Morning Mourning

I'm seated in the sun with my feet propped up and casually crossed on a stylish thatched patio chair. I'm just as aware of the spreading warmth of morning against my skin as I am the feeling of the soft over sized grey sweater draping from my exposed shoulder. My toes feel each breeze first, as a half second warning to my neckline: Prepare to be touched softly by a flirtatious chill. I hear a bird sing its love, lust, or loneliness, and think suddenly, "I should buy that bird book, and learn more."

Lily is laying next to me in her best imitations of a Phoenix as Corky casually licks his paw. A large clump of leaves plunges to the spongy earth from the towering oak tree behind me. The clouds in the distance are varying shades of white and grey, all happy, all fluffy, and all accented by brilliant splashes of yellow, green, and burgundy rising from the earth; Mother Nature greeting fall with splendor.

It is from this place I will share with you this experience.

This morning I woke slowly, feeling the puffiness of my eyelids in the strain involved in opening them. In that moment, what I had blissfully forgotten in thankfulness for my first conscious thought of the day, was remembered. Glimpses of last night returned, making the long bouts of silence, the audible cries, the hurting of my heart, sadness of my soul, and momentary dimming of my spirit suddenly a reality again.

He's gone.

I sat up suddenly, with my back straight and head high. I sat there for a moment, completely still, then broke. The lines crumbled, and I slumped back down helplessly to the purple comforter, and buried my face. No tears came. My eyes were tired. Too tired to be anything but sandpaper.

I walked directly from the bed to the hot tub, stripped off the same sweater and tights I'm wearing now, and climbed in. The heat enveloped my hurting body, and as the steam sat quietly above the still water, I looked over the fence, towards the trees and open sky for countless minutes. The trees stretched, with branches long, reaching towards the clear skies; I imagine, in celebration of the beauty of all things natural.

It was a pristine morning. Absolutely beautiful. The sun hadn't strayed or lost its way in sadness. The clouds still bumped and played lazily, the birds still sang songs unmistakably open to interpretation, and life continued. It continues, although he's gone, and my heart that has found no relief from the tightening hurt as my body did from the steaming water. I thought of this, and realized suddenly that while years ago I could easily have seen this day and considered it an ironic mockery of my position, as just another of Mother Nature's blatant insults to my mourning, I couldn't see it that way today.

Today it was Mother Nature's kind but blatant reminder that each moment is a blessing to exist, and (dammit) I need to never forget that. Life is fleeting. That each moment could be my last and to continue to keep my heart and mind open no matter the injustice they have endured. I turned this idea in my mind upside down, downside up, sideways, over and under, and found no flaws.

I must have been lost in these thoughts, and only barely connected to the reality of the hot tub in Portland, because Klover startled me when she asked in her funny little way, "Rita, what you is thinkin' of?" Startled, I met her large, questioning blue eyes. She is the most transparent child I've ever met.

A four year old, searching for an answer in my vacant gaze. How could I tell a four year old what I'm thinking? I mean...He's gone!

I had a million thoughts in that moment. I must have...but the only one that came to mind was this one:

Yesterday a human being with a heart full of love for their son in Afghanistan was at the place they call home. Maybe they were cooking, watching football, gardening, or stuck inside in the snow, doing something exciting or mundane...it matters not. What's next will happen regardless.

A vehicle rolls to a stop and this person goes to the window just in time to see the doors open and two somber men clad in olive Class A uniforms step out, their black and silver shoulder boards reflecting the sun high in the cloudless sky.

Just in time to see their worst nightmare begin to come true.

How can I explain to a four year old that I was thinking of the internal immobility towards reality betrayed externally by locked knees and the sudden intense need to scream to drown out the truth of what's to come. That I was thinking I could feel their energy panicking, struggling to make the truth unreal. "Tell me I didn't outlive my son! Tell me he's still alive! Tell me I'm asleep! It's a dream!"

It's not a dream. He's gone.

How can I explain to her that he's not coming back, he was alive yesterday, dead today...and for what? Money. Hatred. Judgement. Cruelty. WAR.

I thought these things, and in an effort to be authentic, simply said, "I was thinking about my friend who...went away." I watched her process this in her naturally transparent Klover way. She crawled up the sides of the hot tub and sat on the edge, drawing her little pale legs towards her chest and wrapping her tiny arms around them as if chilled by the autumn morning, though I knew it wasn't the breeze that chilled her.

She looked up at me under a worried brow and said softly with a slight pout, "I miss my friends too. Them home and I miss them."

I looked at her, fully aware of her innocence of age, and thought suddenly how simply it could be in this moment to send her down a path towards peace instead of war. How easily we could guide most children down that path by simply planting a seed of love and tolerance. My second thought was focused on her energy shift. How contagious was my sadness? This little girl went from happily splashing in a hot tub to hugging her knees with a pouty lip in a matter of seconds, as a direct response to my energy. I appreciated her transparency.

I immediately moved to make things right in the Universe again for this little girl. Pointing out all the great friends she had here, and the nice weather. She smiled again, slid off the side of the tub and went inside with a smile on her face. I stayed in the tub a while longer and embraced the pain in silence while appreciating every single sensation my mind and body offered.

He's gone.

I. Hurt.

And. I. Hurt. Bad.

But.

That means I'm alive and in tune, and for that, I'm grateful beyond words.


Dedicated to you, SGT Cullers, gone but never forgotten.

Occupied Outburst

I wonder when people make rash, complete, and unmovable judgements about others to whom they've never spoken nor listened... I could have finished that sentence and told you exactly what it is I wonder, but quite frankly, I just wonder. I'm confused by the overwhelmingly accepted and fully believed poor is stupid mentality; that drug use and poor choices beget all homelessness. Simply befuddled.

I saw this cartoon about a month ago on Facebook. I thought it was a simultaneously brilliant and grim reflection of our country, not just for the simple fact that 30%-45% of the US homeless are veterans (depending on who you ask), but also because it's a damn accurate reflection of the hypocrisy lived daily by some Americans.

Nearly this exact scene happened to me yesterday at the Occupy Portland site, and the irony nearly floored me. You see, if you didn't know, I spent eight years, five months, and twenty-nine days in this country's armed forces. I was honorably discharged as a Staff Sergeant after two combat tours: one in each sandbox. The latter being Afghanistan, leaving me wounded after my truck was directly hit by a 200 lb roadside bomb. I now live in my car, and officially have no health insurance, renters insurance, nor job.

Don't mistake my stating these facts as a cry for help or even a muffled complaint. I was a cryptologic Chinese and Korean linguist with a TS/SCI clearance. I worked hand in hand with the NSA, FBI, and CIA, and hated my job with every ounce of my soul. There was nothing satisfying in setting up targets to be murdered. Nothing.

I am homeless and unemployed by choice, not circumstance...but that's just because I have taken my life into my own hands and made that decision. I refuse to work for the Department of Defense in a similar occupation, being paid an easy six figure salary of blood money in return for my soul and happiness. Refuse.

So there I was, knee deep in protesters at Occupy Portland, and two young, well groomed gentlemen leaned out of their shiny white BMW and with hate in their eyes, met mine, and screamed, spittle flying as they formed the angry words, "HEY LOSER! WHY DON'T YOU GET A FUCKING JOB!!!"

I was so startled by the fact, that I didn't even have a chance to be offended before I found my eyes closed towards the heavens, my face wet with falling rain, and my body spasming in ironic laughter and disbelief. You know, the kind of laughter not brought from mirth that's generally accompanied by an involuntary shaking of the noggin. Suddenly the sad human condition made sense. They carried such hate for me for being part of a movement in which they believed not, and knowing nothing of my abilities, service, nor personality, took what they heard someone once say, labelled me, and felt proud of their stand on the issue as they cackled their way down the busy street.

I looked after their vehicle as it faded into the distance, another identical hunk of metal in a throng of drones heading home or to some bar, and sighed. I felt no anger towards them, no pity, no disgust, no sadness. They have a right to hate me, because of a label they attached to me. It IS a "free" country, right?

I decided to make a sign, and return to the movement today. On one side it will say, "I am an unemployed 8.5 year wounded OIF/OEF veteran, Chinese and Korean crytpologic linguist." On the other, "THINK before you judge blindly! Did YOU just think I'm a worthless bum who should get a job?"

I wrote this today to share with you a teachable moment. Don't look at crazy blue hair, silver earrings that say peace, dirty pants, or a lack of disposable income, and assume anything. Speak, learn, listen. MAKE MORE EYE CONTACT, IT BUILDS LOVE.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SHARE THIS STORY. It's a prime example of how easily some problems can be solved socially! Just open your hearts and minds to people! There are no laws against love, compassion, consideration, smiling, sharing, and understanding.

A Role Realized

I ended up travelling through Lillooet on a whim. I was beginning to feel tired when I passed the turnoff from 29 or 99 or whatever road I was already driving. I pulled over, suddenly second guessing my path, and thinking of Ken, the nice gentleman I met at Ten Mile Lake who recommended the alternate route as a much more scenic option. I flipped a u turn, and decided to take a chance with the potentially snowy, climbing, winding, hair pin turning road through the pristine mountains instead of the safer, flatter version through Cache Creek. It felt right, and so it was.

I slept on top of a mountain, and when I woke I was facing a tiny, sleepy town nestled in the greenery below. I worked my way to the little cafe that promised free wi-fi on its front door, and was greeted by a pearly, genuine smile and shining, kind, blue eyes. His energy transferred easily, and I felt comfortable as the manager of the shop explained to me why his muffins were so much more tasty than any others. I caved, ordering a blueberry one to accompany my typical 'Americano. No Room.'

The manager realized I wasn't from that area quickly. Perhaps it was my lack of "Ya' Knooow" at the end of each sentence, or my round pronunciation of 'about.' Either way, when he showed an obvious interest in my destination, I figured I could get his opinion on the weather situation. The clouds were looking a bit dismal. I wondered, how smart would it be to head up into the mountains with 2 wheel drive? He assured me there would be no snow, simply by voicing the words I wanted to believe. The decision was made. I'd leave Lillooet and head to Vancouver by way of Whistler.

Now, I believe the Universe works in mysterious ways at times, and sometimes you don't quite understand what's happening, but I do fully believe that if you are following a feeling that you believe is real, true, and right, then you are going to do the right things, be in the right places, and achieve that which is meant to be done by you. And even more importantly, you will be happy. Truly, shamelessly happy with yourself. In that happiness, you will grow pride in yourself, begin to unabashedly love yourself, and so on.

I was driving down the highway, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of light. I turned to take in a magnificent waterfall crashing beyond the trees, and I knew I needed to go there...It felt right and so it was.

I turned, following the signs to Shannon Falls, and parked. I grabbed my camera, rain jacket, and locked my car (since I'm now so close to the lower 48 and the signs all warned to hide my valuables and secure my vehicle).

I made the short hike up to the highest viewing point easily. I kept my hood half way back, so the rain drops could kiss my face while I met them with my chin lifted slightly to the soaked maple tree tops. As I reached the landing, I saw a man standing alone, smoking a cigarette, leaning on the wooden railing that was acting as a barrier between the normal visitor and the falls. I smiled at him, charged by the natural electricity my soul experiences when caressed by Mother Nature, and fell into a casual conversation with him as I absentmindedly continued to search for a way to climb up to the base of the falls.

He noticed my intent and asked, "Do you plan to climb up?"

With a light I could feel shining in my eyes, I quipped, "If I can, absolutely!"

He looked towards the falls wistfully a moment, and said, "I've been to the base before, though not the top."

I glanced quickly at him, and immediately responded, "I'm going at least to the base. You should come with me!"

He laughed, shrugged, nodded, and we set off, climbing up a steep embankment of slick mud, pulling our way through the sloped trees, onto the slick rocks surrounded by gurgling rapids. I stopped halfway to turn around and introduce myself to my old friend. We rock hopped and scrambled our way up, Javier and I, balancing on slippery fallen tree trunks, using anything to keep ourselves upright.

We separated when we reached the base, still warm with movement, standing apart in the icy spray, feeling the force of the frigid mist like millions of tiny charged needles, piercing our skin; awakening our senses, making us aware of the power of the crashing falls, the frailty of our bodies, and the short distance separating the two. I stood, facing the wind tossed walls of melted ice, eyes closed, ears and mind open for countless minutes; just listening and feeling. Not just feeling the burn of each gust of water like shards of freshly blown glass bursting on my numbing skin and the thunderous vibrations the raging swirls sent through my body, but also the way my hair was pulled tight and haphazardly against my forehead, and the thrill of sensing the slow trickle of cold moisture that slipped behind my uncovered ear and snaked its way down the curve of my neck, naturally following contours, obediently submitting to gravity on my warm skin. Skin, goose bumping in wake of the chill. I stood still, feeling the steady stream of liquid leaking from my sopping jeans right into the base of the brown XtraTufs into which they were tucked, feeling the creeping cold reaching my toes before the neoprene began its magical warming, but most importantly, feeling my heartbeat, and feeling desperately alive in a world of wonder.

I opened my eyes and looked at Javier, who was leaning into the strong gusts, struggling to stand straight on a particularly exposed rock. His smile was radiant. He looked at me, and I nodded before letting out an unbridled "Suuuuuuuuuuuwiiiiiii!" with my face to the clouds. He did the same, and laughing, climbed down from his dangerous perch.

Javier approached me, and with genuine relief stated simply, "I needed that. Thank you."

Pleased by his happiness, I thanked him for sharing the experience with me.

To this his eyes narrowed, and he said more forcefully, "No. You don't GET it. I REALLY needed this. I should tell you," he hesitated, "...I'm on suicide watch, and when you came up, I was not in a good place."

I looked on patiently as he explained, "I mean, I was in a REALLY bad place. I can't believe I'm here with you! I mean, people don't normally come all the way up. You don't even know me, but you invited me up here with you. I didn't know people like that existed."

I smiled, my heart welling with a reflection of his new radiating positivity, and told him, "Good people are everywhere. Part of the adventure is getting to find them in the most random of places!"

To this he said simply, "Thank you. You saved my life today. Really. Thank you."

I opened my arms to him, and he embraced me. For a moment we stood still, left to left, heart to heart, knowing his world was becoming a better place, and accepting my role had been realized solely because I had followed a feeling that I believed was real, true, and right. And so it was.

Bing! Bang! Boom! Bomb - Day!

It happened October 6th, 2009.

I remember thinking, if we hit an IED and I'm sitting this way, I'll break both of my legs. I adjusted my posture, pulling my feet underneath me, as opposed to wedged under the seat on the other side of the RG-33. I moved my weapon to my side, and gripped it just a little tighter.

Less than thirty seconds later, I was thrown violently against the seat belt straps secured across my shoulders, connecting at my navel, and I found myself thinking, "If the walls hold, I live, if they collapse, I die."

Today was my second Bomb-Day. The second year that I've lived since my truck drove over a 200lb home-made explosives packed roadside bomb. Since that bomb exploded with a direct hit under the driver's side seat of our MRAP. Since we were thrown over sixty-five meters. Since the twenty-two ton vehicle flipped ass over teakettle two and a half times.

My second year alive, with movement newly appreciated.

My second year healing, and becoming exactly who I want to become in person and spirit.

I like that person...

The person I've worked to become.

I am happy. No. I am fucking excited; at peace, and ecstatic all at once. I've found a passion for people, where I had been lacking before. My motto had once been, "I love dogs and horses. I tolerate people," but now the highlights of my life have transitioned into meeting and connecting with the endless droves of amazing spirits in this world. No matter race, creed, upbringing, nor belief system, I truly believe EVERY SINGLE person I meet can teach me something about life, even indirectly. I wake up feeling amazing daily, and appreciate the fact that I'm able to push my body without yet having found its limits, that I can continue to see, breathe, feel, walk, dance, especially run. There is no anxiety, angst, nor drama in my life. I haven't had an argument with anyone for what feels like an eternity, and even that short spat was a direct result of being locked in a car with someone for three weeks without reprieve.

Over the last two years I took the ideals by which I wanted to live, tucked them away, and poured over them intensely over days and nights alone in the wilderness. Alone in my cabin, Alone on long runs with a voice recorder. I fought the common desire to "fix" myself for others, and focused on my personal desires and my needs. I realized over time, although extremely difficult in practice and challenging to maintain without hypocrisy, complete acceptance of people with different views from your own is a lofty but completely worthy goal. I feel at this point I have mostly reached it. Not absolutely. I hate to speak in absolutes.

What are absolutes, anyway?

I admit, I catch myself every once in a while making a bold, unfounded judgement, but the beauty of my progress is: I catch it, address it, and try my best to adjust it. So, I have mostly reached it. This has relieved the vast majority of stress from my life. Accepting people's right to hate, love, read, be bashful, abrasive, correct, incorrect, educated, uneducated, greedy, giving, clothed, naked, upset, happy, crazy, lovely, etc. has been my lofty goal.

It's been a challenge to truly accept and grow to believe wholeheartedly, but I'd say learning to understand that thinking differently is not born from being incorrect or deficient is one of the first steps to loving yourself completely. When you learn that a person who thinks man was created by one great being with white skin, brown hair, and blue eyes is no more correct nor incorrect than a person who believes whole heartedly that Wonderbread is the most incredibly nutritious supplement to your diet, and can accept it as a mere difference in opinion as opposed to right or wrong, you're on your way. How can you tell somebody that something they truly believe is incorrect? How can you tell a culture because they live not how you do, that they are doing something wrong? How can you tell someone's heart to not love the person it loves? You can't. Time to get a sense of humor about life.

I graciously refuse to debate something about which I'm not certain, which I consider interesting, because certainty is fickle in itself. The few things about which I am certain are that I'm in love with me, I'm in love with a man that's momentarily in Texas, using ten percent of the energy you'd use to complain about a situation instead to fix it will generally solve the problem completely, people are inherently good, unless the consequence is life, limb, or eyesight, rushing is generally not necessary, and one should never try to change a single cell of another human being.

I've found myself understanding that I own nothing and nobody, and I'm absolutely unwilling to be possessed. I'm much more comfortable in complete, long periods of solitude, and I find myself seeking them often, nearly every day, to make sure that I'm connecting with the little girl inside without the distractions of socializing. I no longer feel a need for extrinsic praise, congratulations, or credit for the things I do. I've gotten to a point where impressing others means absolutely nothing to me. I showered yesterday for the first time in almost two weeks, and before that it had been another two and a half weeks.

Living in Alaska as a rafting guide will do that to you.

I've worked towards ceasing judgement based on any physical standards (there, of course, are gut reactions that betray me periodically, and the new mission is to squelch them.) I've found what I like about myself, and have worked to grow much stronger in those traits. I'd rather lose an acquaintance (not a friend because an authentic friend would never demand such) than change a part of myself to appease that person's insecurity, and I could only hope that those around me would value themselves just as strongly and unflinchingly.

I've changed my hair color because I like it. It's fun, ridiculous, and at the same time, my peacock-esque blue, green, purple hues act as a natural filter for me, keeping people who would judge me as juvenile and punk on first glance away from me. Thereby creating an existence devoid of judgemental, critical, assuming people. I sold and gave away the vast majority of my worldly possessions, moved into my back seat-less Rav4 and drove myself to this lovely town of Haines, Alaska. Most of the scant things I left behind were destroyed by the recent flooding of central PA, and so now I have truly what I brought with me and barely anything more outside of some protected paperwork and a few boxes of books.

I've recently noticed that checking my Facebook leaves a funny taste in my mouth; something like an unsettled stomach in place of what used to be a fun little way to contact people. It makes me wonder how people are so easily sucked into "world news" and the media's manipulation. It's like watching a really bad chess game unfold, and realizing you can't point out the obvious mistakes because somebody will always get upset that you ruined their strategy. The new ticker in the right upper corner seems like a deliberate attempt at simplifying life's activities into technology...ticking away as a reminder of every moment you waste staring at a glaring computer screen instead of living in the natural world that exists right in front of you.

I've grown to dislike Starbucks. I like mom and pop shops. My heart hurts if I'm ever forced to step into a mall, a Walmart, or a Canadian Superstore. I haven't sat down and watched a full television show in Alaska yet. It's only when I'm in the lower 48 that the sedentary convince me to sit and watch the mindless images on the screen, and even then, I seem to get too anxious to internalize it.

Newsflash: I smoke herb. Sorry if you've known me for much of my life or my entire life and this shocks you. Sorry if you think less of me. I'm not sorry for the fact that I enjoy pot. I'm sorry because you judged me and as a result are going to miss out on a great relationship or friendship as a result of your preconceptions. I used to be completely against alcohol and weed...not anymore. If I must work, I'll refrain, but most evenings and whenever I have the day off, I burn. I don't have dreams that way, but also, I really like it. I drink much more socially than I did in the past. I've grown comfortable with alcohol in a way I never though possible as a younger adult, and quite frankly, I love a drink in the morning, be it a mimosa or Carolans in my coffee. Here's where I'd naturally quip, "Don't judge me," but if you do, quite frankly, I don't care.

I've become very comfortable with myself and my body. I do not blush if I'm seen naked. I often find myself a little irritated that clothes are even necessary in the first place. Just another law taking away a simple freedom to be comfortable in your own skin. I can't even be naked most places if I'd like to. I've done some more art projects, and I see no shame in using the body for art. Those of you who are reading this who haven't been watching the transition over the last two years are probably shocked. Those of you who've paid attention might be thrilled.

I haven't worn a watch since March 2010. I gave my Garmin to my dad, and ceased keeping training logs for my running. I run according to my body's desires. I use no music. I don't even spend money on technical running gear anymore.

I've grown the courage to say exactly what I mean when I want to express myself. There are no silent, brooding moments in my interactions with people. I've begun to demand the same from anyone I keep in my world.

Mostly I've been striving to achieve what I call an authentic life. I have begun to surround myself only with those I prefer. I simply do not associate closely with anyone else. I have become brutally honest about my indifference to the mundane "problems" of consumers. I don't give even a quarter of a fuck what new shoes are on the market, or what upgrades I could get for my Iphone. My phone is $29.00 of pure sophistication. It does what I want it to do. Text and call. Sometimes it even stays connected through an entire conversation.

In working towards my authentic life, I go out of my way to be selfish. I will do something only for me...and this is how I will remain satisfied with my world. What do I mean by this? Simply that if I find myself wanting to do something for the respect, admiration, acknowledgement, acceptance, or approval of others, not because I truly desire or need to do it, I will not lift a finger to complete the task. I will not coddle a person because that individual or observers would like me more for it. I will not run a race so my friends will rave about my speed. I will not climb a mountain to brag about how high it was. I do these things for the sheer, utter enjoyment I glean from the challenge of accomplishing them. I share my stories about them in order to to spread my excitement and energy for them, and for this reason alone. In this way, I truly enjoy everything I do, and rarely can become disappointed by a person's reaction to what I choose to do. It has become very difficult to embarrass me, because that means I would need to be taking other people's opinions of me and my actions, and make them matter to me as my own.

I've realized that anger truly only destroys you, and only you. Allowing yourself to hate and be angry at somebody (especially if you don't exercise authenticity and keep it to yourself) will eat you alive, give you bad energy, and bring you down. What will it do to the other person? Not a damn thing. I realize that you are told this from the time you are a child, but if you really want to understand it, pay attention to yourself. The next time you find yourself sitting next to someone you think is irritating or obnoxious, and you find yourself crinkling your nose, slanting your eyes, furrowing your brow, or throwing nasty looks their way hoping they catch your discontent, stop and focus on how you feel. Notice the negativity, and the effects it has on your energy. Notice how distracted from doing something productive or positive you've strayed, and then breathe, relax, and smile or smirk even. Think. If it won't matter in a month, it shouldn't matter to me now.

So, in this second year of newly appreciated movement, I have much for which to be thankful. Everytime I gasp for breath, feeling the burning lactic acid build in my quads as I push my body harder with each step, I'm reminded that my bomb day could be completely different, and not by choice of my own. I could be spending it motionless in a hospital bed, or seated in a wheel chair, using a cane or without sight. Yet I'm not. I spent the first hour awake teaching a Morning Muscles class to a lovely group of ladies, another hour doing Zumba with even more lovely ladies, ran up a mountain with yet another lovely lady, had tea with a great friend, who also happens to be a lovely lady and who gifted me a pair of silver earrings inscribed "PEACE," and later spent the afternoon and evening with a man the Universe should thank for existing.

Happy active Bing Bang Boom Bomb-Day to me.

A Random Running Rant

I was asked recently how I handle "the pain" of running and exercising to the point of muscle failure by a very close friend. She said that when she feels the pain, her body wants to stop, and curious by my seemingly endless energy, she wanted to understand it.

I replied simply with my regular, "I love it. I love that feeling of movement."

She laughed, "How? Doesn't it hurt?"

I hesitated a moment because I hadn't thought of it that way in a year. I considered the burning in my lungs when I sprint around the track in the chilly air, the feeling of a torrential downpour of icy rain beating against my pink, quickly numbing skin, the wind pushing against me, the hot feeling of sweat sneaking its way behind my eyelids, not being able to speak through ill moving lips, stiff with cold, the clear, intimate sound of my heart's methodical drumming in my ears.

I came to this conclusion.

No. It doesn't hurt. It feels like...life. When the frigid air rushes from the world through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs, leaving them raw in its icy path, I feel the life in me erupt in pleasure. I become one with my body, in tune with each movement, each change in temperature, each twinge of effort. Its as though I've left my position as passive reader and become the omniscient protagonist describing in detail the scene from each and every muscle's point of view. Suddenly parts of me of which I rarely think, become major players. I notice my toes, the way the hair on my arm reacts to the wind, the burning in my shins with each strike, the slightly tugging extension of my arches before I plant, the pressure on the balls of my feet as I push off, the melody of my ventricals playing life's tune in step.

Becoming aware of these senses, embracing them, and even searching to make them more pronounced has caused me to seek more "pain." There is no moment in which I feel more alive than that in which my heart is racing, and my own effort is what is keeping me moving with nothing but internal functions involuntary. The awareness makes me smile, and the more "pain" I feel, the more aware I become, creating in me an overwhelming joy at being able to feel the burning sensation in my muscles, stretching my smile, often making me skip, yelp, or even break into uproarious laughter in appreciation of life.

That is when I feel luckiest. To have the ability to run, jump, dance, burn, and reach muscle failure. Everything movement. is. a. gift. My mind, while focusing on the pleasure of the sensation of life, brings me, with the same unadulterated, pure awareness to the fact that my ability to do these things is mine still because men who tried to kill me failed epically. It's mine although it has been taken from so many. And then I feel blessed, almost guiltily so. Being conscious of this valuable gift of movement drives me to celebrate it as fully as possible for both myself and for those who aren't able.

I'm able.

Therefore I run.

A Totally Timeless Trip Together

The bright afternoon sun had begun to sink softly down to the horizon, lazily easing into the golden hour, painting everything in its path with the unmistakable warmth distinct to the moment before pastels grow from and reflect on the westernmost water. We walked along the sand to the low cadence of waves lapping the shore, hand in hand, absently people watching while discussing nothing of real importance. I travelled by his side, felt the sand caressing my toes, and noted how quickly he was walking. I found myself grinning at his casual urgency, surprised at my eagerness to keep pace.


He selected a spot and we sat facing the ocean. He pulled me to his chest, and I rested my cheek against him, listening to his heart beat as I watched the sky soften to a light purple hue. We sat this way for some time, with no concept of hours or minutes, no deadlines, no appointments, just the two of us sitting in the cool sand, watching as the Santa Monica Pier came alive in a brilliant flash of green and red.


He lay back onto the sand, and I could no longer make out his eyes from under his dark hood. I studied him as he lay, his shoulders, his neck, his hands folded over his abdomen, his legs reaching to each side of me. I watched and admired, silently thinking of the interesting course the Universe had chosen for our lives: where I had been, where we would go. Just as I studied his contours, so I studied the scenery.


A lean young man armed solely with board shorts and untamed blond curls trotted by, playing chicken with waves who halfheartedly tried to catch him. He left light footprints that quickly disappeared with each approaching wave. I could feel his connection with the earth, and understood his desire to run free, with his toes digging into the packed sand along the surging water's edge. I looked at my own feet, half buried in the soft, dry sand, making the same connection.


As I watched the man continue jogging down the beach, I was struck by the timelessness of the moment. Through history man and nature have joined in a mutual understanding of barefoot running. My thoughts of unity with earth were interrupted by two girls, also running, that moved into view. Both had long, straight, dark hair restrained by elastic bands, headphones in their ears, expensive sneakers on their feet, and glaring white rectangles tied around their arms. I smiled, a little sadly, as they would never understand why I run without music, listening to what my body and mother nature have to tell me.


I watched the new age runners move towards the brilliantly flashing Ferris wheel of the pier. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the smell of him and the sea, both unbridled and tempting my senses. When I opened them, I saw the silhouette of a man approaching. He wore large headphones, and held a long pole in his hand with a round disc at the bottom, which he wove back and forth along the surface of the sand. I chuckled, a silent laugh concentrated in my diaphragm, as I remembered my many hours waving a similar contraption over the sand as a child with my father, searching for something...anything that could be considered valuable. I was suddenly five years old again, watching the man with my full attention, willing him to find a coin so I could share in his revelry. He continued on unsuccessfully, a mere shadow against the brightly lit buildings behind him.


I couldn't help but shake my head slightly as I recognized the past and present brought together over this beautiful man's resting frame in the sand. Tempted to lie with him and listen to his heartbeat once more, I watched him. As if he felt my yearn to touch him, he rose to his elbows, met my eyes, and pushed his way back up to a sitting position, gathered me into his arms, and leaned his forehead against mine.


In that moment, I felt his energy more strongly than ever before, a warm, bright light that travelled through me, awakening every sense, every inch of my being, infiltrating my thoughts, my anxieties, and fears, simultaneously calming and exciting them. His energy coursing through my veins as I felt mine in his.


We stayed that way, eyes closed, feeling each other's light until he turned to me and spoke, "How many more beautiful places will we see together like this?"


"Many, many, many," I smiled.


"Promesas?"


"Te prometo." I leaned my head on his chest, and closed my eyes, listening to the song of the waves over his drumming heart, a moment of timeless perfection.

Stark Stabbing Shame

I saw them as I parked at the ferry terminal running as fast as they could. They stopped, a brown man and a white man, both stocky, both panting, both beaming. The brown man stuck his chest out talking shit about how much faster he was. The white one made excuses...something about the wind, like he'd win if they ran again. I've seen this before many many times. They both wore thin, crudely designed crew cut tan t-shirts. Both sported hair that dared not touch their ears.

When I saw them, part of me was drawn, part repelled. I had the option of grabbing my I.D. or avoiding the subject. I left my I.D. in the car, suddenly relieved my purple heart license plate was facing the opposite direction. What I felt was somewhere between a fleeting pride in brother/sisterhood and a stabbing shame in the same.

I boarded the ship without a second thought of the gentlemen. It was to be a 4.5 hour trip to Juneau on the slow ferry, but it was beginning to look like it might take closer to 5.5 as I sat in the dining hall waiting for the boat to finally leave the dock. My mind drifted slowly through the happenings of the previous weeks, elation, depression, dancing, inspiration, suicide, river, eagles, alcohol, pain, friendships, life, love, meaning, family, and the trip I was about to take...marriage. I let my eyes scan the room. I took time to meet Max, a Frenchman riding the ferry to Ketchikan and Marita, a girl from Austria who'd contacted me on couchsurfing.org desperate for help the morning prior. I also saw Pat and Erin, two of my four hitchhikers I had picked up on my drive from Whitehorse to Haines.

Erin gave me a bracelet she had just made for me in gratitude of the ride for which they had been waiting since morning. I smiled to myself because traveler karma never ceases to amaze me. I will always grin at the red, yellow, and black pattern against my skin, and fondly remember taking them through the border...watching the astonished look on the border patrol officer's face when he asked how we know each other, and I told him we didn't...that they were hitchhikers.

I sat in the solarium on a lawn chair, reading The Help, a book given to me by Katie Farnam in return for The Sound of Music, which I passed to her in South Dakota after she and her mother took care of Tommy and myself in their camper. Katie is the daughter of the camp host at Wind Cave's campground. A brilliantly aware young mind of 11 years, she's a child that reads, travels, camps, bikes, explores, and plays outdoors. A child that doesn't own a cellphone...doesn't WANT a cellphone. SO rare these days. I bet there's no way they could diagnose her with A.D.D. since she's actually outside playing daily, burning energy and not sitting sedentary in front of a television nightly.

Shame. I digress.

I made my way to the bar and sipped a bloody mary while chatting with an Australian man who piqued my interest when he responded to the bartender with a disbelieving, "Come on now! My country's much more developed than that! We've got refrigerators and such! We HAVE ice!" I shook my head. Another American, another silly question. No wonder the rest of the world laughs at us. Pride and shame. Shame reigns the strongest most times.

I left the bar intending to continue reading in the fresh air of the solarium. What is Minny going to do to Miss Hilly? However, I happened upon the brown man and white man from the parking lot on the way. I stopped, knowing I shouldn't. We chatted. I gleaned their names are Marvell and...well, I forgot the other guy's name. They are part of the active guard reserves in Juneau. MPs. They were bragging about their new HMMWVs that were tan colored and uparmored! How exciting! They talked to me as if I wouldn't understand their acronyms. I almost gave myself up when asking questions that I probably shouldn't have known how to ask. I need to work on that. They asked me if I was an investigating Colonel. Me? A Colonel? I guess I'm the first 28 year old female Colonel with blue and purple crazy hair the army's ever seen!

Somehow it came about that I speak languages. The first response from Marvell?

"You should join the army!"

"Why? Because I speak languages?"

"Yeah, you could be an interpreter!"

"Uh...and do what? And go where? Iraq? Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, you'll go, but you'll own it. It'll be nothing."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? IT'LL BE FUCKING NOTHING? I ALMOST DIED MULTIPLE TIMES! MY FRIENDS ARE FUCKED, OFFING THEMSELVES! MY PARENTS OWN A WATER BOTTLE AND AN ALICE PACK WITH 3 HOLES BLOWN THROUGH IT THAT ONCE BELONGED TO ME! I BARELY SLEEP, AND THE VA COULDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS! IS THIS HOW YOU'RE RECRUITING CHILDREN? WITH STRAIGHT UP LIES? SHAME ON YOU!

Instead, I respond calmly, "No. I'm pretty sure the army's not for me."

He questions this, like he knows something about me I haven't figured out on my own, claiming the army needs somebody like me.

I respond simply, "Wouldn't I have to change my hair color? I'm simply not willing to do that...and I'd have to take off my jewelry. Not an option."

He asks to see my bracelets. he looks at them, completely missing Dick Winters' band and my Wounded Warrior Project band.

Nice attention to detail, Fuck Face.

"You wouldn't part with...those?" he questions disbelievingly.

"Yeah. I don't think it's for me." Simple. Concise.

"Well, I guess you're right. The Army's not for everyone." I'm guessing he realizes I'm not going to be won over.

I shift the conversation to couchsurfing and hitchhiking. Marvell couldn't seem to wrap his mind around helping someone on the side of the road that wasn't a woman who looked like me. This may have been the 100th point when I realized we could probably never see eye to eye on 99.2% of anything we could ever possibly discuss outside of potential good tasting food...although he also told me he didn't like sushi. To that I screamed, "COMMUNIST!!!!" Not really, but almost.

He, however, failed to see these disconnects, probably because he was concerned with the pretty smile I credit solely to my parents. I'm not sure he even noticed its slow transformation into an impatient, patronizing smirk. I was saved by the bell, literally, as we docked in Auke Bay, where I had previously made plans to meet with three very like minded people. People who wouldn't recommend I join the service under any circumstances.

He asked for my number by stating, "You should call me," as if it's a researched and supported fact. Really? Should I? He tells me he wants to know me, and I can't help it. I am compelled to tell him that we are completely different breeds of person. He's confused, and so I decided to write this as a clarification.

I am NOT an aspiring teen looking to become Demi Moore. I'm not dreaming of becoming G.I. Jane. Not anymore. I am now a wounded vet proud to be free of an oppressive institution, Hellbent on repaying the world the debt I feel I incurred by having served one of the most close minded, wickedly corrupt organizations in the world for 8.5 years...Rather 8 years 5 months and 29 days. I embrace my freedom to be who I want to be, wear what I want to wear, as well as travel and change my hair color on a whim. There is no amount of persuading that could convince me otherwise. That's supposedly the perk of a"free country" like America, right? While I could be arrested and labelled a sex offender for having a naked cup of coffee in my own home, I also have the "right" to consider military solutions problems in themselves.

I don't regret any choices I've made in life, but that certainly doesn't mean I am proud of them all.

David Sirota said it best, "Why is violence and murder designed to incite fear and affect political change never called terrorism when it's committed by white people?" There is a stark stabbing shame that comes with an association with an organization promoting terrorism under the guise of fighting it...calling it COIN. Fuck COIN. It's war. It's wrong, and I want no part in it.

Sharing Social Senselessness

The beat enters my soul by way of cartilage canal, caressing smooth curves, coursing through veins, creating warmth, riding the raging current straight to my heart, adding to flexing ventricles a uniqueness recognized only by those living in tune.

It infiltrates my nervous system, rocking my body with rhythm, making my fingers tingle, my feet twitch, tickling and tempting my senses until I can no longer control my excitement.

I burst.

I dance.

He stops mid step, eyes narrowing, judging, confused by my lack of sense. No sense is made dancing in a busy street. Sense is reserved for social norms, for caged hamsters on an endless wheel, for controlled, drugged lab rats in a maze, consistently chasing figments of cheddar.

My smile flashes, genuine. His smirk responds, unsure and hesitant. I laugh. He breaks eye contact, sternly shaking his head. He grunts in disapproval.

I continue to follow my base line.

She stops, noticeably nods, and immediately begins to open her heart with a friendly grin, inviting my energy to ease into her spirit. I watch as she releases the strain of her day, allowing her tensions to slip into the warm spring breeze, to be carried into the clouds, and I know then that we are enjoying the same music.

A Classically Catastrophic Cancer Called Katy

Hiding under a careless facade, she's surprisingly small, loud but timid, bold but meek, laughing but silently whimpering for more than fleeting attention.

She's average. Small frame, large teeth, slight mustache, but has beautiful, even stunning windows to her soul. Except an average passerby may miss her soul completely, distracted by the layers of gaudy makeup marring the view.

She commands attention with her presence, though not her poise. Negative attention will suffice when admiration is absent, and she demands it in a loud declaration of negativity. No matter the subject. No matter the location. People gawk, in awe, though not positively impressed. So small, yet so crass. Startlingly obtuse, yet completely unaware of her condition.

A raindrop is a thunderstorm, a bright day too cold. A smile froth with condescension, a glance full of contempt. She repels most, but attracts a needy select few and to them she clings, a cancerous tumor. Stealing their individuality, she monopolizes their time, cutting them off slowly from outsiders, filling their heads with fresh new negativity, metastasizing faster than projected. The life expectancy of former relationships is cut short by her erratic growth, and her host is left utterly alone, save for her malignant company.

When her host finally recognizes her cankerous presence as the cause of pain, solitude, and angst, it's too late. No amount of intensive care will revive past connections, since severed, shriveled, and decomposed. Suddenly alone and aware, her host is trapped and unhappily disconnected from those that made her smile in the past. With nowhere to go and nobody left to turn, the host is faced with a painful decision. Extract the negativity from her life and begin anew with the involved treatment or continue down the same path knowingly and resign herself to fate. Awareness has changed her perceptions, however, and now the loud, bold, crass, attention seeking facade has ceased being attractive. Now a blaring embarrassment, it has become hard to ignore.

Choosing the operation over certain death of character, the recovery is long, painful, and slow, as the cancer tries again and again to relapse, begging, pleading, lashing out, attacking, harassing, grasping, always threatening. As the host gains her strength of personality back, she is emboldened by the positive change, and finds herself rejecting the dejected tumor more easily than ever. She revels in appreciating a raindrop for its properties of renewal and cleansing, a bright day for the sun's warming effect on the soul. A smile is taken at face value, as a glance is met with a smile of her own. A smile that reflects her renewed health and joy.

The classic catastrophe, however, is in the disease, who sees not what she caused or created, but only her role as the victim. She laments the loss of her host and creates a cacophony, wondering to anyone who will listen why there are so many thunderstorms and cold days in her life. That is until, feeling her pain in a moment of vulnerability, her next host reaches out to her with an unprotected heart.

Pestilent Purple Pulse

A blur of movement. Lights flash. The night has begun. They laugh, enjoying the glaring fluorescent glow of their white clothing in an otherwise dimly lit room. Purple. Their teeth and eyes stand apart. A dizzying contrast, with a side of alcohol, and a splash of pulsing noise. Glances froth with seduction accompany wandering hands as unfamiliar bodies brush against each other, moving to the pulse. Some feel the same beat, some different, some shake like willows in a thunderstorm. Wildly.

The noise is barely contained within four walls. Outside, passersby catch the pulsing purple as they drive, with interests piqued, if only for a fleeting moment. Remaining victims to tight schedules, they are too busy heading nowhere fast to stop and quench their curiosity. Some might roll down the window in order to catch the muffled rhythm, but instead instantly recoil when met by a blast of bitter cold, quickly securing themselves back into the stifled sanctity of their moving metal box.

Miles away her interests are piqued by a pulse as well, though not purple debauchery. It doesn't make her shake or seek contact from sweating seductive strangers. The air is still and silent, save the occasional squawking goose. Even the territorial cries of the angry birds are soothing to her. The mute breeze has a bite. It nibbles her nose and earlobes, pinches her cheeks. She takes a slow breath, and the sweet scent of raw earth courses through her body, straight to her soul, filling it with peace. The pulse is alive within her, and she smiles knowingly.

A reflection of the moon lays lazily on the lake's still surface smiling at her, calling to her inner tranquility. She takes in the brilliant stars, impressed by their ability to evoke awe as they confidently sparkle even in the presence of the tremendous luminescent orb. They are not lesser for their size. Complementing the night, casting shimmering flecks of personality on the placid, liquid face, the gaseous masses boldly command attention both directly and in reflection.

She remains that way: mere inches from the water's edge, seated on the soft, cool ground, resting her back against a young sapling, infrequently sipping on a thermos of hot hazelnut coffee for several hours. The pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude resonates, and she feels...complete. With a contented sigh, she pulls herself to her feet, briefly stretching achy hamstrings before casually following the light of the moon back to her own moving metal box. With a final glance at the two identical moons, she smiles and begins her short drive back to her other home.

Turning the corner onto Main Street, the purple pulse catches her attention through the steamy windows of an older style white building. There are several young people standing around on the street, swaying without confidence in equilibrium, stumbling as they attempt to walk. She slows, and finds herself staring into the vacant, blood shot, half closed eyes of a young man, over the drooping head of his female companion. In an attempt to be coy, he juts his chin up slightly, purses his lips, and smirks.

She sees in that moment, his soul is lacking the pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude. She senses instantly how desperately he must cling to the purple pulse, because it is obvious that between beats, his life is shockingly devoid of purpose and meaning. At once, she wishes to cure the plague, grab him by the hand and lead him to a place where silence reigns, forcing one to listen to a dissatisfied soul.

Bored with her blank expression and apparent refusal to play the game of flirtation, he turns away, gruffly ushering his stumbling lady friend up the stairs and back through the glass doors, back to the pestilent purple pulse, soon to forget the already almost nonexistent exchange.

Crashing Couches Casually Cultivating Close Connections

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each location resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called to my heart to return, but of all the places I've been, there have only been four in the continental United States that I've returned to time and time again. Monterey, CA, Annville, PA, Tampa, FL, and New York City.

~~~~~

I've found that it is not the scenery, club scene, nor quality of restaurants in these places, that causes me to return. To me, although I generally seek adventure and new experiences, there are certain traits from my exploration to which I find myself drawn time and time again. I've learned in life, you can see the most beautiful sights and participate in the most crazy exploits, but if you cultivate no connections along the way, the road can quickly become devoid of meaning, and then, instead of revelling and enjoying your journey to self discovery, you can find yourself flailing without an anchor, seemingly happy to untrained eyes, but truly empty and alone. Essentially living a Beat Generation existence in true form: travel, passion, alcohol, sex, debauchery, but missing vitality of the soul.

~~~~~

I just returned from one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Republica Dominicana. To date, this is the only international location which I've revisited. I spent a month there last February, mountain biking, wandering, hiking, dancing, and meeting people. This time I spent just one week on the island. The motivation, to the passive onlooker, might obviously have been the First International Bachata Festival. The opportunity to be part of history, where the people who love bachata travel from the other side of the world for the first time to celebrate its existence in the bachata capital of the world. However, in truth, it wasn't the festival itself so much as the prospect of having the chance to experience, once again, relationships I'd created along my path to self discovery at said festival that brought me to purchase the full pass and airfare.

~~~~~~

My participation in Couchsurfing.org has brought to me a lightness of spirit in travel and life in general. In learning to be open to making connections, hearing stories, and sharing moments with new friends around the world, the states, and close to home, I've become much more free with my heart. In past musings, I was known to say I loved horses and dogs, tolerated people...and it was true. In a crowded room, I was always amongst strangers, surrounded by acquaintances, distracted by thoughts of places...potential... practicalities. Half listening to everyone, half wishing I could disappear and hear no one. Half wanting them to like me, half not caring if they despised me. Half wanting recognition, half wanting to be ignored. Always with one foot out the door. Always on the outside looking in, and thoroughly enjoying the seclusion of separation; if only mental. Always judging. Always convinced nobody understood me, my plight, my story, and more so, feeling it wasn't worth explaining the restlessness and subtle boredom I felt around them.

~~~~~

That was then, this is now. No, I'm not referencing The Greasers. Though I enjoyed the genre thoroughly as a child.

~~~~~

Through travelling with nearly nothing, I've been exposed to the goodness of people: that spark in a soul that tempts your heart to reveal itself unabashed, and in turn nourishes the subsequently planted seed of friendship. With this gradual change in ideology, my horizons have expanded infinitely. I barely recognize my recent self when I consider the chained, dark moments of years past. The beauty of the transition is its subtlety. There was never a specific day I consciously chose to open my mind and heart to accept people from different paths. There was no distinct moment where I decided to be connected as opposed to removed.

~~~~~

I woke up one morning on a creaky, damp mattress sans sheets in a jungle cabin with no electricity near Puyo, Ecuador, covered in mosquito bites and smiling. I fought my way out from under the faulty mosquito net, and made my way to the crudely assembled wooden table in the kitchen, revelling in the sound of a torrential jungle downpour beating on the thatched roof. I smelled of sweat with a twinge of mildew, but not enough to overpower the sweet scent of Mother Nature's 100% organic cleaning solution that softly kissed my face in a misty breeze as I passed an open window. I greeted a couple from Riobamba, 4 Finnish girls, and a couple from Seattle that had already been wandering for four months when I sat down. Together we relaxed, shared stories, laughed, and enjoyed breakfast to the melody of a careless percipitation. It was in that moment I realized I wasn't on the outside looking in. I wasn't feigning interest. I was intrigued, and it wasn't forced. The best part? I realized in that moment that I would only be excluded in my future if I chose to be, because I recognized the lightening effect relationships have on your being.

~~~~~

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each place resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called my heart to return, but it's not the scenery, club scene, or quality of restaurants that tempts me. Solely people have the ability to lasso my spirit and draw it back to a location with me in tow. Whether it's Wlady in Ecuador, Don, Knikki, Tim, or any of my Chilkat Guides family in Alaska, Jota and Dina in DR, Cat in Monterey, David in England, Jorge in Spain, family in NY, FL, and PA, Peter, Aut, or Spaci in Czech Republic, Marydale in Afghanistan, Maurycy, Pawel, Erik or Quin in Seattle, Merlin, Rebecca, or La Familia de la Salsa in Watertown and Syracuse...whoever, wherever. These casually cultivated close connections are the true reason I return.

~~~~~

These days I am proud to declare honestly that I love horses, dogs, AND people.

Living Life on Lover’s Lane: Likely a Legendary Love Story

Often times with technology as an excuse, individuals go day to day walking hurriedly past people with whom they would truly connect if they took a moment to communicate. Life becomes a race from one goal - one achievement to the next, all motivated by status and a longing for recognition. Left behind in the settling dust of unbridled ambition are decaying skeletons of relationships. Shadows of what could have been.

I met two people over the course of three days in the smokey saffron light of MJ's Coffee House that I knew would change my life, if ever so subtly. A man and a woman. In speaking with the man, I was reminded that there are still people in this world that believe in achieving their dreams. There are still those willing to fight the good fight to ensure they don't dry up like a raisin in the sun. Or fester like a sore - then run (I adore Langston). This man said things to me that I have written to others. We shared laughter, not like strangers meeting for the first time, but like close friends reuniting after months apart.

The world turns, and if allowed, kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances, random bits of serendipity -and in a moment, it is clear they will be a part of each other's lives in some capacity forever, whether as a sweet memory, a fleeting acquaintance, an active friendship, or unconditional love.

And so, that being said, I recall the woman. Tall and lean, her beauty commanded my attention as she sauntered through the glass doors, passed the old piano, and stepped onto the raised, carpeted level of the cafe, where I sat. I tried not to stare at her long, blond, twin braids, resting on her slender shoulders. She and her two male companions passed me with a friendly nod and sat at the table behind me. As they began chatting, I recognized an unfamiliar accent in her English. Immediately curious of from where she hailed, I found myself focusing less on Call Me Stupid, and more on her conversation.

She was talking to the men, who were completely enraptured by her every word, about a holistic healing class in India. I found myself hanging on her every syllable, musing that everyone in the cafe should be sitting cross legged at her feet, waiting for her next story like children used to do with their grandparents before video games stole the intimacy from the modern American family. Then she said it. Ice climbing. How absolutely intense it had been! How beautiful!

I couldn't hold it in. I turned around, met her eyes, flashed her a knowing smile, nodded, AND threw in a Shaka for good measure. Immediately, she returned my smile, and with a sparkle in her almond hazel eyes, invited me to sit and chat with them. In the next several moments, we discussed ice climbing, rock climbing, hiking, travelling, life, healing, and love.

You see, she was married to one of the men with whom she shared the table, and the other was helping to translate her book from Hebrew to English. Yes, my question was answered. She hailed from Israel. She spoke of her husband often, and when she did, I could feel...yes, palpably feel, the love between them. It tingled the hairs on my arm, the sensitive skin around my collarbone, the small of my back, behind my ears. I felt their love in the air, on my skin, inside my soul. It lifted and cradled my spirit, coursed through my veins on a mission to infect my heart, and my heart, in turn, pumped it to the far reaches of my being.

I stared in wonder at the couple as they told stories of their cross country cycling trip they took together, 18 years ago. I smiled as he looked at his adoring wife, matching her enamored expression with one of his own. They discussed the long distance hikes they had done all over the world, the crazy adventures they had experienced together, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. It's out there. It exists.

The book she had written is based on healing through walking, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself, and learning to grow healthily. The book I am writing is based on healing through running, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself and learning to grow healthily. We had much to discuss. We agreed on the inherent goodness of humanity, the willingness of strangers to feed, clothe, and share with the road worn traveller, the value of a story unfamiliar, the amazing way people can come together to help one another.

I left MJ's that evening with a smile on my face. Kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances and open minds and hearts; random bits of serendipity. In a simple conversation, we came together, sharing experiences, stories, and tidbits of wisdom picked up along our travels. We shared moments together, smiling back fondly on memories past, current passion, and future potential. I tasted an unconditional love between two pure hearts, and basked in the ambient light. I was reminded that it exists, and to settle without fighting the good fight would be to waste an invaluable gift.

Live, laugh, love - with pure, raw, unadultered emotion or don't do it at all.

Palpable Perceptions: Positive or Pessimistic?

She feels she has lost everything. It's been three years since her husband left. He walked out the door without looking back, leaving bitter words hanging in the stagnant air of loneliness, and what's worse, he took everything but the furniture. He left her with the furniture. What's a chair without the matching painting? A grandfather clock without the accompanying oriental rug? What used to be their home has since become a shell of her house. Three years it has been, and she has clung to the things he left behind as reminders of a love that once was.

Recently her employer told her she was no longer a necessary asset to the company. Granted, she didn't enjoy her job, but everyday she had been faithful to it, as she had been to her husband. Yet it, too, had betrayed her. 4 more weeks would she have an occupation, a paycheck, an excuse to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. 4 more weeks of dreading the sedentary day, but dreading more the quiet, empty nights in the shell of her house.

Her children would rather be with their father, that's obvious enough. Two of them are grown already, and refuse to come home for holidays. She still decorates the tree every Christmas with their traditional ornaments, bits of memories from the good times, in hopes that one or four of them will drop in to visit. She feels fully and utterly alone in an infinitely cruel world. The bank is threatening to take her home, since she has had a hard time keeping up with the payments after he turned his back. She has sold everything she could without making a visible dent in how she was living. She still eats on the fine china, although she disagrees with the blue swirly pattern slightly, and sips from their crystal wine glasses (a wedding gift) nightly. She and her husband had known the mortgage would be a challenge for the two of them, but when it became just one, it was simply impossible. Three years of defaults. Three years of scrambling to stay above water. Three years of misery, and she would soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~
He woke up this morning to the crisp fresh air of another Christmas morning with nature. His breath formed small puffs of steam in the chill as he yawned, quietly taking in the soft pastels of an infinite sky moments before sunrise. To him there was nothing like seeing the first rays of light peeking over the sharp silhouette of a distant snow capped mountain, and he waited with the anticipation of a child listening for the click clack of reindeer hooves on the roof Christmas eve. This was his reminder that there was a world out there yet to be explored, enjoyed, and that he would be free again soon enough.

He scanned the rest of the hilltop, as he quickly thought through past Christmas celebrations he'd enjoyed. Scenes scrolled through his memory, all of them focusing on smiles of loved ones, moments by the fire, the beauty of being alive and comfortable. Back in the world of reality everyone was still sleeping soundly, save the four who were scanning the surrounding valley for any movement through their scopes. He glanced at his bag, black on immaculate white; a stark contrast.

He blinked away yesterday. He had seen the eyes of a man, full of hatred, full of murderous intent. A man at the far end of an AK-47, dressed in black, with an equally black, stony gaze. Half of the man's tight expression had been hidden by an apple tree, but he saw enough. The muzzle flashed, and in a moment he was in a river bed, screaming to his brothers around him, ensuring everyone was responsive; returning fire. They had made it up the hill, the one from which he was enjoying the quiet moments of predawn light, and only then had he realized how close he had been to not being around another day.

In his bag, there had been a plastic bottle of mango iced tea, a few choice bits of MRE, changes of socks, and a sleeping bag. Tied to the outside had been two mortars. Tired from the excitement of the day, he reached into his bag, only to realize his iced tea had spilled on everything. Pulling it out, to inspect the carnage, time stood still for a moment. There were three holes in the bottle. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were also six holes in the bag. The mortars escaped unscathed and so had he.

That was yesterday. Today if the snow holds off there would be an air extraction, and he would be able to get a shower and hot soup. He smiled thinking of a cozy night in his warm tent. The first rays of light crawled over the jagged peak, and touched his face. A gentle, warm caress in a bitter cold. This morning he was alive and being warmed by the sun's first light. Life is a gift.

The snow stayed at bay long enough for him and his team to get lifted from the landing zone they set up in a nearby clearing that afternoon. He returned to the Forward Operating Base, hungry and exhausted from the firefights and ground they had been covering over the course of the week. Upon entering the chow hall, he was greeted with the sign, "Well come to Christmas!" He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Far from everything, disconnected from home, alone in Afghanistan, and laughing. Life is good.

As the evening wore on, he decided to get into line to use the computers for his allotted half hour. He wrote his mom as often as possible to let her know he was OK. After an hour wait, he finally got to the computer. The homepage took a full 90 seconds to load, and he sighed as he worked his way to Facebook and GMail simultaneously in different tabs. By the time both had loaded and he was ready to begin communicating, he had 22 minutes remaining.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She had written him an email on Facebook. They had been friends for years, since high school. The bank was threatening to take her home, her things, what she thought of as her livelihood, and she was threatening to take her life. She believed God had taken everything from her, and she saw nothing but dark. No light. No exit, just the darkness of a perpetual tunnel with round disorienting walls.

She, in her warm three bedroom house, decorated with Christmas ornaments, was emailing him from Florida. He, who had just almost died, ate dry turkey on a bench in a tent, and wanted only to curl up by a fireplace with his dog anywhere, just received an email from her. He stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. There is so much good in the world. He knew it existed. He even knew that underneath the hateful facade of the man in black, there was a loving son, brother, or father. There is so much for which to live, but how could he explain this to a woman who couldn't see it through the thick veil of her own tragic portrayal of self?

She was torn apart by an obsession with a man who hadn't wanted her for the last three years. She had pushed away her children because they reminded her of him, and was now losing everything she held dear to her. Her house, her furniture, her car, her status. He didn't understand how she couldn't see this as an opportunity for growth. He began to respond to her email, trying to explain to her that change is not a detriment, but an opportunity for growth. He alluded to self worth, and acknowledgement of such. When you know what you are worth, your need to try to convince others of it fades. If he doesn't appreciate you, you can do it better yourself. Love yourself, people are drawn in by that love. You do not need a fancy car or a big house with nice things to convince people how great you are. Your soul shines through your eyes, your smile, your actions, and in this world, the people worth being in your life see those signs as clear as day.

He was concluding the email, expounding upon her positive qualities, reminding her of her kindness, her intelligence, her ability to love, when the moderator made an announcement.

"Commo blackout, guys. Sorry. Say goodbye and shut it down," bellowed the young soldier. He froze, with his finger poised above the mouse, ready to send the email. How horrible to lose somebody on Christmas. Never is there a good day, but on Christmas...It broke his heart. He changed his mind and added another thought before hitting send: Tomorrow's not guaranteed, my love. Live this moment as well as you can. It will get better. I have to go, there is a commo blackout. He knew she would understand what that meant. The family of the soldier who had been killed would have to be notified before he would be allowed communication with the outside world again. They would get visited this Christmas not by the jolly fat man in the red suit, but by two somber men in immaculate blue and brass.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She received his reply the next morning when she ambled from the bed to the computer to seek empathy or even just some sympathy on Facebook. She read his mail, and suddenly felt foolish. She began to sob, asking herself why she had been so blind. He was her best friend, and separated from his family constantly. He lived in a tent, and looked forward to nights that weren't spent in a sleeping bag on the side of a desolate mountain. She looked at her California king Temperpedic mattress, framed by her cherry oak headboard, and decided to retake control of her life. If the bank wanted the house, they could have it. She chose that moment not only not to take her life, but to truly live from that day forward. She would sell those things she had clung to as lifelines but actually held no value in her life. She would take off her wedding band and would not allow the bitter words she had tasted in his departure to remain in the stagnant air of loneliness one more day. She would make loneliness her home, embrace it, and get to know herself once again.

She decided to get out and job search, but this time, she would only do a job she enjoyed, even if it meant a pay cut. She would strip her closet of the endless throngs of stilettos, slingbacks, and clogs, and replace them with satisfaction in her naked self. This would be the first day, the first step of a journey to self love. She responded to him in an email saying such. He was her angel. He opened her eyes to the world, and she was eternally happy to have a friend like him in her life.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
The afternoon of the 26th, the blackout was lifted, and Morale Welfare and Recreation room was unlocked. He entered to check his email once again, and write to his mother, who was probably beside herself with worry by now. He received his friend's response, and relieved, couldn't help but smile yet again. Hers was a soul too bright to be dimmed by the cruelties of accumulation, and the worship of inanimate objects. He closed his eyes, seeing clearly his mother's loving expression, hearing her light laughter, and for a moment, he was back in her warm home, enjoying a cup of chai by her side with a movie playing and the fireplace roaring.

He opened his eyes, wet with memories, and began his email to his mom: Hi, mom. I love you. I'm one day closer to coming home today. Merry Christmas.