F-ed Up.

I work with top executives of a Fortune 500 company on a daily basis.  I plan their events, create menus for their diplomatic dinners, and deal with their general ridiculous requests.

I always thought that the closer one got to the top, the more things would start to make sense.  The goals of an organization would become clear, the intentions would be for the global good of the enterprise, and the meetings would be about real policies and change.

How wrong I was.

I now realize that the intentions are almost always selfish, the meetings are mostly politics and very little policy, and the goals remain to keep the corner office no matter the cost.  In fact, I think the executary title actually makes them stupider.  Because they have hired folks to do nearly every menial task for them, they have reverted back to childlike helplessness.

Trust me, we all work for four year olds.

We all need to work for people we can believe in.  And unfortunately, my faith in the higher ups of this company has run out.  It's time for a new adventure in a place that fosters creativity, productivity, and inspired work.

It's time for a new plan of action...

Who's hiring?



With spring around the corner, I find myself longing for space.  I wish I had a backyard garden to grow big ripe tomatoes, fragrant daffodils, and fresh zucchini.  A place to sit and savor a refreshing drink while I collect my thoughts would be nice.  I'd love some fresh air -- air that smells like air and not any other chemical or human byproduct.  I'm forgetting what it feels like to go barefoot all day long, and how silence really sounds.  I'm losing my sense of nature, as it is slowly replaced with a sense of direction in this big city life. 

I hear New Yorkers describe the Big Apple as the best place on Earth.  I'd like to think that I've managed to avoid catching the Manhattan disease.  I still believe there is nothing better than a quiet seat somewhere in the middle of green, where you can't hear a car horn for miles, and the only lights on at night are the stars.



Pray-ed for French Perspective

Today, for some reason more than most days, I was craving a piece of France. It’s been nearly a year since I was back in my beloved adopted country and the withdrawal is only getting worse.

In high school, I spent a month with a French family, learning the language and the culture. The Girauts were a kind family of six who lived in Tours, but who traveled North to Normandie every weekend in the summer to spend time at the family country home. In France, every old home has a name.

Courtoulin was a large stone house surrounded by an apple orchard, a neighboring farm, and pastures of cows grazing all day long.

In the mornings, I’d awaken to the sound of birds chirping and a soft breeze wafting through my open window.

And before breakfast, the two young boys would wander over to the farm next door to get fresh milk and eggs. They invited me to come along and I knew this was an experience not to miss. In a way, it felt like we were walking back in time, as if with each step, we escaped the future. The farmer was a quiet proud man. He would open the barn door with a smile and usher us in. In turn for the milk and eggs, we would deliver berries and other treats we had picked from our garden.

On the walk home, we’d pass a small chapel where everyone in the Giraut family was married, and where everyone in the Giraut family was buried. It seemed the entire family history could be told from the pulpit of that little stone chapel.

Our days were spent doing chores: the women prepared three elaborate meals each day, while the boys did boy things like search for snakes and make sure our glasses were always full of the alcoholic apple cider they brewed in the barn. It was a simple life. It was a beautiful life.

Nowadays I find my days are filled with phone calls and emails and honking car horns. And though at times, it is an exciting life, at others, it seems a waste of my precious hours. In the country, everything tasted better, the air smelt sweeter, and thoughts flowed onto my journal pages like water.

I’d like to go back there someday and sit in the little chapel. I imagine the conversation I’d have with those walls, the light coming through the small stained glass windows and making me see the important things in life.

I think I’d pray for fresh milk and eggs and perspective.