Palmtree Contemplations

Since moving to Wisconsin I constantly find myself having the following exchange. Me: "So, where does your family live again?" Them: "About twenty minutes from here. Yours?" Me: "Well....." When I was at college, plenty of people had left home to come to school. I am finding, though, that here in Wisconsin, a lot of people have been here for a long time. They belong to that particular group of human I've heard of, but rarely met: Born And Raised. Although, to many of them, I am the rare, the minority. When asked to explain growing up as a missionary kid with "all those other missionary kids", I pause, my tongue seemingly pinned to the back of my teeth. "Well, I guess it's just normal to you, right?" I smile and nod, quietly mulling over this word. Normal: Christmas presents in the mail. Normal: Skype chats, long e-mails, poring over Facebook pictures of people I love. Normal: Four time zones on my phone. Norma

The Oh Hellos are one of my favorite bands. I love their sound, their lyrics, and can sing along to all of their songs. I was actually supposed to be leaving for their concert in Chicago right now, but instead I am at home getting ready to take a long, hot detox bath. I've been pushing fluids through my body all day, but nothing is taking this headache and general "bleh" away. The fever started last night, which meant that I hardly slept and missed out on a game night. This keeps happening. I make plans, the excitement at doing something fun builds, and then I come down with the flu, or a fever, and I have to make the call to let someone know that I am housebound once again. Making plans quickly turns into "I had plans, but now the plan is to rest until I feel better." It's frustrating. I can't remember the last time I went a few weeks without feeling sick or lacking in energy. I suppose this is an improvement, though. It used be that I couldn'

Dearest,    Face those facts,    Let them be a part of       Your metabolism.    Do not live in a vacuum,       That is not your life. Dearest,    Face this fact:       In the early time,       when you can't sleep,       I am ready to listen.       Everything is important to me. Dearest,    Face this fact:       Beyond the trees,       there are always more trees. Dearest,    Face this fact:       No one escapes.       No one does not struggle.       We are all wrestlers. Dearest,    I give you this fact:      We will untangle the knots,                    wrestle the frustration,                    vanquish the despair. Dearest,    Face this fact as I face it with you:       You have everything            you need.       God is enough. Dearest,    From my heart to yours,              my life to yours,     I give you this fact:                Life never stops,                and I am always                here for you.

Wisconsin, it seems, has two types of roads: in need of construction, and currently under construction. The road to Salveo Holistic Wellness belongs to the former, with patches so bumpy I often worry one of my tires is flat. The town of Oconomowoc is beautiful, though, and worth the half hour of bumps. Salveo is located on the second floor of an office building. At one of my first appointments, I had to stop twice on my way up the stairs because I was so tired and out of breath. Today, I take them without stopping. I do pause at the top of the stairs to catch my breath, but that's better than where I was a couple of months ago. When I arrive, Nicole greets me and I settle into the comfortable, leather, patient's chair. "How are you?" she asks, sitting front of the computer and bio-meridian machine. "I'm okay," I say, but I'm tired and not having the best week, and she knows it just from looking at me. "That doesn't sound that grea

I hate Lyme disease. I hate that I will feel great for a few days and then have a day like today where all I want is to hold my head and make people stop asking speaking because it's just so confusing and I don't understand, or can't quite think of the words I want to say. I hate that I don't want to go up the stairs because it's tiring, and I am so fatigued after hours and hours of sleeping. I hate the sense of loss that holds on to me and reminds me of all the things I'm missing out on. I hate trying to build a community when every other week I feel sick and tired and grouchy. I hate how long distance my life has become, with all the people I love scattered across the world. I hate how careful I have to be about sleep. If I don't get enough sleep, my symptoms are worse. When my symptoms are worse, I don't really want to be social. I just want everyone to stop talking and drink tea. Not exactly conducive behavior for making friends. It's

I found Dad by the river, checking on his trees. "Pai," I called.  "Hey sweetheart."  "What are you doing?"  He held out a pair of scissors. "The trees need to be trimmed."  They stood in a line parallel to the river, baby versions of a tree that had grown up completely by accident farther down the bank. Most of them came up to my shoulder now, their thin arms eagerly reaching for sunlight. Dad hoped they would prevent the soft bank from more erosion during rainy season.  He passed me the scissors, and we moved down the row, snipping off a foot or more of their height. "They grow so fast, they can't support the weight," Dad explained. Clipping their tips kept them from growing incorrectly. If we didn't clip them, they would break from the strain, or sag towards the ground rather than reaching towards the sun.  I thought about this the other day as I watched the hairdresser take off the last remnants o

The Convent of Saint Arbucks is located where the road of Moreland crosses the Fields of Dela. We are a small, but important place of service in the community. Without us, the spiritual energy of the place would no doubt drop to a very low degree, as would the overall happiness of the surrounding populace. We may be few, but we are fierce in our protection of Saint Arbucks' shrine. Every day, the local laity come to the shrine to pay their respects. Most stay only a few moments, while others sit and meditate with great concentration for many hours. Sometimes I wonder if they are truly here to think about Saint Arbucks and her generous ways. If they were, would not their contribution to the convent be much greater? My habit is green and black. Some of the other nuns wear white to demonstrate their cleanliness in service, but I have no such aspirations. I do not wish to be reminded of my own shortcomings through incurred mocha stains. We take visiting monks sometimes. We even h

We cut the motor and paddle round the bend,  Gliding into the sandy shore,  Our way marked by headlamps,  Lonely flecks of light on a dark river.  Quietly whispering, we wet our ankles  And disembark, throwing sandals to the grass,  Shouldering luggage and expectations.  Our feet know the way, every dip and furrow. Lizards skitter, bullfrogs honk,  Mosquitoes drone and buzz A quiet music in the heavy night air. Two dogs come alongside, snorting and jumping,  Recognizing our scents from long ago,  Up through the trees we weave,  Crunching on half dead leaves and sticks. The door swings opens at the top of the hill,  And we look back out and down to  A little world full of sleeping dreamers, Safe for a while as we once were. Matches are struck with familiar ease,  Stubby candles lit and arranged With a forgotten grace.  Falling back on rickety beds,  We watch the light stretch and flicker Over rafters to the screen window Like fingers re

Panic attack: A sudden feeling of acute or disabling anxiety.  It was a summer evening filled with fireflies at Windermere Baptist Conference Center. My roommate was gone for the weekend, and I found myself alone alternately listening to Sanctus Real and Mozart piano sonatas. As I cleaned our bathroom I sang and hummed along, happy to be done with another of making beds and folding towels. A few minutes later, I was huddling on the floor crying, "I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be alone." The sobbing did not let up for a solid ten minutes. While one part of me cried and gripped the carpet, another part of me stayed aloof and confused. I kept asking myself, "What is this? What is happening to me?" but could find no answer in my realm of experience. This only scared me more. It was my first panic attack. Eventually, I called two friends and they calmed me down. This has remained a trend in my panic attack histor

The lawn was green, but empty. Trees stood tall in the wind, Bending, greeting, waving Their hammockless arms To me, only me. People make a place With their messes and their cares Moving in quiet concert, Broken, blooming, unaware. People make a place. The halls were bright, yet silent. Chairs sat open in the stillness, Keeping, watching, holding, Their memory filled embrace For me, only me. People make a place With their laughter and their songs Birthing love in the greyness,  Gentle, joyous, and strong.  People make a place.  The swing was new, and perfect. You pushed me through the air Laughing, shouting, giggling In the golden spring sunlight With me, only me. We made this place With our tears and our wishes, Sinking deep in the soft soil Building and shaping new bridges.  We made this place. 

Every day I write two words,  With a broken pen upon my wrists:  Risk and Love in dark blue ink,  Sleeves pulled down to cover this.  It's a declaration, a reminder,  Of the chance I've sworn to take,  To try, to work, to listen Even if my heart should break.  This "us", this "we", is the risk I choose.  To love and be loved, even if we lose.  But we won't have lost, not really Even if this "we" should end.  Risking and loving and breaking Are better than never having to mend. 

I am sitting in my room, and the bags are all unpacked. Two weeks ago, I frantically took a large stack of books out of the assorted luggage in order to make weight, but now they are here, too, safely shelved with their comrades. I have my own dresser, my own bed, my own desk, and my own closet. Looking around the bare white walls soon to be filled with pictures, I am glad. This is my room, my refuge. The past two weeks since moving to Wisconsin have been a time of marveling. This morning I marveled at the snow that snuck over the world outside while I slept, making everything magical and clean. Later, after a phone call from St. Arbucks, I marveled that I actually have a job now. And in the afternoon, I marveled that a church I don't attend is allowing me to practice on their piano every day. I even marveled when I cleaned the toilet. Yes, I know. That may sound strange. When you've cleaned the amount of toilets I have, though, there is something settling about the proc

Hopeful, always gonna be hopeful/ Hopeful, that's all I am -Teitur- When I was growing up, the only time that unfair things really seemed to happen were during school. Heaven forbid that something really awful should happen during summer or (gasp) Christmas break. However, as I have grown I have had to face what everyone faces:  Unfairness in life has no off season.  January has always seemed to me to be such a hopeful time. Yes, it's snowing in a lot of places, and the days can be dreary, but I can also set goals, find new ideas, and reset my life. Looking at all those goals always feeds this hope inside me that maybe after I have met those envisioned finish lines, maybe then I will be better, maybe then I will be everything I want to be. Maybe all this hoping will change something.  And then LIFE. UNFAIRNESS. WARS. DISEASE. HATRED. Oh, right, I forgot. No off season to life, no stopping any of this, no saying "This is NOT what I wanted for my friend, m