The Rising

There was a full moon last night. I watched it slowly rise above the distant hills and thick tree line while I wandered around the streets by my home. It will still appear full tonight, but with the low, dark clouds there is only a small chance that I can catch a glimpse once more.

Early last week I went for a quick run to the beach. I hadn't done any form of physical activity, with the exception of rolling out of bed (literally...our mattress is on the floor) and walking, due to over a month of stupid foot injuries. (I kicked driftwood barefoot then bruised my heal from jumping across a tiny creek on the beach followed by bruising the top of my foot with a surfboard fin.) My feet still hurt, but it was a relief to move, if even a little.

As I headed down the road on that brisk, drizzly afternoon my eyes caught a flash of bright yellow amidst the dull dead colors that are the remnants of winter before spring. Standing boldly by itself in a dead grassy corner at the edge of an open space was one daffodil plant, with one blooming daffodil. It felt like a tiny, beautiful gift that no one knew about except for me. The yellow warmed my heart and gave me a spark of joy that felt unfamiliar, yet comforting.

Joy is something that I miss. The uninhibited burst of lightness and ease expressing itself through belly laughter or a spring in my step or a gentle, unforced smile. It is that deep, internal settledness, knowing that despite exterior circumstances, life within abounds, roots remain strong though seasons may wither the leaves and strip the branches.

Happiness and joy are often interchanged, although different. Happiness is temporary and joy is, well truthfully, eternal, if cultivated. Happiness is dependent upon, while joy is independent of. Happiness is definable and joy revels in its mystery.

There have been many, many moments of happiness in my life and I am ever so grateful for them. However, as time has gone on, years have passed and worked away layers, exposing me to the raw elements, the lines between happiness and joy have become blurred from a desperation to simply survive. In my need for survival, I have clung to moments of happiness in their provisional promises, desperate to hold on as long as possible knowing that it would be an undisclosed amount of muddling through the valley before even the option of a peak would present itself.

Happiness tends to only be found at the peaks. Joy can be found in the valleys.

And that is something that I had forgotten, until the rising.

The rising moon.

The rising daffodil.

The resilient moon.

The resilient daffodil.

In season, they rise.

So shall you.

So shall I.

The Goodness of an Onion

3.9 miles for one yellow onion. 7.8 miles if you count the trip home.

Yesterday I was adamant about making dinner. (This was immediately after an unexpected morning conflict around being bad at making decisions together, planning vs. not planning, budgeting–woof, what time TJ would go to the gym, and how starting the conversation was to avoid conflict in the first place.)

Adamant may be the wrong word–more like stubborn. I was stubborn about making dinner. If TJ really needed to do his own thing and has had too many stressors, then I will take the burden upon myself, "selflessly" providing some ease. All out of my love and compassion for him and nothing to do with my genetic stubbornness or proving a point.

Yes, TJ–I will find a creative way to use some of the unusual produce in our fridge. Like the cauliflower that's trying to hold on for one more day just to be the shining star in a meal that was originally planned, but never quite executed. (Hey, Taco Bell and the Costco food court are cheaper. Plus, with a Costco pizza there are leftovers. It's the gift that keeps on giving...well, I mean, until it's gone...an hour later.)

In addition to trying to do a little something for me (take a short hike) and running errands, it took me 2 hours yesterday to shop for dinner when we had most of the ingredients at home already. Before I even headed to the store, I found a recipe, triple-checked what was in our kitchen, and made a list with 5 items. That's right. Only 5.

For some perspective, that is 24 minutes spent shopping per item.

Did I mention I had to go to 2 different stores as well? And the 2 hours of shopping for those 5 ingredients doesn't include travel time; it was just the time spent wandering the aisles.

After the weird whirlwind of being out in civilization (civilization meaning anywhere outside of our house and the blip of a town we live in called Gearhart), my brain turned to mush. I walked into the house and TJ, having apologized for his part in the conflict (I wasn't quite ready to own my part in it, if I even had a part in it), offered to make dinner instead.

Fast, easy, quick, delicious, healthy, dinner. I was very hungry so naturally I took him up on his offer, but not without kicking myself for spending 2 hours at the grocery stores (yes, plural–I still can't believe it), for a dinner that would have to wait another night.

Hold on for one more day little cauliflower. We need you!

I'm such a wonderful cook that TJ has told me that I should have a youtube cooking show. My show would be all about how to turn a 10 minute meal into an hour...on accident. How? Well, I actually don't know. It could be the possibility that I'm in the running for the world's slowest chopper? Or maybe because things never go quite right and sometimes I have to start over or because multi-tasking in the kitchen is a necessary skill for successful cooking and definitely not my forte.

The show would be difficult for me, but excruciating for the viewer, although I bet they wouldn't be able to stop watching. Like videos of horribly embarrassing moments. Or late night show hosts commenting on 300, oh I mean 1,000 hamberders.

Tonight's episode would be featuring the barely hanging on cauliflower to be turned into a curried soup. After 10 minutes of (painfully slow) removal of ingredients from the cabinets and fridge, I realize that I don't have an onion.

I had an onion yesterday (so I thought). Today? Vanished.

The recipe calls for a whole onion. No skirting around it; I had to go brave civilization once more to get an onion from the closest location.

7.8 miles and 35 minutes later (I don't drive slow, I shop slow), I'm back. Ready to go.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say this episode would be trending out of pure absurdity. I technically didn't have the correct pot, so instead used a large cast iron roasting pot that took over half the stove. I could have roasted the cauliflower while I went to the store to get the onion, but that didn't occur to me until halfway through cooking, having already added 35 minutes to the preparation time. I decided to double the recipe and failed to realize I only had one of everything (except cauliflower); but I had already started so, well, I went with it and got creative. While vigorously zesting a lemon (1 teaspooon's worth to be exact), I may have included grating my knuckle in the process. And to top it off, my stomach was growling before I even started making dinner. (Taco Bell is right next to the grocery store and it took everything within me to not give up and instead just grab some quality, healthy, organic, grass-fed burritos and a crunchwrap supreme–TJ's choice.)

2.5 hours later, dinner is served. Soup and bread that I didn't make. That's it.

It would've taken even longer if I made the side salad that I had hoped, but totally forgot until the hot soup and warm bread were already plated. I was tempted to do it anyway, at the expense of the hot meal getting cold. It wasn't until TJ said he didn't want salad at least 3 times that I realized it might be a bad idea.

Time: 4.5 hours

Distance: 53.4 miles (yesterday and the 7.8 from tonight)

Grocery Items: 5, plus an onion

Worth It: Absolutely

Beside my very unexpected post-dinner rant and cry about, ya know, things related to the meaning of my life, dinner was really, really (magically) good as I sit here and think about it.

Somehow the soup tasted wonderful and was the perfect meal on another unexpected wind/rain storm filled night. We cleared off the table (from our latest board game) and sat together to eat. I lit candles (but forgot to turn the overhead light off), used cloth napkins (it's more fun; but we also only have cloth ones that belonged to my grandma so not much of an option there), and tiredly chatted between shoveling down our food (remember how hungry I was before dinner?).

My tendency is to be critical of and focus on the ridiculous details, instantly narrowing in on the points that might make something more interesting or humorous, and as a result, I often experience them negatively. As true as the details are, and as much as they make for a medium-witty read, it is not in the critique of them that I will find the satisfaction or the worthiness I am seeking. It's in the pausing, the presence, the appreciation of the details that open up our hearts to the goodness in the madness.

As the week draws to a close (and I try not to flip out that we are already over halfway through January) I want to remember to hold onto the goodness. To see it, to name it, to experience it; and if it requires a 7.8 mile drive to get an onion, to know that it was worth it–mostly because we have leftovers.

In It

It's been 15 weeks and 1 day since I've last sat down to blog.

If I'm honest with myself, it's because I'm afraid. Writing for me is where I realize my feelings, where life is breathed into the quiet, yet persistent subconscious thoughts that usually stay tucked in my mind until I let them out. 15 weeks and 1 day piled up, pushing and begging to be free, to be released and make room for quiet and rest.

I'm afraid of what that release will look like tonight. So much more change has happened since the end of September and I think I've avoided writing about it as a coping mechanism.

Writing isn't my coping. Writing is my vulnerability.

And I wasn't quite ready to be vulnerable. I don't actually know if I'm ready now, but there comes a point when there isn't much choice; it just is time.

It is critical of me to say it, but it feels real: I knew some of it was too good to be true.

In the blink of an eye, I lost someone so important to me in October. Her impact was so vast, so profound, so authentic, that her death was felt in the depths of our hearts. Losing her was like getting the wind knocked out of us; "us" being the thousands that were seen by, loved, encouraged, fed, and cared for by her.

There is so much that I could say, but I still don't think I am ready to breathe life into that space yet. It's too painful.

In looking back over past text messages and conversations, I forgot that she told me that I need to keep blogging. I think I forgot because I intended for my blog to be a place for me, and if it happened to mean something for someone else, that would be a gift, but it couldn't be (and can't be) my motivation. It strips this of the joy (and the pain) and the purpose of this sacred space.

At the time, the comment was taken as thoughtful encouragement, but it didn't hold the weight that it does now as I read it again. I now realize that in that moment 4 years ago, she saw me, saw something that was within me, and was calling it out.  

To blog again after losing her and reading those words, it is sacred. It carries deep meaning for me and so flippantly typing words on a screen just to say that I maintained my commitment to blog more consistently felt like it would be disgraceful. She deserves more from me, to honor what she saw in me to "develop my gifts", to honor each of you and to honor myself.

I shouldn't be surprised that over the past 15 weeks and 1 day, in the midst of some exciting transitions something devastating would happen. For a moment, for a short season, I just wanted the good to be good and to not have to just survive (or escape) to get through to the next good thing. I wanted to hold on and celebrate right there, in the present, and to avoid another stint in which I experienced the loss of something or someone.

This is likely not a surprise to any of you, but I think I am finally coming to realize that that is impossible.

A good story most often remains with you when it encapsulates the beauty and struggle, the joy and the pain, and how the person (or people) remain authentically present to it all.

I want to tell a good story. I want to be a good story.

So I have to be in it. All of it. And to let all of it be.

In the past 15 weeks and 1 day, a lot has changed. TJ and I both got new jobs where we work remotely. We found a home to rent in a tiny town called Gearhart on the North Coast of Oregon. Finding friends feels impossible, but the handful of sunny days, ocean, and stunning rugged coastline (mostly) makes up for it. We moved 4 times (before getting to our now home), I've traveled 6 times (mostly for work), and Yeep (our Jeep that just made it past the 200k mark) broke down 1 time in the middle of Portland traffic (this is a number we hope doesn't go up).

Moving the week of Thanksgiving meant celebrating just us in our new home with a small meal of gratitude on Sunday of that weekend, not Thursday like most others. The holidays were warmed by cutting down our own tree, putting up decorations to make our sparse living space feel a little more full, and flipping the wall switch to the fireplace to create that cozy winter warmth. Since we sold almost all of our furniture, we've come to terms that it takes time and money to create a home that feels comfortable and inviting, and it will happen, but it just has to be one paycheck at a time. We haven't undecorated from the holidays, and a part of me has a feeling that a little warmth will be lost when we are back to living in a sparse space. But hey, at least we can drive out and burn our tree on the beach!

The holidays were spent with TJ's family and it was quiet, restful and so wonderful. Having our immediate family in Oregon is a gift. For New Year's Eve, my dream of having a variety show with all of our friends didn't really make sense on short notice and with our people living no closer than 1.5 hours away. (By "friends" I mean new and old friends. I was hopeful we would've met some people by then, but we've only ever chatted with our landlord and our postmaster).  Instead TJ and I stayed in, had a dance party (party of 2), played games (we'd love some 2 person game recommendations, since we've overplayed all of ours), and counted down to 2019.

New Year's Day was nothing short of magical: bright sunshine, homemade breakfast burritos on the beach, small hikes, longer hikes, TJ trying out a surf break near us, reflecting on 2018 and how we actually "just did it already" (our only 2018 goal) and dreaming ahead of what's next. If the rest of the year could just be like January 1, my soul would be full.

But it hasn't been. Staying motivated has been difficult. Choosing movement and healthy food over sitting inside watching shows after work on sequential rainy, windy days while eating all the cheese is difficult. Choosing to sit down and blog and be creative with the time that I now have that I never did in the past is, well, difficult.

And I think that's okay...for now. Not forever.

We're trying desperately to create new rhythms that make room for the rest and growth (and even grief) that we need. But it takes time. And it also takes one step in a direction instead of just thinking or talking about it.

Yes, it is risky.

Yes, it is uncomfortable.

Yes, there is no control over the outcome.

But I can make a move.

2018 was about taking lots of steps in a new direction and even still life happened, all of it.

And we made it. You, me, us. We're here to keep telling our stories.

Tonight is about one step in 2019. I can think about the next step tomorrow. I need to just keep taking steps.

Party Popper Perspective

I can't really make sense of anything in this moment. I'm sitting in a backyard Airbnb living room shelter in the quiet, the home owner's boxer pup at my side, string lights gently glowing, finally taking a huge breath.

This year has been a wild one. The last 2 months? Literally, unbelievable.

Nothing feels quite real and I just don't know what to do with it all.

Of course I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I am confused with the insane timing of it all. I am hopeful of what this affords TJ and me individually and together. And I am still grieving working with my students and co-workers for this year since I left my last job.

It is all being held together by this crazy, tangled string that feels like at any moment it could just unravel, yet miraculously it continues to keep it all secure.

In the past month I have celebrated birthdays, a wedding, new jobs, freedom, transition, and the excitement of the unknown. And not just for myself and TJ, this has been for so many of my nearest and dearest around me. It's as if someone had a humongous party popper and pulled the string, instantaneously filling the air with the shock and thrill of goodness showering down with all of the confetti.

It's a unique and wonderful time. And I also am the slightest bit apprehensive.

When life has brought difficulty and pain, unexpected twists and turns, the addition and the loss of people, loneliness and heaviness and burdens and fear, it is easy to look past the charisma of the party popper exploding all at once and live in the almost missed silence of dead air that immediately follows. POP! It catches my breath--I focus on what the impact is going to be versus what it is that is being celebrated in the first place.

All I want is to receive these good gifts with gratefulness and humility, yet there is a part of me that feels like the smallest movement could turn everything onto its head. It's possible that this is the result of the past 8 years of, well, stuff. The stuff has been real, left its mark in both beautiful and heavy ways, but I also don't want the stuff to discolor and strip this gift of brightly colored joyous blooms of the life that they are to live, for however long that may be.

There are a handful of people in my life that have the incredible ability to constantly live in the complexity and tension of life and let it be just what it is in that particular moment. They feel the feelings and take in each experience on its own, opening up their heart and themselves to the vulnerability of being exposed. Small treasures are found in the most mundane. In general, expectations are tossed to the wind and life is experienced with a fullness that wails in sorrow and dances in joy.

I envy these people.
I watch them and long for that reckless abandon. Presenting as if this is how I, too, experience life, I have to be honest and let you know that I really don't. I live in my head, my expectations, my disappointment, letting things of the past make me more critical of the present rather than letting the present speak for itself.

To clarify, the past informs the present and we are each made up of our experiences which tell the story of who we are. However, for myself, when the past robs me of goodness in the present, it is a cause for pausing. There must be a way in which I can allow what is happening now to hold its own place in the story, without assumption or criticism (unless, of course, assumption and criticism are necessary dependent on the situation, which I believe we each likely are aware of the differentiation).

Today I was in a plane and the flight was gorgeous. Mountain ranges spanned as far as the eye could see, the late afternoon sunshine boldly exposing alpine lakes, glaciers, trees, and secrets tucked away in the glorious expanse. Often I have thought about stepping outside of something to gain a different perspective, whether for situations or with people. Until today I hadn't realized the magnitude that a shift in perspective could actually hold. I pictured myself hiking up one of those mountains, on a trail surrounded by trees, pockets of the sun piercing through the density of the forest. To be in the trees on a mountain is so vastly different than looking down on the forest and the mountain ranges from an infinite vantage point. Being immersed in something can be profound, beautiful, necessary even, yet it is a part of something much more substantial, a greater narrative unfolding.

Being reminded of the larger picture sets in all in place. The "me" in the moment experiencing and living things, though significant and defining, is incredibly minute in comparison to the grand scheme. It is all interconnected and we are all interconnected, the tiniest specks on this infinite painting.

Shifting perspective is a reminder of a few very important things: I am not on this adventure alone. I am not the first person to experience these things, be it fear, elation, uncertainty, guilt, confusion, joy, loss. Detaching myself from a moment robs me of wholly living my story, experiencing the grandeur of it all, and limits the expanse of the storyline to something bland and predictable for myself, which has greater impact beyond me. My life matters, but so does yours and wherever we each find ourselves on the journey, we must be gracious with one another, encourage one another, and also challenge one another.

If life was intended to be stagnant, we wouldn't be surrounded with tangible examples of rootedness and growth.

So today, as I find myself headed toward something and somewhere new, surrounded with the confetti of the party popper holding celebration and enthusiasm and goodness, I will choose to practice being here, now. I will let this day speak for itself and trust that whatever happens, it is okay, and important even, to experience it for its fullness, and that in doing so, a better story is being told. Not just for myself, but for you as well.

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.