I will learn to love the skies I'm under

I could entitle every other post with this title. I'm not even kidding. It's like a reoccurring condition, a disease even that I'm constantly trying to overcome.

The French would probably call it "mal du vivre" or "mal du siècle". That's a start. Now let's add "one who is inflicted with wanderlust" to the definition. And I've kinda spoken in my last post of my propensity to be overly nostalgic. Well, that's part of it too, so let's add that as well. As for the rest, I'm hesitating between premature and impatient, which if combined, make immature. So let's use that word with it's secret dual combination. Now you try to come up with a name for that condition and let me know, because it'd make life easier for everyone if what this all is could be summed up in one little word. And it would be paradoxical, which I would love.

A few random, mostly irrelevant words (because I should be writing my thesis and well, I just can't, can't, can't). The semi-important ones have been marked as such for your reading convenience.

Words part I:

You'll notice a trend in my blog. Okay, I just went and actually looked and my blogging history and well, it's a stretch to say that it is a trend. But there is a trend in my life. April and May since 2009 have haunted me yearly with their weight of decisions. If you look at your calendar, you'll notice that yeah, it's May. So, like, do the math.

Words part II:

Yesterday I spent hours not writing my thesis and instead doing research on where I want to move in SLC. When am I moving, you might ask? Oh, AUGUST. As in, 3 months away. As in, I have a thesis that needs my keen researching and analytical skills.

Today I spent another hour or so researching summer teaching jobs in CHINA. Apart from the China part, this might like perfectly normal behavior if you know me well enough. Yeah. Except that I didn't have in mind this summer. Oh no, that would be far too almost-normal. No, silly: I'm planning for NEXT SUMMER. Side note that I'll return to because that's what this whole post is about: I don't know yet what I'm doing this summer. And I just laughed out loud as I wrote that. Sounded more like an evil chuckle though.

Words Part III:

Now that I am going to have a real paying teaching job starting in August, it's like a world of summer possibilities have opened themselves up to me: teaching English in China, Humanitarian work, internships at businesses whose industries I'm interested in, volunteer work in South America and getting my Spanish back, tackling some freelancing or translation jobs from a flat rented in _______ city in Europe.

Ok. Now I realize that the fact that I will have money doesn't mean that I'll be rolling around in it. So why I suddenly feel that next summer or the summers to come will be any different than the past 4 as far as the infinity of possibilities go is pretty much a mystery to me. See, I have all these exotic dreams, the greatest intentions for how I'm going to fill my free time, just like I have list posted on my wall with all the things I'm going to do once my thesis is finished (which I wrote, yes, in another evasive non-thesis writing session).

Words Part IV:

Here is my list (in no particular order):

Sign up for 1/2 marathon
HIKES!
Create Pilates/Yoga plan
Finish "The Idiot"
Make list of books I want to read, complete with reading schedule
Get music off old computer
Organize computer files, etc
Start planning meals: 2 new recipes a month
Actually learn how to do family history
Learn to sew again: start with buttons and lengthening pants (whatever the technical term for that is)
Plan painting/photography days at least once a month
Volunteer with refugees

Not officially on the list:
Learn how to use photoshop
Read books about editing. Actually learn grammar and punctuation rules.
Read books about freelance writing
Start working on ARL classes so I can finish that junk in a year (suckers)
Read books about language acquisition
Read books about positive psychology
Find some grassroots movement to get involved in and read books that are relevant to making a difference in that area
Learn to play the guitar again
Study Spanish
Study Portuguese

Ok. So you get the point: my life looks awesome if you look at the lists I make for myself. You totally want my life, right now, don't you. Yeah, SO DO I; the truth of it is, I will do about 20% of the things on these lists.

Words Part V:

But--and this is THE problem--I live for these lists, for these promises of tomorrow. I'm actually not sure I know how to live in today. Not that I'm not happy. I am. Not that I'm not fulfilled. I think I am. I'm just always waiting, too. Like a kid with ADD (um, who are we kidding, there is no "like" necessary in that sentence). On the edge of my seat. And I'm kind of addicted to that edge and the back and forth of my swinging legs. It's my own version of thrill seeking, that waiting is.


Words Part VI (this is the semi-important part):

As part of the array of April/May decisions, I am trying to decide between going back and doing the same internship in Paris as last year through July or sticking around stateside and seeing some places I have yet to see: basically a perma-vacation from the end of June till the end of July.

I thought I had decided on the latter. Granted I made that decision yesterday; judging by how I've been employing my time the past few days, my frame of mind might not be conducive to decision making. Especially because the week before that my decision was Paris because I hadn't thought of an alternative but was still hesitant to go; every time I would get ready to write them an email confirming my acceptance, I got cold feet.

But today, I can't bring myself to write the email telling Paris I won't be joining it's smelly metros and night streets this summer. I can't cross that possibility off my list.

And there are other factors for this indecision, of course. But they are minor compared to the main one. The truth of it is, the real reason I'm not sure I want to go back to Paris is because working there means entering a routine. And routine means the onset of the aforementioned condition. I know myself: last year instead of spending my free time in Paris running in the parks and reading books on park benches, instead of learning how to work my camera, instead of writing on my blog and in my own handbound book (in Paris! I mean, does it get more quintessential than that?!?), I spent hours writing emails back home to the people I missed, skyping friends and family back home, talking to my new friends about life back home, dating back home, my plans for when I got back home, more lists, more brilliant ways I was going to come home a better person (and by better person I mean the same person with a better plan, a better vision). Knowing that my life in Paris was temporary, I wasn't there long before I wanted to get back to life more durable: to come home and move, get back to dating that could actually go somewhere, finish my thesis (forgetting that this plan and the preceding are pretty much mutually exclusive), and pick up my to do list where I had left off.

Now it's not to say that I didn't do A LOT in Paris. It's just that I also did a lot of waiting too. And now that I've done all that in Paris, I'm wondering how to fill another month with a now-less-novel- Paris.

And the reason I want to run amok hopping around from state to state instead is that I'm hoping to sufficiently distract myself from the real world, from routine, from waiting for a move in August, a new job, new roommates, new coworkers, new ward, new routine, new schedule (so much more time!), and the above lists to be checked off.

And the reason I am having a hard time sending that email saying "No, Paris, I won't come back to you; I love you but you're only a passage and you're predictable and I can't share you the people I leave behind and the closer I get to you the wider the gap between me and others gets and I have problem with living in the present et c'est plus fort que moi!" is because it feels like defeat. And the stubborn and proud part of me refuses to have this weakness: "You can't live like this forever," comes the voice, that monstrous liar. "Sooner or later, you have to learn how to live in present, how to love the present, how to love in the present. Why not learn this summer? Get some practice in Paris: it might be the most important lesson you learn this year. And you might not have next summer".

Words Part VII:

Here is a passage from the book I've translated for my thesis, Les Lettres Chinoises by Ying Chen.

"I’ll head to Paris in a week. No need to say how much that city fascinates me. You know how all our youth was marked by it: it’s kind of because of Paris that we studied French, spent the best moments of our lives conjugating ridiculous verbs, believing that elsewhere was better than home. I know that my stay in Paris won’t be easy. It’s never easy to look in the face those things that we’ve dreamt of for so long. But what can you do about it? We live for that which we’ve dreamt of."

It's probably not hard to see why I chose this book to translate. It's lovely. It's about existential exile, literal and figurative immigration. And ain't it the truth. And obviously the book end in tragedy, in case I had piqued your interest. Which is only an indication of how French it is. But also how good it is.

Words Part VIII (also potentially semi-important):

Whatever my choice, I have a lesson to learn, a demon to defeat. Like Da Li, one of the protagonists of the novel and the "writer" of the above letter, I need to follow where life takes me and not worry about the itinerary. Life has been taken me to some beautiful places, almost always despite myself. And my decisions have always turned out for the best, even the little ones, despite how disproportionately heavy seem to be.

"Finally, everyone seemed to want to leave the country. I realized then that my country wasn’t that good anymore. And so I left. What really throws me off, it’s that those who left like me are really unsatisfied with their life as an immigrant. They make me realize that I’m not at home and that I will suffer like them. “For birds, a nest made of gold is worth less than a nest made of straw”, they say. And yet they stay, far from their nest of straw. Maybe someday life will feel the desire to take me back to Shanghai? So I told myself: to be born or to die in one place rather than another isn’t important. The only thing that matters is to follow where life takes you. Life may have a purpose but it doesn’t have an itinerary. If we insist on following an itinerary, we’re just throwing ourselves against the walls. And we die early."

Words part VIII:

Um, that's all. Nothing too enlightening or surprising here. Another narcissistic self-help session. I swear I do sometimes write (I think) beautiful things. Sometimes I think profound thoughts. I just never finish them or don't publish them. I'm not gonna say "one day"; for today, this is what I wanted to write and so I guess that's worth something in its own way. This is my today, on paper.

Complete with almost chapter titles. You can thank the thesis for those.

The page turner

My hermanita who is on a mission in Argentina, after reading my last poem (see previous post,) asked me if I would write her a "Christmas poem" or "a poem about our (it's a family trait that has been refined in said sister and myself) inability to leave the past alone". Something about that request was really daunting for me.

I could have written something oozing with nostalgia. We are kinda good at that (see previous paragraph) but I didn't want a more angst-ridden version of my last poem and I also didn't want to make her too homesick. The Sunday before Christmas I was sitting during a Christmas program and something kind of unrelated struck me. I think the resulting words here are more like a New Years poem, in fact, than a Christmas one.

You know me, I am a sucker for definites. Beginnings and endings especially, framed by days and hours and concrete moments. I think I feel deeper in these moments, or awareness makes me feel as though I do. But this year I am especially grateful that things begin and that they end and that we have markers by which to measure the joys, the pains, the laughter, and the tears. I am glad for excuses to pause and reflect. And to hope. I am more grateful for this past year than I, yes I, could put into words. But I am perhaps even more grateful for the year before me. For every day before me. For every opportunity for growth, even if (and it usually does) come at the expense of comfort, that comes in the form of new years, new months, new weeks, days, even minutes. That it is never to late to become more than you were just before and to give more and love more and feel more. I am grateful for the days that have shaped me and grateful that sometimes I have to leave them behind.

And so: adieu, 2012; 2013, you have a stinking lot to live up to.

The Page Turner


My fingers know the white and black of keys
on the old piano in the cold front room,
know the whites that are chipped
and the blacks that sometimes stick.
They slip, like hands to gloves, into the memories
of melodies hovering over the ivories, waiting.

There are so many pages and notes I've learned by heart,
that with familiarity I could play without tiring;
but with the years, the pieces get longer,
impossible to memorize and my hands feel so small.
There are songs I would not choose to play,
were it not for the Master setting the pages before me.

"Play on", He whispers as he keeps time with a gentle tapping
while my fingers fumble to learn the notes as I go.
Sometimes I spend hours on a page, a line,
until my fingers rediscover their deftness,
and sometimes I have to play on, unrehearsed,
but always His hands turn the pages that mine can't.

At the end of each page: play on.
When my fingers get in the way: play on.
When I want to skip to the end: play on.
When this movement feels like home : play on.

When the words "the glory be thine",
when angelic host proclaimed,
when carpenter's hands healed,
when with the bitter cup: "play on",

whispers the author and finisher
of every masterpiece I will ever play,
my Master keeping time:
        the watchful page-turner.




In passing... I know this blog hasn't seen a proper posting in months. Other than poetry, I mean. But I kinda feel okay about that. I remember talking to a friend who had been to see a fortune teller. Honest to goodness. She was telling me all about the experience and some advice the fortune teller told her stood out to me. That was years ago, and I can barely remember it. But it was something to the tune of being in a place and with people that make us want to create because we are closer to divinity when we are creating. Not bad for someone who makes a living focused on lines in people's hands.  President Uchtdorf  has said something similar. Anyway, I have kind of used that advice as a measuring stick of sorts. Not necessarily of my spirituality, but of balance in my life. And so three poems in the last few months would seem to testify that I've stuck some kind of right cord, despite the hours I spend researching which you would think to be the epitome of non-creative work. I'd like to think that poetry's re-entry into my life bespeaks in some sort of concrete, recordable form, to how great this year has been. That's all.

My harvest song

I started writing this at my kitchen table with a spoon in my hand. At a time I should have been attacking lists and homework, I felt the unflagging and urgent need to figure out all of life's problems. Or rather, all of my own, which are, truth be told, blessedly few.

My mind was oscillating between the fury of T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,

(Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions)

which is an old favorite and makes me readily imagine Eliot as a fine friend of Andrew Bird's, and the sometimes trite words of J.R.R. Tolkien (Not all those who wander are lost) and a dozen other half-formed thoughts, while my suitcase heart was ruminating in the forthcoming joys and gratitude of the Thanksgiving season, which is my favorite holiday. One submission deadline later, this emerged. A not-so and yet so-very Thanksgiving poem:

North

the distant howling of a train and

faint rumbling lull me to sleep each night,

the sound like an a old pipe or hesitant faucet,

that comes, instead, from my bedroom window

on which i've drawn a map of the world

superimposed over my view of the neighbor's 

closeted patches of grass

or of the stars, depending on the angle.

with my dry erase marker i start to draw cities

and arrows that spread over years,

and charts to calculate weight;

i was never one to travel light, least of all now.

in my youth i would lean my head 

against the cool of the window 

in the backseat of the station wagon 

as we drove south for the winter,

for pies and pine trees 

and piles of people asleep on the floor.

i should have more memories; 

should remember smells, voices, faces.

but i only remember the cold of that window 

that rendered me mute with contentement,

arms clasped around my knees, hands

almost twitching, wanting to throw my arms back 

and grab this whole world and hold it tight,

that warmth in my throat:

the joy of inbetween,

of north to south and south to north.

my bedroom window is cool beneath my fingertips.

the cities aren't looking right.

or maybe the calculations. 

so with a paper towel i clumsily lift the layer of almost-ink

to start again. 

what if?

a story,

no calcultions.

happiness,

not where i want to find it.

the truth,

unslanted.

the distant howling of a train and

faint rumbling pull me from sleep each morning,

the sound like an a old pipe or hesitant faucet,

that comes, instead, from my bedroom window

on which i've drawn a map of the world i've learned by heart:

a muteness impossible to transcribe except for

pies and pine trees and piles of people,

asleep on the floor,

in the nooks of armchairs, holding books,

crowded around the card table, 

who leave 

a place by the window for me,

my bags, and a few more. 

a clothesline summer

The mornings have gotten chilly and the nights undeniably cozy. Not to mention the turning of the leaves. I guess this means my fabulous summer is really, truly over.

I wrote this a few weeks back, in a matter of minutes, actually (more rare than not). When summer was still lingering and homework was looming over my head. More a result of procrastination than creative genius, there were a few words that still needed tweaking. The ushering in of fall helped me put in the final touches. One day, I wil write poems in French. The humming of my summer isn't complete without French sounds.       But.  That day is not today.

And so. An ode; or a eulogy, if you will.

a clothesline summer
minutes like postcard stamps
hung out to fly
then passed from hand to hand
in warmth not quite
cold nights not quietly
we danced on toes
we crossed out bridges
on pages, over seas

how can one know
without the swelling of the wind
makes windows call
gives voice to cracks and alleys thin
that doorknobs do
that from dark keyholes sing
the peace of home
a bed for backs so wearily

those dog-eared maps
which from the folds we found
like unwound twine
foreign knots to mark our feet
or rather where
and from beneath our skin
we carved out stone
and there stopped our searching


to understand
to live forgetfully
in ink that fades
according to the rain
in vacancies
left by what once words did fill
our mouths without
in teeming streets
from which a certain humming sounds

Regret...? Now that's a foreign sentiment.

Remember how I usually travel and then blog about it?

Yeah, well this summer was the summer that I forgot about the blogging part. I was too busy with emails and skyping. Two words: big mistake.

I came home from my time abroad to realize that I was supposed to be keeping a journal. For 6 weeks. And then turn it in for a grade.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT?

That was my reaction. Plus a whole lot of less nice words, mostly aimed at inanimate objects but some at my professor for not spelling it out for the space-cadet that is me and some aimed at said space-cadet.

 So I have made up for the last 2 years of failed blogging by writing 30+ pages of this travel journal. Which, if it were in paper form, I would want to set fire to, I'm so sick of it. The writing is horrible while some of the sentiments seek for sincerity. But I think my chief difficulty is that I didn't write it in the moment and I know that something is lost. And that I have a deadline and can't give it the nostalgic embellishments that I would like to.

Part of it may end up published, nonetheless. They might even get nice little pictures with caption.

But in the meantime, a word of advice:
Pulling together a daily journal months after the fact = la galère. So just don't do it. Especially if you go to France and it changes your life. Which, is gonna happen. Obviously. 

A variation on the theme of solidarity

I know I already wrote about the idea of solidarity. I defined it as the elderly French would. I defined it by what it wasn't. 

But I have to say my piece. 

Perhaps their definition of solidarity is dead. Perhaps solidarity needs to be redefined, or perhaps in order to be found it needs to be actively, humbly sought out. 

Here is why I believe that solidarity is not as dead as some Parisiens would have me believe. Here is why I believe that all those stories you hear about Pariesiens unwilling to talk to you, help you, look at you, are misunderstood. (And before I begin, as a disclaimer, I do realize that being able to actually speak French is the golden open-sesame here.  But I still believe that if you expect solidarity, you will find it. And visa-versa.)

So, remember how, 3 years ago when I came to Paris I was on this 'independent women' kick that I failed miserably at? Well, this time around, I'm welcoming that failure with open arms. Perhaps it is because I have undoubtedly had that experience abroad where I had to sink or swim and I have, by now, more or less learned to swim. In the past, I lived alone, without cell phones, without the internet. I couldn't understand half of what people said to me and communicated much less than that. I had to figure out a lot of stuff by trial and error. I got lost almost constantly.  

This time around, I don't need to not need people. I have been thinking about all the people I've asked for direction in the past 2 weeks. I've had people draw me maps and miss their bus to see that I was well on my way. All the people whose advice I've solicited about my tourist adventures. The people who have helped me with my bags, who knew my name before I even got here, who have prevented me from slipping in puddles as I get off the metro because I am too busy minding the gap. The people who try to save me from gluten in my food, who want to go shopping, to cafés, lunch and dinner when we have only just met. 

I don't know about solidarity, but I do know that this time around, I love traveling because it reminds me that man is not an island. And while I don't like how much I sometimes feel like a child because that means that I'm less fit to give to others when I'm so busy recieving, I am glad for these moments that I am forced to remember how much we need each other. 

I guess to wrap things up I'll share one more thing: today my old-acquaintance-turned-new-friend Emily who happens to be in Paris this summer as well (more later on just how small this world really is) and I went to le cimetière du Père-Lachaise, Paris's largest and world famous cemetery. We only had two hours which was not nearly enough time and will probably be making it a Sunday afternoon ritual. It's hard to describe in words how enchanting it is. It's like a mini city, a curious skyline. It is ironic, perhaps, that after all my thoughts on family and community I should find myself here. Maybe that is why I have always loved cemetaries: in their own sombre way, they bring people together in love. 

This cemetary is full of gorgeous sculptures (more than any other cemetary I've been in), which, it should be known, are the things I spend all my time looking at when I'm at the Louvre, I can't get enough of them.

Basically, I saw this. And it was beautiful. 

I'll do my best to translate though it is essential to know that bruler les étapes means literally to burn through the steps, to skip ahead, to jump the gun, put the horse before the cart. But the verb burn is kind of essential for the juxtaposition of temperature in the imagery:

did i skip 
over any steps
one single 
step 
did i shine
with a thousand
burning stars
and already cold
did i only
live
as a water
which runs
and goes by 
without knowing
that it will return
for your thirst
and my thirst

I tried to translate it on the spot for Emily and we tried to interpret it as we were getting kicked out of the cemetery. We said it reminded us of other poems we knew, me of Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice"

Some say the world will end in fire; 
Some say in ice. 
From what I've tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.

And her of one of Oscar Wilde's (who is also buried there but who we have yet to find). She wasn't sure which poem, and maybe it was actually the same one as me. But maybe it's this one, Panthea:

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,
From passionate pain to deadlier delight,--
I am too young to live without desire,
Too young art thou to waste this summer night
Asking those idle questions which of old
Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.
.....
(there is more. somuchmore)

So there you have it, some beautiful thoughts to wrap up the day.

One more look before at the Eiffel Tour outside my window. Ahhh, Paris.

Je t'aime. 

sol·i·dar·i·ty /ˌsäləˈde(ə)ritē/

I've been thinking a lot about this theme of solidarity. It's a word I've heard probably five times since I've been here and I doubt that I've heard the last of it. Mostly when I hear the word it is in the context of that which is lacking. I hope I can get a better grasp on the situation so that I can write more on it. 

If memory serves me well, Madame Marechal mentioned it first. She had fallen in her appartement building and was crying for help. For hours. No one came to help her (though I wonder if in fact anyone actually heard her). If it wasn't for her femme de ménage, she might have died from such a fall. 

In telling me the story, her eyes welled up. Not quite out of sorrow, no. Though this is is a woman who had a difficult childhood and has seen her share of sorrows, real or imagined.  

Most of the people we visit seem to have similar pain in looking too far back. And yet they are forever looking back. It makes me wonder about our tendency to hold onto the difficulties in our past, to immortalize and martyrize, to define ourselves by the scars we carry so that we can also boast of the strength that now animates our limbs. Can there be any joy in strength if it was not won with some difficulty? Is this the price we pay for opposition, that we risk losing ourselves to those scars? People all bear their scars differently: some quietly, some defiantly, and others with a vendetta that turns upon itself. Some manage to be matter of fact. In the narration they cast of their lives, those scars are facts, events: proof that they have lived. Not axes on which their whole lives turn.

Madame M. was unloved by her father and resents her mother's lack of backbone, which undoubtedly explains her very dominant personality . Madame C. was abandoned from what I understand, to be later taken in by a family who beat her, the father especially. When we talk to her, there is almost nothing that interests her now or that interested her ever. Nothing to distract her from that cankerous past. Monsieur B's father disowned him when he wanted to leave for Paris to be an actor. When he got a divorce, he gave his wife everything but she took more. And his only daughter has never forgiven him. Madame F doesn't want to talk about her life. She can't walk anymore and is, in her own words, waiting to die. She has been waiting a long time. Madame CB is 102 and is loosing her sight. She is the most spritely of them all, always glowing. But she can't help to hide the disappointment she feels that after everyone she took care of, visited with, or was just aware of, it is astonishing to her how forgotten she is and how she must deal with things on her own. 

Still, I think it is telling that some, even most of these people here, prefer looking to their tragic pasts rather than in the present and even less to the future. Is aging really so horrible that people would prefer to reliving, again and again, the wrongs that have been done them as a way to distract themselves from the reality of their current situation? Why not relive the positive? The beautiful? Why are they the moments that are harder, that take more work, to hold onto. Ironically, I feel as though sometimes the latter brings more pain. Because all those wonderful memories are tied up in people, places, moments that are irrevocably gone.


But, I digress. I want to paint for you what I mean, what the French mean by 'solidarity'. Back to Madame M. This is a woman wins people over, herself included, with a fiery sense of humor. She is opinionated and anything but mild. Like me, tears come when emotions are high: any emotion. But as she was talking to me, these were tears of frustration and something stronger. Because she is a raw ball of passion, her hands were clenched as she said to me, her face tightened by desperation nearing rage, that solidarity in France is dead. 

She has too many examples, though she names a few.  The things that solidarity is not: being ignorant about who your neighbors are, not looking  after others or picking up after yourself, not letting the elderly have the seats on the buses or metro, not caring to get to know them, walking around with headphones on, making a person ask for help, which is perhaps only slightly less worse than ignoring that cry for help because it is someone else's problem.

I suppose it could be my ignorance or it could be a result of having been raised in the church, but this pain of aging, and especially the crushing solitude, is a foreign concept to me. I don't want to undermine the reality of this pain in trying to figure out to what extent this portrait of aging is accurate but unappreciated and unknown by those too young to live it and to what extent it is a cultural phenomenon. I can't help but think that the death of solidarity came with the death of general religious belief in Europe. Because the people I work with from Africa of muslin background or other, they still have that solidarity, though perhaps not to the extent they experience it back in their homeland. Not to mention that the fear of death is partnered with a peace in the hope of an afterlife.

If I could put their plight succinctly, this lack of solidarity is most likely due to a lack of family, and a need for community-the kind that you don't age out of. 

I think that probably of all the takeaways from this time abroad, this awareness will be the biggest for me. We are all part of families and we can all take an active or passive role within that family. The same thing goes for communities.  Sometimes I think I take for granted having people around me that I can "need from" and people that need me. I just hope I learn to hear the silent pleas for help of those around me, or, even better, to learn to give before the asking words have even been spoken.