Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who lived in the Mediterranean. Most mornings she woke up, ate her breakfast, and had schoolwork to do... but *some* special mornings she didn't. On those days she woke up to hear her Papa calling up the stairs, "Everybody wake up -we're going on an ADVENTURE!" And then her mouth would put on the biggest grin it could hold, and she would climb down the ladder from her bunkbed. Sometimes she jumped on her sister's bed to wake her up (her sister liked to sleep in) and sometimes she helped pull her baby brother out of his crib (he was little but fat).... but she almost always started singing, because singing is what you do when you are happy in the mornings. She also ate, because eating is very important, at almost every time of the day. Sometimes she asked with a mouthful of cereal about the adventure, and her Mama would tell her not to talk with her mouth full. But then her Mama would give her a hug, and some fresh orange juice, and no one would be upset. And sometimes her Papa would say, "We're going to the mountains!" and sometimes he would say, "We're going to the beach!" and sometimes- these were fun times- he would say, "You'll just have to wait and see!"

After she was done with breakfast, the little girl got ready for the adventure. If her Papa had said "Beach!" she wore her swimsuit, but if he had said "Mountains!" she wore her tshirt and jeans and sneakers. But no matter where he said, she alway packed a water bottle, a snack, and a book in her small backpack, because her Mama said that is what you take on adventure. Then she would climb into the van with her brothers and sister in the early morning and start up the winding roads. Sometimes she felt sick, because the roads were very, very twisty, but her mom told her, "Roll down your window, sweet-pea," and so she did. Then the cool, fresh breeze would rush down through the pines and into the van and ruffle her hair. And the little girl would stick her face out the window as far as she could and take deep, deep breaths. If she went swimming at the beach, she let her hair loose on the way home, and it blew dry as they zoomed back to their little city.

The little girl loved the beach, and the soft warm water, and all the shells hidden in the sand. And she loved the mountains, and the tall singing trees, and all the flowers hiding between the rocks. But when she grew up, and friends asked her which one was her favourite, she didn't know, until she remembered one of the best adventure days ever. That day, her Papa woke them up early, and they went to the beach, and played in the morning sand. And then, just as they went home and thought the fun was over, her Papa made them pack their bags again, and they went to the mountains too! And it was so cold there was even snow on the mountains, and her little sister didn't even want to get out of the van. "It's an adventure," the little girl said, and brought her a snowball. When the family was finally tired of playing in the snow, they went back down the mountain to their house. And the little girl found bits of snow and bits of sand in her backpack, and was very happy. And she decided that one day when she was big and got married, she would also take her children on adventures to the beach, and to the mountains, and sometimes even to *both*, because it's fun to mix opposites and surprise people.

The End.

Anything new in your hand today?
Anything old
That could be regiven
Or for me retold?

All you need is the quiet
When I need the sound
Of your voice but it says
You just want me around

And the rift grows in my mind
Till you're here, I'm half gone
Cause I feel we're drifiting
When we don't row on

You're all fine
As I worry I'm losing you
As I sigh and pause
You say don't refuse
With no cause

When I go sad
And the silences fill
You reach out
And I find I'm found
Long enough to be still

When it's okay to be sad

Once upon a time there was a very grown-up girl. And as she grew up to get there, she realised along the way that she didn't feel what most people did when they felt it. So she decided to start telling herself what she felt.

"This is not a good time to be sad," she might tell herself in the morning, looking out at snow. "This is a good time to be sad," she might tell herself, lying in her bed at night, realising there would be more snow and more grown-up decisions in the morning. "This is a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the evening, surrounded by too many people who were having fun. "This is also a good time to be happy," she might tell herself in the afternoon, when she was standing on her balconey and looking at her new city.

And because she was such a grown-up girl, most of the time she obeyed what she told herself. She even started reminding herself what she decided- she had a sun-face towel that she would turn right-side-up on happy days and up-side-down on sad days. (Sometimes she decided to change partway through the day, and would turn her towel around. She wondered if anyone ever noticed.)

Sometimes she didn't have to decide anything about emotions at all- she *knew*. And she especially liked spending time with the friends that helped her *know* how she felt. She didn't need to decide anything- she just was sad or happy and it was okay with them. And she had other friends that she also loved... but she rarely knew how to feel around them. She had to decide how to feel when they said things, when they did things, even just when they walked into the room. When she spent time with them she felt like switching the towel face every ten minutes.

One day she realised that life was settling down. She no longer switched the towel back and forth so much, not even in her mind. If she could find a way in-between happy and sad to hang her towel, she would. Since she couldn't, she started leaving it face-up more. And she spent less time deciding how she should feel... and more time just living. And that meant that she felt sad more, because she spent less time being carefully not-sad.

But she felt sad less, because she had more time to feel happy.

And she was happy about that.

Once upon a time...

There was there was a teenager who wanted to move away from home.
Because she was tired of where she lived, because she felt caged in by sameness.
Because every time she moved, the picture of 'home' in her mind changed
The collage of that word kept growing every few years

When she was four, 'home' was a little crayon drawing in her little mind
A tin roof... wooden walls... a long porch
With little squares around the sides to mark where one Grandma's house white house was and where the other Grandma's red house was.

Over the years, more papers got stapled next to the first drawing

A square boxy white house smudged in chalk
A watercolour of a long cream house hugged by poplars and grape vines and flowers.
A coloured pencil sketch of a sprawling lodge in the woods

The teenager was still waiting in that lodge when the word came she was moving again with her family
She could barely believe it
And she wondered very hard what her new home would look like

When she arrived, it was a whole new kind
She wanted to add it to the collage.
But she had left some of her art kits behind at each other home

So she stood in the back yard grass, and looked at it
And she stood on the front sidewalk, and looked at it
And she even looked at it from above, in satellite image on her parents' computer
And she didn't know how to put it on paper

Until she found a small camera at the store
And took a photo of her new home
From the red tiled roof to the breezy living room to the friendly neighbor houses leaning next to it.
And she printed out the photo and stapled it next to all her other homes

And then she took another photo
Of all her homes stapled together
And she hung that photo as a poster in every house she ever lived in after that.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a preschooler who woke up too early
When she looked over, her door was not shut any more.
She heard someone on the stairs, and decided that the door had creaked open as they passed
So she sleepily sat up, pushed the door shut, and lay down again
She shut her eyes

But she always slept on her stomach, so she pulled her comforter up and rolled over
Then she heard a small noise
When she opened her eyes, her friend was suddenly, surprisingly standing just a foot away
And the poor preschooler gave a huge startle

And her friend laughed and laughed
And put down a big mug full of frothy coffee so it wouldn't spill while she was laughing at the poor preschooler
And she said, "haha! i'm sorry! haha! i just wanted to bring you coffee in bed! haha! go back to sleep! haha!"
So the preschooler woke up all the way, and laughed too
And drank her coffee

And decided it hadn't been to early to wake up, after all

Once upon a time...

There was a giving-up place. It had a small door with a lock on the inside, and two small eight-sided windows toward the path. And there was a stone wall inside the giving up place, right in the middle, so no one looking in the windows could see the people when they came to give up. And some days the door was locked, and when a giver-up pulled the handle, the door wouldn't open. And the giver-up would rest a hand on the door and think peace-thoughts for the giver-up inside, then leave quietly. But some days the handle would open, and the giver-up could walk inside and around the wall. And the giver-up might see another giver-up, or two, or three... and maybe they would share hugs and quiet help-thoughts. Or maybe they would read from the life-book together. Or sing quiet openness-songs. Sometimes they would do everything for a short time, and then leave, with a little more life in them from the book and a little more help in them from the thoughts and a little more openness in them from the songs.

But some early mornings, when there was frozen mist hanging between the mountains and the sky, a giver-up would walk down the path to the giving-up place. And the giver-up would try the door, and it would open. And the giver-up would walk inside, and there would be no one else there. And the giver-up would sit on the floor and watch as the sun pushed between the icy trees through the glass wall of the giving-up place.

And the giver-up would give it all up. And that would be enough for a heart for one day.

Once upon a time

There was a big girl who moved to the Middle East.
Her first day there, she could hardly pay attention to anything her friends said.
Because she used to live in the Middle East.
And it felt like home again.

The night before she flew there, she stayed up too late
She sat in the living room in her family's home, and she looked around at her brothers and sister and parents
And she wondered when she'd be back

It was a little after christmas
And it was so cold outside
But so warm inside
They had taken extra photos by the tree
Extra photos of fireworks and sparklers
Extra photos of extra cookies they baked

And the big girl wondered where she would be for the next holidays

At the airport, she handed her heavy jacket to her mom as she hugged and kissed her family goodbye
The plane was the same chilly that planes always seem to be
But when she touched down at the airport by the desert, she started feeling warmer

And the air smelled like it used to- loquat tree blossoms
And the air felt like it used to - a little salt, a little sand
And the air sounded like it used to- rolling syllables and rough laughs and haunting prayer calls from the mosque

And the big girl was content
But sleepy
It had been a late night
And a long travel day
And several time zones
And a plane ride full of quiet excitement

So just as the girl was looking wistfully at her quiet room with a small gecko on the wall...
Her friend tapped her on the shoulder
"Pack your backpack", she said
And the girl was surprised
She wondered if she had heard wrong

But she hadn't
And when she looked in the kitchen, she saw kebabs marinating
And when she looked in the hall, she saw folding chairs
So she asked some questions, and packed her backpack, again

And that night she sat by a campfire, surrounded by the desert dunes
And she looked up at the stars
And she wondered if they were the same ones she had seen as a little girl
And she reached out and hugged her friends
And went to sleep content
Because there was still a whole life ahead to explore

And whether she spent the next set of holidays back with her family in the cold weather
Or here with her friends in the hot weather
She was held in the palm of God's hand
And that was precisely where she was meant to be


The End

I wish I had something worth the telling. I am home. I'm not going anywhere. But my stories are getting smaller and smaller, and I think my own story is getting smaller, even as it's getting re-dimensioned. Smaller can be okay as long as it goes with faster, but what about when it's just a little swallow with dusty wings? Still tracing the telephone wires, still feeling the hum of the life-tracks, half wishing there was a migration south waiting. Wondering, though, if its flight pattern is simply to fly along other birds and bring them to the waiting warmth, chirp them into the nests of parent birds who know the wind currents better.

Once upon a time...

There was a song about stolen hearts. And it played through the house. Was hummed in the kitchen. Was guitarred on the balconey under the stars.

But there was no stolen heart in the house. The heart in the house was fine, more than fine if less than wonderful. What would being stolen feel like, it wondered?

And the song kept playing. It reminded the heart of beaches by afternoon... of mountains under pine tree mornings... of foggy unfamiliar noons. The heart knew where it was now, safe in the city, no where wild. It had taken vacations into uncertainties under the stars and tuggings by lamplight before, but never been stolen. Where would a stealing take place, anyway? Outside, inside, or standing in a doorway? Would it be pulled in from freedom, pulled out of security, or told to pause in the doorway of both, like instructions during an earthquake?

And would a heart know until later that it had been stolen? The song kept playing. Maybe it was giving hints of what was around the corner, like the door creaking open, like a warning to the strong that a thief was coming. Or maybe it was like one more dusk before the end of the end, too far away to worry or start packing. Take your time... take your sweet time.

Once upon a time...

There was a little girl who moved with her family to the Middle East.
And she was soooooo excited.
And her little brother was soooooo excited.
And their daddy was sooooooo excited.
But their mommy was sooooooo stressed.

And they had several months of happy explorations.

And then... culture shock.
And the little girl was just learning to read, so she escaped into books.
And the little boy was just learning to play legos and duplos, so he escaped into that.
And the daddy... he loved it there.

So when he did want to escape, he went to the market.
Or the airport.
Or the streets.

But the poor mommy had just had a baby.
And the poor mommy had two small kids at home.
So the mommy couldn't escape the house for long.

And Christmas was coming.
So she had an idea.

And she told the little girl to pull out the flour.
And she told the little boy to pull out the sugar.
And she put the baby in the bassinet to watch the party.
And they turned on music and started baking.

And when the daddy came home, the house smelled sooooo good.
And the daddy was happy that day, because there were gingersnaps on the counter.

But the next day when he came home, the house didn't smell like gingersnaps any more.
It smelled like peppermint.
Because the mommy had baked peppermint shortbread.

And the next day the house smelled different.
Again.

And years later, the mommy would give other new mommies hugs when they were overseas and stressed.
And she would say, "after a while, life will get better, dear.
And then she would grin.
And she would look at all her grown up, well adjusted children.

And she would say, "One of MY first Christmases overseas....
I baked 15 kinds of cookies."

And all the children would smile.
And kind of wish their mom would get stressed again....

we're not friends, or so i gather.
we're not family, so you say
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

companions on the road that was
in and out a northern day
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

thanks for all you did and were
lovely time, a pleasant stay
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

grace to you, good landing too
go with God, go as you may
(shake hands we'll say goodbye this way)

Busy trains
And railway track
Me and my
Abandoned pack

Lonely me while
Benches empty
No more tickets.
No one sent me.

Work to do
I'm told there's plenty
Here to do
To be contenting

Here I am
Till evening sunshine
Brings perspective
Slowly unwinds

Waiting people
Dirty tiles
Time announcements
Calling miles

Blending in
Grey trekker shoes
"Platform 5,
Non-travel blues."

Not down to obedience at the moment. It's direction...

"It's not about losing faith, it's not about trust. It's all about *comfortable*, when I move so much." (Sara Groves). Even a step beyond that song, a step beyond that simple dichotomy of motion or no. I'm not there any more. A month ago, at meeting, instead of finding out where I was going... I found out where I was. Not in the waiting any more, but not in the motion either.

I had a chance then to share my heart, say, "I'm a great loose cannon. I can go anywhere, do anything, without any warning-- and turn it into media. So give me a travel pass and USE me." And since then, I have been used, and have enjoyed it... but have no travel pass. Which means the question becomes, do I accept that or no? I can go back to living in waiting. Or I can 'push that door', knowing that there is no travel budget for work and I'll have to mostly solo it.

Or... I can settle down. "This place is many things, but I'd never call it home..." (TFK). I can get past that, move into a new apartment, join sports teams, help homeschool kids, keep working and brainstorming with media friends via Skype. I can save money for the future, dive more into language, make this a sweet home of my own, see how God grows me and friendships in the process.

Settling down like that... it wouldn't be a bad life. But do you really think two years of 'not bad' is worth it? Waiting, growing times are useful. We know this. But God grew me up with so much else, *soaked* me with so much different, and it seems so strange to waste that. A house is a house, and I am one of the expatriate, believing, community around the world. And you can add Persian carpets and Swedish bookshelves, Chinese teapots and African wall hangings, and make a welcoming haven, wherever you are.

But a treehouse stands out among magnolia mansions and glass highrises all the same.

i just never thought i'd grow up like this. i neglected to add in emotions when i painted the picture of who i wanted to be. i am nearly everything i ever wanted to be; i have nearly everything i ever wanted. i am a photojournalist in europe with a funky room, spiked hair and sunglasses, a bike, an ipod, a phone, and *freedom*. i can get by in six sports and five languages; i have acquaintances in thirty to forty countries.

and i'm sitting here in a coffeeshop on my own with my computer, skyping with one of my best friends and watching people walk by. if i could have seen five different snapshots of who i'd be at this age, i'd have wanted this life. and yet could i have looked at the snapshot and seen the uncertainty in my eyes? that when i walk back into my apartment tonight, it'll be quietly, because i won't know what moods or discussions my roommates will be in. (if i were to ask, i'd probably be told that it didn't matter- that i can be my own person and not react off them.) could you see the after-snapshot, when i carry my bike up the flights of stairs and wonder how far i can escape the next day. (escape with my computer, naturally, to find a new adventure and a new place to work, somewhere outside of this seven-month city.) rewind the snapshot a few hours to when the youth group and summer interns are hanging out at my apartment, and i'm hugging them and baking cookies and sharing stories. what is not to like about that? especially if you can't tell that i'm tired from too many late night soul-searching talks with a friend who's 7 time zones away and somehow is better at calming me down than any one else. do i look like i'm calm in all the snapshots, like i'm having fun, like i'm not going crazy inside because i've been in the same city for seven months and with the same people for seven months and both have essentially told me to get a life?

and most days, most snapshots, i am good. i am really good. but there was too much i didn't read between the lines when i scripted out this life. the prices for all those adventures and the process of building a life like this. and the person i've become while creating and maintaining it all. it wasn't a waste- it wasn't one big loss. it's been something incredible, but "in-credible" - 'un-believeable' tends to cover all areas, not just the moments when the grins are everywhere and the flash goes off.

check the fine print when you buy a life... blow up the photo and see if the resolution holds true, if the hidden pixels point out what you get to brush into every day.

ruins

rebuild a roof, sweep out the sand
ruin follows saving steps
move the rubble, make a plan
sweat and shift the rocks by hand
turn round to see them crumble down
was born to need to understand

i can't see the ground for all the dust
i can't see the stars for the dirt i stirred up
finally left alone on a rock
to lean back and look at my failures
to sit on a stone and have nothing to come

but more scratches on my skin
yesterday's burns i wouldn't share
or let you in, see me fail again
too little left of me already
to be enough as my shadow grows thin

and then the morning glory vines
start growing on the wall
and a song starts welling up
and soaks me like a waterfall
the walls - they come down for a reason
why rebuild? why rebuild?
despair is for a purpose
a blossom for each hope i killed
a star behind each hole i filled

why rebuild?

why rebuild?



(Lamentations 2:8, 19)

The LORD determined to destroy
The wall of the daughter of Zion.
He has stretched out a line,
He has not restrained His hand from destroying,
And He has caused rampart and wall to lament...
Pour out your heart like water
Before the presence of the Lord;

“At sunrise everything is luminous but not clear. It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. You can love completely without complete understanding. - A River Runs Through it”

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in an ancient northern city. In the winter, the snow hurled its fury at the walls, and only the inhabitants dared brave the streets. But in the summer- oh, the summer! Then the city was so beautiful and gracious that people came from the ends of the earth to marvel at the palaces and rest in the fragrant gardens. One day the girl was out on a walk with three friends. Oh, the sight these girls made as they wandered. One watched the sunset with melting brown eyes; another smiled through her long lashes at the birds in the trees. One tossed her glossy chestnut curls in the evening wind and the fourth laughed through cherry lips at the freedom of such an evening.

Suddenly, there arose an obstacle in their path. No longer could the four happy maidens walk side by side and converse sweetly. They must needs walk around two laborers and a carriage in the path. They carefully began moving to the side to pass, and as their bubbling speech paused, one of the men spoke to the other. The girl who lived in the city had learned some of the tongue when she moved there, and caught the word 'Touristka.'
"Ah," she thought to herself wisely, "They think we are tourists. To be sure, we are not blonde, and are not tall, and are not dressed in tall slippers, as are their maidens. But even were we clothed the same, they might have known we are not of their kind. Because- alas!- they can hardly ignore how our Anglo-Saxon words fall at a quicker, more lively pace than those of their Slavic graciousness...."

And while she pondered in this manner, it was as if one of the laborers had heard her very thoughts. And, indeed, were it not so, he must have noted their bonnie dark looks and warm nature. And he spoke to them.

"Buona sera."

"do you know what would make you happy though?"

Chatting with one of my best friends. She has the bright idea to ask this simple, pointed question when I am at a simple, pointed, crossroads in life here. Other people have asked me equally good questions, others have asked me at equally good times. But to combine both while it's almost 2am, I'm still awake, and my room is in a state of deconstruction because square furniture and halfpacked duffels are driving me crazy.... yeah.
reply.

"what would make me happy, in 450 words or less
a rail pass for the next 2-3 months
a small apartment, mine or someone else's, to dump my two duffels and two boxes of books and guitar in
and the good [digital] camera, my vidcam, and macbook in a maroon trekker backpack
and an iphone with continual work suggestions and contact numbers for our people across europe
and connections to shoot articles, photos, and videos to on a regular basis so my work would stay quality and in motion too
*spreads hands
that's what i want
maybe a hammock too"


funny how stepping back puts things in perspective. all i have to do now is pray about it, then talk all this through with my bosses and get approval, step by step... right?

“Is life so wretched? Isn't it rather your hands which are too small, your vision which is muddled? You are the one who must grow up.” - Dag Hammarskjold

nu ik alles kan bekennen
moet jij er nog aan wennen
dat het waar is wat ik zeg
streep mijn naam maar weg
- blof

roughly translates to
'now that i can admit everything/ you'll have to get used to/that it's true what i say/mark my name away'.

learning to mark my name away on any number of things. will admit honestly that a lot of what i do, what i say, isn't honest. it's learned behaviour, a coping mechanism. and to some degree, we all have to live with that. we learn to walk a little slower when walking with a toddler; we learn to cram two-year goodbyes into half an hour at the airport. but that doesn't mean we normally hold hands when stepping off curbs. it doesn't mean we normally talk 120 km an hour and memorise every details of eachother's faces. maybe we should.

but maybe we should learn to distinguish between reality and coping mechanisms. had a semi-shock moment this afternoon, realised how different my life would be if i had my own apartment. i'd known from near the beginning that i'd have roommates, so there was never really a time when i thought, "would i live differently if i didn't have built-in sisters/friends?"

not to say i've held their hands. they've held mine some, having been in this city longer. and we've had moments of memorising faces, or at least of savouring laughing and hanging out together. would we have had so many if we didn't room together, though? interesting to think that through.