another room in another house, another day in the same life.

When brushing my teeth I tap my chipped-red fingernails on the sink in time with the made-up song I dare to quietly hum. I am no composer. Left to right, left to right. Circular. Circular. Left to right. Spit. Repeat. From my pj’s I slip into a summer dress, sometimes heels, light lip gloss. And just as I am about to open the door to start a new day, I take what I hope to be a quick look in the mirror. It is never just this. My heart thumps loudly, gypsy eyes begin to water. In its reflection I look past me to see a growing library, photos of loved ones, unsent postcards serving as momentos collected from travels, a wine bottle sprouting a lost feather, a Picasso, a Matisse, plaid pillowcases and the friendly sun peaking in through the backyard apple tree. I smile and shift my eyes slighly left. I am now staring at myself. Water takes form to tears and tears take turns dancing upon my cheeks. They jitterbug their way to a loud kerplunk! as they hit the porcelain bowl. I lick the ones that make their way to my lips. I taste salt and watermelon. I wonder if this is where the silly southern tradition began. Sentimental Southern belles.

I try to shift my eyes to something insignificant, an uncovered nail hole, a wandering moth, a speck of dirt on the ground. It is no use, everything is significant. Everything is loved. I take several attempts to move my heavy legs towards the door, to cut off thoughts, but I am unable. I am paralyzed. Paralyzed by beauty. Tears dance for loves loved, houses homed, travels travelled, songs sung, hopes hoped, prayers prayed, life lived.

This is my Sunday. This is my most days.

in a little while

i have six drafts saved to my blog. they have been accumulating since my months in belgium. maybe in the next days i will set aside my slight perfectionism and push ‘publish’. i have been writing more. this is good. writing for me means first there comes prayer. i can’t seem to do one without the other.

i am reading anna karenina now. 250 pages deep and i am furious with anna. but im not so sure i can be mad at her just yet, i must wait for some sort of uncovering or some resolution. some responsibility of action. of sin. oh mrs. k, you are not the woman i thought you to be.

it is saturday, 19:30 (rather 7:30pm) and i am ready for sleep. my throat is itchy and dry deep down. when i cough i sound like an old smoker man. its grotesque. it is nearing june and i cant be sick. more vitamin c. and sleep.
i pray health your way.

as i lay me down to sleep

i sleep on the floor when i am in need of a changed perspective and a revival of spirit when my prayers lack passion. i have been doing this for years now. it is the easist way i know how to shut myself off from distraction and to find myself again at the feet of the Lord. not magically healed by break of dawn, it is only a simple gesture of my desire and a reaction to an invitiation. a bed can be too safe. too comfortable. and i, a sleeper of many beds and many floors, do not desire comfort for comforts sake. i want to be open and exposed. pushed to my limits. i find comfort in my uncomfortability.

during my second year at spu i slept more on the floor and in that hideous orange flea market chair than in my top bunk. i am thankful that my roommate was from ellensburg.she didnt find it too odd. and then there was the house on 56th street. a four foot love seat for nine months in the basement of a molding duplex. i slept in a ball a bodies length away from the dryer. my clothing in cardboard boxes, flowery fabric and african prints hanging on the walls and along the staircase to allow a little bit of privacy. even with other options, all of these i chose. i find comfort in my uncomfortability. i find joy in my pain.

i slept on the floor last night in my room in stuttgart. it was my simple offering. my response to an invitation and an attempt to sort out mind thoughts. heartspeak ..around 22:30 my eyes drew heavy and my body snug on my flannel sheets. i tried to close my eyes. to pray. i couldnt. i threw my top blanket to the ground and rolled onto the light blue linoleum like flooring. i prayed. i could. i managed a few utterings of perhaps own selfishness, which to me in my own life at this very moment are real and raw and not to be taken lightly, but in the greater scheme of things i recognize not the importance of these silly prayers.

across the land to the east, atleast 40,000 have no shelter tonight. the aftermath of the burma cyclone. and i, refuse my bed.

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.

quick look ahead

this morning: belgium.

this afternoon: germany.

tonight: austria.

tomorrow morning: throwing myself down the the dolomites of italy.

i think they call it skiing….

a few jumbled praises (amsterdam part one)

Van Gogh, you ridiculous mad man, you!You remind me of a dear friend unaware of his talents and blind to the possibility of greatness. Be strong young soldier. Fear not. Your works ignite inspiration and create the desire to love deeply, to live richly and overcome this chaotic mess we are given. With tears, I thank you.

Anne, I ran my fingers along the bookshelf that protected your family for years. On the ascent to the annex I hit my knees on each of the twelve steep stairs, I still have bruises to prove. In this place once called a home, I seeked to feel some connectedness. Instead, I only felt distant and weak. More small and trivial. The stench of humanity seeped out of my pores begging to surrender. It was through images and words I witnessed your childlike innocence and womanlike strength. The aroma of your will, far sweeter.

Sinterklaas Kapoentje

We were eleven when we debuted our finest dutch tune. Murial and I. To our private school class of six.

As I prepare for Amsterdam tomorrow, It’s impossible not to recall that silly little tune:

Sinterklaas kapoentje,
gooi wat in m’n schoentje,
gooi wat in m’n laarsje,
dank u Sinterklaasje!

Though out of season; when walking the streets of the ‘dam this week I will be sure to sing these words proudly remembering that performance, among many, and the endless stories of life once lived amidst the canals and cannabis.

pocket change

It is 9am on a foggy Belgian morning. I am sipping hot water peering out of the kitchen window onto the uncultivated cornfield just feet from the house. I have spent the last fifteen minutes digging into the corners of my mind trying to come up with the words to appropriately tell of my time spent in Paris last week. I don’t quite now how to recap five days of non-stop happenings into a few neatly composed paragraphs. But,well… I suppose here is some sort of an attempt.

I have dreamt of Paris since I was a little girl. I have always said that before I die I will have to live in Paris, NYC or London, and I think that somewhere in the back of my mind I have created a small belief that if non of these destinations are fulfilled my life amounts to nothing. That is crap. Sometimes my thoughts are ridiculous. Most times… Paris was fun. It was not as magical as I had always expected it to be. There were no Gene Kelly’s dancing down the sidewalks, or the sounds of accordions filling every neighborhood. The croissants, baguettes and éclairs were not to die for; though I did feel as though I was going to, for personal wheat-free reasons… As most people do-I loved the art, the people, the history. But perhaps my most favored memories of the trip include cooking meals and catching up with Joey at his Paris home, the bike rides through the heart of the city and the perfect patch of daffodils found after my first encounter with Miss Eiffel…

In Paris I expected heartbreak and jealousy, it was not aroused. Lesson learned: My final wanted destination is not Paris. Nor NYC or London.

…And now, here I am, back in the kitchen of my small village. The fog has risen and the weather is perfect. Sort of similar to Seattle, minus the intense rain and constant bone-chill. I am back to eating the vegetables and unknown meats placed in front of me at dinner time by Jeanine, the household babysitter/cook. My recovering vegetarian, post-anemic body is happily and tastefully nourished. I am back to the kids Lode (11), Emma (5) and Lukas (3). I am back to being best friends with you a 3 year old who has an extreme temper and speaks absolutely no English, and yet somehow he remains to be the most darling, precious creature. I am back to being entertained nightly by neighbor kid Ken who comes to play with the young ins. The only English he knows is “I’m too sexy for myself, too sexy for myself, oh so sexy” and “I got it from my mama, yeah!”. Hilarious.

I am back to my daily schedule of awaking to the sound of my alarm clock at 7:57 and rolling out of my bed directly onto my yoga mat by 8. At 8:45 I wander downstairs to a breakfast consisting of hot water, an orange and a nutella slathered rice cake. I open the kitchen blinds and sit with open books and an open heart willing and wanting. Most days I listen to NPR and the wise words of Piper or Cho. In the afternoons I venture by bike to neighboring towns. Somedays I attempt to play piano or sew. Mostly though, I read and listen.

I work two days a week in a small remote village in Belgium. My only friends are between the ages of 3-11 and 43-65. My life is simple, some may find it boring, but for me- it is exactly what this soul needed…

It is now 9:45 and I am on to my third glass of hot water. After this, I am cut off. (got to take it easy, you know?) I am going back to the day of my life in the village. I am going back to my reading, my listening, my learning. I am going back to my laughter and my little friends . I am going back to the warmth of this home, of this village and to enjoy the last two weeks that remain in this quiet sacred place.