not exactly according to plan.

As much as I love the internet, smartphones, all those other modern (in)conveniences-- I've always been a sucker for the pen and paper datebook.
From the moment my tiny all-girl high school issued each of us freshmen a bright yellow spiral-bound homework book stamped with the school seal, I've been keeping track of my days via "hard" calendar.
In college, I moved on to Quo Vadis planners, and even convinced my boyfriend at the time to buy one... only to pronounce my utter dismay at his lack of inked pages (he was a business student, after all).
I geeked out over planners, I'll admit.  And choosing one at the beginning of each year was what you might call A Process.  Do I really need a page per day?  Will I remember to tear off these perforated corners every day?  Should I just get a refill and use the same pleather cover?  Then the chosen calendar would arrive by mail and I would begin to fill its pages with homework assignments, paper deadlines, social "events" (KEGGER @ WEST CAMPUS!), and, on occasion, something with a bit more substance.
Because I am now an Adult, I've moved onto Moleskine notebooks (this is Brooklyn, after all).  When deciding between weekly versus daily pages back in December of last year, Kevin helpfully suggested a daily planner, as it might encourage me to jot down bits and pieces more often.  You see, I had planned to Write More in the new year, in an attempt to supplement the paperwork-filled days at my job with some creativity.
I wish I could say I have piles of draft posts just waiting to be published, but that would be a lie.  Judging by the date of the previous entry on this here blog, I have not done so well on the whole Writing More Thing.

I have, however, done quite well otherwise this year.  Brooklyn has really started to feel like a home.  I single-handedly installed my air conditioner in my third-storey window (I know!) when the oppressive city heat became too much to bear.  I turned 25 and decided it is a very good age to be.  I drank skippy with my college roommates, savored Dad's first mojito of the summer, tasted wine in Long Island with my best friend and our beaus, did picklebacks in a basement at a Cape Cod lake house, and shared probably far too many bottles of wine with Kevin over weekday meals.  I perfected my Caesar salad, and cooked roast chicken and mediterranean meatballs, blood orange olive oil cake and rhubarb crumb bars, sriracha-doused shrimp and fish tacos, and lots and lots of fried eggs.  On a few too many Sundays, I bought the Times and left unread sections all over my bedroom floor until I forced myself to get through them all.  I visited friends in DC and Philadelphia, and over Memorial Day weekend, I spent a night roaming the streets of San Juan with Betsy.

The coincidence and pure good fortune that afforded a reunion with B came to mind again when I checked her magnificent blog for updates and spotted some familiar scenes.  There they were: gorgeous photographs, and a link... to my blog.  My much-neglected, achingly-out-of-date blog.

So thanks, to Kevin for the daily Moleskine that provided the space to draft this post while hanging out in Park Slope tonight, and to B, for the gentle nudge.
There are good things to come.

nou bouke.

While flicking through the TV channels tonight after dinner (and let's be honest, we don't have cable Chez Cloughley so there isn't much choice in the first place), we stumbled upon a documentary about Haiti.  There's been a lot of coverage on public television about the earthquake and the state of Haiti and its people a year later, but this particular program was really incredible.  It's called Nou Bouke, and was made by a team from The Miami Herald.  "Nou bouke" is a Creole term meaning, "We're tired."  What an apt title.

Though I enjoyed the entire piece, I really loved a feature on a man named Jerry Rosembert, a graffiti artist who uses street art to spread a message from Haiti, and for Haiti.  Watching the documentary led to some internet searching, and I found these to share.

From Voices of Haiti: A Daily Photoessay by Jeremy Cowart.  See more of his beautiful photography here

From Repeating Islands: News and commentary on Caribbean culture, literature, and the arts

From the Haiti Photo Library, which you can find here

The recovery effort in Haiti is complicated, because the quality of life for the majority of Haitians prior to January 12, 2010 was abysmal.  And now, cholera has sunk its ugly teeth into an already decimated population; to rebuild a nation on a foundation that is already full of holes seems an insurmountable task.
But as it is with Jerry, so it can be with others.  Paired with a little help and a lot of hope, Haiti's people will retain what makes them whole.

Just something to keep in mind when you're booking your next cruise to the Caribbean.

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what it's worth.

It's been a whirlwind ten months since my last post on this blog.  I've been keeping myself busy here, but I thought I should share this on my "everyday life" blog as well, just for posterity.
As I face my final two weeks as a volunteer in South Africa, I can't help thinking back to all the frustration, sadness, giggles, and driving on the "wrong" side of the road that has happened in the past ten months.  Teaching has been an amazing experience, and my time at St. Leo Primary has awakened new passions within me that I didn't give one ounce of thought to before.
Amid the three-week strike, the World Cup fiasco, the lack of student attendance and the inadequacy of education in this country, one of my learners in Grade 7 dropped this note on my desk as she left class last Friday.  And this is why I'm here.

"To Shinad
Hi Shinad How are you me I am fine. I would like to tell you something. Shinad at first I did not like white people because of aparteid but I have realise that you must not hate somebody just because of the colour. You must not judge some body the colour of the skin, and since I have relise that you are a good person and you are a kind person. And even you are not near me I will always love you. You show me the love that my parent never show.
Shinad I love you with all of my heart
From: Hlengiwe"

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ode to sundays.

A while back, my dear friend (and fellow redhead) Colleen wrote an ode-- specifically, an ode lauding the merits of front porches in her hometown.  She suggested that some other bloggers out there might be similarly inspired to write such a post, and now, much later than I care to admit, I've decided to write my own ode: an ode to Sundays.

I hated Sundays growing up.  Even throughout four years of college, Sundays were a reminder of the week that followed.  They meant homework that I'd put off all weekend, an hour of being bored at church, shifts at Barnes & Noble Café during high school, and in college, laundry and other chores that would bite me in the butt come Sunday night.  A good friend once referred to the dreaded day as being like, "the last meal before an execution," and, for a long time, I took that comparison to heart.  Even when Mondays were occasional holidays, Sundays were always my least favorite day of the week.

But all that changed after my move back home following graduation.

Now, on Sundays, I sleep late-- but if the sun looks particularly nice, I might go for a brisk run around the neighborhoods, happily aware that the benefits of my exercise will be counteracted by Dad's crepes or Mum's lemon muffins or croissants from our local grocery store.  If the warmth of my bed wins over motivation for exercise, I'm usually woken by the sound of the coffee grinder, and thoughts of steaming hot cups of dark coffee diluted with skim milk.

After a late breakfast, I spend the day finishing a couple of chapters in that book next to my bed, or finishing a blog post I'd meant to get around to all week.  My little sister Megan does homework (though the Top 40 Hits blaring out of her stereo would suggest otherwise) and a good portion of time is spent convincing Mum that she's not texting, she swears.

On some Sundays, my sisters and I are reunited for a short while, because Niamh makes the trek home from college with laundry in hand, craving a good meal and the familiar comfort of her own bed.

In the warmer months, Mum and Dad would have been out in the garden long before my sisters and I get out of bed.  After breakfast, they'd go back to it, and whenever I see them out there, I make a silent promise to one day spend some time pondering horticulture as a hobby too.  Now that it's chilly, Dad might venture out to break up the old trees that fell during summer thunderstorms, and chop them into firewood.  Mum catches up on emails, occasionally letting out an excited yell when a potential houseguest to our French cottage drops her a line.  She catches up on her reading for one of her two book groups, and then it's into the kitchen, where she (and Dad, more and more these days), spends some time figuring out what we can eat for our early Sunday meal out of what's in the fridge.

I peek my head in from time to time, sometimes offer to make a salad dressing or dessert, but usually happy to be assigned the already carefully planned tasks that Mum's worked out.  Her timing is impeccable; with Megan due at youth band rehearsal at 5, dinner's always on the table around 4.  Sometimes Dad and Meg make homemade pasta, cranking out perfectly shaped strips of yellowish dough, while Mum roasts vegetables or simmers a sauce that goes perfectly with the fish Dad caught on his most recent fishing trip.  I'm never shy to get the cheese out before we sit down to dinner, so that it's ready to eat after the plates have been cleared away and before Megan jets off to practice.

Then, before we eat, we hold hands and for a brief moment, every week,  we say grace together.  We each take a turn wishing blessings on the family member seated next to us, and for that one moment, all is quiet around us.  It's the perfect meditation that lasts all week long.  Though we trundle off to Mass after dinner, the short grace that we say before our Sunday meal is one of the most sacred moments of my week.

At Mass, we sing along with Megan and the youth band.  Mum says her prayers the Irish way, and I secretly love to hear her do so-- it's a reminder of the family across the ocean who have also attended Mass that same day.  Dad never applauds the occasional speaker after Communion, and Niamh and I sometimes revert back to childhood and attempt to outsqueeze each other's hands during the Our Father.  For a sacrament so full of tradition and meditation, it's the routine of being there with my family that I appreciate most.

After coming home, we change back into the yoga pants and sweatshirts we'd worn before church and boil the kettle to fill the teapot.  Teabags are a prized possession in our house; they're the only thing we insist on smuggling back to the US after a trip back to Ireland.  The tea is made with precision, and after dessert, Meg goes back to her books and Niamh settles in for an early night before her drive back to school on Monday morning.  Dad goes upstairs to check his email, and then reads his book before going to sleep, and downstairs, in the living room, Mum and I take up residence on the couch with the cats to watch our one televised indulgence of the week.  After a short debriefing of the episode and complaints about the inevitably unimportant local news at 11, we, too, make our way to bed.

 In reflecting on the Sundays I've come to cherish since moving home, I've decided that my enjoyment of them has been affected by the lack of schoolwork I've reveled in since graduation.  But, more importantly, I love Sundays because they have come to be the nucleus of my family's week.  On Sundays, we take the time to be with each other.  We're busy people, especially now that my sisters and I are grown, and we have lots of commitments that get in the way of quality time spent with each other.  But on Sundays, when we sit around the table, or together at church, or even watching TV, there's a different feeling of togetherness than on other days.

And that's why, on this last Sunday with my family for a whole year, I'm quite sad to reflect on how much I enjoy them.  It's hard thinking about my new life without my family in it, and I think that Sundays will be especially tough.  But there are things that I can do-- like going to Mass or cooking a meal at home-- that will remind me of the peace I've enjoyed on Sundays with my family.

what a year for a new year.

I really loved 2009.
No, like, really.

In January, I started off the year sipping cocktails with my best girlfriends from high school, started the last semester of my undergraduate career at Villanova, and joined thousands of people in Washington, D.C. to witness President Obama's inauguration.

In February, I celebrated my 22nd birthday, cheered on Villanova as they made their way towards the NCAA championships, and crossed my fingers as I sent in my application to my volunteer program.

In March, I got to be Ashley's date to NYU's Violet Ball, drank a pint of Guinness before 11 am on St. Patrick's Day, spent my entire spring break writing the final draft of my senior thesis, and drove out to Detroit with my roommates to watch Villanova in the Final Four.

In April, I attended my final classes as a college student, shut myself up in the library as I finished my thesis, and found out that I'd been accepted as an Augustinian Volunteer in the South Africa program.

In May, I celebrated the end of classes, spent senior week in a celebratory haze with my best friends, graduated magna cum laude from Villanova, celebrated some more, and moved out of the poor excuse for a house that myself and seven other girls came to cherish... and back home.

In June, I spent ten days eating feta, drinking Mythos, and soaking up the sun in Greece with my best friends from high school; visited family & spent Bloomsday in a very Joycean fashion in Dublin; and returned to France for market-fresh dinners on the patio, bike rides among the sunflower fields, and some Parisian joie de vivre.

In July, I was reunited with some college friends for apple pie & beer on the 3rd of July, and quit selling books in favor of three very random weeks working at a summer camp in northern New Jersey (and would not have traded it for the world).

In August, I drove to Newport, RI with Colleen & Wil for a very flannel & beardy weekend at the Newport Folk Festival, spent a week getting oriented with my fellow Augustinian Volunteers and community members going to South Africa, and started my job at ADROP in Philadelphia.

In September & October, I came to accept the fact that my life no longer runs on a semesterly schedule and sank my teeth into some really good reading (for pleasure!).

In November, I spent a weekend in New York City and got to see Amy Poehler and Rachel Dratch in a show at UCB, then flew across the country with Colleen to whet our west coast appetites visiting Becky in San Francisco.

And in December, I finished out my time at ADROP, ate huge Christmas meals until I was fit to burst, enjoyed a very beautiful snowfall, and began to make preparations for my trip to South Africa in just one week's time.

What an amazing year. Though I think New Year's Eve can be a bit overhyped, I must say that today, going into 2010, I feel so blessed to be where I am. I'm surrounded by people I love, with a fulfilling decade behind me and a new adventure about to begin.
Here's to you, 2010.

doctors without borders.

Every Thursday night in high school, Mum and I would settle down in front of the TV, like millions of other moms and daughters, to watch ER. I really loved it; I fell head over heels for Noah Wyle in his role as Dr. Carter, and, in his final days as a member of the cast, his character traveled overseas to do humanitarian medical work with an organization called Doctors Without Borders (or Medicins Sans Frontieres).
I was spellbound. Though you wouldn't know it by the large volume of paperbacks on my bookshelf, or by my college diploma and degree, I dreamed for a long time of going to medical school and becoming a doctor. I've always loved helping people, and I saw medicine as a field in which I could be a professional "helper". And who knows, maybe one day I'll relearn biology and science and don a white jacket, but I'm not sure my English degree will be much help.

Nonetheless, I really got interested in MSF. I did some research online, and in college, applied for a few internships in their New York offices (to no avail). I get their monthly newsletter by email and have a map of the world hanging in my bedroom that they sent me, marked with the quote by Nicolas de Torrente, executive director of the group: We find out where conditions are the worst-- the places where others are not going-- and that's where we want to be.

So when I found out that a documentary had been made about the organization, I was eager to see it, and tonight, at 7:30pm, it's being shown in 450 movie theaters nationwide. It's called Living in Emergency: Stories of Doctors Without Borders.

Here's the trailer, and if you're interested, you can head over to their website to see what movie theaters near you are playing the movie. There are even rumors of some Oscar activity... I can't wait to see it.

coloring for a cause.

I saw this and just had to share, as most of you are probably like me & scrambling for Christmas gifts for the people you love.

For the indie rock lover in your life, who may happen to also need some good old-fashioned coloring therapy once in a while, comes.... the Indie Rock Coloring Book!





Released by the Yellow Bird Project, based out of Montreal, the coloring book features artwork inspired by musicians including The Shins, Laura Veirs, and Bon Iver-- and the profits from the sale of the coloring books goes towards charities chosen by the musicians involved.

I'd love to color a picture of Devendra Banhart's beard!!

getting Nothing for christmas.

The "holiday season" is a very exciting time-- the prospect of bundling up against cold weather, family-friendly Christmas movies on weekend television, and the comfort that comes from being surrounded by evergreen and tinsel decorations, twinkling with tiny lights. Personally, I look forward to Christmas especially for the quality time I get with my family. Most years, my parents and two sisters are the people that I spend the few days with (the majority of our extended family lives overseas). We order extra Netflix movies, Mum makes dozens of her delicious mince pies, and we hole up with good food and each other's company to enjoy a few days rest from school and work.

I can't say, though, that I remain unaffected by the other side of Christmas; that is, the decorations in the mall, the special deals on electronics and other gifts, and the small joy that is a red Starbucks cup. I'm as subject to clever marketing and advertising as the next consumer.

But, this clever site brought me back to reality. Check out the one of the most-wanted items this year & see if it changes your mind about the things on the Christmas list you still insist on writing to Santa, all these years later.


Found via The Uniform Project (another site I highly recommend-- an interesting project!)

a personal reflection, on world AIDS day.

Today is World AIDS Day, and though it was commemorated in full force at my university, this is the first year where I've been forced to think about the reality of the virus. In just a few weeks, I will be living in the country with the largest percentage of HIV positive people in the world. Though there is some hopeful news (like this and this), the fact is that of the 33 million people infected with AIDS in the world, 22 million of them live in Africa, and the so-called "Dark Continent" is often overlooked in favor of issues closer to home.

On a more personal note, I'm really struggling to come to terms with the fact that today is the first of December. As I told someone over the weekend, when I thought about going to South Africa, I was content to mark the time passing, then suddenly realized that I had only two months to go! Just when I'd accepted that fact, time had slipped by and now I'm on the brink of my last month at home before I leave for South Africa.

I've been reflecting a lot on life and the choices I've made thus far, and how I can choose wisely and have the best life possible in the future. In talking to AV alumni, especially of the South Africa program, I've just gotten so excited to meet people. I know the country will be beautiful, and the culture will fascinate me, but even since beginning work at ADROP last August, I've really come to appreciate the simple interactions that life provides with people from all walks of life.
When you work in a city (even if you don't live there... yet), you're surrounded by strangers from the moment you leave your home until you return at night. You walk alongside them on the street, get into very close quarters together on the train or subway, and they serve you coffee and deli sandwiches when your energy dips. I love that about cities-- the interactions with strangers that serve as a reminder that we're all just going about our days next to each other.
I can't wait to feel similarly about the new people I'll encounter in my year abroad as an Augustinian Volunteer. In a conversation with Emma, an AV alum who served in South Africa in 2008, I mentioned something about how amazing it must be to have such an uncommon experience every single day. She agreed with me, but then said, "You know, it starts to lose that after a while. As time passes, that "experience" just becomes your everyday life."

I think moving to South Africa will be a series of highs and lows. Though volunteering won't be the same type of experience, I remember vividly the pattern that my emotions followed during my semester abroad in France.

There's the inevitable excitement a few months before, then a bit of nervousness as the date of departure approaches. There are the final goodbyes with friends and family, and the inevitable tears shed at the prospect of a year without face-to-face interaction with the people I love the most. There's the exciting trip itself, and the feeling of landing on foreign ground, knowing that as time passes, it will inevitably feel more like home. And as the weeks go by, there's the routine to slip into, to help numb homesickness and nervousness and fear, and the new friendly faces that become a foster family away from home. There are the moments when I'll look around, at the three girls I live with and at our surroundings and think, "Wow, look at us. These people are our reality and this is our everyday life." And then, before I have time to notice the passing of time, it will be over. December will come again and with it, the promise of a return home, to tell stories and share experiences with friends and family-- and maybe even a stranger or two.


So today, I've got Africa on my mind, and not just because it's World AIDS Day. Today I can see a major global crisis and my personal ambitions tied up in a life that will begin in just over a month. I hope that at this time next year, I can look back at today's reflection and feel like I've made a small difference, even if just in myself.


Image courtesy of the ONE campaign

saying it out loud doesn't make it better.

Since Rosalba's returned to Colombia two weeks ago, I've been arriving at St. Rita's early for ESL with no Spanish lesson to take up the extra 45 minutes before class. I could take a later train into the city, but then I'd be late... so better early than that, I suppose.

It's a beautiful day today, so instead of taking the subway down Broad Street to ESL, I decided to kill the extra 45 minutes by walking to St. Rita's instead-- because the evening ESL class runs til 8:30, I don't get home until 10 and then rarely have energy much less desire to exercise, so this was a good compromise.

I stopped into a Starbucks close to the train station to get a coffee, and the friendly employees were expediently making their way down the long line, filling orders and ringing people up. They took my order, then moved onto the gentleman behind me, who asked for, "A reduced-fat turkey bacon breakfast sandwich, and a grande, mostly decaf with just a splash of regular Pike blend coffee."

Hang on a minute, I thought to myself.

Having worked at Barnes & Noble cafe, I've had the privilege/punishment to be aware of the caloric content of most pastries, drinks, and other goodies provided by Starbucks and its affiliates. And you don't have to be a genius to realize that the truth behind the frosting and chocolate chips and pumpkin spice and whipped cream is not pretty. In fact, it's really, really ugly. One chocolate chip cookie from Barnes & Noble cafe clocks in at about 490 calories. That's a lot of nutritionless points working very hard against one's waistline.

So this guy, whoever he was (and I'm sure he's very nice and had the best intentions) seemed to be under the impression that by stating that his breakfast sandwich was indeed the "reduced-fat" variety, he has won yet another battle against the fatty gods-- and wants everyone to know it. I'm quite sure of this fact because he repeated "reduced-fat turkey bacon breakfast sandwich" about five times in the six minutes it took me to get my coffee, pay, and leave the store. Before you berate me for being too hard on this guy who really just wanted to make sure he was getting the right sandwich... there are no other turkey bacon breakfast sandwiches at Starbucks. I'm actually just glad he didn't say "reduced-fat turkey bacon breakfast sandwich with cholesterol-free egg and reduced-fat white cheddar cheese," because, well, that is what the sandwich is actually called.

Maybe I should stop being so critical and instead have asked him to accompany me on my walk around the city. It probably would have been a more practical opportunity for him to improve his health than the repetition of his low-fat mantra. But instead, I grabbed my grande Pike Place blend coffee with a splash of non-fat milk in a travel mug to go, and left the store.



Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/iirraa/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

rainy day poem.

It's a rainy day in Philadelphia, so I've settled in at the coffeeshop with a giant bowl of milky latte & my GRE books. And I decided it's a poetic rainy kind of day, so I'm sharing a poem by Mary Oliver.



Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Mary Oliver