My "Reading the World" Project: Finding the Holy Grail

I've spent the last several months engaged in my own personal "Reading the World" project, inspired by Ann Morgan who read one work of literature from every country of the world during the course of a year.  She describes her project in the following Ted Talk.

https://go.ted.com/CjMW

If you are interested in checking out all the books that Ms. Morgan read, you should go to her website.

ayearofreadingtheworld.com

I had hoped to find the book on Ms. Morgan's list written by Chingiz Aitmatov, Kyrgyzstan's most noted writer, but failed miserably in my search for any copy of his works during the time I lived in Bishkek. (I described my futile search in my post of August 16.)  Instead, I resigned myself to reading a collection of four works focused primarily on Turkey.  While they were all great books, I still felt a tinge of sadness that I couldn't find any of the works of Aitmatov.

But then, one fine September morning, I was aimlessly searching the shelves of our new campus library, when I discovered it:  The Holy Grail of Kyrgyz literature for which I had been so intrepidly hunting.

Published by Telegram Books of London, 2007,  ISBN 978-1-84659-032-0   Perhaps the most annoying thing about this version of the book is that the woman on the cover portraying the Kyrgyz heroine is clearly not an ethnic Kyrgyz and bears no resemblance to the woman described in the book. Some art director at the Telegram Book Company failed to do their research. 

It was Jamilia, the book considered to be Aitmatov's master work.  Where did I find it, exactly? It was hiding among the miscellaneous books and items wedged into the backside of one of the library's movable bookshelves, disguised from clear view. But find it, I finally did.

Where I discovered the Holy Grail of Kyrgyz literature known as Jamilia.

I've now read the novella, which tells the story of a young Kyrgyz woman in World War II Kyrgyzstan named Jamilia who is married to a soldier who has gone off to battle the Nazis.  Jamilia spends her time engaged in the back-breaking work of hauling sacks of grain to the station where they will be used for the war effort. Her marriage is a loveless one as her husband barely even addresses her in his infrequent letters home.  The novella focuses on Jamilia's budding romance with a crippled war veteran named Daniyar who has returned to Kyrgyzstan and has been enlisted to assist Jamilia in hauling the grain.

I see the value of this novella, not so much as a story recounting the love of two people, but rather as a narrative that expresses love for the Kyrgyz landscape, its arts, music, culture, and traditions as a nation struggling to transition from its traditional ways to the modern Soviet world. This portrayal of Kyrgyzstan is particularly compelling for me now that I reside in this landscape and have some small appreciation for the traditional Kyrgyz ways to which I've been exposed.

I invite those of you who haven't taken me up on my invitation to read at least one work from Ann Morgan's list during the year 2016 to do so right now.  You have only a month left, but that's plenty of time to pick up an outstanding work of international literature and to learn about a part of the world with which you are completely unfamiliar.

Happy reading!

An emptiness of mind

One of the faculty members came to our office the other day to complain to my colleagues and me about his boredom.  There was nothing happening on campus, he said, that satisfied his interest. Not only that, he noted there was nothing inside the entire community of Naryn sufficiently interesting to break his boredom funk.

I thought about this for awhile. Perhaps I am greatly lacking in empathy, but I have almost no empathetic impulse for those claiming boredom. One of the problems with the bored is they think that boredom is a condition that springs from a deficiency of the outside world when, in fact, I am convinced that boredom is almost exclusively a difficulty that comes from within.

In defense of my bored colleague, after considering the idea of boredom in a solitary moment over a cup of tea, I realized that what we call boredom might actually be something else. Perhaps boredom is much more complicated.  It is an emptiness of mind.

An emptiness of mind is when you don't feel any engagement with the world as it presents itself to you.  Perhaps it is because you are depressed, which makes it difficult to connect fully with the world.  Maybe the cause is you don't have the capacity to understand or relate to the stimuli you are encountering.  That's why nuclear physics seems boring to me:  I am wholly incapable of understanding it.  It is an emptiness of mind that comes from non-comprehension.

In my contemplation of boredom, I realized that I have also been suffering from an emptiness of mind lately.  I didn't attach the term boredom to my disengagement from things that usually keep me occupied, nor did I call it boredom those many times I've spent just staring out my window.  But an emptiness of mind it is, and it has caused me these past couple weeks to be like a car stuck in neutral, moving nowhere at all.

There is a reason, however, that some spiritual traditions encourage an emptiness of mind.  When our minds are empty, we can despair, or we can raise a call against what we perceive is a boring world that's overtaken us. Or we can take this emptiness of mind as an incredible opportunity to re-focus and contemplate again what we want to take from the world and, even more importantly, what we wish to contribute to this cosmic accident where we happen to find ourselves.  Boredom cannot flourish in a climate where what one gives takes precedence and a mind cannot remain empty when its focus is outside itself.

And I also learned last night there is one other sure-fire cure for an emptiness of mind, even if you aren't able to successfully fill your mind yourself.  With a group of awesome people, we made pizza together and engaged in pleasant conversation while eating. What a useful rule of thumb: make pizza with friends and your emptiness of mind will disappear. Even better: make a hundred pizzas and share them with the world.

The world is in a bad state and evil forces surround us. Hope seems distant. Boredom and an emptiness of mind can so easily overwhelm us.  Time to re-focus, knead the dough, and get to the business of baking and, in embracing this process, we then take the actions needed to bring us engagement with the universe and those with whom we share it.  Let us act to transform our emptiness of mind by contributing to the fullness of each other's lives, because each moment is too precious for us to do anything else.

One cure for an emptiness of mind

Explaining Pumpkin Pie

One of the more peculiar duties I have had while living on international campuses is helping put together the menu for holidays and festivals that are not part of the local tradition.  Thanksgiving is usually the big offender as food is the centerpiece of this celebration and the culinary traditions of this feast cannot be translated easily across boundaries.

My Italian cooks at NYU in Florence were sharp and adaptable and had the ability to crank out a Thanksgiving feast that would have made grandma proud, although I will never forget the response of one of my Italian chefs when I was explaining how to make mashed potatoes: "Why would someone commit such violence on a potato?"

The rural and unworldly Dutch staff in the Castle where I celebrated Thanksgiving had a bit more trouble navigating the holiday.  I remember the looks of horror when I described how to create stuffing.  "Excuse me, you shove the dried bread mixture where?" they would ask me repeatedly. Their sour frowns at my excessive interest in a turkey's innards seemed to border on moral disapproval and caused me to question the very nature of this holiday treat.

And now in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan I find myself explaining this strange assortment of foods that we eat when we are supposedly thankful to two Pakistani cooks and a Kyrgyz kitchen supervisor.  What makes it even more challenging is the none of the ingredients seem to exist within 200 kilometers of our mountain home.

Explaining pumpkin pie.  With language barriers.  The kind and good young Pakistani baker and I went through the recipe several times, but his quizzical expression and his constant head scratching were ominous signs. "I think I should also bake some pastries," he said.  "Yes, you are right," I replied, agreeing to his back-up plan.

A few hours later he brought me a bowl containing his experimental efforts at making pumpkin filling for me to try.  It had a pleasing taste, but something was awry.  "Is this pumpkin?" I asked. "Yes," he beamed.

When we entered the kitchen, he proudly showed me the assortment of small, brown autumn squash displayed on the counter.  "Pumpkin," he exclaimed proudly.  "Yes, pumpkin," I said, quietly, as I tried to figure out in my mind how I would explain squash pie to the small group of North American visitors who would be coming to our campus on Thanksgiving, expecting a traditional feast. It's no wonder I didn't even try to go down the stuffing path this year.

I have no doubt the Thanksgiving meal we'll get tomorrow, will be the strangest one yet from all the Thanksgivings I have spent in various corners of the world.  It will be okay.  It will be a good reminder that it really isn't the food that makes the holiday.  It is the efforts of a Pakistani baker who is probably still furiously working to transform squash into dessert even as I write, it is the paper turkeys and other handmade crafts created by Tajik and Kyrgyz students in art club to celebrate our day, it is the warmth generated by a hundred hearts eating together in a dining hall in the mountains, far away from anyone, that really matters.  And it is for these, and many other, small blessings that go unnoticed throughout our days for which I am quite thankful.

Not my squash pie.

Where is God today?

Where is God today?

When I was an undergraduate I had an electric alarm clock that never seemed to work. When there was even the tiniest of power surges, it would revert back to 12:00 and flash incessantly. Other times it would turn itself off spontaneously and the snooze button simply seemed to just turn the alarm off. And the plug didn't seem to fit into any outlet and would fall out of the wall if you breathed upon it too heavily. It's a wonder I made it through my Freshman year with the world's most unreliable timepiece as my guide.

On many days, when I look at the world, I think God possesses an alarm clock from the same company that made the one I had in school. I believe, during the relatively quiet year of 1707, he set his alarm for 200 years, anticipating a wake-up in 1907, ready to get up and at it to face the challenges of the 20th Century. But, poor God, with that same crappy brand of clock I had, has overslept and much has happened since that 1907 wake-up we've all been expecting. What better reason could explain World War I, the Holocaust, fifty different genocides, and countless famines, just to name the highlights? 

Today as I walked along the streets of Bishkek, shopping, enjoying unseasonably warm weather, I was successfully managing to keep the events of the past week out of my mind, when suddenly I encountered a beggar sitting on the sidewalk as I waited for the light to change. This was no ordinary beggar, but instead was one of the saddest people I have ever seen. It appeared he had either lost a fight with the baddest UFC fighter on the planet or had been run over by a cement truck. His clothes were torn, cuts and bruises encrusted his body. I could see his blood dried on his knee through the giant hole in his pants. He spoke to me in Russian asking me for money. And the first thing I asked myself was "Where is God today?"

I tried to fish some coins out of my pocket, but all I had was a One Som coin, worth about a penny. Crap. The only other money I had in my pocket were really large bills. Then the light changed back to red and I had to wait for the light again. And I was late to get to a store I wanted to visit before it closed. I was about to hand him the One Som coin, when I realized that it's really more insulting to give a person such a small pittance than it is to give them nothing at all. It feels like giving a person One Som is like taunting them or spitting at them in contempt. 

I stood and looked at the man, deeply into his eyes. Damn the light turned red again. All I really wanted to do was just cross the street. Exasperated, I pulled a 500 Som bill out of my pocket and handed it to him. I might have detected a small flicker brighten his eyes as he said three or four sentences to me. I wish I could have said something more meaningful to him than "good-bye." Oh no! The light turned red again. Oh well, what can one do?

Please do not operate under the impression that I am a good person. If I were I would have given him all the bills in my pocket and would have tried to find a place where he could have had his wounds cleaned and tended. No, my complete lack of skill in Russian is not an excuse for my inaction. And as an even worse reflection of my character, I do admit, for a second, I did calculate how that 500 soms could purchase two weeks of my blood pressure medication (which I am in much more dire need of since Tuesday) or even six delicious Perfection 80% Cocoa chocolate bars, my favorite chocolate in Kyrgyzstan. 

Where is God today? After I finally crossed the street I realized that the problem with God is not His alarm clock. It is actually a problem with bicycles. If there is a God, maybe He/She/It is not sleeping after all. Maybe what has happened is that the Supreme Being has decided that after centuries and centuries of providing humans with prophets and messiahs and holy texts galore, that it's time to take the training wheels off and let us humans ride the bicycle of destiny for ourselves and learn to properly use that gift of free will we've been given. Sadly, like the small child riding a bike without training wheels for the first time, we all expect the hand of someone more powerful to control our ride and keep us from crashing. But one will never learn to ride a bicycle correctly if one always expects a guiding hand.

Where is God today? If the Kingdom of God is to appear it will not come from the skies or fall from the heavens. The Kingdom of God will come only if it is present in all our hearts and manifests itself in each of our little daily actions; bringing the Kingdom of God to Earth is OUR responsibility. The Kingdom of God will come when we bring it to the planet by taking good care of every person in the world.

We cannot wait for God's alarm to go off, as who knows when that will happen. Instead, the training wheels are off and we must pedal as hard and as fast as we can, whether we are Buddhist or Christian or Muslim or Hindu or Jew, or lapsed-Lutheran agnostic. We must ride with the message of love toward one another, kindness towards all who are different than ourselves, and assistance to all in need, while resisting the messengers of greed and hatred. And we must ride no matter the risk of crashing into the ditch and despite the peril we face from our adversaries chasing us on Harleys.

Where is God today? He is the man I met on a street corner in Bishkek. And God is also in our hands.

The Power of a Paper Clip

In 1940, the Nazis invaded the nation of Norway so that they could control the entrance to the Baltic Sea and keep the shipping lanes open that provided the much needed raw materials to fuel their war efforts.

While weak militarily, the Norwegian people were a strong and defiant lot who resisted the fascist invaders as best they could.  In the fall of 1940, students at the University of Oslo decided to wear paper clips on their lapels to demonstrate their resistance to the Nazi leaders who had instituted policies mandating that fascist ideology be taught in universities and schools throughout Norway.

Soon Norwegians from the Baltic Sea to the Arctic tundra were wearing paperclips as a sign of their defiance.  And not just one paper clip, but even necklaces and bracelets of the humble piece of office supply were worn by those resisting the evil that overtaken their land.

Why the paper clip?  It is as humble an item as one can find.  Yet, it is an item that binds things together and symbolizes unity and togetherness. What better symbol of resistance could one find?

I was reminded of this story after the election and the victory of the forces that espouse hatred and division and neo-fascist ideology.  If one studies the historical parallels carefully it is not unreasonable to state that we find ourselves in a situation that bears some frightening resemblance to Italy of the 1920s or...even worse. That is why resistance in our country must begin now, must begin today. We can't make the same mistake of passivity that the Italians of old made or the mistake of indifference and cowardice my German relatives living in the "Fatherland" made decades ago.

That is why I have decided to adopt the symbol of the brave Norwegians.  I will be wearing a paper clip from today forward.  It will serve as a reminder to me that I will not allow myself to go to bed on any day I am on this planet without having made at least one concrete effort of resistance.  It can be writing letters to public officials, it can be advocating for my personal issue of opposition to U.S. use of torture on prisoners, it can be providing money to causes that further justice, it can be posting essays against the actions taken by the Trumpian government, but each day I have an obligation that something must be done.  And I will not remove my paperclip for four years, or longer if needed, until the danger is gone and the ideals of my country prevail.

I have already found my paper clip.  It comes from the desk of one of my dearest friends here in Kyrgyzstan. Since his nation's independence he has fought for justice and for the education of his people, sometimes at his own personal risk.  Literally.  For example, during the uprisings here in 2010 against an evil leader who was becoming a dictator, my friend risked his safety to help lead this cause.  I can't think of a better person from whom this humble paper clip should come as his commitment to what is right will serve as inspiration to me on the darker days of discouragement that we all will face.

Eventually the Nazis figured out what was going on and wearing a paper clip became a criminal offense in Norway, but in time the good prevailed as the Norwegians never gave up their resistance.  I invite you to join me in embracing the paper clip as a symbol of unity against that which is unjust and wrong.  The humble paper clip can gain the power to bind our hearts together, no matter where we all find each other, and it will remind us that every day is a day of labor for the cause of peace, justice, kindness, mercy, and equal treatment for all.

My new accessory 

Even more sentences I never thought I would utter during my lifetime

It's the first day of snow here and only 151 days until Spring arrives.
(My thoughts on the weather in Naryn in mid-October.)

An OB-GYN is my primary medical care provider. 
(That's the specialty of the physician assigned to our campus.)

And I don't understand a word of what my OB-GYN says.
(She only speaks Russian and Kyrgyz.)

I can't read the label on my medication.
(They're also only in Russian and Kyrgyz.)

Did you just say that the urologist was treating your sinus infection?
(A question addressed to one of my students who answered in the affirmative.)

The Cubs just won the World Series!
(The first time in 108 years. Is this a sign the apocalypse is coming?)

Because you've run out of vegetables and meat there's only pasta, rice, or potatoes for dinner?
(Words about the starch offerings presented by the cafeteria, spoken to our Pakistani chef, while in carb-rich Kyrgyzstan)

Quick, get my OB-GYN, I suddenly feel horribly ill.
(Gasped to my colleagues during the later returns on election night.)

Donald Trump is going to be President of the United States.
(Forget the Cubs winning. This TRULY is a sign of the apocalypse.)

It felt even worse than a regular hangover, because you never experienced any of the pleasure of the buzz.
(The consensus of all the North Americans living on campus, on what waking up to face a Trump Presidency felt like.)

Do you know any Canadians I could marry?
(I actually didn't say this. Technically this is a passage taken from an Email sent to a Canadian acquaintance.)

Wow, if this is part of God's plan, He is one really twisted dude.
(Said to myself, while staring out my office window after the election results were known.)

The top-10 groups of Donald Trump supporters

In my research of political polling I have found that there are some demographics that are almost unanimous in their support of Donald Trump.  Here's the list of fervent Donald Trump supporters I've uncovered:

10.  Members of lynch mobs

9.   Christians who only cite the Old Testament

8.   Men who think that white robes and hoods are an appropriate fashion statement

7.   Branson, Missouri (both residents and visitors)

6.   Confederates

5.   Barbers

4.   Masons, chain-link fence experts, and other builders of walls and barricades

3.   Canadian immigration lawyers

2.   Makers of cheap hats (including most "Make America Great Again" models)

1.   People who think the Electoral College has a football team

Heading toward 1861? Why the next few days really matter

I was a very strange child.  There is no disputing this fact.  While my fellow cohort in Mrs. Butler's first grade class was reading "See Spot Run" and mastering the art of subtracting single-digit numbers, I was eagerly devouring on a daily basis the 12-volume series of hardback books on all the U.S. Presidents that my Grandma Vickie and Grandpa Tom had given me for my birthday that year.  Why was it, I wondered, that none of my classmates was impressed by the fact that I had memorized all the Presidents in chronological order, along with their political party affiliations, the exact years they had served in office, as well as the years of their births and deaths?  Not only did I learn much about the Presidents during my first grade tenure, but I also gathered valuable information about solitude, tribalism, alienation, and the urgent need to adapt to the whatever unsuitable environment in which one happens to finds himself. So, being the eminently rational first-grader that I was, I also decided, in the name of adaptability, to become an avid sports fan.

Essential first-grade reading for odd little boys

Now we find ourselves in a Presidential election year, that time where my interest in the Presidents and sporting contests intersect: after all, the way elections are covered in our media as a sort of horse race, aren't they the ultimate sporting event?  Although, at the time, I didn't think about first grade and how I became interested in Presidents and sports, this fascination with both topics probably led to my master's thesis at Cornell University being focused on how Presidential public opinion polling data was reported over time, including the increased emphasis on the "horse race" aspect of the reporting.

All this explains why I have gladly accepted the role here at my workplace, high in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan, as the resident American who takes it upon himself to explain the election of 2016 to people from across the globe who for the life of them can't understand why such a powerful and important country uses something as bizarre as the electoral college to choose its supreme leader.  During one of my electoral conversations one of the questions someone asked me was, "What past election does the election of 2016 look like?"  My answer might surprise some.  With each passing day this election feels more and more like the election of 1860.

In the election of 1860, Abraham Lincoln faced off against three other candidates. The country was sharply divided over the issue of slavery and the rights of states.  Many, especially those in the South, believed that unless their wishes were reflected in the final vote, they would not accept the election.  And, as we know, the winner of the election, Abraham Lincoln, did not accede to Southern demands and wishes and in 1861 a Civil War we did have.

In 2016, we also face a United States that is sharply divided.  Donald Trump has done a masterful job of gathering support by stoking racial enmity and by pitting one group of people against another, widening this divide. Even worse, just the like the Southern firebrands of 1860, Trump has asserted that unless he wins, the result of the election is invalid. These kinds of assertions made in 1860, helped lead to the war of 1861. While I am not predicting a Civil War, there is no telling what kind of chaos will result in 2017 from the irresponsible and dangerous claims made in 2016.  For these assertions alone, regardless of any political philosophies held by the candidates, Donald Trump has disqualified himself from the Presidency. Any candidate who risks unleashing events today even vaguely similar to those of 1861 is a person of such selfishness and is a person who possesses such contempt for our country, that he is not fit to serve as dog-catcher in the most remote and canine-infested hamlet of Arkansas, let alone President. And any citizen who votes for a candidate who rejects our electoral process and is willing to unleash an 1861-like fury is also planting their flag in the ground on the side of a Confederate way of thinking by proclaiming their disdain for the Constitution, our democratic system, and the very notion of America.  How ironic it is that the Republican Party of 2016 much more closely resembles the Confederates of Jefferson Davis than the Republican ideals of Lincoln himself.

Sadly, no matter who wins, the damage to our country has been done and this damage will continue indefinitely. We will have upheaval and continued disintegration, regardless of the victor.  If Hillary Clinton wins, Trump supporters will likely engage in acts of retribution and violence to resist what they've been told is a rigged process.  Republicans in Congress will continue to obstruct all forms of legislation; many of them have already said they would never conduct hearings for any Clinton nominee for Supreme Court throughout her entire term, in clear violation of their Constitutional obligations. If Donald Trump wins, he will disregard the Constitution in multiple ways he has already outlined with great clarity and will embark upon his efforts to eliminate the concept of equal treatment under the law for all Americans that has been a hallmark of this country since time of Lincoln.  Providing equal treatment under the law for all Americans, whether they be the African-American ex-slave of the 1860s or the Mexican immigrant or the practitioner of Islam of today: that was the one extraordinary and positive result that came from the horrors unleashed in 1861. It is not a matter of speculation that it is Trump and his modern-day Confederates who intend to erase Lincoln's enduring legacy.

This is why the next few days really matter.  We stand, like those in 1860, staring into a great abyss. We face a choice and neither result bodes well for our country. But when faced with this terrible choice, I have no alternative but to stand against the Confederates of today.  I will never cast a vote for those who reject the legacy of Lincoln and his commitment to our Constitutional form of government and the creed of equal treatment that I have held dear since I first encountered them as a first grader in the precious books on the Presidents my grandparents had given me. What we will lose, if Donald Trump is voted President, are these fundamental Constitutional values and principles, though not always adhered to or lived out in our history, that have served as a reminder to us of the greatness we should aspire to as Americans.  Let us heed the words of Abraham Lincoln, who delivered them to the nation at his inauguration, on a cold day in 1861, just before war broke out. In his final, futile plea that America remain unified and faithful to the vision of our founding fathers, he urged his fellow countrymen to work peaceably together and listen "to the better angels of our nature." On Tuesday, let us all summon our better angels as well and reject the messages of intolerance that have been shouted across the land during this version of the 1860 election we've been living through.

The Top-10 Things I've Learned in Kyrgyzstan Thus Far

10.  In this country you can actually eat lamb 365 days a year without any effort at all.

9.    It takes at least six months (and still counting) for a postcard to get from here to the U.S.

8.    There are more statues of Lenin per square mile in Kyrgyzstan than in any other nation.

7.    It is surprising how little oxygen is available in the atmosphere when living at 2200 meters.

6.    Standing in line in Kyrgyzstan can sometimes be a contact sport.

5.    There are times when a piece of dark chocolate can feel like a precious commodity.

4.    How wonderful it is to be outside of the U.S. during an election year, especially this one.

3.    Kyrgyzstan has a rugged, mountainous beauty reminiscent of some of the more-splendid parts of Montana or Wyoming.

2.    College students are wonderful, fascinating, remarkable people to work with no matter what country they are from.

1.    The most important feature of the place you live, wherever you might find yourself, are the people who live there.

My ballot's amazing 20,000 kilometer journey

I often seem to find myself thousands of miles from a polling booth during Presidential election years. In 1992 I was in Japan and cast my ballot from there by mail; I was so interested in the election results that I took an election-day vacation to the island of Saipan, an American possession, so that I could watch the returns on CNN, which wasn't available at the time in the neighborhood in Osaka where I lived.

In 2000, I voted by mail from the Emerson College campus in the Netherlands. I conducted seminars for all the students on how they could vote from abroad, but few took me up on my offers of assistance. How sad the two young Al Gore supporters from Florida were after they realized how their laziness, and the votes they never ended up casting, played a role in determining the election of George W. Bush. Never again, they vowed, would they ever fail to vote no matter where on the planet they might find themselves.

Again, I am residing far from the Spokane County, Washington election office. Here where I live, it is sometimes difficult to find basic items like a half-dozen bananas in the market, so imagine how much trouble it would take to figure out how to vote in an American election from high up in the Kyrgyz mountains. However, the election of 2016 could very well be a defining election like those of 1860 (the Civil War looming) or 1932 (the Great Depression crashing down on everyone), so I was bound and determined that I would get ahold of my ballot no matter what it would take.

My first partner in this endeavor was my mother who took possession of my ballot and put it on a DHL Express flight bound for Kyrgyzstan. Actually, make that "flights."  My intrepid little ballot traveled on airplanes from Spokane to Seattle to Cincinnati to the East Midlands Airport in the United Kingdom. Then onto a truck the ballot went, traversing hill and dale, until it arrived at London's Heathrow Airport. Once at Heathrow, it was gathered aboard a plane bound for Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. End of sojourn, you think, but, no, we're just getting started.

A truck took my ballot on the 30 kilometer jaunt to the DHL office in Bishkek where it was transferred to another vehicle, eventually ending up at the UCA Central Office where it found its way into the receptionist's desk.  There is no DHL service or formal courier service from Bishkek to my home at the UCA Naryn Campus, so I had to rely on the kindness of my faithful, fellow election geek, Canadian co-worker who took custodianship of the ballot and brought it on the bumpy 300 kilometer UCA shuttle bus ride over two mountain passes, finally into my possession.

Before casting my ballot I gave a presentation on the U.S. election system and the 2016 election to the students here at UCA. I've also had chats about what's at stake in the election with co-workers from across the globe. The topic of voting even came up when I had dinner with Roza Otumbayeva, ex-President of Kyrgyzstan, who was amazed when I told her about my ballot's incredible journey. "You must tell people in Kyrgyzstan about this," she said. "This shows how important it is to vote." Yes, my tiny little ballot is being cheered on by everyone in my far corner of the world who hears about it.

The moment then arrived to formally make my vote. Anyone who has read this blog knows exactly for whom I cast my Presidential vote. There are hundreds of reasons why I voted the way I did, but this one is perhaps most important. If the worst-case scenario comes to pass, I will be able to proudly say that I stood up and made my voice heard against that which I feel could pose the greatest danger to our democracy in decades, a danger with a frightening neo-fascist voice and tone. I would ride on the back of a Kyrgyz yak to get my ballot to Bishkek and on its way to be counted, to strike even the smallest blow for this cause.

My completed ballot, safely tucked in its return envelope, ready for the journey back home

Thankfully, I didn't have to find a yak to get my ballot back to the Spokane County Auditor. Luckily, my supervisor was kind enough to allow me to take the day off to return the ballot to Bishkek--support for my ballot comes from everywhere. I hired a driver and, at 7:30 yesterday morning, he took me in his car, and off we went over the two mountain passes back to Bishkek.

Riding with my ballot in our hired car, through the Kyrgyz mountains

Once in Bishkek, it was to the DHL office where my ballot was tucked away in its brash yellow and red shipping mailer.  Right now it's on a flight to London where it will re-trace its journey to the English Midlands, Cincinnati, Seattle, and Spokane, finally to be taken to its drop-off point for sorting and counting.  When all is said and done over 20,000 kilometers will have been traveled and over $300 will have been spent in getting my ballot to where it ultimately will serve its purpose as one person's humble expression of what he thinks should be.

The person who doesn't take the time to vote, complaining that the process isn't convenient, saying it doesn't matter, while there is a kernel of truth in these sentiments, this person still gets no sympathy from me. Jumping from a leaking ship, rather than working on repairs, is the not the act of a courageous person, but is instead the coward's way. It is the same with voting, as failing to take a stand, and doing nothing, takes no skill or wisdom and contributes nothing to the common good.  In some ways I have more respect for those who vote for the candidate who fills me with such trepidation. While I may question their kindness and compassion, their judgment, their ability to assess the realities of the world with any degree of accuracy, and their understanding of what democracy and the Constitution mean, at least they are participating in this great, though certainly flawed, experiment in governing a nation.

My ballot, in and of itself, is no more significant than a grain of sand on an endless beach. Yet, as it makes its way back to the election office, I feel this small ballot has, in its journey, spurred conversation with many others and has caused me to remember why it is I care so much about it. And through its journey it has gained slightly more power because of the small attention it's received and the actions it's caused me to take to amplify the impact on the world that it will make. Let us all value our ballots and their journeys so that they motivate us to take actions big and humble, and through these actions we can multiply the strength of our ballots, so that they might serve as the beginning of a process to effect the positive changes in the world we desire.