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.

Snow Day

I have come to realize that life is extremely busy. My days are typically structured, and vary little in activities. I get up for work in the mornings, methodically eat a bowl of cereal, pour too much cream in my coffee, get dressed, and go to work. Even my job is thoroughly predictable. I give 5-9 pedicures everyday to all different types of women. Some of them fascinate me, others frustrate me, but all of them make me think. Often I like to pretend that every woman that I spend an hour with in my day is a possible projection of myself 40 years down the road. I sit and scrub their feet as they talk to me about their opinions on a gamut of topics: The oil spill, adoption, the war, Angelina Jolie's lips, and my favorite, the choices they have made in life. Although I have yet to understand why, many of these women consistently tell reasonably private information, many times bordering on a form of confession.

They tell their stories of multiple marriages, travels, mistakes and success, and relationships. Their voices gradually take on a narrative feel as they regurgitate the composition of their life. It is shocking to me still, how a large number of these women end their stories in a peculiarly uniform way. It is summed up in almost always the same exact sentences. They will stop talking abruptly, stare blankly, and say: "funny, it seems like all of that was just yesterday. It's Lex, right? Well Lex, enjoy this time because it'll be over before ya know it." After this, I smile, ask if they would like some quick dry oil, wish them a great day, and help gather their belongings. On my less cynical days, these precious interactions make me aware of the rapid rate at which life drives, and how it pulls us all along with it.

Today, mother nature has forced me to slow down and change my daily regimen. I slept late, ate homemade muffins, poured the perfect amount of cream in my coffee, piled on pounds of clothing, and went for a walk in an absolute snow storm with my mom, sister, and two dogs. I am now sipping a cup of hot tea. If we allow it to be, life can be astoundingly simple.

Washington State... of Mind.

There is a very significant difference in running away and getting away as far as I’m concerned. Today marks 36 days until I leave. Leave a mainstream way of thinking and living. Leave a comfortable home where each night of winter is not without a hot meal, and a hot fire. Leave a world in which the hours between 9 o’clock and 5 o’clock are filled with filing, working, busy people; doing everything in their power to make ends meet, or to surpass an obscure bar that measures their own success as well as that of everyone around them. I am leaving this devastatingly cozy space voluntarily to plunge into a similar, yet different world. In this world, there will be times at which I will be very uncomfortable and probably very cold. I will be challenged mentally, physically, and emotionally and will embrace new concepts, ideas, and thoughts, and hug more closely, old ones. My world here is safe, and warm, and snuggly.

I am a Florida native. Why in the world, one might ask, would I want to go to a place where it snows beyond belief, and rains more, to spend several months with some simplistically far out people? The answer is really a trifle. Because. I am going to Washington State because I can. I exist in this world and I move and shift with it. The problem with this, is that i'm finding that the world is astoundingly large and I feel as though my view should match its vastness. I might go and fail in a tremendous way. I might touch down in this strange land of Cascades and coastline, take in one deep breath of the crisp, icy, new air, and say to myself, "What have I done." I might go and learn, or perhaps I will go and teach. There are many uncertainties when submitting yourself wholly into the unknown divine. However, one thing is for certain: Go, I will. I will scrounge for my own meals. I will fall asleep in strange places to quiet snowfall, and awake to the smell of a day free of an agenda, and coffee, of course. I will tighten my laces, open my eyes, and walk until I am tired. I will have long talks with my beautiful big brother, and I will ask him to tell me stories of his life, and I will soak in his love and his spirit of adventure. I will sing and clap my hands as Rosie plays her guitar. There might be days when I am hungry or cold or frustrated. There will be days when I will doubt the whole thing all together. My responsibilities will consist of feeding myself, clothing myself, and exploring this incredible country, for that is my duty in this adventure of mine.

For a season, I am leaving behind those that I love and things that I cherish to grow and stretch my arms, palms open, to what I might receive. I am leaving a few responsibilities untended to, but I’m quite sure they will wait, earnestly for me to return. Responsibility has a way of doing that. I might even miss it, although I’m not counting on that. I will return and fulfill my commitments. I will do things that I do not want to do, because it is a means to an end. I will slowly find my way again back into the flowing stream of filing, working, busy people. But until then, I will pack a bag, take off my makeup, release inhabitations, and expectations, and answer the small timid voice of curiosity. For my very life depends on it.

love, marriage, and a baby carriage.

about 3o years ago, My dad chased down my mothers bus after it had pulled out of school. upon stopping, the bus driver opened up the doors, stared at a 17 year old awkward Bruce Williamson, and shouted: "Boy, are you crazy?"

"No ma'am, I just need to ask Kathy Stanley something." My father replied.

"Make it fast, child."

Upon standing at the front of the jam-packed bus, Bruce shouted: Is there a Kathryn Williamson on this bus?"

"um, yeah. right here." Kathryn sheepishly stood up looked at my dad with eyes wide open and curious.

"Would you like to go to the movies this Friday night?"

"uh, why not?" said Kathy.

"Great, see you then."

My dad was the original "G."

Today, my parents have been married for 29 years exactly. I did not even realize it until the barista at Starbucks asked me what the day was. I got to thinking about the fact that Bruce and Kathy Williamson have shared life together, five pretty beautiful children, two dogs, and a mortgage for nearly the past three decades. This led me to question a concept that as of late, I have been troubled by in more ways than one--marriage.

"It's November 7th, mike... oh my god, it's November 7th.... Thanks for the drink, mike." upon getting back into my car, I rolled my eyes and quietly said out loud to myself: "ugh, how long has it been now? 29 years... shit. too bad that doesn't happen anymore." I suppose that my reaction to something that is really so wonderful and should be celebrated, is rather mocked and showered upon with cynicism due to my extreme distrust in long term commitments. I realize that scrutinizing over monogamy is really a waste of time considering it has been the basic way in which society has worked for many years now, however, it is simply something that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around. I literally convince myself, from time to time, that my parents are not really happy, they just put on one hell of an act... and then it is in the quiet moments when I see the two sipping their coffee on the back porch, my father's hand gently intertwined with his wife's hand as they have their "morning devotional" together, that the picture of love that they have portrayed for 29 years, floods my heart and brain all over again. This is not to say that all 29 years were beautiful. There was a good 5 year stint at which point my mother claimed that she did not love my dad. She would look at him with such disdain, and when nobody was watching, he would cry. I always knew that she loved him though, because she would do the same, only she did not care who saw. She wears her emotions on her sleeve.

In so many ways, their interactions with each other have not changed a bit. My mom still bosses my dad around when we have no idea where we are. My dad still zones out when she gets in a fever over the "honey-do" list that has been neglected for weeks. and every once in a while, my dad still writes her beautiful letters. One morning about a year or so ago, I woke up to a banana sitting on the counter that, in sharpie, read: Good morning babe, take this for lunch today. love you, Bruce." Theirs is the kind of love that is accompanied by a sound track. it is simple, and pure, and untainted by betrayal and fear. Theirs is a love that is brave. The memories they share must all be in black and white, and when i see how unconditionally they abandon themselves to serve each other, my thoughts and beliefs on love are all pushed and challenged.

It all boiled down to this dynamic couple refusing to break a contract. The fact that signing a legal contract when you find someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with has been deemed the social norm is rather silly and absurd to me. But this is beside the point. I am trying to convince myself that marriage is not about losing yourself, or being sucked into drudging routines that consist of diapers, pb&j's and later, tuition's and grandchildren, but moreover will power. We live in a fast-food nation, and when the going gets tough, you walk out. it is a travesty.

I can't blame Tina Turner. Whats love got to do with it? not a whole lot. Commitment and determination has everything to do with it.