This helped me, but it's going to confuse you.

I've stopped writing. I've stopped journaling, blogging, and I've even stopped ranting on social media. I tell myself I've stopped due to lack of inspiration. Am I being honest with myself? In short, the answer is no. On the contrary, an honest statement would be that I have become lazy. I spend hours at a time scrolling through Instagram, Facebook, and Pinterest. Not to mention the countless episodes of Netflix I pride myself in watching every week. I don't mean for it to sound like I am making social media out to be a useless pastime, because I do spend much of my time researching thought provoking and mind-stimulating articles and videos. However, why have I convinced myself that this is enough? How is skimming, scrolling, liking, commenting, pinning, and watching, mobilizing my vision?

Inside my head, my life is separated into two parts: before my gap year with TBB & after my gap year with TBB. I distinguish between the two based on the experiences which shaped the perception I now see the world around me through. But, here's the thing. I've been home now for almost two years. It has been over two years ago that I left on the adventure in the first place. This is a lot of time; considering the dilemma I am facing by catching myself referring to timespans as "before I left", "while I was gone", and "after I got back". Why am I still finding it difficult to merge the two together? Sure, I'm a different person. I've made different life choices, and now have different preferences and opinions. But, I'm still Savannah. Right? Why does it have to be "Savannah" and "Savannah: The Sequel"?

You probably think I am looking too much into this.
Wrong.
Because, I know I sound crazy.
But, here's my point.

I'll be 21 in less than two months. I'm a sophomore at a University that I, nearly, hate everything about. I've dropped two classes this semester, and even though I am listed as an Agriculture Science major, I'm taking a total of zero agriculture courses this semester. I'm currently in the process of changing my major to Journalism, and I do plan on transferring Universities in fall of 2016. I have a short term plan to make myself happier, but I still cannot help but feel bogged down. It's as if I'm constantly trying to cohere the two parts of my life. When in reality, I know there is no real line of separation. I'm really, really, struggling to put my life LEGO set of 45,670 pieces together. And for the record: when I look over a piece, and then step on it later--it hurts like a bitch.

I'm so frustrated with myself that I know this writing is not going to flow when I reread it. But, I'll still click that publish button, because its the most writing I've put together in six months. Which really may not seem like a big deal to you, except writing is where I feel the most freedom. It's the only place I can tell the truth without fear of consequence or judgement. Writing is the only way I know how to sort through my emotions, and the only way I know how to process. My words are really the only thing I can stand behind with assurance. And not just the words themselves, but the way they come together to make ideas and proclamations in a way that words from my mouth simply cannot.

This is why I am so bewildered by my own will to have stopped. Because, what if this is the only way to connect my two parts together to make one life. If time is on a continuum then there really is no such thing as a sequel; and the first one is usually better left open-ended anyways. 

Sometimes, I Get Tired of Being White.

"America has always turned a blind eye to what we have done to our own. We look out to the world and judge. We hear about the concentration camps but these camps went on for two hundred years right here in America."

I just finished watching the film, The Butler. When I came across the movie on TMC I was skeptical about starting it because I had heard it was a little heavy. But, after being unsatisfied with the remaining movies to choose from I started it over from the beginning. I'm not entirely sure what it was I was expecting. Maybe a heartwarming story about a former cotton field slave who worked his way into an influential household where he answered the door and served tea? I really knew nothing about the plot, obviously. Needless to say I was taken by surprise as the storyline unfolded. 

In relation: We, as a nation, recently recognized Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. If I were to be completely honest (which I intend to be), I would tell you that I celebrated accordingly. I took advantage of the opportunity to go out on a Sunday night as well as the opportunity to sleep in on a Monday morning. I even went as far as to post one of my favorite Dr. King quotes on my Instagram page. I thought these celebratory actions to be sufficient for my support of the importance of civil rights then and now.

How could I have been so nonchalant towards a holiday that not only honors one of the world's greatest revolutionist, but also towards a day that carries so much of our nation's history. 

As a white woman in the United States of America, not to mention a woman from the South, I was given the gift of privilege the minute I took my first breath. I can honestly say that I did not recognize my privilege as privilege for at least the first eighteen years of my life. Thats the funny thing about it, if you are of the privileged elite no one ever tells you that you are. I grew up being handed everything I ever asked for. I'm not referring to material things, even though I was handed those as well. I was given the right to an education. I was given the right to vote. I was given the right to sit, and walk, and stand, and lay down, and work, and shop, and drink, and use the bathroom where ever the hell I want to. Not to mention whenever the hell I want to. 

I was brought up to know I could do anything I wanted to do, I could be anything I wanted to be. Why? Because, I'm white. Because, I'm privileged. 

I recognize what a blessing it is to be an American citizen. I recognize what a blessing it is to have parents who give me anything and everything I ask for. I recognize it is a blessing to be educated. However, I am most thankful for the blessing it is to recognize that I am privileged. I will seldom have to worry, God willing, where my next meal will come from, or whether I will find a job after I graduate from college (which is a privilege within itself). My outlook on life has become a limitless realm of opportunity. 

That makes me slightly bitter.

I don't say privileged the way one would brag about accomplishments and prizes. The word leaves a bad taste in my mouth. 

Why? 

Because, why does my skin color make me different? 

African Americans were beaten for their skin color, tortured for their skin color, killed for their skin color. How ridiculous is that? There are countries in the middle east where ISIS would beat, torture, and kill me because of my skin color. How ridiculous is that? 

Did you catch that? I guarantee half or more of my audience was able to relate to my last comment. I can guarantee that just by mentioning the middle east the attention of many of my readers has been drawn closer. If you have forgotten the quote I copied at the beginning of this post, here it is again: 

"America has always turned a blind eye to what we have done to our own. We look out to the world and judge. We hear about the concentration camps but these camps went on for two hundred years right here in America."

ISIS continues to release videos to youtube of terroristic slaughter. How awful. How evil. How inhuman. 

Ponder this.

When the KKK slaughtered hundreds of African Americans, the ONLY difference was there was no youtube to proudly post their videos onto. There were no computers and flat screen TVs sharing the news with the rest of the world so people could sit on their couches and say, 

"How awful."

"How evil."

"How inhuman."

Every. damn. day. We sit and watch as people are killed based solely on their skin color and cultural heritage. We sit back and judge, complain, rant, sigh, and bless their hearts. We must have carelessly forgotten about our own civil war and our own civil rights movement. We must have carelessly forgotten that discrimination based solely on skin color is still happening right here at home. There are still people dying in America based on skin color. There are still people being discriminated against based on privilege in a nation who claims equality and freedom for all. 

How awful.

How evil.

How inhuman.

Throughout the movie I found myself crying, but not from sadness, I was crying from anger. I went through US history class. I know about the civil rights movement, I know about the marches and the protests and demonstrations, and I know about the white retaliations. All of those graphics rightfully included in the film were no surprise to me. I was angry because race and civil rights is still an issue today. There are still Americans being denied their basic rights. There are still citizens being discriminated against. Racist jokes still fill Hollywood's dialogue and racial slurs can be heard on any radio or television broadcast. Our media, our society, perpetuates the systematic stereotypes. No matter the skin color, we can not let go of the physical difference of skin pigment only truly acknowledgeable by sight. 

There is no justifiable difference between me and another human being except for those given by that dirty word privilege. Honestly, sometimes I get tired of being white. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to know struggle and suffering. Sometimes I don't think I deserve to be white or privileged. I didn't have to fight for my rights, and God willing (again) I will never have to. 

There is something my heart truly admires about those who are underprivileged. There is something truly powerful about a group of oppressed people who rise up together to fight their oppressor.  There is something truly noble about starting a revolution. 

I'm tired of carrying around enough privilege to free an army. I'm tired of watching as discrimination is carried out in the twenty-first century. I'm tired of claiming to be a citizen of a free and equal country, when I most certainly am not. 

There are a handful of movements going on in our society right now working for equality. These movements are crying out to humanity that we are all human. White, black, lesbian, transgender, male, female, Christian, Asian, Muslim, Ethiopian, gay, bisexual, Hindu, Canadian, Latino, Haitian: WE ARE ALL HUMAN. Our social movements literally consist of humans having to remind other humans that they are humans. How ridiculous is that? If this is not notion for a revolution, then I am unsure what is. 

365 Degrees To The New Me. (Part 1 in series.)

I've been meaning to post this for some time now, but it just seems rather fitting that I do it on the anniversary of my Thinking Beyond Borders departure. I'd include an introduction with some catchy hook, but this masterpiece speaks for itself.



(Welcome to my Presentation of Learning)

"Could You Repeat The Question?"

Last September I was bombarded with questions. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Are you sure about this?”

“You realize, you’re crazy right?”

I was asked these questions by everyone I crossed paths with, usually in that order. 

However, lately the questions have become a little tougher.

“What was your favorite place?”

“What was the greatest thing you did?”

“What was the hardest thing to see?”

And my personal favorite, “What did you learn?”

What great questions sure, but here I stand, before you even now, at a loss for words.

I am without answers.

But,

what I do have are questions.

What is the significance in asking the right questions, rather than answering the question right?

What I have taken from my journey is that I do not have all the right answers, nor do I think anyone else does for that matter. But I do have some of the right questions, or at least I like to think so.

How was my view of the world made hazy by my American lens?

India is dirty.

Its dusty.

Its chaotic.

Its crowded.

Standing on the street outside of an ATM I clutched my backpack. Suspicious of any and all bystanders as thieves. I was overwhelmed and only wanted to return to my room, and shut and lock the door. 

I was seeing culture shock.

Standing before a classroom of thirty-some Hindi children, I yelled in English. I looked to my fellow group member in bewilderment. This was more than I had signed up for.

I was seeing a disordered classroom. 

I was sitting in a Seminar debate with my fellow fifteen, when I realized. 

We were all of a privileged, elite group. 

We were the exception. 

And what we were is what we are. 

I am blessed with opportunity.

I am blessed to call America my home.

I realize all of these things. 

But, what I began to ask was, and is, what does the world look like when I take off my American lens? 

I decided right then to take off my shades of red, white, and blue. 

There was no hesitation, I only sought clarification. 

I wanted to see the world for what it really was.

I needed to see all the flaws and all the beauty in their rawest form. 

What I had really seen was culture.

And what I had really seen was a classroom. 

What I was seeing was being filtered through what I knew. 

I grew up in an oppressive school system. 

I was taught how to read and how to write. 

I walked in straight lines and followed all the rules.

I raised my hand and treated others as I wished to be treated.

But, most importantly I was taught how to do it all, right. 

America, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

We breed college ready, academic scholars. 

Students ready for the work force, equipped to be successful in the real world.

We know how to do it right. 

Being products of this great system, 

we knew these informal schools in the Indian slums were doing it wrong. 

Their students were out of control, their teachers were benighted.

They were doing it all wrong.

Well, because after all, we know how to do it right. 

Don’t we?

I had let my American lens make my view of India quite hazy. 

My thoughts were cloudy.

My ideas, foggy. 

But with one quick motion I removed the lens from my eyes 

and came to see a clearer light. 

India is beautiful. 

It’s buzzing.

Its rich.

Its warm. 

Seeing the world then, through clearer eyes led me to question:

What hue was I to allow my world to be filtered through?

Maybe a mixture of pinks and blues.

Maybe a little violet with a hint of nude. 

A rainbow of color maybe, surely that will do. 

I’ll give these shades a name now, to clear things up for you. 

Maybe love and courage.

Maybe a little humanity with a hint of empathy. 

A sort of overarching, individualized approach maybe, surely that will do. 

This approach is something new and unexpected, and widely unaccepted. 

The world wants development and progress. 

The world wants much more than simple average success. 

The world wants infrastructure and network. 

But, wait.

All of those things, they’re all assumptions. 

And please tell me that you know what assuming does. 

Because now I do. 

From what I’ve seen through my eyes, people are dying to tell us what the world wants.

The world wants little things, nothing too extravagant by my standards. 

The world wants:

Land Rights.

Food.

Medication and vaccination.

Clean water.

Justice.

And Education.

The world really just wants liberation.

Liberation from stigma, biases, and pity.

Maybe what the world wants is what the world needs. 

Depending on who you ask.

Was this thought process, this realization, this revelation, 

all brought on by the removal of those damn blinding lenses? 

What does it mean to be real?

Back down to earth.

Solid ground filled with realism. 

Trees are real.

Grass is real.

Animals are real.

People,

are real. 

Real.

Its the kind of word that seems to lose its meaning if you say it too many times.

Or is it that by using it so much we have altered its identity entirely?

By definition, real is actually existing as a thing; not imagined or supposed.

Funny, because what I have come to find real to mean is much credit due to the imagination. 

As I had come to understand real in my first 18 years of life it was the realm of post-high school. 

The land of opportunity.

College, careers, families, and taxes. 

I was often told real life was sure to hit you shortly after graduation. 

It hits hard. 

Real life hit me in the homes of my HIV patients in South Africa.

Real life hit me in the classroom of my students in India.

Real life hit me in the fields of my family in Thailand.

Real life hit me in the rainforest of my community in Ecuador.

I did not come to know real life as finals and pay checks.

It didn’t come in a box with a bow.

It didn’t come in an email to a desk in a row. 

I came to know real life, because I came to know real people. 

I came to know struggle.

Pain.

Suffering.

Stigma. 

Neglect.

And Exile.

I came to know heartache.

I came to know understanding. 

Because of these REAL people I came to know real life. 

I now know happiness.

Love.

Empathy. 

Courage.

Hope.

And Thanks. 

Being real is the opposite of real life. 

Being real is full of life. 

Its full of sadness and suffering.

Its full of laughter and satisfaction. 

Being real is full.

And real life is empty. 

Reality is sometimes related to real life. 

Being realistic is something we are taught. 

I’ve learned that being realistic protects you from disappointment and failure. 

However, being realistic also shields you from dramatic journey and great risk. 

Being realistic is really a component of real life. 

A hindrance to growth, adventure, and understanding if you ask me. 

How are we to create radical revolution and colossal change 

if we are stagnant in the comfort of realism? 

Do you see the picture I am painting for you? 

It may be quite hazy if you are still sporting those wave-fairs tinted in USA protection. 

It is REAL people who create REAL change in this world. 

You can not have one without the other. 

No lack of prospective or apprehension. 

No mild approach.

No holding back emotion. 

Real people give ever essence of their being. 

They donate anything and everything they have, selflessly. 

All for a cause they simply believe in. 

Have no fear.

I’ve met these people.

Shook their hands. 

Hugged their necks. 

Held their gaze.

And heard their cries. 

It was in these people I saw real, raw beauty for the first time. 

It was in humanity I found the world’s greatest treasure. 

Something scientists and engineers simply can not measure. 

The light I found in all the hearts and in all the faces,

I found it again, in myself, of all places. 

What am I loving for?

I have loved an array of things over the years. 

I’ve fallen in love with people.

And I’ve fallen in love with places. 

But, what I wanted to fall in love with more than anything, was life. 

In order to love something so intangible I needed to analyze how I love. 

I’m definitely caring. 

I’m passionate but I wouldn’t consider myself affectionate. 

I’m forward, but not aggressive. 

I’m usually open, but not always vulnerable. 

I struggle with being emotional.

But there are so many varieties of love. 

The love I have for my siblings and parents.

The love I have for friends.

The love I have for sports and teams.

The love I have for materials. 

Each with their own level of importance.

But to love life, what kind of love is that? 

The kind that arouses the soul and captures the heart. 

The kind that risks it all and doesn’t hold back.

The kind that is free and full of desire.

That is the love that life deserves. 

And that is how I have come to love. 

I owe this realization to a dear friend of mine. 

Lindy Wei. 

She lives in Kwanokuthula.

An informal settlement on the outskirts of Plettenberg Bay, ZA. 

The first time I met her was in her pink kitchen.

She wore a yellow floppy hat and a contagious smile.

She swept me into a hug without hesitation,

it was a scene I couldn’t have even dreamt in my imagination.  

We sat on her couch.

She asked my name. 

And in the same breathe,

She said, “I’m HIV positive, an example of living with AIDS.”

What a bold statement to share. 

How vulnerable she was, tugged on my heart until it began to tare. 

I was heartbroken, this poor soul. 

Pitiful.

Sick.

Hopeless. 

No. 

Lindy shared her journey with me that day.

The troubles and trials she had come to call her own. 

The love she had given, and eventually always been turned away. 

The struggle she faced to raise her son. 

But she was a fighter, and knew there was still much toil to be done. 

She had faith in her medication, and faith in God. 

And the day I prayed with her, 

she hugged me and replied:

“You make me strong.” 

What a statement to have shared.

What a statement to have heard. 

I was simply at a lose for words. 

Lindy Wei loved me. 

From the very first day in her pink painted kitchen.

To the last hug we shared on the sidewalk in Kwano.

This great woman,

her passion I can not put into words. 

She taught me to love with every ounce of my soul. 

A lesson I couldn’t have been taught in any desk, in any row. 

I’ve learned to love life.

With happiness and passion.

No eloquent language or poetic voice could explain it any better. 

Or so I thought. 

Last night I was standing on a street corner. 

Debating on dinner.

I was overwhelmed with exhaustion.

I was drained from acting like I was fine all afternoon.

I was tired of being who I wasn’t.

I watched people walk by.

Some by themselves, 

Some in pairs,

Some in groups.

But with each person passing by, I was taken by surprise.

I had love for all these people.

All these strangers, whom I knew not even their name. 

But, still I found myself loving them all the same. 

Is it that by some chance,

By some once in a lifetime trip to South Africa,

By some woman named Lindy,

By the power of some God named Christ,

I had come to love all these people?

My heart overflowed, 

And it was all I could do to keep the tears from overflowing as well.

I had my realization.

Love wasn’t something I had to learn to do.

It was something I had to find in every person.

And eventually it became my go to emotion. 

How do I feel about going home? 

After all of these lessons I’ve learned.

They tell me now, its time to go home. 

Back to confusion.

Back to stereotypes. 

Back to fighting. 

Back to struggle. 

Which might not be so bad if I hadn’t completely changed the person I am. 

I’ve questioned my beliefs and assumptions.

I’ve made bold statements, and touched on touchy subjects. 

I’ve disappointed people and also made them proud. 

But the thing is….

I see much clearer now. 

The world in all its color.

I understand humanity now. 

People in all their diverse beauty. 

I love much deeper now.

The world and all its people. 

I’m blind to lines that forge separation. 

I’ve turned from ignorant minds who urge segregation. 

I can see what is ahead. 

A great endeavor no doubt. 

My doubts about church.

My take on religion. 

My grasp on love. 

My acceptance for the whole. 

My hope for the future.

My longing for change. 

All of my questions.

All my opinions. 

I’m bringing them home. 

I Was Only Half-Hearted.

The question I hate the most and the question I get most often, are the same.
"Did you have fun?"
I surface a half-hearted smile and say, "Yeah, I did."

I hate the question so much because not only is it an assumption itself, but it brings forth my answer that has an array of assumptions tied to it. Don't get me wrong, I had lots of fun. I did super cool things and met crazy cool friends. But, it wasn't really about having fun.

For those of you who have known me for years, I was all about having fun. Let's go here, do this, do that, I was your girl. I was always up for a good time, and the party always seemed to find me. I had a slew of friends I spent most of my time with, and we made great memories. Lots and lots of fun memories, because that's what life was about for me. I hated disappointment and rejection, so I filled my time with as much fun as possible. Because if I spent all my time having fun, there was no room for worries or problems. This lifestyle worked for me for quite sometime. But towards the end of last summer my carefree spirit turned reckless. I had, had a fun filled summer under the sun with my sights set on September when I would leave for South Africa. I left in a whirlwind it seemed like. I hadn't spent enough time with some people, and others I had left heartbroken in the wake of all the "fun" I had enjoyed. Even with that realization though, I wrote it all off as fine. I was going to spend the next seven months with extraordinary people, in extraordinary places, doing extraordinary fun things. And I did do those things, in those places, with those people. I bungee jumped, I saw the Tag Mahal, I rode elephants and camels, and I played with baby tigers. But when I'm asked if I had fun, those aren't the scenes that flash through my mind as I search for that half-hearted smile.

I think about the fire ants that covered my hands while I cussed in a british accent, the talks I had with Ellen over rice, and the group showers I took in a river. I think about the nights I had to drag Janelle from our mat on the floor to brush our teeth in the thirty degree darkness. I think about the awarding struggle of teaching Anjali to read a five word sentence, and the language barrier between you and the tuk-tuk driver you just hope knows where he is going. I think of my walks in Kwanokuthula, my discussions with Anya in the clinic, and the glimmer of pure hope in a HIV patient's eyes.

I didn't go to have fun. That's not what it's about for me anymore. And its been a struggle to keep that realization alive everyday since I've been home. It scares me how easy it has become for me to be consumed by the things my world used to revolve around. I've slipped into old habits and found myself seeking comfort in the places I used to find it. The mess I thought I left behind in September, is the same mess I've come home to in April. At first I thought I'd forgotten how to have fun, but then I realized I've only redefined it. While I was gone I found that fun only really happens when you're happy and doing what you love. Which has forced me to do some evaluating on who and what I love. Some things I've loved for years, and others I've only recently discovered. Some relationships have not changed, while with others I might just be too late. I made the mistake of revolving my life around fun last summer, and I made the same mistake only a few weeks ago. It's a mistake of thinking for even just a second that I'd find happiness in a cluster of fun times. Happiness can only be found in the words, tears, smiles, and arms of the people you love.


Well, all of that to say, the next time you ask if I had fun...you'll know what I mean with that half-hearted smile. 

A Life Worth Living.

We want our lives to have purpose. Some of us want to change the world and others want to simply change the channel. We live for happiness, affection, admiration, money, power, love, revenge, relief, adventure, addiction, and passion. We live for a combination of those things, and more, throughout our journey called life. One of my favorite quotes is, "Life is what happens when you are busy living." How peculiar of a notion. Does that mean we are missing out when we let the days pass by- waiting, wanting, longing for the meaning of life to hit us, to remind us why life is worth living.

When I was six, I lived for the suckers from the lady at the bank drive-through and bedtime stories. When I was eleven I lived for a calm in the storm of divorce. When I was seventeen I lived for the love of a boy and tailgate circles on a Friday night. Now, at nineteen, I've decided there is so much left to live for.

The woman I met in South Africa lives for the grant money that doesn't come. She lives for hope. Hope that she can pay her son's tuition, pay for her home, and pay for the AIDS medicine that gives her the chance to live. 

The kids in Honduras and India live for missionaries and volunteers to teach them to read and tie their shoes. They live for the chance to use broken crayons and to eat hard candy. They live for love for a short time. 

The farmers in Thailand live for one more year to the work the land that the government refuses to give them the rights to. The land they've occupied for years. They live for the chance to hold something that is theirs.

The boy I befriended in Haiti lives for the chance to earn a University degree. He lives for a better life, a life he's never known. 

The families in Ecuador live for the opportunity to rebuild. They live for years down the road, when a legacy will live on in the rain-forests for generations to come. 

The gentleman in Cambodia I bought roses from, lives for a generous heart passing by. 

I've lived for a boy, a sport, a good time, and a God. But never have I ever even thought about living for food, medicine, shelter, rights, hugs, or even just hope.

I'm sure one day I'll live for much more than parties and finales. I'll live for things like a career, kids, and a husband. But here I am at nineteen wondering if that's really enough to live for. I want to live for crazy dreams and real change. I want to live for those who can't seem to find something worth living for. I'll live for a prayer of hope and ray of happiness. I'll live for much more than I ever thought of before.

This Farming Thing; It's An Agtual Issue.

One out of sixteen kids are from an agriculture community, according to TBB statistics. Making me the go to expert with any questions of corn, tractors, or country music. Which was a lot of pressure if I do say so myself. Especially when we prepared to study sustainable agriculture in Thailand. I suppose I was able to give useful perspective and educated insight during our discussions on GMOs, Syngenta, and Monsanto (Many thanks to my ag teachers, Mrs. Julie Gilliam & Mr. Bradley McKinney). However, while the rest of the group was eager to gain knowledge around agriculture issues from the curriculum, I was struggling with my own issues.

            First of all, I am no expert and I am no farmer. I was simply blessed to have grown up in the community I did, and given the opportunity to find my passion in agriculture as well. I was most excited about TBB because of the focus on agriculture as a global issue, but as we jumped right in to our home stays and work sites I was taken back. On a personal level I was pro-industrial agriculture. I’m talking genetically modified seeds, GPS directed tractors, chemical fertilizers, and rows, and rows, and rows, of cash crops. This is the agriculture I was raised in, monoculture coated in liquid nitrogen. I was certain that the answer to feeding this hungry world was industrialized agriculture. Which is why I had a hard time taking the organic farming techniques of my family in Thailand, seriously.

I was quick to express my opinion in our first seminar, “Organic farming simply isn’t going to the feed the world.” I was understanding non-the-less. Good for my Pati, his rice fields were one hundred percent organic. No chemicals needed to feed his family. But, I refused to think that a globally based agriculture system like the one we have in the US could compete with our rapidly growing population if we suddenly switched to strict organic methods. On the contrary, throughout our studies I found that organic farming is working on an industrial scale in several places along the West coast.

So there I was, mid-way through the unit caught in the middle of what I knew and what I was learning. Sure, industrial ag certainly is not sustainable, but I doubt reverting back to the eighteen hundreds is going to be beneficial for farming in this century. Where is the happy medium? Even more, is there a medium between Round-Up Ready seeds and Swidden farming? How can sustainable practices be implemented in order to not only increase production but also protect the environment? These were the questions I was asking.

Let me remind you, I was considered the expert…now lacking the expertise.

           

When it came time to prepare media projects to wrap up our unit, I wanted to depict my personal growth throughout my time in Thailand. I had learned to look at the simple similarities, rather than the stark differences between industrial and organic farming. I wanted to express the passion behind agriculture, and the personal relationship between the farmer and the farm. So here is my artsy burst of creativity….

An Accumulation of AG-Knowledgments

At the root of the issue you'd find,

Sustainable Ag is what's lagging behind.

There they are, under all the dirt and rust,

Practices of the past covered in dust.

The light in the sky, calls on a hero.

Another day's try to defeat hunger at zero.

The masses are increasing, along with their stowing.

The solution it seems calls for much more growing.

From seedling to plant, all in a row,

Surely come November, there'll be tons of grain in tow.

What a stress this is, it seems. 

Couldn't an industry just genetically modify millions of beans?

How innovative of a solution to choose.

However, I think I'd suggest taking a walk in the farmer's shoes.

I've come to find, that indeed;

I would rather know the face behind the crop,

Than the one smiling at the front of the shop. 

Call Me A Crazy Christian.

My mother had two fears when I left home in September. The first being that I would never actually go to college. The second was that I would stop going to church. Both were legitimate concerns I suppose,  given the combination of my wandering soul and opinionated personality. However, I am pleased to assure her, and you, that is not, and certainly will not be, the case. I haven't been to church since the Sunday before I left, but I have never felt so in touch with my faith in Christ than during the past four months. Which has recently led me to question how I really feel about my relationship with "church".

A few weeks ago our group was taking a stroll to dinner and my friend, who does not identify as Christian, began to inquire about my faith. In short, I shared with them the callings I have experienced regarding not only to take a gap year, but also the career I feel led towards as well. The conversation continued on to what I suppose you could consider my testimony. I expressed not only my personal experience with Christianity and why I love it but also the things, quite frankly, I hate about it. Over the past few years I have been a regular not only at Sunday morning service, but Wednesday night as well. I've been on several mission trips and attended countless youth retreats and conferences. I have adequate experience with what is considered church. I've realized, nonetheless, that the expectations we Christians try to live up to and the rules we strive to live by, are far from parallel with the personal relationship I have with Christ. I'm a take me or leave kind of gal with all my flaws and issues, but see, I know that Jesus is the type to take me just the way I am. I consider Jesus and I pretty close friends and if you could ask Him I think He'd say the same. I'm confident in this statement because we talk a few times a day and I can trust Him with my life. Which is more than I can say for most of my friends. Our relationship has gotten me pretty far if I do say so myself. There are few things I am certain of, but knowing He loves me unconditionally is one of them.  He loves me every time I curse, He loves my pierced nose, He loves me when I have a Coors Light in my hand, He loves my loud mouth, He loves every piece of me. Just like He loves you, and you, and you, and you. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm tired of playing church. I've realized that my relationship with Christ isn't about how many Sundays I am sitting in a pew or how I present myself in front of the church ladies. It's about the conversations we have on a daily basis and the influence He has on the steps I take every day.

Now, after I spilled all of these feelings to my friend, they had one last question. "Where would you take me to feel the fire of Christ, then?" And without a second thought I replied, "Well, I certainly wouldn't take you to church on Sunday."

Did that hit you like it hit me? The single most thought of thing that comes to mind when you think Christianity, is church. And I wouldn't take someone who was looking to feel the Spirit there with me. What does that say about me? That I get up on Sunday and get dolled up to go sit in a pew for an hour? I can't recall the last time Sunday I got up with the hope of experiencing the presence of Jesus. What does that say about my relationship with church?  That it's just this thing I do once or twice a week because it's where I'm expected to be? I want church to be something I feel, rather than something I do.

I'm tired of playing church folks, and I have a hunch that I'm not the only one. So I'll leave you with my  most recent question: What would my walk with Christ be like if I felt the fire every Sunday?


Oh, and for those still wondering about my mother's first fear, I'll be going to Murray in the fall. No worries.