Rachel and I were talking in the car a few days ago about our favorite moments. As I begin to sift through the rolodex of memories of the past year I'm realizing that a lot of them actually involved me going solo. Long runs. Exploring Grand Rapids, coffee shops, restaurants and Redux.
"A lot of my mine were times spent alone," I relay after thinking on it.
"What do you like to do by yourself though?"
"Explore."
And today is one card in the rolodex that is going to be underlined. Maybe highlighted with a gold star on the dog-eared corner. I'm sitting in Las Olas in a little town called "Cardiff by the Sea". The clouds have burned away and the sun is casting shadows onto the blue and tan tiled table. My shadow on the white-ish grey stuccoed call of the patio. It smells of salsa and corn. I have a blended margarita -delish. I can see the endless ocean to my right, where the surf is crashing into the shore. I know this, although I cannot see the sand, because I was just there. Sitting in the sand reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Her writing is beautiful, some quotes are sure to follow.
I ordered veggie enchiladas with pinto beans and rice. The corn torillas are thick and delicious, covered in salsa verde. The margarita is smooth, cold. Books, sand ocean, mexican, margaritas. sun. Could this evening be any more perfect? The woman in the leopard print top is waiting for her daughter and son-in-law to celebrate her birthday, birthdays are always cause for celebration right? And they just brought out a to-go container that's made out of paper instead of styrofoam. I might as well just die because my life is complete. I think the only thing that could make this moment better would be if some cute surfer took me out on the waves, which I would dominate because I would be a natural on the board, then possibly end it off with a salty lip-lock...but that might put things over the edge.
I feel exhilarated. Refreshed. Full and content. It always seems like dining alone is weird. Uncomfortable and awkward. Maybe even slightly pathetic. But I am loving if. After today, I'd do it again in a second. Am I crazy? We are created for community and I cannot think of anything that makes me more satisfied than having great conversations and quality time with people. Other than days like today. I feel pretty satisfied right now. I love being alone. I really do. There's something free about being alone. Finding new things by yourself. It's like an adventure. It's more risky. More free. I think I'll do it again soon.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
first taste [fletcher cove, solana beach, ca]
This my friends is bliss. This is what bliss feels like, sounds like, looks like. My should could not be happier anywhere else in this moment. The breeze is steady, carrying just the right amount of coolness. The perfect temperature. The sun is blazing through the cloudless blue sky. Warm when it hits my skin, immediately cooled by the constant wind. I want to jump out of my skin right now.
My back is covered with sand and I couldn't be happier about it. The sand isn't like the sugary sand of Michigan. It's more like baking soda. Soft and light and it squeaks a bit when I run my thumb over it in my palms. Laying back with my eyes closes, I roll the fine granules around in my finger tips. After a few circular movements the sand falls out -soft new skin on skin.
The rush of the waves, charging toward the shore, are powerful and calming. It's the sound of crushing force and yet it's gentle enough to lull you to sleep. The white foam jumps and dances as the water presses insistently forward. It's like the top can't contain itself and races down the front, trying to reach the shore first, only to be caught up in another swell.
I'm surrounded by smooth, pale yellow rock cliffs. I'm a little bit hungry, but if feels good for some reason, and I think anything would feel good in this moment. The twang of emptiness exhilarating. I am feasting on the ocean. On the sights and smells and sounds. Behind me, up the hill, lays Solana Beach, suburbia by the sea. Full of concrete and stop lights and stores full of things we don't need. But here- here on the beach. Life is as it should be. Pristine. Powerful. Whole. Running. Carefree, Dangerous and untamed. Full and bright and beautiful. The sun shining down and the cool breeze playing across my face.
My back is covered with sand and I couldn't be happier about it. The sand isn't like the sugary sand of Michigan. It's more like baking soda. Soft and light and it squeaks a bit when I run my thumb over it in my palms. Laying back with my eyes closes, I roll the fine granules around in my finger tips. After a few circular movements the sand falls out -soft new skin on skin.
The rush of the waves, charging toward the shore, are powerful and calming. It's the sound of crushing force and yet it's gentle enough to lull you to sleep. The white foam jumps and dances as the water presses insistently forward. It's like the top can't contain itself and races down the front, trying to reach the shore first, only to be caught up in another swell.
I'm surrounded by smooth, pale yellow rock cliffs. I'm a little bit hungry, but if feels good for some reason, and I think anything would feel good in this moment. The twang of emptiness exhilarating. I am feasting on the ocean. On the sights and smells and sounds. Behind me, up the hill, lays Solana Beach, suburbia by the sea. Full of concrete and stop lights and stores full of things we don't need. But here- here on the beach. Life is as it should be. Pristine. Powerful. Whole. Running. Carefree, Dangerous and untamed. Full and bright and beautiful. The sun shining down and the cool breeze playing across my face.
Friday, June 12, 2009
witness of the power [I-70, co and ut]
soundtrack to this post: Ben Harper's Blessed to Be a Witness [take a listen and ignore the graphics]
Yesterday was fantastic. Denver was great. We had a lot of fun exploring and spending time with Meredith but getting back on the road again after five days felt like a slow release of air after holding your breath. I'm all about just going with the flow but as one day stretched into five my restlessness also grew. All packed up, buckled in, we hit the road. This fantastic day was about to become the best day of the road trip.
We wove under and around huge mountains. Covered in snow and pine. The fourteeners boasting their height with icy peaks reached up as we wound around smaller sisters. Copper and Vale passed by our windows. Ski resorts now devoid of snow, the chair lifts hanging like abandoned amusement park rides. Their is no better word to describe the mountains than majestic. Huge. Overwhelming. As we neared the west side of Colorado we started our descent. Steering was the only thing necessary as we coasted down, steering and the occasional pump of the breaks. [Liz, neutral would have been sick] Seeing mountains, sitting up on their lofty peaks is beautiful. Even more spectacular for me is being in them. The Colorado River was surging and tumbling at our side as we plunged into the mountains. The sharp cliffs rising above our vehicle into the blue sky. The red walls like bricks. Perfectly places rectangles. Angular lines drawn with perfection, and yet there was nothing contrived about it. Wild precision.
Ben Harper's Blessed to Be a Witness beat it's way through the speakers. I am blessed to be a witness. Blessed to be in the middle of this creation-to witness the work of the master architect. Goose bumps covered my skin as The Power of the Gospel wove its way around my ears as I leaned forward and strained to see the top of the canyon.
-Ben Harper
The power of the gospel was being shouted from the cold rock walls. The Word proclaimed in this rift of earth. The land continued to tell stories of salvation and might, grace and redemption, as we crossed the line separating Colorado and Utah.
You could say Utah is my new favorite state. I would drive it again in a heart beat. If you ever want to drive through-just give me a call. Utah is what a road trip should look like. Miles and miles of nothing. And when I say nothing, what I really mean is civilization. No lights. No billboards. No hotels or gas stations. Nothing. Nothing but beauty. It was incredible. It is so bland. And yet so fascinating, other worldly. You can see for miles and there is so much to see.
There are green shrubs-tiny little clumps. But it's mostly rock and sand. Stripes of green, white, red, yellow, purple, brown. Huge cliffs, peaks, towers. Cities of stone in the distance-skyscrapers stretching into the evening sky. They aren't made by human hands. They're pillars of rock stretching to the sky, singing praise. The hills are full of pockets, divots, cracks and fissures. Some shapes are square and others are spherical. Huge boulders balance on smaller ones. Grey mountains look like sleeping dinosaurs. The plateaus are ships, their pointed bows plowing through a sea of sand. The setting sun is playing through the clouds, bouncing off cliff faces and into caverns. The rays are streaming down through holes in dark clouds, bathing the red soil in puddles of light. The clouds color blue splotches on the mountains, drifting slowly across their peaks and craters. Every direction is indescribable. You just have to see it for yourself.
Is this God forsaken country?
Or God's country?
I lean towards the latter, the former influenced by the cultural norm.
I am on the verge of tears for almost two hours now because I am in such a state of awe. Rachel is probably getting sick of hearing, "Wow", "That's beautiful", "O my gosh" and the occasional screech of happiness. My eyes are just trying to take it all in. Undisturbed land stretching out for miles-stretching up and down and out.
Breathtaking to think that all this beauty lies here. As far as my eyes can carry me is raw beauty unpolluted by our hands. Just because. No other reason than to be enjoyed. No purpose but to make you feel small and insignificant and yet so blessed and loved at the same time. What kind of creator makes something this unbelievable to simply be enjoyed? And the thing that boggles my mind is that this is just one state. Just one stretch of road. There is an entire WORLD. It makes me feel naive and small.
I have not words.
I have not words to describe this tightening in my chest and the lump in my throat as I contemplate the wonders of this sphere spinning around the sun. The complexity and simplicity made of earth and sky. Rock and water. And the amazing thing is that there are people crawling over these places. Millions of climates, landscapes that make us silent. Millions of people who make us loud.
People, who are just as complex and beautiful as the planet they inhabit. We carry around pain and brokenness. There's something about the openness that seems more whole, unblemished. Simpler, more holy. Maybe that's why things feel so much more sacred in nature. The wholeness. We can forget about the brokenness and breathe. It felt like this when looking at the red walls of Zion Canyon-contrasted with the bright lights and billboard of Las Vegas. Being surrounded by creation feels right. It makes me feel more real. I feel small and maybe that's how it's supposed to be. It makes me feel whole. More connected. Peace and more in tune with it all. More in tune with this life.
Yesterday was fantastic. Denver was great. We had a lot of fun exploring and spending time with Meredith but getting back on the road again after five days felt like a slow release of air after holding your breath. I'm all about just going with the flow but as one day stretched into five my restlessness also grew. All packed up, buckled in, we hit the road. This fantastic day was about to become the best day of the road trip.
We wove under and around huge mountains. Covered in snow and pine. The fourteeners boasting their height with icy peaks reached up as we wound around smaller sisters. Copper and Vale passed by our windows. Ski resorts now devoid of snow, the chair lifts hanging like abandoned amusement park rides. Their is no better word to describe the mountains than majestic. Huge. Overwhelming. As we neared the west side of Colorado we started our descent. Steering was the only thing necessary as we coasted down, steering and the occasional pump of the breaks. [Liz, neutral would have been sick] Seeing mountains, sitting up on their lofty peaks is beautiful. Even more spectacular for me is being in them. The Colorado River was surging and tumbling at our side as we plunged into the mountains. The sharp cliffs rising above our vehicle into the blue sky. The red walls like bricks. Perfectly places rectangles. Angular lines drawn with perfection, and yet there was nothing contrived about it. Wild precision.
Ben Harper's Blessed to Be a Witness beat it's way through the speakers. I am blessed to be a witness. Blessed to be in the middle of this creation-to witness the work of the master architect. Goose bumps covered my skin as The Power of the Gospel wove its way around my ears as I leaned forward and strained to see the top of the canyon.
It will make a weak man mighty.
It will make a mighty man fall.
It will fill your heart and hands or leave you with nothing at all.
It's the eyes for the blind and legs for the lame.
It is the love for hate and pride for shame.
Gospel on the water,
Gospel on the land.
The gospel in every woman,
And the gospel in every man.
Gospel in the garden,
Gospel in the trees.
The gospel that's inside of you,
Gospel inside of me.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the mighty power.
That's the power of...
That's the power of the gospel.
In the hour of richness,
In the hour of need.
For all of creation comes from the gospel seed.
And you may leave tomorrow and you may leave today,
But you've got to have, got to have the gospel when you start out on your way.
That's the power of the gospel.
-Ben Harper
The power of the gospel was being shouted from the cold rock walls. The Word proclaimed in this rift of earth. The land continued to tell stories of salvation and might, grace and redemption, as we crossed the line separating Colorado and Utah.
You could say Utah is my new favorite state. I would drive it again in a heart beat. If you ever want to drive through-just give me a call. Utah is what a road trip should look like. Miles and miles of nothing. And when I say nothing, what I really mean is civilization. No lights. No billboards. No hotels or gas stations. Nothing. Nothing but beauty. It was incredible. It is so bland. And yet so fascinating, other worldly. You can see for miles and there is so much to see.
There are green shrubs-tiny little clumps. But it's mostly rock and sand. Stripes of green, white, red, yellow, purple, brown. Huge cliffs, peaks, towers. Cities of stone in the distance-skyscrapers stretching into the evening sky. They aren't made by human hands. They're pillars of rock stretching to the sky, singing praise. The hills are full of pockets, divots, cracks and fissures. Some shapes are square and others are spherical. Huge boulders balance on smaller ones. Grey mountains look like sleeping dinosaurs. The plateaus are ships, their pointed bows plowing through a sea of sand. The setting sun is playing through the clouds, bouncing off cliff faces and into caverns. The rays are streaming down through holes in dark clouds, bathing the red soil in puddles of light. The clouds color blue splotches on the mountains, drifting slowly across their peaks and craters. Every direction is indescribable. You just have to see it for yourself.
Is this God forsaken country?
Or God's country?
I lean towards the latter, the former influenced by the cultural norm.
I am on the verge of tears for almost two hours now because I am in such a state of awe. Rachel is probably getting sick of hearing, "Wow", "That's beautiful", "O my gosh" and the occasional screech of happiness. My eyes are just trying to take it all in. Undisturbed land stretching out for miles-stretching up and down and out.
Breathtaking to think that all this beauty lies here. As far as my eyes can carry me is raw beauty unpolluted by our hands. Just because. No other reason than to be enjoyed. No purpose but to make you feel small and insignificant and yet so blessed and loved at the same time. What kind of creator makes something this unbelievable to simply be enjoyed? And the thing that boggles my mind is that this is just one state. Just one stretch of road. There is an entire WORLD. It makes me feel naive and small.
I have not words.
I have not words to describe this tightening in my chest and the lump in my throat as I contemplate the wonders of this sphere spinning around the sun. The complexity and simplicity made of earth and sky. Rock and water. And the amazing thing is that there are people crawling over these places. Millions of climates, landscapes that make us silent. Millions of people who make us loud.
People, who are just as complex and beautiful as the planet they inhabit. We carry around pain and brokenness. There's something about the openness that seems more whole, unblemished. Simpler, more holy. Maybe that's why things feel so much more sacred in nature. The wholeness. We can forget about the brokenness and breathe. It felt like this when looking at the red walls of Zion Canyon-contrasted with the bright lights and billboard of Las Vegas. Being surrounded by creation feels right. It makes me feel more real. I feel small and maybe that's how it's supposed to be. It makes me feel whole. More connected. Peace and more in tune with it all. More in tune with this life.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
checkerboards and chocolate. [sixteenth street, denver, co]
We are sitting downtown Dever on sixteenth street. It smells like a city. Hot. Cigarettes. I can smell the coffee sitting next tome. I can hear rumbling. Laughter. Conversations. A low hum. Bells of the rick-shaws. It's getting dark but my page is illuminated by the yellow orange glow of the overhead lamps. I'm sitting on a wooden bench next to an older man with a long sandy grey ponytail and trim, tidy grey bear. Glasses from the eighties. Rach and Meredith are playing a rousing game of checkers. There are about six checkerboards located in the middle of the street. Two per table, separated by a two dimensional, brightly colored figure. One of the regulars just left. He said good night to his opponents as his feet carried him away in shiny shoes.
The man sitting next to me is giving Rach and Mere advice. Rach is losing badly and pleads for advice to try and improve her chances for a win. The ponytailed man takes a chocolate we are playing with. York peppermints and Dove dark squares are the pieces. Inside the man's wrapper is says, "Be a dark chocolate dive, just for a moment. He asks if he really needs to do what is says, to which I answer, "Yes."
Nothing like candy to draw a crowd. Passer-bys stop and observe our game. Whoever decided these checkerboards would be a good idea deserves a big pat on the back.
Cities always feel so big. Cold and impersonal. Impressive, but lacking life. Here at the boards, there is humanity. Homeless. Addicts. Scene-sters. Businessmen. Dorks. Old. Young. Regulars. Visitors. A family just left a moment ago. The husband father was playing with one of the regulars.
"What are my chances sir?" asks Rachel.
"Depends on how hungry you are," answers a newcomer with laugh. He continues, "Do you want some cold hot dogs Jon?"
Jon, my ponytailed friend, "No thanks. I'm fine."
The family was from Fort Collins, down in Denver looking for furniture. The two kids are first lured in by the chocolate and we must look trust worthy as the mother lets the kids accept our offer for candy. The little girl, Esta, was three with big black eyes and her brother, seven, and brilliant. Mom says they get along well and that it is better for the boy to be older because a younger sister is okay with taking orders, a younger brother wouldn't be able to handle it. They arrived in CO from India about eight years ago so that the husband father could finish his degree in electrical engineering. The kids definitely inherited some smart genes from their parents. After only a few corrections, the three year old was playing checkers like a pro. In no time, the kids are involved in our game, moving the chocolate pieces and jumping with glee when they are "king-ed" The mother says that Esta is not usually this friendly with strangers. I think it must be the candy.
As we pack up shop, say goodbye to our new friends and get rid of a few pieces of candy, I am overjoyed. First of all, interacting with children was so refreshing. There is something about children that makes me come alive. It was also a experience like none other. I've never been a party of the city like that. I felt like I was in it, not just walking through it. I was in the midst of the busyness, the loud noises and strong smells. It felt really good. It was comforting and beautiful. Humanity coming together in the street. Around checkboards and chocolate.
The man sitting next to me is giving Rach and Mere advice. Rach is losing badly and pleads for advice to try and improve her chances for a win. The ponytailed man takes a chocolate we are playing with. York peppermints and Dove dark squares are the pieces. Inside the man's wrapper is says, "Be a dark chocolate dive, just for a moment. He asks if he really needs to do what is says, to which I answer, "Yes."
Nothing like candy to draw a crowd. Passer-bys stop and observe our game. Whoever decided these checkerboards would be a good idea deserves a big pat on the back.
Cities always feel so big. Cold and impersonal. Impressive, but lacking life. Here at the boards, there is humanity. Homeless. Addicts. Scene-sters. Businessmen. Dorks. Old. Young. Regulars. Visitors. A family just left a moment ago. The husband father was playing with one of the regulars.
"What are my chances sir?" asks Rachel.
"Depends on how hungry you are," answers a newcomer with laugh. He continues, "Do you want some cold hot dogs Jon?"
Jon, my ponytailed friend, "No thanks. I'm fine."
The family was from Fort Collins, down in Denver looking for furniture. The two kids are first lured in by the chocolate and we must look trust worthy as the mother lets the kids accept our offer for candy. The little girl, Esta, was three with big black eyes and her brother, seven, and brilliant. Mom says they get along well and that it is better for the boy to be older because a younger sister is okay with taking orders, a younger brother wouldn't be able to handle it. They arrived in CO from India about eight years ago so that the husband father could finish his degree in electrical engineering. The kids definitely inherited some smart genes from their parents. After only a few corrections, the three year old was playing checkers like a pro. In no time, the kids are involved in our game, moving the chocolate pieces and jumping with glee when they are "king-ed" The mother says that Esta is not usually this friendly with strangers. I think it must be the candy.
As we pack up shop, say goodbye to our new friends and get rid of a few pieces of candy, I am overjoyed. First of all, interacting with children was so refreshing. There is something about children that makes me come alive. It was also a experience like none other. I've never been a party of the city like that. I felt like I was in it, not just walking through it. I was in the midst of the busyness, the loud noises and strong smells. It felt really good. It was comforting and beautiful. Humanity coming together in the street. Around checkboards and chocolate.
there are other ways [boulder, co]
We drove up to Boulder today.
Well wait, first we went to the Mile High Thrift store. The place was swarming with people. Busy bees moving from rack to rack, blocks of purple, green and white. Yellow pants and grey sweaters. It's senior's day which means seventy-five percent off for those who have seen a little bit more in life. It's busy and I'm tired, I think I was tired before I entered but it's hard to tell. I'm ready to get out of there. The smell might have something to do with it. The weird smell that is so particular to second hand stores. Hundred of phermones coming together, colliding into one pungent odor. Dirty feet, Aunt Edna's living room, the school gym. If there were a football locker room for grandmothers, that's what would describe the smell of a thrift store. Usually I'm all about it. I love me some thrifting. But not today. They didn't have a rain jacket so I'm done. We kept looking around just to pass some time. The book section is always great but I already brought way too many books on this trip. I think I packed twelve books-for three weeks. Who does that? Really? Me, apparently. So needless to say the cheap paperbacks didn't hold my interest either. I have everything I need. More than enough.
I felt that feeling of contentment, even in Boulder. Well, except for maybe the hammock store. I'd really like to invest in a portable hammock. The shop sold those woven ones from South America with the tiny, many colored strings all woven together. And let me tell you they are fantastic. But for the most part, I had no desire to shop. And that felt good. Boulder has a plethora of fantastic store fronts. G-rap times ten. Kitchen stores. Clothing stores. Outdoor stores. Restaurants and Cafes. And I had no desire to buy any of it. More interesting were the people. Walking down Pearl Street Mall [the "malls" in CO are outdoor, a strip of road for pedestrians only, which make malls a little more bearable] there are street musicians, dread locked wanderers, hippies, tourists. Extremely attractive men-they were honestly everywhere. I'm not sure what it is about Colorado...there must be something in the water.
I loved the little town though. Trendy, relaxed. A little town nestled into the base of the mountains. Full of life and laid back. Beards, Patagonia and reusable bags. I didn't want to carry my cup of iced tea around for fear I would look like an idiot for using a paper cup and plastic straw. [which is a little ridiculous actually, I didn't bring my water bottle with me, shame shame. NOT resourceful. Also ALWAYS look for meteres with time already on them. Rule # one.]
We walked through a kitchen store called Peppercorn. They had everything. Dishes. Jellies. Even a "stamp" of the Virgin to make your toast "holy".
"There is a small part of me who wants this life. The east G.R. life. Where I can throw parties and have fancy cupcakes."
"Throwing parties, that's the Rori in you," Rach says smiling.
"Yea, but the other part is shrinking."
Finishing my scentence, Rach says, "There are other ways to show love."
There are other ways to show love. There is much more to life than things. Sometimes it's tempting. But there is so much more. There is beauty and friendship. And oddly enough, the less I spend, the less I have, the more rich I feel.
Well wait, first we went to the Mile High Thrift store. The place was swarming with people. Busy bees moving from rack to rack, blocks of purple, green and white. Yellow pants and grey sweaters. It's senior's day which means seventy-five percent off for those who have seen a little bit more in life. It's busy and I'm tired, I think I was tired before I entered but it's hard to tell. I'm ready to get out of there. The smell might have something to do with it. The weird smell that is so particular to second hand stores. Hundred of phermones coming together, colliding into one pungent odor. Dirty feet, Aunt Edna's living room, the school gym. If there were a football locker room for grandmothers, that's what would describe the smell of a thrift store. Usually I'm all about it. I love me some thrifting. But not today. They didn't have a rain jacket so I'm done. We kept looking around just to pass some time. The book section is always great but I already brought way too many books on this trip. I think I packed twelve books-for three weeks. Who does that? Really? Me, apparently. So needless to say the cheap paperbacks didn't hold my interest either. I have everything I need. More than enough.
I felt that feeling of contentment, even in Boulder. Well, except for maybe the hammock store. I'd really like to invest in a portable hammock. The shop sold those woven ones from South America with the tiny, many colored strings all woven together. And let me tell you they are fantastic. But for the most part, I had no desire to shop. And that felt good. Boulder has a plethora of fantastic store fronts. G-rap times ten. Kitchen stores. Clothing stores. Outdoor stores. Restaurants and Cafes. And I had no desire to buy any of it. More interesting were the people. Walking down Pearl Street Mall [the "malls" in CO are outdoor, a strip of road for pedestrians only, which make malls a little more bearable] there are street musicians, dread locked wanderers, hippies, tourists. Extremely attractive men-they were honestly everywhere. I'm not sure what it is about Colorado...there must be something in the water.
I loved the little town though. Trendy, relaxed. A little town nestled into the base of the mountains. Full of life and laid back. Beards, Patagonia and reusable bags. I didn't want to carry my cup of iced tea around for fear I would look like an idiot for using a paper cup and plastic straw. [which is a little ridiculous actually, I didn't bring my water bottle with me, shame shame. NOT resourceful. Also ALWAYS look for meteres with time already on them. Rule # one.]
We walked through a kitchen store called Peppercorn. They had everything. Dishes. Jellies. Even a "stamp" of the Virgin to make your toast "holy".
"There is a small part of me who wants this life. The east G.R. life. Where I can throw parties and have fancy cupcakes."
"Throwing parties, that's the Rori in you," Rach says smiling.
"Yea, but the other part is shrinking."
Finishing my scentence, Rach says, "There are other ways to show love."
There are other ways to show love. There is much more to life than things. Sometimes it's tempting. But there is so much more. There is beauty and friendship. And oddly enough, the less I spend, the less I have, the more rich I feel.
Monday, June 8, 2009
transmissions and treasures [fordland, lakewood, co]
I'm tired. Today was a big day. Number one: my internal clock is still on Michigan time. 4:30am and I'm ready to go. I toss and turn until 7:45 and decide that it's time to get out of bed, as trying to sleep is useless. I grab Through Painted Deserts and immerse myself in the travels of Don and Paul before we eat a quick breaky and head off to the dealership. It's raining. And we take a wrong turn. The weather matches the mood, soggy and grey.
We meet Mike at the Fordland Lincoln Mercury. He takes the beige machine into his care and we head out into the wet day. Did I mention that it was freezing? Equipped with umbrellas and flipflops we follow Gerty to a coffee shop. .7 miles is a lot farther when your feet are frozen and wet. Rach's heels are bright red. I think I have frostbite in my left toe. We pass Nick's Cafe and almost enter. But the door is dark and it's located next to a liquor store. We decide to pass. Noticing two hotels we get the genius idea to hang out in the lobby.
"We'll just walk in like we own the place."
It was a perfect plan except for the fact that neither of them had lobbies. Apparently the bathroom was pretty fancy though according to Rachel. Strike two. Gert then decided to take us to coffee shop the no longer existed. We were once again across the street from Nick's. We were fated to go to the little restaurant with the yellow sign. We walked in. It felt like we had walked into a living room. The living room of someone who really loves Elvis Presely and Marylin Monroe. It was actually more like a closet than a living room. Probably seven tables all smashed into a tiny square. We had too adjust our table before we could squeeze into our seats and Rach almost elbowed the guy behind her in the head. On the table is a metal fork and plastic spoon situated atop a square, quilted white napkin. Shelly brings us our coffee in styrofoam coffee cups which desperately needed sugar. Water came in red plastic party cups. I looked around for a triangle of cups on a ping-pong table but there weren't any insight.
We ordered two pancakes, two eggs, two sausage and hashbrowns for six bucks. Nick's busy in the kitchen and also on the walls where he is photoshop-ed into pictures with celebs. There's a guy shooting the breeze, rather loudly with a man at the table next to us. We're all involved in the conversation and Shelly knows everbody's name. Lovely. Small town restaurant in the middle of the city. We talked about creepy old men, our friends, who we think is cute, who our friends thing are cute. who our friends shouldn't think are cute. We got a picture with Nick.
We pay Mike another visit. His diagnosis for Mable the Sable: New transmission. Perfect. The light came on just after we crossed the Denver state line. When we dropped her off we were hoping for the best, instead we got the worst. We are going to be in Denver for awhile. And by awhile I mean five more days. Our plans have changed dramatically. But that's life isn't it? Things never go according to plan it seems. Or maybe it's just the combination of Miss Prince and myself...we're beginning to wonder...
But here's the thing with "Plan B", something interesting always happens. If it weren't for the transmission we would have never happened upon Nick's. One of the highlights of our road trip. It is the gem of Lakewood. A must stop for anyone looking for something to do on a cold, rainy Monday while waiting for an expensive diagnosis. Nothing like a good dose of Nick's to take the edge off.
We meet Mike at the Fordland Lincoln Mercury. He takes the beige machine into his care and we head out into the wet day. Did I mention that it was freezing? Equipped with umbrellas and flipflops we follow Gerty to a coffee shop. .7 miles is a lot farther when your feet are frozen and wet. Rach's heels are bright red. I think I have frostbite in my left toe. We pass Nick's Cafe and almost enter. But the door is dark and it's located next to a liquor store. We decide to pass. Noticing two hotels we get the genius idea to hang out in the lobby.
"We'll just walk in like we own the place."
It was a perfect plan except for the fact that neither of them had lobbies. Apparently the bathroom was pretty fancy though according to Rachel. Strike two. Gert then decided to take us to coffee shop the no longer existed. We were once again across the street from Nick's. We were fated to go to the little restaurant with the yellow sign. We walked in. It felt like we had walked into a living room. The living room of someone who really loves Elvis Presely and Marylin Monroe. It was actually more like a closet than a living room. Probably seven tables all smashed into a tiny square. We had too adjust our table before we could squeeze into our seats and Rach almost elbowed the guy behind her in the head. On the table is a metal fork and plastic spoon situated atop a square, quilted white napkin. Shelly brings us our coffee in styrofoam coffee cups which desperately needed sugar. Water came in red plastic party cups. I looked around for a triangle of cups on a ping-pong table but there weren't any insight.
We ordered two pancakes, two eggs, two sausage and hashbrowns for six bucks. Nick's busy in the kitchen and also on the walls where he is photoshop-ed into pictures with celebs. There's a guy shooting the breeze, rather loudly with a man at the table next to us. We're all involved in the conversation and Shelly knows everbody's name. Lovely. Small town restaurant in the middle of the city. We talked about creepy old men, our friends, who we think is cute, who our friends thing are cute. who our friends shouldn't think are cute. We got a picture with Nick.
We pay Mike another visit. His diagnosis for Mable the Sable: New transmission. Perfect. The light came on just after we crossed the Denver state line. When we dropped her off we were hoping for the best, instead we got the worst. We are going to be in Denver for awhile. And by awhile I mean five more days. Our plans have changed dramatically. But that's life isn't it? Things never go according to plan it seems. Or maybe it's just the combination of Miss Prince and myself...we're beginning to wonder...
But here's the thing with "Plan B", something interesting always happens. If it weren't for the transmission we would have never happened upon Nick's. One of the highlights of our road trip. It is the gem of Lakewood. A must stop for anyone looking for something to do on a cold, rainy Monday while waiting for an expensive diagnosis. Nothing like a good dose of Nick's to take the edge off.
my tiny little world [the tattered cover, denver, co]
There is so much out there. So many people, so many places. More than I can eve begin to comprehend and understand. I'm sitting in Denver, CO in the Tattered Covered Bookstore. It's huge. Green carpet. Neatly organized, brand new books with crisp jackets and clean pages. The newness of the bindings here lacks some of the charm that I love about Redux in Grand Rapids. The smell is definitely different. The smell of old books is overwhelming and comforting at Redux. Right now, I'm smelling the wooden pen that I'm "borrowed" from an abandoned desk to my right. I'm thinking I might borrow it forever, as a souvenir, I mean where else have you seen a pen made out of wood?
I just finished Time and Silence by Caroline Halley Des Fontaines. It's a collection of black and white photographs from Tibet, Kenya, India. So much that is so foreign to me. So much unknown. Alien. I'm traversing the country this summer. Ans there is still so much to see and experience.
I can hear the rain on the roof, just barely over the extremely loud climate control system. Rachel appears, on the phone, chatting with Jess who is already in San Diego. Meredith appears a moment later. It is time to go. I scribble down my last thoughts and rise from my perch on the wooden step stool. It is time to re-enter my tiny little world. Time to run through the rain on the streets of Denver while millions of other people, in a million different places, are doing a million different things.
I just finished Time and Silence by Caroline Halley Des Fontaines. It's a collection of black and white photographs from Tibet, Kenya, India. So much that is so foreign to me. So much unknown. Alien. I'm traversing the country this summer. Ans there is still so much to see and experience.
I can hear the rain on the roof, just barely over the extremely loud climate control system. Rachel appears, on the phone, chatting with Jess who is already in San Diego. Meredith appears a moment later. It is time to go. I scribble down my last thoughts and rise from my perch on the wooden step stool. It is time to re-enter my tiny little world. Time to run through the rain on the streets of Denver while millions of other people, in a million different places, are doing a million different things.
welcome to san diego.
We finally made it. After eight days on the road we have reached our destination. Sunny San Diego. Which unfortunately at the moment is overcast. My roommate kindly informed me that it was supposed to be "70 and sunny every day", apparently I mentioned that few times...but there is something known as "June gloom" of which I was unaware. Still, it's beautiful. I'm in a tank top and uncomfortably hot at the moment. I'm sitting in a Panera Bread looking out into a parking lot of shiny cars and palm trees. I'm going to go ahead and say that the residents of the Solana Beach area are doing fairly well. Their neighbors in Rancho Santa Fe even better. As much as I love consumerism and concrete, I am eagerly anticipating my journey to the ocean. Located 1.1 miles from here. About a twenty minute walk to the ocean. No big deal. Life will be hard for the next two weeks I'm sure. I am postponing this venture to the beach however to finish my lukewarm hazelnut coffee and to transcribe some of the journey had thus far. There are a lot of miles between Grand Rapids, Michigan and Solana Beach, California that come with a lot of stories. Especially when you are watching the odometer whirl with one Rachel Prince. So, because I have been procrastinating for far too long and I will be able to fully enjoy the pacific shoreline after having expressed some thoughts, the next few posts are a chronicle of "Plan B: an epic roadtrip across america".
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
everybody has to leave.
Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons. I want to keep my soul fertile for the changes, so things keep getting born in me, so things keep dying when it is time for things to die. I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago, because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same pages recurrently.
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]
I meant to being this beginning yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. I wanted to write the night before I left, but alas, I did not. And it is now Wednesday. Day four in the epic journey that is summer 2009.
We hit the road early Sunday morning. Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa-"Fields of Opportunity". Council Bluffs, Iowa for the night-thanks to Scotty and his discount. I think everyone should get a friend who works for Marriott. After visiting the "home of the black squirrel", we trudged through Nebraska-"The Good Life" and crawled through the beginning of Colorado. You'd think arriving in CO would mean mountains. Nope. Open fields. Nothing. A few green fuzzy blobs in the distance and a white spec once in a great while. For miles. Not until we drove into Denver did we witness the finer features of CO, a few of them snow covered but most green and brown in the distance.
I will probably write about more of our adventures. Even back track and catch up on the last four days. But I've been beginning to feel like this whole writing thing is silly. It's very cool. Everyone has a blog and everyone is a writer. Especially the slightly indie twenty-something, who only drinks micro-brews and loves to hang out in coffee shops, as long as they are not part of the evil empire, and who loves love, and peace, and especially loves pretending that they aren't fitting any stereotypes or groups. I know writing is good for me. Journaling brings me back to earth. I realize that I really do have friends that actually like me and that I'm probably not going to be a big embarrassing failure when I organize my thoughts with a pen on paper. But maybe that's all it needs to be. Just kept on the white pages, between the black covers, held in by the elastic strap. Just to keep me from losing my mind.
So perhaps I'll get over this stage, wanting to be all creative and profound. But for the remainder of the summer I'm going to keep writing. Because I told people I would. And because I want to remember. And because it truly does bring me joy.
I'm going to steal someone else's material for now though. Donald Miller's Through Painted Deserts. A typical choice for a road trip but for good reason. It's phenominal. He had me at the author's note. You had me at the author's note Don.
I want to change because it is God's way...Everybody has to change, or they expire.
No, life cannot be understood flat on a page. It has to be lived; a person has to get out of his head, has to fall in love, has to memorize poems, has to jump off bridges into rivers, has to stand in an empty desert and whisper sonnets under his breath:
I'll tell you how the sun rose
A ribbon at the time...
It's a living book, this life; it folds out in a million settings, cast with a billion beautiful characters...
And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summers and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is that your story will be about changing, about getting someting beautiful born inside of you, about learning how to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God. We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out out, wouldn't it? It might be time for you to go. It might be time to change, to shine out. I want to repeat one word for you:
Leave.
...Don't worry. Everything will still be here when you get back. It is you who will have changed.
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]
I meant to being this beginning yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. I wanted to write the night before I left, but alas, I did not. And it is now Wednesday. Day four in the epic journey that is summer 2009.
We hit the road early Sunday morning. Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa-"Fields of Opportunity". Council Bluffs, Iowa for the night-thanks to Scotty and his discount. I think everyone should get a friend who works for Marriott. After visiting the "home of the black squirrel", we trudged through Nebraska-"The Good Life" and crawled through the beginning of Colorado. You'd think arriving in CO would mean mountains. Nope. Open fields. Nothing. A few green fuzzy blobs in the distance and a white spec once in a great while. For miles. Not until we drove into Denver did we witness the finer features of CO, a few of them snow covered but most green and brown in the distance.
I will probably write about more of our adventures. Even back track and catch up on the last four days. But I've been beginning to feel like this whole writing thing is silly. It's very cool. Everyone has a blog and everyone is a writer. Especially the slightly indie twenty-something, who only drinks micro-brews and loves to hang out in coffee shops, as long as they are not part of the evil empire, and who loves love, and peace, and especially loves pretending that they aren't fitting any stereotypes or groups. I know writing is good for me. Journaling brings me back to earth. I realize that I really do have friends that actually like me and that I'm probably not going to be a big embarrassing failure when I organize my thoughts with a pen on paper. But maybe that's all it needs to be. Just kept on the white pages, between the black covers, held in by the elastic strap. Just to keep me from losing my mind.
So perhaps I'll get over this stage, wanting to be all creative and profound. But for the remainder of the summer I'm going to keep writing. Because I told people I would. And because I want to remember. And because it truly does bring me joy.
I'm going to steal someone else's material for now though. Donald Miller's Through Painted Deserts. A typical choice for a road trip but for good reason. It's phenominal. He had me at the author's note. You had me at the author's note Don.
I want to change because it is God's way...Everybody has to change, or they expire.
No, life cannot be understood flat on a page. It has to be lived; a person has to get out of his head, has to fall in love, has to memorize poems, has to jump off bridges into rivers, has to stand in an empty desert and whisper sonnets under his breath:
I'll tell you how the sun rose
A ribbon at the time...
It's a living book, this life; it folds out in a million settings, cast with a billion beautiful characters...
And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summers and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is that your story will be about changing, about getting someting beautiful born inside of you, about learning how to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God. We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out out, wouldn't it? It might be time for you to go. It might be time to change, to shine out. I want to repeat one word for you:
Leave.
...Don't worry. Everything will still be here when you get back. It is you who will have changed.
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]
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