Why I Traded Business Attire for Chacos and a Backpack

Another blog I wrote for Plywood People that I never got around to posting:

Last year I lived out one of my dreams. I did something that everyone talks about, but never does. I stepped into one of my lifelong dreams, and slowly felt it become a reality.

Two and a half years ago I sat through an all day training for my first professional job, fresh out of college and ready to tackle my big girl dreams. I had a closet of freshly pressed blouses, my own office, and a typical Atlanta commute to match every droning 9-5er out there.  My life had just started and I couldn’t wait to pay off my student loans, set up a budget to establish credit, and lock in my 401K.

But something was missing. All of the securities of a steady salary, a comfortable work environment, and a fluffy pillow at night slowly became less and less appealing. This isn’t my dream. Although it could be for someone else, it isn’t for me. So I began to search for something new. The more I searched, the more my dreams seemed to reach out to me, like a beaconing whisper alluring me to the mystery of the unknown.

One day I decided I was going to listen to that whisper and do what I’d been dreaming of doing my whole life:

travel the world.

help the hurting.

live in a different circumstance.

create meaningful experiences in my life.

have stories to tell.

I went for it. I signed up for a mission trip called The World Race, where I traveled to 11 countries in 11 months to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and take care of orphans. I lived on $4 a day for food and $5 a day for lodging. I traded my morning commute for tea with the Iranian teashop owner next door. I traded my comfy bed for a camping sleeping pad and my car for the bed of an old, rusty red truck.

I traded the commonalities of my life for unique, one-of-a-kind experiences with people from the African bush all the way to a Thai market.

I took a risk and gave up a very comfortable, normal life for an uncertain (and some may say crazy) year of service and travel. I don’t regret riding elephants through a rain forest in Thailand or spending Christmas with eight orphaned toddlers in South Africa. I don’t regret giving up a stable life to pursue the nagging desire for something more. Even if your MacBook Pro crashes in Haiti, the restaurant fails, or no one likes your idea, nothing is lost in the pursuit of your dream. You will only gain knowledge, experience, and stories to tell to your grandchildren. Don’t we all want to live a story that’s worth telling? 

Food Travels

Food always comes with a story. The taste of the searing hot tamale from your grandma’s tomato soup, or the feeling of the slippery oyster as it slid down your throat; we each have vivid images branded in our minds when we think of food.

I will never forget (and my friends will never let me live it down) when I tried candied ginger for the first time. It. Was. Awful. It felt like someone had stuck the bitterest blob of congealed liquid in my mouth and made me swallow. I think the candy had a mind of its own because it made its way to the side of my mouth and sat there as if to say, “You will like me. I am going to sit here and rub myself in your taste buds until you do.”

But I didn’t like it, and I don’t think I will ever like it. But I will always remember the side stiches I got from laughing so hard after the whole incident.

I also remember the bunny cake. My mom made me a bunny-shaped chocolate cake for my 9^th birthday, and I will never forget it. I remember the moist, thick chocolate layers and the creamy white frosting throughout the center of the cake and smeared on top. There were flakes of coconut coating the top of the white frosting like an inch of snow from the North Georgia Mountains. It’s been 16 years since we had that cake, and every Easter Sunday or birthday celebration I sneakily ask if she will make it again. She sighs and rolls her eyes, but eventually she caves in and agrees.

Over the past few years of my life, I had the distinct privilege of doing some travel. I translated in Guatemala, studied in Spain, and packed up my room, quit my job, and traded my pressed white button up for green-strapped chacos to go to 11 countries in 11 months. It kind of sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? It was a dream fulfilled for me. Between the helping, serving, and elephant riding, I learned a thing or two about cooking. We hopped from grass hut to South African orphanage, with every country bringing a different smell and taste with it. You see, I love food. I love how food cultivates community in an evening, early sunrise breakfast, or afternoon lunch with a friend.

So I’m going to start sharing the stories, recipes, and humorous antidotes I learned through my ‘food travels;’ one recipe at a time. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it inspires you to cook these new creations! (As I hope it inspires me to do the same :D)

I Expect Hot Coffee

When you stop and think about, expectation is a weird word. It literally means a hope, anticipation, or potential, but rarely do we think of it as such. Our expectations are generally things that we think we are entitled to, instead of something that is a potential or even a hope. I never hope that my car will start in the morning or think that potentially there will be coffee at the Starbucks drive through.  I just expect it, and if it doesn’t happen, I act like the world is against me.

I didn’t act like this last year. A year ago today, I was living in a cold, sunless, soot-filled and trash-covered hole of a city in Southern China. I was working in a welfare center for dying children. I didn’t expect coffee in the morning. I was just excited if we had enough time to heat water for plain oatmeal or if I could actually choke down the incredibly spicy food they prepared for lunch. My perspectives were harnessed on right. Not because I thought about people dying in foreign countries, but because I was witnessing it everyday.

But here I am, a year later, watching my impatience brew as the car in front of me is driving 10 miles under the speed limit. What’s changed? The fact that my experience in China didn’t rock my world? No. The fact that I don’t have to eat spicy greens everyday for lunch? Well, maybe. But honestly it boils down to the fact that my surroundings and influencers changed. I grew up in a house where dinner was always ready promptly at 6pm and my bed was soft and warm. Spending a month in communist China isn’t going to change 25 years of comfortable living. But it did give me a glimpse of another life. A life where if you own a car you are in the top 2% bracket of the wealthiest people in the world and the $4 I spent on a latte turned into my entire day’s worth of food money. Ironic, isn’t it?

So what do we as do? Stop expecting everything and live on the line of mediocrity? I don’t think so—I don’t believe that people are called to a complete upheaval of their current lifestyle to fix our incredibly overblown expectation list. There could be a time and a season for that, but we all know the power we have as consumers in this country to change the world for good (I’ll save that for another blog). But I do think it starts with our expectations. A healthy amount of expectations is good for your life: expectations of a job you love, a beautiful family, or fun, quality time with your friends. But it’s when things like this become standard, and if you aren’t seeing them come true in your life and delivered to you by your fairy godmother, you start to get whiny and pessimistic. That’s when we have a problem.

Tomorrow morning do I expect to have hot coffee for breakfast? Yes. Will my morning be destroyed if that doesn’t happen? I hope not. For now I will consider my morning cup of coffee a treat, and something to hope for over expect. Everything becomes much more of a joyful experience when you look at it that way. 

Summertime.

Summer holds something special. There is a nostalgia that hangs in the air on warm summer nights, and beckons you to join its carefree way of life, glass of sweet tea in hand.

At least that’s what its like for me. It reminds me of running barefoot on hot pavement and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the pool. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like summer has a way of making you feel like a kid again, without the remorse and dread of leaving adulthood behind. It frees you; helps you see that sticky marshmallow-covered fingers and lazy Sunday afternoons are an accepted way of life.

A few days ago I was in California visiting a great friend. Unbeknownst to be, San Diego nights are windy and cold; unlike anything I would have imagined. One night we decided to have a bonfire on her back porch. We pulled sweatshirts over our heads and buried ourselves in blankets, only to let out one hand for marshmallow roasting. We listened to the fire crackle, ate sticky marshmallows with gooey chocolate, and told story after story from each friend’s memory bank. It was a perfect night. It brought me back to summers as a child, and I was reminded of the freedom to be childlike, no matter what your age, title, or season of life.

This summer, don’t be surprised if you catch me out on my back porch, barefoot with skewer in hand. We all need a little reminder of childhood sometimes, and summer provides the perfect atmosphere to jog your memory.