Travel Via a Sniff, a Sight, a Sound

Lately, I’ve been quite nostalgic about my travels, reminiscing as smells, sights, and sounds transport me back to a situation and place I experienced months or years ago.

It’s no enigma as to why my nostalgic mind is on overload (more than usual, I mean). Myself and so many others are nostalgic, grieving, for the way things once were in the pre-pandemic world. Memories, too, can be an escape from the grueling monotony of our current state.

And so it is that I find myself trailing off in thought on more frequent occasions when a sniff of the humid, post-rain morning triggers my memory of early wake up calls in the Amazon. One odorous recollection that leads to another: the fetid whiff of ocelot pee every time I neared their enclosure; the mildewy scent of a book that arrived like-new and left in the damp form of fragile, decaying pages; the musky, lactonic smell of gruel for the baby hormiguero.

Driving down the narrow, windy roads of the Taconic, I forget that I am headed toward upstate New York. Advertisement billboards are absent along this scenic drive, and the rolling hills lush with emergent emeralds resemble the passing jungle canopy of El Yunque National Rainforest. For a minute or two, I am remembering a jump into the waterfall that is hidden among the crowded trees. I am remembering the people I met only the day before at a hostel dinner gathering, the people that have become my traveling companions for the next 24 hours. I smile, and then a Nissan cuts me off and I remember it is just me in this car and my destination is not a Puerto Rican landmark.

Running through the hilly section of town I just recently discovered, broken-down houses sit nestled together. I pass their beaten doors and feel like I’m remembering something from somewhere from sometime. Did I write about these doors? The front door of one home beckons so close to the tapered sidewalk that the barking Yorkie inside sounds like he is right next to me. And then I hear the knob turn, hear a happy family now behind me as I continue my jog. They are speaking in a foreign tongue, and I remember. I remember now.

I am back in Portugal, lost but not worried as I meander, solo and map-less, a section of Porto that resembles my present running route. I am making assumptions; I am imagining; and I am surprised by what lies behind such battered doors.

I am nostalgic for my vagabond lifestyle, my nomadic wanderings, that–like so many things for all of us–have been squandered by a virus and its subsequent fallout. Cancelled trips only increase my yearning for adventure and exploration. I am–we are–trapped by a microscopic monster that is defining our now and shaping our future. But, I remind myself that, just like the sickening in my stomach when I first set foot on uncharted territory alone, this, too, won’t last forever.

You Don’t Have COVID-19? You Can Still Grieve

Wow. This is the first time in the 10 weeks since quarantine started that I’ve been inspired to write. I’ve wanted to! I’ve tried. But alas, I’ve always ended up staring at a blinking cursor and a blank screen.

A couple weeks ago, my boyfriend (an essential worker) came home from work and found me lying flat on the kitchen rug. It was a weird place to lie, but I was feeling hugely unmotivated that day. The sun–which I’d been craving–had finally decided to shine its rays through a cloudless sky, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to move from the rug.

So it goes with daily lockdown life in New York State. There are good days and bad days, up weeks and down weeks, exciting moments and draining moments. I have so far avoided contracting COVID-19–or Corona as I prefer to call it. And while somehow I’ve managed to deal with a bout of lice and poison ivy in quarantine, I’m alive; I’m breathing; I’m healthy.

We were doing this for the greater good. But that novelty has begun to wear off as restrictions are lifted in some states, yet fears and the virus remain. When some of us are still on lockdown, but others aren’t.

At the beginning of the spread of the virus–when life as we knew it began to take on a drastically different shape–we were all reminding each other that we were lucky. We had each other, albeit socially distantly, and we had our health. Death tolls were climbing but we were, for all intents and purposes, safe.

But what my physical health has provided me since the lockdown began, my mental health has not. It’s fair-minded and equitable to remind ourselves of the good and the luck that we have, but it does not do our mental health any justice to negate the difficult circumstances we find ourselves in, virus or not.

Our feelings not only deserve to be acknowledged, but it is imperative that we recognize them. Pushing them under the proverbial rug (not the rug my boyfriend found me recently lying on) does not make them any less valuable or warranted. If that’s all we did, overshadowing our own struggles by comparing them to the struggles of others, our seemingly small concerns would become a large lump under that rug that we would one day trip and fall on. And speaking from experience, that downward spiral is a black hole of its own.

My dear friend who has been experiencing the restricting lockdown life in India reminded me recently that we are always, always allotted to our feelings:

“Quick reminder that it’s okay to not be okay. We are all going through grief. Even if we have stable jobs and our loved ones are healthy.” –Pooja Dutt

Someone out there will always be in a worse situation than you, but you cannot live the life you’re meant to live if you do not take care of yourself. Have theory of mind, but remember to be self-aware. In your reflections of the world in its current state and your place in it, do not deprive yourself of the self-care and compassion that you need, that you deserve, and that you are inherently entitled to.

Roughing it in the Bahamas

When people hear that I lived in the Bahamas for a year, their idea of the life I led there is drastically different from the reality. True, the island chain’s turquoise blue water, white sand beaches, and towering cliffscapes are not exaggerated on postcards and brochures. It really is an island paradise, and I really did have those at my fingertips.

But my days were not spent sprawled in a lounge chair catching a tan, sipping fruity drinks, and staring out at a blue expanse of nothingness. I caught a tan while scrubbing salt water and lemon juice into dirty laundry, while painting shutters in a bikini in stifling 100 degree heat–with no A/C to escape to. I drank warm water that I’d siphoned into bottles from a freshwater jug. And more often than not, my view of the ocean was interrupted by “the bush”–an impassable tangle of green and brown roots and leaves that traversed the remote island I called home.

About half the time I lived in the Bahamas, I did not have electricity. For all but the first month, I did not have running water. Part of this was due to setting up camp in the shell of an abandoned property while slowly–ever so slowly–renovating the house. Part of this was due to the ensuing aftermath of Hurricane Joaquin.

Every morning, I woke at 6 AM and cooked oatmeal over a portable stovetop. I poured salt water over my toothbrush to wet it before brushing my teeth. Then, I put on a mismatching bathing suit top and bottom before heading outside to the well on property. No freshwater source existed on the narrow island, so the well tapping into the water table only produced easy access to salt water. I tied a rope around glass bottles I’d plucked from the shoreline, long ago washed up from the tide. Dangling the bottle down into the 10 foot well, I hauled up five bottles of water, a gallon each, to suffice for the day: one for dishes, two for the toilets, one for laundry, and one for showering.

Next, I plugged up the kitchen sink and filled it with one of the bottles’ contents. All of the dishes from the day would soak in here throughout the day. Before bed, I would scrub them then set them out to dry, streaks of salt residue the next day affirming their cleanliness.

By now, it was nearing 8 AM. I would decide my projects for the day. This varied every day. Some days I scavenged and hauled 20-pound rocks from the surrounding bush and aligned them on the property, the humble beginnings of a garden bed forming atop the hard coral rock surface beneath my feet. Other days I drove 40 minutes into town on the one road, potholed, no-lined highway to get groceries: $7 for a head of moldy cauliflower that took a week to get from the U.S. to Nassau to Long Island, Bahamas; $10 for a pack of 5 tampons. On Saturdays, though, I went to the Farmer’s Market for local produce and socializing with the women selling me fresh mangos, guava, breadfruit, and arugula.

When it wasn’t laundry day, I set to work painting the entire exterior of the two small buildings on the property–once a command center for the adjacent unkept runway, then a nightclub, then a home. Eventually, I would paint the inside.

Some days I climbed down into the well to scoop out the Cuban tree frog tadpoles and drop them in the water’s edge at the end of the runway. I’d return to scrape the muck out of the old well, a futile attempt to purify thecontaminated salt water.

By noon, I had made a lunch of potatoes–Greek lemon or mustard potatoes–or lentils. Then I headed back outside for more laborious tasks. The heat of the day peeked at 3 PM, an unbearable time to be outside, skin baking and burning even in rare, coveted shady spots on the land. Indoors, I wrote for hours, taking breaks to read a book, play cards, or glue seashells together to make shell creatureswhich I would eventually bequeath to my Bahamian friends as I said my farewells a year later.

At 5 PM, I’d explore a new nook of the island, turning down unmarked after unmarked dirt road to find yet another vacant beach on this 80-mile long island of 3,000 inhabitants. I collected sea glass and sea shells, dead coral and bones. I encountered dozens of adult sea turtles while snorkeling in a cove; came face-to-face with a bull shark in open water.

At 8 PM I made dinner. Before the sun fell below the horizon at 8:30 PM, I was asleep–awaken throughout the night by the loud incessant croaking of Cuban tree frogs that had long ago matured from the well.

In the wake of Hurricane Joaquin, I would understand what it meant to be white and privileged showcased by my ability to choose to live this way, and the choice to return to “normal.’

7 Life Lessons I’ve Learned from Preschoolers with Special Needs

I’ve been working with children at a special education preschool for the past 4 months, and the students have taught me a thing or two about being an adult and, quite simply, a human being.

 1. Have your own feelings, and let others have theirs.

Instead of describing someone as “overly sensitive,” use the words “more sensitive.” Instead of saying, “You made me sad…,” say, “I felt sad when…” Society has normalized only certain degrees of feelings, boxing us into a limited array of “appropriate” emotions, when, in fact, emotions have been and always will be individualized.

 2. Communication is key.

Facilitating peer-to-peer repair is an important aspect of teaching special education. In life, you are going to have thoughts and feelings that you cannot control. It is important to communicate them to those around you instead of bottling them up. You can explain what happened to make you feel or think that way and in return, you’ll probably receive some empathy from a listening ear. Most everyone has empathy on some basic level, and so much of our negative thoughts and emotions are the result of accidents or misunderstanding.

3. Behavior tells a story.

Sometimes, our mouths get dammed up and we don’t know how to put into words what we’re feeling. Body language and reactions are communications in their own right. For children with special needs who lack the language to express what they want or what they’re feeling, we teachers strengthen their trust by reading, understanding, and appropriately–compassionately–responding to their non-verbal cues.

 4. Be an active listener.

Though many of my kiddos struggle with making eye contact, they still know whether or not they are being heard based on eye contact from others and general interest in their words. Because the children are building their language skills, we routinely model sentence structures for them, but only after giving them a chance to tell us the story in their own words. We give them our full attention, concentrating and then responding directly to what they just said. This not only improves upon their communication skills, but also gives them a sense of value.

 5. Goals are best accomplished one step at a time.

Scaffolding is an important aspect of special education teaching which involves breaking down lessons into smaller, more manageable steps. Goals should be set high but they should also be attainable. Learning–whether in school or in life–is best achieved when we slow down, take a step back, and look things over an extra time or two.

 6. You have more patience than you realize.

Special education requires an incredible amount of patience, especially in a room full of energetic preschoolers. I honestly did not know I had this much of an inner calm inside me. My patience is tried literally every thirty seconds throughout the six-hour school day, but I very rarely ever find it stretching too thin. (Though I do want to fall asleep by 8 PM. 🙂 ) This is hugely based on the effort I have put into building relationships with these mini humans, the time I have taken to understand them, with or without their words. Moments that seem trying are usually just a misunderstood child trying to be understood.

 7. Everyone deserves to be loved.

When I worked in the animal world, I fell in love with patients that struggled the most–a three-legged sheep, turtles missing flippers–and clients that perhaps carried a lot of baggage–crotchety old men, socially awkward folks. I’ve always been drawn to those who are misunderstood (#pitbullsarethegreatest), and children with special needs too often are. It’s such a privilege to be working at a school where cochlear implants and hearing aids are the norm, where listening and equipment checks are part of our morning routine. Even when a student is screaming in my face or punching my arm, I still have an overwhelming desire to help them learn how to process their feelings–and I remind them that it’s okay to have these feelings, because that’s what makes them who they are. They’re not different; they’re all just tiny humans finding their way in the world, and needing a little extra help along the path.

What are some life lessons you’ve learned from children? Share in the comments below!

It Gets Better

Ten months ago, I thought life as I knew it would never be the same. In a way, I was right. I am a stronger person than I was 10 months ago and a better version of myself. But the difference is that I thought my world had been zapped of sunshine and butterflies, that I would forever be spluttering, drowning, splashing but never surfacing for a breath of air. I hated my new normal but it didn’t feel like anything would ever change.

I had forgotten that it was possible to wake up in the morning with a peaceful rhythm in my chest. I had forgotten it was possible to start my day without a tightness that made each breath calculated, or to sleep more than three hours in a night. I had forgotten what it felt like to really, truly live.

People promised me it would get better, but at the time, these seemed like false, rose-colored, unproven words of hope. Because I couldn’t see past the fog, so how could they?

But it did get better.

I have made some big changes since January that have shaped my days to be filled with light instead of darkness.

I went back to therapy.

I started seeing my therapist again and found myself looking forward to our weekly appointments. While I’ve been able to cut back to monthly or even every other month appointments, I still recognize and appreciate the value in having a licensed professional with whom to talk through the ups and downs of life.

I prioritized certain people over others.

Some people in my life have been catalysts to my pain. I cut ties whether directly or indirectly with people who discouraged me, judged me, disrespected me, or were straight up rude or mean to me.

This was extremely difficult for me to do because I really do love humanity, and I really do love the people I surround myself with. But it turned out I only loved some parts of some of these people because there were other parts of them that weren’t good to me or for me. When I realized this, I had a clear idea of who I needed to let go.

I moved.

I still live in Seattle, but I moved in with a new roommate in a new apartment. I feel comfortable in this home environment, something I hadn’t felt for the two years prior. That meant for two years I would go from an uncomfortable work environment (see below) to an uncomfortable living environment every day, which made me unable to unwind and just relax.

My new living situation (which isn’t so new anymore) is working out great. I don’t know what will happen when my lease is up, but I’m surprisingly not worried about it, which shows me how much progress I’ve made.

I got a guinea pig.

Cilantro Clementine aka Clemmy aka the best guinea pig in the world has made my days immensely brighter. She relies on me and I rely on her. When I start to feel anxious, I pick her up (if she isn’t already by my side or in my lap). Just by petting her, or getting kisses from her, or hearing her little noises, my heart is instantly happier. She helps me to remain in the present. It’s truly amazing how a teensy furball can make such a big impact.

I quit my job.

The final straw toward gaining back clarity, peace, and happiness turned out to be quitting my job. For two-and-a-half years, I had stayed afloat in a hostile work environment, thriving professionally but sinking personally. I was often cornered aggressively, literally blocked from escaping a barrage of negative commentary, blamed for things that weren’t my fault, and discredited for pivotal business accomplishments for which I’d gone above and beyond. Without my consent, I was forced to shift from a 32 to 46-hour work week and cover the work of two employees without additional compensation, all the while jeopardizing my creative careers and, most importantly, my mental health.

I had made leaps and bounds in nurturing my health since reaching my lowest low, and I realized this job was the only thing keeping me from progressing.

So I quit. After two years of striving weekly to make changes within the workplace, and a year of casually yet non-directionally looking for other job opportunities, I was exhausted. I had no energy or time to commit to job searching, and so finding a job before quitting simply wasn’t an option. A lot of people are scared to quit without anything lined up, and it certainly can be scary. But I wasn’t rash in this decision. I saved all the money I made from six months of overtime work and set it aside to help me transition.

After my co-worker and I were unjustly yelled at on the end of our shift one evening, I had this “Aha!” moment where I recognized I didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I handed in my resignation the next day. Immediately, I felt that I really was going to be okay after all, that it really does get better. (Coincidentally, on my last day there, I found out I was cast in a theatre show.)

I changed careers.

I also made the decision to leave the veterinary field. Did you know the veterinary profession ranks number one in the national suicide rate? Did you know that veterinary professionals are two to four times more susceptible to mental illness than the general population? In speaking with half a dozen of my friends in the animal field who were also struggling with mental health and the same problems I had with this field of work–such as ethics and compassion fatigue–I thought about what jobs have made me the happiest. I made a list of my skills and objectives, and I set aside time every day (even today) to apply to jobs.

So I made the decision to transition out of the animal world, at least in my previous capacities, at least for now. Around this time, I was also given the opportunity to have my own animal web series, combining my love of animals with my love of writing and acting. It could not have been more serendipitous.

What’s the moral here?

It really can get better, and it will get better if you work at it. That’s the kicker though. It takes so much effort, so much strength and belief in yourself. It takes relying on others, being vulnerable and asking for help, but at the end of the day, it is only you who can pull yourself through to the other side.

It’s easy to doubt yourself and to doubt the words of hope when you feel so helpless and hopeless. But I promise you, it gets better.

Dear Joaquin

It’s been three years but I still think of you.

I remember you before, I remember you during, and I remember you after.

You don’t invade my dreams like you used to, robbing me of sleep each time I tried to close my eyes. You don’t make me nauseous like you did when I first met you. You don’t make me sob, but you can still make me cry.

I will never forget you, and I don’t want to forget you. But for far too long, you ran my life. You defined my fears and insecurities, my paranoia and my heartache. You were the catalyst to so many other terrible experiences, but in you I’ve also found a beacon of strength.

You destroyed everything in your path, and you threatened to destroy me. I am not impenetrable. But I am resilient, don’t you see?

As the homes were rebuilt, so did I rebuild the very bones that you had rattled for 36 hours straight and countless days and nights after.

As I sat drying and tossing and searching for the things you tried to take from me, I remembered that you took so much more from so many who had less.

As I listened to others share their stories, I realized I wasn’t alone, and together we rose from your ruins.

It’s been three years and I still think of you, but it’s different now. Good different.

RIP Hurricane Joaquin. You helped shape the woman I am today, and for that, I’m forever grateful.

 

Oct 14, 2015 (2 weeks later):

Hurricane Joaquin was terrifying in its before, during, and after. I am safe but my emotions are raw; the island is devastated. I have choked back vomit and tears more times than I can tally. You never expect when you take off on a dream to travel the world that the place you start to call your home can be ravaged so severely, so unforgivingly by Mother Nature. You never expect that you will get caught up 20 miles from the eye of a disaster that will live in history and meteorology as one of the most unexpected, unpredictable, perfect storms to date. You never expect to face so much fear and sadness, to flee your house, to hear survival stories of neighbors breaking through rooftops, clinging to trees, Duct taping identification to their bodies, crouching in a closet with two large dogs for 36 hours straight. Two days of 130, 145 mph winds–gusts clocked at 200. Two days of relentless storm surges. And an apocalyptic aftermath that leaves you empty.

I am writing this at a temporary communication tower with a crawling internet speed as the main tower was taken out by the storm, along with over 600 telephone poles in a 40-mile stretch. It took 1 hr to drive to it. Electricity is just being restored to parts of the island.

In my transient 6 months on Long Island, Bahamas, I’ve learned that what makes this place paradise more than its beautiful landscapes is its beautiful people. This is a resilient community. I don’t know how and I don’t know when but somehow, sometime, life will go back to normal.

If you would like to help, please, please do so. People have lost everything, including their source of income to rebuild. Contact SEACOR in Ft. Lauderdale to send food, water, building supplies, clothing, bedding, feminine hygiene products, and infant needs. Contact NEMA in Nassau, Bahamas for monetary donations. Private planes can transport supplies to the Stella Maris airport which has opened up here on Long Island.

Whether you pray, meditate, or simply ponder, please keep this island at the forefront of your mind now and in the indefinite future.

Oct 21, 2015 (3 weeks later): 

In the wake of Hurricane Joaquin, the support I’ve received from family and friends in every pocket of the globe has been humbling. I am a firm believer that no friendship is ever too small. In times like these, we lean on each other. I’m doing a lot of leaning. Please, people, if you ever need help, consider it a moment of strength, not weakness, when you choose to lean on someone. We are all we’ve got.

22 Things I’ve Learned Through Dating & Dumping

1. Honesty is the greatest attribute in a significant other, down to one’s selfless ability to tell the truth even if it means they are the one that causes pain.

2. Trust between two people should be earned, and trust between two people should be respected. Unfortunately, should be is not the same as will be.

3. Beware of taking things for granted. Gratitude never gets old, no matter how long you’ve been together.

4. You can be friends with some exes. You won’t likely be friends with all your exes.

5. There will be times you put your faith in someone and they let you down. If they let you down in the form of cheating, get out.

6. If you and your partner aren’t communicating, work on fixing it or else your relationship is doomed.

7. If he keeps you a secret from everyone else, run for the hills.

8. Learn each other’s love language.

9. Do not lose yourself in a relationship and don’t be anyone but yourself in a relationship.

10. If two people aren’t in the same place feeling-wise, the one who wants less always wins.

11. You have to get past the honeymoon phase before you’ll know if you two are really compatible.

12. Both people have to compromise in order for the relationship to flourish.

13. When you’re in a relationship with someone else, you’re still in a relationship with yourself. Don’t neglect that. Alone time is vital.

14. Sometimes a person will awaken your love without the intention of fully loving you. Sometimes that’s cowardice, sometimes that’s cruel, and sometimes that’s just life.

15. If he says he wants to focus on his career or isn’t ready for a relationship now, he’s really just not that into you. Find someone who would, if it came down to it, tell you if he’s just not that into you.

16. You can’t force someone to love you back.

17. There will be people you take a chance on, and there will be people who you know you can’t take a chance on. Not everyone deserves a chance; sometimes you’ll give chances that shouldn’t have been given. And that’s okay.

18. Dating is about learning what you want and need in a relationship. Your wants and needs might change, and so might theirs. What you can give might change, or it might not.

19. You deserve to be with someone who lifts you up, not someone who pulls you down.

20. Sometimes you’ll grow together. Sometimes you’ll grow apart.

21. You never know how many firsts you’ll have before you have your last firsts.

22. Never, ever, ever, ever settle.

The Doney Clinic: A Free Vet Clinic for Homeless People & Their Pets

This is Angel. She lives on the streets of Seattle with her dad. When I met Angel, I told her dad he named her perfectly because she was a real sweetheart. He looked at me without a beat and said, “She is my best friend.”

Last Saturday was my first day volunteering with the Doney Clinic, a free vet clinic for homeless and low-income people to bring their pets. Every other Saturday, two dozen volunteers set up mobile veterinary services and a pet supply donation center in the basement of the Union Gospel Mission Men’s Shelter. Angel and her dad were the first pet-parent couple I met. They were near the front of the line that stretched all the way down and around the block. They had been waiting in the cold for six hours so that Angel could get free winter clothes, food, toys, a harness, and a check-up.

Angel was one of a hundred dogs and cats that came through the doors that Saturday. Amidst the chaos, we clipped nails, cleaned ears, drew blood, gave vaccines, and more. I helped a homeless woman bundle her long-haired Dachshund back up in his winter coats. She instructed me that the clothes were put on in a specific order. The pink jacket was the first of the six coats to go on her furry companion. It would drop below freezing that night.

Every single person that came through the clinic was extremely grateful for our services—I mean extremely grateful. But I found myself thanking them for coming in, for being such caring and doting pet parents, and for helping to restore some of my own faith in humanity.

Admittedly, volunteering here for me isn’t a selfless endeavor. I’m trying to fill a void in my heart that’s calling for me to give back more to this wonderful planet and amazing community that has done so much for me. I’m trying to understand the individuals behind the homeless epidemic, trying to find a channel for my compassion that doesn’t compromise my safety.

I will be journaling about my experiences with the Doney Clinic every month in an effort to help the clinic continue its services and to share my own transformative journey looking in the eye  people and animals that too often are passed by.

Under the streets of Pioneer Square in the heart of downtown Seattle in a bustling basement on a cold winter day, I saw hope and a reciprocated love that, between man and his best friend, remains unconditional.

10 Reasons My College Improv Troupe Was Some of the Best People I’ll Ever Meet

It would have been easy to be the outcast when I joined my college improvisational comedy troupe. I was different and naive in so many ways—a sober, prude, Catholic girl with zero fashion sense tossed into a hodgepodge of intelligent, talented, funny students who made witty political commentary and iconic pop culture references that sailed far above my bouncing ponytail.

I could have been singled out for navigating college in an unorthodox way and not having the common knowledge to understand that Bono is a person, not a thing, but somehow, these people found their way onto my list of favorite humans. And if you ask them, I’d venture to guess that one of their favorite things about me is the fact that I am so different.

In college, I was lucky to land myself in an improv troupe that treated me like family. Being a member of Ohio Wesleyan University’s Babbling Bishops might very well be my fondest college experience. This group of humorous souls trickled their way into my heart and became some of the best people I’ve ever known, and here’s why.

They know empathy.

Good actors are empathetic. In order to portray someone else–funny or not–you have to be able to put yourself in their shoes. My improv friends are the type of empathetic people who have embarked upon career paths that actively give back to others and fill a great void in this world, from artists to scientists to mental health professionals and beyond.

They understand patience.

In order to be a successful (read: entertaining) improv troupe, everyone has to practice together. It takes time and effort to reach that level of group mind where you’re so fast on your feet with each other that the audience feels like they’re watching a scripted comedy of errors. The best improv team doesn’t take jabs for cheap laughs but rather slowly builds up a scene until the audience is guffawing and chortling like your weird aunt at Thanksgiving dinner.

They practice inclusivity.

The most challenging, authentic, open-minded conversations I had regarding my Catholic faith occurred with my atheist improv friends. Comedy isn’t determined by your religion, skin color, gender identity, sexuality, or physical appearance. You can be a frizzy-haired, pimpled, handicapped, biracial lesbian or you can be a buff, straight, cisgendered hunk of a man. The one with the skills to be a team player in an improv comedy show makes the troupe.

They engage supportively.

Improv is a team activity, not an individual one. When a member is struggling on or off the stage, the group is there to pick you up. When I was in the hospital with a head injury, my improv troupe piled into cars and drove forty minutes on a school night to visit me. When I couldn’t perform for a month because of subsequent speech problems, they let me introduce the shows and watch from the stage.

They exude compassion.

During an improv show, you don’t want your partner to fail, so you don’t leave them hanging out to dry. Then and now, few people have offered me more compassion in my break-ups, career changes, anxiety struggle, and battle with Lyme disease than these humans that I acted like a fool with in college.

They live honestly.

Comedians are funny people, which means you generally see them as happy people. But those who have the highest of highs can also have the lowest of lows. Many of my improv friends are open publicly or personally about their life struggles. They share the good and the bad on social media, actively encouraging others to live authentically.

They take risks.

Achieving group mind requires being vulnerable with each other. In a show, you put yourself out there regardless of whether or not you get a laugh. The improvisers who surrounded me in college are the ones who hiked the Appalachian Trail, traveled on a cross-country amends road trip, and took a giant leap from the secure present with no idea about the future because they believed in themselves enough to make it to the other side.

They seek self-awareness.

Being an improviser means knowing your strengths and weaknesses. My troupe members have consistently expanded their quest for mindfulness beyond the theatre, searching for who they are and what their place is in this world. If they can’t find their purpose, they make one.

They stand committed.

On stage, you can’t abandon your partner. You ride through the bumps in a rocky scene until you get to the end. Now, post-graduation and full-on adult-living, we’re still friends, no matter the geography or complications that arise. Improvisers don’t run away from difficult conversations and they don’t turn their backs on their choices.

They are carefree.

All of us in the Babbling Bishops have our insecurities, but we’re also the ones you’ll see dancing like escaped zoo animals in the bar, in the kitchen, in the grocery store, or at the bus stop, with absolute and complete reckless abandon, with no care to the eyebrows raised in our direction. We carpe diem, baby, because we know we only have one chance at life on earth, and we’re going to choreograph our way through it however we darn well please.

In no other group of people have I ever been more different but felt more accepted than with the Babbling Bishops. We share a bond that no distance or time can shake.

Improv taught me skills to pave my way through life as an adult. It also granted me lasting friendships with people that I look up to, good people whose accomplishments and existence constantly inspire me to be a better person. Somehow, I was lucky enough to become an unlikely member of a family of hilarious yet compassionate misfits.

 

Give the Gift of a Personalized Book on Turtles This Holiday Season!

It’s that time of year again when we scour the Internet for the perfect gift idea. I’m gearing up for the holiday season with a big shipment of my book: 254 pages of fun and informative turtle facts in Q&A format–with pictures, of course!

I’ve received terrific feedback from kids through adults who love the short and easy-to-read “chapters” as well as learning so much about such an incredible species. Animals really are amazing!

If you’d like to purchase a personalized copy, shoot me an email to smvenzel@gmail.com. Order soon to get yours in time for Christmas!

(If you already have a copy, please consider leaving a review on Amazon! Yippee!)