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

catching up

It’s been over a year since I’ve updated life in cyberspace, and life has been full in these months of absence.  Most notably, I graduated from Wooster, my home away from home for the past few years.  Moving into a cinder-block door room as a freshman, four years seems like forever; then graduation day comes and you realize how short that time really is.  Or I guess re-realize it; “the time is short and there’s so much to do.”  Been hearing those lyrics every summer since I was 10 and they’re as true today as they were that first Thursday night in June 2003.  But that’s a tangent for another day.  I graduated.  And now that I know all the answers to everything, thanks to my liberal arts degree, I know that there will never be satisfaction in answers; living is bigger than answers, and so armed with more questions I’m off again.

The funny thing is that two years ago, September 7, 2013, I was also on the brink of a journey, traveling across the ocean to try to re-kindle meaning in a life that had gotten so full of routine I wasn’t able to see the richness life held in a small town in the middle of Ohio.  Two years later, I re-read through all of the anxieties, all the passion cursing through my veins and my words, and smile, remembering that person who seems so far away now.  So much has happened in two years, and the adventure is still continuing.

I’m getting ahead of myself again.  I graduated in May with a B.A. in life, and the world a blank slate before me.  And so I did what I love best, I went to camp.  Spent the summer, summer number 12, at Camp Joy, making camp happen for over 1,000 campers and staff- little kids and big kids alike.  Two weeks of training and ten weeks of camp… life was a sprint, (every moment matters!) and while some days I felt too tired to even get out of bed, I went to work at a place where smiles greeted me every morning and hearts and lives were changed for the better.  Physically and emotionally exhausted, I ended the summer with a few mandatory days of rest, thanks to pain pills and recovering from surgery but I’m still cancer-free!!! and healing, slowly but surely.

And so, two weeks out of the hospital, what am I up to?  I’m currently sitting at a coffee shop in Denver, Colorado taking advantage of free WiFi so that I can keep my promise to my family and friends that I’d let them know how life was going, not across an ocean this time, but across the continent, as I once again pack up my life in Ohio (my first and always home) and see what life brings in Colorado.  I’m moving to Lyons tomorrow morning, leaving the city and the comfort of my sister’s apartment for a camp I’ve never been to and where I know no one.  And I’m thrilled.  Excited beyond explanation.  Last week was one of the hardest weeks of my life; saying good-bye to people you love more than words is really really hard turns out (and I’m leaving it at that because I’m in public and despite the fact that crying is ok, crying in public isn’t something I want to do right now).  I said good-bye to one chapter in my life, and tomorrow begins another.  Maybe we’ll call this one trying to see; trying to see what things are, as they are, trying to appreciate each moment of love for what it is, miracle of life, every moment of every day. 

Maybe it’s that leaving makes you see things in a different light, maybe it’s that I stopped wanting to see.  Anyways, now I’m here.  For better, for worse; only time will tell.  As for now, this is me, writing to stay alive, to stay connected, to that light within me and to the lights of innumerable souls who have made my life better because our paths crossed and they chose to smile.  Chose to ask a wandering soul to do quiet time in the morning; chose to rescue crazy college kids from being drenched in the April downpour; chose to watch Baraka, and hold on tight; chose to let me learn from my mistakes and my own writing; chose to be excited for me instead of letting me see how much it hurts to move across the country.  I wish I could tell you all exactly the impact you’ve had on my life, but words fall short on so many occasions and this is no exception.  For someone who loves writing so much, sometimes I have to leave the black and white on the page and send my love through the stars.  So wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, my you see the stars and know the love that cannot be extinguished.  I pass it on, but it not mine.  I hope you continue to know it, and continue to pass it on.  My life is better because so many of you chose to say yes to this infinite love and pass it on to me.  Thank you.  With your love in my heart, I now travel on. 

Until next time. Love, love, love,

~Bridget

thoughts from the library

The last month I really remember all of living through was October.  What happened?  I was in Guinea, struggling but living, with so much energy, so much life.  Over-filled with weaving, bogolan work, building friendships, running around town, and trying to figure out the meaning of all of this, November flew by.  In December my feet made the transition from chacos to snow boots and back to chacos, the dirt of three different continents beneath my toes.  Even though January contained 32 sunsets and the longest day of my life, it passed by in a blur, and the rest of spring semester right along with it.  Now it’s the Sunday before exam week, four months later.  

What happened?  I’m just beginning to feel comfortable again in this space I call my own, and in just over a week I’ll be leaving again.  Is life always coming and going?  Will I ever know myself in one place for longer than can be measured in weeks?  

Yet even as I write this, it terrifies me to stand still.  If I’m wandering at least I don’t have to be still long enough to look in the mirror, to look at things as they are right here and now.  If I’m running everything remains a blur and I don’t have to focus on it if I don’t want to.  

But have you ever tried to embrace and continue running at the same time?  Running hugs always end in spinning in circles, caught in each other’s momentum when hanging on was more important than continuing on.  You can’t embrace and continue to run blindly.  Arms open wide, you have to stop and let that person fill you with the entirety of their being, their direction, their love.  It catches you off guard sometimes, can change your direction completely.  And yet, when you’re caught in that embrace, eyes close.

Shut.  But not shut out.  Shut because at that moment, what can be seen is insignificant to knowing that at this moment, arms wrapped around and tears flowing in torrents together, sight is insignificant.  I feel your love, I know it deeper than anything I could ever see.  Eyes close, not to further ignore the blur that is life flying by, but to fully embrace everything that it is, everything that could possibly be.  Caught up in this moment, the eyes close and the heart opens.  Did you realize how long it’s been?  

The heart opens slowly, scar tissue stiff from years and years of disappointments and misunderstandings and loss without reason.  It’s slow, but once it’s started, it’s hard to believe there was a time when it was shut tight, shut to keep out the world.  With the eyes open, life was flying by in a blur, body tight, breath weezing, heart clenched shut to protect, but frozen ground never grew flowers.  

I’m thawing.  Slowly but surely, not without struggles, and you better believe I’m fighting against it.  But I’m tired of running.  Tired of trying to run other peoples’ races, trying to fit other peoples’ expectations; tired of pretending I have answers when I know I never will, pretending I’m something static when I know I’m constantly becoming.  The world smiles in sunshine; early morning breakfast with the birds as the sun crests the top of the canyon, and streaming through the library window as I sit with everyone else trying to get papers finished in time for finals.  The world smiles and all I can see is miracle.  

You smile and all I see is miracle.  The flowers open up, miracle of color.  The rain falls in sheets, numbing and chilling to the bone and I know I am alive, miracle of self.  The breeze feels cool against my skin, but it carries with it the sweet scent of the trees, waking up after too long a sleep, miracle of life.  Your love catches me off guard, Papa.  I am left breathless.  Tired of running, you catch me in your embrace; my eyes close to all that distracts, and my heart opens to miracle of love, of life, of being.  

What do you want to be when you grow up?  What do you want to do with your major?  Where do you see yourself in 5 years?  When I grow up I want to be in love with life, and I want to use my major to live with convictions and questions, and in 5 years I don’t care where I’ll be because wherever I’ll be I’ll be with God.

a little about what I've been up to

Well, it’s been a while.  I’m now back in the States, back in Wooster attending classes and trying to figure out how all the new fits into all that I left.  As of June 2013, I hadn’t lived outside of Ohio.  I was born and raised here, and while I moved three and a half hours away to go to college, I’m still in the same state.  Which I love, don’t get me wrong, but 20 years living in the same place, and the world felt like it was calling me.  I’ve been on occasional trips to other places in the states, and even overseas, but what I felt last winter when I began thinking about all of this, this felt different.  I wanted to be out of Ohio.  And not just for a few weeks, but really live somewhere else, spend time walking around and staying around even when the novelty was gone.  And while part of me was terrified of this, another part of me knew I had to do it, because I was more afraid of doing nothing, of staying here, than I was of going away.  

I spent last summer in Oregon, working at Camp Namanu.  Even though I missed Camp Joy, where I had spent the past ten summers, I was excited to be able to experience something I love (camp) in a totally different and new environment (Oregon).  The change of scenery alone was enough to remind me I wasn’t in Ohio anymore, but I also found myself missing (and craving) the family I had at Joy, the community that knew me and loved me and supported me through everything.  As much as I love traveling, I forget how long it takes to create community, and I found myself in an interesting place at Namanu, full of passion and love for camp and for the work that we were doing, but surrounded by faces and hearts unknown to me, and mine unknown to them.  Before long however, these unfamiliar faces became friends, family; these hearts full of hopes and dreams not too different than my own, and pieces of which remain with me today, even miles and months away.  But even as much as I’d like it to last forever, camp came to an end, and I soon found myself packing up my suitcase and preparing to fly back, if only briefly, to the state I had finally been able to get away from.

I was home not even 5 days when I left again, this time, on my way to something even more unknown.  Four airplanes, multiple cars, and one suitcase less than when I started, I finally arrived in Kankan, Guinea.  I wish I could say I fell in love with the city right away, that it was everything I imagined it to be, that I knew right away it was going to be such an amazing study abroad experience that I could go home and tell all my friends and family about and everyone would be jealous of all that amazing-ness that I got to do.  In fact, what I knew right away was that it was going to be a struggle, what I didn’t know was just how much of a struggle it was going to be.  Kankan was nothing I expected it to be, full of things I saw as contradictions and frustrations (least of which being that few people spoke English).  When people ask what I did when I was abroad, I say simply, “I lived” because that’s what took the most energy, what I spent most of my time thinking about.  It’s not something that is easily articulated because it’s just life, it’s what my host family and my friends did every day without thinking about, but for me, I found myself in a place I had never been before.  I knew nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  What to wear, how to eat, how to get from point A to point B, how to go to the bathroom, how to shower, what to wear, what to do upon entering a room, how to wash my clothes, how to talk, how to think.  Not everything I did was wrong, but it was weird, different, and I had to think about things in a way I never had to before.  To say it was hard would be the understatement of a lifetime.  But I did it.  I learned how to do my laundry and how to eat; learned to communicate and how to advocate for what I needed, as weird as it seemed to others.  I lived.  And it’s the proudest I’ve ever been of myself.  

The flight back was a whirlwind; more cars and airports and pat-downs and finally home sweet home.  But home was different, too.  I had adapted so much to living in Kankan, and now I needed to adapt back.  Which one would think would be simple, getting back to this life that I had looked forward to for so long, but it wasn’t that easy.  I found it really hard to talk about my time abroad, and especially difficult to try to articulate how I had changed, and how I now saw the world.  I was the same old me, back to another Christmas with family, but I felt different, and I couldn’t explain why.  Conversations were now strained, and I spent a lot of time by myself, just trying to figure out how to live life here all over again.  

I didn’t have much time though, because not even three weeks after I landed in the States I was off again.  The timing of this last trip wasn’t ideal, but I had the opportunity to travel to Thailand and Myanmar (Burma) for two weeks before the start of spring semester with a group of students from Wooster, and I couldn’t say no.  So I spent the day after Christmas packing my suitcase once again, and off I was to Thailand.  In less than thirty days I had been on three different continents.  I say none of this as a way to brag, but as conviction that I’m crazy.  And I mean that.  I spent the first few days of our time in Thailand in a state of shock, not really culture-shock and jet lag like my classmates were experiencing, but shock at this crazy pace of life and that I was (again) living out of a suitcase, living in limbo, traveling around.  My time in Thailand was nothing like my time in Guinea, and I feel so thankful for that.  While my study abroad program prided itself on not being tourist-y, our group in Thailand was a part of a large tourist culture, especially in Bangkok where we first stayed.  There are so many different ways to experience a new culture, to see and live in a different part of the world, and I learned to appreciate these ways.  Tourist isn’t always synonymous with ignorant and disrespectful, and even long term time spent in a country doesn’t make you all-knowing (or your motives better than others).  Tourism and Global Travel are complicated issues.  They deserve thought, especially if you yourself are planning to travel across borders, but the answers aren’t as clear as I once thought.  

And now I’m back.  To Ohio, to Wooster, to one of my, now many, “home away from home”s.  This is week 4 of classes, and I finally am feeling back to “normal,” whatever that means.  And sunrise after sunrise, life keeps surprising me, as I wake up to pure Joy shining through my windows.  Day after day, ink smudges across blank paper still trying to process it all.  I don’t know where I’m going from here, don’t know how I’m going to make sense of everything that has happened in the past six months, but still I try.  To articulate for myself and to share with others, but mostly as a way for me to continuing taking one more step in this journey that is life.  I try to find the words, to write, to speak, because it’s how I make sense of the world, and I thank you for listening and caring as my heart tries to make sense of the ebbs and flows of the journey.