Toe the line

Since this is my third post in a row about my dear, old Tevas, I believe it's time to insert a funny, self-deprecating story.

So, the other day, when I was photographically documenting the change in my license plates from Wyoming to Montana, I figured it was a good time to document another change in my life: the out with the old and in with the new of my Tevas.

I retrieved my new sandals from my apartment and set them on the pavement next to my car. I was wearing my old Tevas, so I simply unstrapped and commenced my photo session barefoot.

The lighting was perfect, creating hard lines of shadow that, I figured, would nicely represent the old passing into shadow and the new emerging into the light of a new life. I also became pretty en rapt with the idea of old and new facing off across the yellow parking stripe. You know, to symbolize the new sandals having to toe the line of greatness left behind by the old. (Forgive me; I'm a writer, and we think such things.)

Anyway, there I was arranging my sandals into various artistic poses, shooting more intensely than likely was justified, when my landlord walked up behind me. At the particular moment he approached, I was bent in half, nearly touching my toes with the camera, to get the perfect shot.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding quite alarmed.

I straightened, disoriented by the sudden call to reality, and mortified by the fact that I was, actually, okay. If only I'd been puking to justify such odd behavior.

My cheeks reddened.

I chuckled and tossed my hair out of my eyes.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Oh, I'm so glad. It just looked like something was horribly wrong. I wanted to make sure you weren't ill or anything," he kindly responded. Then, smiling, he turned to leave.

"Wait," I said. I considered asking him what he meant by "ill," but, thankfully, that thought did not emerge.

"Yes?"

"Well, I ah, I just wanted to explain what I'm doing here, bending over in your parking lot, holding a camera like a maniac."

He chuckled and said there was no need.

"Oh, but there is," I urged. And then it all spilled out. You see, I'm a writer, I explained. And I have this blog. And right now I'm blogging about...my old Tevas. And, well, you see, I just got some new Tevas because my old ones are beyond tattered with love and I wanted to capture the whole changing of the guard with a few photos. So, I'm taking photos of my old Tevas and my new Tevas and that's why I'm standing here barefoot next to your car, looking like I've got a serious hangover.

And yes, your new tenant is nuts, I thought to myself.

But Mark just grinned. "I totally know what you mean!" he exclaimed, a twinkle in his eye.

"You...you do?"

"Yeah! I had this old pair of Tevas for like twelve years once. And, man, when it came time to give them up, I nearly cried. I'd been everywhere in those things. They're great, aren't they?"

Yes, sir. Yes they are. And, wow, what a moment we just shared, huh? I think we just surpassed the usual landlord/tenant relationship. We understand each other now.

"Okay, carry on," he said as he got into his car and drove off.

I nodded proudly and whispered, "I will, sir. I will."

Old showing new how to toe the line.

The old sole is worn and torn, the new is defined and strong.

Old passing into shadow; new passing into light.

Old and new walking together.

The changing of the guard

It's kind of like welcoming a new year. You're excited to see where these next 365 days will take you. You trust they will be good to you, show you some adventures, and give you opportunities to walk along with some fellow travelers in life. But, at the same time, that old year has so many memories.

And when that old year holds a decade of memories, it's a little hard to let go.

So you look at old photographs and let yourself get a tad too sentimental.

You take a walk in the old Tevas and glory in the fact that there are freshly fallen leaves to crunch.

You dance in the kitchen and feel like the old Tevas may actually be dancing the steps all by themselves. They have, after all, danced those steps in many a kitchen over their ten fine years on your feet.

Then the time comes. You take a few long, shaky breaths. You shake your head at your own ridiculousness. And you lovelingly press those old, worn out straps closed for the coming period of rest.

Time speeds up. You put the ragged Tevas in a box as quickly as you can and stash the box in a dark, difficult-to-reach corner of your closet. Then you strap on the new Tevas and hit the street.

You walk for a while, contemplative. The new sandals rub a bit here and there...but, you tell yourself, the old ones did, too, when they were new so long ago.

You wiggle your toes. You revel in the small detail that the new Tevas match your old tan line perfectly.

That is a good sign.

And then, inexplicably, you begin to run. You run, and run, and run. You crunch leaves. You leap off curbs. You launch onto logs and kick your heels as you bound off. 

Grass. Sidewalks. Dirt. Pavement.

Up hill. Down.

Through puddles.

Into laughter. Laughter, laughter, laughter. Laughter at how ridiculous you really are.

But that's okay. You look at your new Tevas and nod a single, approving nod.

It's going to be a good year...or twelve.

An ode to a faithful friend

Perhaps if I had been more careful with our time and treated you more delicately, I could have delayed our separation. Would I had spared you the rigors of travel and summer and being my one and only, you would not lie ragged and worn at my feet.

I loved you too much.

In high and low, in joy and despair, in paths known and ways unfamiliar, I wanted you with me. You came without complaint. You came faithfully. And, oh, the times we shared.

Kayaking the sea in Alaska.

Splashing along the beaches of Indonesia.

Strolling the green hills of England.

Sloshing through muddy streets of poverty in El Salvador.

I defended your worthiness to those in authority over me. (Corporate dress codes exist to be challenged, after all.) I welcomed you in the company of those higher in status than you. (Those dainty ankles in high heels on graduation day were more daring than I.) I spoke your praise to any who would listen. (And to those who wouldn't listen, too!)

You have carried me and comforted me for ten long years, and I am grateful. I will never forget you.

And I will not abandon you. Some day, though I know not when, we shall walk together through green grass again. For, under the elegance of my white dress that shall symbolize a new step in life, I want none other than you with me to take it.

You will be my old.

And you will be my blue.

Until then, my faithful friend, I write this ode and submit it to yonder waves of internet space. The words do not do you justice. But I am a writer, and so I write.

Farewell, dear Tevas.

Fair thee well.

The blue badge of being a Montanan

I grew up in Wyoming. I was educated in its fine four-year university. I landed my first journalism job in one of its few bustling metropolises. I have hiked its mountains, kayaked its rivers, biked its roads, and gazed upon its sunsets.

I am a Wyoming girl at heart. I will always swell with pride at the sight of Steamboat a buckin' high. And I will always curse those states -- ahem, Montana -- that try to steal our emblem and our national park (Yellowstone is ours! Ours, you hear!)

But alas, though my blood be brown and gold, life has led me north. To Montana. And, to be fair, I really like this state, in spite of its sly, thieving ways.

As is customary (and required by law), I had to bid farewell to my license plates and driver's license 60 days after establishing official residence. I hit my deadline just last week.

And so, I saluted the buckin' bronc-emblazoned plates of my beloved Wyo and affixed the bright and simple blue badge of being a Montanan.

Given the make and model of my chosen liberal hippie automobile, I suppose it fits. Still, I am sure I'll be driving those blue plates south into the vast landscapes of my Cowboy State neighbor. I am, after all, a Wyoming girl at heart.

Camping in Paradise

For Labor Day, I met some good friends from Wyoming for a weekend of camping in Paradise Valley, a ruggedly mountainous area north of Yellowstone and south of Livingston, Montana. We enjoyed percolated camp coffee, great meals grilled over open flame, crawling into warm sleeping bags to enjoy the cool, fall nights, and scenic hikes straight out of our campground. We also introduced baby Lane to the delights -- and challenges -- of outdoor living as he experienced the coziness of a baby-sized sleeping bag and the frigidness of a mountain rain storm turned snow storm that flooded tents, soaked bags, and sent even the hardest of hard-core campers scrambling for a hotel room. It was a great weekend as any weekend is when spent in the company of beloved friends.

Sarah tucks baby Lane into his baby sleeping bag. He is going to grow up and be a ruggedly handsome outdoorsy man.

Dave grilled us some brats and peppers and tomatoes. MmmHmmm...

All-American camping family.

Lane hitching a hike to Pine Creek Falls.

Pine Creek Falls tumbled down in misty brilliance just a mile hike from our camp site.

After enjoying the falls, Becky and I continued hiking towards Pine Creek Lake, another four miles further and 3,000 feet higher. We didn't quite make it due to time constraint and this sudden mountain thunderstorm rolling in.

Aunt Becky with a warm and cuddly baby Lane.

On our second to last day, we left our camp site to go enjoy nearby Chico Hot Springs and some Bozeman coffee shops.

On our way back from Bozeman, we saw snow rolling into Paradise Valley and decided another night in the cold may not be so good for Lane. We booked a hotel room. Shortly thereafter, we got back to our camp site and discovered the pouring rains had flooded one of our tents and soaked our sleeping bags. With temps hovering around 35 degrees and snow only a few hundred feet up the mountain, we were glad we opted for warm and dry in Livingston.

As we drove out of the valley, the setting sun drenched the landscape in glowing hues of gold. We stopped to enjoy the sight together.

And we took lots of pictures -- of the beautiful land and of our beautiful friends.

Finding happy in the humdrum

My mom has this blessed ability to not beat around the bush. Today, when I called her to whine about how blue I've been lately, about how much I want to get away, about how I don't understand why I'm here, about how I wish I had someone (i.e. a man) who loved me, yada, yada, yada, she did a few things.

She listened.

She sympathized.

And then she came out with a few to-the-point words of advice. And the amazing thing about my mom's words is that they never hurt me, even though they are pointed enough to do so. Sometimes, I think her frank advice is why I call. I mean, I want her to listen and empathize, and she always does, but then we get to what really needs to be said.

I.E. Remember one of your biggest weaknesses, dear Hannah, is discontentment. If you are not either planning for or partaking in one of your grand adventures (which, by the way, you are VERY blessed to enjoy), you become discontent with the humdrum of living normally. But most of life, dear Hannah, is working to pay the bills. That is what most people do most of the time. So, right now, you just need to do the next thing. You need to stick it out and not think that moving somewhere new will solve your discontent.

Yep. She's right, as always. I need to stop moping. I need to clean the house and look for another job and maybe, just maybe, try to look outside myself to the needs of another.

So, dear world, I'm going to do just that. I bought a vacuum cleaner recently and suppose it's time I open it up and pour myself into vacuuming then dusting then walking then working then church then cooking then working then serving then making friends then working then paying bills then laughing then smiling then living then working then..........

Incorrigibly a wanderer

I've now been "settled" in this Montanan berg for about a month and a half. I've held two jobs for nearly as long, one as a delivery driver for a bakery and one as a librarian. I like them both. I like my apartment, my nearby family, and my newfound friends. I like this town and its people. And I've even found a church I like.

So, all that said, why do I feel restless?

Why do I stop and watch the planes take off at the little airport near my house -- and wish I was on them?

Why do I dream of elsewhere when I really, truly do want to be HERE?

Is it just the nature of my life these last few years? The temporary jobs. The writing. The renting of rooms rather than houses. The travels. The awareness that absolutely nothing was holding me down.

Or is it just my nature? Am I hard-wired to wander? My Grampa had the will-o-the-wisp, and I often wonder if it was passed down genetically.

Anyway, it is not unusual for me to love where I am and wish I was somewhere else at the same time. It is just bothering me a bit more this time around. It feels more like a character flaw than a charming attribute. I mean, what if I was married? Would I blame my husband if I felt trapped?

I hope not.

If this wanderlust is not a character flaw, perhaps it is an indicator of something else that bothers me: loneliness. Singleness. I can wander because I have no one -- at least no one in the sense of lifelong love. Oftentimes I am grateful for that, and sometimes I wish I had a reason to stay somewhere.

Then again, it is perfectly acceptable in my current state to throw a spoonful of chocolate chips into a whip cream container and eat it for dessert while sitting on my living room floor and watching a chic flick. I hope I still do that if I ever do get hitched.

And I hope I still wander. I hope I always wander -- not out of discontent or escapist tendencies -- but out of a love for the world God created.

I am slowly realizing that God made me curious. And he gave my curiosity wings.

* I recently read "West With the Night" by Beryl Markham, an extraordinary woman pilot who made her living flying dangerous jobs in Africa. It may be my new favorite book; it is at least in the top five. Anyway, Markham was a wanderer, and she had a few things to say about the condition:

A life has to move or it stagnates. Even this life, I think. It is no good telling yourself that one day you will wish you had never made that change; it is no good anticipating regrets. Every tomorrow ought not to resemble every yesterday.

Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost soul seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly, now, a wanderer.

Ah, the joys of being a bachelorette...