Why Comment?

I was reading a blog I really like a few moments ago and on one of the posts a person called Beatrice had commented "I can't stand the way you rant on...". And I wonder why Beatrice continues to read the blog? Surely if you come across a blog you don't like, where you think the author is always ranting on, you stop reading it? From the way the comment is written, it sounds like the reader is familiar with the blog and keeps reading it.

The interesting thing is that it sparked a debate amongst the readers regarding Beatrice's comment and one of them even wrote "If I had a name like Beatrice I'd be pissed off too!" which is kind of funny, but doesn't really move the debate forward. Some of the readers jump to the defence of the blogger and then one reader asks why the other readers always defend her, it annoys him and he also says Beatrice's comment is unproductive. And then this same guy makes a comment:

"I have also sensed someone who has a somewhat ‘teaching/lecturing’ style in this blog. I felt frustrated and annoyed, maybe why I left the blog for a time. Then I realised I did the same thing……….my ego loved to lecture/impart my wisdom on whomever I could because of the journey I had chosen. The point is, it was something in me. Thanks for helping me explore that."

I found his comment rather annoying! Because he couches his comment in such a way that it appears it's about his own learning but actually he's having quite a dig at the blogger for her "lecturing style" which is "unproductive". So he's doing exactly what Beatrice did, in a sneakier way.

One positive comment that moved me was this: "It sounds ridiculous, but when I read your posts, I feel like I’ve been given a voice." For me that is very powerful. I like blogs that make me feel I've been given a voice, or that the things I want to voice are OK. A friend said to me this weekend "oh I don't have time to read blogs" which irked me. You can't lump "blogs" in some category like "books". Imagine saying "oh books are silly and a waste of time". Sure there are millions of ridiculous blogs out there, and demeaning ones and hateful ones and stupid ones, but that's just a fact of life. We're smart enough to sift through and find the blogs that make us better people, more compassionate, more courageous, more informed people, who are able to make a difference in the lives of those around them.

I'm pondering this notion we have, which I started this post by being clear on, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all". Now I'm not so sure. Healthy debate is a good thing. It's what democracies thrive on, it's what South Africa so sorely lacks. Differences of opinion are a vital part of being human and becoming conscious and realising we have the right to disagree with others. My gripe has always been, for heaven's sake inform yourself enough so that you understand the issues BEFORE you state your opinion. I struggled with this so much when teaching students who are so quick to have an opinion, without understanding any of the issues. I asked a class whether they thought the death penalty was a good or bad idea and they were quick to venture an opinion, then I told them to go read S v Petersen, the Constitutional Court judgment that deals at length with all the arguments. Only after reading this, understanding the "deterrent argument" the "costs" argument, the "God" argument, can one venture an informed opinion. All I asked was that they actually engage, on a deeper level, with the pros and cons.

But I guess there's a balance. It would be awful if no one ventured an opinion because "they didn't know enough". Sometimes we feel strongly about things without understanding them and I guess that's OK. I know I'm contradicting myself here. Somewhere we have to find a balance between taking a stand, perhaps before we know all the facts (if you see a man hit a woman on a sidewalk, I think you jump in, even if you don't have all the facts, but that's me) and becoming informed. I will admit that I am quick to have an opinion on many issues that I know nothing about! But I'm also quick to read more, learn more and change my opinion at a later stage.

To me it is fundamentally important that we are willing to change our stance when the information we have learned improves our ability to think through the issue. There is, in my opinion, nothing worse than a closed mind. Like a person who once said to me "I'm afraid to read that book because it might make me change my mind". Now that, is truly scary.

You can read the post I'm talking about, and all the comments, here.

The Dirty Plate/ Gender Reconciliation

I spent both days of the weekend at a gender reconciliation workshop. It will take me a while to work out what I think about it. There were stories that were deeply moving, of poverty, injustice, hardship, fear, uncertainty, failed relationships, inadequate parenting, sexual violence...the list is long, the pain is deep.

While not necessarily indicative of the weekend's work, below is one thing a woman said. It took me by surprise in it's brevity and clarity. It struck a chord.

When I find the plate that you haven’t put in the dishwasher, I am annoyed.

We talk and sort it out.

The next time I find the plate that you haven’t put in the dishwasher, I am hurt.

We talk and sort it out.

The next time I find the plate that you haven’t put in the dishwasher, I am angry.

We talk and sort it out. You start putting a lot of plates in the dishwasher, for quite some time.

The next time I find the plate that you haven’t put in the dishwasher, I withdraw.

You wonder why.

The next time I find the plate that you haven’t put in the dishwasher, you have lost me.

You don’t know why. Neither of us knows what the plate stands for anymore.

It's that simple. Or perhaps it's that complicated.

Total Recall or not really any at all

After 4 flights and one set of clothing for 31 hours a bath is no longer just a luxury but a necessity. Armed with a bunch of French trash mags and chocolate, I retreat to a wonderfully hot bath until I'm a wrinkly prune. But as I get in I bang my head on the side until I recall I usually lie on the other side. "Can I possibly be that dumb that I forget how to take a bath in my own bathroom?" I ponder as I settle myself. Every time I go on holiday I come back unable to recall where I put my house keys, what my bank codes are and what I normally do in the mornings. I'm just trusting after a strong coffee I'll figure it all out tomorrow. (I think I'm supposed to be a lawyer, but I'm still working it out. The problem is that I don't think I was sure before the holiday either. mmm. )

I wonder if everyone is this odd or just me. Then again, a few weeks ago I drove to my office the wrong way when I was thinking about something and just a few minutes later, having remembered where I worked and laughed at myself, I went and parked in the wrong place, while on the phone to someone and it wasn't until my colleague walked past the car window looking puzzled that I realised where I was. Maybe I am just that scatterbrained. Yet in other respects I honestly have a super memory. I can tell you at what point in the road he first told me he loved me on a long drive and then every point either of us made during a subsequent long drive which turned into an argument, and I can even describe the landmarks we were passing at the time. I can recite the list of French adjectives that come BEFORE and not after the noun, to the tune of "twinkle, twinkle little star" and all sorts of other trivia. I just can't recall which end of my own bathtub to use, apparently.

PS Aren't I looking brown and slim after my holiday? Ok, I'll admit that is not really me in the photo, having miraculously balanced my camera on the loo using the self-timer function. My arms have never looked like brown twiglets in all their lives. Mine are more Madonna-ish, but without the veins. Lying in the bath I see that unfortunately my legs are not long and lean and caramel brown after my holiday. In fact the only sign these legs were in France is the Tour de France tan, which is not tres sexy. It was only one bloody ride that I forgot the cream on my legs. Ah bon, by the time I get to bare my thighs in public again, the lines will have faded and everyone will have forgotten who was in the Tour apart from the Yellow Jersey winner. Time to go and sleep in my own bed. If I can remember what side I sleep on! Sadly I will be alone for 2 more sleeps until he of the punctured blow up pillow is home again. Bonne nuit.

The Joy of Turbulence

Helas! As they say in France, the holiday is over. I embark on a journey I have made often, only this time with a few twists and turns...In London I am offered lots of money to stay an extra night as the plane is overbooked! "Pick me, pick me!" I shout and put my name on the list and wander off to eat dinner, mentally planning how to spend the money on 15 different things: clothes, a handbag, another holiday, paying off this holiday on the credit card or paying next month's rent. Some options are more exciting than others. But just as I'm ready to collect my dosh and text all the London friends I didn't get to see this time around that I've got another day in Londinium (as they used to call it long long ago) they tell me to board - immediately. "No duty free shopping?" I exclaim and they say "No, run straight to the plane, but here we will give you a voucher to spend on board." It turns out to be for ten pounds.

Not only does this not go very far towards the ipad I'd like or the sunglasses or even the perfume but my sleeping tablet kicks in before they come round with the duty free trolley so I miss the onboard shopping altogether. Ah well, I'm broke anyway, but would have still liked the little tweezers with a built in light that looked very useful and gadgety and were only 12.50. Suppose my life will not be much the poorer without them.

I am armed with my super sleeping kit (which I bring with me as they don't give much away in my section of the plane) eye mask and socks, earplugs, sleeping tablet, lip-ice, pashmina and 3 blow up pillows and lovely soothing meditation music. The pashmina you wrap around the pillow so it doesn't cut into your neck, and the lip-ice you try to remember to put on AFTER blowing up the pillow otherwise the mouth bit is all greasy and slidey and it becomes quite impossible. Yes, I did the lip-ice thing again this time. And the spare pillows can be tucked between you and the window and used when it turns out one has a hole. Or for your partner if his has a hole. (however if he's on a different plane, as it turns out, this doesn't really work)

Although I was in the aisle seat, I managed to knock myself out shortly after dinner was served so the poor sumo wrestlers next to me had quite a job getting to the loo but I do vaguely recall a spaced-out conversation with me standing in the aisle at 2 or 3am.

Only in Joburg once again, the home of the white shellsuit tracksuit with furry collar and flipflops (I counted at least 5 people wearing this outfit in my 3 hrs there), did the fun and games begin. The airport staff were so busy pilfering people's luggage, including removing the padlock from my locked suitcase, that the luggage took about 45 mins to arrive which meant I missed my connecting flight. I stood around on standby again, like last night, and then finally was told I'd made the grade and I should run for the plane. Fifteen minutes after a bumpy takeoff, the pilot said the cargo door had popped open and we needed to return to Joburg. That was the co-pilot I think, the main pilot came on a bit later and said it was just a "technical issue with the door sensor but aviation rules dictate we must return." Except we had too much fuel on board to land and must "jettison one tonne of fuel". Crikey. I was already green from the low altitude turbulence and it didn't sound good. I spent the next 45 minutes hurling into vomit bags as we circled furiously around the brown nothingness near Joburg, while trying to be deeply funny about it, because if there is one thing worse than a passenger barfing beside you, it's one who is barfing and crying for her mother. I went through four bags and had everyone around me in stitches as they passed over theirs. My neighbour suggested 10 bags might be the record and I should keep going. Thank you for small mercies.

I hate small planes but do believe their use is justified when they are delivering you to a tropical island for a holiday. When they deliver you back to the same stupid place you came from and were trying to leave, minus your breakfast, it's just a waste of everyone's time and effort.

31 hours door to door and here I am, home sweet home. I had my lovely nephews and baby niece to greet me and my sister had put all the lights and heaters on. Returning to a dark and cold house after a summer holiday can be a little too reminiscent of being ripped from the womb. I hug my nephews and inhale the gorgeousness of baby head smell and think how nice it is to have children to return home to after a holiday. Pity this scenario is not really possible if they're your own.

Huez brave enough to ride it?

This is the most intimidating climb in the Tour de France. It is classified as HC which stands for "Holy Cow!" which is what the riders say when they see it. No, not really, it stands for Hors Categorie which means "beyond category". There are some more photos of it here: http://www.grenoblecycling.com/Col-AlpedHuez.htm They didn't include this in the Tour in 2009 and 2010 so everyone's excited about the fact it is included again this year. Well the spectators are excited and the riders who wear spotty jerseys de temps en temps are, the riders who haven't learned how to take drugs and not get caught, not so much. So anyway, they'll be riding this on Friday 22 July which should be fun to watch! Unfortunately I may have the small inconvenience of a career to attend to once I'm home again but I'll be sure to check the Alpe D'Huez even if it's just on Youtube later. (by the way you pronounce it Ulp Doo -ez...which is why my title for this post is funny).

So I looked at this crazy mountain pass and then I remembered I had ridden it not that long ago! Ok, well, it wasn't actually Alpe D'Huez but it was pretty damn close. I did my first and last crazy mountain time trial ride that nearly brought me to my knees near the end of last year, called Jonaskop. I have written about it here. (Note to self find link). And when I compared the two, guess what!!!

Statistics:

Alpe d'Huez.
Length: 14.5km
Height Gained: 1150 metres
Average Gradient 8%

Jonaskop:
Length 15 km
Height gained: 1200m
Average gradient: 8%

Wow. So I investigated a little further:

Alpe D’Huez:
According to the local tourist office, the record for the climb is 37 minutes 35 seconds set by Marco Pantani in 1995. However, other sources such as CyclingNews suggest the record was set in 1994 when Pantani climbed it in 36’40″

Jonaskop: fastest time in 2010 was 1h02 (Carl Pasio). Slowest time: ME! At 2h30 mins

So according to my calculations (which are sometimes suspect) Marco Pantani was climbing at 24km/hr and I was riding that mountain at 6km/hr. mmm. But in my defence I was on a mountain bike on tar and actually got off the bike at least 15 times, when I sunk to my knees to ask God when it would be over, then tried to walk until I realised it was less painful to ride. So the Tour de France guys are only riding 4 x as fast as I could before I ever developed any cycling muscles at all! I won the coveted toilet seat award for the slowest rider. It was good for my ego to come last at something, for the first time , although it won't be the last.

On Friday when I watch them ride Alpe D'Huez at least I will have some idea what it is like to feel your lungs burning as the hill just keeps on coming and coming and coming....Bonne Chance!

What a prick!

I'm working on my French, I'm just lazy. But now that my dad's asked me to move heavy furniture about the house I'm concentrating on the editor's letter in some cheap French mag. But mon dieu, it is tres difficile to make head or tail of this! The editor is clearly saying something about the summer season, and it being the period of "maxi glande" but what the hell is this? A maxi gland? At lunch I ask my mum who tells me to get the dictionary down which I do. And next to "gland" it says "acorn" or "tassle" and quel gland means "what a prick!". Oh, how hilarious! A little acorn really is the perfect word!

I need expressions like this as I studied French literature and often find I'm lacking daily vocab. How often do I need to say things like "there are four alliterative words in the first line of this poem" when I'm shopping in France? "What a prick!" is far more useful. My dad likes it too and so my mum, my dad and me fall about laughing while we practice saying "Quel gland!" in various imagined scenarios.

After lunch I try and google "la periode de maxi glande" and guess what? The amazing Google people translate it all for me: here it is, verbatim, not that it really helps but it is pretty funny:

We are on July 1, start of the period of maximum gland which all French will benefit a little sense jusqu'au31 August, he is officially on vacation or not. The sand is less than marks on the cheek as the computer keyboard, but the principle of a nap during the day to go out all night is the same.
Yesterday, however, the triple world champion m'enfoutisme summer almost put his title due to a new iPhone app: Potential Model, which analyzes your photo and your measurements and tells you if you can do Kate Moss as business. I want to be supermodel? No. I honestly thought that I could be top model? No. I had other things to do between 11 hours and 16 hours? Ask my boss. Do I download this app? Of course. And I felt my brain slide down my spine while I filled the fields (name, age, height, weight ...), before taking, OK hundred and sixty-seven pictures, and send everything. Verdict: "average" - "blah", in VF. And again, I said I was 13 and measured 1.80 m 50 kg.
App asked me if I wanted to share this result on Facebook and Twitter and send it to a modeling agency (heu. .. right?). This is where I thought it was time to drop out.
This summer I n'updaterai not my Facebook status with every bite of bread bagnat, nor comment on any post of my six hundred virtual Sami, even the three that I know in real life. I will do something crazy quiconsiste to open his mouth rather than the flip of the phone when you want to talk to people. In addition, it will save me a dislocated right thumb and the tan lines on the abdomen Aug. 31. My phone and I are going to take a break: I was 3.0, it will be the RealLife, I swear on the head of Steve Jobs.

Cheesecake

I bake like a 5 year old. With glee and abandon, no care for precise measurements and getting stuff all over my face. Well who's to know that if you stick an electric beater thing in a bowl full of cream cheese mixture that it's going to splash up in the air very fast? Now there's cream cheese mixture on the coffee machine, on the walls and on my face. But mmm, it's quite yummy. It calls for an 18cm cake dish. Wonder how big that is and try and count approximately 18cm with my fingers. That'll do. Except when I stick the biscuit crumbs in the dish they make a small puddle in the middle. This won't do at all. Maybe it's because I ate some of the crumbly biscuit mixture with butter drizzled on it? (Reminder to self: try new French cellulite patches that mum bought yesterday. I wonder if wearing them while licking a buttery bowl of biscuit crumbs could possibly have any beneficial effect?)

I find a new cake dish, although I've already smeared the other one with butter, but no greaseproof paper because I don't have any, and it's silly. Who needs greaseproof paper? Recipe calls for 300g ricotta and 200g cream cheese. Except the ricotta comes in a 400g tub and the cream cheese in a 300g tub, there's no point in leaving a bit behind that no one will eat. So let's just make that 400g ricotta, yip, that's like a quarter more, yay, my maths is really good so let's make all the ingredients one quarter more...so 200g cream cheese is 250g, oh well fuggit, I'll just put in 300g. No point in wasting 50g.

Lemons. Oh shit I forgot to buy any. Right, there are 2 half lemons in the fridge, I squeeze them and manage to get the juice out. Now recipe calls for lemon zest. Shit. Shit. Shit. I now have to zest the lemons I have already squeezed. They're juicy, and squashed flat and not co-operating but I am determined. I manage to stab a lemon half with a fork to hold it still while I zest away with the other hand. It takes about half an hour to get a tablespoon of zest. I add the zest of an orange to make up the difference. Well who says it can't be "orange and lemon cheesecake" that's much more original. Looking chuffed with myself I think "I'm so Jamie Oliver with my insouciant approach to cooking!" (Ok, that is a slightly pompous I-know-how-to-use-big-words sort of word" but it's a good one and it's French which is where I am right now...so excusez-moi. It means "without worry" or "carefree" if you didn't know).

Bung cheesecake into oven and stand there looking pleased with myself. I think this is what I enjoy most about baking: licking the bowl and standing in front of the oven feeling pleased with myself.

Right, off to find the cellulite patches before I eat the cheesecake. I suppose apart from my brilliant maths ability, the swearing and the cellulite patches, I can say I bake like a five year old.

The Way Forward

I just stumbled across an old Youtube clip of a 12 year old who rocked the Earth Summit in 1992. The 2 lines that stuck with me are:

If you don't know how to fix it, stop breaking it.

and

Parents should be able to comfort their children by saying, "it's not the end of the world, we're doing the best we can". But they can't.

http://criticaldocs.wordpress.com/2008/06/04/twelve-year-old-severn-suzuki-speaking-at-the-un-earth-summit-1992/

It's 6 minutes. You can watch it or read the transcript on that site. I suggest watching it.

The truth is we are very far from doing the best we can. I know I'm not doing the best I can every time I leave the tap running until I get hot water, or bathe in litres of water for only a few minutes, or throw stuff in the bin instead of the recycling because it's such a mission to clean it. The old recycling company I was using, stopped collecting certain items and now I have to find a new one. I also have to find out which companies are actually reputable because 3 years ago when I accidentally had an important certificate tossed into the recycling (the one proving I'd walked the Cammino di Santiago in its entirety) and I went driving around to find out where they'd dumped the stuff - I found to my horror that the company had no idea where the driver took the recycling! Basically the driver just collected stuff and took it wherever he liked. The guy running the municipal dumping site was drunk out of his mind (it was a Saturday morning) and the recycling company was just slightly apologetic about their driver. Whew. Eye opener.

A friend recently, when I asked if he recycled when we were tidying his kitchen, said "they need to make it easier for us to recycle". I know what he means, in South Africa it is still unnecessarily tricky to find a reputable company that collects everything recyclable and takes it to the right places. But who is THEY? The government doesn't really give a shit. Apart, that is, from the few people tasked with such issues who I don't believe are given the budget or authority to make much of an inroad. The problem with all this stuff is that there is no THEY. There is only us.

Some countries are getting it right I think, while admitting I know very little about this - Spain has recycling bins every few metres. But in France it doesn't seem to have caught on - yesterday in a Provencal market when I tried to insist the stall owners did not give me plastic bags as I had a large carrier to put all my things in, they were horrified and insisted I took their plastic bags anyway. What for?

I waste water.
I eat loads of protein which I know uses up a lot of planetary resources.
I don't always recycle everything.
I don't enquire into the practices of the companies I buy from.
I leave lights and electronic appliances on unnecessarily.
I keep buying clothes I don't really need.
I eat sushi without always checking whether the fish is from sustainable sources.
I have piles of electronic goods I don't use anymore, broken cameras, old computer bits and speakers and plug ins and printers.
I admit that more often than not, I am an unconscious consumer. (buying free range eggs and using organic paraben-free shampoo is not sufficient for me to claim otherwise)

I am guilty.

I wonder what it will take for me to stop feeling guilty (which indicates my awareness but doesn't change anything at all) and actually change my behaviour, so that I can honestly say, I am doing everything I can.

Learn a new skill

In the last 48 hrs I have learned a new skill, its utility may be debated, but nonetheless there must be some value in understanding what's happening in the Tour de France, especially as I'm in France right now. I read my dad's 2011 Tour de France magazine, and then I read the 60 page book that came with it "Tales from Le Tour: Memoirs of the men who made history in the world's most famous cycling race" which has a chapter from 3 different memoirs. I liked the first one a lot, by Laurent Fignon, who's always remembered as the guy that lost the Tour to Greg Lemond by 8 seconds in 1989. His book starts:

"Ah, I remember you, you're the guy who lost the Tour de France by 8 seconds!"
"No, monsieur, I'm the guy who won the tour twice."

I'm not sure I'd want to read the whole of each of these memoirs but these 3 chapters have definitely given me some insight into the trials and tribulations of the Tour. And today, I watched it for about 2 hours and started getting into it because it made more sense to me. Well, a bit more sense. I'm still skeptical: too much testosterone, too much lycra, too far, too many drugs to make it deeply meaningful. I get this feeling about many sports, whether it's football or cycling or wrestling, when I see the millions spent on it, the hours and hours of energy expended on it by participants and spectatators and sponsors alike - why are we doing this? Why not expend this energy saving the planet? Building houses for the homeless? Teaching orphans skills? That said, I do a fair amount of exercise myself so I'm not saying I've got it sorted. I could have done a lot of planet saving or litter collecting or orphan hugging in the 11 hours a week I spent training for the mountainbike race I did in May. But I do question it, that's all. I did wonder when I was spending so much time riding my bike in training for Sani2c whether it was really a good use of my time here on the planet. Sure it was beautiful out there in the forest with the eagles soaring over me and the smell of pine under my tyres, but is that enough to justify my doing it? I learned a lot about myself I think, and put myself in a position where I changed my understanding of what is possible for me. That I do believe is valuable. I think this understanding may help me, one day, make a greater contribution to the world. As always, I may be over-analysing this.

So when it comes to these cycling greats who have to take drugs to keep up as the pace gets ever faster, is this really a good thing? Why is there outrage when someone is simply unlucky enough to be caught doping? They all do it. Paul Kimmage wrote in his journal in 1986 about the Tour that LeMond had a bad bout of diarrhoea but kept riding, surrounded by his domestiques, with shit rolling down his legs. He carried on riding because he knew he could win. And he did, the first American to win le Tour. But it's kind of sad that we applaud and reward this behaviour. Society is a little nuts.

I loved this quote by Mark Cavendish, a British cyclist (from the Isle of Man) who's won a bunch of stages in this Tour de France already and is in the running to win it this year, talking about his self-belief:

"There's that little thing in your head that says 'if this happens now, I'm fucked'. Well I don't have that."

Well I do! When I ride down a mountain, every descent I'm thinking "I'm fucked!". Every time I lose my balance and feel the wheels slide out I think "I'm fucked" and every time I look at my speedo and realise I'm going over 60kms an hour with nothing between my precious body and some rocky terrain except a helmet covering only top of my head, I think "If I come off now, I'm fucked".

And I guess this thinking, along with the fact I believe dedicating one's life purely to riding up the highest mountains faster than anyone else is self-indulgent, is why I shall never be a professional cyclist. But I'm going to watch the Tour again tomorrow and think a bit more!

I think about my terror when I'm riding my mountainbike. This is just one of the many reasons that I will never be a professional

Beating Around the Bush

Bush admitted in an interview discussing his giving up alcohol that:

"being the sober guy made me realise how mindless I sounded when I was drunk".

La Belle Provence

I eat and eat, ripe cheeses and white bread and plump cherries and nougat and icecream and buttery sauces with tender white fish and asparagus dripping in hollandaise and filet dipped in bearnaise...and if I eat like this I also need to run. So I run and I run, past this beautiful chateau in the picture above, and past the wheatfields and past the cherry trees. It's so hot I run late at night, well after 7pm, when the air is slightly cooler and the tarmac is just breathing out gently its sun-soaked warmth from the day. I think about the Mary Poppins film where they jump in and out of paintings because I feel here like I'm running in a Van Gogh painting - Wheatfield with Crows or Haystacks in Provence. It's hilly country, every village is on top of a hill, so my calves ache and my lungs burn but I am surrounded by such beauty I consider it a luxury to be able to run here.

Vacances, vacances, j'adore la Provence

I'm a very lucky girl. I get to hang out here every summer. There is so much to say about Provence but I'm not writing a travel brochure. Just acknowledging my gratitude that this is a place I know and love and am able to spend time in.

I haven't wanted to spend much time on the computer, it seems such a waste when there is this scenery to enjoy. But I want to capture a little of it while I'm still here, before I go home to winter rain. I want to take these vast vistas of sunshine and cicadas, cherry trees, wheatfields and cypress-bordered fields that run as far as the eye can see, and store them up inside my happy place.

One of my new discoveries, well possibly not new, but it's the first time I've been able to articulate the idea, is that these vast expenses of space create space in my mind. I can think better here, think further and deeper. Oh, I do love to think. It is a wonderful thing to feel my mind stretching in new directions. Much of my thinking these last few days stems from Power & Love by Adam Kahane about solving tough social and organizational problems. One of the concepts that resonated strongly with me is that I want to put myself in situations that change my understanding of what is possible in the world and those that change my understanding of what is possible for me. Mmmm. I'm going to write that big so I can ponder it some more:

I WANT TO PUT MYSELF IN SITUATIONS THAT CHANGE MY UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT IS POSSIBLE IN THE WORLD AND THOSE THAT CHANGE MY UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT IS POSSIBLE FOR ME.