Is there a young soldier at the window?

9.27.10

What is the best part of an almost completely non-English speaker teaching English to the entire high school population of Bolivar? So far, I think it must be the completely ridiculous examples that said teacher writes up on the board without at all thinking them ridiculous.

“Is there a young soldier at the window? Yes, there is. He is Carlos Sanchez.”

Yes, at long last I have finally visited the high school in Bolivar. Adamantly reminding people that I am a elementary/preschool teacher and like the little kids, I have somehow, for the past month, evaded Professor Amadeo’s pleas for help. That is, until just a few days ago.

I went with my guard up, wary that he might end up leaving me to teach his class for him. I hadn’t been given the best impression of the guy so was a little nervous to be working with him not to mention with the oh so intimidating high schoolers of Bolivar. I was very excited to find however that, first of all, the class was full of first year students still bright eyed and bushy tailed, so excited to have a gringa in their class, and very curious to hear about my two sisters who are even taller than I am! I found, second of all, that I could easily help with pronunciation without running the class itself.

Professor Amadeo put his ridiculous examples up on the board and then sat, listened, and even repeated along with the class as I went over pronunciation. It actually worked beautifully and, as I came back down from the high school my mind was already swimming with a new schedule I could arrange to make all the English classes, new ideas for increasing class participation and creativity, and new resources I could find in Chiclayo to keep the whole high school learning lots more English! I was so pleasantly surprised by the entire experience that I was actually feeling pretty eager to hike back up the hill tomorrow morning to help teach basketball.

I was also feeling really excited to begin tutoring Yampier, a five year old student who I noticed immediately upon visiting the preschool. A tiny version of a person, he sat at a table by himself and smoke in a mumbled Spanish I could barely understand. But I couldn’t help but realize that he was just a little dirtier than the other kids. He caused just a little more trouble. And he understood just a little less when it came to his classwork.

So what’s one mini-project I figured I could start right away and, possibly, give the other teachers a few pointers in the process? Tutor the class troublemaker.

I was eager to get started. It felt rather wonderful to have my box of Crayola washable markers (thank you, Mom! Who knew that Crayolas would be the best birthday present a 27 year old could ask for?!) and index cards out, preparing a lesson for Yampier. 1 sun. 2 flowers. 3 clouds…ah, to be cutting and pasting away at the miniature tables and chairs of KinderCare again. I guess this is the next best thing…coloring in five apples, figuring out how to say “we don’t hit our teachers” in Spanish, and allowing myself a little evening movie time. Things were really feeling good.

And things that first day with Yampier went very well. The next day, even better. A few temper tantrums made him storm out of the room but I rocked a couple Germaine Lawrence de-escalation techniques and he was back in the classroom with me coloring away in a matter of minutes each time.

My endeavors in the high school, however? Well, that’s a slightly different story. Last night I was sitting in my room reading when there was a knock at my door. I knew a whole class of high schoolers was getting ready for oral presentations in English and I was prepared to answer some pronunciation questions. I was even excited to go and watch the presentations this morning. But at my door I found the first year students I was visited earlier in the week and they were giggling away.

“We have to tell you something but we don’t want you to get mad,” they said, too embarrassed to even show their faces. “Okkayyyy,” I said. And waited quietly feigning patience while they passed on their message. “Professor Amadeo wants you to come back every week to help because he likes you.”

I shouldn’t really have been surprised. I found there to be something very creepy about him from the get-go but I was trying not to be judgmental, trying to get a good youth development project off the ground, and trying to be nice. And no, “he likes you” doesn’t sound like that big of a deal but it really upset me. Because, as they pounded into our heads during training, in Peru men and women aren’t really friends. If men and women spend time together they are or will one day be a couple. And I couldn’t want anything less while I’m here in Bolivar.

I told the giggling girls to tell the professor that if I was going to work in the high school, we could only be friends. Actually, that’s how they interpreted it but I really wanted to say something more forceful. Something more like, in a school setting talk like that was inappropriate and involving the students in the whole situation was completely unprofessional. I wanted to be mad but instead I was sad.

I came back into my room, sat on my bed, and cried. Mostly because I didn’t feel like I could go back now. At least not until I got some advice from some more experienced volunteers. I cried too because up until that point I had considered being the first female volunteer in Bolivar as a great strength. I’ve been welcomed by the women, the female students, old ladies, everyone. But here was why it’s a weakness. I’m sure Dave and Mike never had to wonder why a teacher asked for their help. Terrible to think Professor Amadeo asked for mine not because I’m a teacher, not even because I’m a native English speaker, but because I’m a single female.

It was just a terrible and embarrassing feeling to think that this is what he’s talking about with his 13 and 14-year-old students if not also his 16 and 17-year-old ones. A frustrating feeling to think that now I should avoid instead of enjoy the opportunity to help in the high school English classes. A defeating sort of feeling that being a girl makes such a difference. I haven’t entirely given up on working in the high school. I’m gonna wait it out and get a second opinion at least. But for now I’ll have to be content sticking with the little kids and their female teachers.

The Amazing Liz

9. 24. 10

Just yesterday I celebrated my one month anniversary in Bolivar. In honor of that very important day, I thought I would share with you all the novelty, before it wears off completely, of being the first female gringa volunteer in this little town.

Like I’ve said before, Bolivar has had three Peace Corps volunteers before me, all male. And I got the sense from the very start that most people were comfortable with the idea of an outsider. Everyone has something to say about at least one if not all three of the past volunteers and I truly have yet to hear a bad thing about any of them.

I also could see right away the excitement people, especially the women of the community, felt about a girl joining the ranks. - We know what gringos (those are the boys) can do but what about a gringa (that would be me, the girl)?!? – And at least for now, it seems I haven’t disappointed. I am, as the title reads, the Amazing Liz.

What does that mean exactly? It means that most everything I do, and don’t do for that matter, seems to shock and impress. The things I do differently from Bolivarianos cause lots of talk: Liz only drinks tea! And doesn’t drink it with sugar! Liz goes running! Liz is a teacher and speaks English! Liz doesn’t like when there are pig’s teeth in her soup! It’s interesting that the things I do the same as them cause just as much ruckus: Liz knows how to cook! Liz washes her own clothes! Liz is learning how to knit! Liz isn’t scared of getting lost in Chiclayo!

For a while there, I could do no wrong. Any answer to their million questions was the right answer…except when I had no idea what they were asking (an inherent challenge of the language barrier). Which brings me to my favorite questions I’ve been asked about the United States:

- Is there such a thing as cheating boyfriends in the United States?

- Are there black people in the United States?

- There are no poor people there, right?

- Do they all wear long skirts?...(No, I wear long skirts.)

- No one drinks soda?...(No, I don’t drink soda.)

- And my personal favorite and by far the most commonly asked question about the United States: Do people only eat canned food there?

The canned food thing I don’t get. Who told the entire country of Peru that we only eat out of cans? What do we eat out of cans besides tuna and smashed up tomatoes when mom’s making sauce?

Anyway, now that a month has passed here most of these questions are becoming less and less frequent. Now what do they ask me? “Ya estas acostumbrada? O todavia?”…Are you already accustomed to things here? Or not yet? It’s such a funny question. I’m trying, I’m working on it. But no, todavia. It’s hard getting used to being so far from home. It’s hard looking at pig ears hanging in my kitchen every morning. It’s hard to understand my host dad.

But overall, yes, the Amazing Liz is acostumbrandoing herself into the daily routine herc in Bolivar. I’m keeping busy visiting the schools, memorizing the names of a million little kids, eating lots of rice and fried eggs, watching volleyball with my host family, and now knitting a purple poncho. And slowly I’m turning from the Amazing Liz to just plain old Liz, which is surprisingly a very nice feeling.

Maria and La Reina

9. 22.10

I’ve been slacking on my blog updates, keeping notes of things I want to share but never actually writing the posts. It’s happened for a couple of reasons one being that I hate to sit in my room typing away when I should be out meeting people. Another being that some things are just hard to write about.

While I have my computer out and no real plans for the morning, I wanted to mention a home visit I made here not long after I arrived- one of those things that I think will be hard to write about it. I think the visit itself scared me or just bothered me so much at the time that I wasn’t sure I even wanted to share it. Now that three or four weeks have passed however, I still find myself lying in bed thinking about it so I figured I’d give it a shot.

It was a cool afternoon a couple of weeks ago. It had just finished raining, as it does often here in the afternoon, and I was out trekking in the mud with the town’s nurse, Maritza, one of a handful of good friends I’ve made in Bolivar so far. We were off to inquire about baking bread up the hill with one of the two families in Bolivar with a bread oven.

The woman with the oven, Erlinda, I think her name is, was easy to find. We yelled up to her house from the street and she seemed happy to invite me to bake bread with her the following day. She actually ended up flaking on me but that’s not what this story is about. At the time, I was excited about my bread-baking prospects, content to have plans to put in my date book, happy to be walking around town with a local instead of doing it alone. We were on our way back down when a woman named Maria, who had helped us find Erlinda in the first place, invited us in.

Maria is a round lady. Not pleasantly plump. Heavy. And well, kinda dirty. The kind of dirty that makes you uncomfortable when you’re not “accostumbrada” (accustomed) to it. She invited us in in a forceful, ‘you actually don’t have a choice,” kind of way. I let Martiza lead the way, happy to let her do most of the talking.

We walked first into a dark room lit only by the sun coming in through the front door. There on the floor lay a large mattress where an old lady slept soundly wrapped in wool blankets. On deeper into the home, we were invited to sit at a wooden table where the afternoon’s dirty dishes were piled high, small piles of rice and bones surrounded by buzzing flies. Across the dirt floor walked not only a kitten but also chickens, chicks, and ducks.

Water dripped from a faucet into a large cement sink which held more plates and bowls. On the ground around it were small plastic bags filled with trash, a bucket filled with orange peels, cracked egg shells, uneaten hunks of bread. When a kitten climbed up onto the table Maria whacked it to the floor with a force that surprised me. There was something about this whole visit that I found immediately unsettling.

Maria brought out tin mugs full of some desert that I hoped wouldn’t upset my stomach. I ate it slowly, in small bites. When Maria brought out a bowl of meat, I didn’t refuse but decided not to eat it if possible. I tried to be animated, chatting along with Maritza as she inquired about family, work, the upcoming fiestas in town. I followed along the best I could until Maria’s daughter who they call “La Reina” (the Queen) caught my attention.

In quiet mumbles she was asking for something of her mother. “You’re hungry? Want more food?” her mother said loudly in her direction. Maria scooped a bowl of rice piled high with chunks of fried pig. Chicharon. The girl said barely a word. She sat crouched on the bench next to her mother and shoved a brown piece of fatty pig into her mouth. She chewed loudly, smacking her lips, starely aimlessly in front of her.

La Reina is five years old. I’m used to a little younger but I know little kids. Little kids are curious. To me they’re enchanting, they catch your eye and get you smiling about everything and nothing. They ask silly questions and notice every detail. This little girl was so different from the many little kids I’d known. She did none of those things I’m so used to seeing in a five year old.

Instead, she gnawed at her pig and began to moan, quietly at first and then more loudly. So loudly that I wondered why no one else was reacting. Her mother didn’t seem to notice. Maria talked on and on, offering us food and suggesting that I teach a summer preschool program. But I could barely follow the Spanish I find difficult to understand anyway. I was lost in the sound of that moaning. Lost in the almost dead stare la Reina held while she chewed. The cat jumped on the table before her and, without a word, the girl swatted it forcefully, nearly threw it, to the floor just as her mother had done minutes before.

Eventually Maritza and I persuasively said we couldn’t eat another bite. Maria wrapped up our pig, urging us to come visit again soon. We assured her we would, left quickly and hurried down the hill back to the health post. I was glad it was over. And I haven’t been back. But I’ve seen Maria in town, seen her daughter in the preschool. And I can’t see her, la Reina, without thinking of that day, that moaning sound, the cat being tossed to the floor. I don’t like seeing either of them maybe because I know they’ll invite me in again.

There was something about that afternoon, that woman and the way she tended to her daughter like you might tend to a pet. Something animal in the way her daughter herself acted. The way she ate quickly, crouched up on that bench. The way she never spoke. The way she moaned, groaned, licked her lips and fingers. It was unsettling. At the time, I took deep breaths so the tears I could feel behind my eyes didn’t give away my obvious discomfort.

Now looking back on it I wonder where exactly youth development should begin. They say with the young people, with the adolescents, which makes sense to an extent. But what if you begin with the mothers? What if you could change the way parents talk to their children, discipline them, think about them? That child could feel the effects of those changes right into adolescence and long after. Even pass those changes onto their children. Like I’ve said before, I’m still a ways away from starting my own projects here but I can already tell how my day to day experiences are changing my plans, making them better and more realistic. It helps put my two years into perspective. With so much work to do, maybe it isn’t such a long time after all.

Bugs, Bugs, Bugs

9.19.10

Tomorrow I will officially have been a Peace Corps volunteer for one month. Pretty amazing. Overall, time has flown -I can’t believe I’ve been in Peru 31/2 months- though a few minor blips have made it difficult. The most major of those blips: my flea/bedbug scare last week.

Not sure if you can really call it a scare. They were definitely here…in my rug, in my bed and, I’m pretty sure, in a couple pairs of my pants. Which led me to bump up my Chiclayo visit and head down on Friday morning where I happily let my mom fill me in on the bedbug epidemic in the US and let her create a comprehensive plan of attack which, if you don’t know Mary Ellen well, is her forte.

I immediately felt better after talking to her though a few tears were shed about how gross the whole thing was and how difficult it was to face alone. You see, once I noticed the jumping fleas in my rug and, upon waking up the next morning, saw the multitude of tiny bites all over my body (Lord, is this gross) I decided to solve the problem myself.

First I cleared out my sheets, bedspread, rug, and many clothes from my room and threw them in a bucket of hot (thank you Dave for sharing your electric teapot) soapy water, scrubbed my floor and bedframe with bleachy and then headed back out to scrub by hand the buggiest items from my bedroom.

After a long day of clean sweeping, I headed upstairs for dinner with the fam. I was in a completely sour, disgruntled mood, tired from a whole day of cleaning and sure that the bugs were still hiding somewhere in my room. I quietly ate my bread and drank my tea. When my host-mom poured a hot bowl of pig head soup for my host-dad I tried not to notice. But when they scooped up half a pig jaw, molars still intact, offered it to me, and then laughed their heads off, I just couldn’t take it.

That might have been funny another day. Today it is more so. But that night it was just one more thing I couldn’t quite handle. So I came back down to a room smelling of bleach and layed down on the plastic of my completely stripped bed and thought, “Get me outta here.”

I went over to visit the nurse and she mace me feel much better. She too had had fleas in her bed when she first moved to Bolivar but she figured them out as, she assured me, I would too.

Together we decided I should head down to buy what I heard as “ReyMax” but ended up being “Raid.” Hehe. She even helped me reserve a spot on the bus…by walking down to the police station to find the big guy who drives the bus on Friday mornings.

Anyway, it was a good trip to Chiclayo though I felt the strain of having spent so much money my first trip down. (Yikes! $10 a day doesn’t get ya too far in the big city!) But now I am happily back in Bolivar feeling good, running everyday, and knitting a purple poncho. I’m feeling busy and, so far, bug free! I’ve flea sprayed everything, wrapped my mattress and pillow in plastic and tied up dirty clothes in plastic bags. So hopefully, thanks to the magical workings of my mom, my room should be relatively flea free for a while…I’ll keep ya posted.

My Morning Meltdown

8.29.10

Alright, I had a little moment this morning. Not sure what brought it on- my first Sunday in Bolivar, the cow intestines and noodle soup we had for breakfast, or the way the whole family hung around the kitchen table chatting after they’d finished their breakfast.

The oldest daughter, Cynthia, is home visiting from Chiclayo where she’s studying and I realized last night that it felt like our house! Cynthia sat in the kitchen eating every bite her mom gave her telling stories of school and homework, showing off her shiny textbooks. It seemed the whole family just wanted to be near her. We sat in the kitchen for hours last night each of them taking turns telling some silly story just as we might do at home, everyone eager to check out the many new pieces Laur has added to her wardrobe since our last meeting, excited to hear Meggsies’ many ups and downs at the H bomb.

I think more than anything sharing breakfast with them this morning, they reminded me of us!...All aimless on a Sunday morning, eating bagels or French toast and bacon long after we are full just because we’re not sure what else to do. I had visions of mom popping a coffee filter into the Keurig and serving me the tea of my choice. I really do miss home.

So when I got down to my room I just started to cry and knew that reading one of the many letters in my goodbye album might do me good. Of course, it did! Because my sisters are geniuses and found a way for me to get inspirational mail from the states whenever I want it!

I flipped through the pages and got hooked on the picture of Grandpa and me. Behind the photo I found a card with a girl dancing on the beach. When I saw that it was from Dad, I cried, knowing that it was just what I needed. And it was. The card made me feel all at once comfortable and safe (like I am at the kitchen table on a Sunday morning) and strong and tough and ready to get to work here in Peru.

Another thing it made me realize was that although it makes me sad to sit here eating noodle soup and think instinctively of very different Sundays at home, this is why I came! To see how other people live and the truth is, not everyone lives the way we do. It’s honestly amazing to even be able to see the parallels with my own life. It’s a gift that I have to appreciate while I’m here. So with that said, I’m off to do some more exploring.

Enjoy an extra bagel and cup of tea for me this Sunday morning!!!!! So much love.

Day four begins...

Backtracking to 8.27.10

I’m at the beginning of my fourth full day here in Bolivar and so far things here are wonderful. I am really really loving it. Now I know this feeling may pass seeing as four days is but a tiny fraction of the next two years but, for now, I am just totally thrilled to get things off to such a great start.

So what’s so great about it?, you may be asking. What’s helping me feel good here? What’s keeping me from sitting in my bed and watching “It’s Complicated” over and over again while I finish off the Tootsie Pops Auntie Lorraine sent me? Well, let’s see.

I have to admit that my bedroom is the first thing to come to mind. My bed is clean and cozy, my things are all neat and orderly and the few pictures and postcards I brought from home are wonderful reminders of family and friends but leave much room for new memories, family (adopted family, that is) and friends. I love it. I feel good in here- it’s private, comfortable, and is getting cleaner every day I’m here thanks to a little scrubbing and lots of sweeping. (…this place is WAY dustier than my room at home. Mom, I’ll never complain about dust again!)

Only drawback- the bathroom is outside and around the corner and, even more problematic, lacks soap, toilet paper, and, oh yes, a light. Interesting. That will take some getting used to but I’m hoping that can be a mini-project of mine- soap, toilet paper, and hand towel for drying. It is clearly worth the investment.

What else is good? My host mom. My entire host family actually- the brother and sister I’ve met so far are great. Not as young or pesado (annoying!) as my old host siblings but still young enough to be super intrigued by an American.

My host dad? Well, Chito is certainly no Joe Vassallo but Dave, my sitemate, seems to like him so I’m confident we’ll get along. He actually may turn out to be the male Peruvian version of Mary Ellen MacGeyver, constantly creating a new project for himself. While I’ve been here alone he has cemented part of the downstairs hallway, painted and repainted the living room, and completely rearranged the furniture in the entire house. That’s not even mentioning the pair of sandals he made last week (he used to be a shoemaker) or the constant and inexplicable sandpapering and hammering he does in the evenings while the family watches Jackie Chan movies.

My host mom, Rosa, is amazing. Michael had said that my family is great but will likely not help me with my Peace Corps projects. On the contrary, I think Rosa could be my most dedicated counterpart. I think she’s smart and talented without even realizing it. It would be so exciting to see her become a confident leader in Bolivar.

Women in general seem to have such a funny role here. They are responsible for a million things! Rosa milks the cow, feeds the pigs, cooks every single meal, cleans every piece of laundry, repairs her children’s clothes with her old-fashioned sewing machine, and still somehow finds time to make a little extra money crocheting blankets and ponchos. These women do so much and still, at the same time, take a clear backseat to the men of the household. When she hears her husband climbing up the ladder to our house, Rosa hurries to have a heaping serving of dinner on the table. She jumps to refill his plate of rice or cup of tea. And she drops what she’s doing to help him finish up a household project.

I’m not necessarily saying this is entirely different from gender roles in the United States. Many evenings my sisters and I have scrambled to clean up the living room when we hear the garage door opening for Dad. (“Shit, he’s home!”) It’s just something to think about especially when I start working with the younger girls in Bolivar. How do they see themselves and their futures? My dad has always made me feel like I could do or be anything I wanted. How do parents in Bolivar make their daughters feel? I will certainly have time to find out.

Spent much of the evening last night with Rosa and Lucy, the nurse that lives next door. Rosa taught me how to knit which, it seems, is my golden ticket into the inner circle of female life in Bolivar. We spent at least an hour crocheting, watching volleyball, and laughing- tons of laughing! They said I was happy and had lots of energy. I honestly think Rosa is ready to call me her own, which is great. I tried my best to explain in Spanish our “ladies who lunch” email chain (one of many that are keeping me sane in Peru) and they loved the idea. I said they were emails dedicated to chisme, or gossip, a staple of Peruvian society. For that reason, they told me, I will fit in well with them.

There is much more to say about why I’m happy here. The seeming abundance of potential projects, counterparts, and eager students I could find here, for example. But for now I should run. I’m heading to the nearby town of Nanchuk with my host dad and the mayor and don’t want to miss our ride. They told me we’d leave at 9am and since it’s 10:10 now I’d expect we’ll be leaving any minute now. Ah, la hora peruana. What they say is true: Life in Peru runs on its own unique and slow moving clock. Nothing for me to do but wait it out. Day 4 begins.

A Volunteer At Last!

9.1.10

Well, as most of you know by now, I am here! Here in Bolivar, getting to know my site, an official Peace Corps volunteer. Since it’s been ages since I’ve sat down and typed away my many many different thoughts and emotions, let me try to catch you up.

On August 16, (almost 3 weeks ago now!), we began our final week in Chaclacayo. It was a crazy few days. A funny mix of busy work, long unfinishable to-do lists, impatience with my constantly screaming host mother, and a severe lack of sleep. An emotional roller coaster to say the least that happily ended with one last excursion to karaoke as trainees, a goodbye party for our host families, and on Friday the 20^th, our departure for Lima.

After completely clearing out my bedroom in Chaclayo and lugging it to the training center Friday morning, I returned for one more lunch with my host family. Papas rellenas, my host mom said she would make, to celebrate the occasion. Unsurprisingly enough, when I got home for lunch Susana had only just began cooking. She had another extra twenty minutes while I got dolled up for our big swearing in ceremony so I had hope that some kind of food would materialize before we said our goodbyes. Sadly, I emerged from my room in my favorite maxi dress (I don’t care what Michael Kors says, they’ll always be in in my mind.) and asked politely if lunch was ready. Susana’s answer: “No! What are you going to eat!!” Long story longer I ended up spending my last few minutes in the Salvatierra household scarffing down a giant plate of rice topped with a deeply fried egg. Why I would have expected or wanted anything less I’m not sure.

Off to the embassy we drove in two giant buses. The building itself was impressive, the second biggest in the world I hear. Gigantic. A complete departure from its Peruvian surroundings with grass out front, tons of security, and, possibly the best part, toilets strong enough to flush down your toilet paper.

The ceremony was short, sweet, and in many ways, anticlimactic. Yes! We’re volunteers! Now what?...Well, from there they dropped us off at two hostels in a kinda swanky part of Lima where we were to fend for ourselves until the next evening when the overnight buses would whisk us away to our regional capitals. We enjoyed the night by spending some of the cash burning holes in our pockets at TGIFridays…I recommend the chicken quesadillas. Just like home. Then we were off for a long night of discotequing and, in the morning, some tearful goodbyes to now very good friends.

I slept pretty soundly on my overnight bus and woke up in Chiclayo, my new regional capital. There we met a number of volunteers already working in our region who very kindly brought us bagels (You guys probably don’t realize but there are no bagels in Peru so this was a coup. A volunteer made them in her neighbor’s bread oven.) and cooked us tacos for lunch.

I myself bought some bedding, a giant purple towel, and a mattress and spent the day writing postcards, chatting with the fam on skype, and deciding exactly how I felt about heading up to Bolivar.

After tons of help from Mike, the volunteer I’m replacing (If by some chance you are reading this, thank you, thank you!) and Jenny (Thank you, thank you!) a volunteer who lives about an hour from me, I hoisted all of my belongings on top of the only bus heading to Bolivar that Monday, the 23^rd.

It wasn’t a bad ride. Jenny shared the foody magazines and peanut m&ms (also don’t have those in Peru! Hint, hint.) her mom had sent her, I asked a million questions, and the scenery changed from dry dusty coast to green hills and farmland. Finally, I had landed in Bolivar!...for good!

I arrived exhausted but really really excited. My mind was almost immediately flooded with potential projects, youth groups, and fundraisers. A community garden, yoga classes, a book club, photo class, arts classes, mothers group, cooking classes, skills training, running club…and the various lists of ideas I’ve already started go on and on. After an evening spent rearranging my new room, I was ready to get started. As I put it in my journal, “Hooray! I’m home and feeling good so far.”