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.

 

 

signs: part wednesday

I’ve written before that I believe in signs. Today, the signs were everywhere: I ran into all the right people at all the right times, people I wouldn’t typically see on a Wednesday.

And yet, while I may have seen them, talked to them, and parted ways, I didn’t have the right words yet. I tend to freeze at unexpected encounters.

I can’t get over one though: I was sitting in the living room, writing out bridal shower invitations, when Pickle jumped up and decided she needed to go outside. Usually when she does that, it just means she has to go to the bathroom, but when we got out there, she just wanted to walk around. As we turned the corner, not even a block from our building, there was our Pastor.

I wish I had the right words; I wish I could make the most of a conversation on the street. Instead, I fumbled through some half-hearted sentences.

But somehow, just running into him was an encouragement.

the five-year plan

My new job has been a challenge. I’ve always been one to accept a challenge, but as I talked with some ladies at church about careers and God and what we’re supposed to be doing with our lives and how that compares with what we are doing, I realized that I have no idea what I’m doing. Actually, that realization hits me in the face every day.

I think it started when one of my friends mentioned that she wanted to look for a job where she felt challenged. My first thought was, “I would like my next job to not be a challenge.” Then I stopped and let that sink in: it isn’t true; I only want to believe it’s true as a mental escape from the current untamable busyness that is my day-to-day. I think that’s an okay place to be.

I’m nearly two months into my new role, and just today, I had that “aha” moment of how what I do now is different from what I did before. The whole dynamics have changed, and it was a necessary shift in order to effectively do my job. Let’s face it: deep down, I enjoy what I am currently doing, BUT it is hard. Duh. I admit, I’ve had several breakdowns on-the-job where I just caved in to feeling inadequate or overwhelmed. It’s like training for a marathon: you have to start with the short runs, and you’re going to get blisters before you achieve a sustained pace.

Feeling humbled by the “aha” moment, I told my manager about it. She added to my feeling-like-I-am-where-I-belong joy by telling me that I’m getting a career coach—a professional coach who I can ask anything about careers, skills, the corporate world, what’s next: anything. The doors to opportunity are opening; will I be able to step inside?

At work, I tend to be shy and lack confidence. Today, I had my first mentoring session, yet another moment of me realizing just how much I have to learn. I think my first month on the job was me pretending to be totally confident so that I could prove that they hired the right person. My second month is now me realizing that I have so much to grow on and so much to learn, and I need to be open to taking it all in.

It’s much harder than it sounds.

In the session, my mentor explained how to best network within the company. As she spoke, a tiny fear crept up my chest, just thinking about having to talk to strangers. Even though we work on the same team, this was the first real conversation my mentor and I had even had, and we had a pretty awkward elevator ride to the coffee shop. Even then, she talked most of the time. I need to learn to shake the awkward, inverted shyness and become a conversationalist. Maybe that’s something for the career coach.

Every day, I wake up shocked that I work where I do. Blessed but shocked. Also, every day, I realize that I have no idea what I am doing presently and furthermore have no idea what my 5-year plan looks like.

I’ve always had a 5-year plan. Now, I have ideas or speculations, even, of what I’d like to do, but I’m not certain that they are things I want to achieve…plans change…It’s not that I want to leave, it’s just that I’m always planning, but it feels weird because I took this job for the people; I spent months at my last job imagining a new job, now I have it—the dream job, and it’s not where I thought I’d be, but it is what I want right now, but it’s not the long-term solution, so how do I prepare for the future, for what’s next without losing contentment for where I am?

'love is blindness'

They say some situations are like “the blind leading the blind” as if that were a bad thing. I think we’re all blind and scrambling the world hand-in-hand with each other.

There is a man who is always outside of my building helping people park. He’ll point to the “No Parking” sign and read the fine print that reveals that the spot is valid for that time, “Here’s your proof of the truth” he says.

Today, he was walking the same way as Pickle & me. “Hey babycakes,” he says to Pickle. He always greets her like that. He also always tells me that I’m doing a good job raising my puppy and that she’s such a sweet dog. When we go out for our late-night walks, he says, “Honey, what are you doing out so late? You be careful.” I don’t even know his name, but he cares for us.

“Love ‘em” he said today, “If you show love to people, they’ll love you back. I love everyone in this city.”

“You know everyone in this city!” I said as he greeted the row of usual homeless folks on First.

“This is true, and I love them. These people here,” he pointed to the men and women sitting dirty against the buildings, “are the most protective people in Seattle; they look out for each other.”

I didn’t believe him, but on the walk back, I felt like I had my ‘in’. They all greeted Pickle and said she was a sweet dog. They didn’t ask for a penny or make rude comments or gestures. Just hello. For one of the first times since moving downtown, I felt a sense that this was how the world was supposed to be.

I’m not neglecting the fact that these people were homeless. That may sound crude, but hear me out.

At the dog park, a man with a dog named “Legacy” told me about his love for his dog and his life—a life without a home. “I chose this life. Some people pity me, but that’s fine for them.  I don’t care what they think. I love my dog, and I’m not going to do anything that puts him in jeopardy. We come to the dog park everyday, and some people don’t like me because of the way I live, but you know what? I chose this. I’ll help people—watch their dogs, brush out their dogs undercoat—and they’ll give me a few bucks; sometimes they’re really generous, giving me prepaid VISAs or buying me a meal. I don’t need to own anything. I just need my best friend.”

Don’t think me naïve. I know there are people out there who instead of helping you park, will steal your dollars, and there are people who are homeless just to haggle you, and there is a man who always stands at 4^th and Pine with a sign that says “I need me a fat bitch.” They’re out there, and they’re scary, and they’re sneaky, but I think it’s important to find the people in this city who do care for others and aren’t trying to cheat you and will protect you.

One morning, Pickle I were down at the waterfront park watching the yellows deepen the city into morning with a blissful calm. Suddenly, shattered glass and spray—a man had slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels in the sidewalk only a foot from me and my dog. Pickle started and ran to my feet. I stood in shock and bent to check her paws for glass. The man stood cussing at the air. A different man walked by and asked if we were okay. We were fine. We were more than fine because even in the unreasonable chaos of the city, a stranger bothered to make sure we were alright.

This is the city: people come and go, but you mostly see the same faces all over town. Even though I know only a few people, these friendly strangers make me feel like I belong here.

I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been caught in the busyness of transition—living downtown, settling in, a new job in the works. Most of the time in my newly found adult life, I feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Looking around, I think a lot of others are just like me: doing whatever it takes to get by and find happiness.

Twice now, I have seen two different couples guiding each other through the bus tunnels: blind. Each pair did the same thing—held each other arm in arm and felt ahead with the safety poles. Somehow, I have a feeling they all made it where they were aiming to go.

So here we are—we’re all working our way through, arms outstretched before us seeking joy, but when we show love by just taking one of those arms into the arm of another, we really are just the blind leading the blind, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

Pickle, we're not in Kansas anymore.

October brings the official crisp of fall in strong gusts that steal away my rain hat and leave me grasping my jacket closed with one hand and holding on to Pickle’s leash with the other.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” I tell Pickle. It really does feel that way. I don’t know where I live anymore, but I’m ready to go home. Where is my Kansas?

Our community is replicating, which is great, but I don’t want to have to choose between two groups of people whom I love. We’ve had a lot of disagreement about it, particularly roommate-wise. I keep finding myself not even thinking about it because I’ve been thinking for a while now about migrating to a different community entirely.

I love my community. So much. But after some roommate conversations and thoughts of looking ahead, I am realizing that I am in an in-between migration stage. I want to move to Belltown—one step closer to downtown, and God-willing, one bus away from work.

I really have no idea how I would make it work. I would love to live alone, well, as alone as one can be with a dog, a turtle, and a fish. Unfortunately, pets don’t help pay the rent. I’ve got until March to figure it out. I’m trying not to worry about it now or even to pretend to make too many plans. They all change quickly anyways—like how Laura and I chatted about moving to Belltown together next year, which simply isn’t happening anymore.

But there is this community transition. It just seems like a good time to go, but until a decision is made and acted upon, I am a dry leaf hanging onto the branch and shaking in the wind. When I let go, where will I land?

once you were not a people, but now you are God's people

Prologue

Welcome to my 100th blog post! Wow! This is exciting for a number of reasons: 1) it means that writing is happening; all is not lost, 2) it's a commemoration of some really awesome people, several of whom were ones who helped and inspired me to start, develop, and (finally) share this blog. I used to be afraid of writing, but I knew it was something I loved and had to do; I never imagined being blessed with boldness enough to share it with all of you.

1 Peter 2.9-10

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness and into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God's people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.

Tonight, I am so thankful for family. Family at Community—sharing what God has led us to in our lives and that we are all here, in Seattle, as a part of God’s plan, even through all of the storms in our lives. Family at our apartment—Pickle and me running into all of our friends in our building and talking out our weeks. Family from a distance—the people who have influenced me and guided me and loved me, blood-related or not.

Particularly though, Waynesburg is on my heart tonight. Not the Waynesburg where I went to school, but the Waynesburg where I learned to live afresh—the Waynesburg after graduation. These are the things I am thankful for and that I miss.

Was it really just last summer that I was there? That we were all there.

I remember “move-in” day, walking through the gate with my carry-on suitcase and unpacking in Merry’s room, sweet Merry who slept in her sister’s room so that I could have a bed upstairs with the family, as one of the family. We’d get up in the morning, and Kim and I would go around shutting the windows and turning off the fans to keep in the morning’s cool.

Walking down the creaky stairs (the best feature in any house, if you ask me), we’d meet in the kitchen for morning tea. I think you really know someone when you know how they like their tea. (Even more so when you know their favorite mug in your cupboard!) I loved that all throughout the day, we would put on the kettle and make tea for each other—morning to start the day, afternoon (if not wine), evening after the girls were in bed, as we unwound with laundry and Frasier.

It’s these simple routines that I hold dear, even though they weren’t even my own. And as my lovely friend Kim would call them, these rituals compose our lives. She wrote, “Ritual is different than routine. Routines are ways of doing things you fall into without thinking too much about them; they become rote, and often even tyrannical things that eventually disgust you. But to nurture Ritual requires careful forethought, an attention to space and time, and a tender attitude of love," and that has stuck with me. I love it. I go back to those words when I start falling into routine. (So pretend I said ritual to begin with, like Christopher McCandless quoting an author with which I am unfamiliar, “To call each thing by its right name.”)

So that summer, I adopted their rituals as they adopted me—they being all of Waynesburg that is sweet and kind and lives with that tender attitude of love.

I would walk to my wretched Chemistry class, late almost every day (as I was for my 8am class the previous fall: so worth it to have tea around the table to start the day), but with tea in-hand: armed. (Martin & Kim drink tea fresh off the kettle like it’s already cooled—something I still haven’t mastered; they’d be pouring seconds as I was still sipping the rim of a full cup—a sign that I have a lot of tea to drink to catch up!) So I’d take my cup to-go.

After class, I’d sometimes walk up to the library and visit with whoever was there, most often Noah or Jill or Pam—people whom (with the exception of Jill) I didn’t really know well until that summer. We’d talk about Noah’s book or Jill’s daughters or Pam’s peacocks—conversations that weaved warm summer days into a flipbook of tiny celebrations after (yet during) a period of trial and transition.

My first day after class (and many after), I came home to Martin & Kim in the garden. We did so much therapeutic weeding that I think I’m still gleaning peace out of the process of just ripping out weeds and laying down newspapers, building up sections of stone and brick. (You can piece together the symbolism for yourself.)

I miss meeting with Joonna for lunch, catching up on the what’s nexts and the uncertainty of the coming months and leaning on the support over the previous weeks.

Ahh and baking and cooking with Kim! We made a vegan chocolate cake for tea time with Joonna; we made pasta with fresh basil and oven-toasted bread for some dinners—herbs picked from right down the back patio.

My mother would tell you that I do not cook; I do not wash dishes, but I learned to love these things that summer, and I’ve realized that it’s something I missed out on growing up—I always saw it as a chore, something to be done, rather than an experience of friendship (wasn’t it just something my sister and I were supposed to fight over?).

One day, I got to drive with Sally & Kim to Mother Earth Farm at the top of the hill for the first time. We walked through the greenhouse, pointing out our favorites, selecting some for planting, some for porch décor. This place quickly went from unknown to sweet—I’d drop by on my way in or out of town to visit Rose.

Then there were evenings sitting in the yard with Ian and Julia, watching the fireflies over the hill sparkling in the dark like sun flickering on deep water. We’d talk about poetry and future schools and summer.

I’m not clearly articulating any of this, and as each instance pours in, it brings friends because that’s what this Waynesburg was—a nest of friendship.

Ice cream on the porch—Noah & Michelle’s, Sally & Kevin’s, Martin & Kim’s. Wine at the dinner table. Tea in the playroom/writing room/sun room. Tequila & egg-in-a-hole at the kitchen table. Cake & stories on the back patio. Walks everywhere with everyone. Family visits. The Trees of the Field will Clap their Hands. Prayers & piano-playing. Lunch at the arboretum. Visiting Jay & his family. The Mennonite church. Walks with Elesha’s dog. Dancing with the girls in the living room or catching lightning bugs (and Elspeth wanted to keep one and asked Papa what they eat so that she could take care of it) or pushing Bea on the swing or reading Strega Nona while we waited for noodle water to boil or going to the park to “play school” (we found a snake on the sidewalk) or walking to the honeysuckle bush to suck the nectar out of every bloom.

Was I really only there for two or three months?

So all of these things are flowing in and out of my mind as I rest 3,000 miles away, content on my mattress on the floor with my puppy sleeping beside me, a cool breeze through the window relieving this summer’s heat and StoryHill playing on-repeat, which is actually what brought all of this to mind in the first place.

I was listening to them and thought of that last Open Mic where Noah & Martin sang and played together and covered a StoryHill song, and the band stuck (though I can’t remember that particular song). I think that was the beginning of the Waynesburg I’ll remember, the Waynesburg I’ve shared just a slice of here.

It led me to think of the idea of breaking bread, the way that it ties us all together, sometimes with literal bread. Like sharing Chemistry-class raisin bread with Noah in the Writing Center, which led to a conversation that ended with a friend, my sister, and me staying at his brother’s house in New Jersey for a weekend. Like sharing loaves of banana bread for dessert, for breakfast, for afternoon snack in a red house with a family of five plus one. Like learning to eat and sleep and breathe again after the trying months of the initial storm and the aftershocks and the continued challenges and fears.

God brings us to these places, and we don’t know why or for what, but when we fully enjoy the people there, we learn to stop asking the questions we can’t answer (loving them [this may always be my favorite] like locked rooms, as Rilke writes), and we learn to live in the simplicity of rituals, of intentionality, of love.

Our church in downtown Seattle constantly reminds us that the church is a people and not a place. I am so grateful for the people of Waynesburg who lived this without saying it, so while I keep saying “Waynesburg” like it is a place, I really mean “the people whom I love who just happened to live/work/be in community there”.