I don't make mistakes

I’ve done a lot of things I thought weren’t very good ideas at the time, but I have a hard time classifying anything as a mistake. A mistake, to me, is a time when I messed up and didn’t make it a learning opportunity, that is, something worthwhile. I’ve gotten something wonderful out of all my little screw-ups.


Art and Food: Unlimited Resources, Unlimited Creation

It would have to be a combination of two things, I guess–an institute that would work globally to provide people with access to creative outlets as a means of empowering them in their own lives and to reach out to change the lives of other people. It would be totally free of monetary cost and offer classes on everything from learning a new creative outlet (guitar lessons, photography, creative writing instruction, etc.) to networking with others to host exhibitions or perform, to helping set up new branches or organizations altogether to enrich the lives of others and teach them about relevant sociocultural issues going on in the world. The only “payment” required of anyone would be to volunteer a certain number of hours in exchange for the services they use or receive, helping to teach people in turn and work with the institute to make a difference.

On top of this (here’s where the combination part comes in), the institute would also provide classes and information on food, food justice, and health as well as varied and nutritious meals to people. The institute would help to financially sponsor independent, environmentally sustainable, ethical farming in order to provide its food.

A particular summer memory

I hate “favorite” questions. Instead I’ll respond with a presently relevant memory, one that has been on my mind over the last few weeks.

Each summer when I was young, my dad would take my brother and I to visit my grandmother. He would drop us off with her, head home so that he could finish out the work week, and then come up on Friday so we could spend the weekend together.

Summertime is the time for fireflies, so I would spend the evenings running around my grandmother’s yard and her garden plot next door trying to catch a few. She gave me a glass jar with a rubber band, some plastic wrap, and the screw-on portion of a canning lid, and I would carefully coax a few fireflies off my hand into the jar before securing the plastic wrap over the opening with the rubber band, followed by the lid. To make sure they had enough air, I poked tiny holes in the taut plastic wrap with a toothpick and carted them off to my bedroom for the night, where they sat on the bedside table next to me. Always an early riser, my grandmother would wake me up so that I could let the fireflies free into the dew-tipped grass the next morning.

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