2009-11-19

Always Darkest Before the Dawn by Megan Bland (Port Matilda, PA)

On July 28, 2007, my mom broke the news to my brother and me that she and my dad were splitting up for good. At first I was shocked. She had been involved in an affair that I knew nothing about. She decided that she loved this person more than she loved my dad. She was moving out.

I remember crying a lot, but only for a day. I'm the type of person who tends to open up fairly easily when I'm trying to cope with something, so the first thing I did was call my best friend to vent. After the first day however, I never really cried about it again. It’s not that I was immune to the pain that accompanies divorce. Instead, things seemed almost surreal. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to feel. I certainly wasn’t happy about the ordeal, but I wasn’t as upset as I’d expected I would be. It seemed like she was only on vacation for a few days.

Initially, it was hard not to feel guilty for my lack of despair. Why wasn’t I completely devastated?… It wasn’t because I didn’t love my mom. But I couldn’t put a finger on just why I took the breakup so well.

Now, however, it’s completely clear to me. When I look back on how things were before she moved out, all I can remember is yelling and fighting between my family members. I definitely wouldn’t have said we shared loving, peaceful relationships.

Also, I knew that the reason my mom moved out wasn't because she loved my brother or me any less -- She was sure to tell us that over and over again. In fact, I still see my mom at least once a week.

The difference is, now we don’t fight anymore. I hardly fight with any member of my family anymore. I’m actually proud to say that my parents and I are friends as well as relatives. I love my parents very much and all they ever do is support me and love me back. Painful though divorce may be, I’m grateful for the change it brought about in my life. It brought me so much closer to the people I love.

Although divorce is notoriously linked to pain and suffering, I can’t help but appreciate its impact on my life. Granted, it wasn’t enjoyable, but it was a key factor in leading me to discover a few personal beliefs, which I still hold to be true. I believe that with all bad comes some good. I believe that sometimes things just have to get worse before they can get better. And, most of all, I believe the people who really love you are always there for you.

2009-11-12

Any Acts of Kindness by Gavin Roberson (Los Angeles, CA)

Ten years ago, I lay on my living room floor, paralyzed by severe depression. I had lost my job, my relationship, and my money – all the external things I defined myself by. I remember looking up to see my Brother sitting on the couch, silently watching over me. There was nothing left to say. I was done with life because I'd lost the things I lived for. Then a thought occurred to me. I had a friend I knew was going through difficult times, and I wondered if there might be something I could do to help. I would have to make a call to find out. That thought carried me out of myself and lifted me up off the floor. I haven't been down there since.

I believe in making the world a better place, one act of kindness at a time. That phone call was important in so many ways. Since that call, my goal in life has been to share that which I’ve been given.

Yes, I do things for the less fortunate. But I also “pay it forward.” That means I do things for people who aren’t expecting it, in the hopes of making their lives a little brighter, hoping they might do the same for another one day.

I’ve "pimped" a co-workers ride by repairing the cracked windshield. Or bought a pair of shoes for the man who puts his family’s needs ahead of his own. A night out for kids whose parents were on the down-low because of the economy. If I see that stressed out look on a friend’s face, it’s a surprise "spa day" - a care package of candles, bubble bath, music and perhaps some wine.

It doesn’t even have to be for someone I know. I’ve picked up the dinner tab for a group of college students at the table next to mine. I’ve cooked and served a meal for the ladies at a women’s shelter. And sometimes my random acts of kindness don’t cost me a cent. Sometimes, it’s just a simple thank you card for the people who make my life easier, like the dry cleaner or anyone working in service.

These are my attempts to be a seed from the good tree... a tree that I'm hoping will grow. I’ve even learned how to receive with grace, because I’m always enriched by the act of giving, it can be transformative for all concerned. These actions may not seem like much, but they are a very big deal to someone who expects nothing.

I believe acts of kindness make a difference in the quality of other people’s lives and my own. As much as I do these things for others, doing them is my opportunity to BE the type of generous person I admire most. I'm not rich and I'm not waiting! I wanna be a philanthropist right now! I live in a world that I perceive to be out of balance. There is greed, hatred, war, hunger and thirst. Let me be the one to offer something to drink... a bandage to start the healing... a smile to get someone through the day. I believe in the power of any act of kindness.

2009-11-05

Working for a Shared Purpose by Annie Mascelli (Coburn, PA)

On the first Earth Day in 1970, I was 10 years old. Someone from our neighborhood in upstate New York had dropped off a flyer. It suggested we gather to clean up the street that connected our neighborhood to the busy main road. That street was littered with trash, dead leaves, and the remnants of late night teenage partying. I don’t know who sent that flyer around, but I’m still grateful to them, because it was one of the best days of my childhood.

Everybody turned out for the big day — old and young, neighbors I knew and neighbors I had never seen before. Together, we collected bags of trash and leaves, until the sides of the roadway looked as neat and beautiful as the rest of the streets in our small enclave of Cape Cod houses.

And something else happened that day. People met, talked and laughed. This was different than anything I had experienced before. Usually, I only gathered with the members of my large Italian extended family. I remember feeling so joyful at being a part of that Earth day. I even asked my father to make a stick with a nail on the end for me, to pick up trash. Cleaning up the road made me so happy I wanted to clean up every thing else, too.

But looking back, I realize it wasn’t the cleaning that made me happy, it was the feeling of shared purpose. I was glad to see the neighborhood being cared for, but it was the camaraderie and cooperation that brought me so much joy. This was my first experience of what I have come to believe in so strongly: The power of shared purpose.

This past Labor Day weekend, I was one of the legion of dedicated volunteers at CrickFest, the annual watershed celebration sponsored by the Penns Valley Conservation Association. I got that same surge of joy I felt on the first Earth Day seeing hundreds of happy people enjoying themselves at Coburn Park and knowing I was a part of that.

As I strolled from the exhibits to the silent auction to the farm animals, I caught the eyes of other PVCA committee or board members. We’d smile — and not just because the event was a huge success. We’d smile because our kindred spirits were recognizing each other, because our love of the land an the power of shared purpose had manifested in such a tangible way.

I feel blessed to live in such a beautiful place with such a generous and mindful people. I learned that day in 1970, and again this year, that I didn’t have to be related to someone, or even know them very well, to come together to make something wonderful happen. It doesn’t take a thousand people, and it doesn’t take a ton of time. Whatever the reason, whenever people come together with a shared purpose and a generosity of spirit, I believe we can accomplish anything we set our minds and hearts to.

2009-10-29

Scary Stories Are Good for My Kids by Liza Greville (Kane, PA)

I’m pretty much scared of my own shadow. So when my then four-year old son noticed Beowulf on his grandparents’ coffee table and chose it for a bedtime story, I shuddered. The vivid illustrations, Grendel’s monstrosity, his mother’s primal revenge, the gory scenes in the mead hall… No way!

Maybe we’ll read it sometime during the day, I said, thinking this clever compromise could buy me time, I don’t want you to have bad dreams. Then the frustrated tears welled in his eyes. Mommy, he said, it is a LEGEND, and legends happen in your imagination.

Stumped on that one, I relented. There were no bad dreams. Many more scary stories followed.

Of course I understood the cautions from other parents who felt Beowulf could wait until eleventh grade. Overexposing my kids to intense violence and complex psychology had been my worry too, but for some reason, I kept reading. Through the chapters the reason became clear.

Beowulf, The Chronicles of Narnia, the Harry Potter series, Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky – all of these tales have elements that are undeniably scary. Abandonment. Treachery. Fury. Murder. The antagonists embody the most sinister elements of human nature. They creep off the pages and seep into our consciousness, lacing our minds with unease.

Yet my kids can’t get enough. I think they respond to these stories because they experience them completely in the present.

My kids don’t have the life experience to truly empathize with desperate grief. They haven’t yet had to make choices where none of the consequences will be painless.

So why even introduce these wrenching tales? Why not protect them from the harshness that will come soon enough?

Because life is complicated. Life’s conflicts and temptations are not always black and white. Sometimes real people have rationale reasons for doing bad things. We don’t always agree on who the good guys are. Since life’s struggles often play out in shades of grey, we read.

Take Edmund, from The Chronicles of Narnia. He betrays his siblings to the White Witch and the results are disastrous. Still, Edmund’s brother and sisters rescue and forgive him. That helps my kids understand the bonds of family.

It wasn’t until the last book of the Harry Potter series that the stern teacher, Severeus Snape’s truest loyalties were revealed. And even then, we’re left questioning his character. Snape introduces complicated themes of trustworthiness, revenge, vulnerability and redemption – concepts which are both the solid ground and the quicksand of human relationships.

Contemplating humanity in fiction is good practice for real life. It’s a crazy world, and I want my kids to be prepared to negotiate its ambiguities. So we read scary stories, and as the chapters of my children’s lives are written, I hope they will be guided by the characters they’ve encountered in the many, many pages turned behind them.

2009-10-15

The World Might Still Need Writers by Chris Brittain (Lock Haven, PA)

Every time someone asks me what my major is, I cringe. “I’m double-majoring,” I tell them, “in Communication Media and English. It’ll only take me four years to graduate.” I’m proud of that accomplishment. But I’m always hesitant to talk about it, because the response is so predictable. “Oh ya? What’re you gonna do with that?” As if I had said philosophy.

I thought newspapers were shutting down, going out of business, they say. As if I’m learning to write on an antiquated 18th century printing press. As if I’m learning to chisel my messages into stone slabs while the rest of the world has moved on to bigger and better things.

And so I explain myself each time, and each time I give a different response depending on how I feel. I’m a future magazine writer on Mondays. Ask me on a Tuesday and I’ll someday be a copy editor. On Wednesdays I might just write screenplays.

People don’t really care one way or the other. Each time they tell me good luck, internally roll their eyes, and wish as much as I do that they hadn’t asked.

“You know, you could always be a teacher,” is another common response…even as I’ve started my senior year in college and would likely need an extra two years to get a teaching degree. “Teachers get their summers off,” they say, “wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Maybe if I thought I’d like to teach,” I say, “Maybe then. But I don’t want to teach. I want to write.” Because I don’t believe in choosing a profession for the money or the vacation or the prestige. As much as I like to spend my paychecks on useless Americana, I’ll take a career I enjoy over consumerism. I’ll take happiness over extra beach-time.

But I refuse to let negative people bother me. When people stop reading things for enjoyment, then I’ll worry about the job market. Until then, I’d be happy to be the source of their reading entertainment. There’s nothing like that moment of pure satisfaction --when I know what was once in my mind is now on paper, that it’s finally tangible and it’s exactly what I wanted. If a reader’s reaction can still make me proud of something I’ve written, then that’s the only job I need, whether it pays well or not.

“In this economy,” they say, because that’s everyone’s new favorite phrase, “In this economy you’ll be lucky to get a job once you graduate. Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

I suppose I’m about as sure as someone can be in a country full of so much uncertainty and speculation. But I believe I’ll be just fine. I belive that if I do what makes me happy, I’m more likely to be happy wherever that takes me.

And I take back what I said about philosophy. Because if that’s what someone wants to learn, I believe that’s fine too.

2009-10-08

Making a Home by Zach Hawkins (Lemont, PA)

It took my wife and me three days to empty the cardboard boxes in our new apartment. I took care of the kitchen, unpacking mixing bowls and wooden spoons, placing them on unfamiliar shelves. “When will this feel like home?” I wondered. It didn’t smell like home: the woodsy scent of particleboard in the cupboards, the overpowering lavender soap left by the previous tenants. It needed something familiar, like the smell of baking bread.

So now that the furniture is in place, and our clothes hang in the closet, I find myself fetching flour from the pantry. My movements are awkward in the new space— I bump into cupboards, open every drawer in search of the tablespoon—but soon the memory of familiar work guides my hands, and I am turning a shaggy lump of dough onto the counter. It warms as I knead it, and the earthy aromas of yeast and wheat fill my lungs.

I put the dough in a bowl to rise. And my mind wanders to the moving boxes, flattened and stacked in the basement. They are waiting there, ready to be reshaped and fortified with packing tape. In just three years—after my wife finishes grad school—we’ll fill them up and haul them off to a different place. I tell myself, “This is just a way station. This doesn’t have to feel like home.” But I know this thought’s as empty as the boxes downstairs because I believe in making a home.

Twenty-seven-year-old guys like me aren’t necessarily known for our homemaking skills. I wasn’t particularly interested in Home Ec class, and I used to feel more comfortable scarfing down fast food in my car than making a meal from scratch. But as I get older, I feel a growing dissatisfaction with modern culture -- where people find community online instead of next door and a frozen dinner is considered a home-cooked meal. So I have learned to bake bread, to grow vegetables, to use a water-bath canner. I’m in pursuit of the time-honored knowledge that inhabits kitchens, backyard gardens, and the stories of grandparents—knowledge that brings me home.

I stop to check on the dough, pressing a finger into the rounded bulk. It has doubled its size, so I divide it, shape it into loaves, and let it rise again.

When the dough is ready I put it in the oven, and step outside. I’m contemplating doing some planting, and I’ve started tracking the movement of sunlight across the strip of grass between the house and the wooded area that surrounds it. It’s too late to start a garden this year, but I have plans to grow lettuce and spinach in some planters—to put down a few roots here.

When I walk back inside, the smell of the baking bread greets me as a surprise. I’d forgotten it was in the oven. But there it is, waiting for me: warm, and inviting. The smells of particleboard and lavender soap have been replaced by the yeasty smell of bread. The house feels more familiar already. More like home. And that’s good, because I believe in making a home.

2009-10-01

Someone to Laugh, Cry and Be Yourself With by (Lock Haven, PA)

I answer the phone and hear a familiar voice.
“Kait!” she says. “I can’t believe I’m celebrating my first birthday without you since that time you got strep. Was that fourth grade?”

“Third,” I say. I feel my eyes swell with tears. The voice belongs to my best friend, Margo. I’ve just arrived home from classes for the weekend, and the normal two-hour journey has taken about twice the time. It has been too hectic a drive, too stressful a week, and definitely too long since I’ve seen Margo.

I sit down on my bed and squeeze my pillow. It feels good to be home, but still, something’s missing. “You’re going to have a great birthday,” I say, fighting back the tears.

Margot tells me she has to go; she’ll call me right back. A few minutes later, I hear my doorknob turn. Expecting to see my mom, I look up. To my surprise, I see Margo, looking like Miss America, despite a six-hour bus ride from the University of Pittsburgh.

I immediately begin sobbing. There’s no holding back this time. Margo wraps her arms around me and tells me she could never spend her birthday away from me. After we both cry, Margo stands up, and smoothes out her long, brown hair. “Come on, Katty,” she says. “We’ve got celebrating to do,”

I believe in best friends. I believe in them, not just because of surprise bus rides, or because I’ve had the same best friend since I was seven. I believe in them because of the little things. I believe because no matter what’s going on, Margo and I make a point to call each other once a week.

I believe in best friends because through every breakup, make-up and boy blunder either one of us ever had, we were by each other’s sides. I believe because Margo and I spent two weeks in a row together, and didn’t fight once. And don’t get me wrong. We’ve have had plenty of fights. But, no matter what we’ve fought about, or how I’ve lost my temper, I know she’ll be there for me at the end of the day.

I believe in best friends because to everyone else in my high school graduating class, Margo seemed flawless -- and that’s exactly how she liked it. She wore high heels every day, and had every hair in place. She never got upset, or lost her cool. She was nice to everyone, and never got below an A-. I believe because with me, Margo didn’t have to be perfect. She wore sweatpants and no makeup, and cracked stupid jokes. She cried to me when her parents got divorced, and cried with me when my dad was diagnosed with Leukemia.

I believe in best friends because Margo, who was an adult by the age of ten, taught me responsibility, and I reminded her that it’s okay to just be a teenager sometimes.

Most importantly, I believe in best friends because no matter the distance, they stay the closest people to our hearts.

2009-09-10

The Importance of Remembering by Gilana Tahir (State College, PA)

I sometimes forget I have an older sister. She passed away before I was born, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a sister. I didn’t know about her until I was 12 years old. But now I think of her often.

Shortly before we moved to the United States from Kyrgyzstan, on New Year’s Day, my dad pulled me aside and told me that we had to go visit a “special little person.” My dad took a deep breath and told me the about the short life of my older sister. Due to a doctor’s mistake she suffered from internal bleeding and only lived for three days.

When we last visited my homeland, a few years later, my dad and I went back to visit her grave in the mountains again. As we stood there holding hands, a baby rabbit hopped by. We watched it maneuver its way through the headstones. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped, looked at us for a moment, and hopped on its way. We stood there mesmerized. I wondered what my dad was thinking. “It was her,” he blurted out. “It was your sister. Did you see how she stopped and looked at us? She came by to let us know that everything is fine and to thank us for coming. You know, through all my years riding past this cemetery I’ve never seen a rabbit in these mountains.” He was serious. My dad isn’t spiritual or religious and neither am I. But somehow, I know that was my sister up there. It was then that I understood: it really matters to remember. My sister showed me that she could feel it when we were thinking about her. I thank her for reminding me how important it is not to forget.

I pay respect to the sister I never knew by thinking about her. I have no memories of my own, so I remember her through stories. I recall her short life through the memories my mom and dad have shared with me. I try to imagine her the way mama described her. I always imagine what she would’ve looked like right now. My mom says she could tell she would’ve been a fantastic big sister.

I wonder how close we would’ve been. Whether she would boss me around and how much we’d fight. I wonder what big sister love would feel like. These are all ways of remembering her. My imaginary memories are all I have.

I believe we keep those who have passed on alive by remembering them.

It’s a Muslim tradition not to name a baby before it’s born. Because of my sister’s critical condition, my parents didn’t give her a name the first day. Then, she slipped away two days later, before they could name her. She finally received a name after she died; they named her Kayir-bubu, one of the traditional names given to babies who pass away. Kayir-bubu means “Come back to me.” And I believe she does come back to us, through memory.

2009-09-03

Blaze Your Own Trail by Ryan Moraski (State College, PA)

I believe people should blaze their own trails. That’s what I’ve done, in spite of family pressures.

When I was six, my parents divorced. The shuffling between houses came soon after. I’d spend one weekend with Mom, the other with Dad.

Because of this back-and-forth, I was exposed two completely opposite parenting styles. My father left my sister and me to do our own thing. My mother, on the hand, structured our time. She promoted learning and exploration through activities like gardening, reading, and going for walks. As I look back now, I think those experiences were what sparked my interest in science. I wanted to know more about the world we live in.

In middle school, my once passive father became obsessed with finding out what I wanted to do with my life. He’d pester me about my future, and it soon became clear he wanted me to go into the family business – an insurance company. He tempted me with a good salary and a lot of free time to be with family and friends. He’d take me to work with him, and offer me summer jobs assisting him. No pressure, mind you. I felt overwhelmed and unsure of myself. I shrugged off my father’s persuasions, but he just didn’t seem to understand I wasn’t interested in insurance.

In high school, I won science fairs, earned prestigious science scholarships, and found myself thinking I would make a career out of the subject I loved. One summer I attended the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Ag Sciences, and that was it. I knew I wanted to study science. After I got back from the Governor’s School, I’d sometimes make up excuses to avoid going to my father’s house. My father and I began to grow apart.

But when my high school graduation came, my father was there to watch alongside my mother. The announcer called my name out first as the Valedictorian. Then he told everyone that I’d be going to Penn State to major in science.
I think that was the moment my father finally realized how serious I was about science. He finally recognized and accepted that I was my own person with my own interests. Since then, my relationship with my father has gotten a lot stronger. He even proudly proclaims my achievements to his friends and coworkers.

I have several friends from high school who didn’t assert themselves. Instead they let their families decide things for them. One of my close friends allowed his family to tell him what college to attend and what major and career to pursue. He didn’t even think about what he might WANT to do with his life. His passions will go undiscovered.

I believe in blazing your own trail, even when it’s not easy. Following my own dreams alienated me from my father for a while, but eventually I gained his respect. I now enjoy self-respect as well, having followed the path I created for myself.

2009-08-27

The Spirit of Cooperation by Carrie Geng (State College, PA)

In Chinese culture there is a concept called "tong zhou gong ji"; the very sprit of cooperation. On a trip to China with my family, I saw that concept in action.

My cousin and I were in the Emperor’s summer palace, Yi He Yuan. The sun beat down mercilessly. The air hung limp and heavy, bloated with minuscule droplets of water. As my cousin and I were crossing an exquisitely carved bridge we felt a strong, cool breeze. Dark clouds began to roll in, and it started to rain.

My cousin and I raced across the bridge to a crimson pavilion at the other end. As we set foot inside, the rain began to fall in torrents. People crowded inside the pavilion to escape the rain. In another minute the rain was falling horizontally and spilling in the sides. We all crowded into the center of the pavilion. The people with umbrellas formed a protective shield around the ones without umbrellas, who huddled in the middle.

The rain intensified; the wind howled. My umbrella was beaten and battered by the wind, bent without any hope of ever being used again. But a man quickly filled the gap with another umbrella. Hail battered our legs, lightening cracked, and thunder roared. The storm raged for an eternity.

We were a group of strangers, of different nationalities and ages. Yet we came together in a time of crisis. I believe that people from all nations of the earth can come together to solve our common problems, to face a common foe. We can only face current problems like global warming, poverty, and human rights violations by working together.

The memory of that day in the pavilion stirs up the memory of another day months later and an ocean away. I had offered to volunteer for the first time at the local food bank. A friend and I were charged with loading food into large paper bags for families to take away. It was backbreaking work; we filled the bags to the brim with cans of soup, fruits, vegetables, sauce, and packs of spaghetti, then took them to the storage area where we hoisted them onto the shelves. We spent over an hour filling the bags. But I didn’t feel tired. It could have felt monotonous, tedious even, but instead I was energized by a strong feeling of community.

Our food bank relied on donations, on contributors, on volunteers. Our food bank relied on collaboration, on cooperation. I was a world away from that day in the pavilion, yet I felt the same warmth knowing that no matter where I was I could still depend on this connection between humans. I believe in the spirit of cooperation that allows us to come together to strive for a common goal.

2009-07-30

What We Have In Common by Eliza Zimmerer (State College, PA)

I grew up lucky. I had a home where I could put my report cards and spelling tests on the fridge door. I could sprint across the alley to my friend Lizzy’s house if her phone line was busy. I could go for a run around the neighborhood and treasure my part of the early morning calm. Growing up, my life was easy and safe.

When I came to college at Penn State, I looked for a chance to continue the tutoring work that I had done back home. Through a program at the local High School I was quickly paired with a sophomore struggling in Biology class. Together we puzzled over enzymes and cellular structure. After tutoring, we walked home together. I was headed back to my dorm room on campus. She carefully explained to me where she lived – a residential home for teenage girls.

After a couple of weeks she invited me in to speak with the volunteer coordinator at the home. Maybe I could continue to tutor her there and possibly meet some of the other girls? With her shy smile and polite request, she brought me into her life. I felt privileged. It was an honor.

As the girls at the residential home learned they could trust me, they told me their stories. They told me about fathers who had gotten them drunk on beer while they were still in elementary school, stepmothers who had inflicted scars that would never fade, and foster brothers who had violated their pre-pubescent bodies. These girls experienced pain and nightmarish horror I never knew existed.

We definitely came from different beginnings, yet as I spent more time with the girls I discovered we had a lot in common. They told me about their pasts, but they also told me about the notes they would write to cute boys in gym class, and what they wanted to do after high school.

They reminded me of myself at their age: full of dreams and fears. During my own teenage years I had a painful struggle with depression. The depression manifested itself as an eating disorder that left permanent scars on my health and on my relationships with others. But during those same years I rode the rollercoaster of first love and angst about my future. These girls and I shared the same teenage worries and hopes. As it turned out, much of my story was not so different from theirs.

Though I can’t begin to know the terror of abuse and neglect, I can still talk, laugh, cry, and dream right along with these girls. It is what we share that allows us to fully love and care for others. I believe that what we have in common is much stronger than what sets us apart.

2009-07-23

Skate Through the Pain by Rachel Matos (State College, PA)

I wake up to the slight pulsing of my left big toe -- like the vibrations of a car with the bass up way too high. I clumsily dropped my skate onto the toe yesterday…blade down. I throw my covers off and swing my legs up into the air while still lying down so I can examine the toe. “Looks normal,” I think. It’s fine. I slide my legs off the bed and stand up. I walk groggily into the bathroom. With each step, my left ankle clicks and a sharp pain runs up my leg. I ignore it and continue on. You learn to adjust to the pain.

My mom has always told me to “just suck it up” when I get hurt. Her response is so predictable it’s funny… something to smile at while the pain sinks in. Slamming my body down onto the ice over and over is part of being a figure skater. Olympic figure skater, Alexei Yagudin once said: “If a skater wakes up in the morning and feels no pain, they know they must be dead.” It’s a rare day that some part of my body isn’t in pain. And I do it all to myself. Some of my friends call it insanity. Some suggest I’ve hit my head one too many times on the ice. But to me, skating is a necessity.

Everything I have to put up with is worth it: Waking up while it’s still dark out to skate before school; Leaving early to practice again; Missing out on get-togethers with friends for competitions or practice…It’s all part of it. Just like a tinge of pain here and there is. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Not only do I get better at skating the more I practice, but the constant impact on my body teaches me when it’s okay to ignore pain and push through it. I grow as an athlete and a person.

People tell me, when I’m old and gray my body’s going to be falling apart. It always makes me smile because I know I’ll be able to look back and say it was all worth it. Skating isn’t just something I do… it’s something I love. A lot of the pain can, and has been, avoided through proper training… but pain is inevitable, in all parts of life. From failing a test; to losing a first love; to the death of a parent or friend…You can’t live life hoping to avoid pain. And knowing what it feels like to hurt helps you to appreciate the pain-free times.
I believe pain is inevitable but not always negative. Sometimes you’ve got to suck it up and push through the pain to get to what you want.

2009-07-16

Be a Kid Again by Scott Hockenberry (Jersey Shore, PA)

I remember being the happiest I’ve ever been when I was about six years old. I was playing in a field near my house. It was early summer and getting dark. I remember I could see a storm coming over the hills, but I lay in the grass with my brother and sister looking up into the clouds. The entire sky was a light brown color as the sun hugged the mountaintop. We waited for the rain, and when it finally came, we ran around letting the droplets run down our cheeks.

I’d give anything for just one day of that kind of happiness in my life now.

When I was seven years old, my parents’ divorce tore my family apart. They fought constantly. And as much as they tried to keep the kids out of it, we still saw what was happening. It was hard traveling between homes. I would hear my parents arguing over the phone. The secure feeling you have when your whole family is together was gone. I didn’t understand why it was happening, but I realized even then that this was the end of my childhood. I didn’t value how happy my life was before the divorce. But afterward, I appreciated those carefree summer days.

We live in a fast-paced world. Between juggling work and home life it can be hard to find time to have fun. I work two jobs and struggle as a full-time student. As a society, we all work long hours and worry about making ends meet. We work multiple jobs. We take night classes. We over-commit.

From time to time, I believe everyone needs to step back and recall carefree childhood days. We need to think back to moments in our childhood that were pure and good. For me, there was that day playing in the rain . . . before my brother and sister and I knew what divorce was.

I was a kid not too long ago, and I’m asking you parents out there to create these golden moments for your kids. They’ll remember them. Take your kids to the park and play homerun derby. Run with them in the rain, jumping in every puddle you see. Spend long summer days hiking and camping together. And while you create these moments for them… you’ll recreate them for yourself.

I may not have kids, but I’ve learned how to make that little kid inside me smile. On lazy summer days I go for a swim in the creek. Then I come home, make a fire, and sink into the hammock in my yard as the sun dims in the sky. This is my way of reliving my childhood memory. It gives me time to ignore all the uncertainties of my day-to-day life and forget about my responsibilities for a couple of hours. I push homework and deadlines out of my mind. I just sink into the hammock with my cat on my lap.

I believe, with a little effort, we can all reclaim the childlike happiness of youth. And that happiness will be all the sweeter after experiencing the struggles of life.

2009-06-25

What I Ate For Dinner by Michele Marchetti (State College, PA)

Last night I ate a salad of radishes, field greens, and asparagus. The ingredients never sat in a grocery store. Less than 2 days ago they were still stuck in the ground.

I'm one of thousands of Americans who support local farms as a member of a Community Supported Agriculture program. I pay for a membership in Tait Farm, an organic farm in Centre Hall, Pennsylvania. In exchange for my membership, I get a weekly allotment, or "share," of freshly picked produce. Every Tuesday I load my kids into the car to collect my bounty. The hardworking, enthusiastic farmers greet me at the barn, armed with recipes for how to prepare bok choy and collard greens.

I believe in buying locally grown or produced food. My version of comfort food? When the people who grew the strawberries and spinach I’m feeding my kids are the same people who hold my daughter or talk super heroes with my son while I load everything into the car. The grocery store employees smile at my kids, but they can’t vouch for food grown thousands of miles away.

My passion for local food took root in New York City, where my backyard consisted of concrete and skyscrapers. One day I walked through a farmer’s market and watched people wait in line for 10 minutes for a freshly picked apple. I bought one myself and realized after one bite that the shiny, perfectly shaped apples on the grocery store shelves were imposters. Before long I was buying as much produce as I could stick in a stroller without suffocating a two-year-old.

Now that I live in farm country I buy most of my food from my neighbors. I buy milk from Meyer Dairy and my beer from Otto’s. Both are in State College. I get my eggs from Over the Moon Farm in Rebersburg. And my bread comes from Gemelli Bakery in State College. Once, after I'd been on a gluten-free diet in an attempt to cure a sinus infection, I bought some freshly baked ciabatta for a dinner party. It smelled so good, I pulled off the road and devoured the loaf myself. Gemelli is the reason I'll always have a stuffy nose.

My belief in locally produced food has now led me to a new endeavor. Together with some friends I started Homegrown Happy Valley. It’s a website that provides our neighbors with news and trends related to local farms, restaurants, and retail shops. Every night after we tuck our children in, my fellow Homegrown moms and I run to our computers and fire off spirited e-mails about local, home-delivered chickens and rhubarb crisp recipes. I know some of my friends and family think I'm crazy. Are you running ads? Charging for content? Well, no, I stammer, I’m not making any money; it's just…I believe in locally grown food.

My friends and I simply want to help promote the farms and businesses so they won't close their doors. Our dinner plates depend on it.

2009-06-18

Embracing the Moment by Shannon Palma (State College, PA)

People often ask me how I got involved with the Special Olympics.

I had always volunteered, and I had volunteered with people with special needs before. I liked sports, and I wanted to do something “hands-on.” So a program where athletes with intellectual disabilities train and compete in sporting events seemed like the perfect volunteer opportunity. But I found out it was much more.

Over the past six years, I have shared athletes’ triumphs and sorrows. I’ve watched them as they finish a race and delight in the applause.

The Special Olympics athletes pay attention to everything around them: the other athletes on the awards stand, the dairy princess’ sparkling tiara as she hands out the medals, the crowd watching and taking pictures. To them, this is THE moment.

I believe in the importance of living in the moment… these athletes have shown me how. They don’t worry about what happens next or about all the things they have to do later.

When Centre county Special Olympics athletes attend summer games, I’m head of the delegation. I’m a blur of multi-tasking - thinking about which athlete is going to get his medal at what time, who needs help packing suitcases, did so-and-so take her medication.

But at this year’s Pennsylvania summer games -- two weeks ago in State College -- an athlete gave me the opportunity to enjoy my own moment.

One of our swimmers wasn’t feeling well after competing so we called his caretakers to pick him up. They wouldn’t get there for two hours, so I kept him company. Originally, I was in Head of Delegation mode. I was going to take him to lie down, get him water, pack his stuff, collect his key….but after lying down for five minutes, my athlete sat up and said, “I feel better.” We now had two unplanned hours to fill. A bit desperate for something to do, I took him outside to the Olympic village activities. We got popcorn and smoothies and sat down to play bingo. I thought two hours of bingo would be interminable, but I could feel my athlete’s excitement. Then there was the tasty smoothie and a nice breeze. Between bingo rounds, I watched my athlete smile and admire his medals, and it hit me…. I was having a fantastic time. I was actually enjoying the moment I was in, without another thought in my mind.

Sometimes I think about the moments that have made many of the Special Olympics athletes different from me: the developmental disability, the childhood illness, or the accident. The only difference between my bingo companion and I was a car crash that left him with brain injuries and difficulty walking. Yet he knew so much more than me about how to be alive and how to live in the moment.

As he got into the car to go home, my athlete looked at his medals and said “I’m a champion”. I believe he is a champion, my champion, for showing me how to live in this moment.