Closer to Free

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

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...

... 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

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

Streets of London

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.