Polaroids:

Yesterday was the first time that I have had a class at Thomas Nelson's Hampton campus. I'll admit it -- I felt very much like a child on their first day of school. I spent an hour choosing what I would wear, printed out the building and room number of my class, and triple checked that I had a pen, fresh folder, and my syllabus... sad.

I intentionally chose to have class at the Hampton campus forty five minutes, two days a week, for the sheer fact that it is half way to the rock gym, and I could climb directly after class without as much traffic stress. My class let out rather early considering it was just the first day "house keeping" duties. I called my mother irritated that I now had so much lag time in between class and climbing. She suggested that I have dinner with my grandparents who live just a few minutes from campus. They only live a half an hour away, and it has been well over a year since I have made any kind of attempt to visit them. I'm convinced this makes me a lousy grand daughter -- I reluctantly agreed.

As I pulled onto my grand parents street, the smell of pine, and the same houses that I remember passing every summer since I can remember made my stomach twitch. I was slowly being sucked into a sweet nostalgia. I walked up broken steps to their house; the same steps that my dad had busted his knees on as a child.

My grandmother's face practically illuminated with joy when she saw that her grand daughter had come to visit. The smell of their house instantly made my mouth water for her famous rolls, and sweet tea. We sat and chatted about school, climbing, my family, and just life. My Pappa and I then went for a walk out on the pier. It hadn't changed a bit, although the boards were more weathered than before. The passage of time forced us to walk a little slower than I had remembered as a child.

"You've caught many a fish off this here pier, gal", my pop finally said.
"Including my best catch: an 18' rock fish", I replied pridefully. (I still hold the record among my siblings for the largest fish caught).
We walked back up to the house and I meandered upstairs to look through my dad's old room as a kid. It was now covered in mostly dust, old hangers, crusty photographs, and boxes of various things. I wondered what it had looked like nearly forty years earlier.

Later we sat at the kitchen table, and munched on fried chicken, potatoes, green beans, and mac m' cheese -- I was in a state of total euphoria. My pop unexpectedly stood up and left the room only to return with a Polaroid picture. He casually tossed it before me at the table.
It was a picture of him and I sitting at my other grandmother's kitchen table. He was holding me, and I had the most pitiful look on my face... the look of a child who as just been scolded. Pooched pink lips and all. I had never seen this picture before.

I burst into laughter.
"What happened here?", I asked.
"Oh, your momma, had gotten after you for sneaking a cookie off the counter," he replied through a wrinkled grin.
I couldn't believe he had remembered the actual reason I was even upset.

We finished eating, said our goodbyes, and I headed to the gym. As I left, I realized how much I had enjoyed my visit with them. It had taken me back to a place that has meant so much to me my entire life. Things there were slow, and pleasurable. It made me realize how much my time meant to them, and how I don't give enough of it.
It was a good afternoon with gram and pop.

We all bleed red

Let's say we're sorry before it's too late,

Give forgiveness a chance

Turn the anger into water; let it slip through our hands

We all bleed red.

We all taste rain.

We all fall down, and lose our way.

We all say words that we regret.

We all cry tears

We all bleed red.

These words, written by country music artist Ronnie Dunn, left me with a lump in my throat today. I am realizing the ways in which human beings are strikingly all alike. Sure, everyone knows idioms of unity or togetherness when it comes to the human race, but in some deeper meditation, I am humbled by the fact that the components that comprise a soul are one of the only ways in which each human differs from the next.

Our souls -- our countenance; that is the thing that allows us to recognize the vastness in which we are different. The tragedy is when we recognize only the ways in which we are unique, and forget about the basic human conditions that allow us to connect in the first place: love, fear, happiness, pride, sadness, anger, desire. These things are innate and uniform in us all.

Through a series of some of the most painful events of my life, I am clinging to this truth above all others: The genesis of inner peace is forgiveness. It is impossible to ever attain or even hope for a peace within yourself, much less this universe unless you choose forgiveness--everyday. contengency has proven itself a cancer to me. A disease that settles discretely and slowly, often times going undetected untill it has rotted a part of who we are. It changes the heart, corroding the parts that were once open to love and intimacy. The art of letting go is our only chance of peace in a generation.

We are liars and cheaters. We judge others unfairly and think of ourselves as higher. We all cut down with our words and hurt the same people we would die for. The despicable state of the human condition is one of the most beautiful unifying factors I've ever encountered. Only when we accept the fact that we all posses the same wretchedness, can the richness of our character be shared.

We all bleed red.

Monday's

My morning reluctantly started t 6:30 today. I am baby sitting for a family that is brand new to the area; the Lopes. The Mother, Amanda is essentially a single mom with her husband being deployed to Kuwait for the next 6 months. Two nights a week, I stay at their house because Amanda is a nurse and works the night shift at the hospital. I rolled out of bed, and made that noise that you make when your day demands too much of you. I slumped down the hall to A.J.'s room. He requested that I wake him early so that he could work on a report for school. He is one of the most studious 10 year olds I have ever met. I then walk downstairs and remember that the Lopes do not have a coffee pot. -- tragic. I whimper at the fact that I now have to get through this morning caffeine free. I check my e-mail, and walk back upstairs to wake up Ana, the youngest. Her chocolate brown eyes open lazily as she practically cooed "good morning, Miss Alexa." Her tender disposition distracts my need for coffee. Next comes breakfast: one waffle, not too toasted, butter only, and either chocolate milk or V8 Splash... it is a V8 Splash kind of morning, Ana decides. Next is what Ana likes to refer to as "wash-up." I braid her hair waste length hair, struggling to get past the massive knots, she brushes her teeth, and makes faces in the mirror when I tug too tightly. Thankfully an outfit for school had already been picked out the night before. Next comes picking out shoes -- no small feat for a fashion savvy 6 year old. She picks hot pink jelly's with sparkles. "Miss Alexa, my legs are ashy. I need lotion." "Right", I respond. I lather her up and head back down stairs to get lunches started, when it dawns on me: A.J... I call for him to hurry down stairs and eat something. The bus comes in 20 minutes. I search the pantry with a blank stare. I catch Ana watching me with scrutiny. She hesitates, but then says: "sandwich, chips, apple for A.J., apple sauce for me." I smile softly at her as a way of saying: "Thank you. So much." How she is so intuitive to my needs, I do not know. I pause, thinking about how much credit we don't give children. Just then, Amanda comes though the door, smiling, hardly looking as if she had worked all night. I literally sigh with relief. How single mothers, whether temporarily or permanently, do this routine on a daily basis is beyond me. Hats off to you, Mamma's.

Reflections

I’m sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Poulsbo, twirling my hair, sipping on easily the best caramel macchiato I have ever had. Not surprising considering my location. I am completely baffled at the fact that this is my last day on the west coast. The time has so quietly slipped by. I swear yesterday I was getting off of an airplane, holding one heavy damn duffel bag and a backpack thinking to myself: well, here it goes. I landed in a city that I had never been to in my entire life, and sat on a bench waiting to see an old white acura pull around the curb. I’ve been to more than ten cities in a short six weeks, including a trip to Canada, and all of it now seems like a memory, or something of the sort. I’m not sure that calculating the change and growth that I have experienced would be possible. I have learned more about myself, people, and this earth in six weeks than I have in my whole life.

I’ve dipped my toes in the frigid Pacific Ocean, and wondered at how I could be on a completely different coast from my family and friends. I have learned that comfort comes with work. I have learned, exceedingly well, that chopping wood is a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and that starting a fire is both and art, and incredibly frustrating. I don’t know how many nights I have fallen asleep to the sound of banjo music and my brother’s raspy voice, muffled by thin steel walls of an abandoned school bus; the plucking sound of the strings sounding much like a lullaby, or something that you hear in a dream-- It starts out clear and crisp and then morphs into a drone, as if you are underwater.

I have gotten lost in strange places learning that you cannot always trust strangers, and also having to depend on the kindness of the same. I have had to pack all that I have up and move on a moment’s notice and have been shown divine love of a family willing to take me in with no questions asked. I have pondered with total wonder, upon the beauty of new life by peering out the window of a ferry and seeing a small pod of baby Orca whales’ surface for air in icy blue waters with the Cascade Mountains shadowing the horizon line.

I have learned that this country first belonged to a Native People and I have seen and experienced the richness of a culture that formed the foundation of my own. I have learned that happiness is river dancing barefooted in an Irish Bar in British Colombia with senior citizens. I have learned that peace comes from within, and that the power of the mind is so vastly underestimated. I have learned that solitude is sacred and is a gift not to be taken for granted. I know now, more than ever that wherever you are, is where you are. So be there.