'Tis the Season

2017 is rushing to a close, and seriously, in so many ways, thank God. What a year. You know what is crazy? It isn't just the political climate, or our social and US cultural climate that has made this year crazy, but so many of my people have had one of the worst years of their personal lives as well.

Sickness and grief and injustice and loss and tumultuous relationships and depression and anxiety and...

...and so much more.

This holiday season I have been caught in my own tension of deeply desiring to enjoy the wonder of Christmas, the hope that advent brings, the renewal and sense of new beginnings that is ushered in with the turning of the year, with the reality of what has been and continues to be. There has been a heaviness that lingers, quietly dulling the brightness and energy of my heart.

As you may expect, I continued to be incredibly obnoxious over my winter break. I would repeatedly tell friends and family the old, familiar quote that "my presence is your present". (They never once got annoyed with me, either.)

In a world pregnant with sorrow and anger and brokenness, isn't it somewhat true though? What we have is each other, our presence in shared space, breathing the same air and living in a moment together.

As I write this, TJ and I are exactly 373.19 miserable miles apart. I say miserable not in a sappy, hopeless romantic way. I say miserable in the way that acknowledges that it is the holidays and he is at home alone trying to finish the biggest work project of his career, unable for the fourth time to get on a flight to join the rest of my extended family in Canada to ring in the New Year.

Well, I guess that is only the half truth. It's his 3.5 time trying.

He did actually get on one of the flights yesterday and did actually make it to Kelowna air space; and as I circled the airport for an hour watching numerous others meet up with their loved ones thinking he just got held up at customs, TJ's flight circled the air but failed to land due to wind, eventually flying back to Seattle for fear of running out of fuel. He keeps getting a standby seat and flights keep getting cancelled due to a winter storm that has come through this afternoon through tomorrow. With 7-12 inches of snow in the forecast for the storm, driving on his own isn't really an option at this point either. There is no way of knowing if he'll make it to join us all.

TJ is at home alone missing us while carrying the stress of work and the stress of going back and forth to the airport, wondering if it will even be worth it. My family is all up here missing him and I am having a hard time enjoying my time away without sharing in this season together. It feels miserable.

And then some perspective settles in (after shedding a lot of tears):

1. TJ is safe. TJ is safe. TJ is safe.

2. I am in Canada with family that I don't get to see all of the time, including newer family members, and that is really special.

3. I can choose my attitude, while also acknowledging what I am feeling.

4. There is room for rest and joy, if I make space.

5. This is 100% not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of life and the grand scheme of problems in the world. I can get over it (well, eventually).

6. This is my chance to practice presence. Here and now.

The reason I feel little glimmers of hope is because of the intentional love and support my family has showered on me up here. Each person has chosen to be present in something as little as distance and travel delays. Yes, it sucks for now. Yes, it really is a minor happenstance; yet each one has empathized with me, given hugs, and offered help. They have shown up.

Reflecting on the past 2 years, I have done a pretty poor job of being present with people. This is with the exception of my students and those that I see day to day in Seattle, although I know there have been some major misses there as well. I have a lot of important people that I have not been present with through circumstances that have actually been devastating or extremely impactful for them--completely different than weather related travel delays.

I can write it off as not knowing how to balance the kind of work that I do with having energy to give to others that are important.

I can write it off as needing to spend some very important time focused on my relationship with TJ.

I can write it off as caring for myself or needing alone time, but I think these may be only half truths.

My sister, Anjelica and I were talking the other day, and she was sharing how she had a friend that cancelled her plans and blocked a whole day just to sit with her through something, and how growing up that is how supporting people was modeled for her. Showing up and sitting there.

Sometimes I think I have to always bring my best self, be fully prepared to carry the burdens alongside others, to have all of the wisdom and right answers, while also perfectly listening to people, in order to connect with those I love. I can't do that, and I shouldn't do that. It doesn't allow for a reciprocal relationship (and yes, I do know that some relationships will not be reciprocal and I understand that too). Sometimes I just need to show up. Not just for others though, but for me. I need to show up in what I'm dealing with and ask for support. I need to be present and honest to others and myself.

Often I think about the story of seasons, the dying and rebirth, the planting and the waiting and the growing. In seasons, there are many things synergistically working together to usher from one movement of the story to the next. My personal story of seasons hasn't allowed for many others, if anyone, to participate in the synergy of creating and living together, but it is time for change, and I know it. I can feel it stirring.

Whatever may come, whatever will be, from 2017 to 2018 and beyond: Tis' the season. With each season, let us all learn to be present together just as we are, simply showing up and remembering how that is the most important.

And as this season comes to a close when the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, maybe, just maybe I'll get to be present with TJ, enjoying a squeeze and a kiss from my favorite.

33 and the Aioli Ugly Cry

At the beginning of the summer, I cried over aioli.

Well, technically I cried over not having any aioli.

When I say "cried" I don't mean quiet, gentle tears graciously rolling down my cheeks. When I say "cried" I mean I ugly cried.

All that I wanted was to eat my perfect breakfast biscuit sandwich on my second day off of work after an exhausting and overwhelming end of the year, that also left me ugly crying just a day and a half before this moment.

It was all going to work out perfectly--we called our order in to pick up just in time to catch the next ferry in 15 minutes to maximize our Sunday afternoon exploring some new places together, a necessary mental and physical break for me since home and work life always overlap.

I literally live at work.

Literally.

And it did work out perfectly. We picked up our food and got in line at the ferry terminal just in time.

Just in time for there to be a back up and have to wait an additional 45 minutes before the next ferry came through.

On the drive over, I pulled out my breakfast sandwich, eagerly unwrapping it knowing that with each second longer it took to start eating it, my stomach may disappear from it eating itself.

But as I picked it up, something looked different.

I tentatively lifted up the top of my biscuit sandwich to see...nothing. Nothing but plain ol' biscuit. No sauce. And to make it worse, they put it on TJ's sandwich instead.

I got so angry.

Is it so difficult to have one thing go right?

My life revolves around paying attention to other people and all I need right now is to be selfish and ask one person to do something for me this time around--to make me a breakfast sandwich with aioli.

"Linds, do you want me to go back? We can get on the next ferry?"

"NO."

I'm adamant. Adamant like a 5 year old refusing to eat their vegetables.

"I'm just not going to eat it."

Because that makes sense when you're so hungry.

"Are you sure? We can go back. I don't mind."

Easy for you to say, as you eat your perfectly made breakfast sandwich that has my aioli on it.

AND if we go back our perfect plan will be officially ruined. First aioli and then wait for the next ferry? NOPE.

Then we get in line for the ferry...that is running behind...with the line backed up.

"UGHHHHHH!!! We could've gone back to get aioli and still would have made the ferry."

Cue: ugly crying.

I'm angry. And I've lost it.

Over aioli.

I cry harder.

In one of the classes we teach for our Resident Advisors, that is an extension of RA training, we talk about self-care; how to care for ourselves well, in order to better care for the people around us. There is a really good analogy that we share around the dashboard of a car.

When a light goes on the dashboard of a car, you know something is wrong and something needs to change. For those of us in Residence Life, knowing what our "check engine light" is, helps us to be held accountable to make space to do the work (and it absolutely is work) to care for ourselves.

One of my friends I work with talks about how when he isn't doing well, you can find him drinking Mountain Dew in Gwinn, our campus cafeteria. Just the other day he told me he switched to Sprite last year after telling that story because so many RAs were calling him out or asking him if he needed to care for himself when they would see him with Mountain Dew...which was more often than he wanted them to be aware.

Another friend of mine I work with will grab a huge stack of cookies at Gwinn. Our students have noticed that as well, and they hold him accountable.

They hold us all accountable.

Here's the thing, I thought I was doing a good job of taking care of myself.

I do this thing I've entitled "dating myself". I will literally take myself on a date. I choose to do anything and everything I like with no excuses made, or having to think about other people, and just do what I love (while also having to force myself to make decisions, one of the never-ending thorns in my flesh).

And then summer finally rolled around and work finally ended and I didn't get aioli...

...and then I knew. I wasn't quite well.

It was time for a shift. It was time to make an adjustment. Even the smallest change could have a significant impact.

I joined TJ in California for 2 weeks while he was on a work trip. With the exception of time with family, I spent no time with people.

We got back to Seattle and I tried to relax. I didn't make any plans ahead of time. I tried to not obligate myself to anyone or anything, since I know this is the very thing that is the barrier of me being okay. I let myself just be, even if I didn't do it very well, I tried.

Then TJ and I headed to Hawaii for 2 weeks, camping, hiking, exploring, and adventuring in Kauai for one week followed by spending some time with one of my students and surfing and playing in Oahu for another week.

Work started halfway through August and already I find myself tired on a soul level and sensing a possible aioli ugly cry moment at any time. So far I've only cried unexpectedly about a song I'd never heard, but I never know when it will sneak up on me; and for me, that is a sure sign of a change needing to come.

Here is what I know: There is no way that I can do good work, love students and friends and family and TJ and others well, without paying attention to myself--my heart, my soul, my well-being.

And as I celebrate my 33rd birthday a few days early, in a place that allows me to stop and to rest and to laugh and to cry and to be, I think I am getting it in a whole new way.

I've got to grow up a little more in this next year in ways that I haven't for awhile.

It is time for rituals and rhythms that breathe life into my bones, that open up my heart in new and beautiful ways to the story that is unfolding.

I never would have thought that not having aioli on my breakfast sandwich would have been the light on my dashboard, but it was, and I am trying to pay attention. For myself, absolutely, but for you as well.

Why? Because I love you. And you matter. And you deserve my best.

As do I.

I deserve my best, and 33 must be the continued messy, crazy, unpredictable, beautiful journey that God desires to co-create with me as I lean in.

One Step at a Time

Can you feel it?

Breath in your lungs.

Life in your bones.

You are here.

Present.

Living.

Breathing.

Being.

Do you see it?

If you are able, look into the eyes of those around you. These, the window to the soul, have something to tell you.

Quiet your mind and your heart.

Listen.

How are you?

No, but really.

How are you?

I know what you mean. I have been there too.

Surprise.

Joy.

Pain.

Suffering.

Peace.

Confusion.

Frustration.

Anger.

Indifference.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Contentment.

Inspiration.

Hopefulness.

Steady yourself, friend.

Feel and see and listen.

We are connected. What you do eventually impacts me and what I do impacts you as well. We must pay attention to one another, to ourselves, to the life that desires to burst forth and carry us forward, onward, step by step, moment by moment.

I spent my Spring Break with four of my students and a dear friend I work with. It was the college trip I never had, camping and hiking, laughing, playing, adventuring in national parks. We shared campfires and told stories and chose to get out of the daily grind to push ourselves in ways that forced us to step away from what makes us comfortable, and to step into uncomfortable experiences (fear, pain, perseverance, exhaustion, anxiety, annoyance, frustration) that came with great reward. We had no choice but to pay attention to the natural world around us and to one another. It was all that we had in places with limited cell service and minimal amenities (no showers and a quarter mile walk to the bathroom).

As we hiked up trails crowded with others pushing themselves through their discomfort to experience the beauty in the place we were, I couldn't help but look people in their eyes and wonder about their stories. I didn't know what brought them to that place, but there we were, struggling, and living, together.

Nothing but mountains and rivers and rugged, natural beauty exclaiming how small and limited we are, simultaneously screaming that indeed, we each are alive, witnessing the grandeur of a world that both shakes and stabilizes us.

The last hike we did was in Bryce Canyon. It was the ninth (and unknowingly last) hike of the trip, which were all done within 3 days time. Every hike we ventured on ended up being longer than the signs indicated, and this one was no exception.

The worst part? It ended going uphill on steep switchbacks. (How unrewarding is an uphill finale?)

There are absolutely no words for the exhaustion we were all feeling on that final leg of the journey.

As we slowly made our way up the final switchbacks, one of my students (annoyingly, but lovingly) charged ahead and would turn around to watch and cheer the rest of us on.

"Just one step at a time. You got this."

And you know what? As much we wanted to strangle him and his enthusiasm, he was absolutely right.

We got it.

We made it.

It was in each of our time, but one by one we ascended out of the canyon, feeling exhausted, but also accomplished.

The impossible turned to possible.

It took each of us paying attention to what the others needed, and being just that for one another, whether or not we knew we needed it (or even wanted it).

This past week truly felt like an unexpected gift, as if something awoke within me once more, pointing me to feel and see and listen in ways that I haven't for awhile.

It reminded me to pay attention to myself and those around me, to all of what makes us who we are, and to remember our resilience. That we have made it to today, and just that is something worth celebrating.

So, today, however you may be feeling, however you may be doing, remember that life in your bones.

Dear friends, it's just one step at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

You got this. Believe me, you've got this.

Hopeful Disruption

The stars were suspended in the sky, the tiniest twinkling lights hanging down so close to the earth, yet still just out of reach. I didn't know I needed it: the damp, crisp air kissing my face, the not-so-distant crashing waves, the spectacular umbrella of night sky wrapping me in its arms gifting me a few moments of quiet, of peace, of promise.

If I stood on my tip-toes, I maybe could have done it -- grabbed the lowest hanging sparkle and captured it, like putting a firefly in a jar on a sweet summer's night. Something inside instead left me silently planted, still, waiting. For what, I'm not sure, but it felt necessary. Something deep within my soul held me rooted to the corner of the porch, head tilted back, eyes to skies.

My winter break wasn't exactly what I had anticipated. Hard to believe, but staying in one place for a long time is difficult for me.

There are always

things to see

things to do

things to explore

and staying home disrupts the opportunity to do so.

Does it?

Discovery comes in many forms. It takes time. One must pay attention to discover.

In my quest for life-giving adventure out and about, in new places, experiencing new things, with new stories to tell, I can miss a very important type of discovery: self-discovery.

Naturally one will find new understanding about oneself while exploring and traveling and having exposure to the nouveau.

Self-discovery, the way in which I am referring, happens in the difficult action of

stopping

slowing

silencing

stillness.

I would be untruthful if I told you that I spent many contemplative hours of my break doing these things. I didn't. Well, I didn't not do them, but I didn't do them in ways that provided a deeper understanding at the core of my being.

What I did do, however, was upset my routine of having no routine and my expectations of unrealistic expectations.

It's hard to be satisfied when I anticipate everything to be better than it actually could, or even should be. Living for adventure and on the go pushes space to pay attention to oneself, to others, to God, off to the margins. Disruptions are frustrating, unmet expectations are devastating, and life is just not quite as fulfilling.

Instead, during winter break, I did a lot of nothing. This gave permission for the space that had been pushed to the margins to make its way back to center of the page and present itself as open, empty, blank space to be created into anything it wanted to be; anything it needed to be.

TJ and I went to the Oregon Coast with his family over Christmas. It was my first time and it was enamoring. It was our family's first time doing anything like this, and I think we all needed it for a variety of reasons. The deck on the rental home provided views of the shore break and giant sand dune below during the day and the spectacular, pure sky by night.

Staring at the stars this past Christmas night I was consumed with an unusual appreciation of the messiness of life and the gift of the disruption of hope and wholeness in the stillness. I found myself so very grateful for the reminder that there is always an opportunity to discover, wherever I am, wherever I go, or, especially, wherever I stay.

That night I left the stars there, but gave them one last longing gaze before going back inside. They deserved to be discovered by someone else that also needed a hopeful disruption.

In Life and In Death

Today marks my dad's 59th birthday. There is a lot of life that has been in lived in those years and he has the stories and the smile lines and the scars and the gray hair (white hair?) to prove it. If you wonder where my sense of adventure came from, you can look to Larry Joe. In all of who he is, he is a "Yes!" person.

Papa has said yes to climbing mountains, running marathons, riding motorcycles, and water skiing and snow skiing, singing loudly, traveling the world, and to swimming even if the water is a little too cold. This has caused others (my mom) a little bit of stress, the occasional unexpected medical bill (hardcore sledding will do that to you), and an occasional pull back on the reins. Generally, if there is a chance to take a risk, to try something new, or make an ordinary day extraordinary, Papa will do it. He says, "Yes!" and more than anything, it has been the very thing that has brought our family a sense of adventure, plenty of stories to tell, laughter and seeing meaningful moments unfold unexpectedly.

One of the most impressionable yeses has been Papa's willingness and commitment to say yes to people and to dedicate his life to serving and loving them well. As he sees the people in his life, he commits to them and he cares for them and he deeply loves them. You see it in his eyes, and feel it when he hugs you, and know it when he cries with you and makes space for you. It is a large heart that he has protected in his chest, and I find it an honor to be a recipient of its most wonderful gifts.

Today also marks the tragic death of a student from our SPU community. She was killed in a car accident driving back with another SPU student from spending time in North Dakota at the Standing Rock protest. Although I did not know her well, I do know the influence that she had on the SPU community, and her willingness to stand against injustice, love people well, and bring joy to those who had the privilege of interacting with her. She may have only had a little over 21 years, but she, too, was a "Yes!" person. There is a lot of life in those 21 years, and that life has made a forever impression on the hearts and lives of countless people.

In life we are faced with choices every day that will forever make an impact on the lives of others, whether or not we realize it. In death we leave behind our stories that tell of our choices and their impact. We are all connected to one another and we must realize that in this interconnectedness there is a responsibility to see those around us, to listen well to others, to speak out against injustices, to give and to live and to offer compassion, and to never, ever, ever, stop learning from the stories being told in life and in death.

As I celebrate Papa today on his birthday, and as I reflect on the passing of Erin, I find myself sitting quietly, feeling my beating heart and with each breath hearing a gentle whisper: "Say yes, Lindsey. Say yes."

The Privilege of Silence

...

I learned a hard lesson last fall.

My silence has caused pain.

My complacency has bred injustice.

My privilege has blinded my eyes and heart in ways I could have never realized if I had not chosen

to pay attention, to listen, to look, and to learn.

This is not about my goodness or thoughtfulness.

This is not about me, at least not in those ways.

Not today.

Hopefully not ever.

This is an acknowledgement that I am part of the problem and if I do not do anything or say anything and stand in solidarity, may I be damned.

Do you hear the weeping?

Does it break your heart?

People are losing their lives.

LOSING THEIR LIVES.

For what?

The color of their skin.

I enjoyed a nice cup of tea this afternoon, reading updates about these tragedies in the comfort of my apartment on the top floor of a building nestled into an all too familiar Pleasantville-esque neighborhood.

Then what?

Keep scrolling through to something more "entertaining", something to distract and push the story to the back of my mind? Makes justifications for injustice?

Either way, there are no repercussions for me.

Or I can

stop

and let it sink in.

Another

human

life

gone.

How long, O Lord?

How long?

Say their names.

See their faces.

Alton Sterling.

Philando Castile.

May this very darkest of nights break into dawn.

Grounding

The on-call phone rang at 2:30am and I jerked awake, my heart racing and adrenaline pumping. Per usual, I had no idea what is on the other end. Anything from a stubbed toe to suicidal ideation. As one of the first few times of being on-call by myself, I was anything but calm.

In my strange state, I attempted to sound casual and alert.

"A student is currently having a panic attack that has lasted for about the last 15-20 minutes. An officer is present, but you are requested to continue supporting the student. It is in a hall."

"I'll be right over."

It was pouring rain and a literal and metaphorical cloud hung dark and low. Quietly I step into the room with the officer and the student. The OSS officer leaves shortly after I begin speaking with the student while she searches for breath and her eyes are frantic for a sense of calm. She indicates that she is concerned about waking her roommate up, so we shuffle down toward the study room to continue waiting for this unwelcome visitor to find its way along from her.

Never having faced a panic attic before, I do what first comes to mind, calmly asking questions of the student. Stressors, strained relationships, personal pressure, unrealistic expectations, transitioning from the safety of home.

After 20 more minutes the breathing becomes lighter. A welcome break for us both.

Then with the force of a dam breaking, another panic attack rises within her. I see her holding back tears and I offer all that I know to say gently and quietly.

"It's going to be okay. Deep breaths."

On repeat.

She clutches tightly to the blanket wrapped around her body and I hear her hushed voice.

"I see the rain against the window. I see the light in the hallway. I feel the blanket against my skin. I hear my breath and I hear the rain. I smell the air in this room."

She sees me empathetically observing her.

"My psychologist taught me this whenever I have a panic attack. It brings me to the present and helps me focus on what is here and now instead of my anxieties and worries."

Grounding.

I've since learned that this is a simple, yet very effective way to lean into calmness and quiet, even in the most anxious of moments.

Grounding.

Pulling my head out of the clouds, out of the past, out of the future, and refocusing it on the here and now; the present moment.

I was driving today and a song that I forgot about came onto my "2016 Goodness" playlist on Spotify. Almost immediately my eyes welled up and I was feeling for the first time in a long time.

Feelings rushed over me, engulfing me, and instead of attempting to push them away, I breathed and let them be.

I don't know where they came from, but I welcomed them as an old friend enthusiastically greets another they haven't seen in years.

It has felt like years since feelings have felt just this way. There has been so much numbing and ignoring and masking just to survive each day, that sometimes I wondered if I had forgotten to authentically feel.

If you know me, you know that there is no way that this is actually true; but there have been moments that scared and confused me to reach that place in my thoughts, wondering where my heart had gone, causing anxiousness to rise.

Grounding.

While listening to the song on repeat, I was reminded of the moment with the student, and the simple profundity of what she said, leading me to identify my personal lack of grounding the past few years.

In grounding, there is an acute awareness of the present moment. The sight, the breath, the movement, the sounds, the smells, the tastes.

Emotions and calmness co-existing in the madness of the heart and mind as I bring myself back to here and now.

It's good to see you old friend.

It's good to feel you.

Let's not let so much time pass; and in this moment, let's remain present together, for this moment is all that we have.

If you haven't watched the music video for the song, I encourage it, if you are looking for a gentle nudge to be present and to feel. It encompasses grounding through experiencing, adventuring, natural beauty, and relationship.

A Tribute to the Women

Women hold up half the sky. --Mao Zedong

For a long time I have considered the impact of the people in my life and how their influence has shaped me in ways that I could have never inspired within myself.

Now I am an adult, I am a woman, and I am confident and comfortable with myself, I am creative and compassionate, caring and brave. It is not out of pride that I share this with you, but out of utter humility and gratitude. For the attributes that I possess are not as much a reflection of myself, but a reflection of those that have known me, poured into me, and have boldly paved the way of what it means to be a woman. Today, on this Mother's Day weekend, I take a moment to pause and say thank you.

In the past year, some of my closest friends have become new parents. I have watched two of my dearest girlfriends each carry their child for 9 months and have the miracle of giving birth to healthy and beautiful boys. I have watched them navigate some of the hardest moments of their lives. I have watched them sacrifice and struggle and love and nurture and learn and give and give and give. In their early story of motherhood, they have inspired an even deeper belief in the beauty and power of being a woman.

Three years ago, I met a mother who quickly became a dear and committed friend. I have watched her fiercely love and care for her toddler despite many moments where it would have been easier to give in and give up. In the midst of a long season of transition, grief, pain, and heartache, she keeps pressing forward, into the broken spaces and offering all that she has to her friends, her family, and her little gal.

Just over five years ago when I got married, I was given the gift of another mother, in the form of a bold and strong woman that has given and sacrificed to show her family her deep commitment and love, overcoming unbelievable obstacles and pain. She lives authentically, with a keen awareness of those on the margins and a heart of care. I look at her and am in awe to also be a recipient of her goodness.

And then there is Deb Walkemeyer, a force to be reckoned with, encompassing the wholeness of beauty to the core of her being. If you only knew her full story. If you could see all that she has faced, even the promise of losing her life twice, and then see where she is now. My mother is unashamed of who she is. My mother is confident, and comfortable with herself. My mother is creative and compassionate, caring and brave. Sound familiar?

You see, this Mother's Day as I think about these mothers around me, I realize that what makes them such incredible mothers is that they are incredible women.

All of the power and all of the tenderness coinciding in the being of these women...and not just these women, but so many others that I have had the privilege of knowing and having relationships.

I don't understand why and I don't understand how, but I have been surrounded by so many brilliant, brave, beautiful women.

Women who chase their dreams and live into their deepest passions, even when people have told them that it isn't possible or it isn't acceptable.

Women who, despite daily physical pain choose to live fully and press on in their journey in hope of wellness.

Women who open their arms and the doors of their home to remind everyone that there can always be space for one more in the aiga (family) and sacrificially share all that they have to do so.

Women who speak truth and fight against injustice, even when their story is filled with enduring injustice against them simply by the color of their skin.

Women who wake up in the morning and say yes to the day and getting out of bed, although combatting overwhelming depression that attempts to keep them down.

Women who continue to choose to love deeply and believe in hope, after being taken advantage of or abused.

Women that are writing a different story with their lives than the destructive lies and manipulative messages that tell us we are second class citizens, that our worth is in our physical appearance, that femininity looks only one way, and that we are not brave enough or strong enough to do certain things just because we are women.

I tell you that there are too many women in my life that have proven that women really do hold up half the sky. I can stand confidently in my own womanhood, believing and speaking good things about myself, because since the very day I was born, I had a phenomenal woman teaching me how. And that woman, my amazing mother, has taught me the importance of building a strong community to face the messiness and joys of life, thus the many women around me over all of the years.

To the women I know, thank you. There are not words to express my gratitude and the significance you have on my life and the lives of so many others.

To mama, thank you. For I have watched you hold the sky for 31 years, and I hope that I can be just a small reflection of the woman you are.

Today may we celebrate the mothers, may we celebrate the women, that hold the sky with their feet rooted on earth, making the world better and more beautiful by being exactly who they are: phenomenal women.

Taking in the Lilacs

(Disclaimer: I am my mother's daughter, and if I didn't know flowers enough to be aware that these are tulips, not lilacs, there is a small chance I may be disowned from the Queen of Gardening, herself. The title may seem misleading, but it is connected at some point in this post...or at least I hope.)

It is spring. IT IS SPRING. We made it through winter and now bask in the glory of spring. Thank God that this year April showers are not here and bringing May flowers. This year winter showers have brought April flowers and the gray finally has broken into full days of sunshine. Just last week Seattle was much more enjoyable than California with 77 degree weather while down South endured (actually, more like enjoyed and needed) the storms that swept through.

Why in the world am I giving you an update on the weather? If you had to survive this past winter in the PNW with the record amount of rainfall and a never-changing gloomy sky, you might understand the overwhelming joy of stepping into the glorious warmth of the sunlight and allowing it to kiss your face and remind you that, indeed, you are still alive (and indeed, your skin looks sickly).

Of course, you can't predict the weather. Although we are distinctly in a seasonal transition, it doesn't mean the sun is out all day long, or the clouds are completely gone. It is still, very much, the Northwest and in the blink of an eye, your sunshine turns to cold rain.

These past couple of weeks more than ever I have realized the importance of seizing opportunities as they present themselves.

One of the best parts of my job is having the privilege of journeying alongside my students throughout the entirety of the academic year. Like it or not, the students that I supervise get to (have to) spend at least an hour a week with me. Part of our time revolves around their job functions. Most of our time revolves around their lives. How are you doing? How are you caring for yourself? What do you need? Where do you want to be and how do you get there?

From observing almost 2 years of students in this capacity I am recognizing that the spaces where my students grow the most are when they identify what it is they need or want, and then go for it.

The problem is that it's not that easy. Pressures from anywhere and everywhere push in against hearts and minds. "You're not good enough. You're not smart enough. You've messed up and can't recover. You're not brave. You're too tired. It's too hard. You don't have time. You're fine."

Pressure turned to excuses rooted in fear.

That's where I have been. Last time I sat here and blogged I was laughing at the irony of sitting in a similar physical space, in a similar mental space, hoping and believing I would change, and realizing in that span of time, not one thing had shifted. I also have realized that I sure am full of excuses.

It felt wrong to sit back down and blog until I let go of some of the pressure and moved beyond excuses...well at least some of them, anyway.

The magic of spring in the Northwest is in the flowers. Practically year-round we get to enjoy the glorious green of the thousands of trees and mountains and plants and parks that surround Seattle. It is magnificent.

But then, spring.

One morning I woke up and it was as if a confetti popper exploded everywhere. Cherry reds and soft pinks and sunset oranges and snowy whites and fire yellows and shades of purple you couldn't even dream of sprinkled the ever enduring green turning heads and warming hearts simply by being.

It is not to be missed, but can easily be overlooked if someone isn't paying close enough attention.

Did you know that lilacs only bloom once a year for an average of two weeks?

While on a one-on-one (or a fun-on-one, as I like to call them) with one of my RAs, John, he pointed this out to me. The sun was out (or at least attempting) and coffee was on our minds. As we got out of the car, John made a beeline for the lilacs. His face fully pressed into the bush, he took long inhales to immerse himself in the precious fragrance of the blooms. I joined him.

Walking back to the car John was by my side for a minute until I heard him say, "I can't miss it!" There he was, taking a detour to be one with the lilacs yet again. I laughed at him out of endearment and amusement; and then I joined him, naturally.

There are only two weeks to bask in the scent of the lilacs.

John went for it.

And so did I.

I told you I didn't feel comfortable blogging again until I actually followed through on my commitment to make some changes that I've been hemming and hawing about since last November.

Step one: find a counselor and make an appointment.

Check.

I'm not sure what step two is, but that's okay. I've known about step one for a long while and kept ignoring it.

TJ keeps traveling a lot for work, leaving me with quite a bit of free time. It has been important that I utilize time for myself, doing things that bring me life and keep me grounded. This past week he has been in California once more, and I got sick. I kind of had to choose me in this time in order to rest and recover. My feet love me because I took care of my ogre toes and got a pedicure. I took a bath. I got a book from the library and have been reading. Every day the sun has come out, I have been in it, even if just for a few minutes. I've gone on walks and sat by the water and I found a counselor and now I've blogged.

The time has come to take in the lilacs and I'm all in. Well, at least trying to be. Hopefully I don't discover a pollen allergy or get stung by a bee in the process.

Actually, even if I do, it will be worth it. There are only two weeks, and I would hate to miss them.

Preferences

Guess what? It is 2016. You read that right. Two zero one six. 10 days into the New Year. Crazy.

November 2, 2015 I was sitting in Starbucks telling my three faithful readers readers (thanks Teej and parents) that I talked about feeling sassy and ready to put on my big girl shoes and start walking.

Guess what else? I am literally sitting in almost the exact same spot the last time that I blogged.

I drove to the Starbucks Roastery (aka the Starbucks that tried really hard to make a hip coffee experience with a more expensive twist, but gets me every time) to get out of the apartment and blog. It is spacious and I figured I could bank on being an anonymous face in the usual crowd of tourists among the 'bucks fanfare.

Believe me when I tell you that I very infrequently go to Starbucks, even as a Seattle local. I don't love Starbucks and my "preferences", as I like to call them, have become more, ahem, refined. Although, if actions speak louder than words than you should not actually believe me. Why? Because this is my second time at Starbucks in one day, and round two was completely my own choice.

Having looked back on what I wrote a couple of months ago, I'm beginning to wonder if you should believe anything I say, truthfully. For over a month I've been thinking a lot about how life requires work and seeing evidence of that all around. My hope was to write out some motivational and approachable thoughts on all of us working for the things that matter most. I had stories to share about different people I see modeling that in truly incredible ways. The phrase "digging my heels in" was going to be incorporated. I could feel it in my creative mulling.

Here I sit at my computer reading my past blog, coming to terms with the fact that I haven't put the work in the way that I aspired to in November. Talk about a blow to the ego. Lots of talk, but no action. At least not in the ways that I know I need.

And the kicker? My job is to support and direct people on a daily basis. I listen carefully, ask thought provoking questions, and offer advice on how they can become more holistically healthy and grounded while riding the roller coaster of life. When it comes to putting things into action for myself, well, apparently that isn't a thing.

Honestly, it is kind of laughable and extremely ironic. If that isn't a wake up call, I'm not sure what is exactly. At least I have a sense of humor about it all.

So, then, what have I learned about how things that are worth it require hard work? Blowing hot air isn't helpful unless there is a balloon attached to the basket to get it lifted into the air and going somewhere.

If I don't get a balloon quick, my basket will be staying at Starbucks, and that isn't really something that I, ahem, prefer.