resolve.

When I was in middle and high school, I would spend hours cutting up magazines: words written in thick or loopy fonts, photographs and images used for stories, recipes I wanted to try when I cooked my own food one day, bullet-pointed cures for acne and steps for what to do when you encounter your crush at the grocery store. I tore the pages off, cut out the words, and pasted them into an ever-growing volume of inspiration that still sits at my mom’s house. I got such joy from this activity — one of those things where I’d lose track of time for hours, emerge from my room twenty minutes past dinnertime. I didn’t have many hobbies growing up (and still don’t), but magazine-collaging would definitely have been one of them.

Sometimes, come December, I’d take my favorite clippings and put them on a poster board. These were my new year resolutions, the words and images and feelings I hoped to embody in the coming months. I’d match colors, mix fonts, and find words like “bold” and “do your thing” that would direct my coming year. I’d post it in my room and, truthfully, often forget about it. These posters became pieces of art that blended in with the rest rather than spaces to check-in about how I showed up in the world.

I was a teenager, consumed with boys and friendship drama and figuring things out, so it makes sense that I wasn’t totally focused on self-improvement or radical change in the early 2000s. But this year, I decided to do it again. I sat down with copies of magazines that had been piling up under an end table for months, turned on a James Bay Spotify station, and began cutting up the glossy paper.

I made a vision board. And I made resolutions.

In my heart of hearts, I know that January 1st isn’t different than December 31st. I know that New Year’s Resolutions hardly ever stick past the first week, and that people use this arbitrary date to have a fresh start or to turn a new leaf or to finally begin a new chapter. To lose the weight. To read the news. To save money. You can find article after article about this, about how making grandiose resolutions is, essentially, a waste of time because it likely won’t last.

And yet, I make resolutions of some sort every year. Some are more successful (in 2014, I made a resolution to get out of the city every month and I adventured twelve times) than others (I’ve had a goal of running a half-marathon since 2012). So far, nothing has drastically changed from 2016 to 2017 except the date on my iPhone. Yet January 1st is a clean slate in my planner and, year after year, feels like a good time to reassess where I’m at and what I want to change. Flipping the calendar to a new page feels like I can do so, too.

And this year, maybe more so than others, I need that.

Because 2016 has been filled with a lot of shit. It’s been filled with so much horse shit! There, I said it. It’s been terrible for the world — we are still in a war; there’s been a steady increase of horrific violence; and climate change isn’t going anywhere just because D. Trump says it doesn’t exist. For the country — racism and homophobia and sexism have a new, loud platform; Prince and the Brady Bunch mom and the Growing Pains dad died; and that last point about D. Trump very much applies here, too. It’s been a rough 2016 for me, too. I named aloud and struggled with depression, I had all sorts of doubts about my career path, and I was thrust into romantic drama and, subsequently, heartache.

I’ve seen the news stories, the listicles, the memes, which echo the overwhelming cry from humans around the globe. And I'm adding my voice, too: 

“2016 was awful. Let it be over, already.”

But December 31st, 2016 was not much different than January, 1st, 2017. While we can hope that 2017 will be better than what 2016 threw at us, we don’t know that. Donald Trump is still our president-elect. Aleppo is still burning. My heart is still a little sore. Maybe it will be enough to not see 2016 staring back at us every time we look at our calendars, phones, or email history. Maybe writing a new date on checks, job applications, or essays will be the small boost we need to help us move through the shit, the anger, and the pain that 2016 brought to us. We all deserve a chance to reset, recalibrate, and focus on a new beginning. We deserve an opportunity to wipe our hands of 2016, if we need or want to. We can’t, unfortunately, ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen — it will always be a part of our collective story as humans — but we can prepare our hands (and hearts) to hold the new, messy year ahead of us. 

I wrote my resolutions on index cards and stuck them on the wall, right next to my bedroom door, with sparkly gold Washi tape. Some are new (getting a 4.0 in my first term of graduate school), some are old (I still have hopes for that half-marathon). Some will be easy (taking time to adventure each month), and some will take a lot of work (reading 52 books!). Some are action-oriented (cultivate a daily writing practice), and some are hopes for how I will exist in the world (speaking up whenever my gut tells me to, even when it’s hard). And right next to those resolutions are my 2017 collage — a vision or inspiration board, perhaps. It’s a reminder of where I’ve come from and the resolve I have to keep moving forward.

I desperately need this kind of resolve to move forward — not despite 2016, but because of it. I need to believe that the world can be better, that I can accomplish goals for self-care, work, political engagement, and school. My resolve feels clearer when I think of my resolutions for 2017 in this light. How can I use my voice and words to speak up for what I believe in, and to denounce what I do not? How can I put the privilege I have and the money I make, into causes and organizations which contribute to the world I want to live in? How can I spend my quiet hours doing something that feeds my soul, so I can be recharged each day when I enter this big, messy world?

Despite the facts and research and articles, there’s something beautiful about this public declaration of newness and of change. Maybe I will read ten books this year. Maybe another year will pass where I will not run a half-marathon. Maybe I will not speak up at times when I should. But I need to believe that I will, and then offer myself grace if I don't. I need to believe that I can fully live into my intentions, that I can do as much as I can to make my corner of this world a little bit better each day. While I hope that 2017 will bring a new light and hope for our world, for now, I’ll just start with my vision board and resolutions. 

So, what is your resolve for 2017?

alexander hamilton.

"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I’ve been asked this question so many times that I've lost count. I'm not someone who obsessively knows about history, or identifies as extremely patriotic, or listens to hip hop and rap in my free time, so it's a question that’s asked with genuine curiosity. Sometimes the question is tinted with a bit of bewilderment. People see my Spotify feed repeat the tracks over and over, scroll through multiple Instagram posts about it, and widen their eyes as I know the details of the PBS documentary by heart and wonder, “Why?”. In some ways, Hamilton has become "my thing," so much so that my students and I once had a conversation where everyone named their own “Hamilton” -- something that they reeeeeeeeeeeally like a lot.

"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I always stumble over the answer when asked, and that answer often changes depending on who asks it. For someone who cares about music, I talk about the allusions to other musicals and 90s hip hop artists; for someone who writes, I share that there are 23,000+ words (!!!) in this work. For someone who cares about history, I talk about the intention behind casting people of color in leading roles, the accuracy of the story, and the years of research Lin-Manuel Miranda did before bringing Hamilton to life. And for someone who cares about me -- the real reason why I've listened to Hamilton nearly every day since I discovered it a year ago -- the answer is a little more complicated.

I remember listening to the Hamilton soundtrack all the way through for the first time. Afterwards, I couldn’t find the words for how I was feeling. Was I happy to have found a beautiful weaving of a story and music? Always. Was I jealous of how those badass sisters could belt? Obviously. Was I proud to be an American and even a small part of this country’s continuing story? I guess so. 

And then I zipped through my copy of Hamilton: The Revolution, the complete libretto with annotations from Lin-Manuel Miranda himself, essays by Jeremy McCarter, and photos from the production. In one of the essays, McCarter writes about Lin-Manuel’s inspiration from ‘Broadway old masters’ like John Kander, who composed Cabaret and Chicago. After seeing the show for the first time, Kander said of Hamilton:  

“I came away feeling like writing. Not writing like Lin, or doing a project like that — it was just that really, really good work makes me want to go to work.”

And there it was.

Listening to and researching and reading and memorizing and fangirling over Hamilton had made me want to create, too. Not a musical or a book or a song or anything related to the founding fathers. Some words on a page. Some something that makes me feel as excited and wide-eyed as I do when the first chords of the opening number start. I feel that way still, even after hundreds of plays through the soundtrack.

Because not only was Alexander Hamilton crazy about words (throughout the show, other characters reference Hamilton's obsession with writing) and wrote “like he was running out of time,” but Lin-Manuel Miranda is also dedicated to his craft. And both men are so damn passionate about what they’re doing — motivated and dedicated to keep doing it, tirelessly, and to try to leave the world with more, powerful, meaningful words than when they came. After reading that quote from John Kander, I realized that’s what I wanted to do, too. I wanted to go to work.

Last month, I splurged during a trip-gone-wonky to Chicago and bought myself tickets to see Hamilton. I overpaid and was in the nosebleed section (literally the top corner of the theater), but it was worth every penny and tear that I shed. 

I couldn't tell you what my favorite part of the night was. It might have been the eruption of applause and shrieks from the crowd when the lights dimmed, both at the beginning of the show and after intermission. Maybe it was the elderly couple two rows ahead of me who danced in their seats the entire night. Or it might have been the new ways the lyrics pierced me, given the state of our country and my heart on November 10th. Lyrics that become more and more relevant based on the election results: "You want a revolution? I want a revelation!" Songs like "Burn" that made me nod and cry and say, "Me too." 

But if I’m being honest, the most important part of the night happened after the show. I walked back to my hotel room and pulled out my journal and wrote. And the next morning I went to a coffee shop and pulled out my journal again and I wrote. 

And here I am, a few weeks later, writing. Even this — my first piece of non-Instagram or non-journal writing in over a month — feels like something. A small, slow step toward that work I want to do in the world. It feels a little electric, which is the best way I know how to describe the feeling I get when I know something isn’t big or flashy, but is important. It's that same feeling I get when I hear those opening chords of my favorite songs. It's the same feeling I'll get when I click "publish" on this writing. It's hard to put into words, but it's part of who I am.

We need to surround ourselves with our own Hamiltons — the things that make us want to do the work we are meant to do in the world and create the things we are meant to create. The things that inspire us, get us thinking and feeling, get us working on the things we might leave in this world, that hopefully make it a little bit better than when we arrived. 

So, what’s your Hamilton?

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take care of your soul.

to be
soft
is
to be
powerful
-rupi kaur

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” she asked. 

We were standing at the bar in the middle of 80s night, waiting for the bartender to add a lime to my gin and tonic. Whitney Houston blared from the speakers, and people danced around in their brightest colors and selves. It was a bit the opposite of how I was feeling. I felt small and dim and, surprisingly, like I didn’t want to dance with somebody.

Because not even 30 minutes before, I was dumbfounded on the phone as I listened to someone spill out a truth they had been covering for months. As I learned that a relationship I had put everything into -- plane tickets and discretionary income and love -- wasn’t what I thought it was. 

I had hung up the phone and my heart wasn’t quite ready for that kind of processing at 10:30 on a Friday night. So when a picture of some of my beloved colleagues on the dance floor popped onto my phone, I put on my tennis shoes (the only appropriate 80s night footwear) and walked toward them. And that’s when I ended up at the bar with this friend-coworker, who showed up to 80s night in a cutoff flannel, ready to dance; who showed up to me with her full self, ready to listen amidst Prince, Michael Jackson, and Pat Benatar.

“What are you going to do tomorrow? How are you going to take care of yourself?” she asked.

I said that maybe I’d read. Probably write some. That I had plans to get breakfast with a friend. Which was good, I laughed, because I didn’t think I had eaten much today. Maybe I'd have a bowl of cereal once I got home.

“Good. You take care of your body,” she said. “Let others take care of your soul.”

Those words made my breath catch in my chest. They made tears appear in my eyes, they allowed my shoulders and fists to unclench, they reminded me that I wasn't in this alone. When the world feels a little shaky and your heart is aching -- whether that's because of a relationship that's ending, or because of a family emergency, or because you cannot listen to another mansplainer for one more minute -- it's okay to ask others to show up for you. To ask others to be there for whatever ways your soul needs attention.

And they have. Steph showed up at my doorstep fifteen minutes after this mess was set in motion. My mom sat with me over a computer screen and still texts me inspirational quotes every day. Luis binged on late-night pizza and wine with me, and let me yell and stomp around my apartment for an hour. Megan changed my RSVP to her wedding from two to one without asking any questions. A few days later, my Leaven family let my eyes leak through the entire service and gave me a-little-longer-than-normal hugs while we passed the peace. Brigid wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her sticky cheek to my tear-streaked one for ten whole minutes, without moving. That same night, a crew of humans came to my apartment for a potluck, whose presence and voices said, “We are here for you.” And Kim stood at the bar on that Friday night, 30 minutes after I hung up the phone, and reminded me that I have all these people. That I can lean on all these people to tend to my soul.

These humans -- and more -- have been my soul-keepers these past weeks, and I share this not only to thank them for holding me through this, but to remind you (yes, you, who might be reading this right now) that it’s okay to let others care for you. It’s okay to only think about if you’ve eaten, showered, or used the bathroom today. It’s okay to let other people ask you how you’re doing and feeling, and hold you in that -- literally and metaphorically -- when you cannot do so for yourself. That kind of vulnerability, softness, acceptance of our limits when our emotions and souls are taxed?

That is powerful.

sunrise.

Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,
“You owe me.”
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky.
-Hafiz

I moved this summer, to an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. Not that my previous apartment — one within a residence hall in Northeast Portland — had me that much more connected to the Earth, but this move seemed to take me just a bit farther from nature. I’m in the middle of a 14-story building filled with college students, in the middle of Portland State University’s campus, in the middle of the concrete and tall buildings and mass transit systems that make up our city. I live on the most populated block in Portland; humans and human-made things surround me.

However, this shift back to the hustle-hustle-hustle pace of Downtown wasn’t much of a shock to me. I knew what living Downtown felt like, and I was excited about the chance to be so close to everything again, so connected to the pulse of this city, to have so few needs for my car on a regular basis. I was excited to be woken up in the early morning because of the garbage trucks, to hear the bells from the MAX as I fell asleep, to know any time there’s a fire or emergency because of the sirens. This kind of connectedness to the heart of things felt good to me. And still feels good.

I didn’t grow up in a traditionally outdoorsy family. It was my mom and me, in North Dakota, which is winter and well-below freezing most of the time. I didn’t like camping, or hiking, or ogle at and respect the landscape around me. It didn't seem like anything special to me; it just was. However, I did spend most of my childhood summers outdoors, at my grandparents’ house, and can still remember staying outside — running through my grandma’s huge flower garden, racing my cousins on our bikes up and down (and up and down, and up and down) the gravel driveway, lying on the grass after a water gun fight — until the sun set. Their Minnesota home was surrounded by fields that stretched for miles, crops sprouting out of the black earth, other homes and humans just specks in the distance. As the sky darkened, and my grandma or grandpa would call us in closer to the house, we’d look out over those fields and see this perfectly round, orange-yellow-red ball floating over the sky and down through the fields. And I remember being fascinated by how this sun thing worked, even as a kid who never had any interest in science other than making volcanoes out of baking soda and water.

“But where did it go?” I would think. ”You’re telling me that little ball lights up the whole sky? For EVERYONE on earth?”

Now, if I can time it right, I wake up with the sunrise. It’s getting harder as we move further into autumn and the sun comes up later while the time I have to be at work doesn’t, but even if I’m already awake, I make a conscious effort to move toward one of my two, five-foot by five-foot east-facing windows and pause. Take a deep breath. Look out. Sometimes I’ll stand with a cup of coffee, or with my hair halfway curled, or even when I’m already running a bit late for that early morning meeting. And from my 9th story apartment, I see the sun rise up over the hills. I can even see a corner of Mt. Hood defiantly peeking around the three tall buildings that block most of its view, with the sunshine behind it. The sky does all sorts of tricks within a five-to-ten-minute period of the sun stretching out over the landscape. Sometimes, it streaks yellows and oranges and pinks through strips of the remaining darkness. Sometimes, the whole sky turns bright pink. Sometimes, like on Wednesday morning, the sun rose through a thick layer of fog — fog so thick that I couldn’t see the bridges or traffic or river. But even when the clouds are heavy, hanging over the city without any glimmer of hope that Portland will see the actual sun that day, it still rises. It still shows up for the city, for us, for the world.

Watching the sun rise has been one of the most powerful experiences of my summer, one that has shaped my time in this new job, in this new apartment, and in some ways, in this new life. To begin each day being greeted by the sun — being grounded by this little orange-yellow-red ball that lights up the whole sky, for everyone in the world, no matter what — and to be reminded that I’m surrounded by nature, by earthiness, even though I live in an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. It reminds me that just by doing what it does, nature shows us that it loves us every single day. The sun rising, the rain falling, the plants growing, the leaves dropping, the clouds parting, even if just for a moment. And maybe — even if we’re planted in the middle of a bunch of concrete and human-made things — we can show it that we love it, too, by taking a moment to pause in reverence to whatever nature is around us.

bright spots.

Today was supposed to be the day I was going to move from this bed on the floor to a real bed. It was supposed to be the day I was going to become the owner of my first real couch, and real bookshelf, and real mustard-colored chair. It was going to be the day where I finally moved books from boxes, and decorations from bins, and made Apartment 909 feel like home. But today is, now, just another day because after two hours on the phone with IKEA, my furniture isn’t coming. They lost my couch. They can’t deliver an incomplete order. They’re sorry.

No one wants to hear this. No one wants to hear that the furniture they paid for and have waited for isn't coming. No one wants to hear that the delivery day for which they took off work is now wide open, and a day in the near future, where they have to work, will now be filled with furniture delivery. Even in the midst of much shittier, heartbreaking things happening in the world and our lives, no one wants to hear this.

Once I got a hold of a real-life human, I think I handled the situation okay-ish. I asked the right questions, and didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit. As I was being transferred to another real-life human, I apologized to Ashley for crying and being frustrated and not using the friendliest tone, and told her that I know this isn’t her fault. She laughed and said, “Girl, don’t worry. I lost my shit at Chick-fil-A the other day because they were out of the salad I wanted. Things suck sometimes.”

Once I got a hold of the other real-life human, I think I handled the situation alright-ish. I confirmed things that had been promised in my contract, and still didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit more. When Maddie was helping me set up my new delivery date, we discovered she used to live right across the street from my new apartment. And as we were wrapping up the call, she asked, “Do you like sushi? There’s a really great place just right down the road. It’s called Blue Fin.”

And I guess why all of this matters is that while listening to the looped phone muzak while on hold, and finally eating my oatmeal that’s been sitting in the microwave since 9:30 am, and calling my mom and saying the F-word to her too many times, and sitting in the middle of the floor in my apartment, surrounded by bins of extra blankets and bags of books and a half-opened box of new sheets, I’m saying a little prayer for Ashley and Maddie. Bless their souls for being at the end of the phone line — phone lines with hundreds of people calling with questions and frustrations and tears every single day. For listening to, and creating space for, and being present with their callers’ complaints and words and feelings. Even if they think that callers like me are annoying or wrong or awful humans, they're still there. They still answer the phone and, I have to believe, try their hardest to make things better. They offer bright spots — today, in the form of Chick-fil-A salads and sushi recommendations — in hard situations.

I wanted to make this home feel more like home today, and I’m still going to do that. Who declared you need furniture to feel at home in a space? Today is the day for making this floor-bed a little more comfortable, for adding some photos of my favorite faces to frames, and for figuring out how to work my new laundry machine down the hall. Today is the day for finding the bright spots.

(And today is also the day for Blue Fin sushi for dinner, because Maddie said so.)