The Unplanned Life

It's funny that I love days that signify something different or a shift, like New Year's or the first day of school, (or the first day of summer), or a Monday, or my birthday, because I'm pretty terrible at actually taking advantage of the symbol of that day. I'll spend time carefully writing out my goals for the New Year, categorizing them by which part of my life they are geared for, and then make sure that they are actually "attainable". I've heard it said that goals must be "SMART" (specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-based) and believe me when I say my laundry list of goals for the year is always filled with SMART goals that I can achieve, hands down.

That's why when I start making them, I think about what is realistic for me: Instead of being active 7 days a week, I'll do 6, I'll only buy coffee out 5 times a week (unless of course I'm going with someone, then I'll make exceptions to buy it as much as I want in the name of friendship), and instead of mac & cheese as my go to quick food option, I'll do pizza with veggies. I'll also learn guitar, get back into piano, try my hand at acting (again...brush off my skills from the ol' high school theater days), and read 52 books in the year (that's only 1 a week).

By the time day 2 rolls around after New Year's Eve (January 2), I've likely forgotten my goals and continued about the New Year like most other New Years, living my best unplanned life over here.

On a Monday or at the start of school, I'll think through everything I need to "be successful and prepared" for the week, for the school year, to get the most done that I possibly can as soon as I can to open up time and space to freely work toward my personal goals. I write a to-do list with check boxes and then feverishly scribble every minute detail of things that should be done--laundry leftover from my uncompleted list 3 weeks ago, organize the closet (I don't know if that ever got completed after 4 years in our apartment), respond to or delete all of my emails (just last week there were 11,000 of them), plan my week (even though I know it never goes as planned), and run errands.

15 minutes after the list is completed, I've probably crawled back in bed to  start responding to emails on my phone (code for looking at instagram) and begun to rethink how I actually want my day to go, if my list is accurate, and if I really want to follow it after all.

For all of the years that I have worked with youth and young adults, coaching and mentoring them in their holistic development and providing them with resources to be successful, you'd think that I would have practiced some of this on my own, or at least be a little better at it. But I'm not, and with each new morning it usually crosses my mind once (or a thousand times) to be intentional with my time, my goals, my life.

When I fail to check those boxes or reach those goals, I comfort myself with the notion that I can always start again in a minute (two minutes...three minutes...5 hours...okay, there's tomorrow hopefully).

Even still, I love to connect that fresh start, new beginning feeling with tangible markers-like my birthday.

It could be because my family is filled with go-getters that make meaning from practically nothing (in good ways) and celebrate the smallest bits of life always (we're all together hanging out--ice cream for everyone!).

It could also be because my dad is always having these unreal, epic birthday stories of hiking up a mountain and feeding unicorns from the palm of his hand, or walking down the beach at sunrise and 132 dolphins (he counted) were playing in the waves while three rainbows arched brightly above them, and I feel like my next year of life should have some sense of extraordinary magic too. (This morning I planned a sunrise hike to start my birthday to see if I could rival the birthday experiences that my dad has had, but I ended up skipping it because, well, my bed sounded really comfortable to be quite honest. Let me tell you, that pillow and mug of mediocre coffee was something extraordinary no doubt)!

Symbols, markers, having something physical to help remember a season, a moment, a person, to see growth, to see where we've been and just how far we've made it, it is a gift. It is a gift to have a rising and setting sun, transitions between seasons, days and months and years to keep track of time, Mondays (as difficult as they can be), holidays, and birthdays.

Naturally, the gift isn't always easy to accept, and there can be pain in looking back, in remembering days shared with those that are no longer here, struggling to heal from hurt that lingers. Meeting these symbols, these days, can feel like a heavy burden bearing down on our already tired shoulders.

Yet even still, I consider them a gift.

There is still life to be lived, as long as we are given the days to live it.

Some days (most days) may be much less productive, "successful", fun, full than others, but that doesn't change that as long as we are breathing, existing, we are in it, and we can choose to engage with it, or let it slip past us (like the quickness of time when I spend it playing candy crush while in the bathroom--"I've been in here 20 minutes already?!").

34 isn't really a birthday that people think of as being significant. I don't get any new privileges (the last special age privilege came with not having to pay extra fees when renting a car for my 25th birthday) and it isn't regarded in the greeting card section as important. ("Numbered" cards are reserved for 1st birthdays, every birthday leading up to 13, "sweet" 16, "adult" 18, "legal drinking adult" 21, followed by the "YOU MADE IT!" decade transitions--30, 40, 50, 60, 70+).

And although birthdays matter to me in general, this one feels significant in a way that I can't quite explain.

It could be the life transitions (nothing major, just quitting my job, moving out, not having home base, not sure what's around the corner in practically all aspects of life) or it could be that I've entered what one may call "their mid-thirties" and that holds meaning in and of itself.

Whatever it may be, I am paying attention and want to move into this new year with eyes wide open and my heart fully receptive. There's a chance I'll get better at getting organized, setting (and actually completing realistic) goals, taking more risks, not letting too much time slip by as I mindlessly peruse social media in the bathroom, and beat TJ at level 4 in Tetris.

And there's a chance I won't.

But I won't let that stop me from trying.

The Weighting Game

As a 33 almost 34 year old, it is pretty embarrassing to admit this: I've been cranky lately. It's not in the way of an occasional bad attitude that as a mature (this is, of course, a generous statement of myself), well-adjusted adult I can identify it, take a moment, and then respond in a kind and thoughtful way. It's the "I'm happy and smiling one minute" followed by someone trying to ask me a simple question and my blood begins to boil, my heart starts pumping and I respond with, "How am I supposed to know?!"

TJ pointed it out to me yesterday as we were driving down the mountain to enjoy one last late summer afternoon on the lake with my parents before they head back home tomorrow, leaving us up here to sort out all of these unknowns in Canada.

"You seem like you're on edge--maybe I'm off base here, but what's going on?"

'NO I AM NOT!' I think to myself.

Wait a minute...

...yes, I am.

Silence.

Why do I still feel like I'm a child when anyone tries to call me out for something or even innocently ask me a question? I revert to the 5 year old who was braiding her friend's hair during story time in Kindergarten and got her name written on the board for not paying attention. I was paying attention. Why did I get in trouble? I didn't do anything wrong!

I sit in silence and force myself to think instead of responding defensively. I already responded to TJ defensively the last 5 times he was trying to ask me something, and since I at least kind of care about him, I thought he at least deserved me taking a minute to figure it out.

When I was finally ready to talk, I said a lot (the joys of being a verbal processor), but nothing that is worth restating here.

What it comes down to is this: it's the waiting. I'm cranky because of the waiting.

Waiting on TJ. Waiting on family. Waiting on what's next. Waiting on motivation. Waiting on direction. Waiting on clarity. Waiting on the (literal) smoke to clear. Waiting on inspiration. Waiting on creativity. Waiting on patience (oh the irony).

The waiting feels like a game. It is heavy, where the wait turns to weight and it takes an annoying amount of effort and attention to acknowledge its presence and heaviness, and then to try and figure out how to navigate through it.

And that is all a part of the game. Should I be giving the waiting that much of my energy? In the waiting am I using the time I have well? It's a gift to have unstructured time to reflect and rest, but am I utilizing it to its full potential? It's been 11 days already, and that is more than many people get for a vacation or a break, and even during those breaks, many people have to use it for sickness or caring for loved ones or for unexpected emergencies. There is immense privilege in the time that I have waiting, so I need to be sure to be intentional with every moment. Is that putting too many expectations on the waiting? Is it truly okay to "just be" like I encourage others?

These thoughts are relentless, even though they exist tucked away in the back of my mind.

It's all just a weighting game. And because of it, I'm cranky.

My mom came into the apartment unit that TJ and I are staying in this afternoon to finish up some last minute organization. It is a part of her summer routine to prepare the vacation homes for the winter season, washing and replacing towels, ensuring that the linens labeled "bunk room purple" aren't mixed up with "queen gold lower" otherwise she'd have to call Rose, and checking the sturdiness of furniture otherwise she'd have to call Pippa.

At times it feels a bit like a whirlwind, especially the second to last day when the franticness kicks in and everyone knows it is better to stay out of her way. Determined Deb is on the loose and she is on a mission. The truth is, we've watched and experienced it for years, so we know to expect it; we also know that our lives wouldn't be as wonderful and colorful without the hard work my mom puts in to take care of, well, everything honestly.

When she walked into our unit, there was a small sense of a tiny tornado (evidenced by her pulling out a container of parmesan cheese that spilled all over the floor and bringing an armful of towels and blankets to fold in the living room when I had just picked everything up, and pulling out a leftover salad bowl out of the fridge since "it had been in there awhile and was going to get moldy" to wash but was unable to access the sink since TJ was trying to quickly make food for his lunch break and was cleaning a pan, so the metal bowl still sits on the counter). In reality, it was actually quite calm (despite all of the little things that happened above), but what do I do?

I get cranky. My fuse feels way too short for anyone's good. I respond to everything my mom does with annoyance in my voice and frustration in my heart.

It's not her fault that I don't know what to do with myself and feel this weight of waiting. It's not her fault that the lid of the parmesan wasn't on tight. It's not her fault that she cares a lot about being helpful and wants to love TJ and I by doing little things to pick up or offering to clean.

It's my fault that I am a large child and need to sort some things out. I need to tell myself to take a timeout, otherwise my crankiness may not subside. Or maybe I need to play (alone). Or take a nap. Whatever it is, I need an attitude adjustment (my dad would tell me this when I was cranky as a kid, and he was pretty much always right).

Maybe the waiting doesn't have to be a game.

Maybe I let myself be okay with the weight in this, knowing that, just like a good workout, this weight will make me stronger.

When Enough is Enough

Today is the first day of work for the 2018-2019 school year.

For the first time in 4 years, I'm not there.

Just like it has been the last 4 years, TJ and I have been up in Canada with family leading up to when work starts. Instead of cramming in everything we can with family then rushing to get back to Seattle, always late at night, to tumble out of bed exhausted to head to the usual pre-retreat gathering over coffee that marks the beginning of our time as professional staff, this morning is like any other of the past 5 days.

Earlier this morning, I woke up blinking my eyes open, looked out at the (sadly) smoky mountain that I have been waking up to since we've been up here, rolled over, and kept sleeping.

This time last year I don't think I could have anticipated being where I am right now. I say that "I don't think I could have" because there is a part of me that wonders if deep down at this time last year I actually knew, but didn't want to acknowledge it.

The students.

How do I walk away from the most amazing part of the work that I would (mostly) do for free? The privilege of hearing stories and participating in the moments, silly or seemingly insignificant or important and profound that I know will be remembered for the impact they had and the impression they left. I can't predict which moments hold meaning and memories for students, but having been shaped by certain staff during my college days, I can safely assume that these moments I have shared with students over the past 4 years have held something special in them, even if only being able to share life and learn from each other.

To the students that I have walked alongside for an entire year (or two or almost three) and to the those that I had a short conversation, or those that sat in conduct with me, and to the ones that we navigated a crisis together, and to the ones that I may have never known but would see around campus and at least got to say "hello" to, thank you. Thank you for sharing space with me, for teaching me and allowing me to offer some of who I am to each of you. There was a lot of good, there was some bad, and through it all, you have been the ones that have sustained and inpsired me to continue to share my heart, energy, and time to do what I could within the system that I worked, to support and advocate for you. As I am sure you each know, I messed up, a lot. I still have so much to learn, especially as a white woman with exceptional amounts of privilege. I also know and believe that there was goodness and beauty in the moments that we shared, and I can't ever forget any of it.

My staff.

I walked into a storm and somehow figured out a way to jump in and help navigate the threatening seas in an effort to provide safety, care, and direction to our students from watching the example each of you set for me. Prior to this role, I had no clue what I was getting myself into and had to discover the joy and the pain and the richness and the exhaustion and the reward and the politics that is student development. Each of you showed me something different and provided phenomenal insight and wisdom, creative ideas, a safe place for debriefing and making sense of the craziness, and the constant reminder that we aren't in it alone. Someway, somehow, we continued to sail the stormy seas and find our way to shore, even when it seemed impossible.

It was also you as staff that showed me how to know when enough is enough, and it's time to jump ship.

And that's why on the first day of work, I am still in Canada.

There is no new job offer waiting for me, no applications submitted at this time, no idea as to what is next, and no clue as to what I need. It became increasingly obvious that my time had come to step away from the work that I deeply believe in and enjoy, to care for myself, and to choose an environment where I can be appreciated for who I am, what I offer, and the work that I do. After 4 years, I'm exhausted of the same cycles, the same behavior patterns, being treated differently as a female, and finding little to no hope of a shift. It's as if I was being shoved underwater and the moment that I swim to the surface for a gasp of air, I find myself being shoved under again.

Enough.

I recognize that it is an incredible privilege to be able to quit without having another job to go to, and I do not take that lightly. I also recognize that it is humbling for me to tell people that I just quit.

It's not just a job I left, it's community, it's meaningful work, it's my literal home--quitting my job meant losing my housing. I don't know where I am going to live, I don't know what's next, I don't know where to give my time and energy...and time doesn't stop.

I can feel like a failure, I can feel like I bailed on my students for next year, I can feel like I should have been stronger, I can feel like I am the crazy one and I didn't really have the experiences that I did, and that I've made a mistake. These are real feelings for me.

Today, on this first day of work which happens to also be my technical last day of work, I am choosing to end this without a hopeful manifesto or something inspiring for you (which actually is really just written for me). Today I am naming what has been, sitting in what is, and eventually will unfold into what will be.

I think today I just need to grieve.

A Manifesto to the Sun

It's hot in Seattle. I don't dare complain because all I wanted was for the bright, beatiful sun to shine her face upon me and warm my bones after another long Pacific Northwest winter.

Well, a'shining she is and melting we are...gladly, of course! All smiles for me!

(And no, that is not a sweaty swamp puddle I left on the metal chair I was just sitting in, but thanks for asking.)

A week ago the heat was relentless. Then it became predictable Seattle again.

This week?

More heat...hotter heat...dry heat that makes the inside of my nose crack and bleed sometimes.

But it's okay, because it means the sun is out!

Here's the thing, heat or not, sun or not, what do I actually want?

I couldn't tell you. I can't tell you. I never know what I want (some exclusions apply: my in-&-out and taco bell order, good coffee, new experiences, twinkle lights, only showering twice a week, etc.), but I almost always know what I don't want.

If I tell you what I want (which I don't know, of course), that could mean putting myself out there in an unusually vulnerable way for me.

If I tell you what I want, and I don't get it, I am setting myself up to have expectations that I may actually get it, and if I don't...

...well...then I'll be disappointed.

If I'm disappointed, not only do I have to navigate that pain for me, but I also would be inviting you into that pain since you also would know what I want and that I didn't get it.

There is a lump in my throat having typed that and my heart is beating faster. (Nevermind the espresso I just drank at 9:00pm...this is purely emotion expressing itself physically).

You see, I've got this on my own.

Let me be invited into your story, your pain, your place of vulnerability; but good luck trying to figure out how to enter into mine.

I'm not saying that to sound like a jerk (which sometimes I am, although it may be hard for you to believe with my softspoken demeanor and deep humility), but because I have come to realize that there is a fortress built around my heart, protecting me from depths of pain that I rarely, if ever, allow myself to experience. My heart is hiding behind ivy that's grown over and masked it as being full of life and beauty, wisdom, rootedness, health, and steadfastness.

It's been years of avoidance, but not really on purpose.

When something that could be classified as "painful" happens, I feel it, I respond, I move on.

Or maybe it's more like, I feel it just enough, I respond just enough, and then I bury it deep in the fortress to stay in the company of the other pains of my past.

As a champion of vulnerability, this may surprise you. Honestly, it surprises me even. There is no way that I am not fully vulnerable and don't experience pain. "Do I not acknowledge what the journey has been like for me?" I wonder. "It has been hard. It has hurt; and I willingly share that with others all the time. How is that not vulnerablity?"

The thing is, sometimes,

being stuck in my head,

I think more about how it has impacted me versus actually feeling how it has impacted me. (Zing. That one stung a little.)

Don't get me wrong here:

Both are important.

But both are very different.

And both belong together.

I am living in my head and not quite as much in my heart.

And with that realization,

on another hot day,

here is my manifesto to the sun:

Shine bright on me, and burn away what should not be.

Burst forth, spilling your liquid gold over my hidden heart,

And melt...

...melt

...melt the stone to puddles of gentle reflection.

Break me open and stir something both fierce and fragile,

Inviting the fullness of life and the healing of being openly exposed.

Maybe that is what I actually want.

Catch + Release

On Monday, I swallowed a bug.

It was a big bug and it was completely unexpected.

My mouth was wide open, huffing and puffing as I ran (read: fast walked) up a huge incline (read: practically flat). I took a huge inhale and choked, coughed, and swallowed.

"That was a hard, little something. Those felt like wings. Those were definitely wings. That was a bug." Catch.

In the past when I've heard people say they swallowed a bug, or one flew into their mouth, I just kind of expected that it was a very rare occurence and that I'd never have that experience (read: problem). The joke is on me--not only did I definitely swallow a bug, I instantaneously had a sore throat from the unexpected smack of a dry little creature in the back of my esophagus followed with choke-coughing. I also was so close to being done with my "run" that I didn't want to stop. Teary-eyed and semi-confused, I kept going with the realization slowly coming to light that my sucking a bug down accidentally just put me into a club that I never thought I would join or ever wanted to join.

Well friends, give me a bug-swallowers patch for my jacket and the official certificate because I am fully initiated. At least I had an increase of protein for the day! (Why do people always say that swallowing bugs is added protein? And I just did it too. Weird.)

When one of my closest friends died suddenly 3 weeks after TJ and I got married, I was in shock. It was completely unexpected and threw myself and so many others that knew her for a loop.

When TJ and I took a risk to try out something new in life and community, but then found ourselves broken, exhausted, misunderstood and spiritually empty, we couldn't have anticipated it.

When I moved to the Pacific Northwest for a job that I didn't feel qualified for, but it seemed to be just the right fit initially, I was so grateful. I couldn't have anticipated shortly after feeling such a tension of deep love and passion for my students and those I work with coupled with confusion in the realization of the unjust undercurrents that exist in the system that I have given so much of my energy and life.

When TJ and I became increasingly disconnected from unacknowledged painful cycles of hurt and misunderstanding, neither of us could have anticipated that from our deeply rooted love that divorce would have been an option. Yet for a season, this was reality.

When a friend of mine who didn't want children got pregnant, then shifted to welcome the hope of a little one with joy and love that only a mother can know, then miscarried, there was deep sadness. People forget that she has been a mother in her own way, and that she grieves the loss daily and often is lonely making sense of it all.

When I got the call that one of my dearest friends lost her father to cancer so quickly after he had been diagnosed; then shortly after her husband was diagnosed with cancer, we were heartbroken. Then after what was "supposed" to be hopeful news, her husband (and also our dear friend) was told he would have limited time left, and passed away just a week later, 6 weeks ago. She is now a single mama, trying to make it one day at a time. Absolute devastation.

When one of my other dearest friends mom had been rediagnosed with cancer and after a year and a half suddenly took a turn for the worst and passed away, we were all in shock and wept. We couldn't have guessed it would happen that way and it was an unbelievable loss. This was just 9 weeks ago. Mother's Day was this past weekend, and luckily we were able to escape together as friends to be present with and distracted from it all.

Pain. Grief. Injustice. Heartache. Trauma. Confusion. Brokenness.

Bug after bug is being swallowed whether by myself or those around me. Every time it is unexpected. It causes a reaction that leaves something you can't quite shake...and it becomes a part of the story.

Tuesday I got a text from a friend saying they had a little something for me. For what felt like no reason, I received flowers and a card that I needed right in the moment without realizing it. 'Remember your pain, Lindsey, and let yourself feel it' an encouragement I don't often consider to offer to those around me, but very important.

As a person who may, ahem, avoid pain through the adventures and trying new things and looking for the next fun experience, I needed that nudge. And by the very nature of writing this, I welcome that nudge.

This morning I had coffee with someone that knows me very well (at times to my dismay and embarrasement; but everyone needs someone like this in their life) and found it in her to see me and speak into this odd season I find myself. She told me that when women go into labor, there is a moment when there is nothing left to give, the exhaustion sweeps over her body and there is a letdown. This is the precise moment that indicates she has made it to the other side, and soon after, their baby enters the world.

When there is nothing left to give,

let go,

collapse,

be overwhelmed,

release,

and watch something new be born.

She looked me in the eyes and told me that this is my time of release.

There isn't much that I have to offer anyone right now, and my feelings and well-being are muddled and confused from the many things I have been carrying in my heart and mind (read: avoiding the pain). Every day I have to make small decisions to take care of me while also being present with those that are in my care. Honestly, it often feels easier paying attention to others than addessing my own stuff; it serves as a distraction. Yet I know that if I don't take care of myself, and react to the bug in my throat, it could choke me to the point of losing my breath. I'm trying to breathe, at times huffing and puffing (or more like gasping), but the effort is there, if only to take one more breath, one more step.

Have you ever noticed little flowers growing through the cracks in the sidewalk? They can be easy to miss if you aren't looking for them. In this season I have to make a conscious effort to notice the flowers blooming through those cracks, especially when the heaviness of the sidewalk on the soft earth is evident in uncomfortable ways.

When I started blogging, I didn't think it would be anything of importance, just a way to make a little space for me and if it offered something to someone, then I willingly and happily share this gift. Today my gift is authenticity in acknowledging the wave of pain I see in those around me and in myself.

Today, friends, I am okay.

Not great, not terrible, just okay.

And that's okay.

I swallowed a bug, and it is pretty funny to think about how ridiculous I must have looked when it happened. As uncomfortable and unexpected as it was, I'm glad to be in the club. It breaks me open a little bit more to make room for an increase of flowers to bloom, to expose more beauty--not because of my doing, but by knowing what has cracked me and letting that crack tell its stories and believing for healing in each step of the journey.

In this moment of pause, I am reminded that I am waiting for the new birth,

and now,

just for now,

I breathe and release.

Begin Again

I've been waiting to write this, but it's been almost obnoxiously on my mind since January. There is never really a good reason why I don't just sit down and get my thoughts out. It could be the possibility that when the blank space begins to be filled that there is meaning attached to it, that there is permanence. In its filling I can't unwrite, unsay, unfeel, undo any of it. To write it for me is to name it, and naming it is the scariest part. When I name it, it comes to life and my soul is invested. When I name it, I am choosing to hold myself accountable to the reality of what is versus what I pretend isn't.

Just freaking do it already.

This year transitioning into 2018, I was having a hard time committing to goals for this year. We all know what it is like to move from December 31 to January 1 with good intentions, renewed motivation, and the belief that maybe, just maybe, we'll check off everything on our all too lofty list of resolutions. Or maybe that's just me...I know better than to speak for everyone.

Even still, I was filled with anticipation for 2018, eager for something new and making adjustments to keep challenging myself, being open to learning and growth. On our drive back to Seattle from Vancouver on New Year's Eve, TJ and I were talking about what we hoped for from this upcoming year, and we both came to the conclusion that we needed to "just freaking do it already", whatever "it" may be that day. (Yes, TJ and I got to be together on NYE and I was SO grateful!)

With many, many, many things over the past few years, in different ways TJ and I have individually felt stuck in the mud, slowly slogging through. There have been many wonderful things in the methodical movement and of course, really hard things as well. In our conversation in the car, it was as if someone was shaking us awake, pulling us out of the mud and setting us back on solid ground. The heavy, foggy, monotonous trudging abruptly ceased and was replaced with a lightness. We could move our feet again and it was practically effortless.

"Why do we keep making excuses?"

"I don't know, but I'm tired of it."

"Me too."

"I just want to start doing things."

"Me too!"

"Why don't we? Why don't we just start doing them?"

"Yeah, 2018--just freaking do it already!"

And that was how my 2018 New Year's resolution was born.

TJ left on January 1 for California to launch the huge project he had been working on, and that week I freaking did it.

I went to yoga.

I went on long walks, even in the rain.

I caught up with people.

I started work off with determination and energy.

I ran.

I read a whole book (which is a big deal for me since I don't take time to read).

And I even bought tap shoes and took up tap dancing again, making the decision in one day and actually following through with it.

2018, you're mine.

Well, so I thought.

During that first week one of the yoga classes I went to was restorative. It is a very slow class focused on staying in resting poses longer to work on stretching, flexibility, and giving ease to tension in the body. Something that the instructor shared at the start of class and kept bringing up as a reminder throughout our hour together was the idea of "begin again". He shared that in holding these poses for a long time we may find that we have to adjust or even come out of the pose completely. "What is important," he shared, "is that you begin again."

In its faithfulness as a well intended new year hope, that first week of fullness and motivation dwindled and quickly got stifled out by, well, life to be honest. Life happened in its truest form: confusion, disappointment, exhaustion, uncertainty, heartache, mixed with moments of goodness; but the other stuff started to once again flood around my feet, turning the lightness to heaviness, from walking through air to trudging through mud.

"Begin again."

It was burning in my mind. And as hard as it was to have the reminder looming, I believe that it has brought me a little extra hope, and a lot of extra grace.

Maybe it didn't happen today. But tomorrow. Begin again.

Maybe it rained today. But tomorrow. Begin again.

Maybe it was a missed opportunity today. But tomorrow. Begin again.

Maybe it was failure. Maybe it was fear. But tomorrow.

You know what? Not even tomorrow. Right now. Right now whatever "it" was is in the past. In this moment, this minute, this second, begin again.

The world we live in is filled with cycles. It points to renewal to another chance to jumping back in instead of giving up and walking away.

Look around you. Have you seen the trees or the flowers? The blossoms are forming and the buds are sprouting. Spring is just around the corner and the 70 degree weather in Seattle today was evidence of that. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow it is going to rain. I could dwell on what was or complain about what is...

...or I can acknowledge all of it, name it, fill the blank space with it, and begin again. There is no beginning without an end, but all of it is a part of the story, the wild journey--it beckons, and forgives.

Just freaking do it already.

And when you don't, begin again.

'Tis the Season

2017 is rushing to a close, and seriously, in so many ways, thank God. What a year. You know what is crazy? It isn't just the political climate, or our social and US cultural climate that has made this year crazy, but so many of my people have had one of the worst years of their personal lives as well.

Sickness and grief and injustice and loss and tumultuous relationships and depression and anxiety and...

...and so much more.

This holiday season I have been caught in my own tension of deeply desiring to enjoy the wonder of Christmas, the hope that advent brings, the renewal and sense of new beginnings that is ushered in with the turning of the year, with the reality of what has been and continues to be. There has been a heaviness that lingers, quietly dulling the brightness and energy of my heart.

As you may expect, I continued to be incredibly obnoxious over my winter break. I would repeatedly tell friends and family the old, familiar quote that "my presence is your present". (They never once got annoyed with me, either.)

In a world pregnant with sorrow and anger and brokenness, isn't it somewhat true though? What we have is each other, our presence in shared space, breathing the same air and living in a moment together.

As I write this, TJ and I are exactly 373.19 miserable miles apart. I say miserable not in a sappy, hopeless romantic way. I say miserable in the way that acknowledges that it is the holidays and he is at home alone trying to finish the biggest work project of his career, unable for the fourth time to get on a flight to join the rest of my extended family in Canada to ring in the New Year.

Well, I guess that is only the half truth. It's his 3.5 time trying.

He did actually get on one of the flights yesterday and did actually make it to Kelowna air space; and as I circled the airport for an hour watching numerous others meet up with their loved ones thinking he just got held up at customs, TJ's flight circled the air but failed to land due to wind, eventually flying back to Seattle for fear of running out of fuel. He keeps getting a standby seat and flights keep getting cancelled due to a winter storm that has come through this afternoon through tomorrow. With 7-12 inches of snow in the forecast for the storm, driving on his own isn't really an option at this point either. There is no way of knowing if he'll make it to join us all.

TJ is at home alone missing us while carrying the stress of work and the stress of going back and forth to the airport, wondering if it will even be worth it. My family is all up here missing him and I am having a hard time enjoying my time away without sharing in this season together. It feels miserable.

And then some perspective settles in (after shedding a lot of tears):

1. TJ is safe. TJ is safe. TJ is safe.

2. I am in Canada with family that I don't get to see all of the time, including newer family members, and that is really special.

3. I can choose my attitude, while also acknowledging what I am feeling.

4. There is room for rest and joy, if I make space.

5. This is 100% not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of life and the grand scheme of problems in the world. I can get over it (well, eventually).

6. This is my chance to practice presence. Here and now.

The reason I feel little glimmers of hope is because of the intentional love and support my family has showered on me up here. Each person has chosen to be present in something as little as distance and travel delays. Yes, it sucks for now. Yes, it really is a minor happenstance; yet each one has empathized with me, given hugs, and offered help. They have shown up.

Reflecting on the past 2 years, I have done a pretty poor job of being present with people. This is with the exception of my students and those that I see day to day in Seattle, although I know there have been some major misses there as well. I have a lot of important people that I have not been present with through circumstances that have actually been devastating or extremely impactful for them--completely different than weather related travel delays.

I can write it off as not knowing how to balance the kind of work that I do with having energy to give to others that are important.

I can write it off as needing to spend some very important time focused on my relationship with TJ.

I can write it off as caring for myself or needing alone time, but I think these may be only half truths.

My sister, Anjelica and I were talking the other day, and she was sharing how she had a friend that cancelled her plans and blocked a whole day just to sit with her through something, and how growing up that is how supporting people was modeled for her. Showing up and sitting there.

Sometimes I think I have to always bring my best self, be fully prepared to carry the burdens alongside others, to have all of the wisdom and right answers, while also perfectly listening to people, in order to connect with those I love. I can't do that, and I shouldn't do that. It doesn't allow for a reciprocal relationship (and yes, I do know that some relationships will not be reciprocal and I understand that too). Sometimes I just need to show up. Not just for others though, but for me. I need to show up in what I'm dealing with and ask for support. I need to be present and honest to others and myself.

Often I think about the story of seasons, the dying and rebirth, the planting and the waiting and the growing. In seasons, there are many things synergistically working together to usher from one movement of the story to the next. My personal story of seasons hasn't allowed for many others, if anyone, to participate in the synergy of creating and living together, but it is time for change, and I know it. I can feel it stirring.

Whatever may come, whatever will be, from 2017 to 2018 and beyond: Tis' the season. With each season, let us all learn to be present together just as we are, simply showing up and remembering how that is the most important.

And as this season comes to a close when the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, maybe, just maybe I'll get to be present with TJ, enjoying a squeeze and a kiss from my favorite.

33 and the Aioli Ugly Cry

At the beginning of the summer, I cried over aioli.

Well, technically I cried over not having any aioli.

When I say "cried" I don't mean quiet, gentle tears graciously rolling down my cheeks. When I say "cried" I mean I ugly cried.

All that I wanted was to eat my perfect breakfast biscuit sandwich on my second day off of work after an exhausting and overwhelming end of the year, that also left me ugly crying just a day and a half before this moment.

It was all going to work out perfectly--we called our order in to pick up just in time to catch the next ferry in 15 minutes to maximize our Sunday afternoon exploring some new places together, a necessary mental and physical break for me since home and work life always overlap.

I literally live at work.

Literally.

And it did work out perfectly. We picked up our food and got in line at the ferry terminal just in time.

Just in time for there to be a back up and have to wait an additional 45 minutes before the next ferry came through.

On the drive over, I pulled out my breakfast sandwich, eagerly unwrapping it knowing that with each second longer it took to start eating it, my stomach may disappear from it eating itself.

But as I picked it up, something looked different.

I tentatively lifted up the top of my biscuit sandwich to see...nothing. Nothing but plain ol' biscuit. No sauce. And to make it worse, they put it on TJ's sandwich instead.

I got so angry.

Is it so difficult to have one thing go right?

My life revolves around paying attention to other people and all I need right now is to be selfish and ask one person to do something for me this time around--to make me a breakfast sandwich with aioli.

"Linds, do you want me to go back? We can get on the next ferry?"

"NO."

I'm adamant. Adamant like a 5 year old refusing to eat their vegetables.

"I'm just not going to eat it."

Because that makes sense when you're so hungry.

"Are you sure? We can go back. I don't mind."

Easy for you to say, as you eat your perfectly made breakfast sandwich that has my aioli on it.

AND if we go back our perfect plan will be officially ruined. First aioli and then wait for the next ferry? NOPE.

Then we get in line for the ferry...that is running behind...with the line backed up.

"UGHHHHHH!!! We could've gone back to get aioli and still would have made the ferry."

Cue: ugly crying.

I'm angry. And I've lost it.

Over aioli.

I cry harder.

In one of the classes we teach for our Resident Advisors, that is an extension of RA training, we talk about self-care; how to care for ourselves well, in order to better care for the people around us. There is a really good analogy that we share around the dashboard of a car.

When a light goes on the dashboard of a car, you know something is wrong and something needs to change. For those of us in Residence Life, knowing what our "check engine light" is, helps us to be held accountable to make space to do the work (and it absolutely is work) to care for ourselves.

One of my friends I work with talks about how when he isn't doing well, you can find him drinking Mountain Dew in Gwinn, our campus cafeteria. Just the other day he told me he switched to Sprite last year after telling that story because so many RAs were calling him out or asking him if he needed to care for himself when they would see him with Mountain Dew...which was more often than he wanted them to be aware.

Another friend of mine I work with will grab a huge stack of cookies at Gwinn. Our students have noticed that as well, and they hold him accountable.

They hold us all accountable.

Here's the thing, I thought I was doing a good job of taking care of myself.

I do this thing I've entitled "dating myself". I will literally take myself on a date. I choose to do anything and everything I like with no excuses made, or having to think about other people, and just do what I love (while also having to force myself to make decisions, one of the never-ending thorns in my flesh).

And then summer finally rolled around and work finally ended and I didn't get aioli...

...and then I knew. I wasn't quite well.

It was time for a shift. It was time to make an adjustment. Even the smallest change could have a significant impact.

I joined TJ in California for 2 weeks while he was on a work trip. With the exception of time with family, I spent no time with people.

We got back to Seattle and I tried to relax. I didn't make any plans ahead of time. I tried to not obligate myself to anyone or anything, since I know this is the very thing that is the barrier of me being okay. I let myself just be, even if I didn't do it very well, I tried.

Then TJ and I headed to Hawaii for 2 weeks, camping, hiking, exploring, and adventuring in Kauai for one week followed by spending some time with one of my students and surfing and playing in Oahu for another week.

Work started halfway through August and already I find myself tired on a soul level and sensing a possible aioli ugly cry moment at any time. So far I've only cried unexpectedly about a song I'd never heard, but I never know when it will sneak up on me; and for me, that is a sure sign of a change needing to come.

Here is what I know: There is no way that I can do good work, love students and friends and family and TJ and others well, without paying attention to myself--my heart, my soul, my well-being.

And as I celebrate my 33rd birthday a few days early, in a place that allows me to stop and to rest and to laugh and to cry and to be, I think I am getting it in a whole new way.

I've got to grow up a little more in this next year in ways that I haven't for awhile.

It is time for rituals and rhythms that breathe life into my bones, that open up my heart in new and beautiful ways to the story that is unfolding.

I never would have thought that not having aioli on my breakfast sandwich would have been the light on my dashboard, but it was, and I am trying to pay attention. For myself, absolutely, but for you as well.

Why? Because I love you. And you matter. And you deserve my best.

As do I.

I deserve my best, and 33 must be the continued messy, crazy, unpredictable, beautiful journey that God desires to co-create with me as I lean in.

One Step at a Time

Can you feel it?

Breath in your lungs.

Life in your bones.

You are here.

Present.

Living.

Breathing.

Being.

Do you see it?

If you are able, look into the eyes of those around you. These, the window to the soul, have something to tell you.

Quiet your mind and your heart.

Listen.

How are you?

No, but really.

How are you?

I know what you mean. I have been there too.

Surprise.

Joy.

Pain.

Suffering.

Peace.

Confusion.

Frustration.

Anger.

Indifference.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Contentment.

Inspiration.

Hopefulness.

Steady yourself, friend.

Feel and see and listen.

We are connected. What you do eventually impacts me and what I do impacts you as well. We must pay attention to one another, to ourselves, to the life that desires to burst forth and carry us forward, onward, step by step, moment by moment.

I spent my Spring Break with four of my students and a dear friend I work with. It was the college trip I never had, camping and hiking, laughing, playing, adventuring in national parks. We shared campfires and told stories and chose to get out of the daily grind to push ourselves in ways that forced us to step away from what makes us comfortable, and to step into uncomfortable experiences (fear, pain, perseverance, exhaustion, anxiety, annoyance, frustration) that came with great reward. We had no choice but to pay attention to the natural world around us and to one another. It was all that we had in places with limited cell service and minimal amenities (no showers and a quarter mile walk to the bathroom).

As we hiked up trails crowded with others pushing themselves through their discomfort to experience the beauty in the place we were, I couldn't help but look people in their eyes and wonder about their stories. I didn't know what brought them to that place, but there we were, struggling, and living, together.

Nothing but mountains and rivers and rugged, natural beauty exclaiming how small and limited we are, simultaneously screaming that indeed, we each are alive, witnessing the grandeur of a world that both shakes and stabilizes us.

The last hike we did was in Bryce Canyon. It was the ninth (and unknowingly last) hike of the trip, which were all done within 3 days time. Every hike we ventured on ended up being longer than the signs indicated, and this one was no exception.

The worst part? It ended going uphill on steep switchbacks. (How unrewarding is an uphill finale?)

There are absolutely no words for the exhaustion we were all feeling on that final leg of the journey.

As we slowly made our way up the final switchbacks, one of my students (annoyingly, but lovingly) charged ahead and would turn around to watch and cheer the rest of us on.

"Just one step at a time. You got this."

And you know what? As much we wanted to strangle him and his enthusiasm, he was absolutely right.

We got it.

We made it.

It was in each of our time, but one by one we ascended out of the canyon, feeling exhausted, but also accomplished.

The impossible turned to possible.

It took each of us paying attention to what the others needed, and being just that for one another, whether or not we knew we needed it (or even wanted it).

This past week truly felt like an unexpected gift, as if something awoke within me once more, pointing me to feel and see and listen in ways that I haven't for awhile.

It reminded me to pay attention to myself and those around me, to all of what makes us who we are, and to remember our resilience. That we have made it to today, and just that is something worth celebrating.

So, today, however you may be feeling, however you may be doing, remember that life in your bones.

Dear friends, it's just one step at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

You got this. Believe me, you've got this.

Hopeful Disruption

The stars were suspended in the sky, the tiniest twinkling lights hanging down so close to the earth, yet still just out of reach. I didn't know I needed it: the damp, crisp air kissing my face, the not-so-distant crashing waves, the spectacular umbrella of night sky wrapping me in its arms gifting me a few moments of quiet, of peace, of promise.

If I stood on my tip-toes, I maybe could have done it -- grabbed the lowest hanging sparkle and captured it, like putting a firefly in a jar on a sweet summer's night. Something inside instead left me silently planted, still, waiting. For what, I'm not sure, but it felt necessary. Something deep within my soul held me rooted to the corner of the porch, head tilted back, eyes to skies.

My winter break wasn't exactly what I had anticipated. Hard to believe, but staying in one place for a long time is difficult for me.

There are always

things to see

things to do

things to explore

and staying home disrupts the opportunity to do so.

Does it?

Discovery comes in many forms. It takes time. One must pay attention to discover.

In my quest for life-giving adventure out and about, in new places, experiencing new things, with new stories to tell, I can miss a very important type of discovery: self-discovery.

Naturally one will find new understanding about oneself while exploring and traveling and having exposure to the nouveau.

Self-discovery, the way in which I am referring, happens in the difficult action of

stopping

slowing

silencing

stillness.

I would be untruthful if I told you that I spent many contemplative hours of my break doing these things. I didn't. Well, I didn't not do them, but I didn't do them in ways that provided a deeper understanding at the core of my being.

What I did do, however, was upset my routine of having no routine and my expectations of unrealistic expectations.

It's hard to be satisfied when I anticipate everything to be better than it actually could, or even should be. Living for adventure and on the go pushes space to pay attention to oneself, to others, to God, off to the margins. Disruptions are frustrating, unmet expectations are devastating, and life is just not quite as fulfilling.

Instead, during winter break, I did a lot of nothing. This gave permission for the space that had been pushed to the margins to make its way back to center of the page and present itself as open, empty, blank space to be created into anything it wanted to be; anything it needed to be.

TJ and I went to the Oregon Coast with his family over Christmas. It was my first time and it was enamoring. It was our family's first time doing anything like this, and I think we all needed it for a variety of reasons. The deck on the rental home provided views of the shore break and giant sand dune below during the day and the spectacular, pure sky by night.

Staring at the stars this past Christmas night I was consumed with an unusual appreciation of the messiness of life and the gift of the disruption of hope and wholeness in the stillness. I found myself so very grateful for the reminder that there is always an opportunity to discover, wherever I am, wherever I go, or, especially, wherever I stay.

That night I left the stars there, but gave them one last longing gaze before going back inside. They deserved to be discovered by someone else that also needed a hopeful disruption.