teething

I've been learning a lot of lessons on dependency lately. In the past month, I have taken leave from work, been hospitalized for 10 days, moved to a city outside of Seattle, and am currently in partial hospitalization. Phew. That's a lot to say and difficult to get out.

This story started in the beginning of the summer when I decided to go to see a doctor about potentially taking medication for the deep depression that had hung over me for several years, but I had been too frightened, unsure, confused to do anything about it. So I went to the doctor, started my medication, and went along, slowly getting better and better.

And then I sank. In early October, I sank and sank and couldn't find air, like someone was holding my head underwater, and I couldn't find my way up. I let it take hold of me to the point of hospitalization due to the insistence of some very close friends. I spent 10 days in the psych ward, going to groups, attending therapy, and discussing medications. I felt a deep confusion in this coming back to life period, as if I were truly starting fresh and learning how to live all over again.

 

I've found myself in a decision-making seat that I never assumed before--what do I  want to do with my  life? I just don't know.

So here I am, one month after the initial hospitalization. For the past two weeks, I have gone to the hospital every day for outpatient treatment. Well, most every day. I've also had some dental work lately. I noticed last week that my wisdom teeth were bothering me--one breaking through the gums and the other stretching out in soreness along the bottom.

It was then I felt my most vulnerable of this whole month. Here I am: a child. Living with a dear friend's family, relying on others to help me get through each hour, each day. I'm in the middle of the biggest transition yet during my 2 years in Seattle. My most vulnerable transition--a child with missing teeth and a deep need for other people and a lack of independence, which I held so dear.

So I am learning. I am learning a lot. Like what it means to live without  concern for what everyone else thinks of me but rather what I think--who I am, where my life is leading to.

 This may be vague, but it is where I am--the first step forward. And it is represented through my shaved head-- a sign of doing something because I wanted to, a sign of grief for all that I have lost the past years, a sign of renewed freedom in self and a welcoming of all things new in the world to within me.

I may be just beginning, but most days, each step is forward.

 

 

firsts

Even after three years, I am shocked by how many "firsts" there are.

It's gotten easier to talk about Derek. Sometimes he feels like a far-off memory. I often wonder what my life would be like if he were still here. It's a simple fascination: I've learned so much since coming to Seattle two years ago. Everything really has changed.

And yet it's the little things that tend to catch me off-guard and send me swirly into tiny sadness and the ever-frustrating tear wells that I hate to let fall. It's been too long, I tell myself, but I know that even still, it's been hardly any time at all.

I don't even know how we got into it, but my friend & I were at a restaurant, sitting across from each other. A normal scene. Towards the end of the meal, we started playing thumb-of-war. Part way through, I paused, realizing that the last time I had done that had been with Derek, but we both played with our right hands because we were lying side-by-side in his hospital bed, and his hand couldn't fold the whole way closed, and sometimes I let him win, but on really good days, he'd win on his own. Feeling the strong hand of my friend across the table felt both comforting and wrong. Comforting just to feel someone's hand in mine; wrong that it had last been Derek's twiddling thumb.

A week later, at a different restaurant, I ordered jalapeno poppers, thinking hmm, I haven't had those in a while. It wasn't until I tasted them in my mouth, all of the flavors absorbing, that the memory hit: New Years with Derek. Years and years of New Years with pizza and poppers or Friday nights with rented movies and poppers.

 The tiniest occurrences can stir up the little memories that mean the most. The tiny, happy memories mean more than a hundred nights in the hospital or months of putting him to bed or the years the disease took away.

I've found myself ending a lot of thoughts with "by now". I thought I'd miss him less by now. I thought he'd feel more distant by now. I thought I wouldn't be so sad by now. Three years feels like a long time without him, but I know that in the long run, it is short. I have my next three years seemingly planned out in my mind, but I don't see it as a long journey, just the next steps for my life. And I realize that three years from now means six years without Derek, and the number will keep growing, and no matter how many years continue to pass, I may never reach the sentiments I thought I would "by now" because it takes more than time to fill the emptiness.

In a week-and-a-half, I will turn twenty-three. The thought has bothered me for a few months now. Derek would be twenty-five now, but he never saw past twenty-two. The thought that I will overwhelms me with a guilt and sadness that I cannot control. I sink into it like a potato into a stew.

A good friend told me, regarding this notion, that he knew someone who's therapist told her that there is the world that you live in and the world that everyone else lives in. He tried to give an example of how this applies with Derek, noting that Derek does not live in the world everyone else lives in now, of course he is dearly remembered in my world, but I have to exist in the world everyone else is in. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, but the stew simile reminded me of it--I'm just a potato trying to blend in, but I've still got roots, and they're thick & tough and hold deep to who I am as a lone potato. But I bring that to the stew and it contributes in its own way.

So three years sounds like it should be "enough" time to stop being so very sad about missing Derek, but it's a big year, my twenty-third. I guess every year from here on out will be another that he didn't have; this is just big because it's the first.

happiness & doubt

"Do smoking and drinking affect your relationship with God?" we asked a group of Muslim boys at the hookah bar.

"Yes."

I've been thinking for months now about what this could mean: what are the implications of such decisions? Why do we directly disobey our own beliefs? Why do we do things that keep us from happiness? What is happiness?

Happy [hap-ee] (adj)

1. delighted, pleased, or glad, as over a particular thing
2. characterized by or indicative of pleasure, contentment, or joy

But what does it really mean to be happy? What does that look like?

I think the boy answered that way because he recognized, as many of us do, that it is easier to do what feels ok rather than what is ultimately good for us. Of course we know that smoking leads to lung cancer and drinking to liver disease, but we do it anyways. Just like how we worry about tiny concerns or eat that second piece of cake--because it takes us out of our fears and into a feeling of --dare I say it?-- peace.

 

In a documentary called Happy, the interviewers ask people in different regions of the world what the most important aim in life is. They all say "to be happy" then go on to describe what brings them joy. I am still amazed by the simplicity of it--a rickshaw driver loving his job and his family, and that is his joy. Why do we find ourselves so wrapped up in nonexistent complexities and still fail to see the simple joys?

 

I have been using happiness and joy synonymously,  but I don't think that is true. I think you can find spurts of joy in the midst of depression, but it is the lasting happiness that we ultimately seek.

And how does God fit into it all? If we ignore the earthly pleasures (be they drinks or worry) and turn to God, will we know happiness? Surely the answer is dependent on what a reader's view of God is, if at all, but speaking from a Christian God perspective, I feel a bit lost over it due to my constant recognition that those earthly pleasures seem to offer more than the silence of God.

 

It goes back to the long-term perspective: what is ultimately good for us. We are taught that overindulgence (note: over) in earthly joys leads to consequences (as stated above: a few examples). We are taught that obedience, faithfulness, & repentance to God promises us eternity. I think the hardest part of that is that it's so difficult to envision this "eternity" when all we know is what we've seen--the current world around us.

 

All of these sorts of speculations fascinate me, knowing that I will never have the answers. I can only believe. How do the questions & the doubts affect my current search for happiness? Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the confusion of spinning circles of "what ifs" and "buts" and "hows" and "whys". It's a distraction that sucks me in like a blackhole, taking over and consuming me to distract from my initial destination of the boundless universe of imagination.

I continuously return to the Rilke quote "love the questions like locked rooms". It's the nearest encouragement I have to love the questions from a distance rather than being enveloped.  Sometimes it's incredibly frustrating: even just the knowing that I'll never know. Sometimes it's totally freeing: it could be anything; eternity could be anywhere or anything--the mystery of the outskirts of the universe.

Will we be happy when we know what's next, or can we learn to know happiness when we accept the unknown?

lessons in wishes, prayer, & rain

All my life I've heard the phrase "Be careful what you wish for". I wished for rain, and it appeared, accompanied by sparse bursts of thunder and a splattering of lightning.

 The first night, I took Pickle for a walk in it--these were not like the storms I knew in Pennsylvania. The thunder sounded far enough away that it could have been on the other side of the Sound. The lightning was silent. As we walked, I thought about the fear we always had walking in thunderstorms at home (before the rain). I used to fear that my belt buckle or watch would be my downfall, attracting lightning like the glow of eyes in the woods as our flashlights shown in. And yet we were always safe.

"That was some storm, huh?" my co-worker asked the next day. I stared at him to determine his level of seriousness.

 "I guess for Seattle," I shrugged. Two booms of thunder made for "some storm"? We still have power; the trees are all standing; and it rained for about 30 seconds.

 At first, I thought the storms were a sign of encouragement: I had prayed for this. Maybe this was my sign that things were going to work out--all of the work stress and worry. But then the clouds stuck around. The rain continued for a few days, and I remembered that in Seattle, grey is not a temporary word. I worried that it was here to stay already, that there would be no break of sun in a few days--were we locked in the six-month grey season already?

My worries were premature, as the hot summer days have already returned. But I love them more. The worry of winter reminded me that it's only bright for this short while--soon we won't even see the sun's shadow paint the sky. Maybe I'm still learning to the love rain, but I think I've realized this week that I'm learning to love the sun too. And learning to pray. And learning to accept the forecast.

Chompers

I went to the dentist, and they took a panoramic x-ray of my mouth. When they displayed it on the screen, the whole bottom half of my face was there: my nose & piercings, even my ears where you could see the empty space where my gauges are and the loops of my tragus piercings. My teeth are there in full array; my wisdom teeth show in the far far back, one totally buried like lost treasure.

Staring at the print, I imagine I am some ancient mummy with my elongated ear lobes and skull on display. I imagine the researchers working to figure the age of my bones and what my lifestyle was: was I spiritual? A gatherer? An artist?

During times when the words are slow and do not come, I remember how thankful I am to live in a time where I have all of these ways to let the words out. If I really were a thousands of years old, I wouldn't have known how to write, at least not in the same way. When the words are slow, they will come back because I am blessed to be an American millennial in the Pacific Northwest with x-rays and panoramas and a mouth full of teeth.

 

 

a want for rain

It's funny how late at night, time goes simultaneously too slow and too fast. I looked at the clock at 9:58; I still have a few minutes to fall asleep before it feels a little hopeless that I won't get enough. A blink later and it's 10:07; it's all fucked. Just a few minutes later, and soon it will be midnight, & the whole next day will already be happening, & I'm not sleeping. 

I'm ready for rain. I can't stop thinking about it. The summers I've always known were full of thunderstorms and lightning and rain. Lots of rain. I know Seattle saves the rain for winter, and our summers are known for countless days of non-stop sun. The past few mornings, it's been cool & grey. I soak it in like a bucket full of sand: just add water, and you can build a castle in which to hideaway.

I get a lot of sleep in the winter: the long days apply hibernation mode, where I don't feel guilty about going to bed at 8:00. Somehow sleep comes easier when the dark stays longer; maybe my brain is just fooled by the early dark--oh, it's been dark for 5 hours? It's a false insomnia, negligent of the actual hour.

I don't mean to take the summer for granted. This summer just seems uneventful. Last year, we traversed about in my car. This year, we're homebodies, sticking to downtown and the dog park and going to dinner with friends. It's a nice, small life, but I can't help but wish I were in the mountains or the woods. I have no way to get there.

I think Pickle is a bit restless as well. She's been sniffing the same street corners for months now, but the scents are the every day. Even the sidewalks need the rain to bring fresh air through the town. Not to mention Pickle looks adorable in her raincoat.

It thundered twice last Saturday. A single deep grey cloud lingered in the East then disappeared to a clear and calm day interrupted by the roar of fighter planes spinning tricks in the air. The sun was nearly unbearable to sit in, and we all took to the shade. Thunder, come back.

 The summer before I moved here was the July of thunderstorms. I remember racing around the house to shut the windows as the rain poured in sideways and thunder shook the doorframes. Somehow that feeling--the slight jolt--can be felt all through; it's one of those things that reminds me that there's something bigger out there, that I'm small and helpless, and the world is so much greater.

 I miss letting the thunder lull me to sleep or letting it shake me awake at 3am only to rock me to a comfortable pattern of zzzs. Thunder makes me feel safe. I wish a storm were one of those things you could just drive to--like I could take a roadtrip to a thunderstorm and feel satisfied and whole. I used to pray for storms.

I find the rain romantic in a this-is-how-I-idealized-my-life-to-be sort of way. There was a slight drizzle when I awoke on Saturday. I thought I'd curl up in my reading chair in the living room and just listen to it, but I couldn't hear it there, only from my bed out the window. Not enough to patter off of I guess, so I sat and watched and listened. It didn't last long, but it was something. I'm sure in a few months, I'll be praying for the sun. Right now, rain is just refreshing.

roads to go

We always walked wherever we needed to go--mainly because the only place we went was to Derek's house, but the notion of "see you in five" has swooped back into my adulthood. I feel twelve again--no car, nowhere important to drive to, yet most of my friends are within a ten minute walk in almost any direction, so when we make plans, it's a simple "see you in five" conversation.

 I have mixed feelings about the whole concept--I love the ability to walk out the door and be with people so soon, yet the thought of living in such a small radius when there is a whole world out there frustrates me.

 Tomorrow, I board a plane for Atlanta. I'm going to a conference for work, and while a few months ago, I was excited--excited by thought of "travelling for work", of visiting a new city, of feeling like I'm "going somewhere", as I procrastinate trip prep, I'm rather saddened by the thought of it all: leaving my dog, leaving my friends, leaving at what always feels like the least convenient time, even though there really isn't anything to hold me back.

 Maybe that's what keeps people living in the same place for years and years or going back to the places they grew up. Are we all just bodies in search of "home"? I recognize that some people were born to travel; they live for seeing the world and never settling down in one place. I thought I could be one of them, but the longer I stay in Seattle, the more it seems I'm supposed to really be here, stay here. I could explore this area for the rest of my life and still not see it all, I think.

And yet, does the notion of "putting down roots" mean anything in a world that is so dynamic, in a market that keeps all residents unsure of where they'll call home for the next year or two?

That NW Bridge

The Vance Creek bridge sits 347 feet above the ground. It's the second highest railway arch bridge in the United States. I was told these stats while sitting around a campfire. I had heard of the bridge--mainly seen it in photos and in this "17 death-defying views list"--but this was the first time it was given a name.

The photos seemed "cool". People standing on abandoned railroad tracks with a vast landscape of faraway (& far-below) trees surrounding them. I expected an easy-going adventure--awesome in its own beauty alone.

Upon arrival, we began trekking the short trail to the bridge. My heart began to race inside my chest in a way that I can't recall it having done in quite a long time. I felt like an excited child--naïve in what the world can be.

On the way to the bridge, I had a brief discussion with a friend about heights. It wasn't a fear of heights or even a fear of falling: it was a want to jump, a want to know the sensation of free-fall.

I once sat on a cement wall in Pittsburgh with a friend. We gazed down at the river, maybe 40 feet below us, and I said, "I want to jump." Surprised, my friend said, "I was just thinking that." What is it about these strange heights that call us to plunge into the depth? It's a temptation: into what, I do not know.

Standing on either side of the bridge, I admit, I felt the pull. 347 feet. Though a rather unfriendly landing ground of rocks & trees. Some kids dragged a big branch into the center of the bridge and tossed it over the side. I heard the crack, like a shotgun in the distance. I asked what happened, and a friend described the branch as having "splintered" upon impact.

I'm still in awe of what a God-fearing sense of life this bridge implanted within me. I discovered fears I didn't know I had. I realized that I am not the seemingly immortal child I tend to think I am at heart. I learned that 347 feet is a long way down.

The first end of the bridge seems harmless. You climb a large, metal tube to actually reach the bridge, & then there's nothing to do but cross. With each step, I realized just how frightening this whole concept even was: the bridge is extremely old; the railroad ties are rotting, some missing entirely, some just splintering under my feet.

Something about the height, the lack of railing--open ends with nothing to catch you but the treetops below; something about it all felt like a sort of flying & falling at the same time. Every step left my head swirling, as if I were standing still and twirling. I felt dizzy and confused. If I looked straight ahead, I could feel the height, but if I looked down, the spinning sensation resumed, yet I felt safe because I could see where my feet would land. I tripped once and fell forward, catching myself in a moment of panic. Of course I was going to be fine. I wasn't near the edge, but the feeling of going down introduced the idea to the end to my mind.

When we started on the bridge, I thought I would only go a short distance then come back. I didn't realize that once started, I would have to cross the whole way: the voice within me wouldn't have it any other way, though quivering and frightened. Halfway across, there is a section where the railroad ties are burnt, some gone completely. It was then that I nearly turned back. One missing tie was one thing: two required stepping down onto the steel support beam then back up to the next tie. On either side of the support beam, there was enough room for about two people to fall straight through. I couldn't step down while holding my puppy; my legs were shaking too bad. She was even more frightened than me- she held onto my shoulders with a force (one of these moments I bet dogs wish they had thumbs).

Some high schoolers  were sitting calmly on the other side watching us. One kid -maybe 12 years old-reached his arms across the gap to us. I carefully handed Pickle to him & followed close behind. We then resumed the walk across. The last half was the best and the worst-the best because of the sweet taste of land, the worst because it meant that we, once again, had the full length of the bridge yet to cross.

Friends offered tips to help with the dizzying confusion of walking on the bridge. "Just look straight ahead" (but I need to see where I step!) or the usual "don't look down" proved unhelpful. The best was to walk parallel to the beams beneath the ties where it was blocking off the view below while allowing me to see ahead. The only catch was that it was closer to the edge.

By the time we made it back (though one of the first to hop onto the bridge, I was the last to leave it), I had a resonating quiver within that reminded me that I had never been that physically afraid before in my life. Fear of a what? It was only the sensation of danger, not an actual present threat.

For days after, the thought of the bridge offered that shaking reminder of being alive, like when you pinch yourself to check your consciousness. All I could think was that I wanted to go back, particularly with my nice camera to try to more adequately capture the scene.

Since our visit, the bridge has been officially closed to visitors for a multitude of reasons, mainly that it resides on private property, causing a liability issue for the owners were anyone to be injured on the bridge. I'm glad to have gotten to see it, and while I may not be able to return, I hope to find other views that inspire such vitality in just being in its presence.

 

 

thank you for health

I went to the doctor today for the first time in years. I've had this uncomfortable panicky feeling at the thought of going to a doctor. Nothing's wrong--just going in for an "annual" check-up. And yet the whole process seemed overwhelming.

As I sat in the waiting room, I felt the familiar ache of hospitals. Nights and nights in the hospital with Derek, wondering what was on the other side of it all.

In the exam room, I hugged the light gown to myself, knees tight. I imagined running. What if I just left? Well, it certainly wouldn't be flattering to run down the hall with my backside exposed, & that was enough to stay put, as if holding myself in would keep me from exposing my own skin.

When the doctor came in, the questions started. The only thing worse than the inevitable physical investigation of my only body is the line of questioning about my body and what I've done to it and how it reacts to my life. Why, in that moment, does my skin feel foreign?

I was thinking today before I went that it kind of amazes me that we wake up in the same morphing bodies every day.

After what felt like too much time, the doctor handed me a piece of paper: take this to the lab, then take this to scheduling. At the lab, a lady sat me down and asked for an arm. "I think there's a vein here," she said, wrapping a band around my arm. I read a historical piece on the wall about phlebotomy as she stuck the needle in. "You aren't afraid of needles, are you?" I looked down at my tattoos and laughed. "Of course not," she said. "Maybe we should try the other arm," she said as the vial remained empty. "Sorry to stab you twice." I watched in a trance--the red, deeper than I thought, run into the small plastic tube.

The pressure of the needle under my skin brought Derek to mind once again. How many times had they connected his veins to lines and tubes? And that's just needles--what about the trach? The feeding tube? The catheter? He had all of these externally internal remedies for a microscopic mutation festering in his cells.

The body was not made for all of this.

When I think about death, I think about what happens to the body--the pain it undergoes, the struggle that ensues. I wonder what it feels like to be so connected to scientific life sustainers. I never want to find out. When I think about personal care, I know that if I had a choice, it would always be DNR. The body is weak; it does not wish to be beat to be barely alive.

Thinking of all that Derek went through, I am ever more grateful for my health, and my fear of a small trip to the doctor seems silly, but it's the thoughts of him that make it frightening--how strong he had to be because he had no choice.

 So this is it, what's on the other side of the hospital comings and goings--fear of the body, sadness in knowing a small fragment of the ache, a deeper ache in being alone (without him plus the doctor's questions: looks like you wrote you live alone? And you're single?), and then the return to the bright outside. Like the day that he died, and I stepped out the automatic doors, surprised that there could be a sun in the sky after the sterile lights had emptied me of all emotion.

A hot day in summer, a long walk to the bus, a dog at the park, a cool evening on the couch, a small spot on each elbow crease. Like the spot on Derek's hand, covered in makeup at the funeral, makeup that I rubbed off with my fingers that would not let go. But did. And back to the sun-- days coming and going.

It's almost August.

life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

hope eventually

Well, here we are: the fourth of July. A day of hotdogs, fireworks, & good old Americana. This year, I’m escaping to the woods with a group of friends for a few days of camping.

I’m beyond excited to get out of the city. As much as I love it here, I am always missing the woods. And I am ready for some quiet. Seems like things have been chaotic lately—if it’s not one thing it’s another, right? Busy, busy: gogogo. I’ve been counting down for this: quiet, rest.

Even though there is a whole group of us going, all I want is solitude. I want some space to be alone. To write. To read (I got a new book just for this weekend). To enjoy the trees and birds and lack of metal buildings & loud people. I’m not sure I’ll be able to accomplish this, but it’s certainly a hope. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do that I haven’t had either time or brain power for.

Maybe thinking isn’t it, but I certainly need something. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I mean, here it is 1am, and I’m not even tired. Well, I’m tired, but not in the sleep way. I took a one-hour nap this afternoon since I only slept four hours last night too. Last night, I kept my mind occupied by cleaning the apartment. To actually think of things that would be productive to my goals or the present tense felt impossible. My mind felt blank and thus needed occupying since sleep wouldn’t come: hence cleaning.

After writing this, I suppose I should begin to pack for camping. I haven’t done a thing to prepare. I don’t even have food. I’ve already set my alarm to get up early enough to go shopping before our 8:30 departure. Hope the store is open.

Sometimes hope is all we have to hold onto. I think that is one of the best things in the world: hope. (And these three remain: faith, hope, & love.) You know how people will say not to “get your hopes up” for something you dreamt of happening? I’ve been thinking about that a lot & the ways that I have found myself losing hope in my own life or not letting myself have hope in certain scenarios.

I think it’s all bullshit. Why the hell shouldn’t we have hope? Without it, what do we have but a meaningless routine with no chance of improvement? Pessimism. People call me a pessimist sometimes, but I’ve always responded with saying I’m a realist (cliché, right?), but I mean it. I think faith and hope are closely tied—like in Ecclesiastes: a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

That’s what faith, hope, & love are—three strands tightly knit together. So in this instance: faith and hope. I choose to believe that purpose exists for this earth. I choose to believe that we are not meant to lose hope in what could be.

Sure, we don’t always get what we want—we don’t always get what we hope for, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have hope at all.

Six years ago on this day, I had hope that Aunt Sharon would be okay. That she would pull through. I prayed for it. I hoped for it. It didn’t happen, but that doesn’t mean the hope or prayer was wasted. It becomes a new hope: I hope we meet again someday. All of us. I pray for it.

I believe in hope.

So while on this particular day, my hopes are small—to be alone in the woods, to make it to the store on time—it’s still important to know that we are not stuck where we currently are. We are not stuck because we have hope in something greater or at least that something greater than the most mundane moment will happen eventually.

reincarnated spirits

There is a man at the dog park who names his dogs after the city they were born in. No, the dog’s names are not the names of those cities. He goes further, looks up the obituaries from that city on the day the dogs were born and selects accordingly.

When asked about the dogs, he’ll say, “This is Alma; she was 87 and had six children…” The stories go on from there, & of course I can’t remember all of the details. “It’s a sort of reincarnation,” he describes.

I’ve thought about this a lot. Honestly, I find the concept quite beautiful. Sometimes, I think of Pickle as a reincarnation. Reincarnation: definition – “a spiritual or philosophical concept that the soul or spirit, after biological death, begins a new life in a new body.” (Wikipedia)

Unlike Alma, I don’t think that we get to choose who or what is reincarnated or what form they take. But I believe we can see reflections of that in those around us. For me, Pickle is a reincarnation of the spirit of hope, the spirit of joy. She has entered my life with the soul of a best friend. I’m sure it sounds corny, but these are things I thought I had lost, and I have found them in her.

All of this goes through my mind as she lies against my chest in bed tonight. I’m thinking of the beautiful day outside of the city and how I felt naked walking without my dog, how I felt a tinge of loneliness without her happy ears and bright eyes beside me.

I feel this loneliness often when I think about Derek, when I think about our closeness and all that I have lost in losing him.

Part of moving on after the death of a loved one is learning to regain that which you lost, not the person of course—they are always with you somehow—but regaining those quintessential spirits: joy, hope, tomorrow, love, trust.

Derek set a prime example of how a furry friend could bring those into one’s life. His dog, Casey, stayed by his side and brought him joy, hope during moments of deep illness, depression, anxiety. He taught me how to love & be loved by someone who will never speak our language but knows our thoughts, our emotions and loves us anyways—even when we cannot walk or do not have the strength to get up.

Sometimes I’m afraid that I will never have a friend like I had in Derek. I know that he cannot be “replaced”, yet I am learning to accept that there will be new best friends and new side-kicks. His relationship with Casey has showed me how to have that with Pickle, how to learn to keep going and have hope that there will be someone else on this planet that I can trust as deeply and love no matter what, even though we get mad or upset or make each other cry sometimes.

No, I don’t believe in reincarnation of the human soul, tempting as it is, but I do believe in the reincarnation of spirits or “fruits of the spirit” as the Bible calls them: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness.”  (Galatians 5:22)

June is a month that reminds me of Derek. The 1^st—his birthday. The 21^st—the first day of summer, summers that we would spend together being wild, being free. And now, tomorrow marks 10 years since the passing of Mattie Stepanek, a young man with Muscular Dystrophy whom Derek admired (and I admire). In watching this video of Mattie from 2002, I can only pray that Derek had the same faith, the same hope.

So, friends, what spirits seem lost or distant? Do you see them reincarnated in your life?

Today, I saw faithfulness in the backdrop of a lonely church against the brilliant sky. I saw love in the eyes of my puppy, peace in her beating heart against my arm. I saw joy in time with friends and time in the wide open breaths of a sloshing river. 

In moments like these, I know Derek had it right in love of his dog, his family, his friends; Mattie had it right in hope for tomorrow and faith in God, and at the end of the day, “We need to be. Just be.”

crossfit

As anyone who has talked to me in the past month knows: I’ve joined Crossfit. What is Crossfit? A cross-training workout facility where trainers challenge a group of people to push themselves to use muscles they didn’t know existed. We do a lot of weight training. I now know a ton of terms & lifts that I had never heard of: dead-lift, push-press, squat-thrust, and so on.

After day one, I realized how horribly out of shape I am. I entered the class with the mentality of: I can run two miles and manage through two hours of yoga; I’ll be alright.

All of my strength was living falsely in my mind. The day after the first class, I walked around like the tin man: squeaky & stiff. As I stumbled down the steps with straight legs, my friend asked what was wrong with me. “I worked out…”

I believe in taking care of the body (while recognizing that I often don’t). I dream of getting into the best shape of my life—these are my twenties! Didn’t the Greeks & Romans view the twenties as the “prime” of life? In our modern age of sitting at a desk all day, accomplishing that perfect figure is quite a challenge.

During my month (so far) at Crossfit, I have…

·      dropped a training bar because my boobs were in the way

·      fallen on my butt while jumping back from a squat

·      hung frozen on a pull-up bar because I was afraid of the support bands

·      bruised my knees doing “girl” push-ups

·      been out-run & out-lifted by a pregnant woman

·      laid on the floor because I didn’t think I could move anymore

·      grunted while lifting weights (weird!)

I have also…

·      (run a 400m, completed 21 kettle-bell swings, & 12 ring rows) x3 in 13 minutes (my first personal fitness test!)

·      learned how to do a handstand (I can’t quite balance yet; actually far from it)

·      become a master bear-walker

·      made new friends!

·      developed discipline in going to class at 6am twice a week

·      been deeply encouraged by trainers & classmates

·      learned how to lift weights properly: not the machine kind, either! (we use barbells & kettlebells (still trying to force that term into my memory: cow bells? kettle balls? cow balls? Yikes…))

Sometimes I wonder how I got to this lack of fitness. I went from being crazy skinny in high school (with no strength, of course) to –let’s just admit it—chubby in college & now. I’m excited to be learning how to have a figure defined by muscle rather than bone or fat. (I hope I can say the same in a few months when I hopefully start actually shaping up! But let’s not be vain…)

At the same time, the whole experience is extremely humbling! My smart-ass, strong-mind mentality only goes so far. Naturally, I come in at the bottom of my class quite often. I wouldn’t call it admitting defeat, but it’s certainly admitting that I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I’ve measured strength on life experience and sitting through long tattoo sessions. Now I am in a place where I have to admit my weakness in order to get stronger.

Month two: here we go.