in 2001, i paddled my way deep into the woods of canada. i and a small group of friends were on a 10-day canoe trip in ontario's algonquin provincial park. it was beautiful and wild, full of star-flung night skies and sunlight sparkling on water. we set up camps on secluded islands, listened to the sounds of loons, and sank back into the welcoming embrace of mother nature. at the time, i lived in an apartment sandwiched between dumpsters on chicago's south side. it had been a long time since i had slept on root-rough ground and slept and woke with the sun.
it was a beautiful vacation. we lost track of time. we paddled our way back to the campground where we were scheduled to be picked up and reluctantly, i went to the payphone to let our outfitters know that we had returned. it was september 11, around three in the afternoon.
we had gone into the woods and when we returned, the world was utterly changed.
this is a long diary. for those of you who take the time to read it, i thank you in advance.
in january, 2001, i started my own business. it was something i had never aspired to, and if you had told me four years earlier that some day soon i would be one of those mysterious 'consultants,' i would have laughed out loud. in 1997, i was surviving on ramen noodles and tomato soup. i was thrilled if i had over $250 in my sole bank account. hell, i was thrilled to have a bank account -- when i first arrived in chicago, my credit was so bad that banks wouldn't let me open one.
so to find myself the owner of a successful business enterprise was a complete surprise. to go from having $200 bucks in my checking account to having multiple bank accounts, one of which had more money in it than i had earned in any single year of employment, was vertiginous. i bought a car. i moved into a bigger apartment that cost more than twice than my previous one. i took vacations. when i went to visit my family, i would pay for dinner out.
it was a great time, even more so because it was completely unexpected. my parents, who up until that point had been grumbling about the relatively bad bargain an undergraduate degree from oberlin college seemed to be, were suddenly proud to talk about me to their friends and colleagues.
two things happened that brought all of this to an abrupt end. one of them was completely beyond my control (september 11); the other was my fault entirely (failure to pay quarterly taxes). after september 11, all of my primary business contacts were either laid off or transferred to a position in which my skills had no application. and the taxes? well, my lack of knowledge about the ins and outs of entrepreneurship had its downside. the combination of corporate re-shuffling and my own ignorance of the corporate tax code meant that i was destined for a rude awakening.
in 2002 i earned basically $0. i completed one project. beyond that, every thing i bought was paid for out of my savings. let's not even talk about how much i owed in taxes and penalties. every morning i woke up thinking about how much money i had left in the bank. every night i went to bed thinking about how much money i had spent that day. i would calculate how many months of rent i could afford to pay for if i sold the car and cashed in my (newly minted) IRAs. i moved to a smaller apartment. i stopped taking my friends out to eat. i applied for jobs that i did not get. i began staying in my apartment, watching my inbox, hoping that those magic words -- are you available? -- would finally appear. they never did.
i was stressed out and afraid. i rarely left the apartment. i couldn't stop thinking about money. month after month passed in this state. every day counting my money. every day counting out how much longer i could hold out. it was like having my head held underwater. i felt like the evil bagginses had stolen my precious.
finally, something in me broke. i moved from constant fear and dread that i might lose everything to a numbed resignation that i would lose everything. and somehow that resignation changed everything. instead of asking myself, 'what if i lose all of my money,' i started asking myself, 'well if you are going to lose all of your money, how do you want to lose it?'
once the question had been rephrased in a way that i could actually conceptualize, i suddenly felt better. the answer was clear. if i was going to lose all of my money, i certainly didn't want to do so locked in a dark apartment fretting and wringing my hands over lost treasure. if i was going to lose all of my money then i was going to lose it doing something i wanted to do. something that i had always dreamed of. the worst case scenario was the same: me with no money. the paths to that led to that scenario, were completely different. one offered a further descent into anxiety and fear and helplessness. the other was a celebration of the good times that i had been granted; one last grand party before the lights went out.
faced with such starkness, the decision was easy. i decided to drop everything; sell what i could sell, give away what i could give away, and store the rest in my sister's attic. and then i would go to brasil.
all that happened to me there is too long to include in this diary. suffice it to say that it completely changed me. just as my friends and i paddled our way into the canadian woods and returned to an unrecognizeable world, i disappeared into the mountains and forests and coastlines of brasil and returned as a person completely transformed.
here, as best as i can articulate it, is what i learned from my friends and teachers in brasil:
happiness is generosity of spirit -- i was lucky enough to be accepted and befriended by many people who had next to nothing. people who lived, with their entire family, in incomplete houses built of cast-off materials. no air conditioning, no screens in the windows, no locks on the front door. in some cases, no front door. and when i would come to visit these people, not only would we have a wonderful time telling stories, laughing and sometimes singing, they would also share whatever they had with me unthinkingly. unbegrudgingly. completely openly. sweet, black coffee. a delicious stew. a slice of homemade bread.
think about that. i was a turista from america who had enough money to bankroll a trip to brasil for an unknown period of time. i was rich beyond their imaginings. and yet they offered to share what little they had. more than that, they offered me the best of what they had to give. it was humbling in the extreme.
of course, their lives were difficult. but they accepted those difficulties with grace and forbearance. and they were far far happier than so many of the wealthy people that i have known in this country, so blessed with material wealth.
it's not what you do, it's who you are -- when i first arrived in brasil, everything that i thought made me worthwhile, that made me a valued friend or an attractive partner, was stripped from me. having almost no portuguese, i was unable to make people laugh or impress them with my intelligence and breadth of knowledge. i couldn't impress them with my ironic take on popular culture or offer my criticisms of the latest film or book or political event.
simply put, when i got to brasil, i couldn't be funny, i couldn't be cool, and i couldn't be smart. i was reduced to smiling, pointing and mumbling baby talk. who would take the time to get to know and, beyond that, become friends with, someone like that?
and yet, even without my sparkling wit and intelligence, people did take the time to get to know me. and i did form powerful and profound friendships. and more than all of that, i was truly accepted and truly loved. to realize that these people saw something in me that i did not even recognize within myself -- something worthy of kindness, acceptance and love -- completely restructured my understanding of myself.
we all pay the same price for living -- i was living in a small town called iporanga, in the south of sao paulo state during the turning of the new year. the ano novo celebration in iporanga is marvelous, consisting of a giant barge carrying a statue of the virgin mary and stuffed full of musicians playing her praises. the barge floats down one of the five major rivers threading through the beautiful river valley (iporanga means beautiful water in a native language), followed by a procession of people in canoes, kayaks, and innertubes. it's a beautiful sight that hundreds of people come to witness.
that particular new year, a tragedy occured. a 19 year old boy, probably drunk from the revelries, slipped off of his innertube and disappeared. nobody noticed his absence until many hours later. the officials organized a search, but by that time, it was dark and nobody had much hope.
the parents eventually found his body by following the sight of too many urubu (turkey vultures) soaring over a bend in the river. when they returned, there were no recriminations, no pointing of fingers. they did not demand an explanation from god, they did not feel betrayed by his mercy. they were sad. and they cried. but they were not embittered by their horrible loss.
when i asked my friends about this attitude, at first they were puzzled by my questions (if not by my portuguese.) gradually, i began to understand that within this culture (or at least among the people that i was friends with), death is not seen as a failure or as a punishment (as it often is here, in the u.s.). it is seen as a natural part of life. something that can happen at any time and to anybody, without rhyme or reason. we die when it is time for us to die.
it's the same question that helped me emerge from my post-september 11 depression, this time cast on a grand scale. we are all going to die, perhaps today, perhaps in 40 years. the real question is, knowing that one day we are going to lose everything we value, including our own lives, how do we choose to live?. in fear and anxiety and helplessness? or facing the unknown future with an open heart and gratitude and the desire to make our lives one last, grand party before, at last, the lights finally go out?