The Rising

There was a full moon last night. I watched it slowly rise above the distant hills and thick tree line while I wandered around the streets by my home. It will still appear full tonight, but with the low, dark clouds there is only a small chance that I can catch a glimpse once more.

Early last week I went for a quick run to the beach. I hadn't done any form of physical activity, with the exception of rolling out of bed (literally...our mattress is on the floor) and walking, due to over a month of stupid foot injuries. (I kicked driftwood barefoot then bruised my heal from jumping across a tiny creek on the beach followed by bruising the top of my foot with a surfboard fin.) My feet still hurt, but it was a relief to move, if even a little.

As I headed down the road on that brisk, drizzly afternoon my eyes caught a flash of bright yellow amidst the dull dead colors that are the remnants of winter before spring. Standing boldly by itself in a dead grassy corner at the edge of an open space was one daffodil plant, with one blooming daffodil. It felt like a tiny, beautiful gift that no one knew about except for me. The yellow warmed my heart and gave me a spark of joy that felt unfamiliar, yet comforting.

Joy is something that I miss. The uninhibited burst of lightness and ease expressing itself through belly laughter or a spring in my step or a gentle, unforced smile. It is that deep, internal settledness, knowing that despite exterior circumstances, life within abounds, roots remain strong though seasons may wither the leaves and strip the branches.

Happiness and joy are often interchanged, although different. Happiness is temporary and joy is, well truthfully, eternal, if cultivated. Happiness is dependent upon, while joy is independent of. Happiness is definable and joy revels in its mystery.

There have been many, many moments of happiness in my life and I am ever so grateful for them. However, as time has gone on, years have passed and worked away layers, exposing me to the raw elements, the lines between happiness and joy have become blurred from a desperation to simply survive. In my need for survival, I have clung to moments of happiness in their provisional promises, desperate to hold on as long as possible knowing that it would be an undisclosed amount of muddling through the valley before even the option of a peak would present itself.

Happiness tends to only be found at the peaks. Joy can be found in the valleys.

And that is something that I had forgotten, until the rising.

The rising moon.

The rising daffodil.

The resilient moon.

The resilient daffodil.

In season, they rise.

So shall you.

So shall I.

The Goodness of an Onion

3.9 miles for one yellow onion. 7.8 miles if you count the trip home.

Yesterday I was adamant about making dinner. (This was immediately after an unexpected morning conflict around being bad at making decisions together, planning vs. not planning, budgeting–woof, what time TJ would go to the gym, and how starting the conversation was to avoid conflict in the first place.)

Adamant may be the wrong word–more like stubborn. I was stubborn about making dinner. If TJ really needed to do his own thing and has had too many stressors, then I will take the burden upon myself, "selflessly" providing some ease. All out of my love and compassion for him and nothing to do with my genetic stubbornness or proving a point.

Yes, TJ–I will find a creative way to use some of the unusual produce in our fridge. Like the cauliflower that's trying to hold on for one more day just to be the shining star in a meal that was originally planned, but never quite executed. (Hey, Taco Bell and the Costco food court are cheaper. Plus, with a Costco pizza there are leftovers. It's the gift that keeps on giving...well, I mean, until it's gone...an hour later.)

In addition to trying to do a little something for me (take a short hike) and running errands, it took me 2 hours yesterday to shop for dinner when we had most of the ingredients at home already. Before I even headed to the store, I found a recipe, triple-checked what was in our kitchen, and made a list with 5 items. That's right. Only 5.

For some perspective, that is 24 minutes spent shopping per item.

Did I mention I had to go to 2 different stores as well? And the 2 hours of shopping for those 5 ingredients doesn't include travel time; it was just the time spent wandering the aisles.

After the weird whirlwind of being out in civilization (civilization meaning anywhere outside of our house and the blip of a town we live in called Gearhart), my brain turned to mush. I walked into the house and TJ, having apologized for his part in the conflict (I wasn't quite ready to own my part in it, if I even had a part in it), offered to make dinner instead.

Fast, easy, quick, delicious, healthy, dinner. I was very hungry so naturally I took him up on his offer, but not without kicking myself for spending 2 hours at the grocery stores (yes, plural–I still can't believe it), for a dinner that would have to wait another night.

Hold on for one more day little cauliflower. We need you!

I'm such a wonderful cook that TJ has told me that I should have a youtube cooking show. My show would be all about how to turn a 10 minute meal into an hour...on accident. How? Well, I actually don't know. It could be the possibility that I'm in the running for the world's slowest chopper? Or maybe because things never go quite right and sometimes I have to start over or because multi-tasking in the kitchen is a necessary skill for successful cooking and definitely not my forte.

The show would be difficult for me, but excruciating for the viewer, although I bet they wouldn't be able to stop watching. Like videos of horribly embarrassing moments. Or late night show hosts commenting on 300, oh I mean 1,000 hamberders.

Tonight's episode would be featuring the barely hanging on cauliflower to be turned into a curried soup. After 10 minutes of (painfully slow) removal of ingredients from the cabinets and fridge, I realize that I don't have an onion.

I had an onion yesterday (so I thought). Today? Vanished.

The recipe calls for a whole onion. No skirting around it; I had to go brave civilization once more to get an onion from the closest location.

7.8 miles and 35 minutes later (I don't drive slow, I shop slow), I'm back. Ready to go.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say this episode would be trending out of pure absurdity. I technically didn't have the correct pot, so instead used a large cast iron roasting pot that took over half the stove. I could have roasted the cauliflower while I went to the store to get the onion, but that didn't occur to me until halfway through cooking, having already added 35 minutes to the preparation time. I decided to double the recipe and failed to realize I only had one of everything (except cauliflower); but I had already started so, well, I went with it and got creative. While vigorously zesting a lemon (1 teaspooon's worth to be exact), I may have included grating my knuckle in the process. And to top it off, my stomach was growling before I even started making dinner. (Taco Bell is right next to the grocery store and it took everything within me to not give up and instead just grab some quality, healthy, organic, grass-fed burritos and a crunchwrap supreme–TJ's choice.)

2.5 hours later, dinner is served. Soup and bread that I didn't make. That's it.

It would've taken even longer if I made the side salad that I had hoped, but totally forgot until the hot soup and warm bread were already plated. I was tempted to do it anyway, at the expense of the hot meal getting cold. It wasn't until TJ said he didn't want salad at least 3 times that I realized it might be a bad idea.

Time: 4.5 hours

Distance: 53.4 miles (yesterday and the 7.8 from tonight)

Grocery Items: 5, plus an onion

Worth It: Absolutely

Beside my very unexpected post-dinner rant and cry about, ya know, things related to the meaning of my life, dinner was really, really (magically) good as I sit here and think about it.

Somehow the soup tasted wonderful and was the perfect meal on another unexpected wind/rain storm filled night. We cleared off the table (from our latest board game) and sat together to eat. I lit candles (but forgot to turn the overhead light off), used cloth napkins (it's more fun; but we also only have cloth ones that belonged to my grandma so not much of an option there), and tiredly chatted between shoveling down our food (remember how hungry I was before dinner?).

My tendency is to be critical of and focus on the ridiculous details, instantly narrowing in on the points that might make something more interesting or humorous, and as a result, I often experience them negatively. As true as the details are, and as much as they make for a medium-witty read, it is not in the critique of them that I will find the satisfaction or the worthiness I am seeking. It's in the pausing, the presence, the appreciation of the details that open up our hearts to the goodness in the madness.

As the week draws to a close (and I try not to flip out that we are already over halfway through January) I want to remember to hold onto the goodness. To see it, to name it, to experience it; and if it requires a 7.8 mile drive to get an onion, to know that it was worth it–mostly because we have leftovers.

In It

It's been 15 weeks and 1 day since I've last sat down to blog.

If I'm honest with myself, it's because I'm afraid. Writing for me is where I realize my feelings, where life is breathed into the quiet, yet persistent subconscious thoughts that usually stay tucked in my mind until I let them out. 15 weeks and 1 day piled up, pushing and begging to be free, to be released and make room for quiet and rest.

I'm afraid of what that release will look like tonight. So much more change has happened since the end of September and I think I've avoided writing about it as a coping mechanism.

Writing isn't my coping. Writing is my vulnerability.

And I wasn't quite ready to be vulnerable. I don't actually know if I'm ready now, but there comes a point when there isn't much choice; it just is time.

It is critical of me to say it, but it feels real: I knew some of it was too good to be true.

In the blink of an eye, I lost someone so important to me in October. Her impact was so vast, so profound, so authentic, that her death was felt in the depths of our hearts. Losing her was like getting the wind knocked out of us; "us" being the thousands that were seen by, loved, encouraged, fed, and cared for by her.

There is so much that I could say, but I still don't think I am ready to breathe life into that space yet. It's too painful.

In looking back over past text messages and conversations, I forgot that she told me that I need to keep blogging. I think I forgot because I intended for my blog to be a place for me, and if it happened to mean something for someone else, that would be a gift, but it couldn't be (and can't be) my motivation. It strips this of the joy (and the pain) and the purpose of this sacred space.

At the time, the comment was taken as thoughtful encouragement, but it didn't hold the weight that it does now as I read it again. I now realize that in that moment 4 years ago, she saw me, saw something that was within me, and was calling it out.  

To blog again after losing her and reading those words, it is sacred. It carries deep meaning for me and so flippantly typing words on a screen just to say that I maintained my commitment to blog more consistently felt like it would be disgraceful. She deserves more from me, to honor what she saw in me to "develop my gifts", to honor each of you and to honor myself.

I shouldn't be surprised that over the past 15 weeks and 1 day, in the midst of some exciting transitions something devastating would happen. For a moment, for a short season, I just wanted the good to be good and to not have to just survive (or escape) to get through to the next good thing. I wanted to hold on and celebrate right there, in the present, and to avoid another stint in which I experienced the loss of something or someone.

This is likely not a surprise to any of you, but I think I am finally coming to realize that that is impossible.

A good story most often remains with you when it encapsulates the beauty and struggle, the joy and the pain, and how the person (or people) remain authentically present to it all.

I want to tell a good story. I want to be a good story.

So I have to be in it. All of it. And to let all of it be.

In the past 15 weeks and 1 day, a lot has changed. TJ and I both got new jobs where we work remotely. We found a home to rent in a tiny town called Gearhart on the North Coast of Oregon. Finding friends feels impossible, but the handful of sunny days, ocean, and stunning rugged coastline (mostly) makes up for it. We moved 4 times (before getting to our now home), I've traveled 6 times (mostly for work), and Yeep (our Jeep that just made it past the 200k mark) broke down 1 time in the middle of Portland traffic (this is a number we hope doesn't go up).

Moving the week of Thanksgiving meant celebrating just us in our new home with a small meal of gratitude on Sunday of that weekend, not Thursday like most others. The holidays were warmed by cutting down our own tree, putting up decorations to make our sparse living space feel a little more full, and flipping the wall switch to the fireplace to create that cozy winter warmth. Since we sold almost all of our furniture, we've come to terms that it takes time and money to create a home that feels comfortable and inviting, and it will happen, but it just has to be one paycheck at a time. We haven't undecorated from the holidays, and a part of me has a feeling that a little warmth will be lost when we are back to living in a sparse space. But hey, at least we can drive out and burn our tree on the beach!

The holidays were spent with TJ's family and it was quiet, restful and so wonderful. Having our immediate family in Oregon is a gift. For New Year's Eve, my dream of having a variety show with all of our friends didn't really make sense on short notice and with our people living no closer than 1.5 hours away. (By "friends" I mean new and old friends. I was hopeful we would've met some people by then, but we've only ever chatted with our landlord and our postmaster).  Instead TJ and I stayed in, had a dance party (party of 2), played games (we'd love some 2 person game recommendations, since we've overplayed all of ours), and counted down to 2019.

New Year's Day was nothing short of magical: bright sunshine, homemade breakfast burritos on the beach, small hikes, longer hikes, TJ trying out a surf break near us, reflecting on 2018 and how we actually "just did it already" (our only 2018 goal) and dreaming ahead of what's next. If the rest of the year could just be like January 1, my soul would be full.

But it hasn't been. Staying motivated has been difficult. Choosing movement and healthy food over sitting inside watching shows after work on sequential rainy, windy days while eating all the cheese is difficult. Choosing to sit down and blog and be creative with the time that I now have that I never did in the past is, well, difficult.

And I think that's okay...for now. Not forever.

We're trying desperately to create new rhythms that make room for the rest and growth (and even grief) that we need. But it takes time. And it also takes one step in a direction instead of just thinking or talking about it.

Yes, it is risky.

Yes, it is uncomfortable.

Yes, there is no control over the outcome.

But I can make a move.

2018 was about taking lots of steps in a new direction and even still life happened, all of it.

And we made it. You, me, us. We're here to keep telling our stories.

Tonight is about one step in 2019. I can think about the next step tomorrow. I need to just keep taking steps.

Party Popper Perspective

I can't really make sense of anything in this moment. I'm sitting in a backyard Airbnb living room shelter in the quiet, the home owner's boxer pup at my side, string lights gently glowing, finally taking a huge breath.

This year has been a wild one. The last 2 months? Literally, unbelievable.

Nothing feels quite real and I just don't know what to do with it all.

Of course I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I am confused with the insane timing of it all. I am hopeful of what this affords TJ and me individually and together. And I am still grieving working with my students and co-workers for this year since I left my last job.

It is all being held together by this crazy, tangled string that feels like at any moment it could just unravel, yet miraculously it continues to keep it all secure.

In the past month I have celebrated birthdays, a wedding, new jobs, freedom, transition, and the excitement of the unknown. And not just for myself and TJ, this has been for so many of my nearest and dearest around me. It's as if someone had a humongous party popper and pulled the string, instantaneously filling the air with the shock and thrill of goodness showering down with all of the confetti.

It's a unique and wonderful time. And I also am the slightest bit apprehensive.

When life has brought difficulty and pain, unexpected twists and turns, the addition and the loss of people, loneliness and heaviness and burdens and fear, it is easy to look past the charisma of the party popper exploding all at once and live in the almost missed silence of dead air that immediately follows. POP! It catches my breath--I focus on what the impact is going to be versus what it is that is being celebrated in the first place.

All I want is to receive these good gifts with gratefulness and humility, yet there is a part of me that feels like the smallest movement could turn everything onto its head. It's possible that this is the result of the past 8 years of, well, stuff. The stuff has been real, left its mark in both beautiful and heavy ways, but I also don't want the stuff to discolor and strip this gift of brightly colored joyous blooms of the life that they are to live, for however long that may be.

There are a handful of people in my life that have the incredible ability to constantly live in the complexity and tension of life and let it be just what it is in that particular moment. They feel the feelings and take in each experience on its own, opening up their heart and themselves to the vulnerability of being exposed. Small treasures are found in the most mundane. In general, expectations are tossed to the wind and life is experienced with a fullness that wails in sorrow and dances in joy.

I envy these people.
I watch them and long for that reckless abandon. Presenting as if this is how I, too, experience life, I have to be honest and let you know that I really don't. I live in my head, my expectations, my disappointment, letting things of the past make me more critical of the present rather than letting the present speak for itself.

To clarify, the past informs the present and we are each made up of our experiences which tell the story of who we are. However, for myself, when the past robs me of goodness in the present, it is a cause for pausing. There must be a way in which I can allow what is happening now to hold its own place in the story, without assumption or criticism (unless, of course, assumption and criticism are necessary dependent on the situation, which I believe we each likely are aware of the differentiation).

Today I was in a plane and the flight was gorgeous. Mountain ranges spanned as far as the eye could see, the late afternoon sunshine boldly exposing alpine lakes, glaciers, trees, and secrets tucked away in the glorious expanse. Often I have thought about stepping outside of something to gain a different perspective, whether for situations or with people. Until today I hadn't realized the magnitude that a shift in perspective could actually hold. I pictured myself hiking up one of those mountains, on a trail surrounded by trees, pockets of the sun piercing through the density of the forest. To be in the trees on a mountain is so vastly different than looking down on the forest and the mountain ranges from an infinite vantage point. Being immersed in something can be profound, beautiful, necessary even, yet it is a part of something much more substantial, a greater narrative unfolding.

Being reminded of the larger picture sets in all in place. The "me" in the moment experiencing and living things, though significant and defining, is incredibly minute in comparison to the grand scheme. It is all interconnected and we are all interconnected, the tiniest specks on this infinite painting.

Shifting perspective is a reminder of a few very important things: I am not on this adventure alone. I am not the first person to experience these things, be it fear, elation, uncertainty, guilt, confusion, joy, loss. Detaching myself from a moment robs me of wholly living my story, experiencing the grandeur of it all, and limits the expanse of the storyline to something bland and predictable for myself, which has greater impact beyond me. My life matters, but so does yours and wherever we each find ourselves on the journey, we must be gracious with one another, encourage one another, and also challenge one another.

If life was intended to be stagnant, we wouldn't be surrounded with tangible examples of rootedness and growth.

So today, as I find myself headed toward something and somewhere new, surrounded with the confetti of the party popper holding celebration and enthusiasm and goodness, I will choose to practice being here, now. I will let this day speak for itself and trust that whatever happens, it is okay, and important even, to experience it for its fullness, and that in doing so, a better story is being told. Not just for myself, but for you as well.