Operation Wide Open Spaces

July 29, 2015 |

Operation Wide Open Spaces:

Step one: Wake up.

Step two: Realize some wide open spaces are missing in your life.

Step three: Pack your bags.

Step four: Enter “Montana” in the GPS.

Now some of you crazies might believe in a bit more *planning*. Me too. But last Monday morning, the open road called our name. We decided to throw our hands up and say “here!”

With tired and cramped souls coming off a whirlwind week of change, we had our bags packed and our car loaded within two hours of waking up.

And of course the ever-insistent-don’t-you-dare-leave-me-home Abby was snuggled at my feet.

I love me some wide open spaces, but I’ve been living with some narrow margins.

With “Montana” entered in the GPS, my lungs breathed a little deeper with every mile we drew closer. With every new vista, my soul savored, as one taking a bite of a delectable meal that is at once brand new and yet familiar.

Now let’s be clear. I’m not generally a road trip kind of girl. I find them very inefficient, really. And I’m a girl who likes to have a destination. This is true both on the road and in life.

But I’m also a girl who’s learning to be inefficient. And learning to take detours and side roads. Who’s learning to get out and walk in the rain when traffic backs up at the entrance to Yellowstone. Who’s breathing deep of wide open spaces, both on the road and in life.

This past week brought a new wide open space in front of me in the form of an unexpected job change (more on that later). And wide open spaces are wild.

They have dangerous things like bears and snakes and moose and bison.

And some of the greatest dangers are the ones you know are there but can’t see (ahem, Wolves).

But those wild spaces are also free, and beautiful, and seemingly endless. They speak to a crowded soul, whispering hints that big horizons are not only for mountains and rivers and prairies, but for us too.

This girl needed a little bit of Wyoming and Montana to make it’s way into her crowded-California heart. My soul needed time. And space. For the talking and the not-talking, the hiking and the sitting, the searching and finding and the searching and not finding and the silence and the big sky and the trees and the rivers and the rocking chairs and the naps and the river floats and the dancing in the downpours.

This space – this glorious, wide, vast, diverse, and (seemingly) endless space, is reminding me, daring me, to think bigger, dream bigger, explore bigger. But also simpler.

The thing about wide open spaces is that we all need them. Somewhere, somehow. And it’s a rare week that you get to throw your bag in the car and go find twenty million acres of open space. This week reminded me that I need to find/make/create/ALLOW wide open spaces to exist in my every day. Self-care and all. So trendy right now. So nearly cliché. So essential.

Space. In my day. On my calendar. To be inefficient. To be unplanned. It honestly scares me. Which is how I know I really need it.
What about you? When’s the last time you made space for … space? And how do you find it in the midst of your every-day?

Ground control to Major Tom

October 30, 2014 |

Does life ever feel like it’s just begging for your attention? Trying to repeat something to you over and over? And as you strain your heart and ears to listen, you’re surprised to hear Sean Penn’s voice? No one else? Just me?

It was a very-zen-Sean-Penn who caught up with me to deliver a message from ground control as I was sitting on a plane. International flights are where I get to catch up on movie watching. I could watch five in a row without pushing the “there’s-something-else-I-should-be-doing” button. I opted for The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I hadn’t yet cozied up with this world-travelling movie even though it seemed like a natural go-to for this girl. I think that’s why I didn’t watch it. It was too predictable. Sometimes I avoid wander-lust movies because they just stir me up and make me want to sell everything in exchange for endless world airfare.

But on that day, I was en route home from the (truly) best trip I’ve ever taken with my husband. We had just celebrated our ten-year anniversary ala Europe. So I was feeling rather zen myself. I was heart-full of wandering and happy to be on my way home to the house I haven’t yet auctioned off to the highest bidder.

The very-zen-Sean-Penn plays a photographer, and when he has an elusive snow-leopard in his camera sight, perfectly aligned, Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller) asks him when he’s going to snap the picture.

Sometimes I don’t, says Sean.

Sometimes it’s just for me.

The plane stayed straight, but my heart lurched. I’m not a photographer, but I am a writer. So words are my pictures, and I’d been feeling an increasing pressure to “snap every picture”.

A lot of this sense of pressure came out of a Writer’s conference I attended earlier this year, to explore taking this writing thing to a new level. To see if something personal might translate into something public. I heard lots of great advice. What-to-do-to-become-a-writer. Or I should say, a published writer. Two very different things.

See, it’s one thing to identify yourself as a writer as part of who you are. That requires liking words.

It’s an entirely different thing to pursue publishing. That requires being a marketer. And when you dab your toe into that world, words like “platform”, “audience”, “followers”, etc. start dominating too many of the conversations.

Blogging is strongly encouraged. I’m still not sure what I think about blogging (as confessed in a blog post – cue irony), mostly because I’m a book girl. Books are, to me, like a long conversation over coffee, and blogs are more like a quick hello at the grocery store. I’d rather read (and write) a book.

There are other platform tools too. I won’t go into them here. Because they’re not the point. The point is that the very-zen-Sean-Penn caught me up short, and made me realize I’d been operating under many “should-do-this-moments” in the world of social media and blogging, and I needed to practice saying sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I don’t snap the picture, write the hashtag, post the blog. Sometimes it’s just for me.

And let me tell you, it’s been my favorite summer. I’ve seen more sunsets than I’ve posted on Instagram. I’ve been in more conversations than I’ve captured ala blog post. I’ve seen more friends than I’ve tagged on Facebook. I’ve held my husband’s hand more than I’ve held my phone.

I needed a summer filled with sometimes I don’t so I could choose the sometimes I do moments.

The very-zen-Sean-Penn reminded me that life is about experiencing, not performing. Do you need to hear that today, too?

Is there anything you need to … don’t?

Surprising the Brain

June 20, 2014 |

The Brain Bucket. I’m told that’s a thing. I’m told that by a guy named Jon Acuff, who makes me laugh enough to believe that everything he says is true.

So the Brain Bucket. He said our brains are wired in such a way that when we see or hear something we’ve come across before, we Bucket it. “Yep, been/seen/heard that before.” And we continue on with other distractions.

This. Is. So. Me. I used to drive professors crazy because once my brain got something, it placed it in the bucket and was done with them and their teaching. I was known for playing solitaire in the back of the room (back in the days of dinosaurs when the internet was not in every classroom and solitaire was all I had). And it really wasn’t out of disrespect, it was just because my brain wanted to move on to something else once the brain bucket was full of that topic. You can imagine how much my husband loves this feature whenever he’s sharing his heart with me.

So, says Jon, getting past the Brain-Bucket-tune-out for things like spiritual lessons and lifetime truths requires a way to “surprise the brain”. Keep things interesting. Introduce an old truth in a new way.

Backs of books? Hate ‘em. Movie trailers? No, please. I want to be surprised.

So a few Sundays ago – one of those gloriously leisurely mornings – we lounged our way through YouTube videos and MY BRAIN GOT SURPRISED.

Oh my gosh. Oh my GOSH.

Exhibit A: Holy vocal pipes.

Chills, right? I mean, I was crying. CRYING. See, everyone’s brain – including mine, and most definitely Simon Cowell’s, had Brain-Bucketed this guy. Heavy guy shows up on stage wearing sweat pants and floppy hair. Sure, go ahead and wow us. He’s shy and nervous and you can just feel yourself bracing for the mockery. The crowd is snickering already. He’s been Brain-Bucketed as someone who does not have talent. And then he puts the microphone to his mouth. And the room is literally blown away. The power. The MAJESTY of this guy’s voice. Are you kidding me!? HE just did THAT!? Everyone’s Brain got Surprised. Ah-maz-ing.

Exhibit B: Am I allowed to, umm, laugh?

A boy with cerebral palsy. And he thinks he’s a comedian. And his parents have brought him here to audition. It’s cute. And heart warming. But you can almost feel yourself cringe as you hope he might be good but you’re pretty sure he won’t be. I mean, let’s just hope that Simon isn’t too mean to the sweet handicapped boy, right? He’s been Brain-Bucketed in the sympathy bucket, but there’s no bucket for “funny handicapped kid”.

And then he comes out on stage – to a vicious audience that has just destroyed the auditioner that came before him. Rightfully so, but still brutal. The cringe-factor in your heart intensifies.

But his first joke is funny. You dare to chuckle. His next line is even funnier than the last. Hey, this kid may be onto something. By the time his audition is done, everyone – including Simon – has a general laugh in their heart because The Handicapped Kid is Really Funny. Their brains got surprised.

Exhibit 3: Shadows aren’t just for puppets.

Yes, total coincidence that this post is dedicated exclusively to Britain having Talent. This is not a sponsored post.

But the shadows. HELLO!? How are they doing that with their bodies!? I mean, I know how they’re doing that – it’s light and dark and there’s a screen, blah blah blah. But my brain has no bucket for people making a shadow picture with their bodies like this. The beauty, the drama, the ELEPHANT.

YouTube is a playground for brain surprises.

Life is a playground for brain surprises. When I don’t relegate someone – including myself – to a predesigned brain-bucket, but am ready to hear or experience something new, I can actually have fun on life’s playground.

Now don’t get me wrong – not all surprises are good. Last year I had two brain-surprises collide in on me all at once. I was sitting at a conference having just learned that my husband had been fired. From a Church. I had no Brain-Bucket for that. There was no scandal, no job performance issue or moral failing to lead this Church to fire my husband, so my Brain was trying to process this whole new idea, and I have to confess that my dominant concern was expiring health insurance benefits.

Lost in my own health insurance woes, I was vaguely aware of something being set up on stage. A microphone and a chair and a guitar. And then a guy came out on stage. With no arms. No. Arms. This fact will be important in about one sentence.

He sat down and began to play Amazing Grace. With his feet. On the guitar. Beautifully. Not a modified-for-the-feet version of Amazing Grace, but a fully strummed, gorgeous rendition of this hymn. No. Brain. Bucket.

I had no way to explain to my brain that a guy was playing the guitar with no arms.

His story was then shared – he was born in Eastern Europe, where no arms was seen as a curse. Not only on him, but on his family and anyone who touched him. The result: He was turned over to an orphanage, but received virtually no touch, no cuddling, no attention beyond the absolute basic essentials of food and water. At eight months old, his medical file had not only his date of birth, but also his anticipated date of death. He was languishing, his body too weak to survive for long. He had been Brain-Bucketed as the cursed child with no arms and no future.

But a couple here in the United States got word of his file. They applied to adopt him. They were told they were crazy, that he’d probably die before they got him home and most assuredly thereafter. Still, they surprised everyone’s brains by saying “we want him.”

At age 8, his mom saw that he loved music. So she bought him a drumset and hired a drum teacher. This is the part of the story where, as her friend, I would have lovingly reminded her that HER SON HAD NO ARMS. So drums might be, you know, not as practical as, say, a set of headphones to feed his musical interest. My Brain has no Bucket for buying drumsticks for a boy who doesn’t have fingers to hold them! Thankfully hers did.

Because he thrived. He now plays eight different instruments, all of which traditionally require oh, you know, ARMS. It kind of put my health-insurance woes in perspective. It was still a hard year to rally from a job loss and the pain of separating from your home church, but I can’t tell you how many times my mind went back to that boy on stage. Playing Amazing Grace. With his feet.

He surprised my brain. His mom surprised my brain. Life surprises my brain.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I get really comfortable with my set of brain-buckets and everything fitting within “what I already know”, but really, really I’d far rather live a life that my brain has to catch up to.

Norway, Yes-Way

May 27, 2014 |

What’s not to love? Water? Good. Mountains? Good. Waterfalls? Good. Snow-capped mountains? Good.

A few eyebrows raised when we told people we were going to Norway. Norway? What made you choose that? Well it all started with a fjord, and back to the day I didn’t even know what a fjord was. Fjord (pronounced Fi-yord) was just one of those words I would have nodded along with if someone was talking about it, eyes glazing over because I didn’t really know what they were talking about.

But a few years ago I made it to my first Fjord, which is basically a steep canyon cut by glaciers and plunging a mountain into the sea – or, put another way, a sea inlet surrounded by steep mountain cliffs. Translation: my idea of perfection.

My first Fjord experience was in New Zealand – another land rich with, well, EVERYTHING GOOD AND LOVELY. Including a Fjord called Milford Sound. Words fail to describe the happiness I experienced in that majestic place, especially amazing considering the deep unhappiness that had settled in my heart in that life-stage.

I was basically spinning and dancing in glee in that magical place, and my amused husband laughed as I exclaimed “Fjords are my new favorite!” With a twinkle in his eye, he introduced me to a whole new wonder: There was a LAND of Fjords called Norway. Norway? As in, my place of heritage? (My mother’s name was Berg, Norway’s second biggest city is Bergen, so basically, I might be a long-lost Norwegian Princess. All things are possible.). At the least, perhaps a love of mountains and ocean plunged together is just part of my DNA.

And so was born the dream to come to Fjordland, Norway.

We didn’t know if we’d pull it off on this trip, but a string of luck and google diligence and hope all blended together to get us on a cruise ship heading TO and THROUGH Norway’s Fjordland at a fraction of the cost it would take for us to backpack our way through the majestic landscape. We booked the tickets under a “last minute special” about a month prior to sailing, and it took all of my willpower not to mentally check out between the time of booking until the time of embarking.

I was going to Norway. To Fjordland. On a boat – a LUXURY boat! That would carry me and my love and all our STUFF and FEED US and oh heaven smile down.

And Norway delivered. Amidst both rain and shine, in true Nordic fashion, my heart was lulled and wooed by its ever-changing landscape. It felt like cruising through a storybook – with up to ten waterfalls sometimes in view, with my heart and mind racing to catch up with what my eyes were seeing, with days of sun for my feet to traipse and days for my heart to be quieted by the rain.

Our first stop was in Eidfjord, a small town with big views.

And perfectly marked hiking trails. Their slogan should be “Welcome to Eidfjord. If you get lost here, you’re an idiot.” But seriously. Trail after trail, some back to mountain lakes, some alongside the river, some winding through farm and field, and some stumbling through ‘rough pastureland’, filled with too many colors of green for me to count, where the loudest sound was my own footfall. Where, as I took in the new landscape, I actually said out loud “I wonder if this is how babies feel all the time – when they are seeing something new for the very first time?”

Oh, and the red homes – painted that way because once upon a time it was the cheapest color you could get your hands on. Left over waste from copper mines or something. Don’t quote me, but something like that. And here I thought it was a way to compensate for the often gloomy weather. Nope, just good economic sense. But still, a cheery and distinct flavor of many Norwegian homes.

The next day brought us further north to Alesund. The clouds were high, but ever present, keeping us close to town instead of exploring the further wildlands of this area. Which was okay because Alesund’s true claim to fame is its Art Nouveau architecture.

Here’s the story: In 1904, the town burned down. The whole thing. All of it. Charred to bits. Because an oil lamp was knocked over. The Germans were among the first to respond with help, and determined to help them rebuild. Art Nouveau was apparently “the rage” with its intricacies and distinctions, and that became the dominant focus of their new architecture. The effect has stood the test of time. It’s truly whimsical. A town of 40,000, it’s one of Fjordland’s biggest cities, but their downtown still has the fairytale feel. Our big event of the day was a 418-step climb to a viewpoint that really did pay off.

And then, oh then … Geirangerfjord.

We were on the first tender boat off to explore this great land, and before the sun had risen over the tallest mountain peak, we were a-climbing. Again, as in France, giving me the heights in meters is so helpful because I always say “that’s nothing”, until I’m huffing and puffing my way up a serious climb.

Oh the glory. AND THE SUN!!!!! Every ray was like a hand-wrapped gift. Even the locals were exclaiming about what a rare day it was. AMEN!

Geirangerfjord was like melting Switzerland into the sea.

Also, the baby goats. Took a bit of time to catch this little fella, but he cozied up after a few bleats of complaint while Mama-goat contentedly ate on nearby.

We climbed a total of 750 meters (see, doesn’t that sound way better than 2500 feet when you’re standing at the bottom and looking up?) to Losta viewpoint and then to something-something-fossen, which means Waterfall. My Norwegian is pretty awesome. After then RACING back down the mountain (ouch), we caught a local bus to experience the famous “Eagle Bend Road” with 11-hairpoint turns

so you can see THIS. Seven Sisters Waterfall just behind us there. Or something-something-fossen in Norwegian, if you prefer.

THEN (yes, Geiranger was a FULL DAY) we stayed on the bus up towards Mt. Dinalsnibba, which was still closed for the season due to snow still being unstable, but we made it about 2/3 of the way up, to about 1000 meters, and enjoyed a few minutes in a winter wonderland, where yes, Jason got smacked with some snowballs due to my awesome aim.

That night’s cruise through the Fjord was just beyond words. I mean really. We eventually stopped taking pictures and just soaked it in because it was just like “Really? Really? Just more and more of the pretty.”

And then Bergen. Bergen only gets 60 days of sunshine A YEAR, so my expectations were pretty realistic there. Actually, I was kind of excited to experience it in the rain because it’s known as one of the wettest cities in the world. And boy was it! Poured on us the whole time, so we didn’t go too far, but we did have fun sloshing through its streets, picking up a Christmas ornament, one of our favorite things to collect as we travel, and shaking off the wet as we returned to our “cozy” ship.

All that, and every night on a luxury liner with five-star food, four-star accommodations, and the best company of all. And no, I don’t just mean the chocolate martini and the live violin music. Though that was also a nightly favorite.

Norway? YES-WAY!

That Time I Snuck OUT of Paris

May 14, 2014 |

My Grandma wasn’t what you’d call a share-er. I can still remember how careful we had to be about what we ate at Grandma’s house, because there was our food and her food. This isn’t to say I didn’t love my Grandma or even visiting her home, but sharing just wasn’t high on her virtue list.

Except for one thing. My Grandma loved sharing the world. Her living room wall was adorned by a giant world map, covered with pins pointing to the places she’d visited. At the age of 82, my Grandma is still adding pins to that map. Over Thanksgiving last year we had the most fun googling a possible trip she wanted to take across the Trans-Siberian Railway.

My first semester at college was a biggie – I jumped straight out of my childhood bedroom and into a dorm in Israel. Because precocious.

About mid-way through the semester, I got an email about my Grandma. She wanted to share. Money. With me. The Grandma who didn’t like sharing her can of green beans wanted to give me a thousand dollars. If I used it to travel. And only if.

Well I’m no fool. I rounded up two friends who were game to extend our semester abroad by a few weeks and pop over to Europe. The first $50 of that $1000 was spent on a backpack that was all-too-gigantic for this girl.

Me, Natalie, and Gil traipsed (I told you, traipse is my word for Europe) (link) throughout Greece, Italy, Switzerland, and France. There are so many moments and stories from those three weeks that greatly shaped who I am. Including my palette for travel. Me thinks Grandma knew exactly what she was starting. And I like to think I will someday be the Granny with her world map pricked by multiple pins.

But Paris. Who sneaks out of Paris? This girl.

See, Paris decided to go on strike while we were there. Everything shut down. Including ATM machines. Paris isn’t exactly a society that invites you in for free. And I was far too proud to use my mom’s credit card. Foolish youth.

So we had a few coins in our pockets, and that was it. Natalie and I bought a bottle of water and a baguette to share, and that was our fine meal ala Paris.

The one commodity we had left was our Eurail passes – good to at least guarantee us a night on the train. Any train. Bound for anywhere but there.

And so began the quest to depart. A bit tricky with all the strike-business. Turns out that the trains were still running on schedule, but you couldn’t get a reservation because of the strike. But you couldn’t get on the train without a reservation. And so it went.

The train platform looked like the old movie scenes of people making runs on the banks in It’s a Wonderful Life. And two blonde girls (yes, I was once blonde) jostled and elbowed along with the best of them – with the help of some hefty backpacks.

It didn’t take long to catch on to the scheme. We were told that once the train departed, it was reservation-shmeservation. We just had to get on it.

Attempt number one was a blunder. How do two blondes jostle fifty pound bags onto a train inconspicuously? Answer: They don’t.

We snuck onto that train three different times before we made it past the steps and into an actual compartment, where we huddled with a Brazilian couple who had also snuck on. Without a shared language, we all communicated quite well as we huddled and waited for the rhythm of the train to get. us. OUT. I can still remember us rocking back and forth to the early huffs and puffs of the engine, inwardly chanting I-think-we-can-I-think-we-can-I-think-we-can, very much hoping we would be the little engines that could indeed just leave.

As the train sighed its way out of the station, we all exhaled deeply. We’d made it. Escaped Paris. The City of Lights. Strikes.

So this week I reclaim, dang it. I’m going back to Paris. With my own credit card. And my man. And a hotel reservation. And all the grown-up-things that the last 16 years have taught me.

Paris, I hope you are kind. I hope you love me back this time. Let’s both make Grandma proud and earn you a proper pin in the map, shall we?

Mama Always Said

May 11, 2014 |

Mama always said not to take a drink from a stranger. I think she had 45 proof alcohol in mind. But I don’t think she had Claudius in mind.

Claudius is the keeper of the Refuge de Chavan. His personality fits the name. I guess seven years of maintaining a refuge chateau in the middle of the French Alps probably has a way of either confirming or creating a personality of refuge.

The Chateau sits at the top of a hell-bent climb. 800 meters up sounds so different than 2600 feet up, but feels no different on the legs that are climbing up the rock-strewn path (that, incidentally, turned into a rock-laden stream on the way back down since the snow was melting off).

Just as you clamber past the rocks and the snow, right when you’re ready to call it a day, you climb out of the tree line, enter the bowl amidst the mountains, see the peaks you’ve been working towards, and turn happier feet towards the refuge of a cabin with some tables out front for the hungry hiker and some friendly French faces sharing the trail.

One of our favorite things to hear as we travel is “are you lost?” because it means that we’re off the beaten path, that tourists don’t-come-round-these-parts-too-often. Good, we hate feeling like tourists. The three French hikers asked us that precise question as their broken English and our Joey-esque French was exchanged.

No, not lost. Staying at a friend’s cabin in La Cheverie, near Lake Vallon – a tiny locals hideaway that serves as a ski town in the winter and hiking wonderland by summer. We were there in the middle of both, as our hike involved quite a bit of snow.

From the Chateau, we followed the three frenchmen up a steep, snowy embankment to a ridge that allowed us to see down the valley to the other side, and to the beginning of the Alps range.

Without snow shoes, it became time for us to turn around, which involved side-stepping/sliding back down the snow to catch our breath again at the Refuge de Chavan before continuing.

Claudius came outside to greet us amidst our feast of apples and cheese. He explained – via hand gestures and broken English – that he’d lived there for seven years, winters included. And in the winter, the snow would sometimes cover his roof. He would then go in and out of his home by way of the skylight, some thirteen feet above us. Food and firewood were stock-piled for winter, and he said that men from La Cheverie would ski in with bread from time to time.

Amazing. A life like that. Interrupted only by occasional passersby. I sat there and tried to imagine it. I saw my husband’s eyes sparkle at the thought. I wonder – would I find or lose sanity?

Claudius then brought out some “prune de montagne” in a clear green glass bottle with some alpen flowers adorning its side, and little clay shot glasses. “To warm the heart”. Well, I was ready for anything that wanted to warm my heart, my hands, my nose, my ears. Bring it.

“Oofta!” was all that escaped my lips as I downed the amber liquid. Jason and Claudius both enjoyed the quick intake of small breaths that followed. But oh did it warm. My ears, my throat, my chest, and most certainly my heart.

Refuge de Chavan. Is it the man, the mountain, or the 45 proof alcohol that provides such refuge? Perhaps a little of all three.

Mama always said not to accept a drink from a stranger. But I don’t think she had Claudius in mind.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama! And don’t worry, I follow almost all your other advice!

Brooke Mardell

where sass and sacred collide…

adventure