I love this...

We sang this yesterday. It's not your typical advent song, but I could sing it every day of the year...

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
in a believer's ear
It soothes his sorrow, heals his wounds
and drives away his fear.

It makes the wounded spirit whole
and calms the troubled breast.
'Tis manna to the hungry soul
and to the weary rest.

Dear name, the Rock on which I build,
my shield and hiding place,
my never ending treas'ry filled
with boundless stores of grace.

Jesus, my Shepherd, Brother, friend,
my prophet, priest and King,
my Lord, my life, my way, my end,
accept the praise I bring.

-Newton/Moore.

Gratitude...

Is it a state of mind and heart? I think so. I was recently reminded by a friend of mine, of the importance of recognizing and giving thanks, while at the same time, presenting my requests to God. It's interesting (and humbling) how priorities play out in my mind... I always think first about those things that I need or desire... Lord, please protect us while we are in Uganda, please save Detroit and the 3 million people who might be without jobs, please help my Mom to get well, please help my sister with her presentation today, and Dear God, please bring more snow. What I need and what I want, always come first.

Now I've probably heard this phrase a million times from people: "I am waiting for God to show up" or "I prayed that God would show up." Could it possibly be that God has always been right in the middle of the place where He is desired to show up? Could it be that I cannot see Him, because my tunnel vision of what I need and want is blocking my ability to see Him? Perhaps He is right beside me, He is right in the middle of the mess in Detroit, He is taking care of my Mom. When I go to Him with a heart of grattitude and begin to recognize and give thanks for every gift that He has given to me, and to the people that I love, it's amazing how quickly He "shows up." And then I am reminded that He has always been there... I am the one who has "shown up."

I made a list of 100 things that I am thankful for, just in this past year... it's amazing what begins to come to mind, when I open my heart up and receive the gift of gratitude, that comes only with His help.

My Furry Friends

I guess that in the grand scheme of things, a pet allergy isn't that bad - I'm trying to keep things in perspective. I was twenty years old when I developed my cat allergy and dogs were soon to follow. Until then I could snuggle with the barn kitties and hold Lady Jane like a baby. Those days quickly came to an end when my airway began to constrict and my eyes teared up.

The other night I was over at a friend's pad and he has this fat, fluffy kitty, and I couldn't help myself... I had to pet the little guy. I rubbed his soft belly as he rolled around on the floor. By the time I got home, my eyes were itching, and when I woke up the next morning, my right eye was swollen shut. Bad move, Rache. Oh, but I just couldn't help myself!

My reaction to kitties is by far the worst. Dad never let us have cats growing up simply because he hates them. I think his hatred is due to the fact that when he was three years old and his family lived on the farm, his kittens liked to sleep next to the tires of Grandma's car, it was warm there... you can figure out the rest. So no cats for the Cieslak girls. We always looked forward to farm days when we could play with the barn kitties. Dad did get us bunnies, and eventually a Border Collie, Lady.

Mom says that my very first word was not "Mama" or "Papa", it was "Dog." She would take me for walks and I would yell "Dog!" every time we would see one or hear a dog's bark. So I am both innately, and by default, a dog lover.

The take home message... Benadryl is a wonderful creation.

Thanksgiving and Migraines

I usually hop out of bed and begin my day running... I've had more than a full plate lately, with preparations and research for Uganda, writing every chance I can get, rearranging the schedule to accomodate trips to the High Lands, and reading my new fav "The End of Poverty." Oh, and did I mention that I still work full time? Work has been a bit of an afterthought lately.

I don't have time for migraines. There's too much life going on. But the reality is, they happen, and I've tried everything... mega hydration, prevention with diet, increased intake of soy, more sleep, scheduled relaxation, massages, prayer and meditation, caffeine and chocolate, light in moderation. No bueno.

This morning I dragged myself out of bed in a migraine hangover. Those of you who have had a migraine attack, know what I'm talking about! It took me two hours and two cups of coffee to get going this morning. I have decided to take my wholistic self to the traditional MD and get some amo to blast these headaches back to where they belong. Nuff said.

Okay, so every Thanksgiving for the past three years, I have spent the day with my friends from high school (who now live here in Denver). We have a very non-traditional holiday. Probably the most traditional part of it, is the NFL. Scot makes a to-die-for vegetarian stuffing, a free-range-organic turkey, and the newest addition... chocolate martinis. What a celebration! For me, Thanksgiving is one of the best days of the year... because I love eating, but more so, it is the gift of being with people that I call family, and celebrating all that is good, and the One who has given us the good. I can't wait!

Scot always closes the Thanksgiving invitation with this quote (it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time!) Those of you who know me well, know the burden that I feel for the plight of native americans.

"I celebrated Thanksgiving in an old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land" - John Stewart.

Perspective

One of my favorite authors once said, "Adventure isn't seeing new places, it's having new eyes."

In the words of Gandolf

"I will not say do not weap, because not all tears are evil." That was the title of Sam's sermon on Sunday. He quoted the wizard Gandolf from "Lord of the Rings." These are the words that Gandolf gave to Frodo's friends as the hobbit sailed off into the horizon, and left them on the shore.

There is so much truth in these words. I think about my little babies in the NICU... whenever I have to put an IV in (which can be a very painful procedure, even with the sucrose water, which I like to call their "candy")I tell them to cry it all out... "tell me exactly how you feel about this" I say to the sweet little ones. They need their tears.

Guns N' Roses

On October 31st the band reunited for a one-time epic performance...

Happy Halloween

Today I got to put one of my babies in his very first Halloween costume. He was a chubby little pumpkin. We had a cowboy and two pink princesses visit us in the NICU. Gotta love this holiday.

The Way Things Are

The election... honestly, I'm sick of it. I'm tired of all the bickering, backstabbing, finger-pointing, and mucking up. Be grown ups! Is that too much to ask? Perhaps it is.

I was getting my coffee this morning, and I noticed the front cover of the Economist: Capitalism at Bay
Below the words there is a photograph of an ancient statue - a lion with three arrows piercing his body. He is falling, and he is going to die.
History does have a way of repeating itself, I wish to God that it wasn't true. Our country is far from perfect, but I love it so much, it hurts sometimes.

I've always had grandiose plans of what I'd like to do 20 years from now, when I harvest my money from the stock market. I've written my monthly checks to Vanguard with great anticipation, some I will spend on myself (no doubt, a ski-in-ski-out) but there were other dreams too, like better nutrition for starving children, scholarship funds, AIDs clinics in Africa.

The government has good intentions, it always begins that way. But if they tax me so heavily that I work for them, then they restrict my right to sew and reap my own money, they take my freedom to distribute my resources out of my own free will. Intellect, free-will, desire, the freedom to choose... that is what makes me human.

Capitalism is not faultless, and greed is rampant, but the thought of losing my freedom makes me ache. Have I taken for granted the freedom that I've always had? Absolutely yes. Will the nation that I was born in be the same one that I die in? Absolutely not.

I am going to be very careful what kind of "changes" I am supporting. Are they really the changes that I want? I'll be reading between the lines.

In the famous words of one of the best fictitious characters of all time:
"That's all I'm going to say about that."

Dreaming

Three years ago today I was ankle deep in the Mediterranean, looking out at the Isle of Capris, lava rocks are the breaker, gravel is the beach, and Chianti has never tasted better.

One Year Left

So maybe some would call it a morbid thought, to ponder what you would do, if you only had one year left to live. And truthfully, I do ache a little just thinking about it. I guess I really love my life. But it does jolt things into perspective very quickly, to think about what I would do, if I knew that mine was going to be much shorter than I'd ever anticipated.

I was out last night with two of my best friends, Missy and Heather, at our favorite vegan organic restaurant to celebrate Heather's 29th year of life. The question was presented, and strangely enough, I knew the answers right away. Maybe that's because I was with two of the people who know me better than anyone else, with whom transparency is automatic, or maybe I just know myself really well... Who knows? Regardless, this is what came to me...

First, I'd work like hell to get my book published.

Second, I'd visit children who are at the end of their own lives, and I would be able to say "I know how you feel." I've watched way too many kids face the inevitable, without anyone who understands.

Third, inappropriate to publish on this blog.

...Every moment is a gift.

Race for the Cure

Cancer is one of those sick realities that I have wanted to keep away, but it has come too close, and it has stolen people that I love. I hate it.

And yet when I see 65,000 people coming together to celebrate life and hope, I am overwhelmed by the knowing that love conquers darkness.

I am grateful to have been part of this event...

Count to Ten

I can recognize a baby who is failure-to-thrive almost immediately. At three months old, she barely had any body fat, she couldn't track or engage visually, and she had a patch of hair missing from the back of her head, which indicates she spent a lot of time lying on her back.

Mom is 19, there is no Dad involved. The baby lives in a house with Mom and three of her girlfriends. Infant care is shared by all, as well as smoking. Doesn't sound like an ideal environment in which to raise a child, but with my patient population, this family situation has become the norm.

As I enter the room I see that Mom has already laid the baby in the crib and she and another friend are sitting a short distance away. I observe the infant: dark brown hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and a distant affect. She is a pretty baby, but very disengaged. A healthy three-month-old will smile, laugh, make eye contact, and track with me. She gazes off and does not respond to my voice as I coo over her.

Mom also seems very checked out, though not tripping (which is always good). She cannot answer specific quesitons about her baby, such as how many hours a night the infant sleeps, and defers to her friend, who is also unable to answer the question. As I complete my admission assessment, it becomes very apparent to me that this sweet little baby, whom I will call Kara, is nothing more than a burden to these girls... one more pain-in-the-ass thing that they have to take care of, one more hinderance to their dating/party life.

As Kara began to cry, I observed Mom propping a bottle on a blanket, and then returning to her chair. I was furious. Infants do not begin to grasp their own bottle until about eight months of age, and even then it is most beneficial to the child's development to hold her while she's eating, even though she can hold her own bottle. Bottle-propping is detrimental to an infant for many reasons... it hinders bonding and development of the baby, increases frequency of ear infections, and tooth decay (as soon as teeth appear). I believe that the most dangerous side effect of bottle propping is that infants are left alone in their cribs, and their needs for affection, touch, and interaction are sorely unmet. This can deter their physical and psychological growth and development, as well as reinforcing long-term emotional deficits.

I immediately told Mom that bottle propping would hurt her baby, and why. She seemed to be paying attention while I was talking to her, however, within the first few hours of Kara's hospital stay, I heard her crying and ran down the hall to find her alone in her room. Mom was out on a smoke break with her friends, and the bottle had fallen off the blanket. Kara was hungry. Her cry was weak and helpless, as if she knew that no one was going to come.

I picked her up, she wouldn't look at me. I tried to talk to her, but she would not engage. In her brief three months of life, she had learned that people didn't care, and that trying to communicate with anyone was hopeless. I looked at the bald patch on the back of her head. They are ruining her, I thought to myself.

I called the social worker on this case immediately. This was a neglect situation and a child was suffering. It's never easy, and can be a tough call, but some situations just scream "help" to me.

I made a lot of internal judgements about Kara's mother. Every time I walked out of her room I was thinking about how selfish this woman was, how heartless, how clueless (I'm sure I thought worser things as well). I wanted so much to help Kara, but that help took on a much different form than I ever would have anticipated.

Much in the same way that I was, the other nurses were very judgemental of Kara's Mom. "Protective Services" was mentioned more than once. But it was strange... the more time I spent with this Mom, the more I found myself feeling compassion for her just as much as I did for her baby. I watched the grandmother interact with Mom and it became very apparent to me, that Kara's Mom had no idea what she was doing as a Mom, because she hadn't had a loving, attentive mother herself. How can we expect people to be parents when they don't know how, when they themselves have not had good parents?

My attitude changed. I decided to treat Kara's Mom with extreme respect. I went into her room the next day, and asked her if I could massage her baby. She agreed. I spoke to Kara softly and tenderly, and rubbed her little legs and feet with gentle touch. Mom watched, and said nothing.

When I returned to the room a half hour later, Mom was sitting in the crib, holding Kara in her lap and talking to her in a soft voice.

I spoke with the social worker later that day and we decided to get Kara's Mom set up with some parenting classes. I hope that they helped. It was just a brief moment that I interfaced with this Mom and her baby, but they taught me something very valuable... count to ten before you judge someone. We have no idea where people have been, what they have been through, what they have not been through. To help this baby, I needed to help her Mom, to treat her with respect, and patience. Not everyone is going to demonstrate teachability like she did, but everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.

I sure am glad there's a learning curve in this thing called life...

Wanting White

Four-wheel drive, hot chocolate, wool sweaters, knee-deep in the back bowls. And then I return to reality, September.

When my thoughts drift... they go to Vail.

War Photographer

I have recently become a documentary junkie... one more venue to feed my passion for learning. I found this one very intriguing... photojournalist James Nachtwey is a middle aged man who has dedicated his life to the art of photography and the cause of bringing justice to human suffering. "War Photographer" is a very slow moving doc, but the testimony of James Nachtwey is worth the pains of time. When he speaks, he tells the facts and shows very little emotion; his words are simple and somewhat monotone. About fifteen minutes into the movie, I became irritated with his very slow, stoic, composure, but as the story progressed, his passion, and tactics for survival in the field, brought purpose and explanation to his affect. I found myself admiring what had previously annoyed me. Kind of like a piece of art that I could care less about at first glance, but then when I read about the artist's vision and intent, I see the work with whole new eyes, and it becomes something beautiful to me.

Nachtwey decided to become a war photographer in the early 1970's. He felt that the brutality of the Vietnam war was not being effectively communicated through the media and government (imagine that!) but photographs taken by journalists in the field were showing a more authentic presentation of the conflict. Since then he has photographed glimpses of war in Kosovo, South Africa, and Rwanda. He also spent time focusing on poverty in Indonesia, and epidemics of cholera and famine in Africa. His pictures tell stories, communicate emotion, and beg for justice. He says that many people whom he requests to photograph welcome him because they want their stories told. In many cases they are recipients of incredible injustices, and Natchwey's photos provide a way for that injustice to be known to the world. He gives hurting people a voice by using his incredible gift as an artist.

In the first scene of this doc, Natchwey is photographing the funeral of a victim of war in Kosovo. Initially I was offended because I thought that he was exploiting the pain of these people, however, as I understood more of his purpose in giving suffering people a voice, I realized that it wasn't exploitation, it was an opportunity for the oppressed to speak and be heard. I was also struck by the sincerity of Natchwey's respect for the people he was photographing, which really distinguishes him from other combat photographers. At the conclusion of his story, he states: "I know that if I ever allow genuine compassion to be overtaken by personal ambition, I will have sold my soul. The only way I can justify my role is to have respect for the other person's predicament. The extent to which I do that is the extent to which I become accepted by the other, and to that extent I can accept myself."

Natchwey becomes part of the events that he photographs, and that is evident in his work. While photographing in Asia, he pled for the life of a man who was being killed for sport, and witnessed his murder. His pictures do speak an incredible justice, yet they have come at a great cost to him. In an interview he was asked, "How do you endure the suffering of so many?" To which he replied, "I channel my emotions into my work." And it shows.

While Natchwey was in Indonesia, he spent a month photographing a family that lived by the train tracks. The parents had four children and the father was missing an arm and leg due to being run over by a train a few years previous. The family had no shelter, they slept in the open on a blanket, and they bathed in a polluted river. Life Magazine did an article on the family, displaying Natchwey's pictures. A few months later Natchwey received a letter from a person who had read the article and was so moved that they committed to sending $20/month to the family. This person appologized for not being able to send more, but their social security check only provided $396/month. Now that is beautiful. It reminded me that we are so fortunate to be able to give, out of whatever it is that we have.

I think that the most inspiring aspect of Natchwey's work, aside from the unique marriage of art and philanthropy, is the fact that he puts his life on the line for people who have no means to repay him. Throughout the course of his career he has been wounded in crossfire four times and has endured horrible diseases. With this I am reminded that character is doing something for someone who can do nothing for you.

James Natchwey sees his photography as an antidote to war. By admiring his work, I am in no way advocating that war is in all circumstances, unnecessary. Unfortunately the world that we live in necessitates war at times, because evil must be stopped and the innocent must be defended. Yet the work and testimony of James Natchwey is truly admirable. His career as War Photographer has been an integration of talent, passion, conviction, character, and a compassion that exceeds the word "philanthropy."

Not to belittle our sufferings here, as I will testify to the weight of them, yet this doc reminded me that America is a very small slice of reality.

In the words of James Natchwey, "We are required to do what we can. If we don't, then who will?"

In an Instant

They were driving home from the lake, still in swimsuits and barefeet. In a black suburban with picnic leftovers in the cooler. In the backseat the two-year-old slept in her carseat and the nine-year-old gazed out at overcast skies and a light drizzle. Very unusual weather for Colorado in August. Dad turned the volume down on the radio. Mom remembered that the whites needed to go in the dryer as soon as they got home.

We drove past the scene just minutes after it happened... the suburban was turned sideways in the northbound lane. The Forrester was part way into the ditch, with a smashed hood. There was blood, and the man in the Forrester could not get out, but he was talking to one of the people who had stopped to help. I saw a nine-year-old boy sitting beside the suburban, his head bowed low. He looked alright. A few feet away two people were holding a woman in their arms. She was breathing. I think she belonged to the Forrester.

"Should we stop?" I asked my friends. I wanted to stop, but I was afraid. I was driving us home from our girls' weekend in the mountains, cozy and comfortable in my new Rav 4. We had all gotten our mochas earlier, Bono was singing quietly in the background.

"No, keep going," one of them replied. And then, "Wait - you're a nurse..."

I pulled over, slammed the door, and began running toward the scene. As I approached the black suburban, I saw a woman, in her barefeet and beachware... her eyes were bloodshot, with no tears. She was gripping her chest. Shock.

"Ma'am, I'm a nurse, what can I do to help?"

Her desperation hit me like nails... "Oh, thank God... please help my baby! She's hurt!" She pointed me towards the backseat. "Do whatever you can to help her, please! She's bleeding!"

I climbed into the backseat. There was another woman there, feeling the child's feet for pulses and applying pressure to her head. The baby was still strapped in her carseat.

"Should we lay her down?" another person asked.

"No, keep her still," I said. "Is she conscious?"

"She's coming in and out," the other woman said. "Kayla, wake up, Baby." She was stroking the child's feet and hands, while still applying pressure to her head.

"She has good pulses," I said. "Keep her conscious." I saw the baby move her foot, but her eyes remained closed.

"The paramedics will be here in 3-5 minutes! She's our #1 priority!" The police officer shouted from behind.

There is nothing as chilling as a child with blood on her face, or as sobering as a mother with the terror of death in her eyes. "Kayla, wake up, Baby, stay with us, honey." The ambulance arrived and I got out of the way, returning to my car. It was silent. Bono had been turned off.

"What happened?!" My chest ached.

Why am I writing about this? So many of my blogs are about the "beautiful" moments in life, and this scene was a taste of hell. Witnessing this tragedy brought two things to mind... that anyone's life can change in an instant, and every moment, no matter how seemingly mundane, matters. I was also struck by the reality of compassion unfolding all around me. There is so much evil in this world, you don't have to look very far to realize that. But the beauty of compassion and genuine love was overwhelming me, as I watched people (with their own lives and places to go) pull off the side of the road and embrace the blood of total strangers. Now that is truly beautiful.

Humbled by the fact that I had done very little to help, I thanked God that compassion was so alive in the people around me, and begged Him to allow little Kayla to run marathons one day.

Steamboat Springs

Two California girls, Two Colorado girls... Hahns Peak, Beaujos, four bottles of wine, Strawberry Hot Springs, a little cabin in the woods, Fish Creek Falls, a lightening storm, and a whole lot of organic fruits and vegetables... that was my labor day weekend.
















...Perry Mansfield Cabins




















... The Trailhead

... The Hike

...The Top

...The View






...Ally's first off-road experience

Some new friends...

Fish Creek Falls...

In the Words of Tom Brady...

"Why do I have three superbowl rings and still think there's something greater out there for me? I mean, maybe a lot of people would say, "Hey man, that is what is" I reached my goal, my dream, my life. God, it's got to be more than this. I mean this isn't, this can't be what it's all cracked up to be."

He made that statement in a press interview. The profound reflection of a man who has supposedly "arrived at the top" of what our culture values most. His honesty is both chilling and heartbreaking.

Time with my sister...

I was originally booked to go through LA and arrive in Seattle at 3:30. But they overbooked my flights, so I got bumped to United #339 direct to Seattle arriving at 1:15. I don't think I will ever check bags again. Life just got a little easier.

So no long line to check bags, no layover, two extra hours in Seattle, and then it got even better... I had the privilege of sitting next to a Missouri corn and cattle farmer on the plane. He had never seen the mountains or the Pacific ocean. He and his wife were on their way to Seattle to board a Bill and Gloria Gather cruise to Alaska. Talk about worlds colliding! What a simplistic, content, and gentle man. The thrill in his eyes when we flew right past Mt. Ranier made the inside of me smile. I told them to have a wonderful time on their cruise, even though I was choking at the thought of the Gathers. To each his own, right?

Di picked me up and we went for a picnic on the Puget Sound. She is experimenting with different recipes right now. Chicken sauteed in red wine and a boquet garni of spices. Zuchini stuffed with goat cheese and dried cranberries. Fresh organic snap peas, and hard cider (Di shares my gluten free challenge). So strange to be by salt water and deciduous trees at the same time, while seeing the mountains across the bay. No, not strange, damn lucky. I close my eyes, thank the artist, and miss California all at the same time.

So this conference is kind of one of those so-so experiences. I do enjoy listening to Michael Frost speak, probably due in part to his accent. I've always had a fascination with Australia and New Zealand, he is a native of Sydney. Now here's an oxymoron. The man is a southern baptist minister and he has taken on the role of opening speaker for the neighborhood's local artist exhibits. In so many ways, appearance, speech, mannerisms, passions, he defies the word stereotype. I love it.

I was really struck by this statement, which coincides with my desire to become a better listener and create more space for people..."If you would listen to your patients, they would tell you how to heal them." Now a lot of my patients are not verbal (yet!) but they do communicate with me through crying, body language, facial expressions. Maybe it's time to pull out "The Baby Whisperer" and read it again!

Di introduced me to the concept of a "cower" this morning. Shower with coffee. I think it's a great idea, and am surprised I've never tried it before. Her friends in college used to take bowers. Can't take one of those, thanks to gluten.

This afternoon we will see the flying fish at Pikes Place Market and visit the Fry. I love the wonder of exploring a new place, with one of my most favorite people in the world.

Thoughts on Home

There was a time in my life when I said I'd never leave Michigan. It was for real at the time, but then my contentment left, and I followed it west, the big bad world calling me out. I have found other places that I call home since the great exodus of '05, yet there will always be a home for me in the land of green trees, American cars, and gray skies. And it's more than the presence of family, or the memories of small town life and the UofM. When I get off the plane in Detroit, there is something about that first breath of thick humidity that floods my mind with the familiar... sitting with Mom in the garden swing, molding the tar in the cracks of the street with five-year-old toes, sailing in the bay of Lake Michigan and experiencing speed for the first time. As I walk towards luggage claim, I listen to African Americans talk "real black" that screams home to me. I don't want them to stop. They sure don't talk that way in Denver, and damn, do I miss it. Before I get my bags, I stop at Coney Island for a chili dog. It's been years...

Back to the land where there are very few foreign cars, it muses me, almost a surreal experience, all these Fords, GMs, and Chryslers. Detroit is its' own little world. Green trees everywhere, no sky, the trees are always in the way. I make my yearly pilgrimmage to the cabin on Lake Louise, the only place in the world where I completely relax and have absolutely no sense of time. The water is still perfect, it is still so clear that you can see the sandy bottom at a depth of five feet, the pine forest is still the most tranquil place I've ever known, our friends are still family, and I still cry every time I have to leave.

So here's the question... can we have more than one place where we feel entirely at home? My answer is yes. I had lived next to Pikes Peak for two days, two days was all it took for me to fall completely in love with that snow covered mass of rock. Every time I would look at it, it was different. At sunset, silhoutted with orange and purple light, during a storm, with dark black clouds around it's edges and lightening striking the neighboring peaks, in the summer bare naked, and in the fall when the first snow adorns it again. There was something about living next to that mountain that gave me the greatest sense of security and safety. It was a constant that never changed. No matter how many developments and strip malls scar the prairries, that mountain can never be moved.

When I went on to San Diego, I missed the constancy and security of that mountain, but I was wooed by the energy I found in the ocean. "You have to try surfing, Rachel, you'll experience the ocean in a whole new way... it will help you not to miss the mountains so much." Andrea was right.

I don't care that I will probably always be a beginner when it comes to surfing. There is something about the experience that is almost spiritual for me. I stand before those waves with reverence, knowing that they could kill me, and yet, with an addict's will, I smack them head on, paddling out beyond the break with my small arms. I don't know how I get out there to that peaceful place, but I do. Laying on my board, and floating over those gentle rollers, I wait for my wave, and watch the sun dance on the water. I am truly happy.

There is nothing quite as exhilerating as timing and catching that wave. You fight with the ocean to make it's energy work for you... there is a thrill about struggling with something so much more powerful than yourself, something that could kill you, the struggle makes you enjoy it's beauty and energy even more. I love the taste of salt water. My best day is one where I come home feeling beaten, with red, blood shot eyes. Then I know I've lived.

An early morning walk next to the beast that beat me the day before (the ocean!), brunch in LaJolla, a nap on the beach, red wine in the evening, with a good friend. Melissa plays the guitar and sings to me, the most recent song she has written, and my heart is home. Why do I keep wishing that time would stand still, when I know very well that it's always moving? Maybe there's still a child in there, that hasn't quite accepted all of reality, and never will. I still like to wish time away. As with the lake in northern Michigan, I cry when I leave California.

Now I am here in the mile high city, feeling completely at home, enjoying some new culture. Having grown up in the suburbs of Detroit, I was always taught that the city was bad and dangerous (dangerous, for good reason). Now I am experiencing a city that is beautiful, clean, thriving, and safer than the one that I grew up with. Without much effort, I am loving this too.

There is not one place that I call home. And as I've thought more on this, I've realized that home is not a place, it's something that exists inside of me. In my heart I asked God to dwell, and it is those experiences of Him, of His beauty, His presence in nature, in culture, in people, and in memory, where I find home. His presence interfacing with those things which reflect Him. I am not attached to any one place. My heart is joined to Him, and home goes with me wherever I go. I like to think, that maybe I have a whole lot of time left, and there will be more places, more moments that communicate home to me. How exciting.

Butterfly Wings

One of my favorite people in this world is a little person named Grace. Blond hair, blue eyes, a strong will, a dramatic personality, and a tender heart. A $13 Cinderella Princess set was all it took to make a third Birthday one of the best days of the year. A few weeks later, I tried to expand the princess's world by reading her one of my all-time favorites: "Do Princesses Wear Hiking Boots?" The answer (an overwhelming) - yes!

I recently had the privilege of using the Pierce Airport Shuttle Service to and from DIA. Before departure to the airport, Grace put on her butterfly costume (with wings!) to show me. I watched her "fly" around the living room, giggling with a delight that can only come from a little person. She wore her butterfly costume to the airport, but sadly, Mom had to take the wings off so that Miss Grace could fit in her carseat.

As we drove up E-470, Mom (Missy) told me about the day that Grace got her wings... she put on her costume, and started running, and it wasn't too long after that, she came to her mother, sad and dejected.

"Grace, what's wrong?"

"Mommy, they don't work. I can't fly."

We laughed, and delighted in one of the most wonderful realities in life... the mind of a child. To be able to believe for a couple of moments, that putting on wings could actually make you fly... wouldn't it be fun to be three years old again, if only for a day.

Farewell Suburbia

I have moved to the city! And I have to laugh - it seems like every time I move (which has been pretty frequently in the last three years), I downsize another 25%. I think about my condo back in Michigan - 2 bedrooms, 4 closets, dining room, living room, full kitchen with ammenities, and a sizable storage unit. All that space just for me, and I had no problem filling it. Then Travel Nursing taught me that I really don't need anything I can't fit in a Ford Focus. Above is the car that taught me one of life's greatest lessons: if it doesn't fit in here, it goes. I will never forget my friend Andrea, tackling the Ultimate Packing Challenge for San Diego to C.S. '06. It was a legendary packing job. Thank you, Andrea.

Today I am a Denverite, and I am sitting in my 400 square foot studio, observing all of the charm that the early 20th century period has to offer. I take on the challenge of a small living space with enthusiasm. What else can I live without and throw to the curb, or better yet, give to someone who really needs it? Where can I hang a curtain to hide the laundry basket, or use a draw divider to maximize space? My mahogany wood against the pale yellow walls takes me back three years to a winery in Tuscany... brick walls and fields of poppies. I smile, then remind myself that I am in Denver.

From my new place I can walk to the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the wine store, 2 pubs, and 4 restaurants. I am excited to walk, to bike, and to save the Rav for trips to the mountains (my small contribution to the very large oil crisis).

Yeah, I think this urban thing is going to work. In addition to the wonderful people that have been welcomed to my life, I will miss Pikes Peak. I will not miss strip malls.

Hanging Lake / Glenwood Canyon, CO

It was a beast of a hike...

but a little taste of paradise at the top...

When I miss the Farm...

Last Saturday I was driving from Colorado Springs to Buena Vista, and I saw a herd of Holsteins grazing in a field beside the road - those beautiful black and white cows made me homesick. As I have been reading up on organic gardening and planning an urban plot, I am anticipating growing and harvesting my own vegetables with a thrill and delight that can only come from a place that I call home (and from the Glynn-Cieslak gene pool - some things we can't escape!)

There is a farm in Vantown, Michigan - Glynn Acres. My Grandmother was born there, and my Father spent his summers there when he was a boy. I love to hear Dad tell stories about the farm - I feel like I live every experience right along with him - milking the cows, preparing the 4H cattle for competition, birthing the calves, the barn dances in the hayloft, playing hide-and-go-seek in a million rows of corn. I never realized how much that place meant to me until I had a dream that it was gone. Now I like to think about it often, and when I do, I can almost be there...

The long gray barn that used to seem like a giant, contains as much home as the white bungalow farmhouse with the gray porch and wooden swing. The gray barn seems to go on forever, or at least it did when I was a little person. As I step through the barn door, I see the birthing pens to my right, and the milk room to my left. The inside walls are white washed and the afternoon sun pours through the western windows and makes the straw shine golden. I hear the click-click of the milking machine and it is like a song of security - it's consistent and never-changing, like a lullaby in my mind. The smell of fresh straw, raw milk, and manure, is the sweet aroma of home.

The new calves are all lined up in their stocks. Their large brown eyes and long lashes look up at me, and I marvel at how every baby of every species was made to be adored. I pet the little calf between his soft ears and rub my nose in the fur of his forehead. We feed the calves with giant baby bottles, filled with fresh milk. They suck it down eagerly.

With timidity I walk down the long stone isle in the center of the barn. Timid because when I was a little girl, I was always afraid of those large dark animals. The Holsteins line each side of that long isle, and even though I am afraid, I keep going, because I want to see my Uncle Mark.

When I think of Uncle Mark now, I see a plaid shirt, dark tanned skin, and hands that reveal passion for his work. I see him step out from behind one of those great black beauties to welcome me. He cannot stop to talk for long, because he has to finish milking before dinner. He talks as he works, every movement is completely natural for him. He was born for this. His voice is pure gentleness and his smile is the kindest I've ever known.

In the back of the barn, there is a bullpen. As a little person, I was terrified of those bulls. I remember peering through a whole in the wooden gate and seeing the outline of that great black monster. He did not have the white spots that the cows had, his body was firm and defined and he had a large ugly nose with huge nostrils. I remember Dad telling me to stay away from the pen because "Bulls are mean." I never went near it after that.

Outside the barn, there is a line of Holsteins standing by the fence, hoof-deep in manure. They are making that sound that my weeble-people barn used to make when I would open and close the plastic doors.

Just outside the barn door, my Uncle has placed a bowl of fresh milk for the kitties. They corral around the bowl, climbing over each other with clawless paws, to lap up that white sweetness with their tiny tongues. I watch one dive head-on into the bowl, only to find himself immersed in a milk bath.

The screen door slams behind me as I enter the breezeway. I immediately smell dinner in progress... sweet rolls and warm butter, baked spaghetti, pecan pie, and fresh lemonade. The table was always a spread of creamy, buttery, fried goodness. There's nothing in the world like eating on the farm - nothing compares to that cholesterol dream.

The bedroom on the first floor is where Grandma and Uncle Mark were born, and in the living room, they had witnessed their older siblings weddings. Outside the front door, across the porch, and down the steps, a willow tree shades the yard. It looks like a bridal veil, with it's branches reaching all the way down to the lawn. A short path leads from the porch steps, under the willow, to the county road, where Miller got hit.

Green has a permanent meaning in my mind: John Deere. Every time I see some Deere trinket, sign, or T-shirt, I hear my Grandpa's voice: "When are you coming out to the farm? Are you going to drive the tractor? I've got it all ready for you..." The image comes instantly - a 1946 Deere painted greener than the Irish Hills, and Grandpa leaning up against it, with a grin that takes up his whole face. His arms are brown and weathered from years of work in the fields, he has a faded tattoo of an American flag on his left forearm - a farmer till his last day, and king of my heart.

The first mountain I ever climbed was a silo... I am still climbing mountains.

Adventure Calls

So the event that I am about to describe actually took place a few weeks ago. My friends have been on my case to start blogging for awhile now and I thought that my first experience picking up a hitch hiker would be a great starting point.

Now a little background here, I am from the midwest, a suburb of Detroit to be more specific. So rewind back to Michigan and my first summer after college - I took my first nursing job in downtown Detroit. Now you may be thinking Why would anyone who is sane want to do that? Perhaps I will discuss the reasons for my decision in another blog. But to put it simply, I've always enjoyed a challenge, and I like working in other cultures - inner city Detroit is definitely another culture! When I worked down there, I learned to take safety very seriously. Never ever walk to your car alone, always hold your keys (your weapon!) in a concealed place so that you are ready for an attacker, and when you stop at a light, leave space between you and the next car, so that you can move around it if you need to get away fast. And P.S. Don't trust any of your coworkers - they could have a gun in their locker (Okay, maybe this last part is a slight exaggeration, but I did know one nurse who kept a gun in her locker).

All of that to say I lived, breathed, ate and slept play it safe. I had to - and it worked, I'm still here! I loved my work in Detroit: I loved being a minority, I loved working with people who had grown up in such a different world than I had, I loved those adorable African American babies, but (and there's always a but, right?) with so many positives, there's usually a payoff. Working in that place made me afraid. It made me afraid of people I did not know, especially those in a lower socioeconomic situation. I took away a lot of good things from that job, but I also took away a lot of fear.

So fast forward to Colorado Springs 8 years later. I'm joy riding in my new Rav 4 (with the sunroof open!) I had finally traded in my college clunker for a new SUV, or CUV as one of my friends likes to call it (chick utility vehicle). It is a gorgeous spring day in Colorado, the snow is melting off Pikes Peak, and the sky is that deep, deep ocean blue that seems absolutely perfect to me. Life is good.

And then I saw her walking along the side of the road. She was probably 19 or 20. She was carrying a carseat with a chubby baby in it. The visor was pulled out over the infant's face to shield her from the sun. Now I know from experience after experience that even newborns in a carseat, be it Bugaboo or Grayco, are heavy! Hauling those kids around is quite the workout. I saw her stop by the side of the road and sit down beside her baby. She looked exhausted. I kept driving.

Now I'm speeding down Academy Boulevard with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, and I'm thinking (and I will be brutally honest here) Work hard or die hard. People who don't work, walk. I'm sorry to admit that, but it's true. I'm tempted to blame my thoughts on my live free or die hard midwest work ethic, but the truth is, there really are no excuses.

I went up to the next light and did a U-turn (I still like doing those - because I can!) As I headed southbound on Academy, I could see that she had picked up the carseat and was walking again, one shoulder hanging lower than the other with the weight of the child. She could stab me, I thought to myself, and then I pulled over.

"Do you want a ride?"

"Yes!" And she walked towards my car (oops, I mean my sport ute!)

Now here's my confessional thought, Why would you put your little baby in a stranger's car? What kind of mother would do such a thing? She's either desperate, or she trusts me.

The carseat was Bugaboo, I know that brand well. I strapped the carseat with the child, who was screaming at that point, in my backseat. She must have thought her mother was giving her away, sweet baby. Her mother slid in beside her and we were off.

It was a short ride - about six miles, and the young mother and I talked most of the way. As it turns out, I had actually cared for the little baby when she was in the neonatal ICU at the hospital. She explained how the baby was named after her grandmother, and what a gift the child was. She thanked me over and over for taking her home. I dropped them off at their apartment, and that was it.

As I was driving away I felt a sense of freedom, I felt blessed. As funny as it may sound, I felt like picking up that Mom and baby was one of the best things that would ever happen to my new Rav 4. I thought about what freedom there is in not being afraid. And I thought about how afraid I used to be.

I had saved that mother a hellacious afternoon of toting her child six miles in the hot sun. And she had helped to save me from my fears. I love life's surprises.