Building a Road in Jamaica
And so I have to wonder if life is less about walking a road and more about building one. I wonder if it matters less how far we’ve been and how much we’ve seen.
And so I have to wonder if life is less about walking a road and more about building one. I wonder if it matters less how far we’ve been and how much we’ve seen.
Sometimes I Google search Emma Watson, just to, you know, stay in touch. She’s this contemplative introvert who values privacy, thrust into a world of celebrity.
Like I said, I worry a lot. My husband tells me that about 50 percent of the time that I feel bad about something, I shouldn’t. Our honeymoon was no exception.
I went to Paris and sat on the grass in a park outside the Tuileries. I ate cold salty ham and creamy brie on a baguette that tasted like bread is supposed to taste.
I fill the silence with keyboard tapping, clicking on links that ask me to write a new cover letter, tweak my resume, and fill in my name, my education, my credentials.
I thought of Cairo, of the refugee kids I met, the illiterate mothers, the desperately poor. And I stopped her to ask earnestly, “Where do you find hope?”
They’re as excited about America as we are about Europe. We want to see the Alps; they want to see the Rocky Mountains. We want to take a train; they want to road trip.
I already am super weird about being on time, and a lot of my friends seem to view a deadline as more of a suggestion, rather than a hard fact.
It’s natural to want to fill your life. But in a life-long attempt to fill my soul with the “right” things, I have recently become fond of silence and stillness.
I got naked with a bunch of old men and tried to figure out how to wash my booty without insulting anyone, and that pretty much sums up my trip to Japan.