Retreet: An Organization Dedicated to Helping Natural Disaster Survivors Feel At Home Again, through Trees.

By Maria Sprow

It had been a terrible year for Texas trees.

A severe drought in 2011 had led to disastrous conditions across the state. Texas had received its lowest single-year rainfall since 1895 and had its hottest summer ever recorded. The Texas A&M Forest Service estimated that the drought conditions, diseases and infestations killed more than 305 million trees across the state.

But the year’s perfect storm didn’t happen until summer was nearly over: Tropical Storm Lee blew in through the coast on Labor Day weekend, sending strong winds all through Texas Hill Country. The strong winds and high heat combined to start a total of 63 wildfires across the state. The wildfires ravaged Bastrop State Park and Lost Pines Forest; smoke filled the sky in Austin, 30 miles away. The wildfires killed two people, destroyed 1,673 homes homes and created an estimated $325 million in property damage. It took 55 days to completely extinguish the fires; the Texas Forest Service put out a statement stating that “no one on the face of this Earth has ever fought fires in these extreme conditions.”

While the wildfires made national news headlines early on, media coverage of the disaster inevitably waned as residents and community members moved into recovery mode. Over the course of months, residents moved on as best they could, rebuilding lives and houses.

But there was no local, state or national organization focused on replacing the trees lost due to natural disaster. This is a nationwide problem, as every natural disaster — whether it’s a fire, flood, earthquake, hurricane or tornado — results in tree deaths.

Dallas native Grady McGahan had been following the story of the wildfires. A cycling enthusiast and documentary filmmaker, he’d been planning on cycling through the Hill Country with friends — but he was also looking for a job after moving back to the area from a period of time travelling and working abroad. He wanted to get into project and event management, but knew he’d need more than a resume to stand out for employers. He wanted to create an event — something that would capture people’s attention and promote the causes he cared about.

“I thought, we should ride through Bastrop and while we are there, we can plant some trees for people who are rebuilding because they’d probably definitely like to have some trees,” McGahan said, adding that marrying cyclists with tree planting “just made sense.”

Of course, the logistics of such an endeavor weren’t all that simple. McGahan needed to source the trees, figure out where to plant them, move the trees to the site, figure out who would get the trees. The group put an ad in the local Bastrop paper to gage interest and gain stakeholders.

“We basically just told people we’re a bunch of cyclists, arborists and people who are interested in trees, and we’re going to bring trees down to Bastrop and plant them for anybody who wants trees, so if you want trees, send us an email,” McGahan said. “We got an overwhelming response from the community. We had not only residents calling to ask for trees, but the local arborists wanted to be involved, plant shops, nurseries, mulch providers, composters — it was just a groundswell of support and interest in the project, both in supporting it and receiving the benefits of it.”

And that was the birth of Retreet, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to helping communities devastated by natural disasters replace and replant their lost trees.

“There is no system that kicks into place to replant trees for people who have lost them, the same way there is for replacing cars and homes and infrastructure, pipes and roads. And out of everything that is lost, it’s the trees that are going to take the longest to replace because you can’t rebuild them. You have to plant a tree and wait for 20 or 30 or 70 years for it to be big,” McGahan said. “We decided as an organization we needed to create this campaign to make replanting trees during the recovery period part of the disaster relief picture.”

Retreets are weekend-long events in which volunteers visit an impacted area, plant trees, ride bikes, attend local events and host celebrations. In other words, they are volunteer-based vacations for cyclists — but the group welcomes non-cyclists, too, as well as sponsors and partners. Local buy-in is essential for Retreets to happen.

“We want everyone to be involved in the way that they can best be involved and do the things that they are best at doing. We are almost the conductor of the orchestra. The conductor of the orchestra doesn’t actually play any instruments, he waves the baton and all the people in the orchestra are fantastic and playing that instrument. So to make this symphony, Retreet is the conductor and we are looking for all those musicians locally who can play those instruments the best,” McGahan said. “We’re not trying to be a one-man band. Through partnerships, we wind up with this whole coalition of people who all have this vested interest.”

The first Retreet took place in January 2012 in Bastrop, when more than 50 volunteers helped plant 220 trees in more than 35 yards.

“It was really exciting and very complicated. I didn’t sleep the night before,” McGahan said. “We actually rode bikes to every homesite, along with this huge army of people and trucks and trailers full of trees and mulch and compost and water. It was a massive entourage going from home to home, figuring out where the trees would go. At that point, we were planting all the trees we could get our hands on. People were crying when they received the trees, and the volunteers had such a meaningful time interacting with the disaster survivors.”

Since then, Retreet has held tree-planting events across the country: in Lancaster, Texas, following a 2012 tornado that destroyed 300 homes; in Wimberley, Texas, following the Bastrop River flooding in 2015 that destroyed 320 homes; in Joplin, Missouri, following the 2012 vortex tornado that destroyed 2,000 buildings; in Ontario, Canada, following the Gerich EF3 tornado; in Colorado, following a wildfire and a flood; in New York, after Hurricane Sandy; and in Oklahoma City, following the Moore EF5 tornado that destroyed 1,150 homes and 4,000 trees.

“We’ve perfected our model to the point where everything is laid out ahead of time. Arborists meet with each participant and decide where the trees are going to go before volunteers get there. The utilities are all marked, we do planting demonstrations, the trees are all being natively sourced,” McGahan said, adding that, with logistics already taken care of, the Retreet weekends can focus on community-building and having a good time. “We do a series of events that will include a bike ride, we’ll do multiple community dinners. We’ll invite the people who we are planting trees for to come out and have dinner with us the night after the plantings so we can all be together. We’re going to do things locally that plug us into the scene and give us a really good understanding of the geography and the people there, whether that’s going on a historic tour of the town or riding a bicycle through the state park or visiting a local brewery. So it’s multiple days of festivities that center around getting to know this place we know these people and leaving our mark.”

Retreet often returns to areas year after year to plant more trees; future Retreets are planned for Colorado and Oklahoma City. For volunteers, returning to the places they’ve gotten to know and help makes being involved even more worthwhile, as they get to see the long-term benefits of their actions.

“You have this opportunity to go down and physically help people whose lives have been uprooted. By planting trees, you help them re-establish their environmental identity and bring them some psychological relief and hope in the form of living things that are coming back to the area. And you can come back in 30 years and see that and it will have gained in value over time. You can give something that’s going to have permanence and lasting and increasing value,” McGahan said.

For residents living in the area, having aid come in after other volunteers and news organizations have long-since left can provide real, emotional and psychological benefits that aren’t possible in the immediate chaotic and traumatic aftermath of a disaster.

“The way that disaster stories are told to us in the news is all about the initial terribleness — it’s breaking news, excitement and intensity, pain and frustration. The recovery phase doesn’t stay in the news, so people don’t think about the recovery phase. We think everyone who has died has died and everything that’s been destroyed has been destroyed and now the insurance companies and the government are going to step in and rebuild everything, and that’s not an interesting story anymore,” McGahan said, adding that his experiences with Retreet have taught him otherwise. “Disasters don’t happen in a day. Disasters happen over time.”

It takes months and years for survivors to assess and accept losses, work with relief agencies, recover possessions, rebuild homes and overcome the emotional tolls of a disaster. Life gets harder before it gets easier. Survivors commonly go through significant periods of grief, anger, depression and hopelessness that may snowball into bigger problems. Relationships suffer, financial support systems become stressed and home isn’t home anymore.

“I met a woman who moved down to Bastrop with her husband. They built a log cabin in the woods and were going to grow old and die there together. He passed away and then three months later, the fire happens and burns everything down to the ground. Now this woman is living in a FEMA trailer on a burned out piece of property waiting to die by herself, and she is upset about it. Another woman for whom we planted trees, her husband fought to save their house. He saved it, but lost all the trees around the house. Within six months of the fire, he killed himself,” McGahan said.

Survivors helped by Retreet often have emotional, long-term connections to their lost trees, or trees that played significant roles in their day-to-day lives: a red bud in the front yard they’ve admired every summer for the last two decades; a tree they planted for a deceased family member or the birth of a child. That connection to trees is true at the community level, too.

“A sense of place is really important in a community. That environmental identity is what everybody in the community has in common. Everybody thinks differently, everybody believes differently, everybody is a different person in the way they see the world, but they all look around and see the same landscape and they all identify as being from the same place. When that landscape becomes immediately unfamiliar, then the community identity that was shared through the environment is no longer the same and everybody is looking at it differently now,” McGahan said. “It’s such a psychological healing for these people when you bring living things back into their community and it’s not just a devastated landscape with new buildings on it that doesn’t feel like home. People sit there and watch trees being planted and realize ‘this will be home again.’”

HOW YOU CAN HELP:

Donate: Via the Retreet website.

Follow: Learn more by Liking Retreet on Facebook.

Retreet: An Organization Dedicated to Helping Natural Disaster Survivors Feel At Home Again, through Trees.

By Maria Sprow

It had been a terrible year for Texas trees.

A severe drought in 2011 had led to disastrous conditions across the state. Texas had received its lowest single-year rainfall since 1895 and had its hottest summer ever recorded. The Texas A&M Forest Service estimated that the drought conditions, diseases and infestations killed more than 305 million trees across the state.

But the year’s perfect storm didn’t happen until summer was nearly over: Tropical Storm Lee blew in through the coast on Labor Day weekend, sending strong winds all through Texas Hill Country. The strong winds and high heat combined to start a total of 63 wildfires across the state. The wildfires ravaged Bastrop State Park and Lost Pines Forest; smoke filled the sky in Austin, 30 miles away. The wildfires killed two people, destroyed 1,673 homes homes and created an estimated $325 million in property damage. It took 55 days to completely extinguish the fires; the Texas Forest Service put out a statement stating that “no one on the face of this Earth has ever fought fires in these extreme conditions.”

While the wildfires made national news headlines early on, media coverage of the disaster inevitably waned as residents and community members moved into recovery mode. Over the course of months, residents moved on as best they could, rebuilding lives and houses.

But there was no local, state or national organization focused on replacing the trees lost due to natural disaster. This is a nationwide problem, as every natural disaster — whether it’s a fire, flood, earthquake, hurricane or tornado — results in tree deaths.

Dallas native Grady McGahan had been following the story of the wildfires. A cycling enthusiast and documentary filmmaker, he’d been planning on cycling through the Hill Country with friends — but he was also looking for a job after moving back to the area from a period of time travelling and working abroad. He wanted to get into project and event management, but knew he’d need more than a resume to stand out for employers. He wanted to create an event — something that would capture people’s attention and promote the causes he cared about.

“I thought, we should ride through Bastrop and while we are there, we can plant some trees for people who are rebuilding because they’d probably definitely like to have some trees,” McGahan said, adding that marrying cyclists with tree planting “just made sense.”

Of course, the logistics of such an endeavor weren’t all that simple. McGahan needed to source the trees, figure out where to plant them, move the trees to the site, figure out who would get the trees. The group put an ad in the local Bastrop paper to gage interest and gain stakeholders.

“We basically just told people we’re a bunch of cyclists, arborists and people who are interested in trees, and we’re going to bring trees down to Bastrop and plant them for anybody who wants trees, so if you want trees, send us an email,” McGahan said. “We got an overwhelming response from the community. We had not only residents calling to ask for trees, but the local arborists wanted to be involved, plant shops, nurseries, mulch providers, composters — it was just a groundswell of support and interest in the project, both in supporting it and receiving the benefits of it.”

And that was the birth of Retreet, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to helping communities devastated by natural disasters replace and replant their lost trees.

“There is no system that kicks into place to replant trees for people who have lost them, the same way there is for replacing cars and homes and infrastructure, pipes and roads. And out of everything that is lost, it’s the trees that are going to take the longest to replace because you can’t rebuild them. You have to plant a tree and wait for 20 or 30 or 70 years for it to be big,” McGahan said. “We decided as an organization we needed to create this campaign to make replanting trees during the recovery period part of the disaster relief picture.”

Retreets are weekend-long events in which volunteers visit an impacted area, plant trees, ride bikes, attend local events and host celebrations. In other words, they are volunteer-based vacations for cyclists — but the group welcomes non-cyclists, too, as well as sponsors and partners. Local buy-in is essential for Retreets to happen.

“We want everyone to be involved in the way that they can best be involved and do the things that they are best at doing. We are almost the conductor of the orchestra. The conductor of the orchestra doesn’t actually play any instruments, he waves the baton and all the people in the orchestra are fantastic and playing that instrument. So to make this symphony, Retreet is the conductor and we are looking for all those musicians locally who can play those instruments the best,” McGahan said. “We’re not trying to be a one-man band. Through partnerships, we wind up with this whole coalition of people who all have this vested interest.”

The first Retreet took place in January 2012 in Bastrop, when more than 50 volunteers helped plant 220 trees in more than 35 yards.

“It was really exciting and very complicated. I didn’t sleep the night before,” McGahan said. “We actually rode bikes to every homesite, along with this huge army of people and trucks and trailers full of trees and mulch and compost and water. It was a massive entourage going from home to home, figuring out where the trees would go. At that point, we were planting all the trees we could get our hands on. People were crying when they received the trees, and the volunteers had such a meaningful time interacting with the disaster survivors.”

Since then, Retreet has held tree-planting events across the country: in Lancaster, Texas, following a 2012 tornado that destroyed 300 homes; in Wimberley, Texas, following the Bastrop River flooding in 2015 that destroyed 320 homes; in Joplin, Missouri, following the 2012 vortex tornado that destroyed 2,000 buildings; in Ontario, Canada, following the Gerich EF3 tornado; in Colorado, following a wildfire and a flood; in New York, after Hurricane Sandy; and in Oklahoma City, following the Moore EF5 tornado that destroyed 1,150 homes and 4,000 trees.

“We’ve perfected our model to the point where everything is laid out ahead of time. Arborists meet with each participant and decide where the trees are going to go before volunteers get there. The utilities are all marked, we do planting demonstrations, the trees are all being natively sourced,” McGahan said, adding that, with logistics already taken care of, the Retreet weekends can focus on community-building and having a good time. “We do a series of events that will include a bike ride, we’ll do multiple community dinners. We’ll invite the people who we are planting trees for to come out and have dinner with us the night after the plantings so we can all be together. We’re going to do things locally that plug us into the scene and give us a really good understanding of the geography and the people there, whether that’s going on a historic tour of the town or riding a bicycle through the state park or visiting a local brewery. So it’s multiple days of festivities that center around getting to know this place we know these people and leaving our mark.”

Retreet often returns to areas year after year to plant more trees; future Retreets are planned for Colorado and Oklahoma City. For volunteers, returning to the places they’ve gotten to know and help makes being involved even more worthwhile, as they get to see the long-term benefits of their actions.

“You have this opportunity to go down and physically help people whose lives have been uprooted. By planting trees, you help them re-establish their environmental identity and bring them some psychological relief and hope in the form of living things that are coming back to the area. And you can come back in 30 years and see that and it will have gained in value over time. You can give something that’s going to have permanence and lasting and increasing value,” McGahan said.

For residents living in the area, having aid come in after other volunteers and news organizations have long-since left can provide real, emotional and psychological benefits that aren’t possible in the immediate chaotic and traumatic aftermath of a disaster.

“The way that disaster stories are told to us in the news is all about the initial terribleness — it’s breaking news, excitement and intensity, pain and frustration. The recovery phase doesn’t stay in the news, so people don’t think about the recovery phase. We think everyone who has died has died and everything that’s been destroyed has been destroyed and now the insurance companies and the government are going to step in and rebuild everything, and that’s not an interesting story anymore,” McGahan said, adding that his experiences with Retreet have taught him otherwise. “Disasters don’t happen in a day. Disasters happen over time.”

It takes months and years for survivors to assess and accept losses, work with relief agencies, recover possessions, rebuild homes and overcome the emotional tolls of a disaster. Life gets harder before it gets easier. Survivors commonly go through significant periods of grief, anger, depression and hopelessness that may snowball into bigger problems. Relationships suffer, financial support systems become stressed and home isn’t home anymore.

“I met a woman who moved down to Bastrop with her husband. They built a log cabin in the woods and were going to grow old and die there together. He passed away and then three months later, the fire happens and burns everything down to the ground. Now this woman is living in a FEMA trailer on a burned out piece of property waiting to die by herself, and she is upset about it. Another woman for whom we planted trees, her husband fought to save their house. He saved it, but lost all the trees around the house. Within six months of the fire, he killed himself,” McGahan said.

Survivors helped by Retreet often have emotional, long-term connections to their lost trees, or trees that played significant roles in their day-to-day lives: a red bud in the front yard they’ve admired every summer for the last two decades; a tree they planted for a deceased family member or the birth of a child. That connection to trees is true at the community level, too.

“A sense of place is really important in a community. That environmental identity is what everybody in the community has in common. Everybody thinks differently, everybody believes differently, everybody is a different person in the way they see the world, but they all look around and see the same landscape and they all identify as being from the same place. When that landscape becomes immediately unfamiliar, then the community identity that was shared through the environment is no longer the same and everybody is looking at it differently now,” McGahan said. “It’s such a psychological healing for these people when you bring living things back into their community and it’s not just a devastated landscape with new buildings on it that doesn’t feel like home. People sit there and watch trees being planted and realize ‘this will be home again.’”

HOW YOU CAN HELP:

Donate: Via the Retreet website.

Follow: Learn more by Liking Retreet on Facebook.

Gratitude Journaling and the Power of Thinking Thanks

By Maria Sprow

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A rainbow at Mist Falls in Yosemite. Photo by Maria Sprow.

Someday soon, a good number of Americans will be sitting around dinner tables telling their friends and families what they most are thankful for: the hot food in front of them, the love from those around them, and the million dollar lottery ticket in front of them that they just haven’t scratched off yet.

I keep a gratitude journal from time to time — not regularly because who has time for that? — but it’s really something I want to do more often, something I should do more often, something that would actually help me better deal with this external national darkness I want so badly to escape while still feeling so profoundly that it’s my duty to stay and speak out against.

I don’t use my gratitude journal in the traditional sense, to talk about the big things people are thankful for: wealth, health, love, winning sports seasons. When everything is going right in the world, when I’ve got what I need, I don’t need to remember all the things I’m thankful for. It comes more naturally in those times. It’s more like breathing then. I still take time to think about it of course, to realize how lucky I am, but I don’t need to remember it.

I keep the gratitude journal for when those big things all go away. For the heartbreaks, for the career changes, for the dead ends, for the flash floods, for the sicknesses and the body pains, for the disappointments and failed adventures.

I keep the gratitude journal for the little things. The daily things. The little pieces of happiness I can hold on to from moment to moment, when all those big pieces of happiness fail or flail or just seem so far away. Because the small things will always be there, or at least, some of them will. And those small things can make the difference between smiling and crying (both of which I admittedly do rather frequently). Gratitude journals help train your brain to focus on the positive things in life - the simple beauty of a feather grass, the clouds in the sky, the music in your ears. Even when the relationship goes, the job doesn’t exist, the house is gone - the grass, the clouds, the music are not nothing.

Right now there are about 150 short entries.

There’s one on running in the rain.

“… There’s something about being out in the rain (by choice, instead of by chance). It’s silly, it’s irrational, it’s even uncomfortable. But you’re going to remember it. You’re going to remember that time when you were wet and cold and couldn’t see, when you just stayed outside and danced anyway. …”

Running in the rain

“… There’s something about being out in the rain (by choice, instead of by chance). It’s silly, it’s irrational, it’s even uncomfortable. But you’re going to remember it. You’re going to remember that time when you were wet and cold and couldn’t see, when you just stayed outside and danced anyway. …”

Another on making sandcastles.

“…The world becomes the canvas. The beach, the backdrop. The tools, all around you. Perfection isn’t necessary; existence, however brief it may be, is all that matters. …”

Making sandcastles

“… The world becomes the canvas. The beach, the backdrop. The tools, all around you. Perfection isn’t necessary; existence, however brief if may be, is all that matters. ....”

And wildflowers.

“… One of my favorite lines from any poem I've ever read is this: "How in this rage shall beauty hold a plea/ Whose action is no stronger than a flower?" … Wildflowers have an anger to them, but it's beautiful. They have a hope in them that's soothing. They have a plea in them that's peaceful.”

Wildflowers

“… One of my favorite lines from any poem I've ever read is this: "How in this rage shall beauty hold a plea/ Whose action is no stronger than a flower?" … Wildflowers have an anger to them, but it's beautiful. They have a hope in them that's soothing. They have a plea in them that's peaceful.”

They aren’t all about the little things. Some of them are lessons. One’s on the power of acceptance:

“ Acceptance is one of those true, pure, eternal internal sources of happiness, a source of peace and happiness that has stuck with me through thick and thin, so long as I've stuck with it. …. The more I accept, the more I want to super glue myself to it and maybe inject it with some kind of tracking device so I can find if we ever get separated during a storm.”

It’s always interesting looking back on old entries, the things I wrote about 12 years ago and 5 years ago and the things I write about now. They’ve stayed the same and yet they haven’t. I still love Kurt Vonnegut but I haven’t read one of his books in years. I’ve stopped dreaming in my sleep. I can’t sit and read a book all at once anymore unless I’m on an airplane. But I can close my eyes and remember what the love for those things was like and be thankful to have that bit of happiness, that memory of that feeling, still in me.

What’s in your gratitude journal?

Daily Inspiration: Show yourself.

There have been so many stories lately about people coming out of hiding to stand up for themselves, for each other - whether it's successful DACA recipients speaking about the fears of deportation that they live with or women coming forward to speak about sexual harassment in the workplace, or Muslims and African Americans speaking about why minority lives matter. There's something about this horse coming out of these bushes that reminds me of those people, and all the other people those people represent: the ones who are still in the shadows, living their lives one meal, one day, one challenge, one accomplishment, one dream at a time.

I shot this while hiking in Connemara National Park near Galway, Ireland. As far as national parks go, this one is pretty small, with only three Goldilocks-like hikes to choose from: short, medium or long. I chose the medium-length hike. Even though it didn't provide the 360-degree view that I'm sure was stunning from the top of Diamond Hill, it was still a beautiful loop trail, whether going uphill toward the wildly colorful mountain or downhill, with views of the Atlantic. The park is famous for it's herd of Connemara ponies, which I remember reading about as a horse-crazy little girl. A friend recommended I visit the park on my recent road trip around Ireland, and I'm glad she did! There's nothing quite like seeing a horse out in the wild (even if it's not a wild horse). It's like finding something in its rightful place in a world where nearly everything is wrong.

I hiked the medium-length Lower Diamond Hill walk, which took about 2 hours and, while I didn't get what I'm sure is an amazing view from the top of Upper Diamond Hill Walk, the scenery was still gorgeous. I had nothing to complain about. 

Hoarding and the strange allure of living tiny

I'm kind of ashamed to say this. I'd imagine this is kind of like what it's like in any addiction group meeting. You all know why I'm here. I have an attachment to stuff. I have a tendency to want to hang on to the things I've gotten in life, no matter the weight they add or the utility they have, whether it's a nicknack given to me by someone I lost contact with long ago, a book I read, a broken chair I want to fix or camera equipment I want to repurpose or shells from the beach in Mexico. 

I think it's partly only natural - we all want to hang on: to the people who pass through our lives, to the dreams we had when we were five, to the ideals we grew up believing in. But this is something a little bit more of a problem than that. This attachment to stuff is hereditary, passed on to me by both nature and nurture and supported by more rationalizations than should be legal to muster in one sitting. I think about how bad waste is for the environment, how much potential something may have if only, why I got something in the first place. If my life were a song "But I had plans for that / I just haven't had time yet / I have to hold on to it" would probably be the chorus, or at least part of it.

And I love my space, having a lot of it all to myself. I need my space to keep my hands busy and I need to keep my hands busy to keep my thoughts in line.  

So why then do I have this notion, this crazy dream, of living in a tiny home? I picture myself in this 5' by 8' box, sometimes set up in someone's back yard, sometimes in some strange city or in some beautiful park, the world as my backyard, only in head, that 5' X 8' box is like Hermoine's magical bag, a space that can somehow fold in on itself to hold everything I need. I've spent the last two years obsessively reading every tiny home story, watching every tiny home video, googling every tiny home search I can think of, wondering: Could I do it? How do I do it? What do I do to do it? 

Most likely, it's insanity, is what it is, just a pure and simple mid-life crisis. Except it's not just me. Everywhere I look, everywhere I turn, the tiny home craze seems to be spreading. A friend bought a van to renovate. Another friend built his own home in a box trailer. A photographer I know has been living in her teardrop for the last year, touring the country. Tiny home shows have popped up on HGTV. It's become mainstream. 

Why? 

Is it because we're all feeling a little bit more squeezed for money? Is it a sign of the shrinking American Dream and the growing inequality in the country and in the world? Is it a desire to create a smaller environmental footprint, especially as our natural areas and planet is under attack by our government? Is it the loss of our close community connections and an extension of our international reach, thanks to the Internet and social media, a sign of growing disconnect and an effect of hyper mobility? Is it just because we can, thanks to remote worker technology? Is it just the psychological benefits of simplicity? Is it because deep down we know we don't need all this stuff? Or that we want to prove to ourselves that we're not just mere materialistic, superficial consumers in the economic cog? Is it hard wired into our DNA still to be more mobile, to always be searching and running? Or do we each have our own reason for our mini-sized pipe dreams? Maybe it's a goal that just seems attainable in the same way owning a house in downtown Austin is nearly impossible. Maybe it's just something to hold on to as our generation confronts a grim future. Maybe it's a desire to get back to what matters. Is it because we just want something that's ours? Maybe it's driven by the fear of the unknown: I don't know what else is going to happen but at least, at least, I have these four walls to live in, if necessary. 

At any rate, I am now at least one step closer to taking the tiny plunge: The other day I purchased the tiny house of my dreams, right as I'm getting ready to sell the cursed house I love, with its open floor plan, garage space, art studio, huge fenced in back yard, sliding barn doors, multiple gardens, working kitchen, walk-in closet, bath tub and master bedroom — and it's new-found habit of flooding from increasingly common extreme weather events, a habit that keeps any seeds from taking root, any semblance of permanency from forming. 

It hurts, having a house that really feels like home and having to leave it. But I know it's the smart thing to do, the logical thing to do, the thing that everyone else tells me they would do, even though I'm not them and they don't have my life, my feelings, my emotions, my experiences. The time has come and things must be done. If you're going to have to downsize anyway, you might as well downsize big, right? 

The home I bought weighs less than 1,000 pounds, though I've got some weighty dreams for it. I wanted it lightweight enough to haul easily with a small SUV, which I don't yet own. I wanted it as a back up plan in case things go terrible wrong. (One thing about surviving two flashfloods: You know that at any time, everything can go terribly wrong.) I figure if I don't live in it, hopefully I'll road trip in it and camp in it and just get out of the city in it, make great memories because of it. But just in case I do live in it, I've got to fix it up. I think it just feels good to fix something up. Right now it's a 5' X 8' wooden house with a sky light in its roof, two 22 X 36 inch standard windows, another two windows covered in some kind of wavy plastic sheeting (I'm giving away my level of DIY expertise here) and a nice green door, all of it put together from scratch by a guy named Steve who likes music and carpentry and who is moving to California. It has a composting toilet (I haven't opened it yet), a small air conditioning unit, a space heater, a toaster oven, a removable dish that can serve as a sink, some corner shelves, and two fold-out shelves that serve as desks. It's a good space, a tiny space, but one that I can stand in, at least for a few minutes, and convince myself, maybe just momentarily, that it's all I really need. That, and an SUV, which gets larger by the minute. A storage unit, which also gets larger by the minute. A back yard, which gets larger by the minute.  

Of course, maybe all this is just a distraction from reality more so than a new reality, the same way Trump's tweets are a distraction from what is really going on and aren't in themselves what is actually going on. I have to move, I have to downsize. How do I do that? What do I get rid of? Where does all this stuff go? I find myself echoing my mom: "But I might need that." 

I just have to tell myself: Some times you have to let go of what's old to get anything new. And sometimes you have to think tiny to make big moves. It's time to make big moves.

Swimming with the whale shark: Traveling to Isla Mujeres

There's a lot I could talk about regarding my recent trip to Isla Mujeres, an island off the coast of Cancun: poor attempts at speaking Spanish, uncomfortable airports, timeshare salesmen at the Cancun airport, tourist economies, how much I love the ocean, worldwide economic inequality, how amazing dolphins are, the charismatic kingpin, ocean plastic, waves, curses, botched snorkeling trips, how much I love the ocean (I know, I said it twice.) 

But there's just one thing that I can talk about when I talk about Las Mujeres that I can't talk about when I talk about any other place in the world, and that is this: My misguided and hopeful attempt at swimming with a whale shark, the largest known fish in the world, it's speckled body reaching anywhere from 20 to 40 feet long.

So I'll just get right to it. This is what you have to do to swim with a whale shark in Las Mujeres.

You've got to wake up at 5 a.m. before the sun rises. If you're staying on Las Mujeres, you've got to find your tour guides. Or at least, we had to find our tour guides. That involved hailing a taxi at 5:30 in the morning and jumping on the first ferry of the day at 6 a.m. just so that we didn't risk somehow missing the second ferry, which left at 6:30 a.m. It's about a 25 minute journey from Las Mujeres to Cancun, so we docked at 6:25, in search of something at the ferry dock or next to the ferry dock called "API at 7:00 a.m." (Or at least, that's how the emailed instructions told us we were supposed to find our guides.) We walked around the ferry dock for 30 minutes, searching for a sign or building or business or polo shirt that said "API" or "Pro Dive International," to no avail. Eventually, we were asking everyone on the dock if they knew what API meant, if they knew where Pro Dive International picked up their clients, if they'd heard of Pro Dive International, if they happened to have our names on their lists. Nobody knew anything. A couple people really tried to help us out - one of the guys who worked for the AquaWorld whale shark tour and one of the guys who worked at the information booth for the ferry - but nobody from our tour came, that I know of.

It was pretty frustrating, because this trip so far had been one missed opportunity and disappointment after another (though to be fair - we were still on a beach, on vacation, exploring a foreign island town, so I'm obviously using "disappointment" in a very "white people problems" way). We had canceled one snorkeling tour we'd signed up for upon discovering it was part of a timeshare deal; another snorkeling tour we'd signed up for had been canceled due to rain; another one had been so murky that I couldn't even see my hand when I was swimming. So an entire trip planned for snorkeling and sea life experiences had been coming up nearly empty so far. I didn't want to miss out on this last experience — billed as "an adventure of a lifetime" — too.

So I wound up paying the extremely helpful AquaWorld employee to include us on their tour at the very last minute. They had space because two of their passengers had just cancelled minutes earlier since the girlfriend was sick with a migraine.

It's a smart thing they canceled (though if it'd been me canceling, just the thought of missing out would have made myself even more miserable). Starting this journey off at anything less than 100 percent is a mistake, kind of like going all in with pocket twos against two players who already hit sets is a mistake. I felt like I was at 100 percent — I had gotten a good night's sleep, woken up excited, gotten there early, seen the sun rise. But it wasn't enough.

I started off strong. There's an hour and a half boat ride across choppy ocean waters (something I've been fine with before) until your boat and about 20 other boats – mostly small speed boats like ours - all meet out somewhere in the ocean and start circling the waters just to have a better shot at spotting one. The boat ride there is either wet because you're sitting in the back, getting sprayed by every single wave, or choppy, because you're sitting on the front and you're crashing against the waves. At first, it's not so bad. You keep your eyes on the horizon and just watch as the water does it's thing. You take it all in.

But eventually, someone from the front gets sea sick and comes to the back. They stare at the floor and just the look of them does you in; now you're staring at the floor even though you KNOW better, and you're sick, too. And even though you've only been in the boat for an hour, you've got a long ways to go. You're going to be on that boat, rocking back and forth under the sun for hours.

Because it's not like these fish have their own caves, their own homes where they just stay all the time. No, they have a range and it is wide and it is hidden, so you have to find them. Well, you and the 20 other boats that are in the ocean out there with you. You're all slowly circling the waters in search of these fish; they are all that matters.

At first, it looks almost hopeless. The ocean reveals nothing; I don't see anything except the waves, coming at us like some kind of strange clockwork. What you're looking for, it turns out, is for spots in the ocean where the water is moving the wrong way, but for all the ocean's rhythm, there is no pattern, at least not that I can see. Everything looks suspect - and so nothing looks suspect.

Eventually, one of the boats does spot the fish. A singular fish, about 30 feet long, give or take. It could've been much bigger, but this one seems smaller than average, maybe younger than average, and it's not in a pod, that anyone can see. It's just by itself.

So you've got an enormous, wild, shy creature surrounded by 20 boats, each with 10 people on board plus crew members - we'll say one instructor per boat. So that's 220 people waiting to see this one fish up close. Now, immediately, on our boat at least, 2 out of 10 people have already decided they aren't getting in the water; they are too sick. So we'll say that's probably the case on every boat, so that's just 180 people waiting to see this one fish up close. About half the people are expecting to do it at least twice; for the fish, that's 270 visits while you're just trying to eat your lunch. Nobody's staying at a restaurant where they're getting that harassed for long.

It's at this point, or somewhere right after, that I realize this is not snorkeling, and definitely not in the traditional beginner sense. This is like extreme sprint snorkeling. I still don't know how to swim under water, let alone sprint through ocean waves.

Still, we've all paid good money for this "adventure of a lifetime" and we've come this far. We are doing it. There is literally no way I'm not at least attempting to get in that water. So the boats stall around the fish as two people from each boat wait in line to take their turn trying to catch up with the whale shark. The sheer numbers alone mean that each person's attempt must last only a minute or two. This is not for the slow or the hesitant. This is not for those who like to take their time. This is not an experience for examination or documentation. This is a frantic, chaotic, physical feat, an adrenaline rush. This is just to say, we did it.

I'm the first up to go in from my boat, because I was the only person already vomiting who still said I wanted to go in. It was basically vomit, spot whale shark, vomit, are you ready to go? Yes? Put on your fins and go, now now now NOW! They get you as close to the fish as possible and then you travel in a group of three to get to the fish as fast as possible, if possible. (There's a guy on board whose sole job seemed to be to push people off the boat when they hesitate because the slightest fraction of a second is costly time.)

It was disorienting, jumping into the ocean that fast. I didn't know which way was left, right, forward, backward. I couldn't see. I was sea sick. The waves were as tall as I was. The 35 seconds I had to prepare for this once we had found the fish from the boat hadn't been a lot of time to think things through, to collect myself. But still, I jumped. I had to try. I did not come all the way here for nothing.

I did see part of the whale shark for about 3 seconds, a mirage of it, maybe, the shadow of it flickering by, moving away from me. It could have been an hallucination, the hope of it. But quickly, between the waves and the sea sickness and the distance and the low visibility and my lack of swimming chops, I wasn't going to be able to do it, to really get close enough to honestly say I saw anything but the top of it from the boat. And before I knew it, my 2 minutes in the ocean was up and the boat had circled back to get us.

Getting back on the boat is just as frantic as jumping off. More people are waiting their turn. The clock is against us. Nature is against us. This fish is onto us, and it's planning on getting away for the day.

As the minutes tick on, the sea sickness gets worse. Sitting in the rolling waves, rocking back and forth, up and down, while moving around the boat, trying to get fins on and taking equipment off — it's a challenge all by itself. Half the boat's passengers are vomiting or immobile. I'm so sick I can't even take any pictures, though I do stand and watch as everyone gets their turn.

Nick, he's sick too, but he rallies. He gets back in for a second swim, a second chance, and this time he's determined. He knows how much I wanted video of it, just to see it, so he's back in the water, tearing through the waves like a knife. Everyone on the boat is cheering him on, telling his group which way to go. "To the Left! To the Left!" And then he does it. His entire group does it, all three of them, they are close enough to the fish that they can see it, it just emerges in front of them, a hidden giant.

For 30 seconds, Nick and this girl and their guide swim beside the whale shark. And then it's over. The giant creature has moved too far, too fast and the boats are all changing positions, circling to surround it again so that more people can get their first, second, even third turns.

Eventually, the whale shark leaves and we are all done. We're on the boat for another 40 minutes until we dock at Las Mujeres, and it's a pretty rough 40 minutes. I'm fighting seasickness, disappointment and failure, sitting in the wettest seat in the boat, getting plummeted by water the whole way, listening as the healthy half of the boat laughs, cheers, drinks, applauds at what they experienced. At one point, I was vomiting off the side when I got sprayed so hard that my glasses came off. (Luckily, Nick caught them.) And of course, being sick on a boat, there's just no where to go. There's no privacy, there's no way to get more comfortable, there's no way to make the experience go faster, other than drowning. I thought about that, just flinging myself off, giving myself to the water. But I figured I'd be chopped up by the propeller faster than I'd drown and that wasn't appealing at all.

All that being said, while I may not do it again a second time, I would do it all over again for the first time. I appreciate just having the story, the memory, of trying. And I always think it's better to try something and to know what something is actually like than to stay at home, guessing at how awesome it might be. I guess that's the fear of missing out, curiosity killing the cat, the desire to just experience whatever I can without dying.

And I do wonder how much the experience would change if I hadn't gotten seasick or if it'd been in the height of the whale shark season, instead of just the beginning. Would there have been 20 boats for 100 whale sharks? Or 300 boats for 100 whale sharks? Would the boats spread out more or would they work together in the same way, focusing their attention on just three or four sharks? Would you get more than 2 minutes in the ocean at a time, or would the frantic pace still exist as the fish tried to swim away? It's hard for me to say.

5 Favorite Places for Nature Play

When I was growing up, entertaining myself meant having my hands in some dirt, picking vegetables from our garden, looking out for bugs, exploring the woods behind our house, making up tall tales all the while. It meant climbing trees and picking flowers and sliding down hills and getting making mud pies. It meant making friends with a raccoon, a duck, a turtle, and countless frogs. It meant catching lightning bugs and searching for lady bugs. There was no cable television or Netflix, no Internet of Information or World Wide Web to get caught up in.

I think about all the lessons I learned from nature. I learned all the simple things — that some plants make you itch, that ticks can hide behind your ears, that ants really can get into your pants if you're not careful. I learned about my senses - to not just see, but to touch and to smell and to taste, though I also learned that tasting everything wasn't always the best thing. I learned that tree limbs are stronger than you think, that I can't catch a bird, that flowers only bloom for a short while, and that vegetables are best right off of the plant. But I also learned the bigger things. I learned about independence and self-reliance, about guidance and exploration and discovery. I learned how to forge my own path and how to find my way back home. I learned about diversity, about how whether something is a weed or a tree or a bird or a bug or a dog or a girl, we're all here, together, and that's what's important. I learned to fall down and to get back up, to calculate risks and to take chances. I learned to challenge my mind but know my limits.

There are so many reasons nature play is important, both for children and for adults. Not only does nature play help us develop an awareness for and appreciation of the environment, but it improves our mental, physical and spiritual health by giving us opportunities to learn, meditate, exercise and de-stress. For children, nature play helps improve their balance, eyesight, their sense of space. It supports creativity, resourcefulness, problem solving and self-confidence and improves concentration, curiosity and academic performance.

Fortunately, the Austin area provides plenty of spaces for nature play — both for children and adults. Here are a couple of our favorite spaces that both children and adults can enjoy.

1. Zilker Park and Botanical Gardens. Zilker Park is Austin's most popular park, and for good reason. The park offers one of Austin's best — and most used — playscapes, boasting all the usual suspects as well as musical instruments and a train. Families can rent kayaks and canoes nearby. Across the street at the Zilker Botantical Gardens, kids can travel the world by exploring a bamboo forest, a Japanese koi pond, a desert cactus garden and a prehistoric dinosaur garden.

2. Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Not only does the Wildflower Center boast beautiful gardens and native plant educational opportunities, but it has a ton of opportunities for nature play as well. There's a family garden where kids can learn about match and geometry by walking through a Fibonacci spiral or playing a game of hopscotch. They can also climb on giant tree stumps and birds nests, catch butterflies, make their way through a shrub maze and learn to build teepees with natural objects. 

3. McKinney Roughs Nature Park. Located about 30 minutes east of Austin, McKinney Roughs Nature Park offers beautiful demonstration gardens, miles and miles of hiking trails, zip lining, and challenge courses for youth groups. It also boasts the McKinney Roughs Natural Science Center, which offers lessons in everything from fishing and fish adaptations to medicinal plants and tree identification. 

4. Butler Park. Conveniently located across the street from Auditorium Shores and next to the Palmer Events Center, Butler Park offers outstanding views of downtown Austin and one of the best and most colorful play fountains in all of Central Texas, perfect for those hot summer days and nights. 

5. Mueller Lake Park.  An urban village boasting homes, apartments, retail centers and 140 acres of parks and green spaces (with more than 15,000 trees), the Mueller Lake area boasts a 6.5-mile lake with wildlife, public art, multiple interactive playscapes, community gardens, hiking and biking paths, picnic areas, swimming pools and more. 

Need more suggestions? The Children in Nature Collaborative of Austin, online at naturerocksaustin.org, is a great resource to turn to for resources, events and recommendations. 

Natural Beauty: My Favorite Parks and Places in Texas

1. Enchanted Rock:

Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic. 

Just two hours outside of Austin, Enchanted Rock State Natural Area makes for the perfect day trip or overnight camping destination. The hiking is short but sweet — round trips generally last under two hours — for incredible over-the-top views of the beautiful Hill Country and the night skies are the darkest in all of Central Texas. The park also boasts rock climbing and rock climbing lessons. The only downside is the park's popularity: This is not the place to go to escape the crowds, and the park often closes its gates to visitors when it reaches capacity. Those not wanting to camp with the crowds can try Oxford Ranch Campground, a privately owned ranch whose friendly owners allow visitors to set up camp on their property for just $7 a person. As a bonus, multi-day road trippers can make the most of the journey by taking one of the most beautiful loops Texas has to offer, heading through Johnson City and Fredericksburg one way and Llano and Burnet the other way, visiting wineries, barbecue pits (I recommend both Cooper's and Opie's), antique shops, art galleries and breweries all along the way. 

2. Surf Side Beach, Texas. 

Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

With its clean and quiet sandy beaches and warm ocean, Surf Side Beach is the absolute perfect place for a weekend getaway with friends for those who want to miss the crowds and hotels of South Padre Island — and it's closer to home, too. Here, your legs will turn to jello from rolling waves, your sand castles will stay intact and your seashell collection will grow. Rent a house or condo through HomeAway or AirBNB and have yourself a memorable time — just don't forget to drink plenty of water and bring plenty of sun block. I'd bring food to cook, too; there aren't many restaurants nearby. 

3. Pedernales Falls State Park

Pedernales Falls State Park. Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

The Milky Way over Pedernales State Park. Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

Located less than an hour outside of Austin, Pedernales State Park has just about everything an outdoor lover could want: waterfalls, rocks, woods, excellent hiking and mountain biking opportunities, swimming, camping and proximity. Though the skies don't get as dark as Enchanted Rock, they do beat out the nearby Pace Bend State Park by a long shot. Just don't get swept up by the river and avoid the park after large storms; the area is prone to flash floods. 

4. Natural Bridge Caverns

Natural Bridge Caverns. Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

Natural Bridge Wildlife Ranch. Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

The scale and intricacy of the grandiose and delicate Natural Bridge Caverns is not something that can be explained by a photograph; the cathedrals, chandeliers, thrones and temples inside this underground cave transport visitors to an ancient and fantastic world where Time is the greatest architect of all. The only downside is that the caves (like pretty much all caves) can't be explored at your leisure; tours start at $22 per ticket and can be purchased online or at the visitor center. For those wanting a bit more fun during the day, the nearby Natural Bridge Wildlife Ranch offers visitors the chance to get relatively close to giraffes, elk, zebras and other wild animals and the San Antonio Zoo is just another 30 minutes south. 

5. Big Bend National Park

Big Bend National Park. Photo cc Maria Sprow

Anyone with some money in their pockets and time on their hands — at least four days — would be remiss not to spend them at Big Bend National Park, whose mountain views and rewarding hikes are worth every minute of the 8-hour drive there from Austin. Make sure to stay up late to enjoy the unbelievable night sky and don't forget to fill up the gas tank at every opportunity — the openness and vastness of West Texas is no joke.

6. McKinney Falls

McKinney Falls State Park. Photo cc Maria Sprow/Artinistic

Much closer to town, McKinney Falls State Park is just south of the airport and offers great walking, biking and camping and other opportunities for enjoying the outdoors while still staying within minutes of the city. 

7. Town Lake

Kayaking down Town Lake. Photo by Maria Sprow.

Located just south of downtown, Town Lake offers a hike and bike trail with scenic views of the city and nearby Butler and Zilker Parks, as well as opportunities for canoeing, kayaking and stand up paddle-boarding on the lake. Those with access to a kayak or canoe might want to think about heading out at sunset, when those renting equipment must return to the trail. That's when the real magic happens, as the lights from the city dance on the water below. 

8. Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Photo cc Maria Sprow.

Dragonfly at Zilker Botanical Garden. Photo by Maria Sprow/Artinistic.

Anyone just wanting to get out of the hustle and bustle of Austin for a lovely and tranquil walk through fields of wildflowers can't do any better than a visit to Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. If wildflowers and butterflies don't make your heart sing, try the bronze sculptures at Umlauf Sculpture Garden or the dragon flies at Zilker Botanical Garden, both located just minutes from downtown. 

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Honorable mentions: Wading in Barton Springs during the summer, particularly after a good hike; Onion Creek Park, which has excellent trails for hiking, mountain bike and horseback riding but which is currently being developed; rock climbing at Reimer's Ranch; mountain biking at Muleshoe Bend Recreational Area.

Still to do: Kayaking in Caddo Lake. 

10 Stuffed Animal DIYs You Can Make This Weekend

Lately I've noticed a trend among many of my friends: they are all starting to make their own families. Engagement photos are turning into maternity photos are turning into baby photos and before I even knew it, the baby photos are now toddler photos and first day of school photos and junior high graduation photos.

Truth be told, I don't know much about this whole kid-raising process, outside of my own experience being a kid myself once upon a time and what people share with me. Which is to say: It's pretty much a mystery, this terrifying, intriguing, amazing, challenging, life-changing, terrifying (I said it twice) thing I'm on the outside of.  I know not having kids might mean I'm missing out on quite a bit. I'm missing out on watching someone come alive, grow up, discover, learn, explore. I'm missing out on ever witnessing a first step, a first word. Sometimes it feels like I'm floating on the outside of a black hole knowing the whole universe is right inside but also knowing there's some truth inside myself that keeps me from it all and that remaining true to oneself is critical to really being alive.

But I do remember what it was like to be a kid, the process of growing up and becoming who I am.

When I was little, I grew up on a farm. There were not a lot of people around and Nintendo hadn't come out yet. There weren't any computers or the Internet yet. These were the days of basic 5-channel box TVs, illustrated children's books and Candy Land. We didn't have the amazing CGI or 10 million windows into the world to help our imaginations grow. What I had was perhaps better: I had stuffed animals. They were my friends. They were my gateway into books, into movies, into storytelling, into writing, into making the world come alive. They taught me about perspective, empathy and kindness, and through them I was able to tell my stories and my own story. 

It's something I miss, really, this childhood ability to voice my world and my story to something both inanimate and intimate, without repurcussion, without judgement, without consequence. But it's something we all must outgrow. 

Fortunately, thanks to my friends, I now have all the excuses I could ever need to bring out my sewing machine for some weekend crafting and stuffed animal-making. Because even if I'm embarrassed to have a room full of stuffed animals for myself, I know a bunch of people who aren't. In fact, I bet they'd like a whole jungle. 

1. This vintage-looking stuffed bear from IrankaTeddyBears definitely looks like it was made from love. 

2. This cute and possibly colorful cockatiel by BeeZee Art could fill an aviary. 

3. This unicorn by MaisieMoonNZ, should add some mythical whimsy to the jungle.

4. No stuffed animal collection can be complete without a couple dragons, like this one from LynneDhenson . 

5. There's no better stuffed friend than a giraffe who can also pass as a brontosauraus (like this one from OlesyaGergelTeddy). 

6. These adorable elephants by OlesyaGergelTeddy looks like they've got some good stories to share.

7. Every kid should have a Falcor, handmade with the help of this pattern from GameGuardians. 

8. This whale by CraftyKooka should have kids dreaming of the ocean. 

9. This fox by AngelLeaDesigns will have everyone who touches it believing in the Littlest Prince. 

10. This rabbit from annapavlovna looks like it needs an adventure. 

And a bonus: If you're not the creative one but your child is, Budsies can turn your child's creations and drawings into their very own one-of-a-kind stuffed friend, no pattern needed. 

Processing this post-election world

A little more than a month ago, I rejoined the full-time workforce as a page designer for the Center for News and Design with Gatehouse Media, which owns 121 daily newspapers and hundreds of weeklies across the country. It's not my dream job and it's not a career job, but it's a job for now, 40+ hours a week, every week. And it's a job that I like to think makes a difference in the world, does some good: it supports the news, gets the news to the people, helps people decide what to read, makes them want to read the news.

When I started this job Oct. 31, I didn't have many worries about it; I was worried about other things, things that I thought would go away soon enough. To be honest, I'd been struggling personally for a while with what I'd thought was a kind of late-election-season depression. As a woman, as a feminist, as a liberal, the election hurt a lot. It hurt to hear crowds of people chanting "lock her up" about a woman who has dedicated her entire life to public service, to universal health care, to women's rights around the world; it especially hurt that these crowds were cheering for a con artist who refused to pay workers for jobs done, who ripped off students wanting to improve their lives, who denies climate change exists, who was supportive of white nationalist ideas and policies, who has infamously bragged about not just judging and promoting women based entirely on their looks, but with getting away with sexually assaulting women, with invading the privacy of teenage women changing their clothes... I could go on and on and on but death comes before we know it. So I'll just say that even back then, the list of election-related injuries to my psyche, my being, was long. But The election was less than two weeks away, and I, like many Americans, was absolutely convinced Hillary Clinton would win. I was convinced that there was no way Donald Trump would become president. I was convinced that it just Could Not Happen, that people were smarter than that, better than that. I was convinced that my voice — and the voices of the people who agree with me — was loud enough to be heard, even though I was voting in Texas, a state where I knew my vote would not count. I was convinced it would all be okay, that I was just in the thick of it, in the worst of it, and that the storm cloud in my heart would lift, that the sun was coming out soon. The night is darkest before the dawn, or so they say.

But I had no idea that the night would be four years long, that I hadn't even gotten to minute one. Minute one, it turned out, happened somewhere around 8:38 p.m. Nov. 8, when news stations began reporting that a Donald Trump victory was likely. That a white nationalist victory was likely. That an anti-climate science victory was likely. That an anti-health care victory was likely. That an anti-refugee victory was likely. That a man that seemed to stand against everything I stand for had been elected president of the United States, and not by popular vote, but via the electoral college.

It's been more than a month now, and I'm still processing this world I live in, this world in which a white nationalist is a top advisor to the president, in which the person put in charge of protecting the environment is against the environment, in which the national security advisor promotes the legitimacy of fake news stories, in which up is down and what's wrong is real. And I have to say, I'm not coping well. 

I remember a time a long time ago when I was talking to a friend about something, and I told him that love is greater than fear. It was from something I saw from somewhere, and I wanted to believe it. But he just shook his head. "No, it doesn't," he told me. He said fear is more powerful than love. I didn't want to believe him, but time and time and time again the world has shown me otherwise. It's hard to believe now that love trumps hate. It's hard to believe now that we can unite through our common humanity, that people will help each other out of love. It's hard to believe now that I have a voice. It's hard to believe now that I can make a difference. It's hard to believe in anything right now, except that I am afraid. I am afraid of speaking up. I am afraid for the economy, for the environment, for human rights, for women's rights, for civil rights, for the freedom of the press, for the truth. I am afraid. 

But I don't think I'm afraid for myself, not really. Who am I? I'm a bit of a nobody. When I speak up, nobody hears, nobody listens. When I write, I write into the vastness. I have no audience, no following. I lack those things that people have that makes them noticeable, that makes them seen, that makes them heard, that makes them somebody to the somebodies. I don't know what those things are, exactly; maybe confidence, or focus, or presence, or a skin thick enough to withstand the pressure of having been seen, of having been heard, of having been noticed. Either way, this invisibility, the weight of it, it becomes both heavier and lighter with each passing day, because I worry, but it's not me I worry about. I don't worry (much, yet) that I will be thrown in jail for anti-Trump sentiment; I worry that the thought leaders, celebrities, comedians, professors and scientists that people do follow will be thrown in jail or silenced. I do not worry that the environment will be destroyed during my lifetime; I worry about whether my friends' grandkids, who I will most likely never meet, will still breathe fresh air. I do not worry that I won't be able to get the abortion I desperately need one day; I worry about the stranger in an abusive relationship who thinks she must stay and must keep the fetus because there aren't other options available. I don't worry that I will have no where to go after my house is bombed and my city is destroyed; I worry about the thousands and thousands of refugees who already have no place to go. I think that's the hardest thing, is that so many of us believe that we will be okay no matter what, that these policies won't touch us that much, that closely, that we will survive just fine. It's the world we worry about, not ourselves, but the world is out there and I'm in my living room and that's just enough distance between me and my fears that even as I sit here, afraid for my planet, afraid for my country, afraid for future generations, afraid for neighbors — even as I sit here, that fear is just sitting here next to me, peaceful and calm, carry on, go to work, today is just another day and tomorrow will be too. 

But the truth is, today has not been just another day. Nobody knows what is coming, and I don't think the institutions we depend on — like the free press — to keep our freedoms intact were prepared for what has already come, let alone what might come. We say we have checks and balances in our government, but when those checks and balances are corrupted, threatened, ignored, demonized — we don't. As the months leading up to the election clearly demonstrated, we don't have a strong defense against an authoritarian white nationalist president who spreads fake news to the masses. 

We need a defense. We need an army of individuals who will refuse to do the wrong thing, who will work to do the right thing even when the right thing is hard to do. We need our institutions to stand up for our beliefs, our constitution, our truths, our facts and to be steadfast when threatened by litigation, imprisonment, misinformation, or even by conflicting values. Our universities, our news organizations, our schools — now more than at any other point in my lifetime, it seems they will be choosing between supporting the freedom of speech or the innate equality of all human beings, and they must make the right choice. We must make the right choice. 

Growing up, in junior high and high school and even college, I wanted to be a reporter. I wanted to find out what was happening in the world and to help other people understand it; I wanted to tell other people's stories, to get a more universal understanding of the world.  I wanted to know about the things that mattered, locally and globally. I respected the role newspapers played in our world, as the gatekeepers of information, as the information-gatherers, the question-askers, the deciders of what news was fit to print. But I didn't know then that I was growing up on the cusp of the digital revolution. I was growing up with the Internet. I saw the world of information as it exploded like the Big Bang from newspapers to 24-hour news stations to social media to what it is today. How could newspapers have ever kept up? They couldn't. They didn't. They broke. They closed up shop, sold themselves to the devil, started hiring people off the street who would write what they wanted for cheap, who had never studied journalism or ethics. And the ones that didn't do those things, the good ones that somehow managed to survive the budget cuts, that are pieced together with duct tape and good intentions, that history, tradition and reputation have kept alive — they have reached a pivotal time here when it's not about keeping up with the times, as it has been for the last two decades. It's once again about standing up to the times. It's about drawing a line in the sand and saying, we will not report lies. We will not report mistruths. We will not normalize hate. We will not promote this propaganda. And not just that, but we will call a liar a liar, we will not always give opposing viewpoints shared space, we will not tell the world that climate change isn't real just because the President and the director of the Environmental Protection Agency says it's not real. And those are monumental tasks to ask of the media, of newspapers, because at the end of the day, newspapers and the media — the ones not owned by special interests — they aren't newspapers. They aren't "media." They are people. Individuals. Sometimes it's a room full of individuals trying to decide what to say and how to say it; other times it's just one or two people working on behalf of their rural community. The vast majority of reporters and editors are working long hours, struggling to make ends meet, fearing that their jobs will be cut. They have their own belief systems, their own idea of what constitutes a fact and what does not. And as Trump takes office, as his ideas become normalized, as his cabinet becomes accepted, those beliefs and ideas might change, devolve, struggle. 

I fear that someday soon, "alternative" news will merge with the news and I will be tasked with helping to create a newspaper in which our nation's leaders state that climate change does not exist, that a Muslim registry is necessary, that refugees are terrorists, that protesters belong in jail. And I believe that I will not do it, that I will stand up for my beliefs and refuse to have any part in spreading misinformation or hate. But I also fear that it will not matter, because our policies have not changed with the times, because we are holding on to traditions and ideas and catch phrases that worked when times were simpler, when we knew less, when the world wasn't so open. That at best, someone will nod in understanding and the work will be passed off to the person sitting next to me or across from me or four tables down from me, and they will do it, because they need this job to get by because there won't be jobs to go out and get. That most likely, I will be told it's not my place as a page designer or a graphic designer or an artist or an employee or as simply a cog in the machine to decide what goes in the newspaper and what does not.