FOR THAT WHICH SPARKS

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

3 6 5   D A Y S . 21 flights. 11 countries. And 6 time zones.

I wrote. Scribbled. Researched. Spoke. Captured. Called. Listened.   Emailed. Interviewed. Made. Read. Re-read. Edited. And asked far too many questions.

But I also Mopped floors. Stoked fires. Scraped bird shit off bar tops. Delivered cakes by scooter. Wove branches into 40-foot tall animal sculptures. Experienced the worst sunburn of my life. Carried tables, chairs, and squealing pigs. Slept in coffee shops. Made buttons. Scrubbed dishes. Picked flowers. Raked sand on beaches. Flew drones. Painted walls. Set up teepees. Peeled inch thick mud from boots. Nursed dog-bites. Ran from wild cows. Failed at learning both Welsh and Bahasa. Kept bus drivers from falling asleep at the wheel. Caught more colds than I thought possible. And lived in a villa, a trailer, a van, a tent, and a moldy apartment.

365 days. 21 flights. 11 countries. And 6 time zones.

I met Writers. Painters. Illustrators. Speakers. Cyclists. Sheep farmers. Furniture shapers. Chefs. Pilgrims. Textile designers. Coffee roasters. Archeologists. Sound engineers. 80-year-old singers. Willow weavers. Traders. Musicians. Skaters. Photographers. Bell ringers. Brewers. Authors. Students. Printers. Bakers. Bread makers. And gypsies.

365 days. 21 flights. 11 countries. And 6 time zones.

But still, no one quite understands what it is I did. Or why I didn’t go home after walls were hit, paychecks skipped, and weeks worth of words thrown in the bin. Because this year hasn’t been about boxes ticked. Work done. Time spent. Places visited. And people met.

The boxes alone don’t convey the magic.

Because when you spend a year saying yes, living out of a suitcase, and owning the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing and no formal training to do it… you change. And you begin to see the color in the world. You begin to realize that home isn’t a place. It’s something that you carry with you. And sometimes it means buying one-way tickets, feeding donkeys, and picking up and moving places where you don’t know a soul. Using the boxes as opportunities to write your heart out. And find the pieces of yourself you thought you lost.

After 365 days. 21 flights. 11 countries. And 6 time zones.

I discovered that the only real way to learn how to do something is to just fucking do it.

And when you allow dreams to settle into your system, you’ll dive head first into what terrifies you. But that’s how things happen. That’s when the world becomes an extremely beautiful place to live. And how a shy, confused, recently-graduated fashion major stumbles and scraps her way to become a published writer.

Proving the honest-to-god truth that passion steers adventure. And that life supplies you with everything you need as long as you’re brave enough to have a go at it.

365 days. 21 flights. 11 countries. And 6 time zones.

Milestones happen when you believe that they’ll happen.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

IF WE PUSH TO DO INTERESTING THINGS, IT’S GOING TO GET INTERESTING.

The words left his mouth with a chuckle.

I was sitting among strangers, fresh with jet lag, trying to wrap my mind around how I ended up on a farm in West Wales.

There were bits of hay stuck to the mud on my shoes and the color had faded from my fingers. Every breath of the room held in anticipation.

The phrase was wound tightly around the project that would steer my next four months. I hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant, but I smiled politely and readied myself through the silence.

“You’ll be writing a report. A book, rather. Roughly 140 pages in length. I want you to leave here with a printed copy in your hand.”

An uncomfortable laugh escaped from my nerves. He was serious.

He turned to face the whiteboard and continued. “Twelve weeks to print.”

His left hand clutched a black marker and my stomach dropped.

“The topic is stress.”

Questions stacked in my brain as he stepped aside to reveal the scribbled phrase, Don’t be dull.

—

In a matter of minutes, I had become a lead writer, researcher, coordinating editor, and publisher.

I had no idea what was going on.

As far as I was concerned, I was an intern that had decided to dabble in writing a few months before. I had never written a book. I didn’t know where to start.

I sat frozen in front of an empty Word document with my feet on a radiator.

Not only was I charged with the task of creating something that I wouldn’t normally take the time to read, I had to be accurate, helpful, and witty all at the same time. I was being asked to guide people through a topic that I had never been able to conquer myself.

THE BEST WAY TO LEARN HOW TO WRITE A BOOK IS TO WRITE ONE.

—

I couldn’t decide if this was the opportunity of a lifetime or an absolute joke, so I did what any millennial would do. I turned to Google.

I spent weeks researching; compiling spread ideas, subtopics, quotes, and images; searching for anything that might contrast the sleepiness of an ordinary report.

Once I had enough to work with, I prepped for the one day of the week where my boss and I would actually be in the same room.

He was addressing each project by deadline. I pretended to listen to the running order and recited the pitch in my mind.

Then, it was my turn. I delivered it quickly, attempting to hide the waver in my voice. But instead of critique or direction, I received a half-nod and a question.

“How many days to print?”

I pointed toward the countdown that was taped to the wall and read off the number that bled through the mismatched sticky notes.

He clasped his hands and said,

BE CLUELESS.

—

Needless to say, the topic of the report quickly became the most ironic piece of it all.

I couldn’t sleep. My skin dried out. I was over-eating. I couldn’t focus. My creativity was at an all time low. And I was drowning in a pool of information. All while shaping chapters around the importance of taking care of yourself.

I was on autopilot, unsure of whether I should show the spiral or act like I hadn’t just cried in the bathroom.

I was terrified of writing in the wrong direction. Of not meeting expectations. Of failing. Of wasting my time.

So I wasn’t committing to my ideas at all. I was playing it safe. And I wasn’t pushing myself.

THERE IS NO RED TAPE.

—

Then somewhere in the shit storm, I stopped fighting the confusion and decided to use it.

I realized that my greatest strength was the fact that I was confused, consumed, and bored by the topic. That I didn’t really know what was expected. That I had fresh eyes, and if I could make each section interesting to me, I could conquer this thing and make it “gettable.”

So I chose to make the issue human. Relatable. Beautiful. And approachable. And I gave myself permission to stumble into different ideas.

I still couldn’t see the big picture, but that was okay. I could focus on the pieces of it, on just getting one spread sorted. One paragraph. One photo. One idea. Just one thing. And once I did that, I could tape it to the cobblestone wall and make sense of it later.

YOU’LL CHANGE IT REMARKABLY IF YOU CHANGE 1% EACH DAY.

—

And just like that, the wall was suddenly full.

I wish I could say that that was the hallelujah moment, but it wasn’t.

I still had an empty prototype staring at me from my desk, and a ridiculous amount of pieces that didn’t fit together.

I hated that little white book more than anything. It taunted me every single day and reminded me that I didn’t know how to make sense of my own vision.

I proudly referred to it as The Stupid, and did everything in my power to ignore its existence.

But that didn’t last very long. I was called out and given five hours to put my pages in that godforsaken thing.

DON’T LET PERFECTION GET IN THE WAY OF A GOOD IDEA.

—

Then came the grey hairs. I found one. And then four more.

I had gone through two Stupids, played messenger for my boss and designer for months, and had a pile of words that had not been read by anyone but myself.

I had absolutely no feedback and no way of knowing if all of my work was going to be scrapped or liked by the people that would decide what goes to print.

I was nearing the end of my sanity and didn’t know what to do. Three months of staring at this project was literally making me nearsighted.

Then the unthinkable happened. Four days before our original print date, I was handed thirty-six new spread ideas that needed to be researched and written. Thirty-six.

All while my work sat, unread.

That was the day I nearly hurled myself from the roof.

ENJOY THE SCRAPPY BITS, IT’S GOOD TO FIGHT.

—

I put my head down and embraced the looming truth that the print date was being pushed back.

I kept working.

Three days later, I met with my boss, designer, editor at large, and experiment enthusiast / ideas guy. We went over all of the spreads, and again, six new sections were added.

If you would have told me at the beginning of my placement that this was the way the project was going to pan out, I would have panicked. And maybe even been a bit disappointed or discouraged.

But in the moment, I wasn’t. I was hopeful, and excited to see it coming together. I felt proud of my work, and confident in my ideas, but I also knew that these final pushes were going to make it that much better. And ultimately, worth it.

Even though there’s still an insane amount of work to be done in the next eight days, I’m writing a report. A book, rather. Roughly 140 pages in length. And I’m going to leave here with a printed copy of it in my hand.

A LOT OF MILESTONES HAPPEN WHEN YOU BELIEVE THAT THEY’LL HAPPEN.

—

So no, the report isn’t finished yet. And I still have no idea what I’m doing.

But I’ve poured myself into something, I’ve pushed myself further than I ever thought I could be pushed, I’ve held my own, and I’ve learned a hell of a lot.

Things got interesting.

I’m a better writer for it.

I’m a better person for it.

And The Stress Report will be better for it.

THE MOST INTERESTING THING YOU CAN DO IS BE BRAVE.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

I  D O N ’ T   K N O W

I used to fear it. Feel shame over it. Dwell in it. Attempt to move past it. Sink when it left lips. But now I see the whole of it. Not just a side-streaking swirl. Taking longer looks. In the overarching string of it. The beauty of all the best pictures, puzzles. A presence in everything worth anything. I don’t know. To be unsure is to hold witchcraft. The force that causes you to stumble to new places. Walk with hands out. Search, fumble, find, flecks of panic. Clicking secrets of change to the shedding of what was once. The phrase that makes you flounder. Squirm to the drop. Flipped stomach to reached marks. Beyond banks of breath. To step stretches of new monsters. And fall till feet are found again. I don’t know. The ones with answers are liars. Bodies that sit still to avoid riddle. But whispered in scatters. A secret holds shoulders. Nobody knows what they’re doing. Throwing thoughts through top windows. Igniting exploration. Allowing for anything. Endless movement. To realize what's clutched. The most powerful words in the human existence. I don’t know.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

S Y M B O L S   O F   S T R E N G T H

Five months ago, I left familiarity to chase curiosity. To test my definition of home and follow new conversations. To see if I could find pieces of myself scattered elsewhere. Anywhere, if I looked hard enough.

I thought that this was the scariest decision of my life. I thought it was the choice that would shape my year, that it would be the one moment that changed me.

I was wrong.

This may sound shocking, but swapping country codes and living out of a suitcase doesn’t exactly come easily after your first step out the door. It makes things a hell of a lot harder and a hell of a lot lonelier. It makes your days interesting but exhausting. It forces you to come face to face with the baggage you thought you left in your closet, and it makes you choose whether these things will build you up or tear you down.

Leaving impacted me, but it didn’t change me.

Setting out to do things differently isn’t about the first step. Even though it’s the one you play out in your mind a million times. Even though it is terrifying. “Different” doesn’t just happen. It forms slowly, after a series of steps. And it doesn’t just show up on your front porch. You have to keep moving, keep walking, every single day. It takes effort, and it doesn’t get any less scary.

The last few months have had their fair share of eye-opening, soul-filling moments, but they have also thrown me the most defeating and confusing days I have ever had. They’ve made me question everything, but they’ve also made me a bit bolder and a lot stronger.

I wake up each morning and make a choice—a conscious decision to continue the chase. I have yet to call it quits, but still, I think about it. Then I remember that if I focus my efforts on changing one small thing each day, I will see a different picture by the end of this. And that’s the part that’s worth more than I can see right now.

It isn’t always easy to believe that I can handle more movement, but I’ve found that the best way to fight my inner doomsayer is to surround myself with things that will remind me how far I’ve come. To look at old tickets, scribbled notes, photos, and other trinkets of travel. To count all of the steps I’ve already taken. To see them as symbols of strength.

I may not have what I set out to find just yet, but I have discovered much more than I ever expected. And when I look at these tangible reminders, I see it. And I remember why I’m pushing for that one small shift each day, why I’m living in a caravan, why I don’t have a normal paycheck, and why on earth I am stuck in the middle of a windstorm attempting to write a book.

Your world can change remarkably if you just change a piece of it each day.

You just have to remember that you can handle it.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

T H E   S H E D

I’m in a shed in the middle of nowhere. There is a small wood-burning stove that is falling short of its only duty, and the girl next to me just pulled out an extra pair of socks to place on her feet. The wind has been howling for hours. I’m on my third cup of tea, and it hasn’t stopped swirling since I arrived. Each gust tears through the chimney to greet us, threatening the electricity. For the weeks leading up to my journey, those that learned of my destination only stared blankly through the filter of confusion and asked, “Why? What could possibly be in Cardigan?” I wasn’t completely sure how to answer the question, but found that most of the conversation could be steered by showing them where Wales is located on a map. After a daunting ten hours of travel, I arrived with jetlag, culture shock, and a suitcase large enough to fit my next three months. When I stepped off the bus that nearly ended my life and onto the stone walkway, my phone read 17:40. It was already dark, and there were no signs of civilization in sight. Nothing was open. I was standing in the middle of a ghost town. I couldn’t get a signal and was forced to wander into a hotel around the block. “Where the hell am I?” escaped my mind a few hundred times in the span of mere minutes, “and why am I here?” I recounted the conversations I had had with my new boss and doubt began to circle in my brain. I had no idea where I was going to be living, what I was going to be doing, or if they would ever find me—the address wasn’t even on Google Maps. The thought of staying at the inn sat looming as an old woman at the bar asked me if I was hiding a body in my luggage. Soon after connecting to the wifi that I claim as sheer miracle, a skinny Welsh boy walked in, casting my name out with an inflection on the last syllable. Thank god. Introductions were made as I greeted my fellow team members in the street. We piled into the front of a rusted Land Rover and I sat squished in the middle, trying to keep my knees to the side whenever shifting was required. We were on our way to my new home, and needed to pick up hay for the donkeys along the way. Thinking of this moment makes me laugh. I still don’t understand how I got here, why I was chosen for this job, or what the next few months will hold, but I know that I am sitting in the most magical shed in the world. In it are the creators, builders, and masterminds behind The Do Lectures and all that it touches. Though I have only been here for a handful of days, I can confidently say that they are some of the kindest, most inspiring individuals I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

The next twelve weeks might possibly house the coldest hours of my life, but I couldn’t be more hopeful or excited.

This farm has changed the lives of all who enter.

I feel honored to be here.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

W I P E   T H E   F O G   F R O M   Y O U R   E Y E S

For years I had a recurring dream where I would live an entire day from start to finish with severely blurred vision. I would wake up to a cloud over my eyes, get out of bed, and go about my routine through the difficulty of haze. No matter how many times I would rub my eyes, nothing cleared. I knew that I was dreaming, but even then, there was nothing I could do to speed up the process of the fog. It was exhausting, defeating. Then suddenly I’d wake up, able to see color and shape in vivid form. These dreams stopped once I entered college, but in a way, I started to actually live them. I lifted my eyelids each day but walked through the mundane, because I was unable to see my path or destination. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I couldn’t see how I fit into the world around me. I was walking blindly and moving aimlessly. I could only see my hands. I could only see what was in front of me, and that was the true hindrance. I began to realize that I was walking in the same fog that had flooded my sleep. I knew that there was more, that there was something missing. I was tossing and turning, trying to wake up. This stirring was what brought me Indonesia. I wanted to open my eyes. When I landed in Denpasar on October 11th, I had no idea what was ahead of me. I was told that I was going to be working for a philanthropic adventure marketing collective called Mercy Machines and that I would be focusing on all things communication. There were no titles, no planned projects, and very little understanding of the company itself; I was simply going off of the hour-long conversation I had had with a stranger ten days prior and clutching my one-way ticket. I continued on in a daze, focusing solely on the work that was piling on my to-do list, seeing only what my hands were touching: branding, copywriting, web development, PR, promotion, and creative direction. Somewhere in the first few weeks, Bali shook me. Just when I was feeling comfortable, it took my shoulders and jolted me with enough force to startle a gasp-worthy awakening. It was then that I began to see the color. I saw my dreams, fears, and the sickening truth that I was living my life as half a person. This melting pot of artists, givers, and creators, screamed that I had been stifling myself and that I had been choosing to sleep. In this clarity, I saw expatriates and locals creating what they had always wanted. I worked alongside people that purchased islands to build safe houses for children that were rescued from the sex trade, formed businesses out of the thought they had had the day before, stood for the youth in community and the creativity of all ages, left secure paychecks to fight for their passions, connected creatives in all fields, and refused to stop moving, growing, and experiencing. Everyone I met was building something, and they were helping shape others’ structures along the way. My work with Mercy Machines brought me to this place, and it pushed me, stretched me, and taught me how to be a better communicator, but my learnings span far beyond this job. Over the three months that I was living in Indonesia, I lost track of the number of times I heard the phrase, “Bali is magic.” Every place I went, each person I spoke with, I could hear it and feel it. I’m still not sure how to bring life to this explanation, but I know that it is something that yields kindness, patience, honesty, creativity, hope, encouragement, generosity, confidence, collaboration, simplicity, and happiness. Bali is a hub of movement; it is where things happen. People have dreams and they put them into action. No ones talks about what could be or what might have been, they talk about what will be and then it happens. It’s contagious; it radiates and overflows on everything, and it allows you to see what actually matters. This “magic” is embedded in the culture; it’s what wipes away the fog. It made me see myself, fully, for the first time and recognize what I wanted out of life. It taught me to take everything in, and understand that I am the only one that can fight for my dreams. It helped me find my voice and stop shutting myself up, and it showed me that the only way to live is to open my eyes, listen, and make things happen. I entered Bali a terrified apprentice, hiding behind a focus that masked my true passion, and encountered a paradigm shift that altered my vision. During the 80 days that I was there, I declared myself a writer and maker, and began forming a magazine that I had only dreamed of creating. I left with hope, happiness, excitement, and a promise to never stunt myself. Bali changed my life. Honestly, it saved it.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

N I G H T   T R A I N

Fourteen hours, maybe more. There were two tickets left on the night train after a forty-minute cab ride and a two-hour standstill at the airport. The station was filled with people. We had to steer through seated figures to find the ticket counter. “Only two left, third class. Do you want them?” Alexandria and I said yes before the question left his mouth—it seems to be a theme with us. “520,” he said. We paid the stranger, though still unsure of the exchange rate. We took our tickets and walked to the platform marked 10. We each had a large pack strapped to our backs and a smaller to our fronts—twice as much as anyone else boarding the train. The train was worn and rusted, like something you’d see in the type of photograph that might slow your scroll. Hidden character, I thought. Each car had a number, though none of them stood in sequential order and many of them had doubles. We climbed on. The tennis shoes that I had tied to the side of my pack got stuck on the doorway and I had to grab hold of the frame to steady myself. I turned the corner and my eyes met the people that we would be spending the next half-day with. The seats were grouped in fours, facing one another with shared legroom—they resembled the bus benches that I sat on every Monday through Friday when I was fourteen. They were made of aged pleather and silver trim. A man quickly helped us prop our bags on the overhead rack while the woman across from us glared. We were the only freckled-faced foreigners. The entire car was composed of different shades of teal, mint, and deep green. There were small metal ceiling fans lining the roof—their constant clatter echoing like an old movie projector. Everything was calm. The windows were open and as the train took its course, small gusts of air filled the car and brushed the hair from my cheek. The train began picking up speed. It started with a gentle rocking, a constant clamor. I felt as though I knew each piece of the machinery and could hear it moving, fulfilling its purpose with a proud stride. I felt each component working. We passed homes, slums, and fields. We passed by large hotels, lavish buildings draped with holiday lighting, and temples that looked like the structures we grew up seeing on miniature golf courses. I smiled, seeing them exist in real form and grander scale, seeing that they did belong to someone. We stopped at new stations every so often. The car was full but we continued to collect more people. Mismatched bags stacked to the ceiling, but still, the tarnished bars did not waver. Everything remained quiet but the steady clicking of the fans. The shapes outside the window grew darker, and Xani fell asleep, bent over the backpack in her lap. A second row of lights flickered on and reminded me of an old crime show that I used to watch with my grandmother. They fit with the curved shape of the ceiling. I looked over and saw an elderly couple holding hands. Everything in there, everything about it seemed like a piece of the past; like I had stumbled into a portal, back into an old world. Yet, at the same time, I found myself completely aware of the fact that I was present—that there was a dead iPhone in my front pocket that I simply had no need for, that there were no outlets, wifi, or air conditioning, but it didn’t matter. The same woman that glared at me two hours before now caught my eye and smiled. Each of the people in this car are living lives now, I thought, and I got to witness a part of it. What a beautiful thing. I may not have gotten much sleep, but I am sure that these fourteen hours are something that I will continue to talk about for years to come. I needed this train. I needed to be stripped of distraction and just sit, even if that meant my legs might be numb for hours. I needed to be surrounded by unfamiliar to see the common, the unvarnished, and the beautiful. Leaving Bali has been really tough on me. I found a piece of my home in that small section of the world, and I am discovering a lot of pain tucked inside this process of uprooting. I guess all of this is to say that I am grateful for last-minute decisions and for simple ways of getting from one place to another. I am thankful for quiet hours that force me to face my surroundings as well as my thoughts. Thank you, Thailand. It was a pleasure meeting you.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

T O O T H P I C K S

Stuck on the side of the road. It was a flat tire.

We walked two miles to the closest minimart, but all of the mechanics shops were closed for the religious holiday. We bought a couple of beers and sat outside on the wooden chairs. The events of the day struck as comical, nothing seemed to be working out. We sat for over an hour, playing out scenarios of how the day might end and where we could stay for the night. My phone was out of data and my stomach empty, so we wandered next door to eat and claim a wifi password. We were taken to a table upstairs. I sat down, folded my hands in my lap, and saw a small carton of toothpicks on the checkered cloth in front of me. I reached forward and picked one up, then placed it between my front teeth. The moment reminded me of my dad. When I was in elementary school, he’d take me on father-daughter dates that always ended at the local Denny’s. I could never quite remember eating dinner, but after dishes of desserts were scraped clean, we’d slide out of the plastic booth, and walk towards the counter to pay. He’d smile at the cashier as I leaned against the wooden panels, then hand me a toothpick and a quarter. I never had much need for the toothpick, but I took it anyway. He’d motion toward the game to my right—it was the one where you’d drop a coin into the tank of blue goo in hopes of watching it land on one of the three platforms. I’d shrug. I was always afraid to try because I was afraid to hope. I was afraid to hope and fail. He’d look at me and say, “You can’t win if you don’t try.” I’d put the toothpick in my mouth and stand on my tiptoes as I struggled to drop the quarter into the slot. We’d watch as it floated down, slowly, missing each platform. He’d yell, “Ahhh! So close!” and we’d walk out grinning, with our toothpicks still in our mouths. Maybe next time, I’d think. It seemed like such a strange scene to recall while sitting in a makeshift Mexican restaurant in the middle of Uluwatu. I took the toothpick from my teeth and held it for a moment. There was nothing exceptional about it; it wasn’t lucky, it never helped me win. But as I stared at it, I sat frozen in the realization that I was still afraid to try, because I was still afraid to hope and fail. My dad has taught me a lot in my lifetime, but this week I needed to be reminded that sometimes you just have to test the odds and see what happens. I am launching a project that I have been too terrified to tell anyone about because it is a dream of mine, and it could fail horribly. It’s still being shaped, and I don’t have much to show just yet, but for now, here's the skeleton of my hope. Here's my toothpick.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

M I S S E D   |   G A I N E D

I have missed four important birthdays, the wedding invitation of my best friend of twenty-three years, my sister’s favorite holiday, early morning breakfasts and late night porch-sits, scribbled notes left on bathroom mirrors, weekend hikes in the afternoon, coffee cup scandals, wool socks over pant legs, sloshing streets, and the smell of pine. I will miss the wedding, the seasonal soirées, the day that marks a transition in our family structure, and the month that raises memories from the grave.

But in all of this, I have gained.

I have gained new birthdays to celebrate, a wider gaze to appreciate the small moments, and the proof that passion can strengthen your vocal cords. I have gained an understanding that your dreams won’t move unless you run after them, that bitterness is crippling, that confidence comes from carrying your inner fire, that ideas are hollow unless acted upon, that life supplies you with everything you need as long as you’re brave enough to take initiative, that the things you do should scare you or else you’re wasting your potential, that you must grasp what you can while you’re young, but youth is not tied to age, that patience slows everything down to a pace that illuminates the beauty of simple living, that kindness requires courage, and that people can never be more than people.

I have gained a partner in crime and a place amongst the wanderers, makers, and dreamers that are hell-bent on leaving the world a bit better than when they greeted it for the first time.

Sometimes you need to miss a few things before you can gain anything new.

Home will be there when I return.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

G A S O L I N E

Spilled gasoline on dusty concrete.

We stopped because we were far past E and running late for our run-away. I looked down and saw a small puddle next to my shoe.

Memories of my uncle’s shop came running back to me out of breath. It was one of the strongest scents of my youth, and meant that I either got to tag along with the boys or spend time with my uncle as he dismantled bikes and pieced them back together. He was the one that taught me that the only way to prove that you’re fast enough, strong enough, and smart enough is to do something. A foggy image came to my mind of my legs swinging from a stool top as he lowered his voice and said, “You gotta give ‘em hell.”

I closed the cap of the tank and came back to my senses. We were headed to breakfast.

We sat across from one another at Milk & Madu, painting mental pictures of the projects that we planned to create; ones that we could be in control of, but had been too scared to start on our own. Today’s the day I stop making excuses, I scribbled down in my notebook.

We paid the bill and readied ourselves for the drive. After a few stops, we were on the road to Ubud, craving a sense of escape. I leaned back on the edge of the bike and looked over the rice fields as Xani took the throttle. I listened to the same track on repeat and recounted our conversation. I have been spending all of my energy on someone else’s vision as an excuse to stunt my own. Why am I still afraid? I searched for an answer in the palm trees, and readjusted my hold on the seat behind me.

When we reached town, we wandered for a few hours and found ourselves next to a small bridge that stood over vines and large river rocks. As we made our way back to the roadside, we looked up to face a thin German man in a khaki bucket hat, steering through traffic. It was Stefan. There, in front of us, was the man that had sat to my right on our plane ride from San Francisco to Taiwan; the man that gifted me a lifetime of wisdom in a mere 30-minutes; the man that left us with a grin and the words, “Stay in trouble.”

We hurried down the road to catch him, but lost the trail as he turned into a market. We stopped, amazed, then continued on in shock. Life’s too thrilling to believe in coincidence. Out of the 4.2 million people in Bali, there he was. It was as though someone had shook me and said, “You’re right where you need to be, so stop asking and do something.” Tears filled my eyes as we followed the curved streets. I glanced down at the fuel gauge and noted another E.

I pulled off to the left and asked for a bottle of gasoline.

I opened the tank and thought back to my uncle’s shop. “Give ‘em hell.”

I closed the tank and thought back to the Denpasar airport. “Stay in trouble.”

I looked back at the palm trees. I’m sick of being scared.  

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

C U R R E N C Y

On my second day in Indonesia, I was handed a phrase. I wasn’t quite sure how to dissect it, or whether or not it had any implications that would affect me, but after four weeks, I am beginning to understand its meaning.

We were standing in an open kitchen, wrapped in the heat of Canggu, looking across a long wooden table at a young expatriate from London. It was spoken over freshly made toast and breathed in reference to someone that we had not yet met.

The expatriate leaned back in her chair and said, “Her currency is people.”

The four words were voiced as a descriptor of a woman named Ninie, who would be housing us for the next few months.

Ninie grew up in a shared Chinese and Dutch culture and was raised in Jakarta, where she was blessed with the talents of cooking, baking, and loving by wholes, instead of halves. She is an established textile designer in Asia that has built her entire career on word of mouth and face-to-face connection. Her friends span nearly every continent and she ventures to new countries every few months. She lives in a villa that acts as a shelter to stray travelers, and earnestly extends the term “family” to all who enter. This is our temporary home.

We have been staying at her villa for just over a month, and I have not only been exposed to some of the best meals of my life, but to the evidence that honest, open, generous people have the ability to change the world. We are taught this in our innocent years, believing that kindness has the ability to shape everything around us—seeing smiles as a sort of superpower, and sharing as one of life’s greatest joys. It is sincere, it is simple, and it is beautiful. This belief is commonly left at the door as we are ushered into the “real world,” and we learn to see kindness as a catch. I say this not for the sake of ranting, but for the reminder that these are rare things to find in anyone past the age of 4. When you encounter them in the hard reality that we have grown accustomed to, it is difficult not to be moved.

Ninie has chosen to step beyond the familiar face of generosity and rest in this place of genuine giving. She chooses this every single day. She views everything that she has earned as something to share with those around her and is filled by the role that she has granted herself. She is a giver, and it is all that she knows.

I came to Bali to work on an adventure marketing campaign that is pushing the traditional bounds of charity and marketing, but I am learning beyond this experience. Although I still view this venture as a potential way to help people, I am learning that you don’t have to go on elaborate motorcycle rides through remote villages and deliver vaccines in order to give back. You can simply share. You can give, without counting, without keeping score. It has the power to make a true difference in the world.

Ninie’s currency is people, and she has taught me that this is not a means to use people as an exchange, but to see them as valuable. In everything that I do, I want to view human interaction as the reward. She is challenging me to live the life of a giver, and it is not an easy task.

I want to challenge you to do the same.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

W A T E R

For as long as I can remember, I have had a strange connection with water. In my youngest years, this took shape in swimming pools, sprinkler heads, and slip'n slides. I lost all track of time when I was surrounded by it, and I felt that my imagination could soar higher within its reach. As I grew older, this took a different shape, morphing into showers, rainstorms, creek beds, and kitchen sinks. I washed dishes by hand because the running faucet opened my mind and fed questions. I felt like my strongest self in these perfectly ordinary packages of time. From the ages of twenty-one to twenty-two, the ocean became my piece of sanity in San Francisco. Driving down Sloat Blvd twice a week, sitting in my car, and staring out a cracked windshield with my fingers clasped around a cheap cup of coffee remained my actionable mantra. Watching the waves throw themselves upon land woke me up from the mundane. It was the only thing that felt like home. I have met people that yield this same feeling, I have collected moments that offer a similar relief, and for the first time, I have entered a place that feels like water. As I spend my time traveling through simple buildings and side streets and remove myself from the tourist hubs and vacationers’ mindset that pollute pieces of Bali, I can hear communities attempt to bring these feelings into vocabulary. There is something that causes an air of reflection here; of vivid dreams, déjà vus, and overall contemplation of what it means to feel at home in myself. The woman that we’re staying with likes to call this magic. I call it water. In the quiet I can feel a gentle swaying; a surrounding that does not hold the pressures of an embrace, but an open sense of support; a calm movement; a visual texture; a restorative quench. Despite the complications that I am facing in my current apprenticeship, I am learning to stop and listen, to sit back a moment and let the culture wash over it all, to collect my thoughts, dreams and visions, to listen to myself. I know who I am and what I need, and I think it took coming to this place to see it. Bali is like placing my hands in water. It is the simplest and most accurate description I can offer.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

T H E   P O W E R   O F   T H E   U N P O L I S H E D

I once tried to have a conversation about passion with a woman in a dimly lit dive bar. Needless to say, it was an interaction that was doomed from the start. Regardless, I will never forget the look on her face when I asked her to stop talking about the job that she hated and start talking about her passions instead. I'm still not sure why I chose to speak up in this particular moment—I blame the article I read earlier that day addressing the sad truth that conversations in America only revolve around occupation. By the time I realized that my words had found voice and left my mouth, I had to commit to my ill-planned argument. The woman rolled her glazed eyes and asked me to please enlighten the table on the subject of my own passion. I swallowed my anxiety and said, "Writing. I want to be a writer." She retorted in a brash tone, made a joke about clarity, and asked what I was aiming to write about. I had clearly not thought this far ahead. I had never even pieced those words together before. In my embarrassment I spat out the frightful phrase, "I don't know." I looked down, recovered slightly and added, "I know that I want to travel, write about the people I meet, and do something meaningful." My answer didn't amuse her and she shifted her gaze away from my standpoint and toward our mutual friend. I knew that I sounded insane and that the conversation was going nowhere, but I also recognized that I was not speaking to this woman; I was speaking to myself. I had no experience in writing; I was simply working for a retail store and going to school for apparel design. I hadn’t allowed myself to reevaluate what I wanted or leave room for change because it just didn’t make sense. It was easier to stay put and dwell in my discontent. I was prepared to bury my dreams alive because I believed them to be unattainable. I'm not sure why the topic of passion has become so uncomfortable, or when humanity became ashamed of hope. We talk about the things that are easily understood—our titles, projects, and promotions, stating them as if they are what define us. This may be easier, but it is also crippling. If I've learned anything over the last few months, it's that passions are often messy and unpolished, but they are powerful. Each time we allow ourselves to dream, we solidify something and discover a piece of who we were meant to become, and if I'm not mistaken, most of us are still searching for that. Last February I left a dive bar feeling humiliated but hopeful. It took a stranger’s scoff and a sarcastic "good luck," but less than a year later, I am writing this rant from a small café in Bali, where I am working as a copywriter and storyteller for a humanitarian marketing collective. It doesn't make any logical sense, and I've given up trying to explain how I got here. All I know is that our passions are powerful. It would be heartbreaking to wake up one day and realize that we've lived entire lives ignoring them.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

A   S T R A N G E R ' S   W I S D O M

Talking to strangers has never come naturally to me. I have spent the majority of my life dodging small talk and mastering the art of avoiding eye contact. For some reason this fear is heightened on airplanes. I typically shy from all conversation until I have my carry-on in hand and my destination in sight, then smile politely and say, “Have a nice day.”

When we boarded our 14-hour flight from San Francisco to Taiwan, Alexandria and I walked to the final row of the left side of the plane and took our assigned seats. We were processing excitement, swallowing nerves, and laughing over the ridiculous opportunity that came with the last week when a 70-year-old man claimed his place next to me in the aisle way. Both his voice and his features muttered Hallo as he sat down. He wore a light green cap and a wool sweater that was fraying at the hem of his left wrist. His eyes looked tired but full. We exchanged greetings, and returned to our conversation, but I could not help but feel intrigued by this stranger.

We had very little interaction with him for the first 12 hours, only mumbling, “Excuse me,“ whenever we needed to get up, and swapping friendly glances when food was offered. With two hours left in the first leg of our journey, he leaned over, tapped twice on my right forearm, and whispered the sacred words, “Do you mind if I tell you a story?”

He began by saying that he has been a world traveler since the age of 17, and left his home in Berlin to explore different lands through his hobby of archeology. He had noticed that I was watching a documentary on Stonehenge and wanted to share a secret with us. He told us that there are mysteries in each culture and in every part of the world, and the fact that they cannot be solved is what makes life beautiful. He spent half of his life studying the remains of secrets; not to solve them, but to collect more evidence of the beauty of the unknown. After chatting for some time, he paused a moment, gathered his thoughts, and stated simply, “There is far more to life than what is understood.”

He continued on, speaking of human growth, development, and the openness that we are capable of. He wanted us to remember that every piece of history is just an account of the human heart and that our lives are a journey to find our own. He handed us pieces of his life and told us of his acts of bravery through the filter of sincere humility. I wanted to write down every word that he spoke.

We parted ways during our layover, but continued smaller conversations during the second leg of our journey, though we were separated by seven rows of seats. Upon our arrival in Bali, we bid our farewells and extended well wishes to our newfound kinship.

As I begin my first apprenticeship 8,389 miles away from home, I am choosing to carry the words of my new friend in my pocket. The next three months are an area of unknown, but offer something that yields a thrill and a beauty that I cannot quite put into words.

As I venture outside of Canggu into a remote village in Karangasem, I leave you with the wisdom of a young-hearted German man.

“Each of us is born into uncertainty but are called to be brave. The good times are ahead. They have to start somewhere—so why not be one of the few that go for it? We should stop thinking so much.”

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

T H E   F I R S T   O F   O C T O B E R

October has always been my favorite month. It’s not just the change in color or the start of new temperatures, but the promise of something that I can never quite put my finger on. This October began with a 5am wake-up call and one too many cups of coffee. It was still dark outside, the house was silent, and I could hear my thoughts swarming, mimicking the rhythm of the rain. “What if?” I kept catching myself; scared dreaming would jinx it. “But still… what if?” I got dressed and wiped the sleep from my eyes. By the forty-minute mark, Alexandria was at the front door. We have been by each other’s side nearly every day since our first hellos in Chicago, and are lucky enough to call the same small section of California home. But with the three-week count that Auburn had tallied, we were unsure if our plans could actually pan out. Every call before this had led us. Each time we spoke of our vision, we were strengthened, believing it more. We braced ourselves for yet another meeting, with yet another stranger, in yet another country. Despite the number of times we heard the word no, we were hopeful. There was something in the air. We exchanged glances, inhaled, and dialed. I could not help but hold on to breath. It just kept ringing. There was no answer. We dialed again. No answer. My heart fell to the floorboards. We dialed again. The ringing stopped. The conversation lasted an hour but flew past like an instant. Each of us spoke and each of us listened, recognizing the fluidity of our converging thoughts. I kept catching myself, “What if?” My mother stood crouched at the top of the staircase, eavesdropping, while Alexandria and I looked at each other, confused at what was unfolding. We said goodnight, he said good morning. The call ended. “Are we going to Bali?” “I think so.”

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

S I M P L E   M O M E N T S

To steer clear of an annoying rant about the apprenticeship search, I am going to share a story with you instead. It is not something that happened during this extended span in my hometown, but during my two short weeks in Chicago. It is a moment that came and went, but left a piece of itself behind. It was the evening of September 5th. We had walked from a warm Egyptian dinner to cold Lincoln Park ice cream, and continued on toward the lake. There were eight of us in total. We walked with laughter, inquiries of “back home” and the comfort that we had found in the foreign corners of the city. When we reached our destination, we sat quietly, looking over the boat docks and into the light of downtown. After pausing for some time, there was talk of heading back to our temporary beds when James remembered that the local bike sharing system was offering thirty minutes of free exploration on this particular evening. Being the broke and excitable students that we are, we of course jumped at the suggestion. We claimed our chosen vessels and I spent a whole sixty seconds trying to adjust my seat before giving up. My feet couldn’t reach the ground, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t mind the added thrill. It was dark, and even with the flashing bulb on my bike, it was difficult to see fully. We took off down the dirt path that followed the water. The trees merged their shadows with ours, and the air cradled us as we ventured. I parted down a path of my own and turned into a tunnel. Prepping for the downhill, I pedaled as fast as my legs would allow. When the moment arrived, I stood up, with my fingertips grazing the handlebars, and I let out a yarp. Looking back, it may have been more of a yip, but it held a healing sense of release nonetheless. My hair flew backwards, and I could hear the echo of the wheels turning, clicking. In this moment I was reminded of what it felt like to be young. To run as fast as you can down a hill, unfazed by the probability of falling; to laugh as loud as you can, not caring what color or shape your face may turn; to feel as though your heart could explode from the warmth that it holds; to be hit in the gut by pure fun. I was reminded what it felt like to be free. Since I’ve been home, I have held on to this piece—this revelation of sorts. There is joy in the simple moments, when we allow ourselves to be young, when we allow ourselves to be free. I think we need more of these moments, and I for one, am going to start collecting them.

[forthatwhichsparks-blog]

C L I M B I N G   W I T H O U T   F E A R

Raised in the foothills of Northern California, I grew up with dirt under my fingernails and scrapes on my knees. I loved to climb anything that I could grip—trees, rocks, animals, and structures that stood in the queue of decay. The results weren’t always pretty, but I found a sense of rush as I moved, clutching whatever surface would accept my hand. The moment of reaching my heights, of looking down to see that I had doubled, tripled, everything that I had been; that was what filled my lungs, that was what fueled my soul.

Not much has changed since then, and although you might not see me covered in sap every day, this same sense of adventure is what continues to drive me and push me to explore. This need to double, triple, and stretch is what led me to Experience Institute.

I first learned about Ei two years ago, and although I did not quite understand it, I could never shake the possibilities that existed within its framework. The thought of designing my education, learning from experience, and working on human-centered projects made me wonder how I could leap and what impact I might have if I only stepped outside of comfort.

I have spent much of my life shifting locations and focuses due to an underlying terror of becoming stagnant and a knowledge that I could never dedicate my life to a profit-driven job on the ground. I have always had a need to reach beyond a traditional definition of success and make my nest in the unconventional. Ei is providing these opportunities and is teaching me to move with purpose rather than fear. The notion of learning has been locked inside classrooms for far too long, and although I have learned within walls, it is time for me to actively participate in life-long learning on the outside.

For me, the next twelve months symbolize living with intention and extending all that I have through passion. I chose Ei because it provides a platform of transformation within the realm of design, and strips us from ease so that we may grow beyond our current state. The beauty of this program is that none of us have any idea where it will lead, but we are certain that change is not only inevitable but integral.

My hope for this year is to strengthen my written and visual communication skills through the art of storytelling and showcase the common thread that ties us to each other. As John Steinbeck represented the voices of everyday people and connected individuals to their environments, I am also striving speak up for the hidden, the dusty, and the ones labeled “ordinary.” If I am sure of anything, it is that every one of us has a story worth telling, and that these tales are what will have the greatest resonance of creativity, culture, and empathy. I am here to expand my thinking to solve more complex issues; to find a home in risk; to gain new eyes; and to listen, soak up, and retain all that I can so that I might establish a direct connection with the individuals that uphold the culture within communities. I believe that through human connection powerful change is possible, and that my path to meaningful work is through the realm of communication.

So, as cliché as it sounds, this year is about taking hold of my child-like wonder, stepping out in unabashed curiosity, and climbing without fear of falling.