Thoughts from a Snowy April Morning

I don’t listen to Christian music often because, quite honestly, most of it makes me sick, but on the rare occasion I find myself in the mood, I love to listen to the lyrics.  Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, or because I love poetry; regardless, if I’m going to fall in love with a song, the lyrics have got to be something special.  There’s a whole lot more going on with music, the way certain sounds make you feel sad or happy or make you think deep thoughts, but my mind picks out the lyrics above all else. 

There’s a song by little-known Presbyterian singer-songwriter David LaMotte that has been drifting around my head recently.  The refrain goes “I meant what I said Peter, put down your sword.  Did you forget?  Did you think I was joking?  This is not why I’m here, Peter, not to destroy; the world is already so broken.  Maybe you think I’m a fool, maybe a fool is what I am.” 

In a popular Christianity where militaristic language dominates and God is transformed into a give/take philosophy, where God gives (remember manna in the desert?) and we take (all of creation belongs to us after all), it is a helpful to remember that there are ordinary radicals who refuse to conform to this way of thinking.  In high school and college, I “gave up” being Christian.  I still went to church and youth group, and sought out Christian friends whose love and confidence radiated, drawing me in like a moth to a candle, but I really struggled calling myself Christian because I didn’t want to be associated with what I was learning about what the Christian community believed and did.  A community obsessed with militaristic language, talking about God as King and Father (both words that hold very negative connotations for me), a power-hungry ruler of the universe who demands blood and is content to watch the world kill itself off because “the believers” are winning (and I’ve never believed the ends justify the means). 

I’ve always defended religion as a substitute for talking about world-view, for how we think and act and talk about and live in this world, but I found it extremely hard to continue to align myself with a group of people who believe nothing I do and who act in ways that make me cringe.  This was no longer my world-view and so I gave up the title as well. 

I will forever understand parts of this world-view; the desire to belong, for complete forgiveness, for a reason behind everything; the feeling of being “saved” and knowing that I was an exclusive member of the in-group headed for eternal happiness.  It’s enticing.  And yet, I can’t.  The hypocrisy of the popular Christian movement troubles me greatly, and yet I still find myself coming back to the theology and the lives of ordinary radicals: Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Frances of Assisi. 

It gives me hope.  It gives me hope to know that there are people out there who love life and others, and who give of themselves expecting nothing in return, and it is this that makes them happy.  Little microcosms of love lived out, without asking anything in return.  People who still believe in miracles because they witness daily that lives can be transformed because their life is constantly being transformed by the people they live and work with.  People who trust that there is enough in this world for all of us – food, water, shelter, love – if only we are willing to accept that our vision of perfect isn’t always what the universe has in store. 

It gives me hope, that there are communities of people who live with conviction and who act out of compassion.  It gives me hope that these people have taken a foundation that in so much popular culture is a source of hate and greed, and used it to create communities of love.  There is so much good out there.  There is so much love and compassion; normal people who choose acts kindness to strangers.  On days when religion becomes synonymous with “backwards” and “ignorant” I want to give up on it completely.  And yet, Liberation Theology, Catholic Social Teaching, and the everyday examples of outstanding people, as well as everyday people committed to acting out of unconditional love; these give me hope.

I still don’t believe in much of the doctrine.  Or the importance of said doctrine.  I don’t like the patriarchal language and imagery used to talk about “God.”  I can’t stand the obsession evangelicals have with the concept of being “saved.”  I don’t get how threats of eternity in Heaven and Hell are used as a scare tactic to get people to conform to your way of thinking.  And it really makes me mad when people use Christianity to propagate hate.  I don’t like it.  And most days it’s really hard to engage in conversations about why that’s not the Christianity I believe in. 

Because this religion, it’s not one singular world-view.  It’s a mix of love and hate and mixed messages about how to act in the world.  It can be used for good.  It can be used for evil.  It is not the story or the lessons or the traditions that are innately good or bad.  It’s what we do with them.  And I choose to see through a lens of love.  That this creator of the universe isn’t damning people to “hell” because a missionary didn’t make it to their small village in time to “save” everyone.  I can’t believe in that kind of god.  I believe Jesus left us with a legacy to love unconditionally, and that makes sense to me.  Unconditional love to everyone in the world, that there is always a third option between the two extremes, that we can use our own creativity to work through even the most difficult of situations.  There is not just life or death, heaven or hell, in or out, but a new creation in which we are able to see past barriers to the humanity, the dignity, the divinity in everyone and everything. 

This is how I see the world, and how I want to be in this world.  I want to live without holding back; I want to love expecting nothing in return.  I want to trust in the universe enough to believe in miracles, to recognize when there are things outside of my own understanding, but that doesn’t mean they are untrue.  Call me Christian if you want, or call me a heretic, I still don’t think the title matters. Maybe you think I’m a fool; maybe a fool is what I am.  But at the end of the day, I’m human- just like you- and that is what matters. 

boxcars and baobab trees

Exactly a month ago I was just getting home for the first time in since moving to Colorado.  I had no idea what the break was going to bring, but had no idea the extent of what would come my way.  Lots of questions, lots of clarity.  It always amazes me how the two come in pairs.  Chaos and confusion, frustration and uncomfortable situations, and still, there arises out of it all clarity, heart-felt moments of connection, times of deep joy.  What do I look for?  How do I make sense of what lies before me, even as I ponder what I left behind?  If you’ve spent much time with me, you probably know I like to over-think things.  I look for questions.  I look for other ways of looking at things, and yet I often find myself stuck on one train of thought, going forever in one direction, forgetting that there’s more than one destination to arrive at. 

I have more options than one or the other, stay on or get off.  It’s terrifying to even think of leaving the security, but there’s so much more out there!  And yet, isn’t that part of what’s keeping me inside?  It’s terrifying.  There’s so much out there.  I’m safe here, the inside of this train car may not be the most comfortable, or the nicest, or even have what I want on board, but at least I know what’s here.  I know what to expect, how to make sense of things.  I can look out the window and admire the passing scenery from the comfort of my recliner, question what is happening outside the window, wonder at the coolness of the stream, the warmth of the rocks, and never have to leave.  In this safety, I like to question the world. 

College for me was one giant boxcar.  It was one of the safest places I ever could imagine myself living.  Don’t get me wrong, it challenged my assumptions of the world, it challenged my assumptions of myself, it made me question almost everything I had previously been taught to believe about the way the world works, yet I still lived in a bubble.  On a few occasions, I threw myself off the train.  Once I ended up in rural West Africa.  I was miserable, but I knew I was suffocating and I needed some air.  And still, I was so terrified of what I found, I happily went back to my boxcar afterward to “process.”  I needed the safety, the comfort, the support of everyone and everything I knew before if I was really to make sense of what lay outside.  The river was cool, but it was full of garbage and dead fish; the rocks that made up the road were warm, too warm, and I, unlike so many others, was wearing shoes.  It was everything I expected, yes, and everything I was afraid it would be. 

I needed the boxcar that was my carefully constructed life in college to help keep me from losing my mind.  If you’ve been lucky enough to go abroad, you know the feeling of returning home.  It’s a joyous celebration to be back where life again follows a course of action where you know the rules, know how to sit and when to talk, know which words to use to convey what it is that’s in your head, your heart, no longer have to defend every move you make (to yourself or to others). 

After all of this, my boxcar was a welcome retreat from being bombarded for months with all things strange, and wonderful.  And yet, it was there, underneath the foliage of a 500-year-old baobab tree, that I first realized, there is always good in the bad.  There is always source of joy and beauty in the chaos, the frustration, the confusion. 

I find myself coming back to this moment often.  It’s not a comfortable place to be, even after all this time.  Recognizing that there is meaning in the chaos, beauty in every unpleasant moment, joy in moments where grey skies seem to blanket the world in sorrow.  There is always one in the other.  On days when chaos and confusion and sorrow abound, this is a comforting thought.  It helps me look for the ray of sunlight, to hold onto hope that it exists, even if I can’t see it in this very moment.  It’s a happy thought, knowing that if I can find a different way of looking at things, I’ll be able to see the joy, see the meaning, see the beauty I know I’m missing. 

I climbed a mountain yesterday; elevation change of 2,500 feet in 3.5 miles.  It was hard when I climbed it in September, maybe it should have been easier now that my body and lungs have adjusted to living at altitude, but when you’re walking on snow, it doesn’t really matter how well prepared you are.  The trail was never not covered in snow, and where it hadn’t mostly turned to ice, you’d have to watch your step so that your foot didn’t fall 10-20inches deep in snow.  We slid all the way up the mountain, and all the way back down.  Today, my body feels like I got hit by a train.  I wish you could have seen the view from the top, though.  It’s something I will always remember.  Even as I forget how cold I was sitting at the top with the wind whistling all around us, how my legs ached with every slippery step, I will remember the majesty of looking at the world from way up high.  There was nothing to obscure the view of Mount Meeker and Long’s Peak; there they stood in all their glory, with only the wind and the sunshine between us.  I wanted to stay there forever.  Because even though I was freezing, I was hungry, I was in physical pain, there was such joy both surrounding me and within me.  In the midst of all of the bad things, there it was, a glimpse of delight, of deep satisfaction.  Times like this, it’s easy to recognize and fall in love with those few good things because they’re literally right in front of you. 

When everything is good though, when life is the best it’s ever been, it’s harder to accept that there’s good in the bad, because it means that there’s also not-so-good floating around, too.  And that’s hard.  Acknowledging that even though I wouldn’t trade this life I’m living for anything in the world, I still get homesick on occasion.  I still miss aspects of the life I left in Ohio.  I still have bad days occasionally, I get grumpy even as my friends try to cheer me up and lavish me with love.  It’s almost harder to acknowledge those bad feelings when everything else is going right.  I want to just see the good things; I want the love that surrounds me to always be enough.  And yet, it isn’t always.  I miss morning coffee in college, “quiet time” that ended up not-so-quiet because we found we could share what was once only allowed in our journals to be shared aloud; I miss the chaos of the camp dining hall filled with 200+ smiling faces and the anticipation of what’s to come; I miss short naps on the couch and going out with friends ready to dance the night away; I miss waking up early every Sunday, regardless of what happened Saturday night, because smiles and love (and breakfast) were waiting.

I don’t like this uncomfortable longing that I feel in the pit of my stomach.  I want this feeling to go away.  I want to not miss all this, I want to not long for the good things I left behind; it makes my heart hurt.  I know I don’t want to go back, I know I don’t want to give up any part of the life I now lead.  I’m happy, life is really really good, and still the feelings arise, and I can’t will them to go away. 

I can’t will this longing in the pit of my stomach away, and it transports me back to the baobab tree.  It transports me back to the time when I stood absolutely mystified at how life could be so hard and so beautiful at the same time.  It’s been a while since I’ve thought of this tree.  I hope it’s still standing, hope that it’s still a part of this strange and beautiful world.  I hope it’s still offering its wisdom, I hope people are still listening.  I don’t like this feeling in my heart that comes from missing a life I once lived, but I’m so happy for all that has been, both good and bad, that has brought me to this point.  It is because of the hard days that I try to forget and because of the love that I miss, that I’m able to be who I am today.  I wouldn’t trade that for the world. 

And as uncomfortable as the feeling of missing things is, it reminds me to reach out.  It reminds me to write, to make a phone call, to send my love to those who have loved me so hard, and still do.  This living in the moment, being here now, it’s important.  It reminds me of all that I love about where I am.  It’s also important, even though it’s uncomfortable, to remember all of what was, the good in the bad and the bad in the good, that brought me to now.  Some sort of wholeness exists, between the past and the present and the future; it fills in the cracks of time, of space, of my own thoughts and feelings.  It’s a hard place to be, loving even the uncomfortable, thankful for the longing that makes me remember, but it’s here.  I’m here.  To deny it won’t do any good, and to forget what got me here, I wouldn’t want either. 

I’m learning not to be afraid, of what lies inside my heart and of what lies outside my boxcar.  I’m learning not to be afraid of taking the risk that it just might be better than what I have currently surrounded myself with.  It makes me anxious.  I don’t know what to expect, and I’ll probably end up missing what I have now.  Love it all, now, while I have it.  There will always be more out there, and there will always be something I long for from the past; that’s what makes me human.  That’s what makes me alive.  So here’s to missing the past- for it makes me remember all the love; here’s to embracing all that is now- the confusion and the joy; and here’s to what’s to come, whatever it may be, that I have the courage to find out.

            

me, right now

I’ve been away for quite some time, now.  It’s not from lack of opportunity, or lack of things to write about, but sometimes when there’s so much happening, so much I want to write about, I can’t seem to find the right words.  It all mixes together, and instead of meaningful thoughts and understandings, it all seems to come out sounding like white noise, just there, but not creating anything worth listening to.  I sat down to write on multiple occasions, but what resulted felt fake; like someone hijacked my heart, took everything inside of it, and forced it into a grey mass, like what you see on the side of the road days after it snows but nothing has melted.  Exhaust has turned what was once a beautiful, white blanket of snow into a gross mess of sludge. 

Maybe my own exhaustion turned what was in my heart to sludge.  There’s been so much to do!  The holiday season comes with so much- saying good-bye to some friends, traveling across the country, re-connecting with family and friends from home, and that’s not even including the holiday part, going shopping, cleaning the house, cooking for hours and hours, being social, and trying to answer the questions “how are you?” and “how’s Colorado?” and “what are you doing out there?” with honesty and respect and a single sentence.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s been an absolutely amazing month- I wouldn’t trade a day of it for anything- but I’m really really happy being back, here at the coffee shop, the mountains in front of me and behind me, hot coffee in hand, sitting down to write with a full heart.

Many of you know, and for those of you who don’t, these past two weeks of work at the Ranch have been staff training.  We don’t get our next group of students until Tuesday the 19^th, and as such, the Ranch has been really empty feeling lately.  Many of you who are teachers will understand the feeling of anticipation, an empty classroom waiting for the arrival of students to fill the chairs with their bodies and the air with their laughter.  I love this.  I love helping create a space that will soon be filled with smiles and laughter, and so much potential that you can almost see it in the air.  The other side of this, though, is the emptiness that sometimes we create, in anticipation for something better to fill it.  I’ve lived my life like this for some time now, always chasing the next adventure, absolutely certain that somewhere, anywhere, the grass really would be greener than what is here now.  It’s exhausting, this type of living. 

Maybe it is my own exhaustion that turns what’s in my heart to sludge; that blurs the colors and makes everything look grey.  Everything here, that is.  Everything across the ocean, across the country, even across the room sometimes, what’s over there remains vibrant. 

Until recently. 

Last week, I had my mid-term review with my supervisors.  It’s hard to believe that I’ve already been here for half of my contract, but that’s a tangent for another day.  Something the ranch manager said during this has stuck with me, and I haven’t been able to shake it.  We were talking about my goals for these next four months, and I was talking about improving my confidence while speaking in front of big groups.  It’s something I’ve been working on for a while.  It makes me so anxious to stand in front of a group and present anything.  I doubt what I’m saying, I doubt my ability to communicate clearly, I doubt if what I have to say is really worth listening to.  I was rambling about having the confidence to speak as if I believed that my voice mattered, and my manager interrupts me.  “So do you just not see it?”  It almost knocked the wind out of me.  Do you just not see it?  Do you not see that you do speak with confidence, you do communicate clearly, you do have something worth listening to? 

I didn’t.  I still don’t know if I truly believe it, but his words aren’t going away, and there’s a reason they’re sticking around. 

I wrote a poem the other day called “longing,” and I’d like to share some it here.

Longing:

            To create… out of my whole being;

To see… the world as already complete, to take the pieces and not be afraid to re-arrange;

To risk… because it is the only way I’ll ever know: the grass isn’t greener on the other side- Surprise! Snow isn’t green;

To act… out of the core of my being; not afraid of my body, not afraid of my mind.  I tell myself these mantras constantly, you’d think by now I’d learn their truth;

To embrace… why I’m afraid of my body, why I’m afraid of my mind, why I’m afraid of the world more often than not.  I’m so afraid of the person I don’t want to be I can hardly see how the person I am now is who I want to be. 

To believe… the person I am now is who I want to be.

I’ve spent a long time being unhappy with myself.  I think part of it comes from the constant drive to be better, and to emulate the best characteristics of all of the people around me.  It’s not bad to want to be better, but it has blinded me, on many levels, to the beauty that is what I already have, who I already am. 

I love who I am.  I love my life.  I love that I get to live and work in an amazing place with amazing people.  I’m so blessed for all of you, my family and friends all over the world who choose to follow my blog, who believed before I did, that I really do have something to say, something worth listening to, worth reading about.  I’m finally beginning to see it.  Thanks for listening, for reading; for lighting candles of creativity, compassion, passion, and love deep within my soul even before I was able to really see it. 

Some days I’m still doubtful, but I’m beginning to believe, more and more every day, that this person I already am, right here, right now, is already all of the things I’m longing for.  It’s a great place to be.  

thoughts on joy and love

Sometimes you think you know everything about life, and then surprise! You get a message from a friend, or hear a snipet of a conversation not meant for your ears, or catch an unexpected smile from someone you thought you knew turns things on end.  Sometimes I wonder how I even know anything.  How I always mistakenly assume what I know for the truth, even as it crashes over me like a wave, time and time again, and just as often.  This conviction in the midst of chaos, of certain, constant change, of knowing I will never know everything, and I still make lists. 

Inspired by a TedTalk during my junior year of college, I created my first list of things I know to be true.  The list was a desperate attempt to put into words the change in my own worldview that took place over the previous year of my life.  Two months in Oregon, three months in Guinea, two weeks in my house, at last, that no longer felt like home, two weeks in Thailand and Myanmar, and then finally back to my little college in rural Ohio.  What did I know about the world?  What did I know about myself?  Was I sure about anything?  I knew a lot of negatives: life is not fair, the world is not complete, there is not always reason for actions, some things just don’t make sense, and never will.  This was my list of things I knew, but I was unsatisfied that that was all I “knew” to be true, because it was a list full of anger and uncertainty.  These may have been true at one time, true for me, but I still felt incomplete, felt like there was something I was missing. 

Fast forward to the next fall.  I’m camping with some of my best friends in the mountains of North Carolina; I feel that I can finally think clearly for the first time in a long time.   I take a walk by myself as the sun is setting, illuminating the sky and the whole world below.  My list of things I know changes.  I call it my list of beliefs.  I believe that there is love in this world.  I believe that everything is somehow connected to everything else.  I believe that I’ll never know the meaning to some things, but just because it evades me, doesn’t mean meaning, somewhere, doesn’t exist.  May not sound like much of a creed, but it felt right, at that moment.  It felt like I was at least going in the right direction.  Felt right, in my heart and mind and body.  I wanted to articulate a few more “things I knew,” but three was all I got, and so I let it be. 

Almost a year later, I’m sitting with students whose names I didn’t know ten days ago, but who now hold a special piece of my heart.  We’re supposed to be letting go of things we’ve held on to for too long, so that we can make space for those things that uplift us, positive things that illuminate out lives like the candles we lit last night, spreading light in the darkness, warmth where there had been none.  I was filled with awe at the changing color of the aspen trees.  The vibrant yellow against the green of the pines, the gray and brown of the rocks, the blue sky.  This is love.  This is the love of the sun, of the world, of life giving life, here for us to partake, or no, but here regardless.  It’s all connected.  And it’s all love.  The sunshine kisses the leaves, the wind embraces the mountains, myself, wrapping us all in comfort.  This is love. 

Love means nothing, if not connection.  Love is only shared.  It has to be, can only be, and so this thing that wraps the world in light and warmth, it is shared with me.  And I get to share it with others. 

And what is connection without genuine vulnerability?  The thing that scares me most in the world, letting my guard down against the world, the thing that leads to deep sadness, as well as deep joy.  We don’t know what path vulnerability will lead us down when we set out.  As we risk things we hold dear to us, our views of ourselves and the world, what is waiting for us around the next bend?  Disappointment?  Fear?  Loss, grief, confusion, sadness?  Or will we find joy?  Gratitude, affirmation, wonder, pleasure, happiness?  What is it that we open ourselves up to, each time we risk? 

Last night I got to spend a wonderful night with my roommates, hanging out, watching a movie, just enjoying life together.  In a week, two of them will be leaving us, going back to places that were first home, and even though I’ve only known them for three months, I’m going to miss them a lot.  I knew that they were leaving when I started.  What’s more, I knew that I would be leaving shortly, and still we became friends.  It would have been hard not to, as we all live and work together, but still, sitting on the couch together last night, I realized something I had missed before.  I’m happy here.  Really and truly happy here.  I miss home.  I miss having internet access and cell phone service.  I don’t always enjoy the 30+ hour shifts I pull a few times a week.  The stories I hear from our students often bounce around my head at night and make it hard to sleep.  Sometimes I wish I lived closer than a half hour drive to a good cup of coffee.  Even with all those things, I’m happy here.

Coming out here was a huge risk.  I knew no one I would be working with.  Didn’t even know exactly where I was going.  If I’m being honest, I wasn’t even sure what I would be doing, specifically, besides “hanging out with high school students.”  I packed my life up in a car I had bought (and learned to drive) two weeks previous, stuffed extra pain meds into my backpack, looked up at the stars, and set off.  I couldn’t, and still can’t, articulate what drew me out here, but I knew I had to go.  The same inner stirring that lead me to a small city in West Africa, the same conviction that there’s more to life than what I’ve known thus far, and the desire to learn all that I can about it.  This could have been a disaster. 

This could have, very easily, gone bad quick.  I live and work with the same 14 people.  Anything more than a pizza place is a half hour drive away.  It’s cold here.  I’m far away from the comforts of home.  My drive to work is five minutes, and I get to look at the mountains the entire way.  The students we work with exhaust me and inspire me every day.  My housemates here my best friends.  I get to paid to hike mountains.  Life is an adventure, and I love it.  This could have gone any direction.  When I set off three months ago, I didn’t know which direction it would go, but I had said yes to the journey, walked to the edge of the diving board, and trusted that the world would catch me. 

When we set off, we can’t know for sure where we’ll end up.  That’s the thrill, the adventure, the really scary part of vulnerability.  Will I make friends?  Will I find some sort of fulfillment?  Will people respect me?  Will I feel valued and important?  Will I find joy?  What will happen when I open myself up to others?  Is it worth the risk?  There’s no way to know.  Last time I crossed the country, then crossed the ocean, it wasn’t easy; joy was evasive, life was frustrating and chaotic.  And so, two years later, I set off again.  Hoping it would turn out better, terrified it wouldn’t, determined to find something I hadn’t even known I was looking for a few months ago.  In a world filled with material comforts and friends I had overlooked, I went off in search of adventure and found joy-filled gratitude.  Joy is always possible because there is always, always, something to be thankful for.   At home, I became so blinded by the call to adventure I missed enjoying what I did have, friendships built on years of shared hearts, the familiarity of a city I grew up in.  And even here, some days I miss home so much I fail to notice the beauty of the mountains and the love of my housemates.  It’s here, though.  At home, in Colorado, wherever I go. 

Vulnerability is always worth the risk because wherever I go, joy is possible.  There is always, always, something to be thankful for.  Where I find grace, where I allow myself to be loved and share the love within me, there I find joy.  May you, too, find joy wherever you are this holiday season. 

Love always,

Bridget

Thoughts from the Mountains-

            It seems, sometimes, that the mountains can speak.  Not in words, but rather in whispers of soft sweet sounds, whispers that you must listen closely to understand.  My mountains whisper soft comforts to my soul, and sometimes I listen to them.  It is not an easy thing to choose.  I wish I could say it was, but listening to the mountains is breathtakingly intimidating.  To listen to one that knows so much, to believe in the whispers from a source deeper than what could ever be described in the logic valued so highly by those of us who call ourselves thinkers, scholars, rational people (though that may be an oxymoron in itself). 

            Have you ever just listened to the mountains?  I’ve been living in their majesty for two months now, and sometimes still I am skeptical.  And yet, despite the logic I learned from so many of my teachers, I am beginning to understand the mountains.  They love so selflessly, standing there in all their splendor, daring us to…. To what?  For sure they are daring, one need not even understand the whispers to understand that the mountains are a dare to human kind, to all of us who try to make meaning out of this absurd and chaotic world, a dare to dream?  A dare to conquer?  A dare to live.  It is by choice that I wake up every day, look out my window, smile.  And yet, with the mountains daring me to live, what choice, really, do I have?

            I accept.  I surrender.  I acknowledge the beauty and the wonder and unexplainable whispers that resonate from the mountains to the depths of my soul.  I embrace the daily dare to live, to wonder with open arms and an open heart.  The dare to live.  To selflessly rise up, and breathe the whispers back to their source. 

            When the days are sunny and warm, I admit it is easier to listen.  The sun calls me from my hiding place behind the window, and beckons me outward.  “Come,” says the sun, and pulls me grudgingly away.  Some days, it seems too hard to follow.  Some days, I curl up in my empty bed, close my eyes to the world, and wish only for a few hours of bliss, ignoring the world outside.  When days are long and nights even longer, when stories enter the ears and make their way all the way down into my heart, when hugs hold me tight and lift me through what I never could alone, I pull the blankets over my head and pretend it is all going to be okay. 

            The sun, though, the sun does not need to pretend.  And the mountains know naught but truth. 

            Is this truth what makes the dare to live so compelling?  That the sun will never play pretend and the mountains continue to whisper, regardless of if I am listening or not?  The sun is shining, even if the clouds bring grey skies and snowstorms; the mountains whisper secrets free for the taking, and I, I want to know.  I want to listen; I want to learn of the selfless love whispered constantly through the trees, down the slopes of ageless rock, timeless secrets shared throughout eternity, forever ours. 

            I look sometimes, out across my mountains, and wonder if there is really a difference between what it means to live and what it takes to love.  This dare to live, with majestic and timeless creativity, is it not also a call to love boldly?  To love without expecting anything in return, just as the mountains live and love, selflessly.  Or is it more simple than that?  Is the dare to live, a call in itself, a whisper that cuts through the glass I try to hide behind, shattering what it is that holds me back- a view, boxed in on all sides, my reflection staring back at me, blocking what it is I long so much to see.  This dare shatters the box, shatters the preconceived notions of what I thought I could put myself, and my world, into.  A dare to live.  To step outside; to breathe; to listen.  To accept the wisdom of the mountains without judgment, without wishing it were any different than what it is.  To accept what is, here and now, in all its glory, in all its holiness. 

            It seems, sometimes, that the mountains can speak.  And I regret only that I do not listen more often. 

            I hope you can find something in this poetry.  It is times like this that I am convinced my words know more than I do.  Maybe this will hold meaning for you, for I still do not know how to make meaning out of all that I have written. 

Much love,

Bridget

reflections on people and love

Monday morning, and the living is beautiful.  For a few more days we’ll have fall weather here at 8,500ft, but I don’t want to think about that.  Because now is beautiful.  The sky is clear, the clouds float by, I got to sleep in, and when I woke up I had time to wake up slow, to rub the sleep out of my eyes and say a few mumbled “good-morning”s to my other housemates also (half-)awake.  It’s a beautiful morning.  And in a few hours I’ll go into work and we’ll drive to Denver International Airport and pick up 30 students, most of whom haven’t been out of California before, and more than likely haven’t seen snow ever.  Thursday’s snowstorm is going to be a shock.  It’s supposed to snow all weekend.  We’ve had a few inches accumulate before, but never anything that’s stayed for more than the day.  This might be the start of winter.  Soon.  But not now.

Now, the aspen trees have almost all dropped their leaves, and the pines continue to stand majestic.  The sun streams in through the windows, casting a yellow haze over us all inside, both blinding and comforting all of us here this morning, whatever it is we’re looking for.  The clouds float by, in what little blue I can see, high above the mountains.  The butterflies are playing tag, the flies wish for one more hour, and I’m just happy I have an extra hour this morning. 

When most of my thoughts were reflections on the world and on myself, it was easy to share them with you.  What is forgiveness?  How does the sunshine encourage me to live more selflessly?  How does the work I’m doing matter to the world?  It’s harder to write about people, about a life so intricately connected with those of you who are reading this that distance is harder to fake.  You, who are a daily part of my struggles and joys, how can I write about my life without calling you out, without admitting that my life is still tied tightly to yours, even though we’re now miles apart and I’m hiding behind a screen.  How to be honest, to you and to myself, if I only get to tell the story one time? 

For as much as I love writing, I hate words.  These words seem to fall short of what I mean to say; what is in my heart comes out distorted and superficial and it’s hard to confine the whisps of feelings and emotions into words on a page.  And yet, still I try, futile though I know it can be.  Sometimes I say what I want to say; sometimes I wish I could have found different words.  And still, I try.  Because I can’t not.  I have to try, have to do something, have to try to communicate the extent to which this whole thing matters.  And so, even though it’s easier to pretend that I can live this world on my own, that’s not the whole story.  I’ve written parts of that story, and now, the story continues. 

And so, people.  Because that’s what’s been on my heart most recently.  How much I love people; how, even when they confuse and frustrate me and move me to tears, I still love people so much.  I’m thankful for all the love they pour into me, how they comfort me when I’m sad, how they hold me when I cry ugly tears.  Since I’ve been out here in the mountains, my housemates have taken care of me more than I could ever have hoped.  In less than two months I’ve become closer to these people than I ever thought possible in that short of time.  My roommate is my favorite person in the world- she really gets me, and without her I don’t know how I would have gotten through these past two weeks.  She’s my rock. 

And she’s not the only one.  I love the people I work with (who, incidentally, are also the people I live with… go camp!).  Random chance has brought us all together, and quite frankly I probably wouldn’t be friends with many of them if I had just met them on the streets, but I think that’s part of what makes it so special.  The people I live with are the reason I wake up every day smiling, they’re why I want to go to work every day, why I don’t mind putting in long hours, because I know they are right next to me, will be right next to me, until the very end.  My co-workers and house-mates, they make sure I make it through every day, they take care of me, they love me deeply and show that love constantly.  I love you.

Thank you for endless games of True American; for taking care of me, and everyone; for letting us take care of you; for driving everyday; for helping me accomplish my goals, big and small; for just being there; for making me toast when I can’t move; for teaching me how to smoke Cubans; for hours upon hours sitting on the couch; for movies; for the record player and endless hours listening to records; for doing dishes; for letting me complain about it being cold (and then telling me to shut up and get used to it); for looking at stars and finding constellations; for late nights in the kitchen, sitting on the counters; for hot seat; for putting up with my endless list of camp games; for hugs, even when I’m unable to ask; for so much love.  Thank you for just being you.  I couldn’t do this job, couldn’t be the person I’m becoming without you.  I love you. 

And when life gets overwhelming here, and I get to missing home, I just have to check my phone, or my mailbox, or the back of my clipboard, to remember all the love that has carried me before, and still loves, even from a distance.  Hour-long phone calls with friends, playing phone tag with my family, cards in the mail that just say I love you, smiles and conversations shared about how much little things do matter.  We’re miles apart, but this space in my heart will always be yours.  And I love it.  I love that even though we don’t talk as often as we used to, when we do, it still feels like we’re close.  Sometimes this moving on thing sucks, but knowing that you’ll always be there for me, makes it just a little easier.  Thanks for loving me from afar, for still taking care of me in ways that only you can.  For sharing the little joys of a postcard, for letting me know I always have a place to stay when I visit (not if, when), for letting me know what’s happening in the lives of friends, and for being honest with me even when it’s hard.  Thank you for loving me in your own ways, for staying in touch, for just letting me know you’re there.  It’s hard moving on, but being able to continue to celebrate the love, celebrate that life is better because of rainy April morning, because of (not-so-)quiet time in the morning, because of saying yes to the unknown; this celebration continues, even from miles away. 

Life is better because you held my hand through the hard times, and I’ll never forget that.  I hope that you don’t either.  Even though I can’t hold your hand anymore, even though Sunday morning breakfast will never be the same, even though hot cocoa tastes different when it’s not shared with you on the basketball court under the stars, even though I’m no longer living in the room at the top of the stair, I hope that memories can sustain us until we can again.  When I can hold your hand, when Sunday brings breakfast after church, when the basketball court is ours again, when my head rests under your roof; it’ll happen.  I’ll celebrate that day with you, wrapped in your arms; and I’ll celebrate every day in-between for all that was and all that will be. 

I love people.  I can’t not.  Couldn’t choose it, even if love was an option.  On one of the hardest days of my life, I realized that I don’t get to choose who to love, or if I love.  I just get to love.  With my whole heart, through all the joys and sorrows and everything in between.  I just get to love, from my heart to yours, with love from the universe, from Brahman, from Baraka.  It’s liberating, to know that this love is nothing I’ve ever deserved, and so you don’t need to deserve it either; you, and I, we just get to receive and pass it on.  This love isn’t here because of anything we’ve ever done, or even because of who we are, it just is.  The sun kisses the earth as it finally finds a resting spot, the snow kisses the leaves as it continues to fall, the wind wraps its arms around all of us as it moves from one eternal embrace to another.  This love, thank you for sharing it with me, for helping to name it and claim it and celebrate the joy it brings. 

Some of my favorite lyrics say it best: “I will weep when you are weeping, when you laugh I’ll laugh with you; I will share your joys and sorrows, till we’ve seen this journey through.”  Not because of anything, just because we’re here, on this journey together.  Thank you for all the love.  Let’s continue to love from wherever; until we meet again.  

love and thanks on a sunny October day

Exactly a month ago, I was sitting in a Denver coffee shop, trying to eek out words to describe what I was doing and everything I was feeling, trying not to let my fears and anxieties show through too much.  It’s hard to believe I’ve been here for a month now.  Where has the time gone?

In the month I’ve been here, we’ve had two sessions of students at the Ranch (yes, Ranch.  With horses and goats and alpacas; and I wear jeans and flannel almost every day.  So far, I’ve resisted wearing a cowboy hat; sometimes I wear my baseball cap.  More often than not, I wear my boots, especially with the daily rain we’re now getting).  At the Ranch, yes, there’s the barn and the Lodge (and lots of mountain trails all around), and mostly we spend our time at the Lodge, where we eat all of our meals and sometimes have “academic time” because the students earn elective credit while they are here.  And they do learn, about the natural history of the area, about animals living on the Ranch, about leadership, about the culture of the West, and, oh yeah, about themselves. 

Mostly what we do here is tell the students how much they are loved and how much they matter and how they mean something in this big, confusing world.  These kids come from all across California, mostly from inner-city neighborhoods, where they spend their days out on the streets, or taking care of younger siblings, or trying to escape homes where “love” is as far away as the belief that they can make something of themselves.  At the Ranch, we try to change that. 

It’s not summer camp.  It’s not vacation.  We have fun, no doubt about that, but it’s not all fun and games.  It’s a lot of tough love.  The tough part comes with 10-hour days, and living with the same people you work with, and I want to help you, but you’ve got to learn to help yourself.  It’s when they wish they could stay here forever because it’s the first safe place they’ve know in their 18 years of life; it’s when the biggest smiles and most outgoing and loving hearts cry into your shoulder awful stories of abuse and neglect.  The love part is the only response. 

Of the students that come out to the ranch, many have just flown for the first time, most have never been out of California.  All of them, in lots of different ways, believe the lies society has told them about their lives, their worth.  When the students leave the Ranch, they will have completed 5 academic units, but they walk away with a lot more than that. 

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I moved out here, out to a small haven on the side of a mountain, and I don’t know if I could have found a better place to be.  Yes, the days are long, exhausting physically and emotionally, but I don’t want to be anywhere else. 

On the last night of each session, the students write letters to themselves.  We mail them three months later, once they get back to their lives outside of the Ranch, in hopes that they remember the things we did at the Ranch, the love, the courage, the change, remember that the joy is as real as the struggle.  Las week, I wrote myself a letter.  Mostly, what I write I’m too self-conscious of to share, but as it sits next to me, I want to share it here; I can’t take it back, can’t dismiss it as false, now that it’s out to the world.  Before a bad day makes me want to throw it into the fire.  Before I, too, succumb to the doubt that threatens to chase the love away. 

October 1, 2015

Dear Bridget,

            Session 2 draws to a close.  Never doubt that you matter, here and now.  Whatever emotions threaten to bring you down, know deeper than that that every moment, every expression of love, every embrace, this here is real.  The love that emanates, radiates from what we do here, this is real, these expressions of love different than what you’ve known in the past, different than the fairy tales, but no less important, no less valued, no less needed.  You love so hard.  Because so many people have poured into you, and that matters.  You could not love like you do without all the love poured into you; it changes expression, but never the strength, the passion.  Your story isn’t the fairy tale story, but the love you share reaches the ends of the earth.  On days when it’s hard, remember to also love yourself.  You are radiant.

Love,

Bridget

Thank you, all of you, for believing in me.  You, who tell me, in all your beautiful and unique ways, in some way or another as we’ve shared our lives together, “I love you.”  I wouldn’t be here without you.  Wouldn’t see the sun’s radiant light as a daily shower of love over the world, wouldn’t know deeper than words that this life is something special, wouldn’t know the daily joy that manifests in more ways than could fill a book.  Thank you for making me who I am today, I wouldn’t be here without you.  Sometimes the doubt and shadows threaten to block out the sun.  Thank you for all the reminders, for all the little manifestations of your love.  I hope that this can be a reminder to you, on those days for you.  You have poured so much into me, I hope that I can but give a fraction of it back. 

Love, love, love,

Bridget