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When I was a child, I wanted to adopt every animal I saw, no matter if that animal already had an owner or not. Throughout my childhood, I had two hamsters, two lizards, one turtle, one bird, two cats, and countless fish. I dreamed of carrying around a monkey on my shoulder and housing a killer whale in my backyard swimming pool. I loved animals.

I think children especially connect with animals. They want to take care of them, nurture them, love them. It’s a basic human need, to be connected with animals. As we get older, though, we get a little more sensible and more responsible about what kinds of animals we can take care of. But I feel like that love, that connection doesn’t ever really die. People often have pets and claim that those pets are valued members of their family.

I suppose that explains why people love zoos so much. It brings us back to that love, that connection we feel for all animals, not just the sensible ones who make good pets. There seems to be a zoo in every major city, and Grand Rapids is no exception. In my 13 years of living here, I have been to John Ball Zoo on many occasions, and it’s a great park. It is small enough to see everything in a couple of hours but big enough to house some interesting animals. It’s got a lot of trees that are great for shade and give it a secluded feel to help you forget about the nearby city and focus more on the natural habitat where these animals would otherwise be found.


It’s been a while since I’ve visited, I will admit. But this week, a Grand Rapidian-turned-Seattleite who happens to be a dear friend of mine is visiting, and she said she had never been to the zoo, so what better excuse to revisit a city staple than to take a first-timer?

When rediscovering the zoo, I found that what makes John Ball Zoo different is how interactive it can be. It helps that my visiting friend has a seize-the-opportunity attitude, so when I asked her if she wanted to go pet the farm animals or enter the cage where they keep the budgie birds, her answer was always in the affirmative. These exhibits allowed us to get up close and personal with the animals. I actually got caught in the middle of a three-way goat head-butting. These animals are so used to people being around that they went about their normal business right next to the visiting humans. They weren’t scared of us; in fact, they hardly seemed to notice us.


Is it healthy for animals to react this way towards humans? I would say it’s not UNhealthy. Humans and animals having a trusting relationship, even if it may be unnatural, seems positive to me, especially when those animals rely on humans to take care of them.

And from what I can tell of the John Ball Zoo Keepers, they do an excellent job of not only taking care of the animals but interacting with them as well. We made it to the aquarium just as staff were feeding the penguins. A woman sat in the habitat with handfuls of fish, feeding the penguins who crowded in front of her. Every now and again, she would toss a handful of morsels into the water for the others to fight over. When a little boy asked her if she knew which penguins were which, she easily identified each by its name with a finger point: Fernando, Herbie, Octavia. One little penguin played with her boot when she stuck it in the water, swimming around it and nibbling on it; the penguin maneuvered itself on top of the boot, and the staff person flicked the penguin up in the air. The penguin splashed into the pool and then swam back over to the boot to be flung again.

This human and these penguins have a relationship with each other, a healthy relationship that involves trust. The penguin who played with her boot trusted her to not kick him in a way that would injure him; he could trust the staff person to play with him without causing him harm.


When I was visited the zoo a couple years ago with my cousin, we were watching the chimpanzees relaxing in their habitat. All of a sudden, one chimpanzee got up, grabbed a piece of poop from the ground and came running in our direction. Well aware that apes are known for flinging poop, we backed up from the railing with fear in our eyes. Luckily, the chimp didn’t have very good aim, and the feces went more up in the air than out at us.

“That poop was meant for me,” we heard someone say behind us. We turned around and there was a staff person standing there. “I gave him a shot earlier, and he’s still mad at me about it,” she continued.

The way she phrased this seemed odd to me, as though she was normally friends with the chimp but now he was upset with her and not talking to her and flinging poop at her. But she was confident the chimp would get over it and they could be friends again. Perhaps even the chimp knew that the zookeeper was only trying to help and not harm him. Their connection seemed to resemble the same connection shared among human friends.

John Ball Zoo really celebrates these human-animal relationships. They appreciate their animals and respect them as individuals with personalities and emotions. And the zookeepers are really passionate about what they do and want to educate the zoo’s visitors about who these animals really are. Visiting John Ball Zoo helps you connect again to that desire to love and nuture all animals.

*For more information about John Ball Zoo, visit their [website](http://www.jbzoo.org/)*

I furrowed my brow and tapped my lips with my index finger as my eyes scanned the chalkboard. A clean-shaven man with dimples flashed a knowing smile at me, like he’d seen my type a thousand times. “I can help you decide. What kind of beer do you like?” Assuming he had mistaken me for a novice, I moved my finger from my lips to the air in front of my face. “Oh, no, this is not my first rodeo,” I assured him. I knew all the beers on the list. There were just too many good choices, and I couldn’t pick one.

Grand Rapids is Beer City, USA. That’s the title that was given to us two years in a row by [Beer Advocate](http://www.beeradvocate.com/). When they stopped holding that public-voting contest, we were still the reigning champions, so we’ve adopted it as our own for now until the end of the time. And with 14 breweries within city limits, I think it’s a rather fitting title.

It’s been interesting to see Grand Rapids transform into a tourist hub for beer lovers from all over. Founders, once a small intimate taproom, is now a sprawling setup with three bars and a massive outdoor beer garden. There is no day or time when you can count on it being empty. It is always full with locals and visitors alike.


Photo credit: Experience GR

I’ve never been a fan of crowds, but for Founders, I make an exception. On a nice summer day when I just want a beer and I can stand out on the patio listening to music and watching people, I don’t mind parking a mile away or waiting in line for a drink. Founders is my happy place.

Even with the crowds, Founders stays surprisingly quiet and laid-back. It still feels like the neighborhood bar. A lot of the bartenders have been serving there for years, so it makes you feel like you know the people there, even if you don’t really. Inside, the taproom is expansive and the ceilings are tall, so even when it’s full of people, it still feels open.

When going to Founders, you know you’re getting the best quality of everything. The beer is always good and it’s always varied. Founders provides a list of regulars but there’s always something new written up on the chalkboard for me to try. The food is delicious. Their sandwiches are huge and unique, but a lot of times I splurge on the hot crab dip because it’s gooey and comforting. And the atmosphere, as I’ve said already, just can’t be beat. There’s no better place to kick back and relax than at Founders.


But Grand Rapids is Beer City, so I can’t give all the credit to one place when there are so many other top-notch craft breweries to explore.

Another favorite of mine is Brewery Vivant in Eastown, which specializes in the Belgian tradition of brewing. The first time I visited Vivant was on my 29th birthday. When my husband suggested we go to a pub for my birthday dinner, I was somewhat disappointed that he didn’t think of something a little more fancy or special. But Vivant quickly won me over with its atmosphere, its food, and its one-and-only Farmhand Ale. It turned out being one of my favorite birthday dinners ever. Vivant is still our go-to location for special occasions.

The taproom used to be a 100-year-old funeral chapel. The original church lights and the large stained-glass window retain the character of the original purpose, as do pew-like benches which form booths along the wall. With my troubled Catholic background, drinking in church sounds like a dream come true. Large wooden tables fill the middle of the room, encouraging strangers to eat and drink in close proximity to each other.


Photo credit: Grand Rapids To-Do

We recently patroned Vivant on a lovely summer evening, and discovered that they have added a beautiful covered patio as well. We got the beer cheese with pretzels and the duck nachos, our standard go-tos. I really enjoy their excellent fries that come with a delectable aioli for dipping.

Another great local brewpub is Harmony Brewing, but my reasons for loving this bar are more sentimental and personal. Don’t get me wrong–they have amazing pizzas and they brew some great beer. They have a great outdoors seating area, just like the others. But what I love about this pub is the time I’ve spent here with friends having deep and drunken discussions about life and love. Whenever I enter her doors, these memories wash over me and I feel at home.


Photo credit: Rapid Growth Media

And that’s what a good bar should be–a place where you feel like you’re home. It’s a feeling I get at all these pubs. When people come from out of town for our world-class beer, I welcome them in like I’d welcome someone into my home. Whenever I hear someone who sounds like an out-of-towner, I lean over and say, “Do you need some suggestions? I’m a local.” I love to brag about my city, and the breweries are the best places to find avid listeners.

*For more information about these great brewpubs, visit [Founders website](http://foundersbrewing.com/), [Brewery Vivant’s website](http://www.breweryvivant.com/), and [Harmony’s website](http://harmonybeer.com/).*

The West Michigan Jazz Society has been hosting free jazz concerts on Monday evenings for 15 years now. My husband and I have only been attending for three, and it’s become a beloved tradition of our summer.

It’s a routine that I always tell people about. Word of mouth is how we found out about these concerts originally, so I pay it forward every chance I get. I’m surprised how many people I run into who have no idea it exists.

What I love about these concerts is how laid back they are. People bring lawn chairs, tables, and baskets full of food and wine and beer. It’s more like someone opened up their backyard and let all the neighbors come over for a big picnic.

When we first started going, the concerts were held at the band shell outside the entrance to the zoo. It was then called Jazz at the Zoo, or as my husband and I affectionately called it “Jazzoo.” (Later, the jazz society started calling it that, too, but I like to think we started the trend.) There were big trees that provided shade, and it was tucked away in a little alcove, like it was our little secret (along with hundreds of other people).

This year it moved to Ah-Nab-Awen Park on the river next to the Gerald R. Ford Museum. Regular attendees, including me, were disappointed by this announcement. There weren’t any trees there—how would we stay cool in the hot summer evenings? There wasn’t a lot of parking—finding a spot would be a nightmare. The park is on a hill—where will we set up our lawn chairs?

I went to the first jazz concert this year expecting the worst out of the new location. But it turned out to be the best-case scenario. There is plenty of shade, there is plenty of parking, and there is plenty of space to set up my lawn chair. And better yet, now there’s even a view.


At the most recent concert, the lead singer told us that the Native American “Ah-Nab-Awen” means “resting place” in English, which is a most appropriate title for that park on Monday nights. Mondays have the connotation of being miserable; after a nice relaxing weekend, people go back to their stressful work lives. But no one is stressed on Monday evenings at Ah-Nab-Awen with the smooth sounds of jazz and the soft breeze blowing off the river. I kick off my shoes and lean back in my chair. It’s a nice way to take the edge off of the beginning of the week.

While I rest, I enjoy people-watching. As I sip my beer and tap my toe, I watch children twirl around in circles until they get dizzy and fall down on the squishy grass with a smile. A regular elderly couple gets up every now and again and bops along to the swing beat with a routine they’ve learned at dance class. A little girl wanders over to a man who has a golden retriever in his lap and asks if she can pet the puppy. She pats the dog’s head timidly while it laps up wine in a forgotten plastic tumbler in the cup holder of the folding chair.


Jazz in the Park will cure anyone’s case of the Mondays.

*For more information about the West Michigan Jazz Society, visit their [website](http://www.wmichjazz.org/)*

While Grand Rapids may be a bustling metropolis in its own right, once you get outside of the city limits, the landscape turns rural very fast. Since I grew up in the country, this is one of the most appealing aspects for living in this area. I have museums and restaurants and big festivals at my disposal, but I also have fields and rivers to play in when I want to get away from the crowds.

I didn’t know how diverse the agricultural landscape of Michigan was until I moved to the west side of the state. Where I came from on the east side, we grew corn and soybeans and wheat. My husband, a westsider, grew up next to a vineyard with an apple orchard in his backyard and a cherry orchard down the street. The proximity to Lake Michigan provides a perfect climate for growing fruits of all types.

So when summer comes, we stock up on all the delicious treats our state has to offer. And lucky for us, there’s one place in town where we can get it all: the Fulton Street Farmers Market.


The Farmers Market has been in business since 1922. Four days a week, local farmers from all over West Michigan gather to sell their crops to the people of Grand Rapids.

I love coming out to the market on Saturday morning. My husband and I get out of bed and throw on yesterday’s clothes. We park on a side street in front of someone’s house because the parking lot is always a madhouse, but we don’t mind, because this affords us the chance to walk a block or two in the morning humidity. We dodge people on the sidewalk coming from the market who carry overflowing grocery bags or cute toddlers (or both). Many people walk along with us, insulated coffee cups in their hands and a sleepiness in their eyes.

As we approach the market, we are confronted with the loud murmur of many voices. People wander in all directions. There is a food truck at the entrance of the market that sells breakfast items and a building with an open garage door where they sell milk and ice cream and meats. There is always a musician playing in the open square that leads to the vendors. This Saturday, it was a small group of children playing string instruments, plucking songs like the “Irish Washer Woman.” Adults stand and watch or sit on the steps nearby and listen. The music always adds a festive element to this morning tradition and energizes the shoppers.


The market received a major upgrade two years ago. Before that, it was a very basic structure. It used to only consist of an aisle that was framed in on both sides with wooden benches for farmers to display their wares. If the farmers wanted shade or protection from weather, they had to drape a tarp or a sheet over their stand. It looked more like a tent city than a Farmers Market. That didn’t stop anyone from coming, of course.


The old market structure; photo courtesy of mlive.com

The fact that it’s been renovated has only made buying fruits and vegetables a little more luxurious. Now there is a roof so vendors don’t have to provide their own shelter. The aisle has been widened so more people can shop at once without bumping into each other. Bathrooms have been upgraded. The design is open, friendly, beautiful, and welcoming.

The new structure helps the market feel more permanent to me; I feel like it gives the market longevity. The Farmers Market obviously wasn’t about to go anywhere. It’s been going on for nearly 100 years, so I’m sure I would keep going for 100 more despite what the structure looks like. But now it’s not just a little wood and metal. Now it’s brick. It’s built into the landscape. It shows that the city is committed to keeping the market in the same location, and it’s adjusting to the needs of both the farmers and shoppers, keeping them comfortable enough to continue conducting business as they always have. When renovations aren’t necessarily needed, but they are done anyhow to provide more comfort and ease, it shows that that the city cares about this tradition and wants to not only keep it going for those longtime patrons, but make it approachable for newcomers to experience.


Photo courtesy of Fulton Street Farmers Market

My husband and I make our way down the long aisle, flanked by vendors on both sides. We evaluate the stands on the right side, noting prices and quality of produce, and when we hit the end of the aisle, we turn around and do the same on the opposite side. We devise our plan, make a list, and go visit the stands we were impressed with to pick out our weekly produce.

We carry overflowing bags back to our car, dodging the sleepy people on the sidewalk who are heading toward the market. This week we scored apricots, blueberries, sweet cherries, sweet corn, green beans, and potatoes. I considered the peaches and the tomatoes, but didn’t want to buy everything at once. No matter. We’ll go back next week and get a new batch of fresh fruits and vegetables.

*For more information about the Fulton Street Farmers Market, visit their [website](http://fultonstreetmarket.org/)*

There are a lot of things about the European lifestyle that I am on board with: afternoon siestas, short work weeks, generous paid vacation, drinking all day. All these ideas I can stand behind.

One thing I never approved of, however, is the European love of soccer. I always believed that, as an American, I was supposed to hate soccer. So I professed to hate soccer, even without knowing anything about the game. My ignorance was a manifestation of the hate; just the thought of learning about it was too boring for me. I imagined it to be an extremely slow-moving game. The field is big, and it must take forever for someone to run from one end to the other. And come on, it’s nearly impossible to accurately kick a ball into a tiny net.

Europeans, though, are intense when it comes to soccer. While in Italy, some friends and I went into a salsa club for some latin dancing. There was no dancing that night, however, because a World Cup game was being played. So the salsa club became a sports bar on account of there would be no customers unless they could watch the game. Unfortunately for us, Italy was playing the U.S. that night, and our team was in the lead, so our small group of Americans hurried out of the bar just as quickly as we had meandered in. Who knows what may have happened to us if we had been noticed.

With the success of the U.S. women’s soccer team in the World Cup this past month, however, America seems to be changing its attitude about soccer. Locally, it seems Grand Rapids changed its opinion long before that.

This year, the Grand Rapids Football Club, a semi-professional minor league soccer team, debuted in Grand Rapids, and Friday was the last home game of the inaugural season. Seeing as it was our last chance of the year to experience this new addition to our city, my husband and I grabbed some tickets online and headed to Houseman Field downtown, a stadium owned and used by Grand Rapids Public Schools for fall (American) football.

When we entered the field, it looked like a full house already, and fans were still pouring in. The team’s motto “One City, One Club” honors the people who invested in creating the team. Over 600 people contributed to an online crowd-funding campaign. Those contributers and many more have become loyal fans, donning t-shirts with the GRFC crest and hanging blue and white scarves around their necks, even in the 85-degree heat.


My husband and I squeezed onto a bit of available bleacher bench. While we waited for the game to start, we noticed a blue blob of people on the opposite side of the field chanting, beating on drums, and waving Grand Rapids city flags. Frankly, they were impossible to ignore.

Trumpets sounded and the teams walked out onto the field, greeted by thunderous applause and cheering. White smoke spewed from firework canons ignited by the big group across the field. We cheered for our team and boo-ed the competitors from Muskegon, a lakeside city 40 minutes to the west.

The game itself wasn’t boring at all. It really didn’t take that long for one person to run the length of the field, especially when they were passing and kicking and heading the ball to their teammates. The interaction between the teams reminded me of hockey, my favorite sport. Instead of using sticks, they kicked the ball out from each other, often pushing each other and knocking each other to the ground. There were even a couple of shoving matches to keep the crowd pumped up and on their feet.


Photo credit: Bryan Bolea

I still couldn’t shake my interest in the blue blob of fans across the field. They did not stop cheering, chanting, singing the entire game. They never sat down. They never stopped waving their flags or beating their drums.

The woman sitting next to me had a GRFC scarf and a soccer ball tattoo, so I figured she might know who this loud and rowdy group was. I leaned over to her and asked.

“They’re the Grand Army,” she informed me. They meet at a bar before the game and then all march together to the field. Apparently, this is another tradition in the world of soccer, in addition to the team crest and the supportive scarves.


Photo credit: The Grand Army

The Grand Army, however, seems unique unto itself. Its motto, “Motu Viget,” which is also Grand Rapids’ motto (something I just learned), is a Latin phrase meaning “stength in activity.” This group recognizes that great power can come from people who do things together. Their group and this soccer team are living testaments to that. The city wanted a soccer team, so they came together to fund it, and now they band together to support it. It shows not only ingenuity but responsibility. The people have created this. Now they will take care of it.

I like to think that the citizens of Grand Rapids share this attitude not only toward soccer but also toward the city. Grand Rapidians love their city, they will work hard for it, and they will take care of it.

One city, one club.

See you next year, GRFC.

*For more information about GRFC, visit their [website](http://grandrapidsfc.com/)*

I quit my job. Today was my last day. I am now unemployed.

I won’t get into the specifics of what my job was like or why I left, although I will say that I left on my own accord. I had gone as far as I could go and there was no future for me there. I’m 31 years old; I don’t want to waste my time. I’m ready for a job that I’m interested in, that challenges me, that (at the very least) I enjoy (since that’s never been the case in the decade I’ve spent in the workforce).

To be unemployed is liberating. And terrifying. I literally have no idea what my life will look in a month, in six months, in a year. What will my next job be? Will I be a project manager, an event coordinator, a fundraiser, an administrative aid, a marketing manager? I am somewhat qualified for all of these titles.

Or I could go a completely different and unorthodox route. I could focus more on teaching college English. I could start freelance writing. I could take a part-time job at some shop around the corner and try to write a book. I could go back to school and get my PhD.

As if those weren’t enough options, I’ve also been suggesting to my husband the idea of moving. We love Detroit, and Detroit is full of opportunity right now. Or the corporate office of my ex-job was impressed with me and may offer me a job in New York City; we could move there. A good friend of mine will be moving to New Mexico next month to try something different and start over; wouldn’t it be fun to do that, too? There is nothing tying us down to Grand Rapids, really.

Nothing tying us down, that is, but ourselves. We love it here. It is our home.


I moved here in 2002 to go to college. It was my second choice. I wanted to live in Ann Arbor and attend the University of Michigan. I wanted to walk on the quad and study in a library that was a hundred years old. I wanted to walk to Urban Outfitters and watch football games in the Big House. That was my dream all throughout high school. But U of M was too expensive for me, so as a consolation prize, I followed my best friend to Grand Rapids.

Granted, the campus of GVSU is NOT in Grand Rapids. It is in a suburb of the city surrounded by fields. But in my four years there, I ventured out to the city more and more and became familiar with the area. During my senior year of school, my best friend and I moved into an apartment in the northeast corner of the city, at the end of what locals call Medical Mile (aptly named for the string of specialty hospitals that line Michigan Street). From there, we could either walk into the heart of the city or take a more scenic route through Grand Rapids’ historic Heritage Hill neighborhood. This is where I learned the city and learned to love the city. I was face to face with it every day–face to face with its buildings, its sounds, its people, its energy. The city was and still remains full of an unexplainable energy. And it energizes me.

The city has changed so much in my decade of living here. So many new restaurants, new buildings, new ideas. Its people are inventive and passionate; they want to make a difference and they want to make that difference here. I’m constantly pleasantly surprised by what this city can do.

So although I don’t know what my life will look like in a month, in six months, in a year, I know where I can watch it all happen: here in Grand Rapids.


For the next 30 days, I’m going to explore this city I call home, get even more familiar with it, and share all of its gems and secrets with you. So welcome to Grand Rapids, everyone. Hope you like what I show you.

In my dreams at night, if I’m in a house, it’s always my childhood house, the one I grew up in and lived in for 18 years. I haven’t lived in it now almost as long, and I’ve lived in several residences since. But it’s always that house in my dreams.

In sleep, I see its dusty gravel road. Cars kick stones into our yard and leave lingering clouds of dirt in the air. We owned an acre of land that was longer than it was wide and backed up to a stretch of forest full of mulberry and oak trees; year-round, the ground was covered with leaves that crunched underfoot and exposed your presence to anyone within earshot.

Across the road was an open field, usually as dusty as the road. I don’t remember anything growing there. Fields defined and surrounded our town, fields tall with green corn or short with soybean leaves. Large yellow combines rolled slowly through the straight rows of produce.


It was always a little unnerving for me, to be out in the quiet, the solitude, the remoteness, the darkness. In the dreams I have, it’s usually the setting for nightmares.

Now that I’m older, the fact that I lived there seems like a dream, a figment of my imagination. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave it. So when I grew, I left. It is not my home anymore.

I have a home that I own, that I paid thousands of dollars for so I could say it was mine. I mow the grass and dust the shelves and vacuum the floors. I have a bedroom that I share with my husband, and I sleep there with him every night and dream about another home.

When I have plans to see my mother, I say I’m going home. She doesn’t live on that dirt road anymore, though. She lives in a town and in a house I never really claimed as mine.

When it’s time to leave my mother, I say I’m going home. I live in a city over two hours away, a city I’m not from, but a city I’ve adopted, a city I’ve learned to love, a city I care for and cannot bear the thought of leaving.


On weekend mornings, I often wake up before my husband. We sleep with the windows open, and I lay still and listen to cars driving by on the busy city road. Rubber tires hum on the black asphalt, wet with morning dew or an all-night rain. The sound escalates as the car approaches and then fades away. I close my eyes and pretend the humming is ocean waves, building up into blue mountains and then fizzling apart into bouncing bubbles, lulling me back to sleep.

In Hawaii, the waves kept me awake, crashing against a sea wall made of black lava rock right outside our window. It wasn’t a gentle, soothing sound. It was a violent explosion as walls of water slammed against concrete. It was relentless, like bombs dropping from the sky evenly, one right after another, destroying everything. I wore earplugs to subdue the merciless onslaught.


At all hours of the day, there were surfers out in the water, attempting to harness a wave’s power for a 10-second thrill ride. They laid flat, bellies on boards, waiting for the perfect combination of speed and height. They’d dunk under waves that were too big or bob over the top of waves that were too small. I often wondered how they could tell one wave from the next, how they knew which ones they could ride and which they couldn’t. But then the right one arrived, and they paddled with their arms to get on top of it, pushing themselves up so they stood on their board, letting the crest of the wave take them as far as they wanted to go, then falling into the sea and letting the wave continue on to crash against the rocks and splash up into the sky.

When I was young, I would play with the waves as if they were friends. They’d crash against my legs and my stomach, splash my face with cold water, and I’d gasp and giggle. I’d act the part of the sea wall, attempting to hold my ground as a wave rolled in, letting it knock me over back into the lake. And I would do an underwater dance as my arms and legs floated uncontrollably in the undertow, only to plant my feet in the soft sand below and rise out of the water, ready to face the next one. After hours of wrestling the water, I’d crawl out onto the beach and collapse on my towel, completely exhilarated and exhausted.

Photo from [Stephane Lacasa](http://www.stephanelacasaphotography.com/index.php#mi=2&pt=1&pi=10000&s=9&p=1&a=0&at=0)

My husband and I are planning excursions for our upcoming vacation to a tropical island, and while all the activities sound really fun, they also sound really frightening.

We’re talking about going snorkeling, kayaking, and deep-sea fishing, only I’m scared of the ocean, of what in the ocean might eat me, of getting seasick, of drowning. We’re planning on taking a van trip up to a mountain summit, but I’m scared of getting car sick, of getting altitude sickness, of throwing up in a van full of strangers. Don’t even get me started on ziplining–I’m scared of heights, of whizzing along a tiny cable attached to another tiny cable hundreds of feet up in the air.

One of my coworkers recently sympathized with my fears; she felt similarly when she went paragliding. With paragliding, you have to run to catch air, and if all goes well, the chute/wing gets lift and you go soaring over a beautiful canyon. If all goes poorly, you jump off a cliff and you fall to your death.

Of course, it’s not as hit-or-miss as that. She had an instructor to tell her when to run, to stop her from jumping if the air wasn’t right. But a leap of faith was still required. She had to trust that the wind would catch her. Not even the most experienced instructor can be certain of the wind. It has a mind of its own, or rather, it has no mind at all.

She said the hardest part about the experience was tricking herself into jumping off the cliff. Everything in her body wanted her NOT to jump off that cliff, because it’s against human nature to fling yourself towards certain death.

Once in high school, my biology class experimented with discovering our own blood types. This required stabbing our thumbs with tiny spears that came in sterile paper wrappers. As a person who hates both needles and blood, this seemed impossible to me, but there was no way out of it (believe me, I tried) outside of accepting a failing grade (which I was not prepared to do, being an honor roll kid).

(I would imagine they can’t do this experiment in schools anymore for a number of reasons.)

So there I sat, my right hand menacingly holding the tiny spear over my left thumb. But I couldn’t get my right hand to move. It was frozen. I couldn’t convince my body to hurt itself.

Eventually I took a deep breath, closed my eyes (probably a bad decision on my part) and heaved the spear toward my thumb. A little red ball of blood dotted my skin. And I felt happy, relieved, accomplished that I did it, even though I was afraid.

It’s an odd sensation, being proud of making myself bleed, of hurting myself. But it meant that I could finish the assignment, that I wasn’t going to fail, and that I was going to learn not only what my blood type was but how to “type” blood in general. I could now move forward instead of sitting still.

I’m not getting a grade, though, for going snorkeling or driving up a mountain. And even with the most trained professionals, there’s still a possibility for danger in these activities. So why do people voluntarily take these risks with their lives?

And I guess the answer is to explore. To learn more about ourselves and our world. Because if we don’t take risks, then we sit still; we can’t move forward. If we let fear control us, we won’t experience anything. We have to risk our lives in order to live.

I know I’ll be scared when I clip that harness onto the tiny cable or when it’s time to get into the water. My body will probably try to tell me that I’m making a mistake, that I really don’t want to put myself in harm’s way. But I will ignore it. I’ll take a deep breath, close my eyes, and jump.


Holding my luggage in front of me, pushing it forward with my leg as I walk, I awkwardly waddle down the narrow aisle of the airplane cabin, trying not to whack any already sitting person in the knee or in the head with my load. It’s an aerobic experience just trying to find my seat, and then another workout as I heave my bag over my head and attempt to stuff it in the small, crowded overhead compartment. I sit down out of breath.

I always offer the window seat to my husband. I don’t like to feel any more closed in than necessary. In the confines of the small cushion I’m allowed, the armrests digging into the tops of my thighs, I struggle to cross my legs and attain a more comfortable position. But it is impossible with the proximity of the seat in front of me, and I cross my ankles instead.

There is no space to move. I cannot stand up all the way without hitting my head on the overhead compartment. I cannot stand up at all when the seatbelt sign is on. I cannot use my mobile device. I have to wait until the crew is ready to serve drinks before I can enjoy a refreshing beverage. I cannot do anything on my own time. I cannot make my own decisions. I’m stuck in a tin can with hundreds of strangers thousands of feet up in the air.


When I finally have a cold drink resting tediously on the tray table, vibrating and bouncing with the turbulence, I realize my book is in my bag, stowed under the seat in front of me. I pick up my drink off the tray, secure the tray on the back of the seat in front of me, dig into my bag for my book with one hand while trying not to spill my drink with the other hand, put the book in my lap, release the tray, and then finally set everything on the tray. Another elaborate exercise.

A little boy kicks the back of my seat. His sister whines loudly.

Yet through all this, I am calm. I am in my own little cushioned seat with my seatbelt buckled loosely against my lap. It is like a private sanctuary. Barely anyone can see me. Barely anyone knows me. I have to be here, but I have absolutely no responsibility. I can read. I can play mindless games. I can watch a movie. I can nap, which I never do at home. There is no task that I’m avoiding. Nothing needs to be done. All I have to do is pass the time however I like. What a rare gem in this adult life.