The Day I Enjoyed Jury Duty

If you live in a country where it is your duty to serve on a jury, than you probably already groaned as you read my title.

The thing is, serving jury duty, is more than a duty.  It is an honor and a privilege.

I am the last person who you will normally find lauding America’s justice system, especially due to my own experiences seeking justice for my pain and suffering following being the victim of a hit and run.  However, there are many countries in which people do not have the right to a fair trial, or a jury of their peers, where one person is in charge of deciding the fate of another, and I believe that is not just.

I am proud to be able to serve on a jury, and help someone who needs an objective opinion to deliver appropriate justice.  After all, as I believe so many forget, I would want the same.  So when I was called to serve, I was happy that I was finally able.  When I was first called, I was unable to sit for long periods of time, especially on hard surfaces, due to my injuries from being hit by the car.  I had to put off my duty several times, with a medical excuse written by my doctor, until I was physically able to serve.

It’s not that I am some saint, and enthusiastically sat around for hours waiting to maybe be called onto a jury.  I was bored at times like everyone else, and found the orientation video just as hokey.  Although, I was able to appreciate a forced day where nothing could get done except sitting in that room waiting to be called, and I took advantage by using the time for writing.

Since jury duty is random, people of all ages, ethnicities and walks of life come together in one room.  It is a strange thing, seeing a thick man with tattoos all over his neck and arms, next to a petite, elderly asian woman, both simply reading.  Despite the announcement of the woman in charge of our orientation and calling our names should we be chosen to become part of the official jury pool for a case, a few people, still felt the need to conduct private business calls in front of the entire room, instead of stepping outside.  I know that one woman is concerned about someone killing themselves, and thinks they should be moved to a facility.  I know that one man likes to conduct business loudly, and rudely, yelling at those low on the totem pole, and demeaning them in their jobs while demanding unwarranted refunds on flights that he mistakenly booked.

Despite these distractions, I kept typing away on my keyboard, noticing that my clacking was echoed by the woman sitting across from me.  I looked up, realizing that I had noticed her already, out of the hundreds of other people on our way in to the security line in the morning.  There was something about her vibe, her clothing, her demeanor, that I identified with.  Falling back into my writing, I didn’t notice that she had relocated, but shortly before lunch, I had to move to plug in my laptop.  I mumbled an “excuse me,” as I kneeled by her feet to plug in my chord next to hers.

Earlier, I had admired her sleek, understated backpack, that was actually a laptop case, so I decided to ask her where she got it.  After she told me, she complimented me on my system of using a carabiner to group my belongings together.  I thanked her, briskly mentioning that it was due to my climbing experience that I always used carabiners, and this led her to asking me if I had ever climbed Mt. Whitney.

This question made me pause, and I looked at her, smiling as if she would already understand why the questions was surprising in this moment.  Only ten minutes before, we had been typing across from one another when my cousin had texted me asking the very same question, and if I could share my tips and experience with her.  I informed this woman of this coincidence, and went on to tell her my experience.  She had to excuse herself to lunch with a friend, but asked if she could inquire more upon her return.

She arrived back from lunch just as I was pondering whether I smelled of the garlic I had on my veggies at lunch, thinking that it was impolite to have had so much garlic in a stuffy, crowded room.  As she sat down, she began to apologize, in case she smelled like Fajitas from lunch.  These seem like small details, but it serves to show how similar we are as people, and the subtle moments that made up a day that felt as if it was fate for us to meet.

When she sat down, she asked me where I liked to hike locally.  Since it had been over a year since I had been able to hike, it took me a little while to think.  I didn’t want to come right out and tell her what had happened to me, because part of moving on is not talking about it all the time.  I ended up telling her of some fire roads that my boyfriend likes to bike, and I could see a shift in her eyes as she said that she wanted to get back into biking.  “I have to get back on the horse, as they say.”  It was words I had uttered myself when trying to find a way to express to strangers what had happened to me.  I watched as her eyes betrayed that her mind was flashing to some traumatic event.

It was as if I knew before I asked, “why, what happened?”  She told me that she had been in a bike accident.  I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, with a slight chuckle of disbelief, “you’re kidding, right?”  Things got more surreal when I found out her accident was  during the same month as my trauma.  We both could understand the pain and the journey of healing of the other person so well!  I could not believe as we shared our stories, and reviewed our injuries, how similar the lasting effects of the traumas are.  It felt as if the world had always intended for us to experience these events and to meet one another.

In order for us to meet, we had to both have been chosen and able to serve jury duty that day.  We both had to be not chosen for the official jury pool for the case being heard that day, and we both had to notice details and be drawn to the other in order to meet.  In fact, as we sat, in awe of our serendipitous encounter, I told her how I had noticed her, and her awesome backpack, and she shared that she had noticed me and my Swiss laptop case.  She had been in Switzerland when she had her bike accident, and it is only now that I fully recognize the weight of that symbolism.

She asked me if I wondered what the meaning of my accident was in my life.  I told her that in therapy, they had spent a lot of time trying to get me to understand that the world is chaos, and that good things can happen to good people, and we will never know why.  But sitting there, in that jury holding room, having this conversation with this new friend of mine, I had to wonder.  How could the world be pure chaos when in a world this large, with this many people, she and I could find one another on some idle Monday serving jury?

November, 2014.

The Prodigal Daughter Returns

I spent three weeks at home reconnecting with my family.  I, who has always valued family above friends, because one is constant, and the other comes and goes, respectively, had to reconnect with my family.  It was always my friends who had “messed up families” and group therapy sessions, not me.  I had dysfunctional friendships, but not a dysfunctional family.

It was a surreal feeling returning home after a year of absence.  Even though I have lived across the country from my family for years, I have always returned home every 6 months for at least two weeks.  It often feels like a double life, because I get to forget about my grandiose artistic career, and focus on smaller, community based responsibilities that I have been committed to for years in my hometown.  But, I enjoy shedding one character for the other.  The change infuses life into each version of myself.

During this homecoming, everything somehow seemed foreign yet familiar at the same time.  Small changes like a new highway sign, or a new business popped out at me immediately as my Mom and I rode the highway towards my childhood home together, making small talk.  I felt an overwhelming pressure suffocating me, and had goals to accomplish on my trip.  After the hit and run accident, my family and I didn’t get along, to put it mildly.  I felt rejected by them, and they felt extremely confused by my thoughts and emotions.  I felt they treated me as if I had decided to become a drug-addicted prostitute, and when my mom came to save me, I told her to “fuck off.”  Really, I think seeing me and my life so irrevocably damaged was just too overwhelming, and we coped by keeping one another at a distance.

We had many discussions, yelling matches, and explosions of emotions ricocheting off walls and out the windows for the neighbors to bear witness when I was home.  While I found myself vindicated after a self-imposed trial in front of a few of my extended members of the family, my mom and I remained at a drastic impasse.  We teetered on the painfully sharp edge of leaving each others life indefinitely.  But in the midst of all this pain, all the unforgivable words that left me feeling hollow, as if she had reached inside me and pulled out my innards, the pounding of my own fists on my chest, until welts were raised as I begged for an open ear, something happened.  It wasn’t a click really.  It came about slowly, and unnoticed like a fog, but with clarity.  Something changed between us.  Despite everything, the common ground between us remained.  We each thought the other did not want them in their lives.  But we did.  We do.

Adult relationships are so complicated, and I don’t think I have ever felt a more stark example of coming of age.  My mom and I recommitted to a new relationship with one another.  At first, she was hesitant, and dismissive, questioning why we should have to “fight” for our relationship, as I declared was necessary.  I told her that I didn’t know why, but it was worth it.  She is my mom, I am her only child.  We are not simply two ships passing in the night, or two strangers who get to choose whether or not to be in one another’s life.  We owe it to our past twenty five years of experiences, love and growth to stick it out, and find new, continuous ways to experience, love and grow together.

Cheers,

The ever-evolving, QuarterCentenarianAbroad

September. 2014.

In the Autumn of My Life

A few days ago at home, I found myself driving on the freeway, with leaves rushing in the wind towards my car.  It became a constant barrage of leaves of all shades landing for an instant on my windshield before being deflected back into the wind.  I realized I was behind a landscaping truck. 

But more importantly, I realized the symbolism of these leaves was so apropos to my life.  I was about to face a great challenge by returning home after a year of absence filled with physical, mental and emotional challenges that led to familial strife in an otherwise tight-knit family.

Children are returning to school, and I am reminded of my own emotions facing the Autumn school beginning.  The feelings of change, and renewal, as well as the daunting feeling of the unknown events of the year to come.  I remember the air gaining a chill, and a crispness that felt clean, and to me, like the promise of a fresh start.  I found it exhilarating, but hard to let go of my favorite time of year, Summer.  I have always had trouble accepting change.  

This is an Autumn of my life.  

When I arrived home, the leaves were even beginning to change.  I could see their green fading into bronze on the trees, as we whooshed down the highway from the airport to my old home.  Everything around me seemed so foreign, yet familiar.  It is such a strange feeling to be somewhere which was always such a constant, and yet to take in so much change.  But it isn’t just the outward change that is jarring, but the inward change of my family members, and of myself.  I am also staggered by the lack of change, mostly for the negative.  

This is a journey in itself.  Yes, I am traveling, but the outward travel is far less important than the inward travel.  For the first time, I feel like an adult returning home.  I miss so much of the past, but it is gone.  Now I have to decide what is left here in my hometown, with my family, and is worth fighting for.

 

It is all so surreal, but I am somehow taking it in stride, the way each individual leaf on a tree grows, flourishes with the sun and the rain, and then so beautifully accepts the change of the season, until it is cast to the wind, to start a new adventure.  One. Moment. At. A. Time.

Cheers,

QuarterCentenarianAbroad

 

August. East Coast, USA. 2014.

In the Autumn of My Life

A few days ago at home, I found myself driving on the freeway, with leaves rushing in the wind towards my car.  It became a constant barrage of leaves of all shades landing for an instant on my windshield before being deflected back into the wind.  I realized I was behind a landscaping truck. 

But more importantly, I realized the symbolism of these leaves was so apropos to my life.  I was about to face a great challenge by returning home after a year of absence filled with physical, mental and emotional challenges that led to familial strife in an otherwise tight-knit family.

Children are returning to school, and I am reminded of my own emotions facing the Autumn school beginning.  The feelings of change, and renewal, as well as the daunting feeling of the unknown events of the year to come.  I remember the air gaining a chill, and a crispness that felt clean, and to me, like the promise of a fresh start.  I found it exhilarating, but hard to let go of my favorite time of year, Summer.  I have always had trouble accepting change.  

This is an Autumn of my life.  

When I arrived home, the leaves were even beginning to change.  I could see their green fading into bronze on the trees, as we whooshed down the highway from the airport to my old home.  Everything around me seemed so foreign, yet familiar.  It is such a strange feeling to be somewhere which was always such a constant, and yet to take in so much change.  But it isn’t just the outward change that is jarring, but the inward change of my family members, and of myself.  I am also staggered by the lack of change, mostly for the negative.  

This is a journey in itself.  Yes, I am traveling, but the outward travel is far less important than the inward travel.  For the first time, I feel like an adult returning home.  I miss so much of the past, but it is gone.  Now I have to decide what is left here in my hometown, with my family, and is worth fighting for.

 

It is all so surreal, but I am somehow taking it in stride, the way each individual leaf on a tree grows, flourishes with the sun and the rain, and then so beautifully accepts the change of the season, until it is cast to the wind, to start a new adventure.  One. Moment. At. A. Time.

Cheers,

QuarterCentenarianAbroad

 

August. East Coast, USA. 2014.

Why (Me)xico?

I have spent ten months running from my new reality.  While barely keeping my world intact as a recent college graduate finding my place in the world and paying bills while following a creative passion, my entire world was shattered, literally.  I was biking on a clear, sunny afternoon, feeling more alive and engaged in the world than I had in a long time.  I had just arrived back in the city from three weeks in Paris where I had established a this travel blog, outlined a clear plan for how to approach my art, and how to change my life in the city in order to achieve a higher level of happiness in my day to day.  One part of that plan was to mimic the Europeans and their joie de vivre lifestyle of biking and life experiencing on their commute.

So when I was hit by a 5,000lb SUV, I literally and figuratively had the wind knocked out of me.  My sails deflated, I can recall the seconds that seemed like eons, rotating through the air, as I heard my mind exclaim, “Why now!?”  For some, memories of trauma feel like gazing at a scene on a screen with petroleum jelly spread over it.  For me, though, everything is crisp and clear, and I was aware in that very moment that my life was going to change irrevocably.  I wasn’t capable of knowing how bad my injuries would be, and what life-altering physical disabilities I would suffer, until my body fell from the sky, impacting on the dark road beneath me.  “This is going to hurt.  Just don’t die.” I heard my mind desperately warning and pleading with itself.  Add insult to injury?  The man who hit me left me in the street, injured, questioning whether I would live or die.  

Three days in the hospital, four pelvic fractures, a separated shoulder, two months in a wheelchair, multiple x-rays, MRIs and torn cartilage demanding hip surgery, ten months of physical therapy re-learning to walk and therapy re-learning to feel later, I was about to turn twenty-six.  Where did twenty-five go?  Oh, yea.  I just covered that.  Feeling a piece of my life had been stolen, I set a goal to travel to a new country before I had to say goodbye to my quarter-century milestone.  

In my new reality, I’m trying hard to let go of fear.  Rationality is one thing, but fear is a monster that consumes your life and prevents you from living fully.  Even though I had lived for years within hours of the border, I had never traveled to Mexico.  Growing up on the East Coast, Mexico was a distant country, with a bad reputation (putting it mildly).  We saw news stories about tourists who had been arrested and subjected to human rights violations, or people who had been scalped by drug cartel members.  After thorough research, listening to multiple personal anecdotes (some again deterring me from Mexico), I decided that symbolically this trip was too important for my life.  I needed to escape the confines of medical appointments, bills, criminal court proceedings, and civil attorneys.  Mexico was my ticket to freedom and renewal, and I was not about to let twenty-six pass without an epic welcoming.  Goodbye, twenty-five! 

(Written June, 2014)

A Paris, Dans Mes Rêves

I greatly miss the City of Light.  I miss being able to go to someone who is an expert in every piece of food you could desire.  I suppose it seems tedious to Americans, but I saw a great quaintness to the practice of going to la fromagerie for my cheese, la boulangerie for my bread, le magasin de fruit et légumes for my fruit and vegetables, le marchand de vins for my wine, et la pâtisserie for my sweets.  It’s those simple things that stay with me after I travel.  Of course, I remember La Tour Eiffel and La Notre Dame in all their gargantuan grace, but it is the little things that are nearly intangible and define a culture that left the greatest imprint on me.     

So, this is how I find myself in my small, private side yard, so reminiscent of a European patio that it convinced me to take the apartment, with a glass of Bordeaux in my hand, a plate of brie, a baguette, and a cigarette, so desperate to reconnect with my literary self reborn a year ago in Paris.  It was in Paris that I learned how to write without pressure.  To write for me.  My degree in English Literature forced me to always be writing for something or someone.  While I felt myself occasionally getting lost in my assignments, and at times finding pride in my words, I was mostly on a mission to complete an assignment, bank the grade, and get outside, or to a party.  

I would never dream of writing with a glass of wine for an assignment that needed to be turned in, but in Paris I learned that sipping and savoring a Bordeaux was a gateway to letting the words flow.  It was Paris that taught me discipline and creativity can coincide, that one does not have to squelch the other.  I learned to write nightly, with abandon, and yet the lack of care proffered superior writing.  Over a nice Bordeaux and my latest cheese trial, I found my inner self.  I am one who thrives in solitude and reflection, especially in the wee hours of the morning.  

I see the world in colors and swirls of movement, like a Monet painting in which everything bleeds together, and yet is one.  My words come from me in some combination of a flowing waltz and a pop and lock street dance, like halting hiccups in which I can see what I feel, and search for the letters to string together into words, into sentences, into meaning, for everyone else.  I hope I am succeeding.    

 

Cheers,

QuarterCentenarianAbroad

 

Back to the Abroad!

Heylo everyone!

Wow.  What a long strange trip it has been, as the Grateful Dead said.  I actually have been up and writing for a month or so now, but I haven’t been able to log into my account here.  Magically, I tried again a moment ago, using the same password I had previously tried, and this time, it worked.  Whaddya know!?

I have been craving an update like you would not believe!  Firstly, during my absence, my blog turned ONE YEARS OLD! Wahoo!  I would come down on myself more for not maintaining a constant presence on here, and not having more followers, but I can’t very well blame myself for being the victim of an accident, and recovering from surgery.  The ONE YEAR mark for the accident has passed as well.  Believe me, that day was well remembered through a celebration of life party amongst the friends who have supported me through all my challenges.  But, I do apologize to my readers for the silence, and hope that you will continue to be interested in my blog.

In the past month, I have been fortunate to travel to multiple destinations.  I traveled to Mexico (where I celebrated my birthday!), the U.S. and British Virgin Islands (which had served as my light and dream at the end of the dark tunnel of pain post-accident), and took a short jaunt to Mammoth Lakes and Yosemite, CA. 

My travel pieces have all been written, so that I could take part in Camp NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in July, which means my readers can look forward to consistent posts!  Each piece has a different tone.  Some are more geared towards a hotel or destination review, some are more lifestyle pieces, and some have a more narrative flow to them.

I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I have.  I am so grateful to be alive, and to have the continued opportunity to create, love and explore!

(The closest thing you will get to a picture “of” me. Yosemite, Summer, 2014).

Cheers!

QuarterCentenarianAbroad

 

Back on the Horse

I’ve been hearing the phrase “get back on the horse” for months now since my accident.  When the opportunity to travel to San Francisco came up, I was wary that I might not be physically fit for a solo journey up the coast, but also, that I wasn’t ready mentally.  Now, sitting on the bus to return home after my busy, but fun-filled weekend riding the hills of San Francisco, I can’t believe I questioned my spur of the moment trip.  The bumpy bus ride reminds me of our boat riding the waves in the San Francisco Bay just a few hours ago.  I should have known that this trip could only help to restore my soul, the way travel always does.  Getting out of the city where my accident happened is healthy.  I achieve a respite that is impossible in my city-where I look at every car wondering if the driver is the man who hit me and left me in the road.

San Francisco has a nice energy to it and weather that keeps you on your toes.  When I arrived, it was warm and sunny.  Once inside my hotel room, I looked out the window over the city and the fog rolling over the hills and the Bay was so thick that I thought there must be a fire nearby, but I was told that was normal.  The fog was beautiful, and watching it flow over the mountains made my soul feel free.

I love how many trees are in the city.  They have trees in planters on the sidewalks, and parks in between some streets, as well as meridians with trees.  The city has not forgotten nature.  The large bay windows call to the writer within me.  I love cozy writing nooks, and have always wanted a bay window with a view and sofa cushion in which to write.  There are signs around the city spreading “compassion,” “love,” “and “family.”  I love the open-mindedness of San Francisco, and the way it affects its residents.

A friend took me on a night-time adventure down Lombardi street in his car.  Lombardi street is famous because it has multiple turns in one city block, on a steep hill.  The houses were stunning, but I would think the residents would get bored of all the tourists riding down their street.  We went to a forty-year old restaurant tucked away behind other restaurants, at the end of the wharf.  The fish are literally delivered fresh from the bay a few feet from the restaurant.  I don’t eat fish, but I can appreciate the uniqueness and the quality of fish that the restaurant has.  That attention to food carried over into their vegetarian dishes as well.  We had several glasses of wine, and I laughed the night away with good company.  You know you’re in a good restaurant when all of the waiters are older than fifty years old.  They’re pros, and they respect the patron, which in turn garners respect for their skills as a server.  Even the bartender who was half the age of the waiters, would be sure to address the waiters as “sir” or “madam” when asking them to check on an order for him.

Today I went to Fisherman’s wharf for the second time in my life.  I was a teenager when I went the last time ,and it was for only a few hours.  My experience this time was quite different because it wasn’t the Summer, so it was far less crowded.  Unfortunately, because it is not the high season, there weren’t many street-performers, which is one of my favorite memories from my last visit.  We did see the man spray-painted silver and acting like a robot, which is one of my favorites, as well as a drummer, a smooth-jazz pianist, and a guitarist/singer.

My friend asked what I wanted to do, and I saw that there were boat rides in the Bay.  We bought two tickets for the boat, boarded, ordered cocktails, and went to the top deck.  It was a great experience in the open-air.  We went under the Golden Gate Bridge, and swung around Alcatraz before returning back to the harbor.  On the way back into the harbor, we spotted a replica Pirate ship.  It was epic.  The wood-work, and the sails were majestic, and as I turned around to take my picture, I saw that the sails were backlit by the sunset.  I got magnificent photos of the ship, the Golden Gate, and the sunset.

Driving in San Fran can be a real adventure.  So many of the streets are one-way streets, and the hills make it difficult to see if anyone is stopping at the intersection.  At night we went to Haight-Ashbury, where the Grateful Dead played their first concerts out of their house.  It was the Hippie Mecca during the Sixties, where people from all over the country came and lived in the parks, and smoked weed, made music and love.  It was fun to imagine what the area must have looked like in its Hippie days.  Now it is mostly Hippie-themed shops and cafes-an soft echo of what it once was.

I am already seeking my next travel adventure!

(To maintain the integrity of my blog, please note that this was written 11/4/13 right after my trip, and posted today, 12/26/13. My apologies for the late post.)