The small things: October 24

Today I watched a presentation about four guys on a 40-day expedition to traverse, from north to south, Alaska's Denali Peak. All told, they climbed 41,000 vertical feet, 18,000 of which were roped, technical climbing. In comparison, Everest, the tallest peak in the world, involves just under 15,000 feet of roped, technical climbing. Though the elevation difference between Denali and Mount Everest is 9,000 feet (Denali is 20,328 feet, and Everest is 29,000 feet), the feat these four guys completed was more than commendable. They endured temperatures of 50 degrees below zero, winds gusting to 90 miles per hour, frost bite on their faces, and days, a week even, stuck inside a tent holding the walls up so their house wouldn't blow away.

This expedition was 11 years in the dreaming and two years in the planning, so obviously sheer drive helped them summit successfully. However, I did notice many "small things" in the videos that I'm sure kept them going moment by moment.

They did robot disco moves on knife-edge ridges to make the others laugh for a few steps up the mountain.

On the summit, they turned their cameras on each other to allow others to speak words of victory instead of hogging the glory.

They literally carried each others' loads when one or another was too sick to carry his own.

In reality, it never is truly about the summit. It is about the journey through spectacular sunrises and deathly cold whiteouts--together, supporting each other, every step of the way.

The small things: October 23

Today I saw a young man helping an old lady cross the street.

Today my boyfriend opened the car door for me.

The small things, an intro

Something I'm consistently surprised by in life is how much the small things really do matter.

A bright smile in the middle of a grumpy day.

An encouraging hand on a shoulder.

An opened door when hands are full.

It is these small acts that can make a bad day a little better and a good day even greater. Conversely...

A roll of the eyes when backs were thought to be turned.

A grunt instead of a word or ten in reply.

A conversation during another's turn to talk.

These small acts can make a bad day worse and a good day grumpy.

I think these small things really being big things is a matter of...acknowledgement. Or perhaps respect. Or perhaps another more encompassing word I can't think of right now. Positive small acts say from one human to another, "I see you. I care that you exist. I honor you as at least equal to myself, or, as the Bible commands, as better than myself (Philippians 2:3)." Negative acts say, "I may or may not see you, and either way, I don't care."

Lately I have been the glad recipient and giver of positive small acts of kindness. I have also been the disgruntled recipient and ashamed giver of negative small things. These small things have mattered, and thus, I think I'll write about them for a while.

I don't wish to be petty or to keep a record of wrongs, so I'll steer clear of the bad small things unless one seems worth addressing. What I mainly want to do is keep a running record of at least one small thing I see or experience each day. I don't know how long I'll maintain this list of small things, and I can see this morphing into other blog ideas, but I do know that I want to keep observing and writing and sharing any small bits of life and wisdom God gives me to share. It's good to be back, dear readers. I've missed you.

Still brewing...

Well, my last post may have been a little too cup-half-full ambitious. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Truth is, dear world, that I'm not sure what to write about right now. I have no political rants, stupid car stories, or world travels to chronicle. I have no coffee adventures to brag about. I'm just living life. I'm working hard, shooting photographs, and falling ever more in love with my man. I'm happy. And, honestly, I'm tired of writing about myself.

And yet!

I am a writer.

I have to write something or I'll go crazy.

So...things are still brewing. Since my life has turned rather unexpectedly towards photography, I've thought about starting a photo blog. I've thought about laying Blind Bartimaeus to rest (as much as the thought pains me since he's been a fun and faithful blogging friend). I've also thought about just picking Blind Bartimaeus up and running in a different direction with him.

Anyway, this feels like the lamest blog post ever (it really probably is), but I just want to be honest with you. I miss you, and I miss Blind Bartimaeus, but I think something has to change. I'll keep you posted, and in the meantime, I'll leave you with one of my favorite Haikus by Rolf Nelson of Threadless Tees:

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator

Brewing

I have missed you all in my time away from Blind Bartimaeus, but I think it was a much needed break.

Just wanted to write and say I have lots of thoughts in my head, and blog posts are brewing.

Stay tuned for more...

Finding home

I've been thinking about buying a new ring.

I realize that seems trivial, but let me explain. I rarely buy jewelry, and when I do, it usually represents a significant event I want to honor. I bought a bracelet in El Salvador to represent my time drilling water wells with Living Water International. I bought a necklace made by Laotian women who use their handicrafts to provide for themselves once they've escaped a life of sexual slavery. And over the years, I have purchased a new ring when the path of my life changes direction. 

For example, I bought a ring when I left my newspaper job. It had footprints on it, and I've worn it nearly every day in these last few years of writing and wandering (and working a fair share of odd jobs) in places far-flung and near.

I still like the ring. And I will surely still wear it; I am a wanderer at heart and love how the footprints represent that part of my personality. However, things are changing. And change is good.

As I've mentioned in a few of my last posts, I've met someone. I'm crazy about him. I am madly, happily, dizzily in love.

I feel like I've found home, and I feel like that is an event worth honoring.

49 by 29: One year later

A year ago today, I embarked on a grand adventure that has come to be called "49 by 29." It was, in short, a daydream I was lucky enough to make come true. It essentially involved flying across the country and road-tripping nearly 3,500 miles in order to set foot in Arkansas and West Virginia, my 48th and 49th states, respectively, in my quest to check off all 50. Jeremy, a fellow wanderer with the "will-o-the-wisp" who has already marked off all 50 states, kindly accompanied me on the journey.

As much as I would love to rehash the journey day by day, I think that would be a long and tedious post. Instead, I will send you here to catch the journey's beginning, and here to catch its end. If you are really, truly bored, please feel free to read the posts in-between, too. I had a lot of fun writing them.

Anniversaries like these always make me reminisce a bit. Nostalgia is fun. But they also give me a leaping point to look ahead.

In the past year, Jeremy settled back in Philadelphia, reunited with an old gal friend of his, and is engaged to marry her on July 6! I hope he and Heather drive forward with God's joy and love as a constant companion.

I switched jobs from grant writer and receptionist to coffee barista and freelance writer. I got my own apartment. And I met a wonderful man who is now courting me. As I look ahead, I seek to commit to this relationship with the same gusto I commit to travel. I hope to look for the new and wonderful and praiseworthy in Justin. And I hope we "Go with God" in everything we think, do, and say.

Here's to adventures in all shapes, sizes, places, and times. May we all live each moment, each day, and each year to its fullest and to God's deserved glory.

 

Florida Keys

 

48

 

 

Bison burger, sweet potato fries and stout beer in Chattanooga, Tennessee

 

49

 

Kayaking in Pittsburgh

 

Wildwood, New Jersey

 

Ben and Sarah's wedding in Indianapolis

 Me and Justin. Photo by Mandy Carroll.

Lately

One of the things I've enjoyed about having one main co-worker these last few months (i.e. being severely short-staffed...love you, Heather!) is the daily sharing of our lives. As we ride the ups and downs of work together, we also get to enter into the ups and downs of our personal lives. Though asking "What are your plans for tonight?" or "How was your weekend?" may seem trivial at first, I think there is great value in such questions. They encourage reflection and story-telling. They bring emotions to the surface to be dealt with. They give us things to laugh about and sometimes things to pray about.

Through such daily sharing, Heather has become much more than just a co-worker to me. She has become a friend and confidant, and I treasure her greatly.

Lately, I've been telling Heather that I feel tired and have no idea why. That is when she reminds me that my weeknights and weekends usually consist of book editing, bike riding, disc golfing, river rafting, breakfasting with my folks, ice cream eating with friends, coffee-ing, photo shooting, worship practicing, church-ing, apartment cleaning, and lots of other-ings. And it's true. But I have no complaints. I am thankful to God for giving me so many good friends who like to get out and about. And (as I may very well mention in every blog post from here on out at the risk of becoming annoying!) I am so thankful to God for bringing Justin and I together. I love that man. I love every second with him.

So, for friends near who have joined these adventures and for friends far who kindly express interest in knowing how I spend my days, here's what I've been up to lately:

 

BMW (Burly Mountain Women) snowshoeing excursion in the Big Horn Mountains.

 

Crystal is one of the burliest (and most beautiful) BMWs I know. Seriously. She got engaged on a 40 day/40 night backpacking trip in the wilderness of Wyoming. Yeah. Don't mess with her :).

 

For "Western Day" at work, Heather and I took over the Sidewalk Cafe and demanded, "Lattes for my men, and frappes for my horses!"

 

In April, I attended and photographed my first branding. 

 

Bike riding adventure in Story, Wyoming. Love these peeps...especially that handsome fella in red :).

 

J is the best disc golfer I know. We spend a lot of time on the disc golf courses around town. This one is at the VA hospital. 

 

In May, the beau and I took a photo excursion to an old abandoned power plant near Buffalo, Wyoming. This was on the trail to our destination.

 

Old power plant from the outside.

 

Justin is an uber-talented photographer. Check out his website here. (Shameless plug for a fellow starving artist: Buy a print or two! Your wall needs fine art!)

 

Abandoned power plant on the inside. 

 

 

J

 

A little nature photography.

 

My brother's movie, The Adventures of Chris Fable, hit Wal-Mart in March! An action-packed family film based on John Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress," it will be a hit with kids of all ages. (Shameless plug: Go buy one today!) 

 

Rafting and kayaking Big Goose Creek through Sheridan.

 

Derek and Ashley raft in style.

 

The gang.

Shirley

Down the street from my parents lives a feisty, lively, lovely old gal named Shirley. Last fall, the entire neighborhood threw her a "Deadwood or Bust" party for her 80th birthday. Gifts fell mainly into two categories: supplies to support Shirley's avid baking habit and funds to support her avid gambling habit and her upcoming trip to Deadwood, South Dakota. From what I hear, she is quite the cutthroat gambler. At the party, Shirley drank and joked and generally held her own with all the young whipper snappers who had gathered to celebrate the neighborhood's most beloved resident.

Until recently, Shirley has walked nearly a mile a day on the streets of her neighborhood. My mom often joins her, and the two have forged quite the friendship. My mom says she is one of the liveliest gals she knows. And it's true. Shirley always speaks with gusto and never tolerates crap about anything from anyone. Her eyes gleam with years of living hard and full in Wyoming's desolate grip.

About a month ago, Shirley ended up in the Intensive Care Unit for seven days. When my mom visited her, she hugged her for what she thought was surely the last time. Doctors said Shirley was this close to passing through those proverbial Pearly Gates.

But Shirley wasn't ready to pass on, move over, or give up. Be it the feist in her soul or the life in her liveliness, she somehow knew she had to put her fists up and give death the old one-two jab.

Shirley now walks only a couple houses down the block before her legs give way and she must turn back home. But she's still walking, still fighting, still holding her own with all those young whipper snappers in the neighborhood.

Today, I had the privilege of sharing a few steps with her.

"What's new?" Shirley asked, her eyes reflecting her genuine interest in knowing how a person is really doing.

I started to talk about how work was going well and how I liked my new apartment. She nodded politely, but I could tell she wanted deeper conversation. Small talk must seem awfully, terribly small to a person who has teetered on the brink of death and just happened to land back in life for a while longer.

I asked her how she was doing. She said she'd been given a second chance at life and was going to do all she could to make it better this time. No matter that much of her life was behind her; she was going to make what life was ahead better.

She asked again how I was doing. And I think I got it right with my second answer. I told her that I am being courted by a truly great man. I told her about how he makes me laugh and about how he respects me as a daughter of God. I told her that I've been alone a long time now, that I worry about the jaded edges in me, but that I feel secure with him.

I told her I was full of hope. She told me my face was full of joy. She said it was the best news she'd heard all week. I presumed someone who is "living life better" would know good news, so I agreed with her.

After a few minutes, Shirley's strength began to fade, so she turned to walk slow and steady, yet still feisty and lively, back home. But before she left, she taught me one more thing about "living life better." She hugged me tight, looked in my eyes, and said, "Love you."

I said, "Love you, too." And, as I watched her gray head bob away one cane-step at a time, I knew I meant it. And I knew that I was standing on the brink of the rest of my life and that I should never, ever neglect to say those two important words to those in my life who deserve to hear them.

Here's to you, Shirley. And here's to second life. And love.

24 hours

If I had 24 hours left to live, I would spend them much like I just spent the last 24 hours. I would pepper my last two turns of the clock with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and dearest friends, but otherwise I wouldn't change much. I would not go skydiving. I would not try to make it to Hawaii to finish that bucket list. I would just live, coffee to coffee, loved one to loved one, sun ray to mountain vista.

I would listen to live music with a man who I think is pretty terrific. I would smile at his laugh.

I would read a book by Mark Twain.

I would pray...fall asleep praying.

I would wake with a big stretch and a "Good morning, God!"

I would let the sun kiss my face as I sat on the steps waiting for my parents to pick me up and take me to breakfast, just like we've done every Saturday for nearly 30 years. I would delight in sharing life with them over blueberry pancakes and whipped cream.

I would feel the road beneath me, and I would stop for coffee at a gas station on the way because it's there and I always want coffee.

I would play disc golf with my dad.

I would marvel at my mom's beauty in the open field.

I would eat cheap, authentic tacos at the local taco truck.

I would take photos and walk to my favorite coffee shop to edit them. And, of course, I'd drink one last mug of a really good brew...preferably Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.

I would ride my bike and stop to smell the lilacs growing along the road. 

I would watch the sun set behind the mountains outside my kitchen window.

I would bake a birthday cake for a friend, licking batter from the beaters and dancing in my kitchen, just me and my music and God.

I would wash my face and brush my teeth while stretching, and I would pray.

Fall asleep praying. 

Self Portrait

I have joined a local photographer's association. This is noteworthy because it was one of my New Year's resolutions to join...something. I am not one who usually joins clubs, so this was a big step for me. It is a fun group, and I look forward to learning from each photographer.

Our first photo assignment was a self portrait. This made me nervous. I like to be behind the camera.

Alas, I set the self-timer and sat myself down in front of the lens. I thought I'd share my "official" entry...as well as a couple photos that occurred after I grew weary of focusing on myself and decided to just dance.

 

I am but one of billions. It is not all about me.

 

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

One salty tear and one shaky breath at a time

It has been 297 days since July 4, 2011. I know. Who cares, right?

Well, tonight, as I listen to music and look through old photographs of past adventures, I care. I care because July 4, 2011, was a pretty traumatic day for me. I don't want to re-hash all the details here, but you can read my blog post about that day if you want. The run-down is this: In the early morning hours of that day, my friend and I were robbed by four men in backwoods Tennessee. They had crow bars and threatened to use guns. And a man I'll never see again (save in heaven, Lord willing) put his hands all over my body and threatened to rape me.

I've never been more scared as I was at about 1:30 a.m. when I was laying flat on my stomach whispering "Jesus" over and over as the men yelled for our money and my body, and I've never been more grateful for my next breath as I was when it all ended about 1:37 a.m. with the men speeding away with all our cash. And no more. Just our cash. Only our money. God is, indeed, our defender.

The events of that day did more damage to my mind and heart than I had originally thought they would. For several months after the incident, I was able to recount the details much like a reporter would recount a news story. This happened. That happened. And here I am still alive and grateful. But then, 3-4 months later, I was playing bass guitar on my church's worship team. We were singing the song, "Your Great Name" by Natalie Grant, when, at the lines, "Every fear has no place at the sound of Your great Name; The enemy, he has to leave at the sound of Your great Name," I fell to pieces. Tears streamed down my face, dotting my glasses with a mist of salt, as I recalled the event, the heart-throbbing sense of terror mixed with a strange fight-or-flight sense of steeliness, with flashback clarity. Something in the mix of the words and the music ripped away the Band-Aid of objectivity I'd placed over the wound, and I bled.

Being very German and quite stoic, I thought that one good cry in front of God and everyone would "cure" me. But to this day, I cry every time I hear or sing that song. The tears carry different weight each time as the wound heals from gushing to scabby to itchy to scaly to scarred. 

Scaly. That is what I would say I am now. In the months since the great gusher of October '11, I have progressed from bedtime flashbacks, to googling and facebooking the name of the man who touched me, to genuine sobbing prayers for God to reach those men with His love and forgiveness.

Most recently, I got rid of the shirt I was wearing during the incident. As silly as it sounds, that was a big step for me. I had held onto it for...I don't know what reason. I didn't wear it much because every time I put it on, I remembered. But I hung it in my closet so I wouldn't forget. I didn't want to remember, and I didn't want to forget. It was an odd limbo.

But, it's gone. And though I cried after I'd shed it, the tears were good tears. The wound grew one more layer of pink-white skin, a bit scaly and a bit smooth.

It is not necessarily fun to heal slowly like this. Part of me wishes I could have kept pretending I was strong. But, as I look back on the past 297 days, most of me is glad that God is helping me heal well one salty tear and one shaky breath at a time. 

Tails, Trails and Tales

My Mom is an artist, and I am a photographer, so when an opportunity came up last fall to host a dual exhibit in downtown Sheridan, we took it.

We had an artists' reception March 8. Once I got over the awkward factor of 80-some people turning out to check out our work (I tend to shy away from the spotlight), I quite enjoyed myself. In fact, having so many friends, co-workers, and strangers support me and my Mom in our creative endeavors filled me to overflowing with warm, fuzzy, I'm loved feelings. So a big THANK YOU to all who came to our show (including several who drove several hours to make it) and to all who purchased our work! I hope our paintings and photographs brought a little cheer to all who passed through the gallery.

With no further ado, here are a few photos of the big event:

 

Hanging the show.

 

My Mom, the artiste.

 

Some of my work...and our local Boot Barn...

 

More of my work...

 

My Mom does mostly mixed media with watercolor and pastel. This is some of her wall at the show.

 

Our friends Bev and Lindsey came over the mountains from Cody to see our show! Sure was good to see them!

 

My Mom at our Artists' Reception. Such a lovely, talented woman. 

 

My Dad and some of his students provided live music for the reception.

 

Friends who turned out to support us. Thanks, friends!

 

Me and my Mom and Dad.

 

More friends! I'm so blessed.