tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12966503870800628662024-03-13T12:54:40.657-07:00Life as a SouthpawSoul shit.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.comBlogger192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-63558362920662864902019-12-08T11:57:00.000-08:002020-01-26T11:58:36.155-08:00Backcountry Adventure, part 2.The day started slowly. It was raining hard outside, we were "socked in" (the clouds and fog were thick), and we were sore from the day before. There wasn't much motivation to rush out the door.<br />
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The couple, Eric and Meg, were friendly and chipper, and we all four quickly fell back into fun and interesting conversation. When we finally decided to roll out, we agreed to hike together, as the weather was pretty terrible and a trek back along the ridge was out of the question, which meant we had only one reasonable route back. Eric and Meg made the polite disclaimer about "being slowpokes" and we could leave them behind if their pace was too slow for us.
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We had no idea the journey would be so challenging and precarious that we would stick together as a team the whole way back, and become fast friends in the process.</div>
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Fully geared up with rain coats, rain pants (for me at least), and trash bags for our backpacks (they had a spare), we set out into the storm. It was immediately brutal, and instantly soaked us. Cold, windy, and with pelting rain that drove from all directions.</div>
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We eventually descended into a valley, where we'd basically work our way down from the mountain tops, following the route carved by millions of years of water flow. Toward the top, the stream was quiet and small.</div>
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It was very, very wet, and my clothes were already mostly soaked through despite the rain gear. It turns out water repellent clothing wears out over time, and my jacket certainly did more than nothing but hardly was enough to actually keep me dry. Still, the view was gorgeous, and the people were fun.
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Off in the distance, we could make a guess as to where we were heading. It was so wonderful to have a sense of how far we'd be traveling, and to see it in the distance. It's quite different from tromping through a forest, where you have no sense of the ground you can cover in a day, how to conceptualize 8 miles of ground to cover. What's visible in this photo was maybe half the distance of what we actually did.</div>
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The terrain was sketchy and required carefully picking our way across slopes of rock slides.</div>
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It wasn't long before we had to start crossing the river at regular intervals. This was the next phase of our journey, the water phase. The crossings were pretty manageable at first. As long as you kept moving and didn't try to balance on any particular rock, it was usually fine.
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I was often the one to go first, since it turns out I was the most nimble and daring when it came to hopping across rivers. Might be slightly related to being a dancer. Who knows. Anyway, usually I was there pep talking Eric and Meg, who were the least sure-footed. On a couple of occasions I'd provide a hand to steady them as they made their own way across. It was fun to feel like I was taking a bit of leadership and providing the power of positive momentum to keep us moving forward.</div>
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At one point toward the end, we ended up clambering across a fallen tree to pull off the crossing. All the while never falling in the river. (Certainly we could've walked through it, it wasn't particularly deep, but none of us were looking forward to sopping wet feet.)</div>
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There was one crossing in particular that stood out to my memory. There was a big rock on the other side, but far away. With most crossings you can get away with something like a hop step. This one though required a full, bodily leap across the stream. Before anyone could talk me into being afraid, I launched myself through the air and landed on all fours on the rock, scrabbling up and away from the water. I then turned around and talked other people up, and would catch them as they leapt across so they didn't have to worry about sticking the landing to avoid tumbling off into the water.</div>
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At last, toward the end of the water phase, we came upon a river crossing that was just too difficult. I took a stab at making it across, but the rock I was using slipped right underneath me and I stumbled backwards, topping my boots and nearly losing my balance entirely. The rest of the crew had to just bite the bullet and wade across. My boots and socks had already been pretty soaked from the rain, but now they were sopping and I could feel the <span style="font-style: italic;">squish, squish</span> with every step.</div>
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We finally made it to Speargrass Hut, the halfway point, and settled in for lunch and to wring out our socks and clothes. After a couple unsuccessful attempts to build a fire by other people, I set myself to carefully nursing a fire to live in the wood stove while others prepared hot food to share. I take a certain amount of pride in being able to make a fire, and I'm glad I didn't have to eat my pride this time along with my lunch. It warmed the space and provided needed comfort to everyone.</div>
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After taking some time, we set back out. None of us were pleased about putting all our wet, soggy gear back on. Still, we kept in good cheer, and the conversation always was flowing. Meg and Eric had proven to be really sweet, lovely people, and delightful company. It was a pleasant surprise, because so often when you meet strangers there's a point where you genuinely want to be done with interacting, and we didn't ever tire of one another.</div>
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It was time to set back out into the forest. Looking back up the way we had come, it was satisfying to see the thick clouds through which we had hiked, now draping over the mountain like a blanket.</div>
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The forest path was usually obvious and marked, but still required careful navigation as the way forward was muddy and riddled with roots and large rocks to trip up feet.</div>
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At one point, we reached an area where the path had been completely washed out from the storm. Where there used to be a hill to cut along the circumference, there was now a huge gash, a valley of rocks and scree to crawl down and then scramble back up.</div>
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In another area, the land and route had been transformed by the storm. Normally the area we were standing would be flooded with waters, but presumably the wash out from above had changed the course of the river and diverted it in a new direction.</div>
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The final portion was challenging, hiking along a steep slope with only tree roots serving as our footholds.</div>
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The hike itself would not have been so challenging and intense were it not for the wet and cold. The consensus among Meg and Eric and Shantel, all more experienced backpackers, was that this was one of the most difficult routes they've ever tackled. It just made me appreciate the beauty and rigor of hiking through the backcountry, where you don't have a maintained path to ease your journey.
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When we made it back to the parking lot, we were all cheers and joy. We had made it through a demanding trek together as a team, and weathering those tough moments together made us draw even closer together. I hope to get to connect with them back in Portland once they return and to maintain the friendship.</div>
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Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-52594932422723694812019-12-07T11:38:00.000-08:002020-01-26T11:47:41.094-08:00Backcountry Adventure, part 1.It began with a simple day hike at Nelson Lakes, and ended as one of the most intense, beautiful, and precarious backcountry adventures of my life. There's a saying, "If you do something and survive, it's courageous; if you die, it's stupidity." We were fortunate that it was courageous this time around.<br />
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The day hike began at 1pm, a wonderful and stunning jaunt around Mt. Roberts, overlooking Nelson Lakes. Shantel and I were in great spirits; the weather was overcast and cloudy, but the hike promised to be beautiful and fulfilling even without visibility.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AO6y8WAC3LQ/Xi3qwMg2muI/AAAAAAAADOw/zKdbNamQ0BgNcXGcwp87SEn1D0Sk6uNEQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_2107_HEIC.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AO6y8WAC3LQ/Xi3qwMg2muI/AAAAAAAADOw/zKdbNamQ0BgNcXGcwp87SEn1D0Sk6uNEQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_2107_HEIC.png" /></a><br />
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The terrain changed several times; for much of it we were hiking up the side of the mountain in switchbacks, but eventually the trail cut inward off the hillside and into the forest. At that point, we had climbed into the clouds, creating a haunting effect in the woods.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3oSlJCwDWpQ/Xi3q-CU6zaI/AAAAAAAADPI/NUdBxuwZVckONcqM1E-Hj679M0THFM8XgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_19_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3oSlJCwDWpQ/Xi3q-CU6zaI/AAAAAAAADPI/NUdBxuwZVckONcqM1E-Hj679M0THFM8XgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_19_PM.png" /></a><br />
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Cresting onto the summit of Mt. Roberts, a cold, bone-chilling wind buffeted us in all directions. But we were treated to some truly stunning cloud movements as it rolled over the top.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-shWwtrSHXJM/Xi3rE_9iZUI/AAAAAAAADPc/LkxVzGTZMT0WjdSwhb_MWZ3CADobvt1MACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_22_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-shWwtrSHXJM/Xi3rE_9iZUI/AAAAAAAADPc/LkxVzGTZMT0WjdSwhb_MWZ3CADobvt1MACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_22_PM.png" /></a><br />
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On our way down, we made it to one of the "huts" as they're called in New Zealand. These huts are maintained by the Department of Conservation. They're typically a single room with loads of counter space and a dining table, plus bunk space with thick foam mats for sleeping. The huts are stocked with wood, and visitors are welcomed to build their own fires in the wood furnace to heat the space.
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We took refuge there, as at that moment a hailstorm bore down on us just as we were arriving at the door. We hung out with a family there, who had made plans to go further into the park, to a place called Angulus Hut, but they had heard a storm was rolling in and didn't want their small ones to brave the high winds along the ridge.
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Eventually we continued on our way, completing a loop back down the mountain and to our parked van. The weather turned again, forming thunder in the distance, and then, finally, a most stunning daybreak. The sun streamed in and made the whole place feel like it had never rained in the first place.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZoJar2VJ2u0/Xi3rKYe7jrI/AAAAAAAADPo/vaNzBunfIBUNkGRmEEoJsUldhhUWpT6AQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_28_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZoJar2VJ2u0/Xi3rKYe7jrI/AAAAAAAADPo/vaNzBunfIBUNkGRmEEoJsUldhhUWpT6AQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_28_PM.png" /></a> </div>
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By the time we made it back to the car, it was only 4:30pm. We had finished much earlier than expected, doing the route that was estimated to take 5 hours in just over 3. It was early, and we were in good spirits, and we weren't ready to be done hiking.
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Looking back at the map, we saw that Angulus Hut was estimated to take ~8-10 hours to get there. We figured we could do it ~6 hours, given our hiking tempo and how off the original estimate was. Worst case scenario, we thought, we'd be hiking with our headlamps at night along an obvious track like the one we had followed.
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Boy were we wrong on that part.
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We hustled to pack our backs with warm clothing just in case, dinner for the evening, and sleeping gear. We made a reservation at the hut, so we didn't bring our tent. (That was the first really big mistake.) We set off again in good spirits; our bodies a little sore, but excited for the adventure and ready to push ourselves.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5BRQ3lU1luE/Xi3rOcqlU3I/AAAAAAAADPw/EZoyLSwwQHcrKkOgFo_hihANs5Fktn_OgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_33_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5BRQ3lU1luE/Xi3rOcqlU3I/AAAAAAAADPw/EZoyLSwwQHcrKkOgFo_hihANs5Fktn_OgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_33_PM.png" /></a> </div>
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There was another route we could've taken, Speargrass Trail, which would've given us a bailout hut option halfway there at Speargrass Hut in case we decided the trek was too much and we wanted to stop for the evening. We debated for a little while, and then favored the "Ridgeline Route" because it promised to be for "more experienced backpackers" as opposed to the other route which was intended for families. We wanted to push ourselves.
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We cruised back up the mountain, making excellent time. After summiting Mt. Roberts in even faster time that previously, we pressed onward to our final destination, Angulus Hut, 9 km away. It was 7pm, and it said it was 4.5 hours away.
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I will never forget the experience of watching the sun make its steady descent toward the horizon while at 4000' elevation. Nothing is in your way to obscure the majesty and beauty of this great star lighting up all the land beneath you.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1NvSFmKRJ6U/Xi3rTkLYtZI/AAAAAAAADP8/Ak6CBad72ZcTZbYTDpX46Gw5TJ7MZ097wCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_39_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1NvSFmKRJ6U/Xi3rTkLYtZI/AAAAAAAADP8/Ak6CBad72ZcTZbYTDpX46Gw5TJ7MZ097wCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_39_PM.png" /></a> </div>
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We were hiking along the ridge of a mountain range. That stood to reason, as it was called Ridgeline Route, after all. It was cold and windy, but not to the extent that we were concerned about what might happen when the sun set. We knew it would get colder, but both of us had additional layers and we were maintaining a solidly warm core body temperature right now.
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The path was still pretty obvious: a worn track through the gravel and small rocks, always marked at intervals with orange metal posts. The posts were often buried into piles of huge rocks, as there was no where else to stake them securely.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mrNqMueR1eI/Xi3rbGQpgoI/AAAAAAAADQQ/d4ByNSdkzdM4rpkRf6L4kHzEPpuAKTGhACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_43_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mrNqMueR1eI/Xi3rbGQpgoI/AAAAAAAADQQ/d4ByNSdkzdM4rpkRf6L4kHzEPpuAKTGhACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_43_PM.png" /></a> </div>
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We saw lots of bizarre life up there, including this strange moss that I've never seen before.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RCKxvOt6gsE/Xi3re29vT7I/AAAAAAAADQc/Kul4_KL4KJE7lTPkA9Pw5rcHGWJSH41wwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_45_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RCKxvOt6gsE/Xi3re29vT7I/AAAAAAAADQc/Kul4_KL4KJE7lTPkA9Pw5rcHGWJSH41wwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_45_PM.png" /></a><br />
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We could pretty clearly see a final ridge that we were going to ascend over. We powered our way up the mountain. When we ascended the ridge, anticipating that the ridgeline part was over, we would just find... more ridge. Always, every time, just. more. ridge.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mAKhSEs2edo/Xi3rkAwZveI/AAAAAAAADQo/7veOHvaMII0ES28QqCtZ2JYZoTCvMQOcACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_55_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mAKhSEs2edo/Xi3rkAwZveI/AAAAAAAADQo/7veOHvaMII0ES28QqCtZ2JYZoTCvMQOcACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_55_PM.png" /></a><br />
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It was 8pm. The sun was still in the sky, but light was steadily fading, and we were beginning to wonder when we'd begin descending. The faint, growing fear was kept in check by a steady supply of breathtaking views, however.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t4ZwRZBdkU0/Xi3roGkvG9I/AAAAAAAADQw/vw98_h2Doqg9DjJdX73j5e7t6Bxg8_IMgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_2151_JPG.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t4ZwRZBdkU0/Xi3roGkvG9I/AAAAAAAADQw/vw98_h2Doqg9DjJdX73j5e7t6Bxg8_IMgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_2151_JPG.png" /></a><br />
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We powered onward, not yet worried about our circumstances. The wind wasn't terrible, we still had ~1.5 hrs of light, we had warm gear, and the path was well marked. We kept the conversation going, sharing stories and laughter. We were deliberately staying positive.<br />
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Then the path became increasingly less obvious. We were scrambling over huge rocks, up and down and back up again. The hiking was intense, and we wanted to keep moving at a steady clip. It was a full body experience with using our arms for balance and moving us up and down the boulder fields.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qcDAonA5zHQ/Xi3rvmoRn7I/AAAAAAAADRI/9_g1DnnVjJo42aqyHXxshiTzN4pPIZ4HwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_54_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qcDAonA5zHQ/Xi3rvmoRn7I/AAAAAAAADRI/9_g1DnnVjJo42aqyHXxshiTzN4pPIZ4HwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__12_54_PM.png" /></a><br />
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A reality was finally sinking in: this was not merely hiking a path, we were in <span style="font-style: italic;">the backcountry</span>. A vast expanse of nature, barely maintained except for these regular, impersonal, uninformative route markers. We were picking our way along the ridges of a mountain range, almost as ambiguously as if we had pointed in the distance and made a best guess as to how to get there. The route was growing in challenge, to the point where we're carefully climbing around huge rocky, craggy summits, with a steep slope below us. We weren't navigating cliffs per se, but if we fell we'd have a decidedly unpleasant way down. </div>
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It was around this time that Shantel noted that she forgot to bring the first aid kit. (Our second mistake.) It's fine as long as no one gets hurts, but that's a big if, and we both totally deserve to be outdoorsy-shamed for such an obvious omission.
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<span style="font-style: italic;">It's fine,</span> I thought to myself. <span style="font-style: italic;">What could possibly go wrong?</span> I was now literally crawling across a mixture of a frosty snow drift and thick, sharp rocks, all of which are loose and sliding out from underneath me. As I stepped through the terrain, I listened to the scree underfoot sliding out and tumbling a long way down. At one point I had to use my hands to grip uncertain, loose boulders to avoid sliding down myself.</div>
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<span style="-en-clipboard: true; font-style: italic;">It's fine</span>. Turning around, I saw Shantel standing there, staring at what she had to do after me, breathless. I could tell she was working hard to quiet the panic in her mind, just like me. We just needed to keep our heads on straight and keep moving forward. There was no turning back, that would only make the situation more dangerous. Go big or maybe don't go home.</div>
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Around this time, I stopped taking photos. It was 9pm, the sun was setting, and we had maybe another half hour of light left. We didn't have a lot of time to dilly-dally, so we kept moving fast. I did, however, manage to snap a couple shots of a most spectacular sunset across the mountains while waiting for Shantel to catch up.
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It was majestic and humbling to be this deep into nature. Logically, I knew I wasn't terribly far away -- we had covered maybe 10 miles by that point, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">felt</span> utterly alone, as if I had been trekking for days in the wilderness. There was not a single trace of humanity, save for the route markers. While the feeling was a little terrifying, it was also exhilarating. I was beginning to understand why people undertake such epic journeys into nature.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a2jXRqkpsfc/Xi3sEmMGOcI/AAAAAAAADR0/rZZJ6xhFppIcXIRXZr9nKMmCkGC29r86wCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__2_40_PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a2jXRqkpsfc/Xi3sEmMGOcI/AAAAAAAADR0/rZZJ6xhFppIcXIRXZr9nKMmCkGC29r86wCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screenshot_12_11_19__2_40_PM.png" /></a> </div>
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"Hey," I said to Shantel, "Just wanted to note that this spot is pretty sheltered. Not that it would come to it."
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My lizard brain was trying its damndest to make me freak out, but I wouldn't let it. Peering into the fading light, I made reasonable guesses as to where we were heading and noting its compass bearing. We had water and food. I kept track of slightly flatter, more sheltered areas where we could take refuge if needed (again, having a tent would've been clutch in case of emergency). We both had excellent sleeping bags and could most likely withstand an uncomfortable, fearful night on mountain. The storm was nowhere in sight, so we were lucky in that regard.
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Panicking wasn't go to serve us, so there was no room for it. Just keep moving, just keep those legs working, and keep careful track of where steps are landing.
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My chief concern was losing track of the route markers once darkness descended. Sometimes they were hard to spot even before the sun set, and now I was thinking about how we'd pull it off I couldn't see beyond the beam of a headlamp. The path was occasionally worn well enough that we could make it that way, but there were too many places where there was no guessing which direction to go next for me to rely upon it.
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I was working out contingencies in my head when we spotted a sign. A sign! Information! It was encouraging to even know the sign existed before reading it. Shantel wondered aloud, "This sign will either make me really happy to have a good cry. I wonder which kind of sign it is!"
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" < -- Angulus Hut 30 min 1 km"
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We were nearly there. We both laughed exuberantly and hugged one another. We got this.
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I took out my headlamp because the light was about to completely fade from the sky, and replenished its batteries with some spares I had brought. (That was the 1st really great decision I had made, bringing those spares. <span style="font-style: italic;">Always</span> bring spare batteries. Always.) With a fresh, bright beam of light, we had no problem finding each post, and the route was finally descending, rather than continuing along more ridges.
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When we saw the hut, nestled next to a stunningly beautiful lake nestled among the mountains, we were filled with such elation and joy. We were going to be just fine. </div>
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Once we made it to the hut and dumped our stuff, we met the only other two people in the hut that night. They were both, amusingly, from Portland. Small world. They had just gotten engaged by the lake maybe a couple hours earlier. They were friendly, convivial, and great with conversation. We quickly became acquainted, swapped stories and laughter.
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We walked 13 miles that day. Looking through the photos later, we realized we had a pretty good shot of at least some of the distance covered.</div>
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When we ate, it was a deep, ravenous hunger, and the food felt so very deserved. Our sleeping bags were warm, which was fortunate because wood hadn't been delivered in a couple weeks and the hut was quite cold. The hut warden (DoC volunteers who staff the huts for week-long stints to provide weather updates and emergency services to backpackers) griped about the lack of firewood. She was probably 60 years old and a total badass.
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I was so glad to make it through. It was the kind of danger where, in the present moment, it's totally fine, but it felt precarious, like that fortune could change very suddenly. We made some critical errors that made the situation much more precarious. Lessons learned:
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Bring shelter
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Bring a first aid kit
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Check the weather beforehand
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Check the route conditions (talk to the park rangers) and know what you're getting into
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We made it through safe and sound and learned some important lessons. It was the most intense backpacking day of my life, and my first day in the backcountry. It's an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life. </div>
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<br />Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-68990356542015312472017-07-11T23:20:00.000-07:002017-07-11T23:20:04.772-07:00"Give me your money."TW armed robbery<br />
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About two hours ago (11:50pm) I was mugged at gunpoint in Philadelphia. I am safe and unharmed. Only $40 was stolen, I was only threatened and not attacked, and I'm fortunate it was nothing more -- both my phone and credit cards were not taken.<br />
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The guy was clumsy. He did a poor job getting my attention, approaching me from behind. I had been on the phone, and at some point he took the phone from me and turned it off, holding it in his hand. There was something strangely human in it, watching him do this thing we all do (ending a phone call).<br />
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Once he did and told me to give him my wallet, at first I was incredulous: "For real, you're robbing me?" At which point he waved his gun and said he wasn't fucking around. I was struck by how calm I remained through it, and how agitated he was. He kept demanding my wallet, which I calmly demonstrated was an object not on my person (I only carry an ID, credit card, and small amount of cash). I could see through his eyes the situation, how he was taking this huge risk of armed robbery and coming up disappointingly short, and it was bordering on comical to me. When he disengaged, he unconvincingly told me to run. I didn't, but walked away briefly before turning around to try to follow him as he fled the scene.<br />
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I was genuinely surprised he gave me my phone and cards back. He probably didn't want to risk getting tracked. In a strange way, I appreciated that. He wasn't trying to ruin my life, just nick some quick cash off a target. It felt almost like a business transaction, except clumsy and vaguely threatening. I feel hugely grateful I didn't have to add the fear of sexual assault on top of the experience. I am really, really lucky.<br />
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The whole experience felt more like a nuisance, a disappointing experience of Philadelphia, rather than a deeply traumatic experience. I almost didn't call the cops because so little damage was actually done, but then decided to in case he could be stopped from committing further crimes. The police were on the scene within minutes, picked me up and then scoured the area. It was impressive how quick their response time was, and it was a whole fleet of cars working in unison combined (briefly) with a helicopter search. For all the shit we give police forces about everything they do wrong (and there are plenty legitimate grievances to be sure), they certainly had their act together in responding here. Perhaps that partially had to do with white male privilege, but in this case I'll take it.<br />
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I was pleased with how I handled the situation, but it wasn't flawless. I'd give myself an 80% at best. I remained calm and under control, calculating my risk of fighting back versus complying. But, I was walking distracted late at night, and I know better there, and didn't assertively defend certain items (like allowing him to take the phone out of my hand). I don't like that he could've walked off with information that could've led to identity theft. I could tell the guy was all bluster, I could've defended myself better.<br />
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During the line of information gathering from one of the police officers, he asked me where I was walking from. I had been on a 45 minute walk, enjoying the night air, to get home. I informed him I was coming from downtown, about 30 minutes away, to which he exclaimed, "You WALKED?!" Call me a naïve Pacific Northwest hippy, apparently it's unheard of to enjoy a nighttime walk through sketchy parts of Philadelphia. It's moments like these that make me realize I'm a full-blown Polyanna when it comes to concerns about "sketchy neighborhoods" or fear of crime. We'll see how this event impacts that spirit, up to now I've generally believed that life is too short to be afraid of it and I'll just deal with the consequences when they come to me. I hope this event doesn't make me fearful of walking at night, I quite enjoy having that freedom and liberty.<br />
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I'm feeling lucky to be alive and mostly unaffected by a situation that could've turned devastating very quickly.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-51857903926014675172016-11-15T21:03:00.000-08:002016-11-15T21:04:45.092-08:00Welcome to the big leagues.<p>Favorite moment of the day: sitting in a conference room with a former CEO of Teach For America, talking about how to make life easier for Montessori teachers. Other attendees included a former SVP of Strategy for Teach For America, a tech entrepreneur previously listed on the "Top 40 Under 40," an engineer who built up a platform to remotely monitor the insulin levels of his diabetic daughter in his spare time, and Jeremy who originally built Transparent Classroom on nights and weekends to support the launch of a Montessori school.</p><p>There's nothing but all-stars in this room: welcome to the big leagues. It feels like I'm standing among giants, I'm scared witless thinking I'm so outclassed and under-qualified, and yet they still fully engage with my input. It's a positively thrilling experience.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-42565710791676549892016-11-14T19:59:00.001-08:002016-11-14T20:06:34.961-08:00Starting a new chapter: Transparent Classroom.<p>Today marks the beginning of new journey in life: I have left a rewarding and stable job with my previous employer, Amazon Web Services, to go pursue a rare and exciting opportunity working with Jeremy Lightsmith as Engineer #2 on his startup, Transparent Classroom.</p><p><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ExXrD-_Pg20/WCqJdfoNT2I/AAAAAAAABZ4/h3fKUqEjzuk/ScreenShot2016-11-14at10.03.03PM-2016-11-14-21-59.png" alt="ScreenShot2016-11-14at10.03.03PM-2016-11-14-21-59.png"></p><p>Transparent Classroom is a classroom management software platform for Montessori teachers and admins. It has grown 3.5x annually for the past two years, with over 270 schools now signed up, and is commonly referred to as the most user-friendly and useful platform in the Montessori edtech space. Jeremy accomplished all this over four years as the sole engineer while also wearing all the other hats necessary to get a startup off the ground: CEO, CTO, CFO, admin, customer support rep, trainer, sysadmin, sales rep, and designer (to name a few). Oh, and he's also a husband, parent, Agile coach, and facilitator. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to work with someone so passionate to improve education and so capable to actually make a difference with a product that delights users.</p><p>I'm thrilled to work with a small and scrappy team, all of us dedicated to improving education and the lives of teachers and children. I can now apply my skills in software engineering to make the world a better place, which was what drew me to programming in the first place.</p><p>I would like to thank Jeremy for the opportunity to join the team, to my family for their support and understanding as I give up a perfectly good job at one of the biggest names in software to go pursue my passion, to my friends and community that supported me as I deliberated over the decision and offered such valuable advice. I am so fortunate to be able to take this risk, and part of being able to conquer my fears of the unknown comes from the support and growth through being part of this amazing community.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-70471126782075780822016-10-28T00:13:00.000-07:002016-10-31T12:03:51.949-07:00Teach 'em how to say goodbye, part 2: Laptop.It's time at last to replace my beloved Sophie, a 2009 MacBook Pro that is starting to show her age. She's been with me through a whole hell of a lot: unemployment, graduate school, traveling the world as a dance teacher, learning how to program through online courses sitting in living rooms all over Europe. I remember the conversation with Gretchen Metzenberg that convinced me to buy a Mac in the first place, just as they were starting to explode in popularity.<br />
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I've lived many different lives with this most wonderful and reliable laptop by my side, there's so much learning and knowledge stored in this machine, so much love and affection and passion it has allowed me to share with the world. It has been my constant companion on my journey through my twenties and has stayed with me as I've changed careers multiple times and traveled the world and grown into the man I am today. I'll be carrying her with me for one last victory lap around the world on my November tour of Europe. When the time comes, it will be very hard to say goodbye to my weathered, sticker-covered laptop.<br />
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And also... awwwwww yes the latest line of MBPs look freaking SEXSAY.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jp217sh_Njs/WBL6O3PWgsI/AAAAAAAABU0/JXK18P14Dy4ovjmD500B8S_88pTjdCoQACK4B/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-27%2Bat%2B11.34.22%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jp217sh_Njs/WBL6O3PWgsI/AAAAAAAABU0/JXK18P14Dy4ovjmD500B8S_88pTjdCoQACK4B/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-27%2Bat%2B11.34.22%2BPM.png" /></a>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-80324856233198061462016-10-17T17:51:00.001-07:002016-11-18T18:08:36.981-08:00Thoughts from the Deschutes River.<p>(Notes from a fly fishing trip on the Deschutes River, a three-day trip my father, brother, and I take every year in October around our (my brother’s and my) birthdays.) [Author’s note: posted in November, though I wrote most of this before I actually turned 30.]</p><p><strong>Day One.</strong></p><p>We awoke before light appeared in the sky, dragged our tired sorry asses out of bed, filled up on a hot continental breakfast (a real unexpected treat), then off to drive down to the river to meet our river guide. We've worked with the same guide for multiple years now, it's always good to see his friendly, annual face. We hit the river by 7am.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fSyqVqiY9I4/WC-xwF-M3aI/AAAAAAAABbk/iEDebHcTbto/DSCN0814-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG" alt="DSCN0814-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG"></span></p><p>Within moments of casting off from the shore, the rain started, ranging from a niggling drizzle to an oppressive downpour, and essentially didn't stop for the next 12 hours. Even with all our waterproof gear, it was still an unpleasant experience, defending my cocoon of dryness against the attempted breaches by Mother Nature. Everything around you is wet: your bags are wet, the seats are wet, your snacks are wet; every time you remove a glove to do something with your bare hand and stick it back into the glove, some wetness infiltrates, compromising the zone of warmth you had set up for yourself. The steelhead salmon remained elusive throughout the day, though that’s par for the course for these fish that are infamously difficult to catch. Standing out in the river fishing through a spot, there’s no evidence that they’re even present: we’re a bunch of anglers praying at the alter of the Fish. I can’t help but lose interest or hope after a time, so my mind wanders.</p><p>During this trip, my thoughts have been centering on relationships lost. I'm rapidly approaching my 30th birthday and I still harbor a deep, inexplicable, and unshakeable fear that reaching my 30s and still single means I will die loveless and alone, and it's my fault for this situation and I chose this path to destruction and gave up some perfect opportunities for long-term happiness. Standing out here in the frigid waters, feeling the heat leech from my body, there is precious little to offer distraction from these thoughts. </p><p>A lack of action in fishing, the insufferable weather, and my melancholic humor combined together to make a rather quiet, withdrawn day. By the time we reached our campsite, all three of us were ready to be done. "Thank god," I thought to myself, "I'm not sure I could take much more of this.” We were all similarly exhausted. It’s strange, thinking about how we were willfully engaged in an activity that we were *relieved* to be done with at the end of the day. Wandering around the camp grounds did treat me to some lovely views, which offered me a welcome respite and a reminder of part of why I make this trip every year.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-618njYvdK4M/WC-xwgro2qI/AAAAAAAABbs/CJS_Zd_MMqQ/2016-10-1518.17.23-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1518.17.23-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Viv6F4XcjQo/WC-xwMX3rhI/AAAAAAAABbg/YM_OiK5tuD0/2016-10-1518.20.25-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1518.20.25-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lG50-js7TG4/WC-xu6ShKOI/AAAAAAAABbM/fKql2PNQI2o/2016-10-1518.25.18-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1518.25.18-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2a6p3VJsVC8/WC-xvoOolnI/AAAAAAAABbY/Uc_15mOR9-E/2016-10-1614.16.16-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1614.16.16-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-l3zizpS4npk/WC-xva3tozI/AAAAAAAABbU/yAO8TELcccM/2016-10-1614.16.37-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1614.16.37-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p> <strong>Day Two</strong>.</p><p>If yesterday was the day of rain, today was the day of wind. While I generally find wind to be beautiful and awesome, it is profoundly frustrating to attempt fly fishing on a blustery day. Casting with a fly fishing rod is a delicate art of timing and finesse, a subtle dance that the wind bowls over like a ogre. Despite the impeding weather, we did at last get confirmation that steelhead were there, with my dad and I each landing one within a couple minutes of each other. </p><p>I quickly descended into the same ruminations as yesterday. I don’t know why I obsess over such things, or why 30 is considered a critical checkpoint by which I should have settled down with a partner. It’s been a chief concern since high school, though at that time I was focused on finding a romantic partner who would play video games with me. We’re in a new era where “30 is the new 20,” but unfortunately my expectations haven’t caught up to match, so my gremlins keep telling me 30s is when my prospects of finding a person start to dwindle rapidly. It’s annoying how intransigent they are: I have plenty empirical evidence in the form of so many amazing people in my life, people with whom I’ve formed connections of many styles and forms, which should indicate that I’m going to be just fine and I need to be patient.</p><p>I suspect much of my anguish stems for a belief that I nearly secured for myself that desired future (and blew the chance, my gremlin would append). Up until last year, I was happily moving forward with my life, unconcerned about this goal on the horizon, until I met a person that gave me concrete hope in turning that dream into reality, unleashing a bunch of hopes and dreams I had tidily locked away. When that relationship came to an end, my hopes ended with it, leaving me alone with the fears. I still miss her, a lot, I dream (literally and figuratively) of sharing space with her, I’m still hooked on that imagined future I created with her in it.</p><p>Admitting it brings on feelings of shame: I should be over it by now, I’ve been grieving for longer than ever before. I judge myself because there have been other impactful relationships in my past and it feels like I’m disrespecting them by being more heartbroken over this one than any other. I don't understand why, and it seems incongruous with my reality of how profoundly I've been affected by others, how much other relationships have meant to me. </p><p>All this hurting certainly confuses the fostering of new connections, as I find myself blindsided by a flashbacks that grip my heart, even when I'm sharing space with other people and being wholehearted. In my last post on this topic, I wrote, "The challenging part is accepting the interleaving of moments uplifting and crushing.” I am just feeling that so hard right now.</p><p>Part of healing is finding new love, and yet it’s hard to welcome in that love to heal you when you’re still hurting, and that catch-22 makes the prospect of getting over someone feel impossible. Do people normally carry past loves with them for so long, always aware of those paths unexplored or curtailed? I have a hard time sitting with this reality, for that other path feels like it was ripped away from me, I was stripped of control and had to accept a new harsh reality that I didn't want to accept.</p><p>As the night carried on and I poured my thoughts onto the screen, sitting by the river with the rush of the water in my ears, I slipped into a woeful downward spiral, recounting many of my past relationships, recalling their highlights, and feeling increasingly sad about the loss of them. Eventually, I forced myself to sleep in order to break the cycle of derisive and destructive self-talk. It was one of the worst spirals I’ve faced in several months. I had been doing relatively well for quite some time, I guess I had built up a lot of sadness to release all at the same time.</p><p><strong>Day Three</strong>.</p><p>A short and sweet day, and a decently uplifting ending to a rather physically and mentally demanding fishing trip. The rain and wind relented and my brother, whom the fish had eluded for the first two days, at long last hooked a steelhead on our first stop. (As if in a way of cosmic apology, Nathan landed yet another fish later on as well.) In the process of taking some action photos of him, I tripped and fell into the river, flooding my waders with icy water. I fortunately had a spare change of clothes and the weather wasn't as wretched, so I wasn't shivering all day. Even so, it broke my resolve to keep fishing, so I was very glad to see the landing ramp that signaled the end of the trip.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-d9qbYS4AKOg/WC-xwfr5OZI/AAAAAAAABbo/UGqs6ZVi_KQ/2016-10-1709.44.52-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg" alt="2016-10-1709.44.52-2016-10-17-19-51.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ODMS8G_HbOU/WC-xv3kIQ_I/AAAAAAAABbc/fjIxwWNPX5g/DSCN0837-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG" alt="DSCN0837-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3ouiVHvnYv4/WC-xvF9Kq6I/AAAAAAAABbQ/cAjTyfhQCsc/DSCN0841-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG" alt="DSCN0841-2016-10-17-19-51.JPG"></span></p><p>Now it’s off to home, a quick dinner, and then a drive back to Seattle. It’s going to be a busy week — my birthday is Thursday, my 30th birthday weekend shindig gets underway Friday evening, with many logistics still to handle. This pace of life, swooping from one activity to the next with little downtime, is par for the course, and one not maintainable forever.</p><p>I’m slowly trying to shift gears toward being more locally focused. Having a place of permanent residence certainly helps. My calendar is not nearly as packed as it has been in the past, and while I’m still traveling a great deal I have been getting a lot out of being home in Seattle. It’s hard to say “No” to opportunities for travel, for visiting new places and old. I see a conundrum in wanting a local partner to build something with, but not spending enough time locally to foster that possibility because I’d rather travel when I don’t have a partner to be with. But as I enter this new phase and learn from the past relationship, I seek ways to create space for something more permanent and rooted. It can be hard to maintain hope that such a person will come, that I will eventually meet someone and I haven’t “used up” all my luck, and I guess that’s just a struggle I’ll always be living with.</p><p>As I prepare for this thirtieth trip around the sun, I certainly didn’t want to be flying solo, but such is the way my life has unfurled, through a meandering sequence of decisions and events that have brought me to this moment. Reflecting upon each turning point in my life, each career decision, each relationship started or ended, it’s unclear whether this reality is my own "fault," if I made an error along and now I am reaping what I sowed. I branch off from each place into an alternate universe where I took a different course, forecasting a rose-colored life where I’m somehow far more happier than I am right now. It’s a useless, unproductive habit, and one I can’t help but indulge in from time to time. At the end of the day, there’s not a thing I can do to change it: there’s only one way to travel the river of life, and that’s downstream. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-69856592861399338682016-07-22T11:11:00.001-07:002016-07-22T11:26:27.251-07:00Teach 'em how to say goodbye, part 1: Hair.<p>Two and a half years ago, I cut my hair while in Boston as I was just embarking on a journey to be a nomadic dance instructor.</p><p>Since then, I've traveled around the world, shared with so many communities, and met countless amazing, talented, loving people. I visited a new continent and contemplated what I want in life 30 meters deep in an ocean. I’ve cuddled a koala bear. I learned what it means to dare greatly and be truly vulnerable. I taught myself how to be a software engineer and added a new career path that allows me to balance engineering with traveling for dance. I feel vastly more in tune with my self, I feel more self-actualized than ever before. I lived through the blossoming and passing of two life-changing relationships that have permanently altered my character and course in life. I’ve loved so intensely it terrified me, so hard it felt like my heart was ripping out of my chest. I’ve felt unimaginable grief and learned how to really, truly cry. Living in a suitcase taught me innumerable valuable lessons about myself and what I want in life, it forced me to strip away so much of my life and look at what lies at the core of my existence. It allowed me to explore a career as a dance instructor and to share my passion with the world. All the while, my hair continued to grow.</p><p>I'm now ready for the next phase of life. One focused on setting down roots, forming deeper bonds, traveling (a little) less, diving into the great unknown of laying a foundation for my long-term future of family and children. A new stage of adulthood. As part of the metamorphosis, I need to say goodbye to the accoutrements of my past iteration of living, of the materials that linked me energetically to a certain way of being.</p><p>First up: my hair. My hair that has been with me for over two years, growing steadily along with me. It's been put in man-buns, ponytails, caked with playa dust, shaped into beautiful braids, and had many flowers woven into it. It allowed me to express a feminine side of myself. There are so many memories embedded in my hair, and now it's time to move on from them, look forward to the next memories to be formed. I'll be donating the hair to a charitable cause.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IhzcNPVJwcc/V5JknorisKI/AAAAAAAABQ0/FI0uECl8SGg/2016-07-2114.40.26copy-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="2016-07-2114.40.26copy-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>I could not have stepped through this pivotal transformation without the adept support of Gretchen Metzenberg. Thank you, Gretchers, for all your emotional labor in helping me along this journey. You are a loving and amazing friend.</p><p>And now: the photos...</p><p>We began with Gretchen banging me that morning, because why not get some laughs before cutting off all my hair.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--9iu5VvrVZQ/V5JkpAAPYaI/AAAAAAAABRM/BazdqbuIiM0/20160721_113938-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_113938-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wrhvFVqXhg8/V5Jkps-xr8I/AAAAAAAABRY/2oqrmga4Iqw/20160721_114125-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_114125-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>And then it was off to the barber. Me preparing for it to be chopped off...</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ySB2vKJnjgU/V5JkneFN-DI/AAAAAAAABQw/USN2zs_zm7k/20160721_121809-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_121809-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SxX7X50OJNU/V5Jkm-GVh1I/AAAAAAAABQo/Bw6sb14HBuw/20160721_122016-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_122016-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>Having some fun along the way...</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vrJeoZGXebk/V5Jkn-0JvvI/AAAAAAAABQ4/XYu6K-0UqVA/20160721_122111-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_122111-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-h1t3H2G_qj0/V5JkpArkDmI/AAAAAAAABRQ/jLNJV8PnLS8/20160721_125233-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_125233-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>I couldn’t believe how much hair was there.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4U9xS2n4PgI/V5JkpnTwzsI/AAAAAAAABRU/hUHbYaHUemg/20160721_125705-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_125705-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>The end result!</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-c13VP-dq1yo/V5JknG2P6HI/AAAAAAAABQs/o0FzK3cTc6c/20160721_131413-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_131413-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A5w34L8S2i4/V5JkoWdxghI/AAAAAAAABRA/rzYG3RV18HA/20160721_131421-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_131421-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-x_5WYxw_gPI/V5JkmvETO-I/AAAAAAAABQk/u1FQYCJKdPU/20160721_131425-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="20160721_131425-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>It has been such a long time that I’ve had a trendy men’s haircut, I hardly recognize myself. Having long hair was fun, I always enjoyed the commentary about my blonde mane, and it allowed me to express a feminine side.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-s0GnvRFj2-s/V5JkoB4NP8I/AAAAAAAABQ8/XWvsw98y53U/13512087_1335057419856829_4990462670145818693_n-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="13512087_1335057419856829_4990462670145818693_n-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-88b_o1mmp7U/V5Jkouv5REI/AAAAAAAABRE/E2fbQkaImEE/13511062_1335057379856833_1026360889684820320_n-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="13511062_1335057379856833_1026360889684820320_n-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-usHql6DoC_U/V5Jko4if0VI/AAAAAAAABRI/i_VMwR3AazY/temp-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg" alt="temp-2016-07-22-14-11.jpg"></span></p><p>It was a lot of fun and deeply playful, gender-bending in this way, but at the end of the day when I'd look at photos of me it didn't quite… look like me. At least when I didn't have my hair properly maintained. I will always think the braids look fantastic and masculine in a Nordic sort of way, but I guess it was just time for a change, time to change my hair along with so many other things in my life. I’m sure there will be times I will miss it. But it will always be with me in spirit, these memories and learnings, I will carry them in my heart. And, if I really want to, I can always grow my hair back out. It feels good to exercise control in through these sort of drastic, pseudo-permanent ways.</p><p>It’s thrilling and bewildering at the same time, having a traditional haircut. I hardly recognize myself, and yet I can’t really imagine myself any way but with the shorter hair, it just seems to fit me right now. But I’m quite excited for this redefinition of self. It’s identifying with the mainstream in a way I don’t normally do, but I’m more accepting of it this time around. I feel more masculine, which is interesting because it’s all because of an arbitrary societal preference for shorter hair among men. But, it works. I feel attractive and lively and bright in a way I had lost touch with particularly over the past six to twelve months.</p><p>I feel like a new man. Hello, world.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-73401286856510075962016-06-28T22:48:00.000-07:002016-06-28T22:48:44.310-07:00Thought of You.
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One year ago on the last Tuesday of June, I (re-)met a person who instantly gave wings to my heart. I had found a Soul Mate and was granted the greatest gift on Earth to call this person my partner. I was convinced that I'd spend the rest of my life with her. I had never experienced passion on this level, or such confidence that we would happily grow old together and experience rich and sustaining lives.
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Six months ago, I was blindsided by the partnership coming to an abrupt end when she called it off. The reasons were legitimate, we both had stuff to work through. It was out of my control. I was beside myself with grief.
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Four months ago, I began to work through what I wanted out of life and love and partnership, and reflected on how to be a better, more attentive partner. I've grown into a new phase of life centered around roots and family and focusing energy on one person. These changes occurred organically, through a natural coming to certain realizations about myself. It resolved conflicts at the root of our breakup, but tragically it was too little too late.
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Today, I woke up with the whispers of a dream about her fading from my memory, my heart aching, thinking about everything she has meant to me. I watched the animated short "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBk3ynRbtsw">Thought of You</a>," missed her with every fiber of my being, and cried uncontrollably.
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I strive to live fully, open-hearted, and in the present, but damn this is hard. I can still feel utterly alone and adrift. I have a brilliant life filled with amazing people and dancing and adventure and growth, for which I'm so deeply grateful, and yet sometimes all I can think about is that she's not in it. Every time I hear her name or see her face in memory or on a photo or in person, my heart squeezes. It's a squeeze made exquisite with a mixture of excitement (here is this person I love so deeply!) and anguish (here is this person I love so deeply and don't get to fully express and live in that love!).
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When I feel this heartache this intensely, it raises internal concerns that I’m hanging on, not letting go, not processing completely. It’s easy to view the breakdowns as signs of weakness, of being incomplete or not fully healed or not “over them,” but the reality is more nuanced. It could mean that processing is incomplete, or it could signify being present with a deep and real sorrow, a loss that can never be recovered. That kind of sadness doesn’t disappear, it stays with us; we just come to accept it as a part of our existence. I’m reminded of the last half of Taylor Mali’s “<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/emilisha/100403586">Time and Tears Enough</a>”:
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If all of this were happening...
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If this were your first Christmas alone...
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wouldn't you expect broken glass to bloom at your feet?
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Little flowers of destruction
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bursting like the blossoms of shattered flutes
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sown in the springtime of a hardwood floor.
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Wouldn't you expect chaos for a time?
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When things break,
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the jagged pieces draw blood.
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This, at least, makes sense.
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But there is time, and tears enough.
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So you wait and you cry,
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and you cry and you wait.
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For as long as you want.
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Or as long as it takes.
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The breakdowns will happen, and they make sense. The challenging part is accepting the interleaving of moments uplifting and crushing. Being present in this way is hard because there are so many conflicting experiences of life. I may be surrounded by caring, wonderful friends who make me feel appreciated and cherished, and at the same time I want her to be in that room with me. I may flirt with some beautiful and interesting and talented people over a dance weekend, and at the same time I desire nothing more than to be with her. These feelings seem conflicting on the surface, that they can’t both be genuine and occupy the same heartspace. But that’s the curious things about hearts: they’re quite adept at genuinely holding conflicting emotions. My only choice is to continue being present with my emotions, the elated and the downtrodden, the hopeful and the despondent, the confident and the insecure. I must allow them to flow through me and trust that they’re all in due course.
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My relationship with her induced cascading realizations about what I wanted in life and what were my priorities. Our breakup gave me the space to take a long hard look at myself and how I want to operate in a relationship. As we grow, we grow in random and unexpected ways, heavily influenced by the people in our lives. We’re like a mosaic, where each diversely colored piece is an experience. Every once in a while, falling apart into a million little pieces allows us to begin again with a clean slate and take all those same learnings to assemble into a more coherent, elegant whole.
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We all carry remnants of past relationships that touch our soul, they help form the pieces that form the mosaic of our being. In losing it all, we can choose how to put those pieces back together, we get to determine what kind of art we wish to create. That is a tremendous benefit, coming at a devastating cost. When in the depths of despair, when a life of being solo seems inevitable, I can take some comfort in knowing that I am actively reshaping the entirety of my being.
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Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-70028656383494676942016-03-24T22:27:00.003-07:002016-03-24T22:53:44.240-07:00Blues Garden.<p>Last weekend was one of the most wonderful, magical, and loving blues weekends I’ve attended in many years, called Blues Garden, which takes place in Gothenburg, Sweden. The organizing team, “the gardeners,” infuse their warm character into the event and sprinkle magic everywhere. Here were some highlights...</p><p><strong>The Prelude.</strong></p><p>Not part of the actual event, I arrived in Gothenburg a couple days early to help adjust to jet lag and not roll into the event super exhausted. On Friday, I joined a dear friend for a jaunt about a nearby wilderness park, where we had the pleasure of seeing all sorts of Nordic wildlife.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TVFLhdylig0/VvTNG-sBuLI/AAAAAAAABNc/NTpM_fHYVTU/2016-03-1112.48.43-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1112.48.43-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oJHW94H1DRk/VvTNFWKtpaI/AAAAAAAABNM/Lfx7BP0PmGI/2016-03-1113.02.34-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1113.02.34-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>I've never seen a penguin in real life before.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vOhK5UB1yio/VvTNFGpW0AI/AAAAAAAABNI/mZG7RPo3PkI/2016-03-1113.25.32-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1113.25.32-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Hipster goat.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jysXCd8HhfY/VvTNIl83eNI/AAAAAAAABNs/EASV2QWQ89Q/2016-03-1113.35.18-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1113.35.18-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>On to the dancing!</p><p><strong>The Musicians.</strong></p><p>Listening to Christoffer Johansson perform. He’s without question my favorite living Blues musician. I turn to putty every time I hear him on stage. He captivates the audience, puts them under a spell, so that people can be at a dance event and spent part of his act just listening and swaying gently, transported to another dimension. I’ve never heard anyone quite like him. Part of his power is the genuine emotion with which he shares his music. Even when they’re classics from a century ago, he connects with him in a heartfelt manner and sings the songs as authentically as when they were probably first formed.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-diNr7qcNHIU/VvTND5P6LTI/AAAAAAAABM8/Tf1MnL-m3qI/25172010973_7c2cd98084_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25172010973_7c2cd98084_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25172010973/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p>You can’t help but empathize with him and feel your own wellspring of emotion stir in response. It actually came to a point of comic climax during one of his songs. He just finished a long, sustained note/wail in the middle of a song, a note filled with such anguish the room was utterly silent in its aftermath. I, feeling a surge of feeling in response, couldn’t help but groan/growl/grunt (some weird mixture of the three, probably) in response, but it came out way louder than I anticipated, so that everyone in the entire ballroom heard me. In the microseconds that followed, which felt like minutes, I wanted desperately wished for the ability to retract my primal utterance, but it was too late, and I feared the worst. To my astonishment, the floor of over 200 dancers erupted into gales of laughter that lasted at least a minute, completely derailing everything; even Christoffer broke his stage character, cracked a smile, and laughed. Happily, my dancing partner took it in stride and found it equally amusing rather than mortifying. </p><p>The attendees of Blues Garden were also treated to repeat performances of the exceptionally talented Gothenburgers Mattias and Hannah. Mattias is a freaking wizard on the piano, able to improvise the most incredible Blues songs with a musical deftness that rivals (in my opinion) Gordon Webster or Josh Fialkoff. Meanwhile, Hannah treated us to her dulcet singing voice that never failed to delight. She also sings a convincing muted trumpet, complete with a handy (hah!) pantomime. They put together a 30-minute set in roughly 10 minutes, and it was nothing short of fantastic. The attendees relentlessly tried to keep them on stage with ovations. </p><p><strong>The decorations.</strong></p><p>Their venue was transformed into an enchanted wonderland at night. Flowers adorned all the staircases and door frames. There was a space for communally crafted poetry. All the fixtures were properly dressed to cast warm, diffuse light. Inside the main ballroom, the space was converted into the Enchanted Forest straight out of Narnia, complete with the lamppost in the middle of the dance floor. The brought in real trees from the forest and decorated them with flowers and fake birds. The only thing missing was a snow-dusted wardrobe. I’ve never seen decorations before in all the events I’ve attended; Blues Garden is simply unprecedented.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rsc_B4ykC3w/VvTNHTvO2SI/AAAAAAAABNg/HSWcP4YipkM/2016-03-1119.04.23-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1119.04.23-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-D7Qbjk9KSz8/VvTNE-zIy0I/AAAAAAAABNE/wKrcrgfmdV8/2016-03-1119.04.49-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1119.04.49-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-geskyz6RITw/VvTNGtQjs8I/AAAAAAAABNY/0uoB8ycT-CI/2016-03-1119.05.01-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1119.05.01-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Note those are flowers that were manually affixed to the tree. </p><p><strong>The food.</strong></p><p>My god, the food. It’s a Swedish tradition called “fika,” and I think it’s the best tradition ever. It involves making delicious food and serving it with coffee/tea at dances for a nominal fee. And by “delicious food,” I mean “hand-made just-cooked-in-the-kitchen” food. Salads with myriad toppings, all sorts of gourmet breads and cheeses, more desserts than I could bear to sample. It makes such a difference to maintain a steady blood sugar level, especially as the hours wear on. </p><p>I didn't capture any photos of the fika, but as a case in point about Swedes and their food, here's a "simple breakfast" according to them.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WoEugJiiHcg/VvTNGZ05XDI/AAAAAAAABNU/q_CVgsUHYa8/2016-03-1508.20.34-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="2016-03-1508.20.34-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p><strong>The people.</strong></p><p>No dance would be worth attending without the dancers. Blues Garden manages to attract like-minded people: warm, friendly, open-hearted. And so many of them are fantastic dancers. I had more quality dances than I can remember to count, on par with some of the largest Blues events in the world, except experienced in a quaint and homey regional event in Sweden. While at some events I find myself being placed on a pedestal as a teacher and everyone <em>wants something</em> from me, here I felt like one of the crowd, and people wanted nothing more than to connect with me as human beings, to share recognition of one another. </p><p>This is something where I always wish I was taking more photos. When I reflect upon my travels, I often think of the people that were a part of it, yet so rarely I photograph them, or me with them. Mostly because it's awkward, it kind of takes me out of the moment. But then, I look back and see a woeful dearth of ways to remember all the lovely people I spent time with. Sometimes I quietly wish that I had a full-time photographer following me around at these events, surreptitiously candid photos of me so I can remember later. My memory is a sad thing, generally spotty and quick to log moments into archival storage, not indexed, and only retrievable when someone asks specifically for that memory. Photos serve as the way to jog my memory.</p><p>My words cannot capture the love and positive energy that coursed through this event. It felt like a huge family reunion, minus the uncomfortable family interactions. Nothing but smiles and laughter and heartful conversations. I cherish these kinds of events, the ones where everyone comes ready to participate, to give rather than consume. It creates an incredible atmosphere, a gift economy of love, where everyone is constantly giving and thus also constantly receiving, but in gratitude and humility rather than expectation. The Gardeners clearly set a pathos for the event, one that attracts like-minded people who want to grow together and celebrate this brief shining moment. I was so floored by the energy at Blues Garden, it is without question the most vulnerability-encouraging event I have ever attended in Europe. </p><p><strong>The teachers.</strong></p><p>Gas and Alba, Vicci and Adamo, and Annette. (And me.) I respect each of these teachers for myriad reasons, and I think we formed an excellent teaching team. We all brought something different to the table, but always presented with humility and love for dance and respect for the event. There were no egos here, nothing but eagerness to share and inspire.</p><p><strong>The leggings.</strong></p><p>Knowing about the enchanted theme of the weekend, I came prepared to dress up in a different way on Saturday night: leggings and a collared shirt reminiscent of a pirate’s costume. What I didn’t realize was that <em>no one else would dress up in masquerade</em>. Everyone dressed super nicely, but in the traditional sense. I was the only person to look fanciful. The moment I stepped into the dance space, eyes were falling upon me. I felt out of place, dressed garishly and vulnerably, form-fitted and with little to hide behind. I had gone all-in, dove head first, but as I jumped I realized I was diving into an empty pool. People would be overtaken with laughter upon seeing my leggings and teased that I looked like Peter Pan — not maliciously, but due to my rapidly developing insecurity it impacted me harshly. Immediately the waves of embarrassment began to crash over me.</p><p><em>You’re dressing outlandishly to get attention.</em></p><p><em>You couldn’t pull off those tights anyway, joker.</em></p><p><em>You’re being inappropriate.</em></p><p><em>You’re making people uncomfortable. </em></p><p><em>You should change yourself. No, not just your clothes.</em></p><p>I knew there was a showcase that night that I was to do with Annette, and suddenly I felt terrible for dressing this way, thinking I would make us look bad. I had been irresponsible and unprofessional. There were multiple times that I wanted to run away, to go back to my host’s place to change into more traditional clothing. But it was too late, I had already committed, I might as well stick with it. So I swallowed my pride, tried to ignore the countless comments and stares received, and performed the showcase (a medley of seven different songs and styles).</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o_tRr7Jhi14/VvTNF63fK7I/AAAAAAAABNQ/MJd3RP3BNO4/25216965154_0c4079ded5_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25216965154_0c4079ded5_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25216965154/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-G36-jG0BDC4/VvTNDUUrZoI/AAAAAAAABM4/RLvldMOmMhs/25677658352_4b151379c0_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25677658352_4b151379c0_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25677658352/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eFbuRsOSj6s/VvTNEl2KIiI/AAAAAAAABNA/4sgqvlcMSbc/25847467295_a7e33a9019_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25847467295_a7e33a9019_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25847467295/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9TD6kCuFOP8/VvTNHmAXxyI/AAAAAAAABNk/G0RwI2JLfDI/temp-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="temp-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25847467355/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4LRTMH2ocdY/VvTNIOhn4YI/AAAAAAAABNo/IzlSCEpZAUQ/25798646575_ef2a126f9f_o-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25798646575_ef2a126f9f_o-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25798646575/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p>Even though the night went off without a hitch, even though I slowly overcame my crushing embarrassment, even though people were on the whole very nice and a few genuinely complimented my costume, my physique, and my willingness to just go for it, my heart sank to my toes when I saw this photo for the first time. <em>I look like an idiot</em>, I thought to myself. </p><p>Shakespearean fool or no, I left quite the impression. People were talking about it constantly. During a panel discussion on Blues dancing the following day, one person asked, “Are tights the new trousers?” The room exploded into raucous laughter and applause.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AE6RWwIGhbQ/VvTNDH8EQvI/AAAAAAAABM0/FEgOc1g_T24/25497954930_8d5760dd75_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg" alt="25497954930_8d5760dd75_z-2016-03-24-22-27.jpg"></span></p><p>Photo credit: Joel Höglund. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/highlunder/25497954930/in/album-72157665753402962/">Link</a></span>.</p><p>As part of the feedback form for the event, one question asks “What was your favorite part of the event?” A few people put down “Andrew’s leggings.” </p><p>At the end of the day, I am able to laugh about it, but I went through an unexpected range of emotions to get there. I have a curious relationship with being in the spotlight. All my life, I tend to exist on the outskirts. I’m not the life of the party, I’m not able to hold the attention of large groups of people, I don’t like to draw attention to myself. In fact, I can be a bit judgmental of those who I deem to be “acting out” for the sake of receiving attention. Dressing up in this way, I subjected myself to that same criticism.</p><p>The irony is not lost on me that I, a person who habitually avoids the limelight, fell into a profession where I exist in that light constantly. Perhaps it has to do with the “teacher cap” I put on, the metaphysical costume I drape over myself when I step into the role of Teacher and beneath which I can hide. I, Andrew Smith, am not occupying the center of attention, this is Teacher Andrew. But that’s not entirely true anymore, that I protect myself in this way: over the course of the past several years I have learned to more often remove that guise and just be Andrew Smith, a person who is also a Teacher. Northwest Blues Recess in 2014 was a pivotal moment to that end, where I was unabashedly myself and also the recipient of a lot of focus and awareness. Still, it’s a learning process, and it can be downright scary to share in this way. (Yes, I realize I do the same through my blog, but for some reason it feels even more real when I do it among people in real life.)</p><p>There was one quote I recently encountered while reading <em>The Art of Asking</em>, by Amanda Palmer, which has given me valuable food for thought: </p><p>        There’s a difference between wanting to be looked at and wanting to be seen.</p><p>        When you are looked at, your eyes can stay blissfully closed. You suck energy, you steal the spotlight. When you are seen, your eyes must be open, as you are seeing and recognizing your witness. You accept energy and you generate energy. You create light.</p><p>        One is exhibitionism, the other is connection.</p><p>        Not everybody wants to be looked at.</p><p>        Everybody wants to be seen.</p><p>I think it has helped frame my thinking about people giving me the gift of their attention and awareness. I always feel undeserving of it, yet I am so humbled and grateful to receive it. It is simply being seen, but by a lot of people. And that can be quite unnerving. But I’m kind of a connection junkie. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-54457205030744721492016-03-01T10:29:00.000-08:002016-03-01T10:34:17.216-08:00Down Under in the Down Under.<p>For my final week in Australia, I ventured up to Queensland, famous for the Great Barrier Reef and Daintree Rainforest (among other natural beauties), its proliferation of dangerous aquatic life (such as the box jellyfish), and its slightly offbeat people (because you have to be slightly crazy to live in a place like Queensland). I spent four days on the Great Barrier Reef learning to SCUBA dive.</p><p>My base of operations was Cairns, a small resort town toward the northern end of the GBR. Primarily composed of hotels, hostels, restaurants, and shops, Cairns doesn’t have a nightlife or much liveliness to speak of, but if you have money to burn it can be quite a pleasant experience to participate in the tourist activities. I booked myself a trip on Reef Experience for a four-day, three-night stay out on the GBR. Called a “liveaboard,” you take a transfer vessel out to a boat permanently stationed out in the reef. Most people will tell you that you can get a complete experience of the GBR by snorkeling, but I decided to be a little adventurous and sign up for a certification course in SCUBA diving. I’d never done it before, but if there was ever a place to learn how to dive, it’d be out in one of the seven Natural Wonders of the World. </p><p>The day we set off was woefully rainy and windy, so the trip out to the reef was tumultuous. Even with a motion sickness tablet I get moderately seasick and lost my breakfast partway into the trip. The vague sense of seasickness stuck with me for several hours, lasting through the transfer to the liveaboard vessel and past lunch. Not the most portentous way to begin a four-day commitment to being on the ocean. When they announced the first water session was about to begin, and new guests could go for a snorkel, I exulted that I could at least leave the boat and maybe escape this unpleasant sickness.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ieOcSa0a7iM/VtXghrbRiHI/AAAAAAAABK8/NYTZf3V77mI/IMG_7969-2016-03-2-04-29.JPG" alt="IMG_7969-2016-03-2-04-29.JPG"></span></p><p>It failed to occur to me that as a snorkeler, you’re still floating on the surface of the ocean, still subject to the whims of the ocean’s movement. My body immediately was tossed up and down. Sticking my face into the water, I saw nothing beneath me but endless and intimidating depth, and water kept leaping into my snorkel pipe to be choked upon by me as I inhaled. When I’d lift my head out of the water, I was treated to large choppy waters that would crash into my face and be similarly difficult to establish a calm breathing pattern. I swam feebly and anxious (despite being a pretty strong swimmer), a sense of dread coming over me: was this going to be my experience? What had I gotten myself into? Also, where the hell was the reef? I saw just a few fish swimming around in the depths, but nothing to write home about.</p><p>Fortunately I persevered and kept swimming forward, following the procession of other snorkelers, not knowing where I was going. At last, I reached the reef, and suddenly a deep calm overtook me as I beheld the most colorful array of aquatic life in my entire life. It simply defied imagination. I was cast under a spell. Every way I looked, prismatic fish rushed about. Coral of all shapes and types and colors decorated the calcified floor.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kal8w8TOSZU/VtXgi6BLhWI/AAAAAAAABLI/ECx5rn_JH0I/SCUBABOBEST-26-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="SCUBABOBEST-26-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5aAEYGdSYio/VtXglyZ8CxI/AAAAAAAABLo/GFvzf3vumWs/SCUBABOBEST-32-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="SCUBABOBEST-32-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cNY9jRII7PU/VtXghMzIYsI/AAAAAAAABK0/XCwWXxucD20/SCUBABOBEST-42-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="SCUBABOBEST-42-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--Z1dNFdnmQA/VtXgiX8qtRI/AAAAAAAABLE/AmPfgd2RcnA/25thFebruary2016-67-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-67-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>This moment marked the turnaround in my entire trip. When I came out of the water, I was hooked. I was in a truly magical, unique place.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VD6Fpo97GoE/VtXgjYmhvgI/AAAAAAAABLM/2RxShvtt2Sc/25thFebruary2016-210-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-210-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>The rest was, on the whole, a blissful and wonderful experience. I would do four training dives per day, always with an instructor, and most of the time in a 1:1 setting. I did two night dives as well. To write about my journey, I’ll begin with my delightful dive instructor, Fabian, a thick-jawed, sturdy Aussie originally from Germany.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w-1Hi_HkcmA/VtXgmTMwTPI/AAAAAAAABLs/ziklIcib9YI/February22ndAM-99-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="February22ndAM-99-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>His combination of a German accent with Australian slang kept throwing me for a loop. He would regularly say common phrases as, “No worries, mate, too easy!” but with the same intonation as the weight lifting brothers from SNL (“we will PUMP *clap* you up!”). Bar none, though, my favorite expression of his would come whenever he began to explain the skills I would practice on the present dive: “We’re going to smash some skills.” It tickled me every time. And smash some skills we did.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Sykqg5vThcQ/VtXgnOboagI/AAAAAAAABL4/L2Fym6-70NQ/February22ndAM-94-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="February22ndAM-94-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>Over my first three days on the boat, I completed the SSI Open Water Diver certification, the entry level certification, which allows me to dive autonomously up to 18m. We covered all the basics: equipment maintenance, handling emergencies underwater (how to remove and replace your mask underwater, remove your air regulator, remove your tank, maintain buoyancy, ascend and descend safely, etc.). It was actually quite fun, the process of learning these new skills, many of which I practiced repeatedly. </p><p>Diving is an experience unlike any other. Some people say it’s like flying, except underwater. There’s truth to this comparison, but it misses just exactly how surreal it feels to be underwater for 40 minutes without dying, able to glide about with minimal effort and swim among the fishes. The first couple times, my brain would panic and think I was running out of air, that I couldn’t breathe, because it is so engrained to think of being underwater as being without oxygen. It felt like I was watching my life through a camera lens, as if I weren’t actually there. But I kept reminding myself to breathe slowly and fully, and gradually my respiration slowed down as my experience grew and I became increasingly calm in the water.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y_zAoeVcjMo/VtXglCFdblI/AAAAAAAABLg/rYJalNnWEdI/25thFebruary2016-72-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-72-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>Diving is vastly more fun that snorkeling, in my opinion. For one, you never have that jarring experience of water suddenly splashing into your snorkel pipe and on into your mouth or lungs. For another, you can see an entirely different world of marine life. Also, as a snorkeler you don’t get the special privilege of gliding along underwater with a sea turtle.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-S46HRjeR8Ao/VtXghXTEKAI/AAAAAAAABK4/msYhDiTHxXA/25thFebruary2016-239-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-239-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hb964TLTOco/VtXgh8yWNVI/AAAAAAAABLA/6DdSA4rKHDg/IMG_7988-2016-03-2-04-29.JPG" alt="IMG_7988-2016-03-2-04-29.JPG"></span></p><p>I went for a couple night dives, which is a different world altogether from the day dives. I was quite thrilled.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CldB7KrwM4w/VtXgnbjonaI/AAAAAAAABL8/8712Ig3SgjM/25thFebruary2016-140-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-140-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>It’s thrilling until you look off the back of the boat and see sharks swimming around — they feed in the evenings — and you think to yourself, “Wait, I’m diving into that?” Yes, yes, you are. </p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-V6RI3KefNN8/VtXgkp7wk1I/AAAAAAAABLY/zhOzNc3yicY/25thFebruary2016-141-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-141-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>Underwater, you can’t see anything save for the path illuminated by your light. Between the moonlight, your flashlight, and your inner ear, it’s reasonably easy to keep track of up from down, but turn off your flashlight and you’re treated to floating in almost pitch blackness. Amazing.</p><p>It turns out that the eyes of a shark glow green when you shine your light upon them. It only adds to the their chilling appearance, seeing this lithe killing machine skulk about in the water with complete ease. Reef sharks are entirely harmless to humans (in fact, all shark attacks are accidents — sharks don’t hunt humans) and are particularly non-aggressive, but I still felt my stomach turn into a knot when when swim at us and slithered right beneath us, probably no more than 10 feet away. </p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EmIR-Vu1peE/VtXgmik43OI/AAAAAAAABLw/Hsq1SjUh6Nk/SCUBABOBEST-9-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="SCUBABOBEST-9-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>I completed my Open Water Course in three days, which left me an entire extra day of diving. On a whim, I decided to go through the Advanced training as well, which would entail another five training dives. It worked out that I could squeeze it all into the four-day trip originally planned. Being certified as an Advanced Adventurer allows you to dive down to 30m, giving you access to a lot of popular shipwrecks, as well as expanding your skillset and confidence under the water. </p><p>As an added bonus, it meant I continued to have mostly 1:1 dives with extraordinarily qualified dive instructors. This time I was working with Jon, a smooth American who looked completely at ease under the water. He was astonishingly adept at pointing out aquatic life, so my trips were punctuated by some truly wonderful discoveries. He could spot them long before I ever figured out what he was pointing out. One of my favorites was an octopus, hidden among the coral.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7ceua69gevE/VtXgn0HDkPI/AAAAAAAABMA/1A0jChJ8cNQ/26thFebruary2016-3-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="26thFebruary2016-3-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>He discovered morays crouching under coral, noted peacock soles (those weird flat fish with eyes only on one side) camouflaged on rocks, and pointed out found rays hidden among the sands.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QOT4Y8pOksk/VtXglafWcNI/AAAAAAAABLk/Fi6g23VPQp4/ray-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="ray-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>I encountered a few jellyfish, but the larger kind that are evidently not harmful. Also, apparently turtles love to eat them.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--PCmGlZeBRs/VtXgm8iAWHI/AAAAAAAABL0/65PkoajdJkA/25thFebruary2016-88-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-88-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>There’s a fish named Frankie at one of the reefs that loves to play with divers. During one of my dives, he followed us around the entire time like a puppy, for the better part of half an hour. </p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zxhc5Nu6R5s/VtXgfqzmIZI/AAAAAAAABKw/zp7UNJNjYVI/25thFebruary2016-173-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-173-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HircDx4pZHw/VtXgk8zp_AI/AAAAAAAABLc/3fBrSm58Uwg/25thFebruary2016-161-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-161-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>I even found Nemo. Anemonefish (there are many varieties) are absolutely adorable, the way they peek out from their home, venture out for some food, and then scurry back inside when they’re spooked. Pixar actually really captured their essence in their scenes.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WFj2izQ7PLw/VtXgkPLRw8I/AAAAAAAABLU/DgoV1UJd228/25thFebruary2016-22-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-22-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O9gMdqJYhQ8/VtXgjiZOgSI/AAAAAAAABLQ/V30SChNeVO4/25thFebruary2016-77-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="25thFebruary2016-77-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p>You get to know the passengers and crew rather quickly. There were never more than 30 people on the boat, so even if you don’t get their names you recognize their faces. The roster would change from day to day, as some people would come and go; I felt a bit unusual to be a constant figure for four whole days, as most people stayed over for only one or two nights. Meals were communal, so I was able to forge some friendships over food. I met a lovely couple from Copenhagen traveling the world for the past eight months on vacation, and a friendly technical analyst at Google, and a young pair of college friends taking a holiday in Australia while on break from school, and a few other people. The food was always exceptional: healthful, delicious, upscale, and high-quality. I still don’t know how they could accomplish so much with a small kitchen on the ocean. The crew were surpassingly courteous and friendly, creating a convivial atmosphere on the boat. Aside from the dive instructors, most of them were 20-somethings thrilled to be working on the GBR. </p><p>Social interactions and befriending others mystifies me, and this situation was no exception. My conversations with others never went beyond being friendly, making small talk to pass the time. I felt a kindred spark with the couple from Copenhagen, they seemed quite engaged with the world, but we only had a day to interact. I didn’t connect on a deeper level with anyone else for the entire trip. My experience reminded me of how terribly shy I can be outside the context of dance, which baffles me to this day. The process of getting to know people can feel so forced sometimes, yet when I’m at a dance event I’m all bubbly and it all comes as second-nature. It’s like there are two different people living inside me. Anyway, it was good practice to exercise my socializing skills while in an introverted state. I just never know what to say, each prompt is unnatural and like lobbing some heavy inquisition across a chasm. Once I run out of the sterile conversational starters — “How long are you staying in Australia? Where else have you visited? Where are you from?” — I find myself at an utter loss for what to say. Sometimes I just don’t care to connect, but other times I want to know more about them and don’t know how to start the flow. I feel unsure whether they actually want to connect. I just can’t manufacture the connection. But then, maybe they don’t want it either, and that’s what I’m picking up on. I suppose charisma is partly about being able to form that connection with anybody, but I completely lack it when I don’t have my dancer hat on. Why don’t they do classes on <em>this</em> stuff? </p><p>I found myself not fitting into the usual demographics of the boat: either early 20s and footloose, or middle-aged and settled down. Sure, I don’t have many tethers, but I want them. I have a decent idea of where my life is heading professionally, at least for the next 5 years. So while I no longer identify with the young and wandering crowd, I also don’t yet connect with the settled-in crowd, the married couples without or with children, for I am single and don’t even have a permanent place of residence. I didn't fit in with any group, and I think was perplexing to other passengers, for I defied common patterns, they didn’t know what to make of me. (“You’re a software engineer, okay… Oh, wait, you also teach dance around the world? And you live in a suitcase? Well, that’s… that’s something.”) At least being on the boat reinforced where I want my life to go next. I found myself looking to the settled-in crowd with a touch of envy. I was particularly fond of the Copenhagen couple, for they were very clearly in love with each other and shared a deep and strong bond, but also remained curious about the world and wanted to be outwardly focused as well. That’s precisely the kind of dynamic I hope to have with my future mate.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, I did a fair amount of introspection while on board, wrestling with difficult and depressive emotions as articulated in <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://andrewsouthpaw.blogspot.com/2016/02/cleaning-house-reflections-on-love.html">this post</a></span>. The quiet moments are when these thoughts would intrude into my mental space, the small 30-minute breaks between water sessions and meals or whatever other activity was happening on the boat. The schedule was generally busy, but you would always have these moments, long enough to leave you wondering what to do with your time, but never long enough to let you get into something substantive. Some would take to non-committally reading a book, others sunbathing on the top deck, I often took naps. But when I couldn’t nap, I was left alone with my thoughts, as the other passengers tended to stay to their cabins when not engaged in an activity. </p><p>Lying on my bed alone in the middle of one of the most magnificent natural wonders, feeling sorry for myself and at a loss for what to do next, it struck me then yet another powerful lesson of traveling alone: learning how to be alone with your thoughts. It Because it’ll invariably happen, no matter how hard you try to cram your schedule or visit places of staggering beauty or keep distractions close at hand — there will always be moments when you must be alone with yourself. It made me think of how, as a society, we look to our partner to distract us from those moments, and how that can be an unproductive pattern. We think that finding a long-term partner will save us from loneliness. Sure, living with a partner will mean less time spent alone, but it’s always a losing battle: there will still be times when it happens. If we lean on our partner to shield us from being alone, we become co-dependent, we become less unconditionally loving. A partner can never save us from feeling lonely; we must learn on our own how to be alone and not lonely. It’s something I still struggle with, but I’ve actively worked on it throughout my time here in Oz, and there are at least stretches where I’m successful.</p><p>I wondered to myself how I would be acting if I were around another person, what I would be commenting on, and how that diverged from what I was presently doing. What was its significance, the way I can spend so much time in utter silence, breathing and staring at the water and allowing my mind to wander? What does it say about me, the way I am not relentlessly driven to make conversation, even if it’s with myself? These questions still lazily roll in my mind, I turn them over endlessly as I ask myself how I can be a better, more interesting, and more loving partner in the future.</p><p>By the end of my stay, I was ready to disembark. I had my fill of routine, of being underwater, in one place, and alone. I was tired of trying to make friends and finding mediocre connections. I was proud of myself for making so much of this adventure to the Great Barrier Reef, of organizing it and having the courage to sign up for SCUBA diving and have this otherworldly experience, but it was time to move on, time for a change of scenery, and time to recuperate. I have no idea where my new diving certification will lead me, whether it’ll remain an occasional hobby activity or turn into something more avid. But, without question I’m grateful for the experience I had out here on the reef, it showed me a whole new world, and allowed me to discover more about myself in the process.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2SMd8JacTFo/VtXgoUokJgI/AAAAAAAABME/ihxN0oIH85Q/26thFebruary2016-82-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg" alt="26thFebruary2016-82-2016-03-2-04-29.jpg"></span></p><p> </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-5390067330012276512016-02-27T14:47:00.001-08:002016-02-27T14:47:29.974-08:00Cleaning house: reflections on love, partnership, and loss.
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This post started with wanting to write about being single on Valentine’s Day. Over the past couple weeks of reflecting and writing, it has evolved into something much more.
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When I departed for Australia, it felt like pretty much everything in my world was falling apart. Professional life abounded with stressors, I was still devastated from a breakup from a couple months ago, and then the day before I departed I went through redefining a (different) partnership to be a friendship. The only thing I had left for stability was an amazing community: all else was changing out from under me. The situation contrasted sharply with the past summer, when it felt like everything was on the up and up: amazing job with flexibility for remote work and a budding partnership to which I quickly assigned dreams of marriage and family. Now, I found myself irrevocably, painfully single. Part of the reason I embarked for Australia so ill-prepared was that I'd been preoccupied with all these other events. In many ways, going on a grand adventure to Australia was the *last* thing I wanted -- my chief desire being to crawl into a hole.
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On my trip over, I set an intention for my journey Down Under: to maintain an open heart. I, of course, wanted to turtle, to withdraw and never again expose myself to the abject dangers of falling in love the way I did last summer. Following through on such reactive impulses would, of course, only further hurt me, trapping the pain inside by putting up a wall between the world and me. So I promised myself to be wholehearted and honest with myself and others. That’s a tricky position to maintain, particularly when your heart is laden with grief and you sound like a broken record from a bad Country artist (it was so good back then, it was all my fault, now I’ve lost everything, yadda yadda); it’s hard to not think that being in my company would begin to pall. It’s not something you want to ever show to another living person, lest they judge you for being feeble, for appearing vulnerable, for indulging in self-destructive thought patterns. In a world where we are trained to always and only present a well-rounded, carefully put together persona, being wholehearted like that can be downright terrifying. Of course, as my past two years of growing in the learning from <i>Daring Greatly</i> has taught me, leaning into the discomfort and allowing myself to be vulnerable is the best course of action.
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In practice, it feels forced, this process of putting myself out there; in my moments of insecurity, all I want to do is feel sorry for myself, all I long for is to be with her. The connection we shared was all-encompassing, a soul mate connection, giving way to moments that would leave me breathless, exhilarated, and deeply grateful to be with this person. The loss of this bond makes all else feel dull by comparison, dimming the brightness of the world: no one else will be her, and forming new life experiences reminds me she’s not a part of them. When I mentioned in a previous post about being withdrawn on the Friday of a dance weekend, it’s because I was in the throes of missing her and couldn’t be bothered to find interest in anything else about life. This mindset is so unproductive and equally impossible to escape, impervious as it is to reasoning.
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When a relationship comes to an end, you lose more than the other person: you lose the dream of what a future would be with them. Part of what has made this breakup so particularly overwhelming — despite lasting for a relatively brief duration — was how vividly I could imagine that future with her. I easily envisioned all the aspects of life that I wish for one day: adventures around the world shared in the company of another, building a home and community, raising a family. The future has been a hazy and far-off concept for the majority of my relationships, but for this one it felt like it was right around the corner. Losing a dream that ties into deep-set beliefs about fulfillment in life has brought on such emotional anguish. It has brought me to the uncomfortable realization of how strongly I tie self-actualization in life to finding a mate.
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One sagacious friend pointed out that I may have lost the possibility to fulfill the dream with that person, but the dream in the abstract (marriage, family, community, etc.) still belongs to me. Excellent advice to be sure, but it’s hard to be comforted by it right now. The mind latches on to the details, it likes concreteness. An insubstantial notion that one day I might find a mate and have an enriching life-long partnership pales in comparison to the evocative imagery I built up surrounding a future with this person. I endeavor to redefine my dream to not include her, but my mind refuses to let go. It is exceptionally difficult to replace a broken dream that involves a specific person with a complete dream that involves no one in particular.
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In lamenting to friends that I'd never meet someone else quite so amazing and that I was sure to die alone (a classic siren song of my internal gremlins), some joked that I'd probably meet that person in Australia. I replied that I surely hope not, because Australia is simply too long distance. But more seriously, I’m not ready to find someone else, as I have work to do: I need to learn from my previous experiences and discover how to be a better person, both in a partnership and solo.
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I’ve been thinking a great deal reflecting upon what I actually want in my life, what lifestyle I believe will be most enriching, and where my priorities lie. I’ve begun to question whether perhaps, like many other parts of my life, the relationship model is an aspect on which I’m flexible; that I have leanings, but am happy to go with what fits in the relationship for the right person. I’ve realized how easily I fall into a pattern in a partnership and stop being fully present, no longer offering the same level of love and attention that person deserves. My time here in Australia has helped me find clarity around where I want my life to head in the next five years: finding a long-term partner, beginning to settle down, and laying the groundwork for raising a family.
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I’m grateful for these realizations, because it means I’m learning more about myself, but it’s also a direct trigger to a downward spiral starting with the thought, “This sure would’ve been good to figure out BEFORE that relationship ended.” I can’t blame myself too much, I suppose: these questions are deep, complex, and impossible to answer solely through reasoning. We have no choice but to live into the answer, and in my case the timing on this evolution of understanding meant I still lost a profoundly important relationship. The predominantly nomadic lifestyle I’ve adopted, necessitated by my path in teaching dance professionally, has been unquestionably rewarding, but it did allow me to fall into a holding pattern of never setting down roots anywhere.
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While I have spent a lot of energy deconstructing my relationship dynamic, I have also spent time aimed inwardly. If we went with a metaphor of a house representing each one of us, I have an unfortunate tendency when in a partnership to focus solely upon building a new, shared home. I stop going back to my own house so often to perform regular upkeep. It’s been two years since I was last single, and now the kitchen of my house is a complete mess and there’s some science experiment growing in my fridge. I have to remember that my house is still my life force and I need to care for it, so it’s time to start cleaning. To that end, I’ve spent time and energy being with myself, being at peace with the world around me, being comfortable with being alone. I need to remember what brings me inspiration, what fills me with joy (aside from the obvious, which I can’t have), what helps me grow as a person. Essentially, I’m learning once again how to date myself, something I haven’t done for far too long. Clearly, I have a long way to go, but at least it’s progress.
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">I’ve done my best to allow other people into my proverbial home to visit, even while I’m cleaning house. This occurred once while in Melbourne, when I connected with someone on a romantic level. We met at Cider House Blues and then proceeded to spend several days and evenings together during my week in the city. We were both in a place to be able to appreciate the casual but sincere connection without attachment, and parted ways (on V-day, naturally) on excellent terms with much gratitude in our hearts for the brief time we shared. </span></div>
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The path to being open-hearted while brokenhearted is fraught with jarring juxtapositions of joy and sorrow. Take, for instance, the way I actually spent our final day together, wandering around St. Kilda Festival, a huge music festival that transforms much of the St. Kilda suburb. We enjoyed good food, gorgeous weather, and sharing playful, creative dances at a Salsa music stage and, later, at a bar playing classic soul tunes. I was swimming with delirious happiness, drunk on dancing and warm summer weather. Then I began to get hit by these sharp pangs of remorse as a memory would surface: one of meandering an arts festival on a beautiful day with my former partner, dancing in public, perusing the wares of vendors (predominantly of charming home furnishings) and daring to imagine crafting a home together and populating it with such accoutrements. It’s like my brain is determined to feel sad, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, will repeatedly bring to my attention evidence of why I should be the saddest person ever.
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It is natural that my brain would offer these reminders. We identify strongly with painful situations; our brains are trained to make extensive notes about circumstances that lead to pain and then raise the alarm for future events that bear any resemblance. As a species, we are served well by an aversion to pain. The pain even becomes part of our identity, in a way. In those moments of downward spiral, I am impervious to any uplifting words, for my identity then is: I am Failure, I am A Lost Cause, and so on. It’s so hard to let go of that all-consuming identity, to let it coexist with more positive self-identities: I am Wholehearted, I am Loving, I am Talented, etc. It’s a perverse inclination, to self-flagellate in this way and be defined wholly by the negative, and yet it’s bizarrely satisfying because it feels so real. It leads to unproductive inner dialogues: “I’ll never find anyone like her again,” “I’m not worthy of someone like her,” “It’s your fault the relationship ended,” or “What if I had done this thing differently, maybe it would’ve worked out.” These internal dialogues perpetuate the cycle and keep us dissociated from the present, as we wallow in this toxic environment of self-abuse. The anguish of believing you’re unworthy is so intoxicatingly present; in the face of these dark forces, the forces of light dwindle and plead for a space to shine.
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Much of my life feels like an endless struggle of forces, an uncomfortable coexistence of opposing emotions. My adventures in Australia have been exceedingly wonderful, filled with sunny days and warm weather, adventures in nature, entertaining times with friends new and familiar, and dancing to other dance styles (Kizomba, WCS, Salsa). Through all of these heady times, I carry a black hole of grief in my heart, one that can activate at any moment to absorb all positive energy that comes near me. Repeatedly, I encounter moments of staggering beauty and all I can think about it how desperately I wish to share it with that person. Sure, such is the Human Condition: to have complex emotions, to be both happy and sad, but I guess my point is that I never feel it so acutely as now when grieving over a terrible loss. The contrast can be so severe that the practice of going out and deliberately making the best of my time here in Australia feels disingenuous when given the context of my deep sadness.
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The dream world offers me little reprieve. At least a couple times a week, I will wake up with a vague sense of missing something; occasionally, I am less fortunate and the dreams are more vivid, only to be filled with loss as those ephemeral details fade to nothing and I realize it was entirely a fabrication. It's only through force of will and habit that I drag myself out of bed to take on the day. I press through the thick, dull feelings of sadness — so non-specific and inarticulate in the mornings, as if my inner dialogue is still waking up and figuring out how to berate me — with a cup of tea and some treatment in the sun, or writing in my Morning Pages, or diving into my work. As long as I hit the day with a running start, I can usually get on top of my emotional state for the majority of daylight hours. <br /><br />It is quite challenging, in those moments, to find the wherewithal to go on adventures. For all of my globe-trotting, I'm quite the homebody and it can require a lot of energy to motivate myself to go outside. But I do it anyway, I force myself to head out the door and off to visit a friend for a walk in a park, or to explore a museum on my own, or exercise, or to head down a street in search of food and await what moments will come. I do it because I know it's the right thing to do — exactly the opposite of what I want to do, which is to lie in bed and drown my sorrows in mind-numbing activities. It helps that I’ve systematically eliminated said escapist activities, such as watching TV or playing video games, so that if I want to feel sorry for myself I have little choice but to be present with my emotions, which can offer rather poor company when feeling down. Once I get over the inertia, it's relatively easy to keep on rolling along, but boy it is a battle to get the process started. <br /><br />While on my adventures, I'm still prone to being completely sidelined by some thought that sucks dry the joy from the present moment, when all I can do is keep walking and trusting that one day it will get better. I remind myself of the sage advice from Shel Silverstein’s <i>The Missing Piece Meets the Big O</i> (I’ve never been so emotionally moved by a triangle and a circle), that I must be complete in myself. I focus on journaling, adventuring, learning, spending time with friends, exercising, being alone, dancing, teaching, speaking with friends about my sorrows, and sitting quietly with my thoughts. It's a hard path to walk and right now I still can’t shake the loss; I’m still tormented by uncertainties about the future, and still get blindsided by grief. I don’t yet truly believe in a bright future for myself, but I keep progressing one day at a time, because it’s the only way forward through life.</div>
Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-82876494938143587372016-02-14T04:39:00.000-08:002016-02-16T04:40:31.373-08:00A scene from Melbourne.<p>Begin scene: a taxi cab in Melbourne. Andrew Smith enters the cab and provides the destination address. The driver strikes up a conversation. </p><p>Driver: what country are you from?</p><p>Andrew: America. </p><p>Driver: What's your favorite car?</p><p>Andrew: Um... The Prius.</p><p>Driver: (without pausing to consider the answer) My favorite car is Mustang. Do you know Mustang? Very good car. The best. </p><p>Andrew: Oh. Well, what do you like about it?</p><p>Driver: To go fast! It's a strong *muscle* car. (flexes his arm to emphasize the point)</p><p>Andrew: I see. </p><p>Driver: Where in America do you live?</p><p>Andrew: Washington. </p><p>Driver: Do they have Mustang there?</p><p>Andrew: Sure, a few. </p><p>Driver: It must be very good to live where they make Mustang. </p><p>(The rest of the drive proceeds in silence, until at the end of the trip Andrew is exiting the vehicle.)</p><p>Driver: When you get back to America, you know what you should do?</p><p>Andrew: What?</p><p>Driver: Buy a Mustang!</p><p>End scene. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-50306129484956043032016-02-13T19:36:00.000-08:002016-02-13T19:41:18.167-08:00Into the Land Down Under.<p>Oh, hello there, Blog. Seems we haven’t spoken in quite some time. Sorry about that. It turns out that I don’t usually write about relationships or professional endeavors; because that’s pretty much been my entire life over the fall, I’ve not had much space to write about anything.</p><p>But times are changing (for good and for bad). I’m now in Australia for the whole month of February, partially for dance events but primarily for vacationing and recovering from the heartbreak that has been the past several months. My tour of Australia was booked over a year in advance — the first time any event had booked me so far into the future — and would be my first trip to the land Down Under. In preparation for my trip, I managed to have the presence of mind to purchase a Lonely Planet book and order <em>In A Sunburned Country</em>, by Bill Bryson, as a way of introducing me to this peculiar continent. Aside from these two actions, I departed from the US decidedly unprepared and having spent very little time planning, I’ve just been so busy. </p><p>The day after my arrival in Melbourne, I was whisked away to the magical setting for Cider House Blues, at which I taught this past weekend. Before departing, I came across this delightful little road sign, which I wanted to share as a brief aside before diving into the weekend festivities...</p><p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mK-ojsrLZPg/Vr_3S-_B7YI/AAAAAAAABJo/pc5n19W4TxM/2016-02-0412.02.03-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0412.02.03-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>Belonging to the parents of one of the organizers, CHB takes place on a farm outside of Melbourne, about an hour’s drive away. The trip out there was quite pleasant, and featured interesting road art along the way. Evidently, there’s been a big push by the Australian government to beautify the country highways with large-scale art projects. My favorite is the <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/victoria/hotel-artwork-to-cost-12m/story-e6frf7kx-1111114969352">de-scaled hotel that’s not a hotel</a></span>. </p><p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_BQAKExquhI/Vr_3TV4GjcI/AAAAAAAABJs/NekmLAqVpgY/Hotel-5770092-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="Hotel-5770092-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>Aside from the pleasing road art and conversations in the car, we were treated to an decidedly beautiful sunset. Coming from Seattle, where it was recently 40ºF recently, I appreciated this resplendent display of Summer.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Vig1XWvu7ss/Vr_3ScEmxDI/AAAAAAAABJk/EvL4ONYGy2M/2016-02-0420.25.04-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0420.25.04-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>The farm is stunningly beautiful. The pictures don’t quite capture the serenity that is this place, but they offer a starting point. This panorama was taken from their porch that doubles as an outdoor dining room.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uiZFFDv5WeM/Vr_3WVlKO9I/AAAAAAAABKA/P-4aHAEKZBQ/2016-02-0508.55.24-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0508.55.24-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vCCi0qzuyfI/Vr_3WxIRpWI/AAAAAAAABKE/FOWWSeD2-hU/2016-02-0813.22.42-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.22.42-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jbRgLKEZuFI/Vr_3PzmGRYI/AAAAAAAABJU/OI-vbTBJ3Dc/2016-02-0813.24.13-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.24.13-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Lrn22HaL7r8/Vr_3T3YfwRI/AAAAAAAABJw/9lNNQY1O6qk/2016-02-0813.23.35-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.23.35-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>After a leisurely morning spent sunning myself and sipping tea, I got to work tying up some loose ends for work and eventually around to lesson planning for the weekend. At some point, I took a break to exercise (Insanity all the way!), which elicited bemused commentary from others. I find it interesting how people often feel driven to comment when observing others exercising outside the context of a gym. </p><p>The day passed quickly in the way productive days so often do -- i.e. quickly -- leaving me unprepared mentally and emotionally for the arrival of CHB participants by the evening. As the crowd grew, I found myself increasingly shy and overwhelmed by the prospect of being social with a huge group of people whom I’ve never met. It made me appreciate the long-growing friendships I’ve developed with scenes throughout North America and Europe, that I can find familiar faces almost anywhere, but here I found myself in a completely new spot and only familiar with the organizing team. Making matters worse, my internal monologue took a turn for the worse and began to dwell on depressing events of the past couple months, further stripping me of my usual confidence summoned by being a dance teacher at a dance weekend. I felt utterly incapable of putting on my amiable teacher hat, of bringing the party, of opening my heart chakra and sharing joy and love of dance with everyone. While I couldn’t do it authentically, I forced myself to go out and dance and put on a happy face because it was the right thing to do — not only in a professional sense, but also to drag myself (begrudgingly) out of my blues. Those psychological studies that show that <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2012/07/study-forcing-a-smile-genuinely-decreases-stress/260513/">facial expressions can influence your mood</a></span> can’t all be wrong. I had some pleasant dances and people were categorically kind and friendly, but it still felt like a slog and I was incapable of genuinely connecting. </p><p>Friday was challenging, but Saturday and Sunday saw a marked improvement for me. The classes went splendidly, for one. I love teaching abroad, particularly because the students are so often more keen to learn. I was able to teach one of my classes outside in the sunshine on their outdoor dance floor, which delighted me to be out in the sun (with sunscreen, of course). I find that classes are a great way for me to connect with large groups of people, it’s effective at breaking the ice. Where I couldn’t find the right spirit to interact with them on Friday, by Saturday afternoon I felt relaxed and confident and able to make small talk with people. People saw in me the goofy, slightly awkward person that I actually am, not some scary intimidating teacher who looks down my nose at people, and I think that let them open up more as well. Throughout the rest of the weekend I had the pleasure of connecting with a number of kind-hearted, engaging locals, either in receiving earnest compliments about a class or over sharing a scrumptious meal, all of which were communal. </p><p>I want to give huge props to the kitchen team, for their hard efforts to fit a diverse range of dietary restrictions and still have everyone feel nourished. I ate super well this weekend, always with an excellent balance of greens, grains, and protein. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the presence of mind to photograph any of the spreads — probably because I was in such a ravenous state that I could think of nothing else than to stuff my face with delicious food. </p><p>Shortly after Saturday dinner, we convened for a Blues dancing competition, but with a special twist: it took place on a bouncy castle. It was Australia’s — nay, I daresay the World’s — inaugural Bouncy Castle Blues competition. And oh, what a glorious sight it was to behold. I had the special honor of judging said competition, which I can assure you put a lot of pressure upon me to carefully weigh the balance if Blues aesthetic with bouncy castle awesomeness -- not a feat suitable for an inexperienced judge. Being able to say that I professionally judged a bouncy castle Blues competition is perhaps one of my greatest achievements in my career to date.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ljr_zYzOFOs/Vr_3UpgVk9I/AAAAAAAABJ0/5erZCWu9dTg/2016-02-0618.36.02-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0618.36.02-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>I captured one of the preliminary rounds <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://youtu.be/9PeLfcC5eM4">on video</a></span>. I did a terrible job maintaining the dancers in the frame, because I was scribbling down notes at the same time (I was judging, remember, and that’s a <em>very serious</em> business). </p><p>Saturday night was particularly magical. It began with dancing outside under a crystal-clear starry night sky. Here’s the dance floor (I couldn’t get a good photo during the night):</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w_mhTetAGK4/Vr_3RVnbAiI/AAAAAAAABJc/CFNrYqkZoAA/2016-02-0813.22.34-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.22.34-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>Being so far away from civilization and with the porch lights dimmed, one could easily see the Milky Way while dancing. Another reminder of us being quite remote was the wonderful background din of crickets, frogs, and who knows what else that provided a gentle hum to the entire night.</p><p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RMXtCbhfLRE/Vr_3R4HEw6I/AAAAAAAABJg/Ym2YJRMEIK4/2016-02-0520.54.50-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0520.54.50-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>The live band that played that night rocked my socks off. The duo, <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Wilson.and.White/">Wilson & White</a></span>, play a fine pre-war Blues set, I was transported to an era when Delta Blues was alive and well. I danced so hard that night, never missing a single song from the band. I was grateful for the band breaks, because it meant I could take a break as well to water and feed myself. During those breaks, I had the pleasure of chatting with locals and getting to know them better. After their second-to-last set, the entire party was given makeshift lanterns and we made a little procession off to a shack about a hundred yards away, where the band was set up for their final set. I returned the next morning to take pictures, so just imagine it being dark and lit with tea lights. Someone was set up inside the shack handing out cocktails.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IeRY2wCLBZI/Vr_3Qob5QzI/AAAAAAAABJY/xzkC_gD1DBw/2016-02-0813.27.05-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.27.05-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>Here’s where the band played.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z2wEeSucy0E/Vr_3PYSn5DI/AAAAAAAABJQ/VS3teNopWMs/2016-02-0813.27.17-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0813.27.17-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>I haven’t danced this hard in a long time, it was a real gift to receive. The musicians had a great time interacting with the dancers, and the dancers were clearly eating up everything they were being offered. The whole night was filled with so much win. Once the live band wrapped up, I took a wonderfully long break from dancing to recover my energy, then headed back out for dancing until 5:30am. Along the way, I enjoyed some hilarious conversations that probably wouldn’t make much sense when not deliriously tired and riding high on dance.</p><p>Sunday glided along in the usual fashion of days that follow staying up all night dancing and then teaching the following morning: filled with a lot of tea and stumbling over my words. Students were still keen to learn, though. I taught a two-part series on turning technique, which was astonishingly popular. People here clearly want to dive into the nitty-gritty details of dance mechanics, and I’m very happy to oblige. While they’re all business sometimes when working on their dancing, they also appreciate the importance of community and having a good time. We wrapped up the weekend classes with a heart-warming, community-focused class that involved a lot of student discussions and massage circles. </p><p>The event formally concluded on Sunday evening, with no party that night, primarily because we were reasonably far from the city and people had to work the next day. I was perfectly happy with this arrangement, because it meant I could go to bed at a reasonable hour. After dinner among a smaller core group of people (primarily organizers), we went out to meet and feed the alpacas and pony on the farm.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8GSz5CktYAI/Vr_3Or1XfqI/AAAAAAAABJM/GTMe4XDfSJs/2016-02-0720.23.02-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0720.23.02-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>The alpacas had been freshly shorn a week ago.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--J5vbKMn09s/Vr_3VHoc2oI/AAAAAAAABJ4/RIKmhtOEPrA/2016-02-0720.17.32-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0720.17.32-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p>Monday was a perfect recuperation day, primarily spent lazing about in the sun. I wandered about the farm, taking photos, sipping tea, and chatting with people. By midday, we departed to briefly visit a winery (so delicious) and then stopped by a nearby beach for a couple hours. After the intensely packed weekend, I was all too happy to let the hours slip by without my eventfulness.</p><p>With the increased peacefulness, I did find myself returning to more somber thoughts of life back in the US, of current struggles, losses, and sorrows. The contrast between the beauty and joy of the weekend and the emotions I was presently feeling was stark and uncomfortable. I’ve come to expect these sort of post-event depressions, even if they’re brief, it’s a natural way of my body balancing for all the endorphins I’d been creating through the weekend. Not to discount the reality of my thoughts, but at least I could acknowledge the context of them feeling particularly painful in the moment, because of me recovering from the weekend. Still, I appreciated the wonderful company shared with a few friends whom I trust. Walking along the beach, I tried to open my heart to the world in some hopes the sun’s summery rays would penetrate all the way through and light me from the inside. It helped, just a little.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eZ8gDdtgZtA/Vr_3ViLmP4I/AAAAAAAABJ8/ttKPMh6Kl9U/2016-02-0816.47.06-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg" alt="2016-02-0816.47.06-2016-02-14-14-36.jpg"></span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-4645907106033785122015-11-04T08:27:00.000-08:002015-11-04T08:27:33.658-08:00Losing my home.
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">I lost my home yesterday. After four months of living in a coop, my trial period came to an end and the voting members decided to have someone else stay on instead of me. </span><br />
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In no exaggerated terms, my heart broke in reaction. I love this place, it felt like my ideal environment from the first time I visited. I was happy there. And I got along very well with the other housemates. I always looked forward to return home to that warm space filled with positive energy.
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Their decision, although devastating, does not come as a surprise. I have been out of the house quite a lot over the past two months. They want someone who can be around the house more often to contribute to upkeep.
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Unlike last time two years ago when I became homeless, this time I do not relish the adventure of living without a base. I had allowed myself (foolishly?) to set down little roots here in Seattle. Now I feel tired and unready for the challenge. But what choice do I have? I am traveling extensively for the next several months and will have no time to conduct another housing search. I can't possibly live on my own: I have so few possessions, it would take a monumental effort to furnish my own place.
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Time for a new adventure...
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Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-49302250006899215802015-10-19T19:06:00.001-07:002015-10-19T20:17:14.137-07:00Friendship.<p>Sometimes, I feel like I don’t have any friends. It's a deep-seated gremlin I’ve dealt with since childhood, best friends (ha ha) with Self-Doubt: <em>you're alone because you don’t have friends, you don’t have friends because people don’t like you, etc. etc</em>. We often talk to ourselves in ways usually reserved for Internet trolls. I've been thinking often on this theme for the past few months.</p><p>The trouble with this particular gremlin is that there’s some truth to it: being a traveling dance instructor has brought me friends around the world, but they’re a certain kind of friendship. I don’t have friends I see all that often, the kind I can always call at any hour to hang out or talk, the kind where there’s a steady and regular connection, the kind that know me completely. Instead, I have friends with whom I’ll connect deeply for a couple hours a few times a year. I want (we all want?) to be understood, to be seen, so perhaps in some small way I blog because I want to be understood, since I don’t have the benefit of having someone to randomly chat with about these thoughts.</p><p>Much of building friendships is about regular interaction, the exchange of little tidbits of intimacy. Sometimes, this social exchange can’t be proxied or skipped no matter the depth of connection. Being geographically untethered has been a privilege and introduced me to many wonderful people, but it also doesn’t leave me enough opportunity to build these bonds.</p><p>Even if I were in the same place (as I’ve seen myself do more recently), life simply gets busy on both sides of the equation. I lose myself in my programming work and prioritize the next code commit over cooking properly for myself or spending time in the company of others. Programming is fun, addictive, and can seem so much easier than engaging in other enriching activities, much like watching TV or playing games. (Come to think of it, I’m very lucky to have found a profession that enthralls me.) Meanwhile, people in my circles are equally busy. I've been drawn to them because they're driven and inspired, they're doing a lot with their lives, and it means there's not time in the week for regular interaction.</p><p>Time with friends usually needs to be scheduled, which leaves me in a conundrum on my days with nothing planned: I find myself craving social interaction, but only once I’m in the middle of a block of free time and everyone already is occupied. One solution might be to more proactively schedule my evenings with others. Generally my weekday evenings are left untouched, so I’ll find myself working late “for lack of other things to do,” but if I more proactively booked my evenings in advance this problem would not arise as often.</p><p>But, there's more to it than simply not having much time. I have an aversion to interrupting people's workflows, or catching people off guard. I'm loathe to call people on the phone, lest they feel pressured to say “yes” to an offer to hang out, yet sometimes this kind of synchronous communication is necessary to turn hangout plans into a reality. If I'm feeling down or craving human connection, I can’t (read: won’t) just call them up without warning and emotionally dump all over them. For this reason, it feels like I can’t reach out to anyone when I get stuck in a negative thought spiral. I've always envied those whom can call up others on the fly for emotional support. Aside from romantic partnerships, I don't have really have that. Well, I know I do, but I can't imagine myself exercising that privilege. It speaks to another trope of my life: "don't be a burden.” The potential for others to view me as needy strikes me as so noxious that I rarely reach out for support. (The negative feedback loop here is not lost on me: the desire to not be a burden reduces the frequency and intimacy of my interactions with friends, which does these friendships no favors at all.)</p><p>In the vein of “reaching out,” I even find it difficult to do it when I’m feeling great. Inviting people to “hang out” does not come naturally to me, I never have the courage for it. (You may find it amusing that I would think it takes courage to invite people over, but for me it does. I don’t get it, but it does.) I’m bizarrely uncreative when it comes to thinking of activities. I’m utterly incapable of organizing groups of friends for a gathering; at best, I can arrange 1:1 interactions. <em>Besides</em> (I think to myself), <em>it’s more fun to be here by yourself and just do some more work, isn’t it?</em> I convince myself that I lack the energy for small-group social interaction, despite consistently finding these exchanges to be renewing. It feels like I missed this lesson in childhood, I never learned how to invite groups of friends, and now there’s this huge segment of valuable information missing from my knowledge base.</p><p>Being a recurrent theme in my life, I've made it a new life project to address this feeling of not having any friends. During my journey at Burning Man, I set a new intention: to deepen connections within my friend sphere; this intention immediately began manifesting beautiful moments in life. </p><p>That night, I went out on my own to see Beats Antique. It was a bitterly cold night, dropping below freezing. At the show, it took a while for me to get into the flow; the music was phenomenal, but there were just so many people there. Taking a deep breath and wading deeper into the throng, I found an ideal spot to set down my adventure pack and get my dance on. Before long, I was greeting others with a more open heart, giving hugs, jamming together a bit. This may seem like nothing substantial — it’s what I do all the time at dance events — but being at a non-social dance event gave it significance, for I haven’t been able to access that side of me.</p><p>On the dance floor, I found a person to actually riff with. We zeroed in on each other, dancing jubilantly and freely. I introduced the person to partnered dancing and they instantly fell in love with it. I was honored to offer that experience to someone and get them hooked on social dancing. While others would normally lose interest and return to their own internal experience, here was a person who wanted to share and create together. Finding such a person was like a breath of fresh air. It struck me how personally I take it to be in a dance environment where everyone stays internally-focused, even in response to my efforts for play and interaction; I take it personally and question if I’m not engaging as a dancer. (Yes, I realize the ridiculousness of that statement.) </p><p>The network effect played its part as my connection with a single person expanded to include four others, all of whom were full of love and joy. As night gave way to day and the party wound down, we ventured out into the playa with wonderment in our hearts: what a truly amazing show that could captivate us and keep us in one place the whole night, what a fantastic gift of the playa to meet all these people with open hearts, and what a beautiful morning it was proving to be.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6BUjFy6TyJU/ViWicLuz47I/AAAAAAAABGw/4YxK_rryEjw/photo3-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG" alt="photo3-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG"></span></p><p>We visited The Woman (an art installation) for a while and there greeted the dawning sun. We all got to talking about intentions we brought with us to the playa, and each vulnerable exchange was acknowledged and cherished. I heard poetry, stories, and shared intentions that took my breath away.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zHxi6qxh1FI/ViWicV5G91I/AAAAAAAABG4/wGcKqN5V-jI/photo2-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG" alt="photo2-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG"></span></p><p>Eventually, we visited Braccus, a well-known and beloved art car shaped like a dragon. There was a large crowd formed there, so we figured something good must be going on. We stumbled upon a phenomal group out of Australia playing tribal electronic music. We only caught the tail end of it, but the music was profoundly beautiful. After the show's conclusion, we decided to part ways -- hunger was at last besetting us, and it would soon be time for sleep. But we took a quick photo of us before we departed.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3uprYiHr3lo/ViWibogjafI/AAAAAAAABGs/zFxlkdC7zH4/photo1-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG" alt="photo1-2015-10-19-22-06.JPG"></span></p><p>With the setting of this intention, other parts of life have begun to fall into place. Everywhere I go, there have been wonderful opportunities to repeatedly connect with others. "Repeatedly" is the operative word here -- my travels have never been short on meaningful interactions with others, but they are typically one-off exchanges. With life moving so fast, I'm grateful for the opportunity to interact with the same people more frequently than once every couple months. I hope that I can continue to hold this intention in my heart and create a new space in my life for people important to me, to always remember what nourishes and sustains me. </p><p>I'm deeply grateful for the moments that life has brought me since setting this new intention. Over the past several months, I have been gifted with wonderful opportunities to meet new people and deepen connections with people important in my life. It feels like there's a new chapter in my life, one where I finally get around to addressing this challenging aspect of my history.</p><p>The past three dance events, Seattle Fusion Festival, bamBLOOZled, and Blues Muse, have felt like special opportunities to connect with friends. Without having to work at any of them, I could take the time to relax and enjoy time with my people. I'm fortunate to have a growing number of people in my circles who have known me for many years and seen me through many phases of life; there's something irreplaceable about such experiences.</p><p>My birthday is just around the bend -- two hours from the time of this writing, in fact. I find myself returning to the theme of friendship around the time of my birthday, reflecting upon the people in my life. Yesterday, my partner organized a special birthday brunch with some my dear friends from Portland. I don't like asking to be the center of attention, but it feels super special when others make it so, which made this celebration all the more powerful to me. When I know I'm surrounded by and accepted wholly by friends, I can open up, be myself, and live vulnerably. </p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kBRDV6xmvTQ/ViWyNIkQa5I/AAAAAAAABHM/tMcndh4I_GI/12112017_698715217038_7570546935647554185_n-2015-10-19-22-06.jpg" alt="12112017_698715217038_7570546935647554185_n-2015-10-19-22-06.jpg"></span></p><p>I think the theme of friendship will always be a challenging one for me, as is often the case with deep-seated issues from childhood. But I'm grateful to find the universe offering so many great opportunities to process the emotions and to recognize how I am cherished and loved by many, and how insanely lucky I am for it. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-69528230374621020432015-08-06T21:59:00.002-07:002015-08-06T22:00:31.094-07:00A missed opportunity.<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">I recently changed my corporate alias at AWS from the mangled, computer-generated "aandsm" to the perfectly reasonable and professional "andrewsm." In fact, it's the same as what I had at Stanford. andrewsm feels well-worn to me. </span><br />
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But I made a choice for andrewsm over a different one, and it's a choice that I now (surprisingly) regret. I could have been called:
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smandrew.
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Hilarious, right? I thought so too. But I didn't have the courage to take the name. Perhaps it was too silly, or people reading my email tag would find it strange without the context of knowing me (and how it's goofiness fits me quite well). In that moment, I prioritized professionalism and cleanliness.
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Immediately after the change was finalized, I began to feel those familiar pangs of regret over not choosing the brave and hilarious option, over not having the courage to take a chance. It represented a missed opportunity to bring a little levity into my corporate existence. It felt like I had made a critical error in judgment, one that would haunt me forever. It deeply affected me; that evening, I was emotionally shriveled and had no ebullience in my heart.
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It has clearly taken on a significance greater than itself. It beckoned all of my insecurities around being the unremarkable asocial Andrew in professional environments, an Andrew that has a difficult time opening up and connecting and is ultimately unworthy of social belonging. It summoned my self-judgments over being risk-averse and always taking the sure bet. Gremlins with a long history came out to set upon my ego and make me feel like crap.
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I didn't realize right away what was going on. Amidst the intensity of my usual work days I couldn't sort through my feelings. In fact I sort of stumbled upon it, talking about the username change and then being blindsided by its attendant emotions. I realized how out-of-touch I can become with my heart when I'm in those work environments. It's like a switch that I turn on (or off?) to access my focused and professional side.
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Regret is a familiar presence in my life, something I unfortunately come by very easily even though I've dealt with it actively in recent years. Part of why I so easily fall into indecision and so highly value information gathering is that I perceive a steep emotional cost to making the "wrong" choice. Even after taking courses in decision analysis that taught me about tha evaluating a decision based on the outcome is nonsensical, I still instinctively do it. Here it caught me off guard by latching onto a relatively insignificant life event. In the grand scheme, this event is so obviously not a big deal, and yet when I finally acknowledged and felt the emotions it ballooned out of proportion to its actual significance.
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So here I am now sharing this event as a way of processing it. I could have achieved something brilliant with my username, but it didn't happen. Life *will* move on. andrewsm will stick, people will think nothing of it, and I will always quietly be "smandrew" on the inside. Also, I know what to pick the next time I have to pick a corporate login.
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Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-57033381402747896222015-07-12T19:30:00.000-07:002015-07-12T19:31:53.384-07:00Competitions and good times at PBEx.<p>Last weekend over the 4th of July, I attended the Portland Blues Experience, a perennial favorite event. Unlike standard dance events, PBEx is an experience unto itself (thus making it aptly named — it is not an “exchange” per se).</p><p>PBEx differentiates itself by taking focus away from the dancing and placing it on the music. The event is run in parallel with the Waterfront Blues Festival, the second largest Blues music festival in the country. PBEx only runs late nights and always features more live bands. It breaks the standard form of 3 nights of evening + late night dances. Without the focal point of evening dances, attendees are given free reign to make each day and evening what they will. It’s more about the musical, social, and cultural experience of Portland, shared with dancers. I love it. </p><p>PBEx was a very special time for me this year. One of the reasons were the competitions on Sunday.</p><p>Rachel Stirling and I decided to join forces for both competitions this year. We didn’t really prepare at all — as would be expected when living in different cities — but have always relished dancing with each other. We went in with the expectation that we’d have a load of fun goofing around. And we did exactly that.</p><p>I think it’s always best to approach comps with the mission to have fun. It certainly worked out well this time: for the second year in a row, I took 1st place in both the Jazz and Blues dance competitions.</p><p>We were even featured <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.oregonlive.com/bluesfest/index.ssf/2015/07/dance_contest_steals_the_spotl.html">in an article</a></span> about the dance competition in The Oregonian.</p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UeDJs6EXjUM/VaMjFbUsplI/AAAAAAAABEA/gW85rRe8FGo/PastedGraphic-2015-07-12-22-30.png" alt="PastedGraphic-2015-07-12-22-30.png"></span></p><p>I am so happily surprised and grateful and overwhelmed by this result. I never dare allow myself to believe that I’m worthy of pulling off something like this. Yet here it is. (And for those who are long-time readers, you’re already familiar with my opinions about competitions and the kind of (limited) insight they can give you about dancing.) I recognize that competing is an extremely specific skill set, but it’s one I want to cultivate because it helps me get hired as a dance instructor. The results from PBEx are reassuring to me that I haven’t lost my edge despite my recent heavier focus on software engineering. It was a powerful moment of external validation: not necessary, but so freaking awesome to receive it.</p><p>Also, it is just so much fun to bring that energy and magic to the dance floor to inspire other people. We both received praise from non-dancer spectators, saying how wonderful it was to watch us dance together and how in sync we looked. I also received a number of touching and humbling compliments from fellow dancers and judges, all of which make me feel deeply grateful.</p><p>A few weeks ago while examining the next year of my life, I set an intention to affirm my presence as a dance teacher in the US. While extremely grateful for my success in Europe, it has come at the unfortunate cost of having lost a lot of awareness about me stateside. The phrase “out of sight, out of mind” definitely applies in the dance scene. Right now, I may be well loved and recognized by fellow instructors and friends, but I don’t have the kind of presence that gets organizers to reach out and hire me. With my new job allowing me to work remotely and providing an income stream to support participating in events without teaching, I see this next year as a great opportunity to train and compete. </p><p>I’d say my mission is off to an excellent start. Next up: Nocturne Blues.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-24020278716902336162015-06-22T09:42:00.000-07:002015-07-09T09:44:24.274-07:00Achieving a dream conceived two years ago.(This was a note I posted to Facebook, but putting it here as well for memory's sake.) <br />
<br />
Two years ago, I began a journey to teach myself programming, forming
a crazy dream to one day travel the world teaching dance on weekends
and working remotely during the week. <br />
Today, I am overwhelmed
with excitement (and a little nervousness) to announce the start of my
new job at Amazon Web Services, where I will be following exactly that
same dream.<br />
<br />
At AWS, I will be a Web Development Engineer II (i.e. mid-level) as a founding member of a new team within Kinesis. We are b<span class="text_exposed_show">uilding
a brand new feature to help users gain better insights into their
streaming data. I will be involved with the entire lifecycle, from
product brainstorming all the way through shipping. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
I'll be loosely based in Seattle
for the next couple months before once again living on the road more
consistently. It's really happening.<br />
<br />
-- Appreciations --<br />
<a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=219695" href="https://www.facebook.com/bobby.holley">Bobby</a>:
thank you, again, for that serendipitously timed conversation two years
ago when you encouraged me to start programming, convinced me that a CS
degree was unnecessary, and showed me a path to become a software
engineer.<br />
<a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=204295" href="https://www.facebook.com/leo.alekseyev">Leo</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1408097288" href="https://www.facebook.com/bistenes">Brandon</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1747674718" href="https://www.facebook.com/hugh.wimberly">Hugh</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=702702501" href="https://www.facebook.com/shawn.hershey">Shawn</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=13300930" href="https://www.facebook.com/mtauraso">Michael</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100004676020805" href="https://www.facebook.com/arlo.belshee">Arlo</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=662311753" href="https://www.facebook.com/jeremy.lightsmith">Jeremy</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=508363301" href="https://www.facebook.com/joachimhg">Joachim</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=22501909" href="https://www.facebook.com/ian.m.bone">Ian</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=504465723" href="https://www.facebook.com/stryder">Stryder</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=559477483" href="https://www.facebook.com/jkeroes">Joshua</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=31602372" href="https://www.facebook.com/david.shackelford">David</a>,
and countless others: thanks for the random bits of advice,
encouragement, or general geeking out about programming that helped me
along the way. Also, for the support to follow my dream and help me
believe that it would be possible.<br />
<a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=527305011" href="https://www.facebook.com/anoakie">Anoakie</a>:
thank you for the invaluable mentorship you have provided. Your immense
generosity has humbled me and I look forward to a chance when I can do
the same for others.<br />
Hack Reactor: thanks for a crazy intense
learning environment to round out my autodidactic approach and give me
the experience in web development to land this job.<br />
<a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1520650122" href="https://www.facebook.com/karim.kyler">Karim</a>, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=507289233" href="https://www.facebook.com/jake.obron">Jake</a>, and Ruben: thanks for being amazing teammates at Hack Reactor.<br />
<a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=33302454" href="https://www.facebook.com/sarah.schlossman">Sarah</a>:
you connected me to the opportunity, you convinced them to phone screen
me when I wasn't sufficiently compelling on paper, and you were my
champion and support buddy through the whole process. It is not
overstating it to say that I would not have this job without you. Thanks
so much.</div>
<br />Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-6245907862885471992015-05-31T09:46:00.000-07:002015-07-09T09:47:47.288-07:00Potential paths.[Note: this one is backlogged as well. Wrote it during my job search, I still find it interesting some I'm sharing it here.]<br />
<br />
The end of this week will mark one of the more significant and difficult decisions in my life: where to work.<br /><br />I've been so fortunate to have an unexpectedly successful job hunt. More details on that to come, because I find them interesting, but first I want to reflect upon the more pressing question: which company do I join? There are many to choose from, and each have their own strengths and represent a unique path in my life and career. <br /><br />While there are several different roads to follow, I think there's one obvious division: whether to go with a co-located job or a 100% remote job.<br /><br />I managed to find a completely distributed team, a small engineering team working together from around the world, that would give me the flexibility on geography and hours that I've always dreamed about. When I say "always dreamed about," I mean that this hypothetical situation was a big inspiration to take programming more seriously as a potential career path; it's hard to find engineering careers copacetic with a wanderer's lifestyle.<br /><br />Now that it's in my grasp, I find myself questioning the validity of that dream. Will I actually succeed in such a self-driven environment? Will I find myself lacking human contact? Will I be able to juggle the responsibilities of work with the challenges of being on the road? These are large questions to which I have no answers. When I'm feeling down, my responses are far more pessimistic.<br /><br />I waffle back and forth in my confidence about the suitability for remote work in the next stage of my life. Whether I want to keep living the way I am now, out of a suitcase, or whether I need to take a break and set down some roots. Living nomadically presents unique challenges, the most pressing of which is that the consequences can be much worse when you get swamped or overloaded. I've managed to generally avoid it (happily), but it's critical to be on top of where I am staying next. When on the road, I have to keep swimming hard to keep afloat, and I'm concerned that the new career will be enough that I lose my endurance. <br /><br />I suppose it would be possible to work remotely and still be based somewhere. That could make sense, although at that point I question if I'm better off just picking a location and sticking with it. I have lots of big dreams about being able to tour around the US and Europe. I could go to various cities and train with teaching partners, no longer limited by where I'm getting dance gigs. I could attend events around the country for the fun of it, to network and compete and train, without worrying about not working a dance event that weekend. It could be a new era of focusing on training and building my presence in the US. And of course, the flexibility to visit Europe is massively appealing as well. Given my objectives in dance, anything short of working 50% remote would not allow for enough time and flexibility.<br /><br />When I'm in a good mood, the choice seems clear: go with the remote gig. When I'm tired or underfed or under-cuddled or who knows what else, that certainty waivers. My mind is highly opinionated about whether I can handle it, and neither side seems to have won the debate.<br /><br />Aside from fears that I can't cut the tech-dancer-nomad life, there are two other considerations that draw me toward the other path.<br /><br />First, large brand-name corporations -- the kind that can gold-plate your resume -- don't accommodate remote work, so if I wanted a classic route through software engineering then I'll have to give up my hopes of traveling for some time. This consideration may not be a big deal; my achievements will speak for themselves, regardless of the company they are for. There may be some benefit to brand recognition, but it is not crucial to succeeding in the tech industry.<br /><br />The second consideration is that the sustainability startups that I've spoken with all are co-located and want to keep it that way. (Which is reasonable: hybrid teams are tough.) While the remote team has an excellent social mission to improve the world, it is not specifically in the domain of sustainability, something that has been my passion for eight years. When I started my job search, I hoped to find a company that would explore the intersection of software and sustainability. I have found a handful of said companies, all of which are fantastic, but suddenly I have reservations of joining on account of the remote work consideration. If I step away from the sustainability industry right now, will I ever be able to return to it? Will the increasingly divergent "story of my life" become too unwieldy to convince potential employers that I'm big on the sector? I recognize the mentality of lack here, but it's a tough one to shake. <br /><br />Every single opportunity is wonderful in its own right, so now I'm left struggling to choose between fantastic options. It may seem hard to believe that so much emotional angst could be generated from such a choice, but there you have it. This is not the first time I've experienced significant turmoil when choosing between two appealing paths. It probably won't be the last. These represent pivot points in my life, the kind of points that clearly indicate when my life became one thing and not another. I am in a world of constantly shifting ideas, balancing qualities, and huge uncertainties. Every hour brings a new consideration, a new conviction of what path to take. These life moments are very difficult for me to navigate.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-69595273885676313612015-03-31T08:57:00.000-07:002015-04-29T08:59:18.683-07:00Recovered at last.<p>[This is a backdated post, one I never got around to publishing.]</p><p>Two weeks ago, I finished Hack Reactor. Six days a week, 14 hrs a day, I lived and breathed code for a long, long time. I did little else -- feel behind on emails, on exercise, on reading, on journaling, on spending time with lovely people. I chose willingly to live out of balance for a period of time in order to grow immensely as a software engineer.</p><p>I'd say the gamble paid off. I'm able to build real stuff now. My job search starts in a month, but recruiters and contacts are already bookmarking the opportunity to interview. It's humbling and I'm deeply grateful for the positive job market -- such a shocking difference from my search as a construction engineer. I feel confident in my talents and ability, while equally excited for all the things I have yet to learn, the vast ways in which I can grow. </p><p>Immediately after graduation, I departed to Europe for another teaching tour. But before hitting the road in earnest, I spent a relaxing two weeks in Scotland with a dear partner. The time was exactly what I needed -- respite from my breakneck pace of life.</p><p>Even before HR, I was on the move constantly. I had been on a six-week tour of Europe right before heading to HR. The tour came on the coattails of a particularly inspiring (and consuming) internship with Carbon Lighthouse. Immediately before that, I had been on a three-month tour of Europe. My transitions from one life phase to another, as you can see, are generally non-existent. </p><p>While grateful for the fullness of my life, it does wear me down, particularly these past 6 months. Just no time to relax, to read a book, to have an entirely open schedule. This is mostly by design -- too much of the above makes me feel uninspired, even depressed. Like a shark, I have to keep swimming, even when asleep. </p><p>Happily, I got the perfect dose of rest in the past couple weeks. I read books, ate nothing but home-cooked meals (after three months of eating out twice a day), played badminton (a surprisingly popular sport in the UK), slept a lot, practiced yoga, did programming when I felt like it, cleaned out my inbox, and completed a slew of tasks that had been neglected for a long while. </p><p>I feel restored, reset, grounded once more. Clean and refreshed, I'm ready to take on the world. Good thing, too, because life is about to resume its usual intensity. </p><p>There was one tragic casualty during my time in Aberdeen. My travel mug broke from thermal shock (despite never having trouble before), the bottom popping cleanly off as I poured in boiling water. </p><p><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-X4_aXWuuo6E/VUD_1C7ZMcI/AAAAAAAABBQ/fQFda8m7OSU/unknown-2015-03-31-08-57.jpg" alt="unknown-2015-03-31-08-57.jpg"></p><p>My mug, a memento from a particularly meaningful event called the Chautauqua Retreat, has been with me on my adventures around the world. It has seen me become a full-time international dance instructor, caffeinated me through late nights of dancing and programming. It has been my wake-me-up black tea mug, my breathe-deeply jasmine green mug, my lets-get-silly whisky mug, my all-purpose water mug. But most importantly, it was a mug that reminded me of home, the home created by me existing in the hearts of wonderful people, my family, my tribe. </p><p>It is merely a Thing, and I've grown quite good at letting go of Things -- a necessity when you live in a suitcase -- but the few Things you always have with you gain even greater significance. They go with you through a lot. So the death of my mug was sad, even heart-breaking. </p><p>Happily, I can still carry Home with me, even without a focus symbol. So I move forward, on in my journey in life, walking along a path not frequented, designing my own life and loving the adventures I find myself on. And now, with my spirit fully restored and my body on the recovery, I am ready. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-4988333326891189132015-02-10T08:46:00.000-08:002015-02-10T08:48:28.300-08:00The calm before the storm.<p>Roughly five weeks to go. Life continues to move at a breakneck speed. Over the past two weeks I have build two full-stack webapps, learned a ton about project automation, practiced using tools that improve collaboration on a project, and cut my teeth on testing techniques. I've traveled to Portland and back, visiting friends and family. I've made a new résumé for the programming world and customized my website's template to include extra links about me. And those are just the high points.</p><p>The second half of the course is far less structured; as seniors we're mostly left to our own devices while the attention of staff shifts to the new crop of juniors. We're not totally abandoned, of course -- access to guidance and technical mentors remains the same -- but we don't have the same relentless pace of learning some specific new technology every two days. Our learning is now largely guided by our own choosing. The world is our oyster. </p><p>I've been thinking long and hard about ideas for the thesis project, the project that will occupy our attention and drive for the next four weeks. I want to do something innovative and useful, to solve a meaningful problem. (Then again, who doesn't?) I think it would be amazing to find a project at the interesting of building design and programming -- somehow incorporating Revit (the industry's de facto software for building modeling) perhaps. Or maybe take a more frivolous route and create an integration with my Myo armband, build an entirely new curated experience of interacting with the web. </p><p>We learn about our project teams for the first time today, we'll meet and begin hashing out project ideas. The choices of this week will weigh significantly on the direction and -- possibly -- success of our team. It will chart the course by which we will sprint for the next four weeks.</p><p>Right in the middle of it, I'll skip off to Seattle for the weekend to teach at Rain City Blues. I'm excited for the event -- had a wonderful time last year. It'll be a lot of work, as I'm skipping an entire day of HR, working through the weekend, and taking a redeye flight to make it back in time for Monday. For all the work it'll be, I have high hopes it will prove grounding as well, since I will be back in my community. Through the course of Hack Reactor, though it has been a mere 1.5 months, I am already feeling degrees of disconnect from the world of dance. It's surprising how quickly it seems possible to fade out from the scene.</p><p>After graduation from HR, I immediately return to Europe for another tour of six weeks. Copenhagen, Spain, and Stockholm. It'll be less intensive by design -- squeezing in a few weeks of break (which will likely still include a healthy dose of solo programming) will be a welcome restoration. I look forward to actually being a tourist for a bit.</p><p>Then it's back to the US to initiate my job search. The whole world is open to me. Maybe I'll find a dream job doing programming in the sustainability sector. Possibly I'll search along the west coast to find a gig that lets me work remotely. Maybe I'll broaden my search to include Europe. Right now there's a whole lot of unknowns that will dramatically shape my next (at least) couple years of life. That seems to be par for the course with my life, though. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-75760928052173213782015-02-03T18:02:00.000-08:002015-02-03T18:04:39.236-08:00Dealing with failure [redux].<p>The link I provided previously was incorrect -- copy fail! It’s now fixed.</p><p>I wrote (what turned out to be) a short essay about an experience at Hack Reactor. It was an emotionally powerful experience, one that shook me up but ultimately proved valuable. Hope you enjoy it.</p><p><a href="http://www.andrewsouthpaw.com/2015/02/02/dealing-with-failure/">Dealing with failure</a>.</p><p>Thoughts and discussions welcome as always.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-28984340561250406562015-01-26T20:59:00.000-08:002015-01-26T21:00:08.161-08:00Desiderata.<p>By Max Ehrmann.</p><p>Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.</p><p>As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.</p><p>Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,</p><p>even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.</p><p>Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.</p><p>If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,</p><p>for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.</p><p>Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.</p><p>Keep interested in your own career, however humble;</p><p>it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.</p><p>Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.</p><p>But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;</p><p>many persons strive for high ideals,</p><p>and everywhere life is full of heroism.</p><p>Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;</p><p>for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.</p><p>Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.</p><p>Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.</p><p>But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.</p><p>Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.</p><p>Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.</p><p>You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;</p><p>you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you,</p><p>no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.</p><p>Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.</p><p>And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,</p><p>keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,</p><p>it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.</p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1296650387080062866.post-45024383681986822432014-12-29T08:52:00.000-08:002014-12-31T08:54:21.479-08:00Accelerating the visualizations project.<p>Remember that project on visualizing data structures and algorithms I mentioned from earlier today? Yeah, it's getting real. </p><p>After blazing through the core requirements for our sprint on AJAX, XSS guarding, and jQuery, my pair partner and I placed on hold the eventual refactor into Backbone that we'll commence tomorrow. We've both done the Backbone tutorials on CodeSchool, so it should progress quickly as well. </p><p>Finding ourselves with "free time" around 9:30pm, I rounded up my partner-in-crime for the data visualizations project for a kickoff meeting. In the process, I roped in my pair partner for the current sprint, because he was hanging around, seems vaguely interested, and is a really intelligent and capable coder. It was fun playing the role of networker and team recruiter. </p><p>Our first meeting last night went better than I could've hoped. We spent the entire hour discussing our personal goals and motivations for the project, which led into establishing a mission statement. We have a fairly clear understanding of the project's scope and intention, about which we can organize and rally. Such discussions often strike (less wise?) people as unnecessary and a waste of time, but I genuinely think these early conversations can make or break a project. Clear mission can prove invaluable to motivating a team. I'm so glad that others valued it equally, as evidenced by the sincerity with which they engaged in the conversation. We didn't settle for an "-ish" mission statement -- we wanted to know exactly our goals. </p><p>I'm feeling very excited about this project. It will not simply be a random collection of notes and thoughts. It will deliver high-quality learning tools for understanding fundamental building blocks of CS: data structures and algorithms. We are building something to show to potential employers with pride, and to share with the broader community to improve learning. In the process, we will develop mastery of the topics we feature. </p><p>I'm impressed it took so little time to settle upon an interesting pet project idea, one that has great potential. I'm so glad that I could recruit a couple others to my project, because I'm genuinely interested in it and am so happy that others are too. There's something gratifying about watching others get on board with your project idea, or at least with your leadership -- the last part is to acknowledge the idea's invariable morphing upon the inclusion of others. This happened once before -- at Stanford with Engineers for a Sustainable World. It's been a while since I was in a project leader role, and it feels good to be back. We'll see if that role remains necessary, but at the least I'm happy to provide the initial leadership. </p><p>Maybe one day it may become a monetizable idea, or it may not; either way, we are committing to creating high-grade professional code. Building a better quality product is good for us -- it feels good to take pride in what you build -- and good for our bottom line -- be it as a portfolio piece or a monetizable website. </p><p>I had to drag myself away from the building at 10:45pm, acknowledging the 60-minute commute that awaited me (night trips generally take longer). All I wanted to do was delve into the finer points of project architecture, our next steps in development, and setting up the scaffolding that will support our collaboration. My mind is alight with excitement. I hope I'll be able to sleep. </p>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05908032612623820029noreply@blogger.com0