In Defense of Other People

Hola, world! It's been a while, no?

Yep, I'm back in Dreamland, aka Colombia, and have been for a couple of weeks, only this time I'm not alone. My oldest son is with me, experiencing all the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of this wonderful country.

We have gone high, we have gone low, we have been apart from familiar faces, and we have come to visit friends who are practically like family. Naturally, we have taken so many pictures. How could you not? This really is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Mountains, rivers, flowers, fruit, yada yada yada. 

Oh sorry, I don't mean to sound "over it" but we are lucky enough to live on the Oregon Coast, so we enjoy those things regularly, even if their intensity is muted by being so far from the tropics.

Instead of the impressive vistas, the aspect to traveling in Colombia that takes my breath away is the beautiful friends, some of whom I had the good fortune to meet in my previous travels, and who have welcomed us warmly in this one. Anyone can buy a ticket, make a hotel reservation, arrange a tour, and buy knick knacks. It takes something special to feel at home, so far from home. It takes other people. 

It has been my experience that people get kind of a bad rap. I get it, they're capable of some pretty ugly acts. I spent most of my youth seeing myself and my fellow human beings as fallen creations whose best moments were equivalent to filthy rags. Later, I embraced a very anti-social view, something like one sees on T-shirts. Others were foolish, aggravating, and inspired little more than eye rolls from me.

Sartre would be so proud.

Funny how motherhood can push a reset button in a person. The arrival of this boy, who is now my travel companion, made me feel more compassion towards others. I think he might have been the first person I met who was truly precious to me.

He was a little human sprout, so vulnerable and full of promise. The more time I spent with him, the more I saw the adults around me as babies, just further down the line. Even the harmful ones. 

But that was just one step in the journey. See, it's easy, actually downright primal, to love your child. He wasn't exactly an "other person." he was part me, and part the guy I love best in the world. 

Knowing and loving him was very much a celebration of my own self, even as it made me less selfish.

As the years and experiences have rolled by, I have come to believe that it is the otherness of other people that matters most. The more "other" they are, the more impressive a feat loving them is. That is to say that, the most inspirational journeys I have witnessed are those in which feeling love for another person isn't supposed to happen, but it does anyway. When those things that should separate us effectively don't, due to our determination to find a way to reach and care for one another.

You are probably familiar with the labels we put on ourselves help us identify similar souls, usually revolving around strong opinions, nationality, gender, race, orientation, deeply-held beliefs or lack thereof;  but these monikers also make us feel like we have little in common with those who wear the opposite brand. Our ancient tribal tendencies kick in and we pack up, in some cases clashing with what we see as opposing tribes.

That's when finding ways to love our ideological counterparts is almost an act of rebellion. It goes against our nature, which is what makes it so punk rock.  I am frequently on the receiving end of such defiant humanity, in this land where my son and I are a blond blue-eyed foreign assault on the locals' expectations. Before they know us, before they know how we will act, and whether we will be cold or rude, they reach out with generosity and kindness that completely negates everything I used to think about other people. 

In this country, they refer to it as "calor humano," or "Human warmth." It is most evident in the tendency to greet one another with physical contact, either with a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek, or all three. It is most effective in the tendency to invite strangers into their homes, offer them a cup of something warm to drink, perhaps with something sweet to eat. It is most enviable when presented as a regional virtue. People I spend time with here ask me, "Have you seen how we are? How we take care of each other?"

It's impossible not to see it, as I am swimming in it. It's something I miss when I am not here. It's why, after a lifelong journey away from my earliest assumptions about mankind, I can and do dole out frequent hugs and I Love Yous wherever I am. Because I can't unlearn what Colombians have taught me: how wonderful life is when we err on the side of being less cynical and more affectionate with one another.

Dispatches from Dreamland: Recuerdos, a Recipe, and a Request

Remember when I took that trip last month? Boy, I sure do, every day. Leaving my family behind was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but now that I'm home again, I find my thoughts keep flying over the continents and seas to the people who shared their homes with me, and the kids I came to love dearly.

How do we remember things? I could sigh nostalgically over a photo, or my computer screen. There's also the recounting to my husband the billionth tiny detail about daily life there, but the other senses remember things too.

It should come as no surprise that one of my favorite ways to get to Memory Lane is by eating. There were some great food-related memories from that trip (that didn't involve making pizza.) For example, during my next-to-last weekend in South America, a friend I met at the Fundación Niños de los Andes, who also happened to be a chef, took me to her family farm, where I experienced the most delicious celebration of summer: Chiles en Nogada.

 shown here without the Nogada sauce

It's a Mexican dish, but we were eating it in Colombia. And last week, we ate it here in Tillamook. After a night of soaking, a full day of chopping, and a backyard fire, I remembered that afternoon on that mountainside with my mouth.

Chiles en Nogada 

from Marcela Jaramillo Garcia

 chef, teacher, and co-owner of Pishqa and Öll Cocina Artesenal

15 ml. vegetable oil (to fry garlic, onions, tomato, almonds, olives and raisins)
4 cloves of garlic
1/4 c. red onion (finely chopped)
1 pinch sea salt
1/4 c. water
250 g. ripe tomatoes (chopped/liquified)
1/4 c. blanched almonds, halved
50 g. black raisins, chopped (dried cherries would be great here, for the raisin-haters)
8 green olives, cut into fourths
1 t. chopped fresh parsley
1 clove
1/4 cinnamon stick
 8 g. black pepper

15 g. vegetable oil (for frying the fruit)
1 c. diced apple
1 c. diced pear
1 c. diced peaches
1 T. brown sugar
1 c. diced bananas
8 poblano peppers

Nogada Sauce
1/4 c. almonds, peeled and soaked in water overnight
100 g. queso fresco
200 g. walnuts
180 ml. cold water

In large saucepan, heat the oil for frying the garlic, onions, tomato, almonds, olives and raisinsa. Start off by frying two crushed cloves of garlic until they're golden and translucent. Discard.
Add the onion and tomato and cook for a few minutes. Add the almonds, raisins, olives, and parsley. Cook for 2 minutes.
Grind the cloves, cinnamon, and pepper. Add them to the saucepan. Cook them for a minute more and remove the pan from the heat.

In another pan heat the oil for frying the fruit. Start off with two more cloves of crushed garlic, cooked and removed, then add the diced apple, pear and peach. Cover and cook for a few minutes. Add the brown sugar and banana before stirring the fruit mixture into the onion-tomato mixture. Now you have your pepper filling. It looked like this when I was ready to spoon it into the peppers.

To prepare the peppers:
Place whole peppers over direct heat (we used a fire in the backyard fire pit), until the skin is blistered and burned. Like, all-the-way, black-all-over burned. Place them into a sealable plastic bag, to make the peel sweat and easy to remove.

Wait at least fifteen minutes before taking them out and removing all of the blackened skin. After all the black is gone, make a long slit in the pepper, from stem to end, remove the seeds and pat insides dry with a paper towel. Put on a plate and spoon in the filling until full. Then, slather them with this sauce:

Nogada Sauce:
Mix almonds, cheese, and walnuts together in a food processor, using enough water to get a sauce consistency.

Fair Warning: While the dad of the house and I loved everything about Chiles en Nogada, the kids were freaked out by the mix of sweet and savory. You know what that means, I need to make it more often!

When I ate this bright burst of flavors in Colombia, I was on the side of  a steep green mountain, surrounded by fruit trees and tweeting birds. The lightness and balance of flavors is simple and sophisticated at the same time. And, when made with green peppers, it bears the colors of the Mexican flag: red, white, and green.

While I'm no chef, my own stab at stuffed peppers was close enough to make me remember and feel grateful for having had the opportunity to eat Mexican food with new friends in Colombia.

These new friends came into my life because of the heroic organization, Fundación Niños de los Andes, where I spent much of my June.

Last month while working on our Happy fan homage video, I took my camera to the Fundación and soon found myself with a long line of kids who wanted to be photographed: alone, together, in trees, with their boyfriends, and friends. Typical teen activity, no? But more so, because these kids don't have anyone else on the job. It's one thing to call some beloved daughter, taking her billionth bathroom selfie, self-absorbed. It's another thing to see a pretty young girl with her whole life ahead of her, wanting a memento of this fleeting moment, when she and the guy she loves are just figuring out what that even means. Maybe she knows she's beautiful, and maybe that's beautiful.

There's no scrapbook of firsts for this girl. No curl from a first haircut or chubby ink footprints on parchment. No proud mother horning in with a camera to make sure these moments will not be forgotten. It's up to her to capture the magic, and she's not taking the job lightly.

After taking photos of every student with every other student, one younger girl approached me, asking to borrow my camera. This sort of thing is not done, normally. One does not go to South America, visit a place where the kids have very little, and hand one of them your camera. But, I've never been much good at being normal. I handed her my sturdiest camera in an act of faith. She ran around the grounds, taking photos of buildings, animals, her friends, and herself. When I was about to leave, she returned it, anxious to know if she would ever see paper copies of the photos she just took. I promised her I would print them up when I was stateside, and mail them to her. Then, I looked at her photos.

This girl can shoot! 

 That's when I got an idea.

It was at around this point in my trip when I was already planning next year's visit to Manizales, Colombia, to do more work at Fundación Niños de los Andes. As I scrolled through my camera files, looking at the world through her little girl's eyes, I felt the sudden urge to return with a camera or two, teach these kids the basics of photography, and see what kind of art they make. Imagine a small group of camera-wielding kids walking around the grounds of the Fundación, learning and discovering this unique form of self-expression.

Brace yourself. Maybe take a deep breath. I'm about to do some online begging.

It's just that, this where you come in, O, benevolent reader.

I'd like you to send me your unused digital camera(s) if you have any.  If, in your upgrading ways, you happen to have a camera that works well, but probably won't get much more action; and if you have an urge in your heart to do something nice for someone you don't know, I'd love to take said camera to Colombia and give more niños the opportunity to take more fotos. If I get enough, (including chargers/cords/cards and other necessary equipment), I can get permission to teach a workshop with more than one student, develop a structured lesson plan, and complete projects which can be shared here and elsewhere online. So you'll see the memories you helped make.

To contribute your hand-me-down picture taking machine, or ask me for more details about this project before mailing your precious electronic devices to some stranger off the internet, send an email to www.thomaslaszlo11@gmail.com.

Gracias

Dispatches from Dreamland: Back to Reality

This dispatch is from the dreamland that is the coast of the Pacific Northwest. Home from an adventure abroad, I am getting right to work on the many things of summer that require my attention. Just one teeny thing from the trip. A recuerdo for y'all, if you want it.

The kids of Fundación Niños de los Andes wanted to sing something in English, which set me on a mental quest to find something that covered the trifecta of criteria: Popular. Useful, Appropriate. The one song that came to mind which would a) entice all to participate, b) teach phrases and constructions that one might actually use, in English and c) not teach children to say things they are too young to understand was Pharrell Williams', "Happy." Together, we got the lyrics printed and sang the chorus over and over, as I pointed in time to words on a white board. Using the one internet-connected computer at their disposal, the kids watched the official music video, and all of the over eight hundred fan homages. They saw people dance, smile, and clap all over the world, and they wanted to do it too. So, after a quick talk with the directors of the Fundación, we made this, Fundación Niños de los Andes' answer to the ubiquitous anthem for being resilient and cheerful.

I feel deeply grateful to have spent some time with the good people of this organization, and am determined to go back soon and do even more with them. The kids I met and taught schooled me in return; especially on the art of letting nothin' bring you down.

Dispatches from Dreamland: Part II: I Have Tired But Maria is Help Me

What do you think of when you hear the word "Colombia?" Narcoterrorism? Third World living? A university in New York?

In preparation for my trip here, I had to get a couple of vaccinations. The receptionist working for my doctor asked where I was going, and why. I said Colombia, because I wanted to improve my Spanish and get volunteer experience, working for a foundation that serves kids living in poverty. She responded, "Oh, there must be a lot of those." I think she meant to sound encouraging, like I was doing something important and necessary. It's just, she was showing that her impression of my favorite South American country (so far) was limited to the worst news coming out of the place.


In my last blog post, I explained the thought process behind planning this voyage, and let the curtain down between what might be an outsider's impression of me, and the very different reality. Time to bust up some more misconceptions, by way of a story about my voyage.

Last Saturday, I hugged all of my precious children, got in a truck and cried as my calm supportive husband drove me to airport, to begin this odyssey.

I wanted to look forward to my adventure, but my head was so full of unknowns. An open mind seemed best. I wanted to believe that I would love Colombia, that the people would be as friendly as I had read they were, and that I would be able to enjoy some of the best things about the beautiful Andean college town, Manizales; but the superstitious part of me felt that I would jinx myself into being wrong, so I held out and decided to focus on the actual traveling part. One thing at a time.

Flying here took a full day, a night, and half of the next day. I tried to sleep on the overnight flight from Texas to Bogota, but I was sandwiched between two bulky hombres with the screen on the back of the seat in front of me flashing the same five commercials and movie trailers, mere inches from my nose. By the time I reached Bogota, I was in full space cadet mode, and it was suddenly time to speak and understand Spanish. My neurons were barely firing well enough to speak English. It was early morning, still dark, when we arrived. I went through immigration, exchanged some of my money, and wandered to the small terminal where I would get on my last flight, in a mere three hours. Three hours of trying to stay awake, by reading, listening to music, writing, imagining sleeping, and dozing off, which, it turns out, is not staying awake.

One hour before my flight, a vision appeared. Three women arrived and seated themselves across from me. At first, I saw only their shoes, because my head was resting on my hands, my arms wrapped around the bulging messenger bag  on my lap: three pairs of wedge boots, at the end of three pair of very tight pants. Surely I was dreaming of Shakira in triplicate and needed to wake up before some wily thief snatched my bag from under my chin. But it turns out, I was awake, and these chicas calientes in front of me were actually señoras*

 *Señora is what you call a woman in Spanish when she has garnered enough años to earn such respeto.

With the sun starting to beam through the window behind them, they resembled a mythical trio from an epic poem. Okay look, I was really exhausted. Each lady looked as though she could be a grandmother, if grandmothers were eternal hotties: perfectly coiffed hair, make up, bling, designer duds, and the accompanying aura of lux perfume.

They took their seats and started to open the newspapers they carried with them. A glossy insert dropped from the paper of the señora directly in front of me and I reached down to pick it up for her. She got it first, but noticed my effort, smiled warmly and graced me with a sincere "Muchas gracias." I smiled weakly and nodded, and went back to the Herculean task of staying awake. That's when a distorted female voice spoke very rapidly over the intercom. I heard the word "Manizales" and figured I had just missed important information about my flight. "Oh yay, my first chance to ask someone for help, and I'm not even there yet," I thought.  So, after thinking about the right way to phrase things, I leaned across to the ladies and asked if they were going to Manizales. All nodded, and the one whose paper I reached for said,"Sí." That's when I cobbled together something that must have sounded like, "The woman who talked, she did say we must board now, or she says only is for the people with the needs special or something?"

Our Lady of the Newspaper Insert very kindly offered me a long incomprehensible explanation and I tried not to stare too blankly. I said, "In that case, I wait then?" She said, "Sí!," which I did manage to understand. She then said that they would bring me with them when they boarded the plane to Manizales. The resulting relief I felt was not only because I didn't have to worry anymore that I would accidentally board a plane to Uruguay. It was also caused by the knowledge that here were people with kind hearts, able to take pity on a travel-weary gringa and keep her from accidentally boarding a plane to Uruguay. Conversation ensued, one which I have had in one form or another since arriving here. It covers the following bases:
Where are you from? What part of the U.S.? What is it like there? How long will you be here? Why did you want to come to Manizales? 

I managed clunky answers to all of these questions, the last of which seemed to make a good impression: I'm planning to work for La Fundación Niños de los Andes, as a volunteer. By now the conversation was solely between me and the woman whose paper I feebly tried to rescue. She opened her designer clutch, took out a small billfold, and handed me a multi-colored, embossed business card, from which I learned that her name is Maria, and she is a lawyer who specializes in family and children's rights. She spoke slowly, saying, "I want you to take this and give me a call while you're in Manizales. If you need anything, I'm at your service. But if you don't, you should call me anyway because I would love to show you the beauty of my city." I was moved beyond words, and that's not just because I am limited in what I can say in Spanish. I held the card to my heart and smiled gratefully, saying something like, "Maria, I cannot say how thank you I am."

The time to board arrived, and as promised, I was included with the three señoras as we walked out to tarmac. Maria put her arm in mine, half dragging me, saying, "You will love this country. Everyone is very relaxed and friendly. Some people who visit are afraid to be here because they only think about the bad things, but it's not true." I cobbled together, "Same it is in United States. One can think only the bad without to think about the rest." Dude, I needed sleep. She then looked up at the sky, smiling, and proclaimed, "What a beautiful day for you to arrive, the sun is coming out!" To me, this seemed like the kind of thing an angel from heaven would say. I perked up, thinking, "I'm really doing this, and it's working out, and oh my g, this lady should be the ambassador of Colombia."

Together, we climbed the steps a small red and white plane.

Our seats were in different spots, so the conversation took a little siesta, as did I. After flying over the velvety green mountains and brown snaking rivers between Bogota and Manizales, there began to be more and more colored and metallic dots of development until we were over a dense, pastel, Gustav Klimt painting of a city.

That's when it dawned on me that the money I had exchanged earlier was all large bills. I suspected I'd have a difficult time making change in the cab. As I left the plane and crossed the tropical landscaping around La Nubia airport, I wondered what I would do about that. Maria al rescate, once again! Once we were inside the small, clean airport, she took me by the arm, pointed to the luggage carousel and said, "Suitcases," then to the row of tiny yellow cars waiting on the other side of a glass wall and said, "Taxis." I thanked her and asked "I think my money is too big and this is not going to not please the driver the man." She opened her wallet again and took out some small bills, trading them for one of my large ones, led me outside, asked my the address of my final destination, ordered the cab driver to take me there, hugged me, did that kissy cheek thing, and held her hand to her ear, like a telephone, saying, "I await your call!"

Did any of you envision any of that when I asked what came to mind at the mention of Colombia? I didn't. I was probably a little guilty of being afraid of the place before experiencing it, not because I believed the hype, but because I know what a target I am when I go anywhere where the people aren't pale, tall, blue-eyed and English speaking. I stick out like a big white blue-eyed thumb who speaks bad Spanish.

  I was also expecting to see more accordions by now. Not a one, so far.

At a vulnerable time in my journey, I didn't get my bag stolen, or my throat slashed. I was helped by someone who could have ignored me. I probably could have managed that leg of the trip on my own, but it certainly would have been much more stressful, and possibly would have been more expensive. Besides, without the kindness of a stranger, determined to represent her country and prove that it was the best place on earth, I wouldn't have known right away what a great idea it was to come here. Well, not until my next warm helpful interaction with a Colombian, which ended up being right around the corner in the house where I live, and at the gymnasio, and at the supermercado, and at La Fundación Niños de Los Andes, and basically everywhere else I go. When my good old American fear of being an idiot pops up and I fall all over myself apologizing and thanking someone who helped me navigate some aspect of life here, I hear the same word over and over. "Tranquila," which means, "Relax." As in -Relax, nothing is such a big deal that I'm going to be a jerk to you. Relax, you're among decent folk. Relax, you're in Colombia.

Dispatches from Dreamland: Part I: The Journey to the Journey

Hey y'all! I'm in Colombia! No, really. South America: I am in it.

And if I eat enough obleas, it is in me.

How? Why? What? Why?

Let me start at the beginning. About eighteen months ago, I was involved in one of my favorite activities: lengthy late night conversation with my witty and interesting husband. We were talking about our future, what we should hope for and start working for. These things take time, but remember, it may be moving faster for me than some of you. When we talked about five years in the future, and more, all of our plans kept coming down to one sticking point: I need to decide what to do when I grow up.

Here's the list of stuff I've done over the years:
Baby wrangler
Wal-Mart drone
Burger joint waitslave
Kentucky Fried Chicken minion
Uptight college dorm RA
International airport security checkpoint thug
Pizza slinger
English language buffoon/teacher
Personal henchman to a world-renowned mathematician.

So, you know, I'm mildly effective at a number of menial pursuits. Somewhere in there, I ended up with a bachelor's degree in Spanish, without the teaching license I started out after and abandoned. Impressive, no? No. My grades were average, at best, and obviously, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I graduated with a son on the way and a sweet gig as a stay-at-home mom stretching out before me.

It wasn't just the harsh reality of repaying student loans for a degree I don't use in any lucrative sense that made me think about the future. As an unattached student, I had little passion for professional goals, and it showed in my GPA and attendance record; but as a mother, I felt it. I felt like sacrificing, working, and dreaming, to make something great. I felt that the result, my family, would reflect on me in a way I never felt about my grades. Now that I have done that for many years, I can't imagine going back to barely tolerating some job and doing it poorly just to pay the bills. I want to continue to live this way, pouring myself into things I love, no matter how hard they are to do. I could have more kids and extend this labor of love, but just typing that made my uterus start scanning the classified ads for a new place to live. It's not going to happen. So, what's next for me?

Turns out I really should have gotten that teachers license, because even though we unschool, I pay a lot of attention to what my kids are and aren't learning. Watching them learn new things and grow has inspired me to work with other peoples' kids too.

  Hi, can I unschool your kid? Just drop him off in his pajamas and I'll set out the chicken feed and art supplies. Don't worry, he'll be a genius in a few years.

J to the K. L to the OL, but really, an idea in my head started to take shape: I felt passionately about tutoring kids in my town who are still in the process of learning English. Many of them come from Mexico. Through connections I made while volunteering at the local elementary school, I started working with such a boy this year, which was very rewarding; but my inability to speak and understand Spanish well inhibited my ability to communicate with his family. We managed, but I really could have used immersion.*

*immersion is what you call going somewhere where they speak the language you are trying to learn, and sounding like a totally confused fool for at least a few weeks, in order to improve skills rapidly. 

Which brings me back to that conversation with the aforementioned witty interesting husband (he's quite photogenic and good at tennis too). At that time, I was less clear on how and what I would do whatever I would do, but I knew one thing for certain: It was time to brush up the bilingualism. My rusty Spanish would not do. I said, tentatively, "I think, in order to do this right, I'm going to need to travel and stay somewhere Spanish-speaking, for a long time, like a month." My encouraging husband nearly cut that sentence off with a supportive "DO IT!" and the rest is bloggery.

 I calculated the cost and started the search for summer work to pay for it. That's how I ended up selling other people's plants and produce at the Tillamook Farmers Market last summer, working for the scrappiest local food supporter on the north coast of Oregon, Food Roots, running their FarmTable.

By fall, I had selected a country: Colombia, and a city: Manizales, and a time: June 2014. Why all of these things? Why not Mexico? Spanish isn't exactly the same from region to region, and there aren't any Colombians living in Tillamook. Well, I figured, if I'm going to save up and plan for a year and go really far away and be gone from my family for several weeks, I would want to accomplish other things as well, like fulfill my long time dream of seeing the country that gave the world cumbia music. It just so happens that a folk music festival takes place in June here, in the small town of Ibague. I was unable to find a good place to stay in Ibague, but a nearby city, Manizales, had lots of good options on a world-wide network of informal house sharers, Airbnb. After choosing a home, paying for my stay, and communicating with the family, I was able to find a good place where I might get some experience in a classroom, with kids. I knew I'd want to volunteer while traveling, because to me, that makes everything more fun. The family hosting me recommended a local kids foundation, where I sent my resume and secured a job as a volunteer.


REAL TALK
Confession time: This all looks like the work of a fearless independent go-getter, but appearances can often be deceiving. Years of staying home, raising kids, changed me, for the better in some ways, for the worse in others. I don't know why, exactly, but about six years ago, I started to experience something like social anxiety. It was a new and worrisome set of physical symptoms that I didn't understand.

I felt like a sick, achy, sack of tired all throughout  my last pregnancy, and George began to exhibit behavior that had his school teachers concerned, which made me concerned. As rewarding as this job was, the pressure of being a mom to many was slowing killing my desire to do anything but stay home and focus on my family. With few exceptions, if my phone rang, or if there was a knock at the door, or if I had to walk down a street full of people, or go to a room full of people, my heart would start to race and I would feel nauseous. I used to be a proud and loud extrovert, spending all of my time with friends, feeling lonely and bored alone without that interaction, but I changed into a reclusive homebody. This new me was unrecognizable, and depressing.

The dream of traveling forced me to work through a lot of that. The mere thought of looking at the classifieds for a job would make my heart race, but I just swallowed hard, took a deep breath or two, and did it anyway. When I got a job interview, I felt like a dumpy mommy, crawling out from under a rock after a decade underground; but I picked the feathers and food out of my hair and did it anyway. I ended up with a job in which I talked to about 100 people a day, which I enjoyed very much, even though I started each Saturday morning with a certainty that I would vomit all over the FarmTable as soon as I got it set up. As I pushed myself through each step, I asked myself, "If this is so hard for you, how hard do you think Colombia will be?" and I would feel less daunted.

After completing all the money-earning and plan-making, I started to look forward to my trip, even though every time I thought of it I felt a bit dizzy. I wondered when this horrible fearfulness would be cured, and then I read this Georgia O'Keefe quote.

" I have been absolutely terrified my entire life, and I never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."

Probably never. Okay.

As I have worked toward this goal, I have learned to discredit and ignore that part of my brain that always felt so freaked out. I took it out of the driver's seat because I knew if I didn't, I'd end up in a dark room, wearing only pajamas, watching my toenails grow - instead of here.

 And here is so beautiful.