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.

 

 

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.”

counting blessings: a walk

Sometimes the adult life catches me by surprise: the simplest things. Today is Friday, & I have no plans. As I walked Pickle around the block, on the way home from the dog park—our usual route—I realized what a free evening really means.

We reached the corner a block away from the apartment. To my right, the sound whispered dusk’s light up the street, calling me there. To my left, home beckoned me in. The rest of the weekend promised free time. What should I do? Where should I go?

Freedom suddenly struck me as a real thing; I could do anything, anytime: no questions asked. I could just keep walking; I could go in & read a whole book. I could just stay in bed. For now, my only purpose is to be.

I do not need to ask permission. I am not a slave to time. There are no restrictions. Do you feel it? How liberating! We are blessed to walk the streets & lie in bed & just be.

'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.

beer boy

I can’t hold it any longer. I’ve never been good at secrets—but it’s certainly not a secret—yet I think the whole story is here, so I’m ready to tell.

It all started at a Super Bowl party.

"Oh, speaking of the Canadian flag; tell Natalie, Martin.”

“We have an errand for you."

“Okay…”

My dear friends then made a wonderfully joint effort to tell me about this catch of a twenty-one-year-old available boy they met at the brewery a few blocks down.

“You have to go see him during half-time. We told him to look for the girl with ear plugs,” (she was referencing my gauges, in case you were wondering).

Half-time came, and Martin accompanied me to the brewery. On the walk down, we both felt quite silly about the whole thing. What was I even supposed to say? “Hey, my friends said you’re great; let’s go on a date?” Minus the rhymes. Totally clueless, we passed the small crowd of tables and up to the bar, only to find that the boy had gone.

“To missed connections,” Martin raised his glass of Amber Ale that had some clever name that I entirely forget. I kept thinking what a bummer this was—it seems impossible to find a nice, Christian man outside of my church (not that there aren’t nice ones at my church; there just haven’t been any advances), and now this one chance was gone!

So I left him a note. I have no idea what I was thinking; do people even call people anymore? The last boy I connected with, we exchanged email addresses. So I left a note with both my phone number and email address and waited.

“How long is the appropriate waiting period before a random stranger responds to a note left by another random stranger? Do they respond? I would. I'm curious,” I asked Martin two days later over Facebook. His response? “5 days from the time the random stranger views said note, give or take 39 hours.” This provided a very accurate yet inaccurate calculation, as the next day, he called. CALLED.

I was in the hardware store when an unknown number called. “Hi, it’s ____ from the brewery. I think you left me a note on Super Bowl Sunday?” It took a minute to register that it was actually him on the other line. His voice sounded either extremely sweet and gentle or gay, which was slightly confusing. He asked a few questions about myself over the course of several dropped calls as I had to leave the store for service and said to text him about making plans.

I immediately called the list of people I had told about him, which was basically Martin and my mom. My mom’s advice? “Just take it slow.” My response? “Mom, we haven’t even met”.

Later that night, we were arranging to meet when my lack of transportation + the chaos of that day’s parade downtown prevented me from leaving the apartment. We became “friends” on Facebook—something I was extremely hesitant of before meeting because it allows him a warped insight into my life. You really cannot get to know someone on Facebook, but for whatever reason, many millenials think you can. Further, any correspondence from then out would be biased against what he saw on Facebook. What if he saw my picture and thought I was ugly or fat or not “whatever” enough for him? That’s a shit way to “meet” someone. Regardless, he had already given me his contact info, so of course I had browsed his profile; it would have been creepy for me not to add him.

Maybe this isn’t needless to say, but I haven’t heard from him since. A week later, I sent him a text asking if he still wanted to meet sometime. No response. Seriously? At least be polite enough to say no, damnit.

On Valentine’s Day, he made a Facebook post along the lines of, “Its better to be single with high standards, then in a relationship settling for less!” followed by hashtags about his dream woman. After a brief texting exchange with both Kim & Martin from their separate phones (they are definitely the cutest couple I know), we all agreed that my standards start with someone who can at least write an accurate sentence, concluding that, IT’S better to be single THAN to settle for someone with shitty grammar. #Ihavestandardstoo (Thanks for the encouragement, friends).

Here I am on this lamest of lovey-dovey holidays, date-less and cuddling with my dog. I called my mom to thank her for the valentine & cookies (yes, I got a valentine from my parents! No shame! There are lemon cookies involved!) and told her that I was out for a walk with my valentine. While she assumed without saying that I was referring to my dog, I had to awkwardly avoid referring to my valentine as “she”.

All that to say, we are no longer Facebook friends, this “beer boy” (as Martin so cleverly referred to him) and me, though the slightly hopeful part of me can’t bring myself to delete his number even though he’s clearly never calling back. It’s because I don’t ski. Seriously.

Anyways, after more encouragement, I wrote a song about beer boy. I figured it was only appropriate that it take place as a pseudo-voicemail. You can listen to it here. 

home&hope

I’ve lost all sense of home. I’ve come to the realization that I find “home” in being able to control my life.

My family in Pennsylvania is entirely well and unwell at the same time, and there’s not a thing I can do from 3,000 miles away.

Not only can I not afford a plane ticket, but I apparently can’t afford to move to a new apartment. But I also cannot afford not to move, as our rent is about to skyrocket.

I’ve been diving through possibilities, and my hope has skyrocketed and plummeted about fifteen times just this week. Endless craigslist searching, phone calls, apartment visits. I cannot bring myself to pinch pennies for a 400 sq. ft. apartment. It’s just not worth it. Maybe I won’t be okay living alone, but I like to think that I would if I had just a little bit of space. I thought space was something people needed from each other—really, space is just something we need to feel comfort.

Growing up, Derek, Katlin, and I were obsessed with a computer game called the SIMS—a simulated life. We would build houses for these charaters that we created. We’d decorate with wallpaper and furniture, and then let them live out their lives in record time. They’d get jobs and sleep and talk in jibber-jabber. Building their homes was always my favorite part, but we could never make a complete home with the allotted beginning budget. We had to use a cheat to get more money to build what they needed (and then some). And when their houses were too small, they’d stand in the room with thought bubbles over their heads exclaiming “X#?!Y*%^” as they pulled at their heads and shook their fists in the air. A caption would appear saying “Your Sim is feeling cramped. She is unhappy because she doesn’t have enough space.”

I need space. I currently have to navigate around our couch to enter my matress on the floor from the top or bottom. There is no space. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. Our walls are coated with books—my nearest solace, yet my enemy because they take up even the illusion of space. And yet, I can’t bring myself to pick up a single one lately.

Sure, I shouldn’t complain. I’m twenty-two and have a load of opportunity unfolding. I have a mattress at least, even if it is on the floor. This is how twenty-two-year-olds are supposed to live. But I’ve never lived up to my age. I don’t know. I still make friends with thirty-somethings yet am continually the youngest—at work, at church, in my family.

I like to see it as progress—I’m doing something. I’m out here testing the waters. If life would have happened like it was supposed to, I’d really be in my last semester of college. Instead, I’m just a confused person searching for years that I cannot have.

I don’t want to be older. I don’t want to wish my life away. I just want to not have to hide my age. I want to not have to live like how people expect twenty-two-year-olds to live. I want a bed. I want space.

I think it’s the country coming out of me. I dream of water views just to feel like I’m not surrounded by steel. I dream of open lofts with natural light (a rarity here anyways, especially this time of year). When Pickle & I go for walks, we pass people in groves, always paired off. We watch groups party in their apartments or stumble across sidewalks with bottles in their hands and cigarettes between their fingers, laughing and talking about the next football game.

I don’t want to be them. I just don’t want to be this. I wantwantwant. Gross.

No one ever said anything would be easy. Ever. That’s so vague & cliché, but I’m learning it’s more true than I thought. Can I really be a city girl? I think I’m only pretending. I miss my car. I miss the road. I miss not caring if I had a bed or a couch. I’ve taken it all for granted.

I want to be grateful, but it’s hard when I realize that at 567 words (and counting) this blog post already has more words than I’ll ever see in square footage for the next few years.

I don’t want to settle, but I want to settle in. I don’t want to move every year, but the housing market here can’t keep up with itself, causing costs to rise and space to decrease, and there are so many people living on the streets, yet I can’t bring myself to settle for less. This is what I was afraid of when I moved to this city—I am becoming one of them, but something within me is fighting it. I’m glad for the fight, even though it hurts—I don’t want to be disappointed in my good fortune.

So how do I trust that this will all work out? That I won’t be one of those homeless street-sleepers in 30 days time? How do I care for a dog and myself and offer more than prayers for my blood back East? How do I care for the street-sleepers and do something more than just whine about my fortunate yet unsatisfying life?

I think about that a lot with Christianity. We are called to so much: to let go of things of this world and care for people. To love our brothers and give to them. But we are selfish; I am selfish. I want a nice home, a place to feel at home. I want to take care of myself first. Christianity just seems so extreme, and I think we are all failing because if we did it right, the way Jesus says to, we’d all be living on the street helping others along instead of freaking out about square footage and being simultaneaously in and out of the city.

So there is an internal battle going on. I’m not sure who’s winning. Frankly, I can’t bring myself to route for either side.

Tomorrow begins yet another day of endless searching. The apartment of my dreams, which I was set to view at 1:00 was rented out tonight at 8. I’m running out of options. I’m running out of steam, but I’ve never been one to settle. If I were, I wouldn’t be in Seattle; I wouldn’t be a college graduate; I wouldn’t be a seeking Christian; I wouldn’t be twenty-two, living on my own, and praying for the next road to be “right”.

I can’t decide if this experience is humbling, frustrating, or simply revealing my true selfishness. Probably the latter two. The thought of packing up my worldly possessoins again for my third move across town in a year and a half makes my stomach churn. The thought of home creates an unsettling tension between tall trees and tall buildings.

I need people. I’m a people-person, I admit. Yet I cannot bring myself to do this roommate thing again. I’ve been spoiled my whole life by fields, my own room, and a spacious home that my father built. People don’t live like that here—things are provided, not worked for. People seem entitled, not earning to deserve. Finding the old ways feels impossible, but it’s all I long for. Don’t give me your fancy brand-new buildings with a high price tag. Accept me as a transplant who knows what it’s like to hammer a nail into wood and feel accomplished, who is willing to put in the hours to gain the reward of creation, not a paycheck, who cares to the point of insanity, even if there is no resolve, who will not choose to become the typical Seattlelite. I’m a Seattlelite now for sure—I’ve got all the signs of it: a dog, urban life, working for a Redmond-born company—but I’m still a small “town” girl with a heart longing to earn what I get and aspiring to deserve it before I expect it. I realize that at twenty-two, with little life accomplishment, I currently deserve very little.

Maybe this all sounds pretentious. I’m not sure. All I know is that I believe in hard work, manual labor, and the fruits of living off the land, even if those aren’t entirely my way of life at present. Isn’t that how the American Dream got started to begin with? Freedom, independence, hope.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. –Hebrews 11:1

Don’t squash my hope again, Seattle. Hope is strong and keeps coming back. I’ve got a lot of hope—in God, for my family, for the future, for happiness.