Real Life by R.L. Cieslak

In Honor of Peak 8's Black Diamonds, Breckenridge

2011-01-07T11:49:00.000-08:00

Nearly four years ago, I chose to make Colorado my home because of this season called winter. White fluffy goodness spread over mountain peaks, speckled with fur trees and ski lifts. Could it get any better? Keystone, Aspen, Vail, Loveland, The Beave, Arapahoe Basin, Winter Park, Copper... and then Breckenridge. The latter 8 I found much to my liking, Breck not so much.

When I first moved to CO, I was invited to stay at a friend's ski in ski out condo at the base of Peak 9, Breckenridge. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to roll out of bed, brush teeth, have a little breakfast, and hop on the ski lift. No complaints there. I also enjoyed the fact that when we were done skiing and had soaked in the hot tub awhile, we could just walk outside the door and be in a charming little mountain town filled with art galleries, gear shops, ski town bars, and nice restaurants. It is a picturesque place, the site of Dumb and Dumber's "Aspen."

But the skiing, I wasn't crazy about. Breck requires a lot of traversing and cat walks to get across the mountain, you've gotta ski a green to get to a black. In my past three speed-thirsty years, I have reluctantly skiid Breck because that's where my ski buddies were going. Not my fav, I always said.

Well the chips turned when Dan recently introduced me to the "Runs off Chair 6" Peak 8. There are about five nice long bump runs, all of a fairly equal challenge, and located in somewhat of a valley where the sun does not create "surprise" ice under the snow. More recently I have become like a kid standing behind the rope at Disney Land, Can we go in? When are they gonna cut the rope? I want those runs, the runs off Chair 6, Peak 8. I want them bad.

Those are the runs that I have gotten down before, and I can get down again. They are the runs that make my quad muscles burn, and leave me at the bottom lusting to go back up and conquer it just one more time. Its kind of like going surfing, I can't get enough.

I like the moguls because they challenge me, well first they scare me, and then once I get into the middle of them, I am determined to get down... and then they don't scare me anymore, they are merely obstacles to be overcome, obstacles that will make my quads and my lust burn more.

As I was making my way down recently, Dan was a mere speck at the bottom of the run, it was just me and the mountain... I realized that with moguls, you often times choose your course, you have to, but inevitably (for me at least), speed will cause me to change it, or perhaps I will catch an edge and have to take a different route through the bumps, then choosing another course, always planning my decent a few yards out. It can be dangerous, as I am a mogul-amateur, to plan my decent all of the way down. I choose my route, just a few yards, a few bumps ahead, and when derailed from this path, I adjust and choose another.

I laughed recently when a friend of mine told me that her younger sister has a five and ten year plan for her life. I didn't laugh at this young woman, but I laughed at the irony... of life. And I thought of my lesson from the mountain.

No doubt I need intention, a goal in mind, a plan for achieving that goal in order to get anywhere that I want to be. I carve out my own life, I make it what I want, absolutely. But what about that place where I get going just a little too fast, and I have to take a small detour in order to not ski out of control... then I find I'm on a new path, having to navigate a new way down, and perhaps a better way. And what about that edge that I catch, not knowing its coming, I may lose my bearings for a moment and have to reroute in order to maintain control on my skiis. And then there are those places where it gets a little steep, and I begin to feel like I'm in over my head, much in the same way I did on a surf board, when the ocean was angry, and I knew I was out of my league, and needed to go back to the beach. It is then that navigating my way across a steep spot and onto a new course could save me a broken leg or a broken neck.

Some of my best moments in life have been those detours, or reroutes that I had not anticipated when I originally plotted the course. I will get down the mountain, I will eventually meet Dan at the lift, but it doesn't hurt to reroute a little bit here and there, to test my limits, to learn what works and what doesn't, to leave room for the unexpected.

A five year plan is an ambitious undertaking. I wouldn't deter anyone from making one. I say go for it! But within that plan, leave room for change, growth, grace for yourself when you catch an edge. Maintain the flexibility to change your course if need be, and always leave room for life's surprises.

Behind... Ahead

2011-01-01T17:13:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

2011

The end of December and beginning of January is a season of deep reflection for me. My Birthday comes December 22nd, and 3 days later the celebration of the birth of Christ, followed by the changing of the year six days later, bringing about both a sense of departing and a feeling of newness.

Wow, its a loaded season, but oh so good! About six years ago I began the practice of writing a brief entry on "The Year in Review" on my Birthday. I entitle each one with the age I am finishing up... year 28, year 29... you can do the math! It is fun to look back and recount those moments that I don't ever ever want to forget, and at the same time acknowledge the lessons learned, and moments of hurt, confusion, the "growing pains."

Christmas, put simply, is just the bomb! I have always looked forward to the entire advent season... the feelings of anticipating "the most wonderful day of the year", the constant parties, fabulous drinks, fabulous food, seeing old friends, hearing from friends who live far away, preparing gifts, the living room filled with the warmth of the lights on the tree... an entire season to spoil the people you love with gifts and grattitude, and party till the punch is gone. I have a hunch as to why this is, but the Christmas season just seems to get better with time. I am no longer a tyke, who can't wait until the sun comes up on Christmas morning so that I can devour my presents like Ralphie did, wondering if my "Red Ryder Bee Bee Gun" is under that sparkling tree; I am a big girl now, and the significance of the celebration has taken on an even stronger thrill. Its hard to explain, but I'm going to try...

I think the longer I live life, the more injustice, pain, loss, loneliness, and brokenness I witness others experiencing, and I experience myself. There is nothing worse than taking care of a child in the hospital who is there because they were physically harmed by the people who were supposed to love and nurture them. The unadulterated optimism of a child meets the cold reality of a world that is very broken. And despite our human intellect, education, technological advancement, and progressive industrialization, its still broke. Good people get cancer, children are hungry, and there are car accidents happening all over the world, every second. The more I observe "the broke part" happening to the people I love and to myself, the deeper the grattitude sinks into my soul, Thank you Thank you Thank you Jesus, for coming. God, thank you for delivering on your promise of sending your Son to our world. Another round of punch, please! There has never been a better reason to celebrate!

Put very simply and in purest cliche, I love Christmas!

So then comes the New Year. Summing up the old year has already been done on December 22nd, the greatest party of the year has already taken place on December 25th, so what's left?... its time to look ahead. I have been given the gift of another year... more time, more love, more learning, more hurting, more growing.

I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions. Not really sure why. Perhaps its for a similar reason that I do not give things up for lent, and I refused to see "The Titanic" when it came out, I waited 5 years for my first viewing. If the band wagon is going one way, I am likely trying to run in the opposite direction. Its not always the best direction, but its my natural inclination.

I do however, like to wonder about the year ahead, what I desire to accomplish, where I'd like to travel, what unexpected adventures might pop up, the surprises that await me. I suppose the part about "desire to accomplish" is just a fancier way of saying "New Years Resolution." Haha! I've been beat! I am officially on the bandwagon!

So in the Spirit of New Year's Resolutions, I sat down this afternoon to write, and these words came to my mind:

"Wilbur, you have work to do."

One of my most favorite movies is "Amazing Grace" which portrays the life work of William Wilberforce, a tenacious and long suffering Brit who persuaded Parliament to end the Slave Trade in England in the early 1800's. The preacher of his youth, John Newton, played by Albert Finney, urges the young politician to get back to work, the work that would ultimately spare hundreds of thousands of lives, and stated quite simply, change the world.

Now my work isn't on the scale of saving thousands of lives. But I am inspired every time I watch that movie or hear those words, you have work to do. I watch it over and over to remind myself that God accomplishes good on this globe, in the midst of all the ugly stuff we hear and see on the news, we are capable of works of incredible justice and good, with His power, His help, His prompting. And often times the works of good are those that we desire most.

Right now I want to sit down and write words that will encourage people to live fuller and stronger and harder. To live with more joy, purpose, and depth. To live without fear, in total hope, immersed in a deep sense of peace. To know that there is nothing in this life, no barrier, obstacle, offense, injustice, that cannot be overcome. Though death is inevitable for all, even then, one's spirit cannot be crushed. This is why I write, it is the desire of my heart.

And so Wilbur, you have work to do.

But if writing is the desire of my heart now, then why is it so damn hard to sit down and do it? Why can I come up with a long list of "better" options, often times very good things such as skiing Vail, cooking a fabulous meal for Dan, coffee dates with friends, or even volunteering for Project Cure? And eventually my excuses digress into the more mundane life tasks such as putting gas in the car and folding laundry. To the lessers I say Good riddance! I'll fill up on the way to work tomorrow, and I will dig my socks out of the pile when I need them. And to the greaters I say: prioritize, be diligent, Vail is not going anywhere, and you cooked dinner for Dan last night. Bottom line, don't let the fear of failure stop you. Don't replace what you really want to accomplish with a lot of very good things.

Of course I write this to myself, my own personal pep talk gone public. And yet I believe very strongly that we all have been made to do something, we all have something special to offer the world, and if we don't do it, the world will be a lesser place. It sounds like a hallmark card, but I believe it entirely. In the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

"A calling exists when your deepest gladness meets the world's deepest need."

I hope this is your best year yet...

Things I don't do

2010-12-27T08:54:00.000-08:00

I recently picked up a good read entitled "Bittersweet" by a budding author, Shauna Niequist. Its a collection of her experiences, reflections, and lessons learned, in page-turning blog-style. One of the chapters I found most enjoyable was entitled "things I don't do." The title itself was very intriguing to me. I recently had a self-actualizing moment when my boyfriend gave me a lovely blank journal for my Birthday, and told me that it was for my "thoughts and lists." CAUGHT - I am a list maker, likely one of the most severe cases, and yes, I have begun keeping with me a small book in which I write my lists and carry them over from day to day, those tasks which I have not yet completed.

I recall two of my best friends discussing how they too keep "to do" lists, and will actually include in their lists something they have already completed in order to be able to experience the thrill of crossing out a task, and feeling that wonderful sense of accomplishment. I love it! Well, ladies, I have a new solution, its called the "things I don't do list," a list that provides multiple opportunities for checking off and crossing out!

"Things I don't do" was inspired by a chapter in Shauna Niequist's book in which she laments about the common American dilemma of "not having enough time to do everything I want to do." She reccounts the advice given to her by a good friend: "Its not hard to decide what you want your life to be about. What's hard is figuring out what you're willing to give up in order to do the things you really care about."

Ahhh reality... you mean I have to give something up in order to be able to do the things I really want to do? My immediate reaction to this is... that's not fair! I want it all! So there you have it, the truth, I am both human and American, in the purest form.

I want to be able to work full time, cook every night, make all of my christmas gifts by hand, see Dan every day, ski powder whenever it comes, blog daily, always have a clean house, design and make my own clothes, travel to an exotic place each month, volunteer at church every week, work on my book eight hours a day, do relief work in Haiti for a couple of weeks every month, get on the eliptical for 2 hours each day, and have coffee dates with all of my very best friends weekly. Of course these are only the first things that come to mind, the reality is, there are many many more.

So rather than focusing on all the things that I want to do and simply don't have the time for, I decided to make a list of the "things I don't do." Of course smoking cigarettes and sleeping with strangers are the entirely obvious, but I tried to make this a realistic list, including a few things that are very easy for me not to do, along with some sacrifices.

So here goes...

I don't...

1) Make my bed every day... its a special occasion when I make my bed.
2) Get up at the crack of dawn on my days off... I usually sleep in until 9:00. I would like to be able to get up earlier and enjoy the morning, but 12 hour shifts usually wipe me out and a little extra sleep is needed.
3) Try to change people... not only is it morally wrong in my opinion, but an extremely fultile use of time.
4) Complain about traffic jams or long lines... doesn't make any sense to complain about it if I can't do anything to change it.
5) Do my finger nails... I would love to have beautiful, lady-like hands, but the fact that I wash them 100x/day at work makes this desire nearly impossible.
6) Write Christmas letters... not such a huge stretch there.
7) Get to work early... I'm not getting paid for being there early, so why not sleep a little longer and arrive on time?
8) Assume to be an expert on anything. It is my goal to be a life-long learner.
9) Sign up for classes or activities to keep myself from getting bored. Bored does not exist in my vocabulary.
10) Eat scallops
11) Make my own pie crusts... Safeway makes them for me.
12) Think that anyone is ever beyond hope... at times this is a stretch, as I am exposed to some pretty ugly life realities with my work, but in my core, I do believe that no human being is ever beyond hope.
13) Needlepoint
14) My hair before work - it goes up in a clip. Sometimes I wish I could have beautiful hair at work, but it just gets in the way, and babies love to pull long hair!
15) Keep an immaculately clean house... there will always be a little dust on my shelves. I would rather go outside and play in the mountains, than clean.
16) Ski in bad snow just for the sake of skiing... forget it! Alas, my 4 years in Colorado have turned me into a snow snob!
17) Ever ever ever root against the Red Wings. Obviously.
18) Call in sick to work when I'm not. This is no stretch for me. I have been stricken with a severe midwest work ethic, that somehow I have never outgrown.
19) Go on crash diets... I love food too much
20) Get regular pedicures... they are more of a treat for me.
21) Floss every day - flossing usually happens about 3-4X/week.
22) Make cakes from scratch - I always use a mix.
23) Drink diet soda or cheap beer. PBR makes me want to vommit... perhaps I can blame my snobbery on the state of Colorado (i.e. land of beer) as well?
24) Keep a garden (this will probably change someday... I love gardens and growing things to eat)
25) Triathalons. Would rather get a root canal.
26) Twitter... I tried it once when Hugh Jackman was offering $100,000 if you could convince him in 100 words or less why he should give his money to your charity. He didn't pick mine, haven't been on there since.
27) Eat mayonnaise, mustard or undercooked asparagus... okay, maybe this one isn't such a big sacrifice! They all make me gag!
28) Work night shifts... I get too sick and crabby!
29) Scrapbooking... again not the hugest sacrifice for me.
30) Watch Michigan play OSU... prozac puts extra stress on the kidneys
31) Cook dinner every night... Chipotle and Whole Foods cook a fabulous dinner, and every night!
32) Watch the news... I need to maintain a good emotional reserve for what I encounter at work.
33) Spend time with excessively negative people who are energy draining. I also try to avoid people who are highly critical, or competetive with me (off of the court), including people who expect a lot and give very little. Life is simply too short to invest time here, but I wish them well.
34) Always fold the laundry... sometimes I am digging clothes out of the pile on my bed... works just fine as long as I can find what I'm looking for.
35) Watch T.V., save for the fall, when new Mad Men episodes begin.
36) Worry about other people's problems... they don't belong to me. I will pray for others, and offer advice when it is requested of me and I feel its appropriate to give, but worry is simply a waste of my time.
37) Go to the mall during Christmas - okay, maybe I can't entirely avoid it, but I try to.
38) Hold onto stuff I don't use or place a huge value upon, haul junk from place to place every time I move. I moved enough times that this practice has become engrained in me... I love to donate "stuff" and throw "stuff" away!
39) Update my electronics as soon as something newer and better comes out, as evidenced by my 10-year old T.V.!
40) Go into work when they call and beg me to come in on my days off. I need my rest and relaxation! It's called "R" time... Rachel Time!
41) Always voice my opinion. Sometimes its not the appropriate time or place.
42) Worry about the opinions of people I don't have any respect for... this one comes pretty easily.
43) Put energy into arguing politics - its exhausting. I will do this on occasion, when another person's views will challenge me and open my mind, and when I feel that my own views are being received in a similar way. However, I am very mindful of the situation, my own state of mind, as well the as reception when I choose to enter into these discussions.
44) Keep a daily journal - I usually write in my journal once or twice a week.
45) Sew my own curtains - Pottery Barn does a lovely job.
46) Ski the back country - the back bowls at Vail are about as Back Country as I go.
47) Buy clothes I'm not in love with
48) Go out shopping just to shop. I usually buy clothes online and have them shipped to me.
49) Live for the fulfillment of other people's expectations. I did this a lot when I was younger... talk about a severe waste of time.
50) Skydiving or parasailing. I used to be a HUGE risk taker. I'm not sure where that part of me went. Still comes out from time to time, but not when it comes to my life.
51) Keep in touch with every person I've ever known.
52) Pick fights with people or stir up drama... are you kidding me? Life has enough drama when you're not asking for it.
53) Crazy mountain bike trails. A nice simple trail with good views puts a smile on my face. I don't need cliffs, huge rocks, jumps, bloody shins and scars.
54) Belong to a gym. I think its wonderful that other people belong to gyms and I have nothing against them, but I am happy with my ski pass and the eliptical downstairs. The gym is just one less place I have to get in the car and drive to.
55) Change the sheets weekly. Since I am the only one sleeping in them, who cares?
56) Adhere my life to a timeline or plan - life never goes the way you plan it out, no matter how much planning goes into it. I like to have a loose structure with short term goals, the timing of which lasts no longer than a year. I like to leave plenty of time and space open for the unknown, and those spontaneous adventures that always come up!
57) Marathons. Kudos to those who do them, I am very impressed, but my own desire barometer is at 0.
58) Eat entirely organic food. I like to eat organic, and I treasure my trips to Vitamin Cottage and Whole Foods. But I also indulge my cravings for Doritos and Mike N Ikes.
59) Serve on multiple committees at church - I only do 1. One is what I can do well.
60) Worry about or try to solve problems that are beyond my sphere of control, such as the war in Afganistan.
61) Pursue extra certifications that aren't going to change the way I do my job, or the quality of care my patients receive from me.
62) Iron.

Live hard, live well.

What I Want for Christmas

2010-12-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

Sometime back in the 90's, during the years of my youth, Amy Grant came out with what I considered at the time, a pretty cheesey song entitled "My Grown up Christmas List."

"So here's my lifeful wish
My grownup Christmas list
Not for myself but for a world in need

No more lives torn apart
And wars would never start
And time would heal the heart

Everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end

This is my grown up Christmas list"

What a dumb song, change the channel, I thought in my 14-year-old mind. I'm going to throw up.

When I was a little girl, a teenager, and even a young adult, Christmas was about getting that thing I really, really wanted. Much in the same way that Ralphie dreamed, craved and fixated on his beloved Red Ryder BeeBee Gun, I too had my deep deep desires of the heart... a Baby Feels So Real, Strawberry Shortcake's pie kitchen, Annie's Mansion, Pink and Pretty Barbie. And then there were the later years... new Alpine Skiis, Gerbeaux jeans, my own CD player, the hundreds of books I could not live without at the time and still very much want to read.

Now one of the greatest delights of my year is watching Grace and Jack dive into their presents with all of the joy and excitement I can so much relate to from my youngsterhood. They scream and giggle and nearly explode with kid gusto as tissue paper flies across the room. As I watch them tear open their presents with unadulterated enthusiasm, all I can feel is delight in its purest form.

Who of us does not look at a sparkling tree surrounded by presents and not remember the awe that words cannot describe, wondering if the treasure that we so much craved was in one of those heavenly packages? We were all little people once.

I'm not sure when my childhood present cravings faded, sometime after the year 2000. It certainly didn't happen overnight, as with many realities in life, time makes its changes. Sometime during this past decade, the thrill of opening the present I'd been dreaming about, the thrill of material possessions themselves, just disappeared... shazam, caput, no more. Where it went, I have no idea... perhaps it is floating out there over Lake Michigan, beside the cloud of profanity that Ralphie's father spun as he battled the furnace on Hester Street so many years ago. Who knows? Shazam, caput.

And now here I am, sitting beside the Christmas tree, no longer a blonde haired, blue eyed baby girl, wondering what happened to the last 30 years, reflecting on the lyrics of what was an annoying top 40 Christmas song during my high school years. Maybe my materialistic desires have changed over time, as most things do in this life. But there is one thing that has not.

As I sit here and contemplate those things that I really do want for Christmas, there is a little blonde-haired, blue eyed girl sitting here with me, the little person that I used to be, filled to overflowing with innocence and optimism, a child who does not yet know deep disappointment, injustice, and cold reality.

When I am dangerously honest with myself, these are the things that I want for Christmas:

*I want every child in the world to have a mom and a dad. And not just any mom and dad. Parents who adore and delight in them. I want the word orphan taken out of the dictionary.
*I want the war to stop. I want the taliban to get over themselves, get rid of their guns, and start feeding the homeless, and building schools so that little girls who've never been able to go to school can get an education. I want all of our troops to come home to their families, and never leave again.
*I want there to be no need to take our shoes off at the airport because we have nothing to be afraid of.
*I want all of the people in the whole world who have a diagnosis of cancer to receive an immediate clean bill of health.
*I want every disabled person in America, in the world, to never be shunned or mistreated. I want every person who is blind, deaf, or has a mental impairment to feel like a valued member of society.
*I want Dan to be able to go deer hunting with his Dad today.
*I want every minute reseemblance of racism to disappear from this planet for eternity.
*I want efficient and fair distribution of food, good nutritious food, for everyone in the world who is hungry.
*I want Detroit to be the #1 city in America for quality family living. I want the hood cleaned up. I want the public schools to thrive.
*I want the kids in Uganda to not get malaria anymore.
*I want every person in Haiti to have a home to live in, a home that is safe, where they have access to clean drinking water.
*I want conflicts to be reconciled and forgiveness to prevail.
*I want the world to be peaceful.

This is my grownup Christmas List

On Wealth...

2010-09-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

I recently returned home after a short stint in Haiti with an organization called Global Orphan Project.

Ahhh Haiti... fried plantain, dusty roads, constant sweat, isuzu trucks loaded down with 40+ people, women with necks of steel carrying loads of 50 pounds on top of their heads, pot holes the size of a backyard pond, children playing soccer on concrete, vicious thunderstorms, rain beating on tin rooftops, green mountains, car horns as a means of communication "here we come," goats grazing in mounds of garbage, unwelcome dogs resembling rats, aggressive driving, traffic jams, naked toddlers waving 'bonjour' from the road side, Haitian Campa, Carribean glory... this is the world that robbed me of my heart nearly 14 years ago. Damn, its been a long time. And yet it was only a moment ago.

During the past week a member of our team asked me if Haiti had changed much since 1996.

"In the way that people live, not really," I replied. "The lifestyle is the same, but there are other changes. There are a lot of cell towers, a whole lotta rubble, and pain from the losses of January 12. You can see the pain and shock still in the eyes of some of the children. However, the most obvious change to me, is that the world is paying attention now. Haiti is on the map."

When I think of the word "map" my thoughts go instantly to a memory from my first trip to Haiti, 1996. I was talking with my friend Gesner (Joosnay in Creole). We were the same age, 19, and yet we had grown up in entirely different worlds. It was a gift for me to know Gesner, and his world, which was far far away from my affluent suburban upbringing.

I was wearing a T-shirt that was popular at the time, displaying 50 flags of various prominent nations around the world. I remember him studying my shirt then saying,

"Where is my country? I don't see it here. Where is Haiti?"

I went and found some markers, and together we drew a huge Haitian flag on the back of the shirt, 10X the size of the other flags. I wish I knew where that shirt was now, I wish I knew where Gesner was now, and hope to God that he's alive. They are paying attention now, Gesner, the world knows Haiti.

Now I have been convinced for a long long time that God exists, but when I look at Haiti, I know right down to the very nucleus of my existence that God is real. When I see the fingerprints of China, France, the U.S., Canada, and other nations responding to the cries of people trapped under the rubble of starvation, homelessness, AIDs, illiteracy, isolation and loss, I know that all human beings are image bearers of a compassionate God. We have within our DNA the potential to carry out works of immeasurable good, this we cannot escape, whether we acknowledge God or not, the potential for good explodes from within.

Another question asked of me during my recent week in Haiti was this:

"What is wealth?"

Crazy... I had begun thinking about this question on my first trip to Haiti in 1996, and here is my answer now...

Wealth is the smile of a child, that makes you want to freeze time and study all of the joy that radiates from the eyes that know they are loved by you.

Wealth is seizing the opportunity to comfort a child who is experiencing, almost hourly, the shock of her home crumbling, as the earth moves uncontrollably beneath her feet. The tenderness of your hand on her shoulder, and your presence of love communicates to her that there is life beyond loss and stability beyond chaos and fear.

Wealth is the glory of an orange and purple sunset over rolling, grass-covered hills. You are wealthy when you have the opportunity, the time, to sit and watch the sun go to bed.

Wealth is sincere gratittude when you receive a bowl of rice and beans that will allow you to sleep without hunger. Being thankful for a place to rest, a roof to keep the rain away, and a bowl of food. Thank you, God, that I will not go to sleep hungry tonight. Thank you for this meal.

Wealth exists in community, where people care for each other's needs, and depend on the others in order to survive. I had the privilege of meeting the little baby who had been featured on a 60 Minutes episode back in March of this year. Her life came as the result of the rape of a slave girl, child slavery being a common practice in Haiti. What a horrific beginning to life, and yet this baby has a fan club of over 80 children, and nearly a dozen mothers to care for her. This is the gift of community.

In Haiti, wealth is abundant. Yes, people are hurting from loss, suffering from disease, still hungry, and illiterate, and yet the lack of "worldly" wealth (money, houses, status, cars, cocktails, designer clothes, season Broncos tickets, international travel, and much more) creates space for abundant love and simple gratitude to expound. Uncluttered by worldly wealth there is room for love to grow and be experienced, unchoked by the distractions of materialism. It is very difficult to understand or experience this simple love and joy when every posession/experience I could ever want is close within my reach and ability to obtain.

Americans aren't wealthy, we're distracted. With everything that money can buy, most Americans (myself included) pacify the deepest needs of the heart with monetary pursuits that offer temporary comfort and yet never truly fulfill our deepest human needs.

While I was in Haiti, our team visited 6 orphanages. This was one of the wealthiest experiences of my life, unmatched by a Tiffany's shopping spree, or a Napa Wine Tour. Even better than an undefeated Wolverine football season. In the eyes of God, these children are the diamonds that some people bleed and go to the death for in the diamond fields. They are gold and precious jewels to the God who is love. To have the opportunity to love and serve, and be loved by these orphans is an experience far too expensive to be bought.

Three years ago Tom Brady, New England's irreplacable QB, made this statement in a press conference: "Why do I have 3 Super Bowl rings and still think there's something greater out there for me? I mean, maybe a lot of people would say, 'Hey Man, this is it.' I reached my goal, my dream, my life. God, its got to be more than this. I mean, this isn't, this can't be what its all cracked up to be."... the reflection of a man who has supposedly "arrived at the top" of what our American culture values most. His honesty is both chilling and heart breaking.

In the years between my first trip to Haiti and my return visit, I have lived very well, not wanting for much, which isn't in itself a bad thing, I will not judge the heart's motives of anyone but myself. I am very grateful that God reminded me in a very real and physical way of what is completely valuable and precious to Him.

I will keep the sand of Haiti in my shoes, and remember what it truly means to be wealthy.

1996
2010

The Low Country

2010-07-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

It doesn't matter whether I am baking in the middle of 90 degree Denver, listening to the children play in the tree next to my yard, or resting on the dock in my bikini at Lake Louise, listening to the hum of ski boats pulling laughing kids over boat wakes on tubes... when I read Pat Conroy's description of th Low Country, floating down a river on Sullivan's Island, following the tide out to the Atlantic, I can almost taste the sea salt on my tongue, and breathe in the sweetness of Pametto breeze...

"In the summertime, the salt water that floods the creeks and bays and coves of South Carolina is warm and sun-shot and silken to the touch. It did not hurt or shock to enter the water, but soothed and washed away the frazzled nerves of our runaway week. The creek was dark with the nutients gathered in the great salt marsh; you could not see your hand if you opened your eyes underwater. We were swimming in a part of the Atlantic that the state of South Carolina has borrowed for awhile. Now the tide was hurtling back, drawing the essence of its marshes, the blue crabs lying in wait for stragglers who would soon be prey. As the tide receded the oysters would be locked tight, retaining a shot-glass-full of seawater that would hold them until the next full tide; the flounders hidden in the mud flats; the mullets flashing in quick silver sea grass; the small sharks nosing around for carrion; the blue herrons straight-legged and heraldic in the motionless hunt; the snowy egrets - the only creatures in the Low Country - whose name invoked winter - staring at the shallows for the quick run of minnows... we remained wordless for the first 100 yards, remarkable only in our stillness and the rightness of the moment."

Love it.

A Taste of Heaven

2010-06-09T21:28:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes its hard to tell where earth stops and heaven starts."

Monterey, June 2010

Selfless

2010-05-31T19:29:00.000-07:00

So the other day at work, I bumped into a friend of mine, another nurse who had come in to do competencies. It seemed like a long time had passed since I'd seen her, maybe three weeks? I had heard through the grape vine that she and her husband had recently picked up a baby from the hospital via social services. What a story! So they get a phone call on a Friday evening, and the social worker asks them if they are interested in this two-day-old baby girl. Within 12 hours, they are at the hospital, picking up the little baby and taking her home. Its not your typical transition to parenthood... they had nothing... no baby shower, no nursery with the pottery barn crib set, not even bottles or diapers! So enroute to the hospital, they picked up a carseat, and on the way home, they stopped at Target for pampers and formula.

Heide showed me pictures on her phone... Lyle, her husband, holding the little princess and giving her a bottle. She has a sweet sweet face, and looked like she'd come straight from heaven, as all newborns do. I smiled as I looked at the pictures.

"I'm cutting back my hours," Heide told me. "I'll be on FMLA for 8 weeks... we're not sure if we're gonna be able to keep Mia yet. You see... the way it works, they have to contact all of her family members to see if anyone else wants to take her, and then if they don't, we get to keep her and the adoption goes through. But I think it is so important, whether we get to adopt her or not, that she be able to bond well in these first 10 weeks of her life. It could make all the difference for her in the long run, even if she has to go somewhere else and has a rough time there, she will have a foundation of love to build on."

I don't think I'll ever look at Heide the same way again. She has no idea what she gave to me just by sharing her life... the opportunity to witness what truly selfless love is. It encourages me just to know that love like this exists in the world. I pray with all my heart that Mia will be able to stay with, and become the daughter of these two wonderful people, who are willing to sacrifice so much, not only their time, income, and sleep, but their hearts as well. I don't know if I could do it, I highly doubt I could, the bond between mother and child is so strong. ... to bond with a child that you may have to let go of, because its an investment in that child's life, in her future, even though you may never see her again after those 10 weeks are up. It is a gift to me just to know this kind of love exists.

And I am convinced that the world gives medals to all the wrong people.

Encouraged by this...

2010-03-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

I don't like to watch the news. It seems that I am always reminded of some injustice against the innocent, a child's way disrupted by none of ther own choosing, the reality of a broken world. So what is my part? My piece amidst the chaos?

"The only thing necessary for evil to prevail is for good men (and women) to do nothing" -Edmond Burke.

That thing about pride coming before the fall...

2010-03-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

Its true.

Today I was told how good I looked skiing down the mountain...

and not 3 minutes later, I was sliding backwards 50 fifty down a black diamond, leaving a yard sale behind me.

Made for a good laugh, and no injuries, thank God.

Top 10 Ideal Retirement Jobs

2010-03-13T17:37:00.000-08:00

Its about this time of year, on the home stretch of respiratory season, that I begin to dream about what I would do if income were not a necessity. Don't get me wrong, it is a privilege to be able to work, and to care for sweet little people, yet in the midst of 12 hour days, snotty babies, and albuterol treatments, compounded by my need to resurrect some high school spanish, I think about...

1) Being the story hour lady... wearing the hats and doing different voices for each character.
2) Leading the ski school parade of snowplowers down the slope... little people on their first trip to the mountains!
3) Designing and building my own doll houses... a row house, a southern plantation, an east coast salt box.
4) Opening my own bookstore/teahouse/bistro.
5) Planting an organic garden in a low income neighborhood and inviting the local kiddos to take part.
6) Reading all the books on my list.
7) Moving to Costa Rica for a year just to surf.
8) Being a historical presenter at Greenfield Village, all decked out in 19th century garb, ready to play the part and inspire a child's imagination.
9) Becoming a photojournalist... telling stories, motivating acts of compassion, and exploring those places I have only yet dreamed of, with my camera.
10) Doing full time nonprofit work and traveling to orphanages around the world to volunteer.

Never say never.

Closer to Free

2009-07-17T18:53:00.000-07:00

So it hasn't been the eventful summer that it so often is. I said no to a trip to Panama, and no again to Italy. Sometimes saying no is without a doubt, the right thing to do, and yet, the adventure-seeking side of me protests and hurts every time that "n" word comes out of my mouth. I was recently reminded by my friend, Erin, that "God takes us through different seasons in life." And though my life has not been full of adventure lately, the experience of this current season has proven to be valuable in a way that I can only hope will be long-lasting.

My summer began with three huge, wapping yard sales, in which I decreased my net "stuff factor" by about 60%. Now I have been on a gradual "stuff" purge ever since the beginning of travel nursing and my exodus from the midwest, but the events of early June have proven to be the crescendo in this saga.

I used to live in an 800 sq foot condo with 4 overflowing closets, and a storage unit packed to the ceiling. Now if anyone had ever asked me at that time, to throw away the things I did not need, I would have replied that I had nothing to throw away, because, put very simply... I needed all of it. That's right, every picture frame, photo album, candle holder, shoes I wore only once a year with that one outfit, books I hadn't read, skiis with broken bindings that I clung to purely for the sake of nostolgia. And here's the plain truth... at the time, I needed all of that stuff... and yet I don't anymore, and I'm really not sure why I changed my mind. How does one go from being a packrat to a minimalist? From thinking I was "free" to "exceedingly free?"

Perhaps it was the experience of travel nursing, and realizing, that all I really needed to exist and thrive, I could pack in the back of a Ford Focus. Anything that exceeded that space, was not a necessity for me. That experience taught me that I actually needed very little "stuff" to survive.

When travel nursing was over, I realized that every time I was moving, I was hauling (or paying to haul) and reorganize junk. VHS tapes, an old vase, a waterlogged Ansel Adams poster, a book of combat photos from Vietnam, mugs, 25 cent wine glasses. A dozen things it seemed I could not live without.

Skiis, books, furniture, a beautiful home, I don't think that any of these are bad things, they only became bad for me when one of this or that was never enough, when more was always needed, when those "things" that I felt I could not live without, began to make promises that they could never keep.

With all of the junk purging, there are a few treasures I will always keep... the toy plane given to me on Brittish Airways on my first journey to Europe in 1979, Grandpa's John Deere Tractor lamp (when you push on the seat, the wheels turn), the faded painting of the blonde girl with the basket of daisies, hiding in the barn. I used to climb up on Grandma's bench to look at that picture when I was too small to see it at eye level, and when Grandma went to heaven, Grandpa let me have it.

These are the treasures, the few things I will hold onto... the rest can go and good riddance. I want to be free enough that I could move tomorrow... to Charlotte, to Munic, or perhaps Dubai... or maybe remain here, unhindered and weightless, and all the more prepared... to live.

So I have been thinking... what is wealth? And perhaps the definition of that is different for different people... for me it is to watch children laugh, to know love, to witness acts of compassion, to see and experience God's world. This is where wealth cannot be measured, these are the things that do not rot.

A woman's life does not consist in the abundance of her posessions.

Finally in Charleston

2009-05-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

It began with a small beach town on the Isle of Palms... Low Country restaurants, Banana Cabana, flip flops and surf boards. Now I have seen my share of west coast beach towns, but the east is distinctly it's own, and the wonder of exploring a new place never gets old for me.

I dig my toes into the sand, I breath the air coming off the sea, and expect it to sting my nose, like it does on Pacific Beach. But the air is sweet, not salty. I take a deeper breath... still sweet. I am not in CA... this is the low country where the wind tastes like the tea they brew. Delightful.

It is late afternoon and the sun is in the south. The waves are breaking too close to the beach to play in the whitewash - good, otherwise I'd be missing my board, ruining the contentment of this moment. I am finally here.

Into the water... it surprises me with its warmth, the sand is carved into a wave-like pattern under my feet. I want to feel the force of the waves breaking against me, taste the salt in the water, experience the energy of the ocean.

Again I marvel at the wonder of a new place, a beach that I do not know, a sand bar I cannot predict, the sweetness of ocean air that seems so foreign to my senses. And my mind that is prone to wander and dream, wonders what has happened on this beach... some of us have a "geek curse." Mine happens to be a zeal for history.

Tour guides love me because I ask so many questions... I really tried to tone it down on our walking tour of the historic district, out of respect for the other 20 people walking with us. And yet I held nothing back when I was one on one with the Dungeon Master in the Old Exchange Building. It's fun to watch their faces light up when you ask them about details that most people don't care about, and you can speak plainly geek to geek.

In Charleston, I found a lot more than "Glory" on the beach and more historical drama than the mind can ponder... there was abounding satiation for yet another of my favorite past times, food and wine...

I scan the menu at Huck's Low Country... Carolina Crab Cakes, Oysters, Fried Green Tomatoes, Grouper, She-Crab Soup, Mahi-Mahi, Catfish, Salmon.... fresh from the water.

Now the south is a wonderland for many reasons, but the fact that I will always have a pallate for cream, extra butter, and all things fried, makes me feel right at home. Now as far as I know, I don't have a drop of southern in me, I attribute my passion for fat, cholesterol and heart disease consumption, to an origin in hardy midwest farmstock. My grandmother always cooked like she'd never left the farm. And nothing tastes so good to me as Double battered spicy fried chicken smothered with creamy mushroom gravy and a side of greasy cornbread. I may shop at Whole Foods and eat organic salads in my everyday Denver life, but while vacationing in the Low Country, Cracker Barrel with an extra side of biscuits is just my speed. Meg was slightly horrified at my menu choices during our trip, but when in Rome...

I savor the experience of a Bed and Breakfast, and it's not just the blueberry waffles with lemon curd sauce... it's the Georgian-style charm, with no two rooms that look exactly alike, enjoying morning coffee with fellow travelers and comparing stories, resting on the veranda for afternoon wine hour, chatting with the inn keepers about the "insider" places to go... tell me what is off the beaten path.

Our B&B came with cruiser bikes... we were thrilled. A Sunday morning ride before church, up East Bay Street where the Georgian mansions still have cannon lodged in the walls, and Fort Sumter can be seen across the Bay. The park is hallowed with "Gump Trees", there are a million diamonds on the bay, the azaleas are in bloom, the air smells sweet again.

After our ride, Meg and I attended the Emmanuel AME church, the oldest African American Church in the south, and origin of the largest organized slave revolt in history. It is a rare treat for me, and we are received warmly.

Touring the Old Slave Mart Museum, was undoubtedly the most difficult piece of this trip. It's one of those things that I knew I wanted to do, and I'm glad I did it, however, I know that I don't want to go back again. Perhaps it was the fact that the tour ahead of us was all black, and I kept wondering what was going through their heads as they looked at the relics of a reality that is almost too dark to think about. Or maybe it was the feeling I had when I viewed the child-sized shackles, I could not stop seeing the faces of my precious babies in Uganda. It hurt my heart. Yes, once was enough.

On our last day in Charleston, Meg returned to the beach, and I walked downtown to get a final glimpse of Cobblestone streets, Palmetto Flags, hidden alleyways lined with Carolina Oaks, and the oldest sea port in the Union. I lingered in a cafe and had a conversation with a local artist, I bought a dress from a Gula woman whose dialect was absolutely delightful to my ears, I envisioned my return trip, and thanked God that every once in awhile life just is "that good."

I've been thinking about summer...

2009-03-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

... because it's been in the 70's all week here in Denver. It's frisbee, bikeriding, barbeque weather. Usually at this point, I begin thinking of all of the places that I want to travel this summer, about putting my skiis back in the storage bin, and buying a plane ticket(s). But for whatever reason, I don't feel that way right now. I want to stay home for the summer, enjoy Colorado, be still. I made a list of things that I'd like to do in the upcoming months. The order doesn't necessarily reflect the priority, they're just my thoughts...

1) Hike 14ers

2) Climb the dunes and see Durango

3) Walk around the lake in Wash Park

4) Write

5) Swim in a mountain lake

6) Photograph a ghost town

7) Walk to Coors field after church and eat ballpark hotdogs for lunch

8) Take Grace to the zoo

9) Ride my bike

10) Enjoy Happy Hour on a roof top

11) Finally buy a field guide and learn the names of the CO wildflowers

12) Read a book under the tree in my yard, while lying on my stadium blanket

Most of all, be still.

Lake Victoria

2009-02-27T18:37:00.000-08:00

There is no sound in all the world, more precious to my ears, than the laughter of a child.

Streets of London

2009-02-26T19:15:00.000-08:00

January 18th-22nd, 2009

Our apartment in St. James Park is on a street called Palmer. There are two pubs on this street, Adam & Eve and the Sanctuary House. My experience of London pubs was limited, thanks to gluten, but the ambiance is exactly as you would imagine.

AtAdam & Eve I sampled my first "Jacket" - baked potato with melted cheese and pinto beans. The Sanctuary House is where we celebrated the Inaugeration and indulged in some Brittish pies - chicken with white wine sauce. The Britts seemed to be excited about the Obamas taking up residence in the White House.

At the end of Palmer Street, there is a very large church...

Westminster Abbey. I didn't go in,
as they charge 18 pounds to enter The idea of having to pay to go inside a church just doesn't sit right with me. Besides, the building has probably not changed since I was 12, seeing as how the place has been there for 800 years.

We walked past Big Ben, Parliament, and the Millenium Ferris Wheel.

In Trafalgar Square, I found the National Gallery. I toured galleries of 15th CenturyMadonnas, soldiers, cupids, and nudes, finally finding my Impressionists. I viewed Monet's beginning works, and watched his style evolve throughout his life. I gazed at Van Gogh originals, and wondered how many notecards, mugs, and tote bags have bourne the image of that Sunflower... how many hundreds of times have I seen that image? Yet in the oil on canvas before me, I could make out the individual strokes... delight.

From there, I went on to the National Gallery where the Annie Lebovitz exhibit was on display. I declined to spend the 11 pounds as I had already seen the exhibit in San Diego for $5. On the third floor, in the Parliament Room, I found one of my heroes, William Wilberforce, half completed by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Lawrence had died before he could finish painting Wilberforce's jacket and hand. As I gaze at the portrait, I recognize in Wilberforce's eyes, an intelligent compassion that is completely familiar to my senses. I am reminded of the heart of Jesus. How did Lawrence get it so right? I made a print of the painting and brought it home.

Heather is the master of the London tube system... we found our way to Covent Garden... a brick street and an outdoor market - art, earrings, handbags, hats, teddy bears wearing Brittish flag T-shirts. We watched a man ride an 8-foot tall unicycle while juggling two knives and an apple. He made 23 pounds in a half an hour - not a bad gig. In Covent Garden we found two Indian restaurants, Chowki (Monday eve) and Punjab (Wednesday). Pumpkin curry, samosas, and cheese naan, all with red wine. The Dining Bar just hit the ceiling. And I must mention the treasure of CG... Monmouth coffee. One taste of that and I am convinced that less is more.

We took our afternoon tea at the Caddigan Hotel at Knight's Bridge Stop. Scot sat this one out.

It was an afternoon "Low" tea. I learned that the High and Low adjectives for tea have nothing to do with one's place in society, or with the time of day at which tea is taken. "High" and "Low" simply describe the height of the table upon which you take your tea. Heather's was a white afternoon, and mine, a Moroccan mint. We had sandwhiches of cucumber, turkey, roast beef and egg salad. And then three teers of scones, chocolate truffles, strawberry fruit tarts, and cream with raspberry cordial. I decided not to eat for the rest of the day. That lasted about 6 hours.

At St. Paul's Square, we parted ways for a few hours. I went in search of Roman ruins, of which I found one, a piece of the wall that was the border of Londonium. I collected my thoughts on paper at a small cafe where I discovered that adding two teaspoons of sugar makes the perfect cappucino.

London holds a great deal of nostalgia for me, and I often feel my sixth sense kick in... yes, I have been here before. And it's true... my earliest memories in life, are of riding in a yellow back- pack on my father's shoulders, looking up on buildings that have looked down on centuries.

And walking the crowded streets of London, I taste swiss cheese, and my mother reaches up to hand me another piece. My jacket is blue and furry around the the hood. People wear black coats, don't smile much, and say the word "bloody" a lot. I look down at Mom, with her dark black hair, in her plaid bell bottoms and tan jacket. I ask her,

"Mommy, why does my cheese have wholes in it?"

"All swiss cheese has wholes, Rachel."

"Oh."

And swiss has never tasted so good... while walking the streets of London.

I love this...

2008-12-15T17:48:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-12-15T17:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-16T08:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T09:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

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

In the words of Gandolf

2008-11-03T15:21:00.000-08:00

"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

2008-11-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

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

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T17:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-23T07:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-19T16:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-05T16:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-29T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-02T15:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

"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.

Seventeen Again

2008-08-25T18:29:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to this song a lot. It's sweet, simple, naive, optimistic, all-knowng, and invincible, with a very narrow view of the world, and only one end in mind. Reminds me so much of my love and life at seventeen.

"Hey There Delilah"
The Plain White T's

Hey There Delilah, what's it like in New York City
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty, yes you do
Time Square can't shine as bright as you, I swear it's true

Hey There Delilah don't you worry bout the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely, give this song another listen
Close your eyes, listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

Hey there Delilah, I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl, someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good, we'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delilah, I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away, I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall, we'd have it all

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me

A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
And we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way

Delilah I can promise you
That by the time that we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame

Hey There Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do

You'll know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey There Delilah here's to you
This one's for you

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me.

In many cases those "First loves" don't work out... we grow and change (oftentimes for the better) and find we have very little in common with the love of our youth. What seemed like bliss then, does not have the same appeal. Yet if I could retain anything from Seventeen, it would be that unadulterated optimism, that unjaded view that I can and I will. Fun to think about.

Time with my sister...

2008-08-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-14T14:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-10T15:32:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-05T11:46:00.001-07:00

It was a beast of a hike...

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

When I miss the Farm...

2008-07-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

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.