on beginning again...

+



A very wise person once told me, "It's not who you are on the inside, but what you do that matters."

What are you doing?

My answer? Not enough.

My solution? Start. Somewhere. Anywhere. But start. And then start again.

Wheeeeee

I rode my bike to work today. It made me feel invincible. Darting between cars, passing other cyclists, avoiding train tracks - I am invincible. I can pedal faster than the other bike commuters, I can save gas and money and burn calories, I can survive the unpredictable traffic, day-dreaming pedestrians, and late summer heat...I can do anything! Until, of course, my tire does catch one of those pesky trolley tracks and I go down, hard, bruising my knee and my ego. When that happens, I hope to pick myself up, dust myself off, and plant myself firmly back on my extremely uncomfortable bicycle seat. Because it's fun.

Number twenty-five: Riding my bike. Because it makes me say, "wheeee" and feel like I'm twelve, but only the good parts of being twelve. Wheeee. Say it with me.

I'm okay if you get me at a good angle

Number twenty-four: Running. Moving. Being active.

I used to hate running. Hate. More, even, than I hate coffee. And I really hate coffee. The sweat; the unnecessarily short shorts; the heading toward an end point only to turn around and come right back, or, worse yet, circling and circling and circling - just, really, what's the point?

But as I've forced myself to do it more, and as I've done that forcing in the company of very, very good friends, I've started really appreciating the freedom I feel when my feet are pounding the pavement, probably taking years off my knees. A freedom to move. Forward. Even if I'm not going very fast.

I do not wish to be pale pink

Number twenty-three: taking my mom kayaking for the first time when she turned 60.

It was awesome. More awesome still was my dad flipping his kayak within the first 15 minutes of the river trip. Into the rapids. And being carried downstream for 5 minutes before having the opportunity to get back in. I wouldn't laugh if he hadn't survived. But he did. Of course, I'm pretty sure that was the first and last kayaking trip of his life. Finally, my mom's end-of-trip tip in the muddiness of the river bank, rounded out the highlights of our fantastic family fun.

Deliciousness takes many forms

Today, that form is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

P.S. Apparently I can't keep up with this blog. Which isn't to say that I'm not grateful for many, many things. Only that I'm busy. And lazy. (Yes, it's possible to be both.) My solution, then, is to just think of one thing - *one* thing a day (and, then, actually post it).

Number twenty-two: peanut butter and jelly. Made with love. I like mine with just a little bit of jelly (raspberry is best), cut diagonally or into four triangles. How about you?

you spin me right round

Things that make me infinitely happy, Take One (in no particular order)
1. Riding my bike.
2. Chocolate chip pancakes + fun breakfasts.
3. Pizza. Always pizza.
4. Vineyard City Church worship. It's just the best.
5. The *Once* soundtrack.
6. My best friend.
7. The Wedding Singer, every time I watch it.
8. The relationship between my cat and my dog.
9. Colter's hugs.
10. This: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0.

Number twenty-one: PATIENCE. Because sometimes the rose-colored glasses aren't on the nightstand where you left them. Sometimes you've got to search for them, dig through lots of other odds and ends, and endure several hazy, blue-colored days before picking them up again and forcing them back onto your face.

but, still

So, I've been a little down lately. And since this blog is, well, not about that, I figured I was at least capable of pulling together a list of things that are, still, good. Great, even. It's not real for anyone to be bursting with happiness all the time, and it's definitely not real for me.

But, still, for these things I am grateful. But, still, for these things I consider myself blessed beyond what is deserved. But, still, for these things, I start perking back up again and realizing - hey, it's not so bad.

Number twenty:
a niece or nephew on the way (!!!)
sunshine
cold water
Chaco's
the Weepies station on Pandora
thinking about my next photo adventure
Wicked
a new uniball pen with a very fine point
a fridge full of food freaking fan-tastic friends
legs that can run, arms that can swim, feet that can pedal

i'm not the boss of me

Number Nineteen: LETTING GO. Because it feels great when you realize, suddenly, that you don't need to (and can't) carry it all yourself. More than that, it feels great when you realize that the one who can will do a much better job with it than you will.

p.s. This is starting to get too cheesy, even for me.

"what is essential is invisible to the eye"

Number Eighteen: TRUST. Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it isn't there.

just say yes

to get to the light
sometimes you have to squeeze through
the tiniest cracks



Number Seventeen: LIGHT. And always moving toward it.

who can be against us?

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8: 38-39

Number Sixteen: CONFIRMATION. (Not conformation.)

I don't need to dip my toe in first

Number Fifteen: FRIDAY AFTERNOONS. So much promise. So much possibility. The weekend will be over in a flash, but I am thankful for these moments when it's still there, stretched out in front of me like a cool (and people-free) swimming pool on a hot day. Might as well jump in.

I hate coffee, but I like myself

From time to time, especially in college, I was hit with an overwhelming desire to try to be someone much more interesting than I actually was. I wanted to wear funky hats and light, flow-y shirts; pierce my eyebrow and pull off super-short haircuts; smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, black. I wanted to be mysterious, and different, and bohemian. Sort of like a late-nineties version of a hipster.

I think those were the desires that led me to Kafein, the local coffee shop and cafe, at the beginning of my sophomore year. I applied for a job preparing and serving food and drinks, and my carefully-chosen coffeehouse outfit must have worked because I got it before I had even finished the interview.

When I showed up for my training, I learned two things very quickly: 1. all of my new coworkers were much, much cooler than I was; and 2. prepping and serving food and cleaning up a cafe kitchen were not, even a little bit, glamorous.

I stayed behind the bar for the first few weeks on the job, and I was happy to have the distance from the customers. Slicing veggies, arranging hummus plates, and making shakes were tasks I mastered quickly. Hot beverages and I were not such good friends, though, and out of fear of the extremely picky coffee-drinkers yelling at me for being too slow or not preparing their lattes just right, I typically let the more seasoned coffee-makers handle those orders. Generally, though, aside from the way my clothes smelled and feet ached when I got done working, I thought it was a pretty decent job.

Until the incident.

A dreaded lunch shift that ended my honeymoon with Kafein, squashed my dreams of being a hip, coffeehouse waitress (the word barista didn't exist yet), and has since entertained many a friend as I've recounted the story.

Here's what happened:

Scene: Lunchtime, coffee shop. Evanston, Illinois. Fall, 1997.

I'm working behind the bar, as usual, but it's just me and one of the managers holding down the fort. Around 11:45, it starts to get busy. And then it gets busier. And busier. At noon, the manager has to go out back to take a delivery, and he asks me to not only continue preparing all of the lunch orders that have come in, but to go out into the sea of young business-type lunchers and college students and take more orders.

All of a sudden I'm up to my eyeballs in sandwiches and salads, veggie plates and soups, flavored sodas and milkshakes. Milkshakes! It's like everyone in the place wants one, and wants it quickly. And if you've ever had to make a milkshake, you'll know that it's not the most speedy process, especially when you can only make two at a time. An order of five at one table? Watch my head spin.

But I manage to stay relatively calm - making sure I get all the orders, taking water to the tables, devising an efficient method for tackling the shakes. And everything seems okay - I'm plugging away, the manager is still out back, the tables are full, people are still coming in but no one has complained about the service yet...

I finally finish - I finish the milkshakes, and I'm so happy and proud of myself for getting five done relatively quickly. None of them are melting yet, and they look great - sweet, creamy deliciousness.

I can't wait to serve them and as I look at the customers perched on the edges on their booth seats, they look equally excited to eat them - quickly tucking their paperwork back into folders, pushing the laptops toward the center of the table. But as I'm setting the first shake on the table, my happy-to-be-of-service grin meeting their I'm-about-to-eat-ice-cream smiles, it happens.

The weight of the tray carrying the other four shakes shifts, just a little, and I think they know what's going to happen before I do because I'm still smiling when the first one hits.

Splat. Vanilla. Splat. Mocha. Splat. Chocolate, chocolate.

Four milkshakes now covering laptops, lap-tops, and my flow-y, white, coffeehouse shirt.



I went back for a few shifts after that, but then I made up some story about a family emergency and never even picked up my last paycheck. I just ran, and ran, and ran.

The problem was, it wasn't me. It wasn't me at all. I hated the taste of coffee, the smell of coffee, and the person I was trying to be by working at a coffeehouse. Besides, the eyebrow ring looked incredibly, incredibly stupid. Both times I had it done.

I'd like to think I've grown a lot since 1997 - for one I no longer feel the need to make up elaborate stories to avoid perceived conflict. I'd also like to think that my days of wishing I were someone different are over. I still will occasionally spill stuff on other people, but I'm confident in my ability (and God's ability) to always clean up the messes.

Number Fourteen: BEING ME. I can't sing or spell, but I smell pretty good. I guess I'll take it.

jiggity jig

I've always been a homebody. Growing up, I didn't like to spend the night away from my house or away from my family, and when I went on a trip of any kind I always relished getting home. The drive or flight back could never go fast enough, and sometimes (okay, often) I checked out of where ever I was days before it was time to leave. I was always comforted by the things I knew, the routine I expected - trips away from home, even fun trips, challenged me. I left camp early 3 summers in a row - I may have faked a sprained ankle one year and the flu another. Once it was in my head that I wanted to be home, I had to get home.

I can't say my propensity for homesickness has changed completely as I've gotten (much) older, but it certainly has changed. I am extremely grateful for opportunities to travel and take breaks from the madness (and a job with enough flexibility to allow it), and even more so for chances to connect and reconnect with those of you I don't get to see everyday.

Apart from getting back to the Midwest frequently for family fun, here are the other places I'd like to go in the next 5 years:

Grand Canyon
Glacier, Acadia, Yosemite, and Yellowstone National Parks
Rocky Mountains
California coast roadtrip
Seattle/Vancouver
New Zealand
England/Scotland/Ireland
Belize

Surely it can be done. Right?


Number Thirteen: VACATION. Because you can get away, and then you can come home.

these stories don't mean anything when you've got no one to tell them to

I was out past my bedtime last night and have been paying for it today, but I do not regret it for a second. It was the first live show I've seen in more than three years, and while I would have considered that a crime in my past life, I haven't necessarily been thinking I was missing much. Until the guitar started strumming and Brandi Carlile hit her first note. And then I thought, wow, where have I been?

Number Twelve: LIVE MUSIC. Music that hits your core, and shakes it, and doesn't let go.

for lovers, for dreamers, and me

Number Eleven: PROMISES. I don't always keep them, but He does.

don't sweat it?

it's not that i see
just the one or the other
but forest AND trees
Number Ten: THE SMALL STUFF. The small stuff, and how it teaches me about the big stuff. Small stuff that is bringing me joy right now: half of a mini watermelon and the sound the spoon makes when it slides into the fruit; a bottle full of water (and an endless supply from which to drink, at least for now); the absence of a migraine or any allergy symptoms; the stuff I've crossed off my to-do list for the day; and, knowing that Lucy and Noah will greet me when I get home.

the grass is pretty green right here

Number Nine: PERSPECTIVE. Because sometimes, if you step back and tilt your head just right, a worn-down and warped piece of wood can actually be a stunning seascape complete with your very own boat in which to rest on the water.

eyes to see

I spent a lot of my life convinced I didn't like people. Sometimes, just sometimes, I'd even say I hated them. People did things I didn't like and said things I didn't understand. I couldn't control their actions or words, the volume of their voices, or the amount of coffee they drank to make their breath smell the way that it did. The noise, the hurts and disappointments, (the odors)...for me, for a time, they assaulted me from every angle. I couldn't go out in it without sufficient time for recovery afterward and it seemed wiser, safer, to separate myself from it as much as possible. Or at least limit the amount of time I was out and about in uncontrolled environments and, especially, uncontrolled audiences.

And I liked being alone. A lot.

Yet in the last year, my feelings have changed. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it fascinates me, the change. The best illustration I have is this:

have you ever loved someone, really loved them?
completely and unconditionally? (as unconditionally as humanly possible)
even the rough bits?
the hard bits?
the bits that get tangled and messy and sometimes leave scars?
have those bits ever become,
i don't know,
endearing to you?endearing because they are part of the person
the person you love?
have you ever been able to look at people,
in general,
that way?
with those eyes?
and love them and delight in them
even when they're stepping on your toes
or elbowing you in the ribs?

That's what it's been like. Lately. Not always, never always (and never perfectly) but the fact that it happens at all convinces me God exists. The fact that my easily-offended-and-flaw-seeking eyes can see more good than bad in the people around me (and not just the ones I love, because they are easy); the fact that I can smile and laugh in situations that used to make me grimace and run away; the fact that I can even handle being surrounded by people, lots of people, for long periods of time and not need to go off by myself for a week to recover...these things are proof.

And so I think, maybe it's not that I don't like people. Maybe I just couldn't get past myself to actually see them before. And maybe it's just that I don't like crowds. Maybe it's just that I don't like big crowds of people, crowds of strangers.

And that's okay.

Number Eight: PEOPLE. Who knew?

... i looked here and there and everywhere ...

Number Seven: GREEN. Because it's the best.

A lament not so much

I.
unexpected drops
the dust finally settles
relief comes quickly

II.
caught in the downpour
i really like dogs and cats
so it works for me

III.
a nice change of pace
light really isn't light, right
without the darkness?





Number Six: RAIN. A reminder that everything can be washed away, everything can be new again. The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning... Lamentations 3:22-23

Poop + Brokenness

My dog and I are more alike than I care to admit. (Though here I am admitting it, so I guess I've proven myself to be a stretcher-of-the-truth.)

She gets excited about breakfast, rolling around in the grass, and loving on little kiddos. She craves affection (though pretends she doesn't), is a fierce protector of the people and places she calls home, and when she likes you she'll let you know. She is stubborn, and odd, and definitely (definitely, definitely) broken.

(She also walks funny and eats her own poop, while I consider my gait fairly normal and would never, ever...well, that's just too gross to even discuss further.)

I've had Lucy for six years this July, and she is certainly, well, special. I fell in love with her immediately, though I don't think she's necessarily the kind of dog who's charm comes across right away. Perhaps that's why I feel such a kinship with her.

On the surface she's indifferent, jarring (that bark!), and a little intimidating (again, that bark!). She doesn't exhibit typical dog behavior, especially when meeting people for the first time, and she rarely, rarely stands still long enough to let someone pet her. If she does decide you're okay, though, she'll love you forever.

Number Five: LUCY. My human-sitting, projectile-vomiting, poop-eating pup. It is perfect that she is mine.



The Story of Lucy
In 2003, when I went to the Humane Society for the first time, I knew I'd be leaving with a dog. I had already put it off for years, my defenses were low, and there were hundreds awaiting adoption - how could I not? Lucy was less than two months old at the time, in a kennel with her brother, and huddled, shaking, in the back corner. The brother was bouncy and excited and licking my hand through the chainlink, but Lucy held back and watched, unwilling to move from her spot.

It was clear she'd already been knocked around a bit, and I knew immediately she was the one. I told the volunteer I wanted to hold her, and gently carried her outside to the small play area. She perked up immediately and was especially interested in eating the ice chips I had in my hand, though she never exhibited typical dog behavior. I fell in love with her right then, as her tiny puppy teeth scraped the palm of my hand and her little tail twitched ever so slightly, threatening a wag.

I reluctantly handed her back over so she could be given shots and spayed, filled out some paperwork, and couldn't wait to come back in a few days to pick her up. When I did, I was met with some slightly disturbing news: she had almost died during surgery due to a bad heart. She was doing okay, but they didn't have high hopes that she would live very long and asked if I wanted to choose a different dog.

I said no, absolutely no, and took her home.

Wag more, bark less

My whole life, I've always wanted to be a glass-half-full kind of person. I've wanted to think positively, look on the bright side, truly believe "everything happens for a reason"...

But it was like holding my breath under water...I could do it for about a minute, and then I needed to break back through the surface. And on the surface was the reality that I was not, no matter how hard I tried, a glass-half-full kind of person.

Yet something has shifted in the last few years, and more noticeably in the past few months. As cheesy as it sounds, God has given me a perspective I've never had before, and truthfully it's kind of amazing. To experience things so purely and devoid of all of the heaviness I used to carry around with me. To see things as if for the first time.

And I realize I have a choice. I can get bogged-down in the this-didn't-happen-quite-the-way-I-wanted-it-to -ness of every day life; or I can be deliberately thankful and intentional in noticing the head-pats and belly-scratches as well as making sure I'm doing my best to continually give them. If I can keep my focus there, as much as possible, I think I'll be okay.

Number Four: UNEXPECTED LIFE LESSONS

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8 (NIV)

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes

Believe it or not, this post is not about snow. Though I do love snow and will, one day, devote an entire post to it.

It's about lists, kind of, as a list is all I'm capable of producing today. I happen to love lists, though, so this kind of excites me. The thing I love most about lists is the possibility involved. Whether it's a small task or a life-long goal, there is something so energizing about it being out there, in front of me.



I must confess, though, that most of my life I made lists that didn't take flight beyond the lists themselves. My to-dos, my resolutions, even the way I saw myself or the things I saw myself doing never actually came to any sort of fruition. Looking back, I think it was because I didn't know how to take an active role in my life. I didn't know how to move beyond merely reacting to the things going on around me, responding to the things people said or did (or didn't say or didn't do). There was always such fear. Fear that if I actually wanted something, if I actually *went* for something and I couldn't have it or it didn't happen that I'd have to deal with it being my fault and not get to blame someone else. Everything just kind of *happened* to me and I always felt like a bit of a passenger.

And it's not like that all changed overnight and now I'm this super-woman-master-of-my-own-destiny or anything. That's not what I'm saying. Not at all. But things have changed, my perspective has shifted, and it's kind of glorious to be on this side of it. To make plans and keep them. To set goals and work toward them. To cross things off the list. To do the things I have always imagined myself doing, but never actually did before. More than anything, though, to be able to fail and not feel like a failure.



Number Three: POSSIBILITY. Lists. Being a do-er. Moving beyond fear of failing, fear of looking foolish, fear of saying or doing it wrong...moving toward freedom to actually do the things I want to do and be the things I want to be. And not in a self-help, I'm-okay-you're-okay, kind of way; in a tangible, wow-I-didn't-realize-I-had-been-holding-back-so-much (or, even, that so much was possible) way. Thanks, God.

This was/is my short list for 2009, by the way. Oddly enough, a lot of these things have already happened. It's kind of amazing. And when I say "kind of," I mean - extremely.

Running up Tumamoc (check)
Running up Sabino (check)
Climbing Pichaco Peak (check)
Camping in Sedona (check)
Camping on Mount Lemmon (hopefully this summer)
Completing a tri (July!!!)
Getting into really good shape (working on it)
Finding a church/churches (working on it)
Hiking more (working on it)
Saying yes/being available when needed (working on it)
Committing to a photo project (does this count?)
Never missing a chance to tell people how important they are to me (working on it)

p.s. still with the punctuation. wow.
p.p.s. when i started writing this, i truly intended it to simply be a list of some of my favorite things (hence the title). it didn't turn out to be that, obviously. perhaps next time?

when the desert doesn't feel like "the desert"

When I lived in Iowa (or Evanston) and had never ventured too far west of the Mississippi save for a few ski trips to Colorado, there was this idea in my mind that Arizona, and Tucson in particular, was magic. Magic to the key of never-ending skies, barren landscapes, and Paul-Bunyan-sized cacti. Cowboy boots, silver jewelry, and an always-full moon. Howling-coyotes, biting snakes, and sun that will fry an egg on a sidewalk in seconds.




When I got the chance to move here, I jumped at it. I had been in Iowa City for 8 months. Wasting time, unsure how I got there or where I was going. Unhappy with everything and everyone, especially myself and a job that had me in a basement cubicle, surrounded by beige and florescent lights.

But it was the job, the "I'll take this for now because I have no other options" job, that led me here. For that reason, I can not, for a second, regret the time I spent there.

In April of 2001, I had the opportunity to travel to Tucson to help administer the selection of the next class of Udall Scholars. I had worked on the Udall program all year, and was excited to finally meet the staff I'd gotten to know from afar and participate in the process. It was my first visit to the desert, and the flight in confirmed everything. It really was magic. I remember being surprised at the amount of green, the ruggedness of the terrain, and at the emotion that overtook me immediately.

On the second night of the event, I was approached with a job offer. It wasn't a total surprise as they had mentioned the possibility before I arrived, but I still don't think I was expecting it to be real. It was real, though, and sitting there, in my lap, waiting for me to decide what to do with it.

I took a walk to think about my options, mostly because I was excited to be out of the hotel conference room and moving along a desert wash.* The wildlife captivated me, and I was immediately distracted by birds, jackrabbits, and the awe of being somewhere beautiful and knowing it. Though I didn't consider myself a follower of Jesus at the time, I was in the habit of praying every so often, and I suddenly and overwhelmingly had the urge to ask God about Tucson. About this giant leap from Iowa and family and all that I knew to something so foreign and risky. And I did. I asked God.

Me: So, God, Tucson?
God (through an increase in the wind so significant it blew the hat off my head and peppered goosebumps up and down my arms): Yes. Tucson.

I've been here since, though I have had three failed attempts at leaving. This city, this desert, this place has my heart. And it has my heart because of the people I've met here, the people who have become as much like family to me as my family. You know who you are. Thank you. I love you.

Number Two: TUCSON. A city I love because it holds people I love dearly. The salsa isn't half bad, either.



P.S. I apologize for my overuse of commas. It's out of control.
*Turns out that wash was Pantano, by the way. Between Broadway and 22nd.

take two

Upon further reflection, I realized that I want this to be, more than anything, an exercise in gratitude. I want to recognize, acknowledge, and publicly give thanks for the good that exists in the world, and the good that exists in my life. If nothing else, it'll keep my attitude there, in that place of thanksgiving, instead of letting it slip into the things-would-be-better-if zone. And, because, really, God is so good. He has blessed me so much. I should be bursting at the seams with the sheer weight of it all, overflowing onto everything and everyone I touch. No questions asked. No excuses made. No holding back.

A list. A sometimes-photographic, sometimes-text heavy list. Things I love the most. Things that bless me. Things, for which I should, without ceasing, give thanks.

Number One: PARKER. Precious nephew. Contagious-laugher. Stealer-of-my-heart.

it's a start

I am hesitant to say this, but I'd like to embark on a year-long photo journey, and I'd like to start now. Why hesitant? Many reasons, really, but chief among them is that my time is so full lately. Full to overflowing. So full, in fact, that I never quite know where to start or what to put first.

And, yet, at the same time, it's the fullness that excites me. The fullness that pushes me to do more, to want to be more. (It's also true that more means less somewhere else, but I feel like I have enough somewhere-elses that can handle less.)

I fear not following through. I fear this becomes another quick start, another abandoned project. But I also fear not jumping in, and not going for it. This. Now. So, I move forward.

A photo journey. A photo a day, perhaps a photo a week, to highlight the people I love. The people who make my heart sing, for whatever reason. Sometimes I'll write a few words to accompany the image, sometimes several paragraphs. I may even throw in a haiku or two.

Ready?

Disclaimer: the very nature of this blog is extremely, extremely cheesy. Do not read without crackers (or outloud in a cheesy voice).




I selected this photo because of the lightness. It's simple, cheery, and bright. Despite the undeniable existence of darkness in my life, I hope to always be those things more.