned on high between shark-watching and keeping a wary eye on my snorkeling position.  Like a lake turtle, I'd pop my head up now and then just to make sure I wasn't being swept out to sea.  Being swept out to sea is no way to spend a vacation.

I let my eyes graze on the beauty of this coral mountain range, taking in the flashing silver of a few good sized fish or the circus-like gaudiness of the parrot fish.  I caught sight of a sea turtle just before he caught sight of me and flew away to some murky hideout.  The second one I saw didn't see me for what seemed like a few minutes.  It could only have been a few seconds, really.  I hovered above him, taking in the geometric pattern on his shell and his leisurely flapping through the water.  I also spotted a couple sea stars the color of sapphires sprawled lazily across the coral.  It looked like someone had taken a blue Sharpie to them, they were so bright.  Dotting the bases of some reefs were giant clams.  When I say giant, I don't mean foot long, as if they were a Sonic hot dog or something.  When I say giant, I'm talking about approaching three feet across.  Wouldn't want to get your face caught in one of those.

All too soon our time was up and we kerwhicked our way back up the ladder and had more eye conversations like "Gee, wasn't that swell" and "There's some pretty cool stuff down there", except I don't know if there's a Japanese equivalent to "gee" and "swell".  The boat took us back to the island, where we had a little time to turn in our gear, gather our belongings and board the ship for the main land, where we promptly sought out showers.

Being the cheapskate health nuts we are, we asked directions to a proper grocery store.  SG opted for a sensible dinner choice of salad and hummus with bread.  I just got a green apple, some hummus and a quarter of a watermelon, of which I ate half for dinner and half for breakfast the next morning, but that's another story.

Little Miss Sunshine

Wherein Little Miss Sunshine Travels North

Australia is a very big, strange place.  In American terms, it's the size of America with the population of California, with the majority of the "midwest" looking like central Arizona.  Because of the Southern Hemisphere/equator thing, their Florida is in the north in a place called Queensland.  On Monday, SG and I went to this place called Queensland.  We flew into a little town called Cairns, which is pronounced "cans" if you're Australian.  It's the jumping off point for vacations to the Great Barrier Reef.

Our guardian angels, the Matthews, whose mortality I really do question at times, took us to the airport.  Nancy packed sandwiches, and sent us off with apples to eat on the plane ride.  Checked in, found our gate, smooth as butterfly milk so far.  I read a National Geographic magazine I'd checked out from the library.  It was about the Great Barrier Reef.  I don't remember all the details, except that it's very long and has taken a long time to form, and they're worried about how it will survive pollution and human interference.  There were lots of pictures of fish I didn't recognize from my limited beta fish background.

Also in the magazine was an article about rock climbing.  There are people a little off their rocker who should have been astronauts but like trees too much.  I mean to say, some people like to push the boundaries of human possibility and climb to great heights without ropes.  If they had been astronauts, they could be out mapping moons and looking at other galaxies instead of taking terrifying photos wherein they are hanging off a cliff by their fingertips.  All the same, it made me want to go rock climbing.

Also also there was an article about Bangladesh and the floods they've been experiencing.  It's a crowded country to begin with, so when the waters rise, it's difficult to fit any more people into the cities.  The farmers' fields are covered in saltwater, which is not an ideal growing environment.  One man they interviewed built his house in pieces and keeps his family's suitcases by the door so when the waters rise, they just take apart the house and move to dry land.  India's building a wall to keep refugees out, and the government is encouraging people to leave the country as a means to uncrowd the cities.

After a while, I finished the magazine and we were flying over jungle.  Yes, jungle.  Australia has jungle.  It's in Queensland, which is like Florida, except in the north, because of the equator.  But I told you that already.  So the plane flew over the mountainous jungle and began its descent into the little town of Cairns.  The Cairns airport is quite small, and we made our way to the shuttle counter to catch a shuttle to our hotel.  We're grownups, so we do things like that.

We made it to the hotel, checked in, chucked our stuff in our room and set off in search of food, as it was dinner time.  What we found was a lot of expensive sea food and Chinese takeout (which always makes me a little nervous).  Being the cheapskate health nuts we are, we split a salad and walked home with a stop at the corner store for some breakfast (oranges, a loaf of bread and yogurt).  Sometimes being a traveling grownup isn't as exhilarating as it's cracked up to be.

L.M. Sunshine

Inauspicious Bookends

What began with an email response to a newspaper ad was concluded with a wave and a walk down the street last Saturday.  The notice in the paper gave no restaurant name, only an email address.  It was one in a pile of clippings that SG and I split back in the fall when we were job hunting.

When Miranda called me, I was at the library and had to ask her to repeat herself several times (noisy libraries + Aussie accent).  At the interview, my selling points were growing up on Mexican food and the multitasking skills of a teacher.  That's it.  No previous wait staff experience, only salsa eating experience.  Maybe it was the last question that got them on board.  They asked if I thought I could learn the skills quickly.  No hesitation, no blink, just a firm "yes".  I wasn't really that confident, but when you're selling yourself as a waitress, there's no time for contemplation.

There's the night I thought the man said Moylah, when he actually said Merlot.  The night I got a $10 tip from a family because kids are my favorite customers.  The night a couple didn't want to pay because their meal took a long time, and Anna had to call Dean.  The staff Christmas party when I got my first taste of being one of a few sober people at a sloshing drinking fest.  Learning to make margaritas.  Still forgetting what exactly Jim Beam is.  The woman from Arizona who ordered takeout and has mutual friends of mine in Australia.  Eating tacos on a break in the back.  Wrenching my back carrying and stacking the chairs and tables for the night.  The man who shares my birthday who's going to Hawaii with his family to celebrate who came in again and remembered my name.  The night I could write down the "regulars" order from memory.



Now it's all over.  My visa only allows me to work at one business for 6 months before I have to change.  My 6 months is up.  My last shift, Saturday, Dean didn't even know it was my last shift (mostly because Miranda the manager is his brain).  He was disappointed I had to leave.  I'll miss working with Dean and Miranda and Mercia and Alana.  Dean's good at what he does because he can talk to anyone.  Miranda's good because she's organized and firm.  Mercia isn't much of a customer service girl when it comes to being a waitress, but she's efficient and has experience.  Alana just gets the job done.

What was bookended by such quiet circumstances will stand in my memory as an almost romantic (in the old sense) period of growth (I can make a decent Fruit Tingle margarita) and challenge (you have to tell the customer something when you realize you've completely wrecked their order).  Who knows, I may go on to become a waitress to beat all waitresses, and this small Mexican restaurant has earned its place as the first waitressing job I ever had.

So goodbye, little Mexican restaurant.  I hope you continue to serve up fajitas with sizzling style, and I hope for the sake of your dignity, that after a while people learn what frijoles are.

La senorita del sol

I trust you as far as I can throw you

I am a nervous eater.  I just ate three peach slices and two pieces of fruitcake.  I don't even like fruitcake.

You see, sometimes weird things happen to me, and they make me a little nervous.  For instance, there was today.  I walked into a shop where my friend, Joel, works.  He and his boss and I had a nice little chat about literature and film (OK, it was The Hunger Games and some novel his boss was reading).  I felt rude just walking out without buying anything, so I decided to get some hard candy.  Finding I hadn't enough cash-ola, I went to the bank and came back, only to find a 50-something year old guy buying a coffee grinder.

I told Joel what I wanted, and Mr. 50 starts talking to me in an Italian accent (which is totally fake) about his coffee grinder.  Fast forward 15 minutes and he's still talking to me, we've had Italian accent, French and American by now.  I've heard about his three heathen children, his wife, his heart attacks, his Presbyterian mother, and his benefit dinner where he raised $10,000 for seeing eye dogs.  Naturally, he threw in a few questions about my accent and what was I doing in Australia.  He said he'd probably come to church in the morning and could he wear something casual and what time did it start and all that.  More about his heathen children, more about traveling the world, etc. etc.  Then he said since he had several purchases, had just had a stroke and had his dog to attend to also, could I help him out to his car, which was just out back.  I said nope, but that Joel was his man and could help him out.  More about his dog, etc.  Finally, as if he'd just realized we'd been talking for 20 minutes, he said, oh, you have places to be.  Handshake.  Have a good day.

I gave Joel several looks, which he returned with silent laughter, and I walked out the door.

Upon amateur analysis, there are two ways to see this man.

#1 The charismatic creeper.  He could be a serial killer whose name is not Geoff, like he said, but Harold.  He could have no children but 5 goldfish and keep the dog for public image.  If I'd helped him with his purchases I could have been in a body bag before you could say Jack be nimble, since he hasn't had any strokes and does Pilates to be at the top of his murderous game.

#2 The outgoing yakkety yak.  He could be one of those who's never met a stranger and has no trouble spilling his life story in a shop to an equally talkative American.  He does have three kids who give him grief and it's refreshing to talk to someone their age who is nice.

Either way, I was eating fruitcake.  Obviously, if #1 is true, that's creepy.  I was in a safe public place and the only time I felt a little stranger dangery was when he asked me to help him to his car.  Obviously, if #2 is true, WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THAT?!  Using three accents on strange girls in shops is WEIRD.  Spilling your life story to strangers is socially inappropriate.  Talking to people you've just met on a whim for more than 20 minutes is usually annoying.

This situation raises a good question.  Who do we trust?  If we decide no one is really trustworthy, we become paranoid and community cannot exist, much less flourish.  If we trust anyone and everyone, we can get taken advantage of.  Our marketplaces, friendships, and governments all rely on some amount of trust, usually trust that a person or a group of persons will abide by a particular set of rules.  You could call these social circles, communities.

In healthy communities, as in healthy portfolios, there is a fair amount of diversification.  Old people, young people, risk takers, risk avoiders, businessmen, teachers, etc.  We can draw on this collective knowledge and wisdom to make decisions about who to trust.  (My friend the lobbyist favors this candidate, so I think I will too.  My mom gets good produce deals at this grocery store.  My dad has stayed in every hotel in Cheyenne, WY and knows which is the best.)  We don't have to depend on knowing about all kinds of things because we can rely on our collective community knowledge.

Conversely, when communities don't exist or have disintegrated, individuals are left vulnerable and without important intellectual and relational capital.  (I just graduated from high school and went to college out of state.  My family just broke up and those relationships have been severely damaged.  I live 100 miles from my nearest neighbor and I don't have internet(!).)  Those left stranded community-less can easily be adopted into a community that is harmful (gangs or groups with self-damaging addictions).

Communities, institutions or the pillars of society, call them whatever you want.  They matter.  They keep people safe physically and relationally.  They grow community gardens and knit hats for premature infants and play church league softball in the summers.  Wherever you are, whatever your gifts, find a community to be a part of.  I don't care if you aren't into "established religion" or joining clubs or don't know how to quilt.

There's only one Lone Ranger, and you aren't him.

Cheers to communities,

Little Miss Sunshine