Earth Day Blessing

While in Botswana, I was lucky enough to work directly with many women's groups. There are many wonderful aspects of each of their cultures, but the culture I identified with most, was the hunter/gatherers.

The Kuru Artists were made up of a group of distinct San people who had a particular gift of self expression. Whether it was painting, handicrafts, dance, song...these natural born story tellers were able to convey their sentiments to their audience - whether or not they spoke a single click or pop! The artists painted or created linoleom block prints of nature and their interaction with "her". The San Bushmen depicted hunting scenes. The San Bush women depicted gathering scenes. Cgoise, one of the older artists, has a beautiful oil on canvas painting where women in modern dress, pick berries from desert bush. Its significance is evident. It touched me profoundly.

When I went out into the desert to meet the ostrich eggshell beaders for the first time, I identified with them. They wanted to stay home to care for their children. So did I. They wanted to help support their family by getting paid for something unique and beautiful that they created, so did I. They wanted to find a happy medium between the expectations and demands of the world and those of their children, so did I. I wanted a sense of purpose, a place of belonging, a way of life that was of my making, and here it was.

Remote as that village was, I never felt so connected and so welcome. No electricity, water, roof over my head, and still I was safe. Never having met any of these women previously, I was moved by the sense of the familiar, familial and they soon became my extended family.

Picture a place where there is nothing between you and the next tree but some shrubs and a vast expanse of red sand. That tree is nearly 15 miles away. Picture the night sky, inky blue with twinkling diamonds sprinkled from one edge of the horizon to the other. Picture a group of chattering women surrounding you with bundles of babies and ostrich eggshell beads enfolded in blankets. Picture a fourteen year old mother crying as her jewelry is returned to her. During this buying day, the buyer from the nonprofit returns her necklaces because they do not meet the quality standards. Nonchalantly, the other women begin unstringing, restringing polishing and piecing beads together to make more acceptable designs. Why is the girl cry? Was she embarrassed? Was she hungry? Was she sick? Or, more probably, she was afraid of being beaten by her child's father if she didn't bring in money for his drink.

I don't remember this incident because I identified with the young mother. I remember it because of that sense of community. That sense of unconditional support and understanding. I remembered it because I wanted to be a part of their group. I wanted to support them and have them support me.

Earth Day has been celebrated on April 22 for the past 40 years. For the San, earth day truly is everyday - as much of a cliche as that sounds, if you waited for rain to bring life to the parched plants that you relied on for food, lived with little shelter from the grit of sandstorms, and felt the burning earth on your tired calloused feet, then appreciating the earth's blessings would come every moment of every day.

And as a woman blessed by the San presence, I see the value in appreciating the earth's bounty each and every day. I am thankful for the gathering of women I am fortunate enough to be associated with, many women that unite under the auspices of Fair Trade at my store and beyond. But mostly, I am made aware of the fact that no matter where we are on this big beautiful planet, we have a connection, we are connected on April 22, 23, 24 and so on from the beginning of time - and that's the blessing I learned from the San Bushmen, the first people.

My Botswana Snow Day

I'm sitting in our house on this snowy Thursday working on our book, checking emails, posting on Facebook, enjoying being home with the kids. Thursdays are my day home from the store. Even though I don't usually go into the store on weekends, I don't consider that a free day, just the weekend.

So, here we are, all together since this is the second snow day for the kids. I like it. It reminds me of Africa.

We were together a lot. The schools go all year with four months on, one month off. I thought it was great because Peter and I were both self-employed and it allowed our family time to travel as I wrote articles I was assigned and we all enjoyed some pretty awesome adventures!

As I said, I'm writing this book about our life in Botswana. To get back into Botswana, I thought I'd Google the game reserve we managed. Didn't find much, but as is my nature, I didn't stop digging until I found something interesting.

Peace Corps blogs are the first things I find of any worth. Sweet accounts of the slow pace, the cultural differences, the major milestones occurring back in the States making the homesickness that much more palpable even for voyeurs, anonymous and undetected.

I'm crying just thinking about our time there. My memories flood my senses. Things we had gone through are as vivid as if they occurred yesterday. Why is it so tangible for me? Why are the feelings so raw even after nearly four years away? Who am I that the country, the culture, the community never really left me? Why do some people finish their "stint" and move on while people like Peter (and, inadvertently, me) never ever leave?

Oh, don't get me wrong. There were many many days and nights in Botswana that left me wondering how I got there, wondering why I stayed. A black widow resting in my son's motorcycle helmet, scorpions falling from the ceiling onto my daughter's head, snake after poisonous snake curled up on our bed, in our yard, at our window, across the road - yes, a 15 foot python trying to get warm! And then there' s the runaway crocodile that roared like a lion, the charging elephant protecting her young, the hippo munching on grass right outside our tent, and just as bush legend would have it, the hyena that circled our campsite, which our children believe was the very one that swiped a teenage girl from the campfire as her parents helplessly watched.

But the woes of Botswana weren't really the animals, although it would come down to our animals, our dogs being shot by our neighbor that would finally prove to be the last straw. It was the lack of money, ways to make money for foreigners and residents a like that didn't make our life there viable. It would be the distance from one place to the other that would make accomplishing tasks nearly impossible. It would be the cultural differences that would prove puzzling and hindersome. What was the right thing to do? Our children imitate the young boy who came up to us as we stood in line for meat pies. "I'm hungry." he said, "Buy me a pie." So, we did, whereby, the entire line of Motswana customers and the pie-clerks turned on us. "If you buy him a pie, he will pester everyone on this line every day." What to do?

Today, I remember how much I loved living there. Why are we here? I ask myself. Why couldn't we make it work? Sure there are people - Peace Corps Volunteers that leave their host country never to return. But there are oh so many that cannot let it go. Peter, having been stationed in Botswana in the early '80's couldn't shake her from his being. For nearly 20 years, he looked for a way to return until he finally found the job on that fateful game reserve in 2002.

I sit in our comfortable home as my children warm up after playing in the snow and have to smile past the tears. Two different dogs surround me as I write, much the way Oz and Otse did in Botswana. Hell, this is the very same upholstered chair and ottoman that the three of us occupied in two different houses in Africa. Only, this time, we're in a heated house with sheet rock walls and hardwood floors.

This time, I am not writing about the newest bed and breakfast opening in the South African bush. I'm not compiling pictures from the San Bushman Dance Festival I had just covered, or writing about the latest developments at the HIV AIDS conference I just attended. This time, it's personal.

And because it is personal, I have that much more to say than "just the facts, ma'am". I want to bring you to Botswana with us. I want you to see what I saw the way that I saw it. I want you to want to be there too and understand full well why we left, why we remain involved, and why our experiences are significant in today's environment, economy, with today's lifestyle here in the USA.

Here I am writing in a snow storm in Poughkeepsie, NY, about as far away as you can get from our tin roofed, cement block two bedroom double garage door home in Ghanzi and I'm immersed in Botswana...and for today, I can take the day off from my store in the Poughkeepsie Plaza, from our life back in the States, and have a snow day, where I'm in Botswana, in 2003 once again.

Writing a Chapter

I'm starting to write chapters for my book.
I have finally gotten around to reading "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver. Since Peter and I have discussed writing the book together - from his perspective and mine - I like the way this book is laid out. (Of course, it's fiction and ours is not).
I love the different voices giving a chronological view of their life in Africa. Only when the mother "speaks" do you get a sense of the future since she is telling the story looking back.
That's what I have to figure out. Whether or not to tell the story as it unfolds or knowing what I know now, how the story came together in the past.
For a book proposal, you need to have an outline. A list of chapters and a synapses of the chapters. How-to's explain that this is not concrete - the book can change, but it's good to show the progression of the story to the agent, to the publisher.
The story is not always so clear to me. I can't always remember the progression, but rather major happenings that changed my mind, my views, my life.
Writing it down loses something for me. It makes me define some things that I don't know if I feel comfortable making black and white. Putting words to a memory also gives meaning to something that once only had feeling. What if I don't always feel this way? Will the memory now be altered and forced to conform to my latest version on paper (or in this case, digital memory)?
My cousin had an interesting take on Julie and Julia, a memoir made into a movie. He didn't like Julie - thought she was self indulgent. Was not surprised to find that she is now divorced from her husband, the patient saint in the movie. She didn't deserve him, my cousin said. But a memoir, no matter how honest and candid, is only a snapshot of what's really going on. Like all forms of expression, it conveys a message. A book cannot be a rambling mass of words, images, and occurrences. It needs to focus on a one sentence catch phrase. It needs to sum up for the reader one clear concise selling point. Sure, a good book appeals to many different people, who all walk away with a different emotion/idea. But a well crafted book has one central, one main, one distinct voice that gives the reader one finely tuned note.
When you write about yourself, about a time in your life, about something that matters greatly to you, you are at your most exposed. Like a painter's self portrait, a memoir is that glimpse at the true you as you see you.
What if you tell the story, but your reader walks away with a different plot? What if you tell the story and your readers sum you up based on that snippet in your life? What if it's self indulgent, as my cousin summarized Julie of Julie and Julia. What if...
A memoir is just that. It's how you remember your life. In my case, I want to share it not because I am a special person, not because I had extraordinary experiences, not because I want recognition. In my case, I want to share it because it COULD be anyone's story. Anyone/everyone can fulfill their heart's desire. They can take that leap of faith, not falter when an opportunity comes upon them, and trust in their own instincts to follow their heart, fulfill their dreams.
I'm struggling now. I'm stalling actually writing this book. A little bit afraid of all of the usual stuff people are afraid of, plus some things that only I could concoct. . . But as I write things down - sometimes they are just lists of what I'm grateful for, sometimes they are monologues to my brother who has passed on telling him my greatest fear and biggest wish, and sometimes they are the messages great and small that come my way - I see that writing it down helps me to make things clearer.
Writing down chapters I hope will someday be included in this book or perhaps another, I gain a new perspective on myself. Self indulgent as that may sound, it is something everyone should do - record chapters to document moments great and small for themselves, maybe for their children to read one day and maybe, just maybe, for a greater audience of readers who will find a sliver of understanding, a kindred soul, a stroke of inspiration.

Global Women's Work

A young woman entered my shop. Monday was particularly busy after Sunday's newspaper article. I even kept track of people who came in for the first time due to the article, who had seen the article and bought something and those who had been in for the first time without seeing the article.

"I cannot believe I am standing in a store called Women's Work" she told me in her charming Bangledeshi accent. She had just decided to put more effort in her cousin's business. Her cousin 'lives in India where there are so many poor, poor women you cannot even imagine.' she told me. Her cousin teaches them how to do different things so that they can get a job. Because the women are many generations of homeless, they don't even know how to clean properly, use an iron, sew. Her cousin, with her own money and that her of husband, bought these things and takes in these women and teaches them to earn a living.' Smiling from ear to ear, 'and here I am in Women's Work.'

She will bring me some of the things the women have made. Over time, she had taken their things and sold them for her cousin. But now, her cousin asked her to put more effort into it. The women need some success to feel hopeful. They need to sell some things to encourage them to make more. This is a life, she told me, that can change for this woman and her daughter and daughters yet to come. Prostitution, rape, acts of violence are part of their world, their way of life. With income coming from another source, with some self respect, self sufficiency, self reliance, this can be stopped.

Many women came into the store yesterday thanking me...Once, I stammered, "oh no, no need to thank me," I started to say. 'Thank you for having a store like this in Poughkeepsie." she finished. "Oh, yes. Well, it only seemed right."

From the first sale we had in 2006 days after we landed back on New York soil after our life in Botswana, the Unitarian Church Fair Trade Bazaar welcomed us wholeheartedly. That was this very same community.

Today, I got a call with a long lag time. The number on my cell said unavailable which usually means it is from overseas. I don't get as many long distance calls as I make, but lately, people had been seeking me out. This call was from an American who had lived most of his adult life
in Mexico. He was inviting me to come and help the women in his village. I had to smile.

On Sunday, a woman called me while we were doing the show in Long Island. She didn't know if I could help her, but...that's how the requests, inquiries, phone/email/postcards/packages start...an email on Saturday trailed off with, "I'm not sure how to articulate what I am asking now..."

People wanting to help, wanting a venue, a reason, a way. Sometimes, I can't help. Sometimes, all I can do is offer advice. Sometimes, it feels so right and then the project, the idea, the emotion/drive falls away. Sometimes, it all clicks and it all comes together - complete and satisfyingly easy.

I never know what's coming my way. I have gotten much better at dodging trouble - you know, the scenarios that seem too good to be true, and after a long and painful progression, you realize it all too late. The ideas that seem to fit your current state of mind, only to find out that it was a square peg you wanted so badly to fit into a round hole. Or the right premise, but the wrong promise.

I am open to the signs that come my way. I sometimes even write them down. "Today, out of the blue, three people mentioned New Paltz." that kind of thing. Later, you can take a look at those messages and see where you went "wrong" or go "aha!" I knew this would work even way back then!

One sign that keeps creeping up on me is India. I've never had an affinity to India, but time and again I am confronted by it - in Alanna's relationship with the children of the dumps in former Calcutta, in my buddy Jay's connection with the women who weave the trash bags, the popular treeless gift boxes from Sustainable Threads, most recently the young woman and her cousin helping women find work. I say this now because in a year, five years, ten years from now and I've got a store in India, we can all ohh and ah at my astuteness.

I wonder how people find me. Why they choose me even though my website is Botswana-centric, my story too, totally about the San in Botswana, about the ostrich eggshell jewelry. I am astounded that people approach me not just to buy their crafts but also for guidance, kindness, friendship and affirmation. I say I wonder how they find me, but really, I know.

There is a collective mindset that exists and connects all of us.

I chose the name and focus of Women's Work in 2005 because I believed that by targeting women, helping women, empowering women, I could affect the the elderly (our past) and the children (our future), all being taken care of by the caregivers, the women. CARE also adapted that notion in their latest campaign. And over the last two years, women have been the target for many organizations, telling me that my idea was the right one.

Retail/Wholesale in these economic times has been particularly difficult. Many good businesses have had to close. And while Women's Work isn't doing well enough to afford me a salary, I have done what I can to make sure it stays open - for the women artisans, those looking for ways to help, those looking for answers and those needing inspiration to set them on their way.

Cold Spring to Poughkeepsie

Patrice came in to tell me she would take the job!

We had spoken the week before about her revamping my Cold Spring store - creating events that showcased Equal Exchange's Rooibus Tea and my connection with the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency books; bring Goody Goodies to a new level, where the org would actively promote fair trade products in support of fundraising efforts; formalizing my new idea of supplying fair trade essential and carrier oils and also having a "bar" where people could make their own skincare products...so many ideas I have that stay just that. Patrice could be the person to actually make them happen...

It was the idea of hiring her that prompted my serious look at the store in Cold Spring.

Many factors needed to be addressed:

1. Sales - The Poughkeepsie Plaza store showed me that while we in the USA were still in recession, there was money being spent. The Poughkeepsie Store generated great sales during the holidays! The Cold Spring store did not.

2. Distance - Cold Spring was over 45 minutes away. The day after there was a burglary, when there is snow, when a customer wanted to come in on days we were closed, there was very little I could do about it because we lived so far away.

3. Book - We finally got a book proposal out to an agent. Now, we actually have to write a book! When would I do that with two stores to manage and work in?!?

4. Loyalty - Cold Spring is where Peter, the kids and I have always considered "home". 66 Main St's landlord was our neighbor while we lived in CS and a good, understanding, supportive landlord and friend these past two years. Portia has been an excellent sales person, working full time while we were in Africa two summers ago. I couldn't have wished for a more capable and knowledgeable assistant manager. After 4 years on Main Street, fellow shop owners have been my closest allies which is why I ran for the Board of the Cold Spring Chamber of Commerce. How do I walk away from all of these people?

I don't.

My difficult decision to move the store, which is what I have to do, comes due to all of these factors and so much more. While Women's Work will not have a presence in Cold Spring as of February, I will see if any of the other stores would like to carry some of the products I had done so well with like the Heirloom Rice, Project Have Hope Beads, Equal Exchange coffee/tea/chocolate, to name a few...

From Poughkeepsie, I can post flyers and market events so that the much larger population base here can be made aware of the many happenings in Cold Spring and Garrison - charming, sleepy historic villages that are well worth the day trip from Poughkeepsie and beyond.

And with 66 Main Street's door closing, I can move forward with some of my other projects hopefully with Patrice and most definitely taking all that I've learned from the inception of WW in 2006 to today.

Ma Jong

After many dates made and cancelled, my mother finally committed (half-heartedly) to January 3 as a day to commemorate my father's Death Anniversary and a good excuse to have her friends over to play Mah Jong.

I half-heartedly followed her lead, as well. Afraid to commit to a date, to a party for many reasons including snow, fear the house would not be unpacked enough to show people, unpacked enough to find what we needed to throw a party and some reasons I am embarrassed to say here.

As some guests RSVP'd regrets, some came the day before and after the loose invites went out. As an email went unanswered, I quickly made a phone call full of apologies for not responding to a question about final date and time of event. As snow fell again for the fourth day in a row, I wondered if anyone would really come.

As we set up the tables and tried to determine which rooms would be used for buffet service, which for dining, drinks, and the mass that goes along with the commemoration, I realized that my mom and her friends often play Mah Jong until the next morning - shrieking and hooting and hollering all night long. "Why did you make it Sunday instead of Saturday?" I asked, more than a little annoyed. "The Priest couldn't make it Saturday." she answered timidly. "Oh." I responded unpleasantly.

So, as the Priest, a fellow Filipino, was the first to arrive, arranging his makeshift alter in our living room, I groaned to myself. When she said there would be a mass, I went along with it. When I realized it would be "Religious" I regretted my approval.

I raised my children to believe in a higher force, explained to them about my semi-Buddhist beliefs, shared with them my idea that each person is blessed and we should all be grateful for what the Universe gave to us. There was a time in Botswana when religion was an issue at Markham's nursery school. He pointed out to us that the sunshine streaming down in rays through the clouds was the light of God. Ugh! I didn't even have my son Baptised Catholic since I didn't agree with many of the policies of the Catholic Church. But here we were, with a Priest in our house and I could only imagine he'd bring "Jesus" into our home! Ugh!

But he is a nice man and he was kind enough to come to deliver mass to my mom and her friends, and so I was as respectful and friendly and welcoming as I could be. And as he started mass, I realized...

I knew the prayers he recited. I knew when to stand up and when to make the sign of the cross. I had to correct my son's attempts at it, telling him to use his right hand because he didn't even know that. And as the mass went on and he continued to speak, I listened.

Today turned out to be the perfect day for the celebration of my father's death, according to the Priest. Today, was the day the wise men finally found Jesus. They brought gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, finding him in Bethlehem days after his birth. They came late because they were deterred by their expectations, arriving in Jerusalem and approaching the King's palace, not following the Star. They only found Jesus after retracing their steps and once again looking to the light of the star to guide them.

On the Alter my mom created on our old chipped stained coffee table we bought for a few Pula at an auction in Botswana, there was a baby Jesus in a cradle. Just before Christmas, a husband and wife entered my store. "Are you Corazon Dinio Durkin? " the gentleman asked. "Well, no." and I hesitated wondering where this was going. "Why do you ask?" I responded, trying to not sound too much like a jerk. "Let's see...I have a baby Jesus..." My mom had asked him to repair this baby Jesus, all cracked, leg nearly broken off, fingers missing. I remembered it in the manger my mom would put out each year during Christmas. He had fixed it and wondered if I would bring it to Cora. Sure, we were now living together so it was easy. But he had brought it into my store and I kept forgetting to carry the heavy bulky parcel home. And when I finally did get it to my car, that's where it stayed for a few days as I kept forgetting about it in the back seat. When my mom finally got it, she was tickled to see how beautiful the Baby now was.

We had barely unpacked from our move in November when Peter and I would flee to Boston for Cultural Survival Bazaars. There was no Christmas Tree until days before Christmas and there weren't many decorations. Certainly, no place for a large nearly life-size Baby Jesus.

As the mass continued, everything seemed to fall into place. The date was fitting because not only did the Baby Jesus come to rest in a home that was welcoming (room at the "inn), this Priest, with his wise words found us, giving us gifts and telling us to follow the light - the light that is found in the children, the true light that guides us to the true gifts, and a better understanding of faith. My father, the Priest said, had a way of always uniting family and friends and he did it again today. Brought my mother's Mah Jong friends together again, welcoming them to our new home, and reminding me, in particular, of the wonderful community my father had created in Poughkeepsie, in his house, in our home.

As the familiar sounds of the Tagalog exclamations rang down the hallway, the clacking of the Mah Jong tiles being slapped down, stacked, and shuffled, I feel my dad finally followed the Light of God and it shone down on our home and it was found in the warmth of family and friends congregating together, giving our children the protection, adoration, and love that extended family gives willingly, unconditionally and with great gusto.

For 2010, I see a future filled with promise based on acknowledgment and knowledge of the past.
Happy New Year, everyone!

September 11th

My son's assignment was to write a paragraph about how the events of 9/11 affected our family. Peter and I both recounted thoughts, events, emotions. Our neighbor was Captain of the firehouse across from the Towers. My cousin's husband worked for Port Authority. My sister had monthly meetings at Windows on the World.

Luckily, no one we knew was killed. It was Matt's day off. Carlos was late (again). And my sister's meeting went uninterrupted the day before.

We were spared.

In Botswana, having drinks with friends, someone brought up Sept. 11. A solemn silence fell over the crowd. One by one, unprompted, people shared their thoughts - what they were doing when they heard, how it had changed their view of America, of Americans, and even though no one they knew was killed, they mourned two years later.

Today, I am grateful that my family and friends were safe. With thousands of innocent people murdered and hundreds more killed trying to save lives, I am so lucky to know no one who died. But those that did parish, they did not die in vain.

Around the world people united against terrorism. In one day, on 9/11, we were all victims of terrorist acts. What the Taliban set out to do was to show the world how vulnerable Americans were. What they hadn't anticipated was that that vulnerability made us stronger.

On September 11, 2001, Americans weren't seen as greedy, self serving, selfish, egocentric Capitalist Pigs. When those towers were struck and civilians targeted, we were neighbors, cousins, sisters...we were people.

On September 11, 2009, I will shed a tear of regret for all of those lives lost, and another of gratitude for the lives saved.

Calendar's Now on Sale

This has been a long a tedious process with many rewards and issues brought to light. With the pages mapped out and the photos almost nearly in place, it is really shaping up to be a beautiful year of Fair Trade practices and accomplishments.

Fair Trade Calendar Results

So, the calendar competition is over with amazing photos to show for it. Not only will the 12 pics that received the most votes get featured each month, but every entry will appear throughout the 2010 calendar. I can't wait to see what this design firm, Design Action a worker-owned collective will do with the photos and Fair Trade info we're providing them.

Tex Dworkin, working for Global Exchange was the originator of this idea and has been spearheading all - from conception to finished product to sales and marketing. I'm a worker bee...and glad to be.

While I would have looked into environmentally friendly paper and soy-based ink, I don't know that I would have had sources like Consolidated Printing who coerced New Leaf paper to greatly reduce their price to make the calendars more affordable as a fundraiser. Or that I would have been astute enough to hire a design firm that is worker-owned, which translates to fair trade right here in the USA.

I also just finished a nearly 3 hour conference call with the Fair Trade Federation Board members. Phew! Talk about everything you need to know about Fair Trade! While I won't go into details about the meeting, I will say, there are varying levels of Fair Trade and many mindsets. Not a hard and fast rule, necessarily and certainly when talking about practices. Which leads me to this blog...

I am coming to the realization that we all have a place on this planet and that the die-hards can co-mingle with the novices and each can learn from the other. I find that in the shop, I tend to get defensive. Oh, you're just like 10,000 villages. No, I'm not. Sure, we have a common goal - provide a safe, secure, sustainable environment where the neediest are given some attention for their labors. With that, we also want to make sure there is some environmental stewardship for everyone's future.

But the women I work with are small groups, working from their homes, working when they can. I have come to the conclusion lately that creating a factory setting where they produce for a wide number of retail stores would do San Bushmen women in particular more harm than good. While my friend's paper bead org in Uganda has over 100 women as members, with thousands more making hundreds of pieces of jewelry from recycled materials for other orgs. Ostrich Eggshell is precious, with eggs only hatched three months out of the year. Recycled paper is in abundance. The San women live in settlements that they are happy to call home. They have many of their needs provided for them in one way of another and so don't truly NEED cash, they could use more, but they can survive with limited amounts. The women in the Acholi Quarter are relocated refugees who must live in shanti towns. They live in a cash society. They need to make money to buy food, put their children to school, live...The women have different situations and so does each wholesaler. Our jobs are to educate the public with awareness, let people know what the living conditions of people are in third world countries and through the sale, offer a way for us to help.

But I don't want the idea of charity to enter into my business. I firmly believe that a business relationship is what is needed to honor the skill and artistry of the crafter/producer and that a fair payment is what will enable artisans to sustain their skill, not a hand out. I'm not a religious person, but gotta love the "teach a man to fish" analogy. Give a woman a dollar and she'll eat for that day, provide her a means to sustain a business and earn a fair wage and you feed her and her family forever. With her elevation in financial means/status, she brings a world of hope and promise to her children and her children's children

I have a greater appreciation of what that means in terms of people like me who have small groups that we work with directly and those who work with larger groups providing products to "chain" stores. As it is, I will be opening another store this holiday season with the promise of keeping it open should there prove to be a market here in Poughkeepsie.

With Fair Trade ideals just coming to Main St America (god I hate catch phrases like that!), there's a lot of room to grow, a lot of ways to see the end results and in the end we will all be better off realizing that people live at different standards around the world and how much we can help, what we can do, and how we do it is going to change and differ depending...It all depends on us.

New York Gifts

I had an amazing day at NYIGF yesterday. I helped Virginia in her Brushkins booth where there was a steady stream of buyers from Florida, California and many regionally. Several people were buying for their internet business and a few looking to start one. Sales, I am told, were small orders, but there were many. Escama's owner, Andy said that their first NY show where they introduced the line of bottle top bags was mind blowing and after six shows, this one quite nearly reached the same totals. Exciting stuff.

I left there feeling promise that the market was on an upswing. Promise that my store would again be doing well. Promise that the ostrich eggshell jewelry and our line of safari would be embraced at the show. . . my mind was racing.

I would love my own booth - the excitement of planning, the control of creating yet a new venture, the promise of sustainability for the programs I put in place in Botswana. I wanted to share the warmth of the shop, bring awareness of the women I work with, and harness and prove the viability of the products.

I couldn't wait to return today to take in more information about how other people were working the show, gain some more insight into what was missing, what people were buying, how to sell.

I wanted to find new products to make the store fresh and profitable. I wanted to make good connections for new vendors and possibly, connections for my own businesses.

I loved being in the thick of the sales, the mindset of retail, enveloped in fair trade practices and theory. I wanted another day in the buzz.

But then I took a deep breath and I stopped myself - defended myself from myself.

I keep talking about promoting the women's products, bringing awareness of their way of life, preserving the craft and their culture and making all of us a little more financially secure. Will my shop do that? Yes, to some degree. Will my wholesaling do that? Yes, a little bit. But what would do that the biggest and best way? My book.

For the past two weeks I've been obsessed with change - buy a new house, open a shop, get a job...All of those things are great distractions, great excuses, and tangible endeavors, but none of those things would accomplish the biggest and best change for all of us. The answer to my restlessness is the book.

I had entitled the book "Women's Work: My Life's Work" but that's not true. Women's Work (the store, the concept, and quite literally the meaning of the phrase) has always been a vehicle for my true life's work. I believe my greatest passion and my one and only talent is my writing.

To put my life's existence out there - to write this book, I will be fulfilling my life's work. But what if it's no good? What if no one wants to read it? What if it never gets published? Then, will my life be a failure? Reasonable Cecilia says no of course not! But Irrational Cecilia often prevails...

But not today, IC, not today. Today, I write the book.

Saving Fish from Drowning

My children and I were sightseeing with some friends when we found this pool of water in a rock along the Hudson River. We were surprised to find many fish stuck in the rock. The water must have receded and the fish got trapped. Macallan, quick on her feet, began to catch and release the live fish in the hopes she wasn't too late.

I uploaded the pic on my Facebook page and entitled it, "Saving Fish from Drowning". I was moved by the phrase.

Much like those fish, I see people in developing countries trapped by their situations. It wasn't their fault that they were trapped, nor mine, but if you find them and can help them, shouldn't you?

One of the fish, a catfish was struggling to stay alive. But Macallan knew from her dad that catfish have barbs that can hurt you. She tried to get a hold of it without hurting it or herself. I brought over a stick but there was no way to use it. Macallan just had to persevere attempting to capture it without it sticking her. She got it in her hand, it wriggled madly, threw itself from her grasp and landed on the hard rock before slipping into the river. "Oh!" Macallan exclaimed, afraid she had hurt it. But I reassured her it swam away as fast as it hit the water. "See?" I pointed out. "It's gone." Doubtful that she had not caused it more harm than good, it took her a good half hour to snap out of her funk.

I feel like that sometimes. Wondering if my interaction does more harm than good, if I have a hand in them hurting themselves...

In the same pool was a tiny frog clinging to the sides. Now, he didn't need saving. He could hop away, free from danger. The kids were careful to take a few pictures and then left him alone. He eventually ducked into the murky puddle and swam out of sight.

I hope I can do that with the producers. I hope I can see those that are able to hop to safety, appreciate their existence, let them alone, and acknowledge that they can care for themselves.

Frogs are indicator species. Not so long ago, frogs had been disappearing. On this trip along the Hudson, we saw many. Let's hope that is an indication of the plenty that is coming our way. May the frogs be a symbol of the self assuredness, ability, and good fortune that is hopping, better yet, that we are hoping is coming our way.

Thursdays in the Shop with Macallan

A wonderful day in the shop yesterday.

I met a woman with a store outside of Philadelphia who appreciated the fair trade aspect of the products and also the beauty and craftsmanship of the jewelry!

I met three lovely young women, two of whom had lived and worked in Uganda for four months through their universities and one who had just returned from two weeks in South Africa. One of the women lives in Fishkill and says she often brings her friends into the shop. She is leaving in a matter of weeks for a year in Egypt and upon her return she will attend Pace University for her international law degree. Wow!

Julia Frazier came by. It's been far too long since we've seen each other. She was astounded by how "big" Macallan had gotten. She leaves for England to defend her dissertation and hopes to leave within weeks of her return to take a job with a nonprofit in the Congo!

Another encounter that makes me feel the shop is vital and worthwhile is when three women (and a man) came into the store midday. "This is my all-time favorite store" a beautiful woman who was impeccably dressed said as she escorted her guests in, "we just have to go in here!" Her one friend saw a bag (basket with straps to carry on your back) and fondled it briefly. "It's a shop full of African stuff," her other friend said. "and you're looking at a bag from the Philippines." This comment was made significant because the women were African American. They explored the store a decent amount of time and left without much interaction with me or Macallan. The one woman had apparently been in many times before and basically knew the layout better than I did. She guided her friends around like an expert - which made me appreciate my store manager, Portia, that much more. When "strangers" know your store better than you do, that means the store is in good (great!) hands while you are away. They left without buying anything, but I got much from their visit. By the end of the day, we'd had something like 70 people come through the door, not a bad Thursday with an OK sales total. And out of the blue, the three (plus the gentleman who must be a saint) came in with a flurry. I heard a voice proclaim, "If it's still here when I walk by, I'm going to buy it." As soon as she walked in the door, she could see it was still hanging on the hook. "I was going to get on that train (back to NYC) and be very sorry I didn't buy this bag." She told me with the basket in hand. "I know how that is." I responded. She bought it and was very pleased with herself and her purchase. "Thanks for coming by." I said to anyone who would listen. "Next time you come up" the leader of the visit began to say, but I didn't hear the rest since they were already down the block rushing to catch their train.

A great day because of the many wonderful supportive people we met and because I get to share it with my daughter. She probably will never inherit this business since she wants to be a veterinarian, not a shop owner, but she will inherit the goodwill fair trade practices bestows on the world for the women who produce, the women who shop and the women (Macallan, Portia and myself) who bring these values to the world we encounter daily - all of us doing our part to make a difference.

Elephant Dung Prints Just In

We met Emmanuel Mukwiro in Botswana last year. He had a stand by the side of the road where he was selling baskets, wood carvings and his wonderful prints.

I spoke to him at length about his business and his artwork. He was from Zimbabwe, able to cross the border to sell his crafts. He supported his extended family, basket weavers and woodcarvers. He had a wife who stayed behind in Zimbabwe to care for his two children.
Since we were in Africa for two months, I placed an order with him and set a date when we would return to pick up the prints. We found him several weeks later, just where we met him. He was a bit flustered and upon shaking his hand hello, I realized why. He said he had been in a terrible bus accident on his way back to Zim. The bus turned on its side and he hurt his hand badly. Wanting to complete my order, he got the help of his brother and they managed to have the prints ready. His hand was bandaged and bent. I hoped he'd be fine soon. I hoped the accident, or more common, the treatment would not hurt him for good.

I've been buying from Emmanuel thorughout the year. This is the latest order, a large one with sizes as small as 3" x 4" and as large as "13"x 15". I was happy to send him the money - I know how tough it is right now in Zimbabwe.

His prints sell particularly well at the Cultural Survival Bazaars where people take the time to find genuine arts and crafts. You can't see from these pictures how the elephant dung (OK, it's not all made of elephant poop. That's just what it's called since it contains natural fibers, but there is some elephant dung in there, I guarantee.) is used within the print. Emmanuel's images are enhanced and made that much more charming with his titles. This one is called "Collecting Water for a Wedding."

Cultural Survival at Tiverton, RI

The sun was shining, the temperature was mid-70's and the crowds were out and shopping.

Before we were set up, a couple came to the booth. A big burly man and his wife were excitedly asking questions about the ostrich eggshell jewelry. "We didn't get a form yet, they told me. Will you put this necklace aside? We'll be right back." The bazaar hadn't officially opened and so a volunteer wasn't yet set up to hand out purchase forms. They had to hunt one down.

Now, we all know, the first rule of sales is not to let your customer out of your sight. I should have gotten them a form, but I had more to put out and it's the type of event that draws people who are supportive, so I put the necklace aside and let them go.

A flood of women came by. Chatting, pointing, touching everything they could reach. A flurry of buying and I knew it was going to be a good day. One woman, there's always at least one, befriended us right off the bat. Peter says I draw it out of people. I don't know about that. But she was very friendly and spent a great deal of time in our booth. At some point, someone else needed our attention and after waiting on those customers, she was still there. "I'm waiting to see if that woman is really buying that necklace." she confided in me. "I will buy these things but if she puts that necklace back, I want it." I had to smile. "Another woman took a necklace right out of my hand and bought it!" she told me indignantly. I apologized. "Oh no. It's not your fault. I just didn't move fast enough." Gotta love that!

The "other" woman did decide on another necklace and my new-found friend snatched it up. "Write me up before she changes her mind!" she and I conspired. One day, she'll email us about going to Botswana. I just know it.

The rest of the day brought interesting conversation, some die-hard and new fans of marula oil. I brought black soap products and a couple bought several bars of soap saying they didn't know you could get it in the USA!

Toward the afternoon, a young woman came by the booth. At first, I noticed her lingering just beyond and when her companion (her father?) caught up with her, she whispered to him, "I think it's her." She approached me with such eagerness I met her halfway. "We met at your house in Ghanzi." she began. I tried to place her - was she a Peace Corps volunteer, a wayward tourist, a friend of a friend... As she continued to describe our meeting, she finally saw recognition in my eyes and told me her name. "Of course." I said and it was like we were long-lost friends. In reality, we had only met once for less than an hour. She had come with our friend because their car was broken down and we never heard from or had seen her again - until yesterday...

Several people had come by surprised we were from Cold Spring - we were nearly 5 hours from "home". One woman goes to church with my mom and aunt. Another is working in Garrison at an acquaintance's home. Such a small world, made smaller by a common interest - fair trade.

We don't make a tremendous amount of money at these Cultural Survival Bazaars, but we have made some good good friends, some supportive customers, and some great connections. And the beauty of the work, the surroundings, and the many people who make the event a "success" is a great enough reason to keep going. . . going to the events but also keep going with the sales and awareness of fair trade products.

In the Spirit

The Spirit of Women's Annual Meeting played host to us last week in Washington DC. Our participation came out of the Snowmass Institute in Texas after meeting Spirit of Women's founder, Tanya Abreu.

Coincidences, Good Fortune, Wishes Granted...call it what you will, the universe guides us with gifts of plenty.

First, Tanya invited us to set up a cash and carry booth, wanting to expose the participants of SoW's Annual Meeting to fair trade and us to over 200 hospitals with gift shops spread out throughout the country. I couldn't go at first, since I had signed up to teach a summer camp that fell during this week. I tried to work out many different scenarios so that Women's Work would be there even if I was not...but in the end, my course was cancelled and I was able to attend.

Second, with sales in the shop so low the past few months, I had to wait until the last minute to buy more product. I ordered various things and prayed they would arrive on time. The paper beads didn't show up until after we'd left for DC and they were sent to my store instead of my home. This turned out to be a stroke of good luck since I had cleaned the store out of every last paper bead and now at least there were long strands and chunky necklaces for the Cold Spring shoppers.

Third, sales were horrible and I was losing sleep. Having to try to make money to pay bills, I had very little time to work on the book. Wanting to get out from under the pressure, I cried, wrote in my journal, and finally talked to Peter about what we were doing and where we were going. We decided I should try to spend as much time as I could writing my book and he would work in the shop. He was determined to sell the $10,000 wagon wheel table handcrafted from Zimbabwe which would pay off a lot of my credit card debt. He didn't sell the table that day, but we were given a very nice gift from his father - out of the blue and without provocation he wrote us a check for the "magic" number...

Four, Peter didn't sell the table, and I didn't write the book. When he got home, I told him why I didn't get anywhere with it. I couldn't/wouldn't write about our time on the game reserve. I didn't really see it as MY story. I knew it was the part of the book that would be "sexiest" for an agent to sell, but I just didn't see how it would progress the story of the women...and that's when Peter said it, "If I were writing this book, I'd be able to write it." Bells, whistles, angels sang from on high. Yes! He would be able to write about the 10 foot escaped croc he wrangled, the 15 foot python that sunned itself across the roadway, the elephant hiding behind a skinny thorn tree, President GW Bush slipping him a donation after he took Colin Powell and Condeleezza Rice on a game drive. So, that's when we decided to do a he said/she said book. Brilliant plan and do-able for both of us, but an idea that wouldn't come to fruition until we were both ready.

Five, on our way home from DC, Peter and Markham weren't feeling well. We decided to stay over at Leon's. I called and Leon said he was going to Peter's brother's for the girl's birthday. We've missed most of their birthdays - living in Africa, going to Africa for the summer, so it was great to just stumble onto their celebrations and share their special day.

Things most definitely happen for a reason. One last example, occurred over the past two days. My aunt had postponed surgery time and again, fearful of the procedure and of what the Dr. might find. She finally made an appointment but it was for a Thurs - Thurs are the days I work in the store and I would be the one to drive her. Not wanting to give her another excuse, I said I'd take her (anyway) and I'd just have to find someone to work for me.

As luck would have it (since I'm broke and can't really pay someone else to work), the Dr. rescheduled for Tues and I was able to take her to her appointment with no extra expense. But I must say, after several days of being away from home and taking the weekend Off from work (sort of), I'm frazzled. I have three projects coming up that I play an integral part in and so much other work to do...but I need to be with my aunt and so everything else has been squeezed in between dropping her off at the hospital, visiting her in recovery, picking up my mom to go see her, picking her up the following day and filling her prescription before heading home.

All that AND my husband has had a fever for three days now and hasn't been able to help with laundry, grocery shopping, food prep or care of the kids. My son has been throwing up, has a fever and a bloody nose. Between their two fevers and his bloody nose, I've been doing laundry, laundry and more laundry - fingers crossed, I too don't get sick! Hectic is an understatement for my life since DC, but I've been able to juggle things and I'm trying very hard not to freak out.

But back to my aunt...she was frightened to enter the hospital. So much so, she even made sure she saw her nieces and nephews "just in case". I can't help but wonder what she's afraid of? It's a minor procedure - thyroid removal and a biopsy. She is an extremely religious woman - carrying rosaries in her bag, reading from the bible all day long, praying constantly, going to church EVERY DAY, participating in bible study several times a week. Doesn't that kind of faith dictate a life without fear? Don't you then believe that "God" will take care of you?

I am not religious in an organized way. I actually shun Christianity and Catholicism in particular. But I am deeply religious in that I believe there is a higher universal power. I may falter, but for the most part (lately), I have been fearless. I see my life as blessed, that I am being taken care of, that I am given what I need which most of the time is also what I want.

The spirit (of women, but no exclusively so), is all around me, guiding me, comforting me, shielding me. If I turn to a good book, it is a Deepka Chopra book, not the Holy Bible. If I speak to a higher force, it is usually a collective being or on some occasions, my older brother or my father who have passed on. If I feel crazed, I know I can manage because I have faith, faith that my life has a purpose, a greater purpose than one that serves just me, faith that I am worthwhile and therefore, I have faith that everything will work out in the end.

Times they are a changing

I spent Tuesday evening going from store to store looking for a dress for my daughter's Moving Up ceremony. For those without kids, moving up ceremonies are when kids change schools - elementary to jr. high, jr. high to high school. Where did the time go?
I reluctantly encouraged her to find her own dress (with my approval or should I say guidance) only saying no to one dress she only half heartedly asked for since she knew full well I wouldn't let her go out in THAT! But we had fun. We eventually found a dress that fit her very slim figure and my sense of appropriateness...a made-in-China shiny thing that as a fair trade vendor made me shudder, but we bought it and left the mall happy.
As she twirled and primped and blabbered away, excited by the Dinner Dance that went with this coming-of-age which includes a "boyfriend" which I write here in quotes, but shouldn't be since they hold hands and kiss on the lips hello and good bye...I realize, my daughter has grown up.
She is nearly as tall as I am. I have trouble deciding which flip flops are hers and which are mine (no problem with shoes, though since she wears cutesy ballet flats and I wear Merrill's). Peter and I pull g-strings from the laundry and I shudder at the thought that she feels the need not to have panty lines!
But for the most part, it's been a smooth transition, this baby to teen. Macallan's made it easy...or have I grown too?
In Africa, it is said that San bushmen children don't cry. There are may implications but one that was explained to me was that if they did, a predator (not the predators we think of here that sexually molest children, but a lion or hyena or a leopard) may get them. Another theory is that life is so hard, the San try to make the first few years easy so they make sure the child doesn't cry.
I don't know the answer, but I know I heard plenty of San children crying and saw many parents hitting them. Times change and so must we.
My ideas of having children quickly changed when I had them. The plans I had, the idealist views...children taught me to be flexible. Africa taught me to be prepared.
With my store, my latest baby, I've watched her grow too. I only go in twice a week now, working from home so that I can be with my biological children. Just like with my kids, I have people I trust to take care of them when they are not with me (Portia has been a godsend as store manager and now Stephanie will be on hand to help out too). I have to let a little of my influence go and trust I've laid the groundwork for good work.
I see the store in her teen years, much like Macallan. They both look me in the eye and show me their indepenance, their strengths and their inner and outer beauty - somethings I rightly take credit for and somethings I can just sit back and look at in awe.
I received a message from a woman who stopped by the store this weekend. She LOVED everything about it and had a great idea...I get these calls I'd say once a week, much like with Macallan. I get told on a regular basis just how special she is. Now, I'm the store and Macallan's "parent" and I take those compliments to heart. But I know I only deserve some of the credit. I brought the store to life and gave life to Macallan, that I will take credit for. But what they did with that 'life" was totally up to them and for that I just sit back and enjoy with wonder.
Times change and so have we. There was a time when I feared the time when my daughter would be old enough to date, when the store would be old enough to have a following. But I don't fear that any more.
Their growing up allows me to free up my energy, to grow as well. I can let them grow, let them go.

No Mickey Mouse Operation

How often do you act without thinking, go with your gut, and follow through?

Fear, much to my dismay, rules me, like a storm. I try to conquer it, but once you hear the rumblings, the doubt, she's like that bolt of lightning collecting energy, ready to land her blow - KA BOOM!

Not this time. A few days after the Snowmass Institute, I got a call from Tanya of Spirit of Women. "I'm ready to board a plane, but I was thinking...we're having this heart health conference in Orlando next week, why not come Tuesday, I'll be free for a bit in the afternoon, I'll have time on Wed and you can be back on a plane home by Wed evening."

"OK." and off I went.

I got there between rainfalls - overcast and threatening, but I was in Florida - all by myself.

The last time I went on a trip without Peter, I ended in up in the middle of the Kalahari Desert about as remote as I've ever been or ever want to be...and yet, I was far from alone and far from "civilization". Actually, I had come home...

This trip, in wet, humid Orlando, deep in the heart of Disney Country, I was far from alone and about as "civilized" and over developed as I'd ever want to be...and while no great Epiphany struck me, the entire trip from start to finish was easy.

And because nothing went wrong - no stress, no doubt, no tornado hit the hotel while I was in the elevator - you know what that told me? The trip was a success and this idea Tanya and I have (which is still too fresh to talk about), is a good one.

...and a big one, one that's greater than the sum of us both...

The sales part of the trip was enjoyable and easy, although not a blockbuster, certainly. But the trip was for Tanya and I to get acquainted. And we were comfortable with each other. We shared ideas that almost too eerily were the same. It was like we'd been working in parallel, making plans for the time we'd meet and be able to work them out or when they'd work themselves out through us.

The Magic Kingdom - I never got there - but Rosen Shingle Creek worked her own magic on me.

The Big Time in Texas

After going to the Fair Trade Federation Conference in Portland, I saw that there's a whole big country out there that we haven't explored. Needing/wanting to take the crafts to another level, I was eager to get out there.
Women's Conferences would garner likely sympathetic souls and so I started Googling. I found three and emailed all of them. A few hours later, I got a response. Peggy Ireland said that she and her husband were so excited by fair trade, had wanted to get more involved and here I was! She generously discounted our vendor fee and was so enthusiastic, I told Peter, this is going to be great!
As time went by and the economy took an even greater nose-dive, I started to doubt my instincts. Elation turned to dispare? Not being able to make my bills again in April, I wondered what I had gotten Women's Work into once again!
I scrambled to find other venues. If I'm going to go that far, we really need to make the most of our time, our money. I found a Green Festival at a nature museum. Seemed like a nice fit. We tried contacting other stores with limited luck in even talking to anyone - man, are we bad at sales! We crossed our fingers and hoped we weren't making a mistake.
Swine Flu - first death - Texas.
We didn't take the news as badly as some, but in the backs of our minds we had to think about it. While in Texas, the first event was not only hampered by news media urging people to stay home, but a violent storm that stayed back for several hours before dumping over a foot of rain on the Earth-Friendly event. We were indoors -we were OK. We even got to see a snake lay eggs. So cool, but the sales were only so, so.
Once at the Snowmass Institute in the opulent Renaissance Hotel in Fort Worth, we were a lot disappointed when we learned there would be less than 200 attendees. I thought there were supposed to be 3,000! I tried not to freak out. But at this point, what could you do? As we started setting up another vendor came up to us. "What's Women's Work?" she asked. "Fair trade crafts from women." was my short answer. "Oh." she said and picked a space directly across of us. Turned out she was a recruiter for nursing staff - bet she thought I was her competition. No, she told me later after coming over many times to shop and buy, she knew that participants were always looking for something to bring home and we were the only vendors that had cash and carry. BONUS!
A different set up than other selling venues we've encountered, participants come only during their breaks from the conference (duh!) and so there was a lot of down time, at least theoretically. Reality was that we had no breaks because when there were no conference guests, we had vendors buying! Many came many times, so much so that we joked that a few of them were cut off! I'd have to say that the vendors made up a bulk of our sales, not to mention, inspiration.
As a result, they would direct the hospital administrators, heads of nursing staff, and others to our booth - we were quite the buzz.
At the end of our first day, after many people told us to connect with her, Tanya Abreu founder of Spirit of Women finally blew in. A tall woman with a presence that filled the room, she evaluated our booth and us in one fell swoop. "You two shouldn't be schlepping this around. You should have other people selling for you. I want you at our event in Washington DC." and it took off from there.
I love when people "find" us and it's their idea to carry our products or buy things with their own slant. A manager of a prosthetic breast forms company bought paper beads in pink for Breast Cancer Awareness month. Another woman wants the crafts to go into their women's center gift shops. And another will be in touch to buy crafts as a fundraiser for a women's shelter she is involved with.
Our very first conference and it was a huge success, but then, everything in Texas is BIG!

Celf Awareness

What an awesome program we participated in yesterday! Students and their teachers/chaperones came streaming into Pace University Gymnasium equipped with environmentally focused questions to ask each exhibitor.

We were asked to write our own questions, which Celf organizers tweeted. Goody Goodies were: How do you know you're buying fair trade, slavery free chocolate? What makes these soccer balls sweat-shop free and eco-friendly? Ask us how you can become famous just by doing something you love. Do you know the answers?

While many students typically came to get their answers and left without much thought, far more stayed and had more meaningful questions and I hope walked away inspired to seek out fair trade products, to make the world more just and fair, to do something they love.

And while we spoke to 1500+ students, Macallan sat in the High School auditorium to participate in Rachel's Challenge. Rachel was the first person killed by the gunmen of Columbine. Her parents, I'm sure, tried to piece together some semblance of meaning from her untimely death and now dedicate their lives to her memory and her unfailing human spirit. Seems in her journal entries (the very journal found in her backpack the day of the shooting with a bullet hole ripped clear through) and an essay written a month before, she shared her idea of creating a chain reaction of kindness and respect.

Her father developed a school program that uses Rachel's spirit as inspiration for students. According to Macallan, the presentation showed how in retrospect, they see that her life had culminated in her death. Only after she died, did they find a note she had written and taped to the back of her dresser. The note was an outline of her hand and inside she scrawled that this hand would one day touch millions. A man 1,000 miles away, kept having dreams. He finally contacted Rachel's father and described this image he had that he claimed had something to do with Rachel. That's when everything took shape - Rachel had drawn a picture of weeping flower. When the tears (13, the same number of people that died that day) hit the ground, more flowers grew. Her father knew then, that he had to do something.


If I am to follow my idea that clues are given to us and we must follow, I see my work heading toward impacting youth. Recently, old Scholastic buddies have re-surfaced on Facebook. There was a time when I lived and breathed educational materials. That was the job I loved and had to give up after having Macallan and moving to Garrison (coming full circle?). With me concentrating on writing my memories in the past few weeks, the regret lingers and holds strong. I loved writing for students. I miss it.

At the Trunk Sale in Brooklyn, two young women came to the sale. They have since come to me asking what they can do to help. And before them, a Princeton student contacted me wanting me to make arrangements for her to go to Botswana to apprentice under Kushonya (Master Basket Weaver) and also spend some time with ostrich eggshell beaders to learn that craft...Impacting students. I think I need to get back to that love and bring all of our experiences to a generation that can and will do something about it. Can and will make the world a better place.

My Life's Work: Women's Work

I've spent over one year and these two beautiful Spring days working on my book. I'm so close to having a finished book proposal that I'm celebrating with a little outdoor time and a little gloating.

Here is the premise of the book tentatively entitled: "My Life's Work: Women's Work":

Five years since that fateful day in the Kalahari, I sit here in NY with the same tears in my eyes. I know now what I couldn't’ have known then. I was given a gift.

Today, as the US economy fails, our friends and families worry about housing costs, savings, price of fuel, I feel thankful for the many lessons given to us by the San Bushmen. As perpetual Hunter/Gatherers, everyone today faces the same struggles as the San. The Gatherers pick up and make a home wherever the Hunters can find food, a livelihood. Like the San, a home is a temporary shelter that can be taken away by a storm, a fire, another person. The San believe the Earth gives us what we need and so whatever they have, they are grateful for.

From our adventure, I think people can gain some insight into life in a third world country, inspiration to follow their dreams, guidance to live simply, and if nothing else, spend a few hours being entertained by two naïve people running away from the rat race only to be blindsided into acknowledging the human one.