Sun-Dog Trail

This website is great for those who find themselves in a foreign country without reading materials and not the slightest idea where an english book store may be.I’ve included the direct link to a quick read below. Just in cases.

The Sun Dog Trail by Jack London
http://www.literature.org/authors/london-jack/love-of-life/chapter-07.html

invisible

march 28th:

The world has been turning slowly since I’ve been here: Like the pace of the snail I spied on our way to the Post Office and Supermarket today. I kept him a secret to myself, not wanting to share in the beautiful colorings of his shell and also wanting to protect the little guys life and peace of path.

But the world, in a millisecond, came to a stand still today as her face hit the pavement of the vacant parking lot. There was silence, her head lifted, and though turned away from me, I saw the blood trickle. A splattering of deep red. Reminding me of Ballard days of latex paints and careless techniques. Deep red, and then a wail…I pedaled my way over to her body that lay mangled underneath the spokes and handlebars of her new bike. I looked at his face,just feet away, wondering if he saw more than I could. Blank. I threw my oversized bike on the ground and carefully peeled her limp body off the empty parking space. I saw only deep red. From her nose, from her mouth and from the large scrape on her forehead. Instinctivly, she used her sleeve to catch the bloody mess, but already within seconds it was sopping wet. I brushed back her blonde hair, setting her on the ground I unbuttoned my coat and ripped off my shirt using it to soak up the never-ending fountain of red. I thought fast. I had to.

And as if the cameras were rolling, or God watching, it began to rain-to pour. With her in my arms and he at my side we made the mile long trek home. I spat calming words to cover the cries and soften the fears. Their fears.

That night everyone slept safe and sound. And thankfully only bruised, not broken. Perhaps my ego worst of all. Struggling to find peace enough for some decent shut-eye and in need of a familiar voice, I called Idaho. Twenty minutes well worth the $17.86 to a dear friend freshly outliving flirtation with the dirty devil. 12 steps accomplished. Strength and life regained… In the typical fashion of our friendship I started with a surface quick catching-up, until probed to get to the valley of my heart. Most commonly it is this that is found at the bottom and always shared in our conversations: fears (the deceptive thoughts that hold us hostage in our own frames, robbing us of complete joy). There was an exhausted re-telling of the days disastrous events; the lost helmut and my poor judgement. Sure, I had acted calmly on the scene. I had played adult… It was in the small corner of my mind I allowed it to enter. At first it was maybe appropriate, given the significance of the careless event and my responsibility. But in hours time this little feeling had already given birth to even bigger and sillier fears. I was minutes into the sharings of my deep valley, when realized that my fears and all such feelings had not surfaced for weeks. Because they ceased to exist. When you are without something for sometime, you are more aware when it peaks back in. This time it couldn’t stay.

In the morning we arose, packed the car and left for Italy. Not one word came from her mouth about the pain or ugliness of her battered face. It is true. You can learn much from children… Her wounds healed quickly. And by the time we arrived back home one week later, they were invisible.

I arrived in Belgium two months ago, though excited and hopeful, I too was a damn bloody mess. Today, in short, I find myself in Germany. I am far away from the messy Rachel I was upon my European arrival. My wounds are not invisible, I’m not sure if these kind should ever become. But I do know that they are healing. And healing brings about freedom. There is freedom from my fears. The chains have been broken.

In time I have lost those pesky hindrances and found many things both new and old. The greatest of all:love.

in search of the golden ticket

it is nearing 5am. we have just arrived home from a week long holiday. i cant sleep. i am online searching travel options to get me to stuttgart by this evening. i am not sure why i am 23 and have yet to abandon this procrastination. maybe by 24… yes, here i am looking for the ticket to the place that shall be my home for a year. in the past months i have enjoyed the freedom and the unknowings of the future. i have lived perhaps not day-to-day as i would like to claim, but week-to-week; not always definite of where i shall be in several days time. and now this: STUTTGART, GERMANY – ONE YEAR. there is a large part of me that feels locked in. im set in stone. my fate, my life for the next year is already known-practically lived- just by the determination of where i shall be for a known length of time. but there is an even larger part of me, kicking ass to this other crazed part, that is ecstatic to simply have a home! and this is my 5am-still reeking of italian wine and fast food pizza -vow: that i shall enjoy this new home to the fullest, that i shall immerse myself into this foreign community and will so deeply love its people for the entirety of one year. and however long thereafter… yes; home, community, people, movement,ecstatic. amen.