Just when I thought it was safe to take my self-esteem out for a walk in the daylight…

Just when I thought I was finally able to put sentences together without “like” and “you know”, my self-esteem on the rise, my writer’s block in the dust, one of my dearest friends in all the world, none other than THE Suzanne Whistler Norman, had to make me pee my pants.

Embarrassing, but worth it. 

Check out her post today.

Oh, Suzanne wanted me to tell you that while Emma’s voice is as familiar to her as her own, this post was actually penned by her esteemed boss, the golden-tongued Clint Smith. A round of applause, please.

What I learned from the worst run of my life.

 

Emerging from the tunnel under Mack Hatcher, I knew something wasn’t right. The last seven miles had been brutal, but not impossible. The stretches of shaded trail nearly counteracted the parts in the wide-open sun. And then, all of a sudden, the heat caught up with me. Maybe I just needed to sit down for a second. My dad suggested I prop my feet up on a tree and rest in the grass for a minute. Maybe that would stop the dizziness and the disturbances in my vision.

After several minutes, it seemed to. I was back on the trail, albeit walking, but moving nonetheless. I would finish my last two and a half miles of my 9.5 mile run and check this one off my list. I will admit, the thought crossed my mind that the telltale aura signs I was experiencing could indicate an approaching migraine. But, I was choosing to think positively. Besides, I hadn’t had one in three years.

As my dad and I made our way down the track behind Franklin High School, it hit. Like a cranial vice grip, the crushing pressure mounted with every step. It was a full-blown migraine and we were two miles from home, a mile and a half from the trailhead. We had no cell phone and no car access. I would have to walk out.

The heat bore down as we walked, piercing sun intensifying the pain in my head as the temperature rose. It was close to ninety degrees now. I tried to stay present, focus on my breathing and take it one step at a time. But, every fifty paces or so, the panic and pain got the better of me and I felt like I couldn’t go on. I would collapse in the grass, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. Each time, my dad would help me up, my sweaty, shaking palm gripping his. I put my arm around his waist and closed my eyes to block out the sun as he lead me. He kept saying “Just take it one step at a time, Honey. You’re almost there.” We both knew that wasn’t exactly true.

By the time we were within half a mile of the trailhead, I was disoriented and weaving, hanging on to my dad with each step. We stopped a lady with a stroller and asked to use her cell phone to call someone to come pick us up, but no one answered. It was an out of state phone number and almost certainly dismissed by the recipients. So we kept going. It was the longest half mile of my life.

We stepped off the trail and onto the parking lot at Del Rio and Hillsboro Rd. My dad told me to lie down in the grass, while he ran home to get the car. He said it was the fastest mile he’s ever run. As I lay there in the dry, prickly grass, I closed my eyes and felt strangely chilly as the breeze washed over my body. Heat exhaustion set in and I had all the warning signs. I listened to the cars whizzing by and it seemed odd that no one stopped for the gril in the bright blue tank top lying in the grass. Waves of nausea hit and I hoped it wouldn’t be long until my dad was back with the car.

It wasn’t. I heard the sound of his familiar voice and then saw him standing over me. He helped me up and got me in the car. Before I could even close the door, I was throwing up. When I finally stopped, we drove the short distance back to our house.

My dad brought me a cool washcloth and I took a handful of multi-colored pills and tried to relax. Ear buds in my ears, I listened to the soothing monotone voice of a meditation guide. I drifted off long enough for the meds to kick in. About an hour later, I was feeling well enough to go upstairs and take a shower before collapsing into bed.

When I woke up, the headache was gone, and I felt like myself again. It all seemed like a bad dream.

I suppose there are a lot of lessons from this experience about how to train and how not to train for a half marathon. Lessons about bringing your cell phone, heading out early, getting enough sleep the night before, etc. But, I’ll leave those to my dad. He’s the how-to guy in this family.

What I learned yesterday is that it is unwise to hit the trail alone. More importantly, it is even riskier to set out on the road of life by yourself. The fact of the matter is that you can prepare perfectly and things can and will go wrong; there are variables outside of our control. Truth be told, how many of us prepare perfectly anyway? Not me.

The question becomes, will you face the obstacles and natural disasters of life by yourself? Are there people who will walk with you, encourage you, give you perspective, and even carry you to the other side if they have to? It doesn’t simply make the journey less lonely to travel in company. Rather, it is necessary for our very survival.

We are made to live in the context of relationship and community, bearing one another’s burdens. There is a beautiful, architectural quality to that idea that paints a structural, tangible reality. Intelligent design of the highest order. None of us are enough by ourselves and we are not meant to be. It is only when we are built into something larger than ourselves that we live as we are intended to.

For all the mistakes I made in terms of planning and preparation yesterday morning, I am grateful that I was not alone. In the midst of a dangerous, disastrous situation, I was able to experience the tender provision and abundant mercy of Jesus incarnationally, through the hands of my father.

 

Shot Bloks

It is 11:51 pm. I am alone and I am cranky. Not for the reasons you might think. No, I am the slightest bit upset because in exactly six and a half hours, I will drag my weary body into the God-forsaken heat and humidity to run 9.5 miles. The point five is very important. If you’ve ever run nine miles you know that running point five after the first nine deserves honorable mention.

Why would I do this to myself you ask? Well, for starters, I may be a bit on the competitive side – especially with myself and I already decided I would do it. Secondly, I bought three new flavors of Cliff Shot Bloks that I’m dying to try – Cola, Lemon-Lime and Margarita — get this — WITH SALT! Dying to try might be a slight exaggeration. I’m trying to sell this anyway I can and I don’t have a lot to work with, what can I say?

Somehow I committed to babysit the night before my long run and it was too late to back out by the time I realized it would mean less than five hours of sleep, so forgive me for the crankiness.

I decided to train for this race frankly, because I can. If you knew me a year ago, when I was sick as a dog, dangerously anemic, getting blood transfusions and having organs cut out of my body on a biweekly basis, you too would be ecstatic at the prospect of the very same body being able to endure 13.1 miles for the second time in six months! All, after having been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease.

While ecstatic might be pushing it at this hour, I’ll try to remember how far I’ve come no matter how difficult it is tomorrow. Wish me luck!

 

 

Hitting the Wall

It must have been the hottest day of the year; if it wasn’t, it sure felt like it. The temperature seemed to keep rising as my feet hit the pavement underneath me, one after the other, like dead weight. It was probably about a minute forty into my three-minute interval that I knew things were looking grim.

For starters, I had been trying to kick my reluctant backside out the door for three weeks for a long run, to no avail.  This morning was no exception. I could only move my mind and muscles to agree to an easy three miles, no matter how I bargained.

The humidity made running feeling more like swimming through mud. Miserable. It was the kind of heat that made you feel defeated before you even started, ready to conceded a loss before ever stepping foot on the battle field. The deck was stacked against me and I knew it.

The weather was the first obstacle. But, my mind made that one look like stepping over a speed bump compared to scaling the mountain of my own thoughts. Once out on the track, each step felt impossible – more to my brain than body. My stamina waned. With every stride, defeat gained on me, heckling me from behind. I was no match for its power. Before I passed the first mile marker, I was rocking in the fetal position in the corner of my mind, convinced it had all gone to hell. 

I’m not sure my why training became so difficult all of sudden. If anything, I would’ve thought completing the Country Music Half would have boosted my confidence when looking ahead to the Napa to Sonoma Wine Country Half in July. After all, now I know that I can at least survive 13 miles! But, it doesn’t seem to matter.

I had a parallel moment while I stared up from my yoga mat onto the ceiling, eyes open when they were supposed to be closed during my weekly mediation class on Monday. I’d fallen off the wagon there too. It had been weeks since I practiced. My mind was a virtual tsunami of cognitive activity, just as I needed it to set sail on calm waters.

Why did I hit the wall? I have no idea. I’m not sure it really matters anyway. Knowing myself, I am aware I could spend a ridiculous amount of energy trying to figure this out. Or, I could just accept it for what it is – a bad run, a restless mediation class – and start again from where I am. (Tough choice, isn’t it?) As my best friend Katy says, “It’s just a day.”

Meditation reminds me to approach life (or sports) with a beginner’s mind. That means temporarily letting go of the questioning and instead, being exactly where I am, experiencing each moment with intention and awareness. It also means observing instead of judging, watching mindfully instead of fixing. The idea being that in the present, the event in question (in this case, hitting the wall) has already happened and there’s not a lot of influence I have in reverse. Common sense, right? 

I have been amazed by the power of this perspective. Time and time again, I’ve seen things in my life take care of themselves when I start paying attention to where I am instead of where I’ve been or where I wish I were. It’s almost as though my psyche and my body are self-correcting if I will get out of my own way and keep my grubby little hands off the steering wheel for five seconds. 

When I lace up my trainers on Saturday morning, this is precisely what my strategy will be. I’ll check my baggage at the door and approach each of those 9.5 miles like it is my first.

When have you hit the wall and how did you respond? What did you learn about life in the process?

 

Perfect Moments

My heart beats for perfect moments. By perfect, I do not mean conforming to a rigid ideal, but perfect in a way that only a magical convergence of circumstances could produce. In fact, some of my most perfect moments were disasters by all accounts, except my own.

There was the time I was driving in a banged up ’78 Land Cruiser through the bush of Uganda, en route to a food distribution site, red dust cloud rising up on the dirt road behind us. All at once, with an anti-climactic thud, the axel of the vehicle fell out beneath my feet resting on the floorboard. My friends and I were stranded in the middle of absolutely nowhere. In Africa.

Within ten minutes, children began to emerge from dense shrubs on either side of the road, with wonder on their faces.  This was the first time they had ever met, what they affectionately called, a Mazungoo. Literally translation: white man walking in circles. Read: crazy white people.

As we stretched out our hands to greet them, palms touching and pulling away, the children, one after another, looked at their hands to see if the color of our skin had rubbed off on their fingers. It was as though they thought we had been painted and our color would come off on them. It was magical and unexpected and pure.

Meanwhile, our guide, an American named Alfred, stood on a three-foot tall ant hill trying to get cell phone reception. I cannot explain the absurdity of seeing a 6’3 snow haired man stand on top of an ant hill talking on his cell phone in the middle of the African bush, like it was totally normal. What next? A AAA tow truck coming over the horizon?

I just stood there, in the road in front of our broken down truck, dust on my shoes, drinking it all in – the serendipity and the other-worldliness of it all. I love these moments, the ones you don’t plan for but they ones that show up unannounced, bearing adventure, humor, or encounter of one kind or another. It seems that the things you don’t plan for almost always turn out to be the best.

On Friday night, some of my best friends, Bryan and Suzanne, came out to the house where I was house sitting, along with their friends Shaka and Stephanie. We made the best vodka tonics (see below) I’ve ever had, followed by some fabulous burgers and even better conversation. All spent on the most amazing screened-in porch you could ever imagine.

The porch occupies the space that once housed the breezeway between the original kitchen and main part of the home, built in 1821. The candlelight danced off the intricate woodwork of the porch. The grounds beyond, wrapped by an old stone wall, were cast with shadows from the full moon above. Ancient trees hung low and stood tall, all at the same time, making giant shadow puppets on the lawn beneath. It was nothing short of enchanting.

Shaka and Stephanie went home and Bryan and Suzanne decided to stay the night with me. Suzanne slept in the next morning, while Bryan and I were up early, as we often are. The two of us jumped in the car, me in my pajamas, Bryan riding shotgun, and headed to Starbucks, laughing and talking as we drove through the country, mist still blanketing the pastures we passed along the way. 

Bryan woke Suzanne when we got back and we all chatted on the porch for a while, fresh coffee in hand. Bryan decided that there was no better time to play a long round of Guitar Hero then while staying at a Confederate mansion, so off he went for the rest of the morning, leaving the girls on the porch to chat.

Suzanne and I sat outside, talking about the future and about how lucky we were to have “found our people” in each other. It is such a gift to have friends who you can laugh and cry and dream with. All this in the same morning followed by a matinee of Sex and the City while Bryan went to REI. On the way back, the three of us laughed as we remembered great moments from the weekend, realizing that there was no better way that we could think of spending it than with each other. A perfect moment.

What makes a perfect moment for you? What have your favorites been?

No Ordinary Vodka Tonic

Ice

½ shot of Santa Cruz Lime Juice (available in the natural juice section of most grocery stores.)

2 shots vodka (or to your desired strength)

½-1 tsp Agave Nectar (optional, but suggested)

Tonic Water to taste

Two lime wedges, squeezed

 

Why Christians should care about the environment.

I’ve been surprised to find, after moving back from Boulder recently, how much Christians resist the idea of taking care of the environment. Before I seem so above it all, I need to make a confession. I used to be of the most wasteful, socially unconscious people you could ever meet.

Growing up, my inability to remember to turn off lights in our house was legendary.  My first car was a big diesel truck; a vehicle seldom occupied by anyone other than myself and never once used for hauling purposes. I thought recycling was for tree huggers who were drinking the Liberal Kool-Aid. And, I scoffed at anyone suggesting I consider my habits of consumption.

Then I had a wake up call. I heard people like Jim Wallis challenge Christians to think beyond the pet Christian issues of abortion and gay marriage and apply our worldview more consistently to all areas of life. In other words, all things must live in subjection to God’s rule and reign in our lives.

“In the total expanse of human life there is not a single square inch of which the Christ, who alone is sovereign, does not declare, ‘That is mine!’” Abraham Kuyper

The majority of mainstream evangelicals have bought the lie that the environment is a Liberal issue, rather than an issue that is affects us all as citizens of creation. The controversy over the science of Global Warming and the arguments over environmental policy only help to encourage throwing the baby out with bath water. Additionally, Christians confuse a Biblical worldview with an American worldview, and they are not the same.

It is time for us to suspend judgment and carefully consider what it means to apply a Christian worldview to the environment. It is my contention that the Church should be leading the charge for wise stewardship of the earth, as well as many other issues of social consciousness. We need to wake up and realize this is OUR issue precisely because of our Christian worldview and it is time to step up and lead by example.

 “Then God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the seas, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves the on earth.” Genesis 1:28, NKJV

Christians are called to subdue the earth. “To bring under cultivation.” The image is that of stewardship, of gardening, of taking raw elements and a making them grow and become beautiful. All throughout scripture, the idea of land is sacred and generational. Themes of legacy run strong. We have a responsibility to cultivate and preserve the earth for God’s glory, not to exploit or destroy it.

Unfortunately, we have adopted an American worldview masquerading as a Christian worldview. It seems to assert a “right to consumption.” An almost defiant attitude of  “You’re not the boss of me. You can’t make me drive a smaller car or recycle because I don’t want to.” We have lost sight of our calling to stewardship and replaced it with an attitude of ownership and entitlement. We forget that all things belong to God. We have essentially invented the concept of the unsustainable lifestyle, marked by greed, usury, wastefulness, thoughtlessness, immaturity and arrogance.

  “The land is mine and you are but aliens and my tenants. Throughout the country that you hold as a possession, you must provide for the redemption of the land.” Leviticus 25:23-24.

A Christian worldview also has a correct understanding of the creator/creature distinction, resulting in humility. God is the Creator and all that he created is marked with his fingerprints. Would you ever consider defaming the work of Michelangelo by spray painting over the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Of course not, it would dishonor the artist. How much more must we remember our place as the created ones who must honor God by honoring and valuing what he had created and called good.

 “Then God saw everything that He had made, and indeed it was very good.” Genesis 1:31

Instead, I believe a Christian worldview in much more holistic, seeing how all of creation is interrelated, “emphasizing the importance of the whole and the interdependence of its parts.”  A holistic perspective recognizes that it actually does matter where and how you throw your trash away, or how much fuel you use, or whether you dump harmful chemicals into the environment. Ecosystems are dependent upon one another; relationships are dependent upon one another. Simply, actions have consequences and in America, we like to forget that.

Further, I think a holistic Christian worldview sees that part of wise, godly consumption is thinking about where the items we consume come from and how they are produced.  If they are produced or harvested in conditions that abuse, exploit, or dishonor either the workers or the earth, it is profoundly immoral. And, if we turn a blind eye, so that we can continue to buy things for the lowest price possible without affecting on our conscience, shame on us. All people are created in God’s image and should be treated fairly and with dignity.

The bottom line is this; no one should care more about the environment than Christians! We believe that God himself fashioned every piece of it with his own hands, after all.  How can we reconcile recklessly using it for our own purposes instead of wisely cultivating it for His glory? I believe it is time for a new day, a day when we remember and say that all of God’s creation is sacred and under his rule. We are called, therefore, not to worship it or make in an idol, but rather to tenderly care for and nurture it in a way that speaks of the truth of the Gospel. 

The Ethos of Babette’s Feast – a WCW post.

My friend, Randy Elrod, has a wonderful blog entitled Ethos – A Cultural Watercooler. On Wednesday, he hosts “Watercooler Wednesdays.” Check it out. His question this week was, “What is your favorite restaurant.”

Anyone who knows me knows that the life of food, the sacrament of the meal, the joy of wine and conversation and great friends often converge into my favorite perfect moments. I suspect you can relate. Randy’s daughter Lauren came over last night and were talking about this very topic and the film Babette’s Feast, which I cannot recommend highly enough. (Both Lauren and the film!).

In case that you were not a film afficianado in 1987, and I know I wasn’t since I was in the first grade at the time, I’ll give you a little backstory. The author of the story, Isak Dinesen also wrote the story that inspired the film Out of Africa, another of my favorites. Babette’s Feast won an Academy Award for Best Foreign Film in 1987.

The film is a beautiful story of a legalistic religious sect in 19^th century Denmark that is transformed by the addition of a Babette, a famous Parisian chef and political refugee. The religious community is characterized by an asetic lifestyle, devoid of pleasure, joy and passionate spiritual experience. Instead, their world consists of suspicion, bitterness, a worship of purity at all costs and a lifeless faith. 

Babette’s professional background is kept secret from her new employers upon joining the community. The sisters who employ her as a domestic are the daughers of the now deceased pastor and leader of the religious community, and therefore, charged with leading in his absense. The relationships in the community have suffered from unhealed old wounds, misunderstandings and a spirit of judgementalism.

In a beautiful turn of events, Babette has the opportunity to create a “perfect moment” of her own, a feast celebrating what would have been the 100th birthday of the sisters father for their small community. While the guest allow Babette to proceed, they are also deeply suspicious of Babette’s character and faith as they see exotic foods delivered to the house where she serves. They suspect accult practices. Much to their suprises, instead, she invites them into a transcendent meal of sublime pleasure and sensory engagement in a way that turns their theology on its head, as it serves to unite and connect in ways that the religious spirit never could. Through the vehicle of food, she offers them Life. Which is what the symbolism and sacrament of the Meal is all about. Absolutely brilliant. 

————————–

My ideal of a favorite meal and moreover, my theology of the meal (and i believe there is one!) has been profoundly shaped by this film. The meal(s) I’ve had that resemble Babette’s Feast the most have taken place in Colorado at The Black Bear Restaurant, outside of Colorado Springs in Green Mountain Falls. By all appearances, it is an unsuspecting cowboy bar in an uninspiring town. If I didn’t know better, I would say that the element of surprise was not entirely unintentional. 

After walking in the door and passing the small bar, complete with neon beer signs, pool table and old-fashioned cigarette machine, you enter a log-walled dining room with a huge fireplace, almost out of proportion. The tables are covered in white cloths with china and Reidel classes on the tables. Such a juxeposition of all the visiual elements.

From there on, buckle up for a five-star dining experience, highlighted by Chef Victor Andrew’s private, gold label Kobe beef and rare Italian wine, nestled between the other seven courses on the Menu Gastronomique. It will change your life. The only thing I can image that would beat this would be something involving the name of Thomas Keller.

I think this is my favorite restaurant because it is an experience in the truest sense of the word! It has all the elements: it takes takes your from where you are to somewhere else entirely, and when it brings you back to where you started you leave a different person.

 

Big Sky Country

I’ve been talking lately with a number of friends about church and where we find ourselves drawn these days. My journey began in the Eastern Orthodox Church with lengthy stops in the PCA followed by a couple seasons of no church at all. In the last couple of years, I’ve found myself exploring the Anglican and Episcopal traditions.

When I was younger, I reacted against the Eastern perspective on doctrine and theology with its seeming lack of clarity. In those days, I longed for certainty and something concrete, spiritually and theologically. I needed boxes to put it all in. I needed plans and workbooks and things that could be organized in three to five points.

As I’ve gotten older and have been through a lot of life that doesn’t fit into any box I can find, I want to connect with something spacious that includes, but is even bigger, than reason or dogma. A sort of deeper magic, as Lewis would say.  I want to find myself spiritually in the context of something ancient, and transcendent, big and mysterious. Kind of the spiritual equivalent of Big Sky Country. God as the Wild West, in a manner of speaking.

In the last year, that has taken me into an exploration of contemplative Christianity along with some curiosity about Buddhism and the intersection of the two. (Think Richard Rohr, Thomas Merton, etc.)  I don’t think Buddhism would ever be satisfying given its impersonal concept of reality, even if I could find a way to reconcile it with my Christian faith. But, it does tap into a longing that I experience spiritually for stillness, peace, and an awareness of the present moment. All of which, I think the ancient Christian traditions offer.

The more I learn about contemplative and liturgical faith, I find that something deep within me exhales, like finally, there is a place for this longing, this need for something deeper and more expansive to dwell. In my experience with more evangelical traditions, I felt unsatisfied in a mystical sense. Somehow, it just wasn’t enough and felt incomplete. As I talk with friends, there seems to be a movement among people in my demographic toward ancient faith, whether Anglican, Orthodox or Catholic. Maybe it’s the fact that as we get older, we realize that having all the answers is not only impossible, it’s boring and claustrophobic.

I have found personally, that ancient faith and spirituality serves as a kind of “still point” as T.S. Elliot would say. When I say the Nicene Creed or hear the timeworn words of the Great Thanksgiving in the liturgy, I find it reassuring to know that regardless of my doubts, there are some things that are true and stable and solid regardless of how I feel about them or even if I think I believe them. I like that truth is not dependent on my ability to believe, understand or articulate it. It’s just frankly not about me at all. Instead of being the center of something, I’m entering into something that is bigger than I am, came before me and will outlast me. Which, I suppose, is the whole idea of liturgy anyhow.

 

Panning for Gold

When I was about eight years old my mom homeschooled me, along with my younger sister Mindy. This was a period where my mom was heavily into experiential education, not to be confused with experimental education, which she was also into. I remember learning about gold mining out West and I was fascinated.  At the time, we were renting a house on a big farm, south of town with a wide, shallow creek that ran along the road frontage. It had large flat rocks, perfect for use as a platform to skip rocks and peer into the water. My mom would send us out there to play when she needed to get a few things done without children under foot.

Mindy and I walked down to the creek on balmy summer afternoons, usually with our neighbor-friend Rebekah to explore under the shade of the ancient maples and oaks that lined the banks. We would pretend all kinds of things at the creek. One of my favorite games was to imagine we were pioneers out West, in search of our fortune. We managed to procure an old lint filter or two from washing machine without being caught, which served as our “gold pans.” I haven’t thought about those filters in year, but I can see them in my mind now, the ones that were round like a Frisbee with holes in the bottom and edges that came up along the sides about an inch high. 

We would dip our lint filter turned gold pans in the water, about halfway up to our elbows and use the front edge to get a big scoop of sludge from the creek bed. As we brought the sandy mud up from under the water, we would shake it around to cover the entire surface of the pan and we would begin to see the emerging bumps of rocks and pebbles still shrouded in a blanket of mud. We’d add a little bit of water and swirl it around, waiting anxiously to see what treasures would be sifted out as the mud and smaller bit of this and that washed away.

Every so often something amazing would be revealed, like a shell or Indian money or piece of a sparkly geode. Those were the moments we lived for. We would carefully wipe off any leftover mud on the bottoms of our t-shirts before we put them in our pockets for safekeeping, making sure that they were all the way at the bottom so they wouldn’t fall out as we ran home across the pasture that was between the creek and our house, dodging cows chewing their cud along the way.

Writing is like that perforated tray for me, sifting out the sand and mud and leaving the nuggets of truth. What I know for sure is that I never feel more like myself than when I’m writing, observing life, thinking about it, rolling over it in my mind, washing away the things that cover up the important stuff. What I’ve learned is that in order to write, I need the mud and I need the water to sift out the treasure. It’s the searching and the mess that makes the treasure so sweet when it is finally found. That is why I write.

Welcome

Welcome to my new blog! It’s been a long time since I’ve written. Since February, I believe. I think I needed a break from processing my experience of my life with an audience, even if it was just the audience I saw in my head. And, more importantly, I needed to experience it without seeing it all on paper. At times, it just felt like too much. It was overwhelming to think about seeing all of my emotions of re-entry as I returned from Colorado in black and white. I needed to just take it moment by moment until I was on the other side.

Thankfully, I have crossed over and the view is pretty nice. I’ve learned a lot, weathered a lot and grown a lot. I feel like I am ready for a new chapter of my life. One with new hope, new adventures and new discoveries.

My hope is that this new blog will be a clean slate to write about a new season. Trying to write on the old blog is part of kept me from writing, as I found myself having to face the old memories over and over again. I see those things as in the past. Not to be forgotten, but also not to be dwelt in any longer. I have moved on and want my writing to reflect what is already a reality in my life. So, I will not try to fill in the gaps between where I left off and where I am now. I’m just going to start from where I am, attempting to be present and fully here.

I am grateful to say that I am able to accept the past for all of that it was and didn’t turn out to be, without wishing it were different. And, I think all of those difficult, messy months are what carried me to this place. Which isn’t to say I know why it all happened – the sickness, the broken engagement, the move(s). But, what I know for sure is that I wouldn’t want to go back and be the person I was before all of that.

Whatever the future holds, I know I will need ever single lesson and every inch of growth to meet it. I’m excited that you’re coming along for this leg of the journey. I think it’s going to be a good one.