One of the happiest girls I’ve ever met doesn’t own a pair of shoes. She is less than ten years old, but she has more responsibility on her small shoulders than I had at 15, or 20, or even today. Her name is Mercy, and I met her in a rural community in the Maasai Mara region of Kenya, where I was building a school. This little girl had no shoes, and carried her younger sibling on her back, but she had a family and friends, clean water to drink, and she was going to school. She pulled me away from the work site and across the grassy field to her classroom. She sat down with me at her desk, and with the proudest smile I’ve ever seen, she read to me.

I grew up in a part of the world where girls are empowered and educated, but it wasn’t until I met Mercy that I realized how lucky I was. I realized something else that day, too. Something more important, something bigger than me and my small life. Sitting in that classroom listening to Mercy read, I knew just from the determined look on her face that I was looking at a little girl who would grow up to be a leader in her community. I couldn’t have felt more sure that these girls—if given the opportunity—will lift themselves and their communities out of poverty.

This post is part of the 2011 Girl Effect Blogging Campaign. Visit the Girl Effect site to find out about the movement and to find out what you can do to help girls!

Photo released by blind photographer Alberto Loranca (AP/Alberto Loranca - Ojos que Sienten)

This photograph was taken by a visually impaired photographer named Alberto Loranca who is learning photography through Ojos que Sienten (Eyes That Feel), a foundation in Mexico City that works to promote the integration of the visually impaired into society and the workplace. How cool is that?! (Hint: it’s really, really cool.) The lighting, the photo composition… I’m so in awe.

Photo from here

1. Public speaking! (I know what you’re thinking: “Public speaking? Jen?…I must be reading the wrong blog.”) On Saturday I gave my maid of honour speech at my sister’s wedding, and even though I was so nervous that I saved my dinner for afterwards, it was actually…fun. I KNOW. I’m shocked too.

But here’s the thing: I shouldn’t be shocked. Because two years ago, I gave a speech about my experiences volunteering overseas that I’m still proud of today. So somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew. I knew that if you have that one thing, that one secret ingredient, public speaking can actually be a really rewarding experience.

Two years ago, I wasn’t sure what that thing—that secret ingredient—was. The fact that I was sitting next to DVDs of The West Wing—hands down the best speeches on television—while I was writing? Maybe. That inimitable, calming setting? That probably helped. (If you haven’t been to the desert in August—where you can sit outside a house that positively breathes with love and history—and watch the storm clouds rolling in, go. Go now.) The incredible facilitators who challenged and guided me? I’m sure all of those things played a part. But the thing that really made that speech something I can be proud of was my passion.

I had it that day in the desert, talking about my friends in Ecuador and Kenya and the things they taught me, and I think I must have had it on Saturday when I was telling everyone about growing up with my big sister. I’m so thankful for this reminder that when I’m scared, I just need to focus on my passion and my message, and they’ll shine through my fear.

2. Naps! Seriously, napping should not just be for the kindergarten-and-under set. My nap on Sunday afternoon when I got home from the wedding was quite possibly the best nap ever. (It must have been—I’m even blogging about it.) It would have won gold in the napping Olympics, it was that good. Whether in a bed, a hammock, or maybe even a blanket fort in the living room, I’m so very thankful for naps this week. (If you prefer that last option, I’m inviting myself to your place at naptime.)

3. Family! Family, family, family. Did you know that I’m a brother-in-law richer this week? It’s pretty great.

Photo of microphone from here. Photo of cat napping from here.

On Tuesday night, I spent over an hour wandering across Nathan Phillips Square reading the hundreds of chalk messages written to Jack Layton. I found a corner of cement and sat down to add my own message in pink chalk. On Wednesday morning it rained, and the messages were washed away…but by the time I returned on Friday evening there were hundreds more messages than there had been when I first visited. I had never thought of this city as capable of such an open outpouring of love, and for the first time I was so proud to live here.

I saw a different Toronto this week—a city of unity and compassion—and I want to know what Torontonians would say if we set up a megaphone in Nathan Phillips Square or Yonge-Dundas Square, like this one in New York City, with a sign that read Say Something Nice.

For me, your legacy is one of unwavering hope and determination—both in your political career and because you truly lived a meaningful life in the face of terrible illness. It was with great sadness that I read of your passing early this morning. You will never read these words, but I wanted to write this message of thanks nonetheless.

For a girl who dreaded every single day of Civics class in high school, you made Canadian politics engaging. I remember watching the U.S. election in 2008. I was inspired by Barack Obama in a way that had only been rivalled by fictional politicians on The West Wing, and I watched as American youth became engaged in the voting process with a newfound passion that I had never really experienced myself—I always voted, but I was motivated by a sense of responsibility rather than by hope. I didn’t expect change in my own country and I wondered: where was Canada’s Barack Obama? Where was our symbol of hope? Little did I know, two years down the road you would become that symbol for countless Canadians, especially young people like me.

Thank you for your trust. Belief in the capabilities of my generation is rare. It is one thing for people to acknowledge the importance and vitality of my generation with words—talk is easy—but you did something many times more meaningful and more daring: you put your trust in us in the most concrete and encouraging way possible. Thank you for taking our future into consideration, and for your eagerness to work alongside us to create a better world. We won’t let you down.

If nothing else, I hope that your optimism and your sincerity will stick with me. I hope that all Canadians will take your parting words to heart. It is stories like yours—the loss of such an optimistic spirit made all the more horrifying following such stunning success—that remind me that it is our humanity that matters most. Despite differing political stripes, I hope that your legacy will remind all of us to be kind to one another as we work together towards a better world. I wish you could be here to see what we create.

Much love and many thanks,

Jen