Preparing for the Camino

On Monday, Daniel and I leave to hike across the northern part of Spain on a medieval pilgrimage known as the Camino de Santiago - the Way of St. James. God willing, we hope to walk a similar path that people have been traveling for over one thousand years.

The pilgrimage we have chosen to walk is 500 miles. At the start, I will be 16 weeks pregnant.

It feels like more than coincidence that we committed to our trip and bought our airfare just five days before we found out about the pregnancy, a completely unexpected and mixed-welcome life change. Personally, I have known and strived toward my own Camino since I learned about it in 2010. I had recently run to the contemplative wilds of Alaska in an attempt to more securely root myself in the sudden adulthood that I felt thrust upon me with the death of my uncle. Mortality and weakness were real and slowly afflicting those who had always encouraged, protected, and nurtured me. With my uncle gone, I felt the first icy chills of time blowing from an eternal winter through the void he left behind. A torch had been passed that I was not strong enough to protect, and so I ran to Alaska and learned about the Camino.

While there may be one route across Spain (actually, there are several), no two pilgrimages are the same. Every person on the pilgrimage is unique and walking through a portion of his or her own story. Even a return pilgrim approaches a different Camino, as they come during a different chapter of their life. The sentiment of the Camino is similar to a saying by Greek philosopher Heraclitus, "You could not step twice into the same river," in that both the flow of the Camino and the pilgrim are different. Some people view the Camino as a life challenge, others a spiritual quest, and others still as a tangible point of transition between life stages. Perhaps I was drawn to the Camino for all three reasons.

I returned to Seattle and waited. I focused my resources toward becoming myself and stepping into the adulthood from which I had previously run. I worked a stable job, I built healthy boundaries in my relationships, I created a place of safety in a garden studio in the beautiful Ravenna neighborhood. At the end of three years of stability and growth, I reached a natural transition point where I could pursue my Camino, a journey I hoped to be a celebration of my struggles. My Camino was rolled into a longer trip where I planned to visit four countries, Iceland, Spain, Nepal, and Thailand. My trip lasted three weeks in Iceland, before I returned to the United States for various reasons. Rather than complete the Camino, I moved to Maryland and got married instead. As a promise to myself and each other, Daniel and I vowed to return to walk to Camino together at the end of our time in Maryland.

That time is five days from now.

As I reflect on what we are about to do, I can't help but remember my Camino that wasn't. I planned for that Camino down to the mileage I would travel each day. Having spent the prior three months hiking and mountaineering, the question was not if I would finish the Camino but how long it would take me so I could move on to the next thing. I wanted that Camino to reflect a spiritual journey, but realize now that I was limiting what I could learn through my own assurances. Irony is the fact that I didn't even make it to the start of my journey before returning home.

That version of myself is contrasted with the me who is approaching this journey. While my bag is well planned and packed, my preparation for the physical strains of walking 500 miles has included a general sense of nausea, living off rice cakes and macaroni & cheese, and sleeping an average of 13 hours a night. The mirror reflects a body that I do not know, one that changes daily to grow and nurture the life inside. I expand, I ache, I fluctuate between periods of energy and fatigue. I cannot guess what the path ahead holds and if I will be physically strong enough to meet the challenges. I hang my Camino plans on the hook of "God willing" because this path feels outside of my control. I approach with humility.

Perhaps we do not choose our own Camino. I thought my first Camino was the perfect time to mark a point of transition in my life, a transition away from chaos. But now, standing on the precipice of one of life's greatest changes, my second Camino has already taken a depth that was not available in the first. What will the days ahead hold? How will I walk daily, carrying not only my backpack, but also the promise of a unique life? Am I strong enough for this task? For all the tasks laying ahead?

And so we prepare for our Camino, balancing excitement with panic and opening ourselves up to the unknown. God willing, we move on toward Santiago.

Appalachian Trail in the Fall

Beginning the trail, near Pennsylvania

We wandered south, starting in PA and finishing toward the end of the alphabet in WV. The entire weekend was 40 or so miles, all south of the Mason Dixon Line. Years before, the trunks of oak and hickory witnessed men in blue or grey, skulking, hiding, running, killing, as leaders played chess with lives. We carried backpacks instead of guns, vigilant toward views and fall colors. That rustle to the left or right, clearly caused by a bird or squirrel, whispered a story of autumnal industry rather than terror. We hiked peacefully while the woods echoed a violent past, producing a memorial or trench one second before you could get fully lost.

Was it worth it? The whole practice felt more like homelessness than adventure, missing the element of raw beauty that Washington hiking delivers. The wilderness we encountered were the wilds of a violent past rather than untamed expanses. Over battlefields, leaves stoically grow and fade, marking the passing of years through a kaleidoscope of greens, yellows, reds, and brown. We passed through woods, fields, and towns, never far from development striving to forget. It is easy to believe the only reality worth experiencing is our evolved now, the ultimate enlightenment from centuries of darkness. We walked the periphery of a cultivated present day, straddling the weeds of battlefields and third-growth forests alongside pastures, lawns, and neighborhood soccer fields. 

There are too many layers here, all leaving deep gouges in a land too smooth to hold our past. We have tamed these woods and cut a two-thousand mile garden path from head to toe, forming this land into what we want rather than what we have been given/taken. It's too easy to feel important here, to role play God as we cultivate a landscape that echoes back what we want to hear. I craved the hallowing silence of the mountains but was given the bark of neighborhood dogs and rush of traffic. Rather than forgetting myself, along the AT I'm forced to consider the permanent fingerprint of what we leave behind. 

End of our trail in West Virginia

Sketchbook Memories: Octavius' New Hobby

The late afternoon sun hit the postcard and illuminate the idyllic lake-and-tree picture of the upper peninsula. Marty sighed. On the last day of school, Marty and Will decided to penpal over the summer while he was away in Michigan. They promised to write each other every week, even if nothing exciting happened. So far, Marty had written seven postcards to receive nothing in return. Should he continue to send words that seemed to fall on the deaf ears of his friend?

Marty sighed again. A promise was a promise, even if his friend didn't write back. He placed the postcard in the mailbox, flipped up the flag, and turned to walk back down the gravel lane. Even if he was not Will's best friend, Will was Marty's closest friend in California.

The move had not been easy. Marty didn't care for his new step-father or the fact that he had to move from one side of the country to the other right before starting middle school. True, living next to the ocean was not a bad perk, but it was all so different. Marty felt lonely more often than not, and he missed being surrounded by his cousins. Meeting Will gave him a break from the nagging desire to hitch-hike across the country and leave behind his new life in California. Will taught him how to surf and skateboard, as well as where to find the best ice cream on the West Coast. If California didn't always feel like summer, Marty would miss spending lazy sunny days exploring with his new friend. But Michigan had cousins, sailboats, and biking through the woods until the sun set or the mosquitos sucked dry your last drop of blood.

Maybe it was silly to be angry or disappointed. Marty was having fun in Michigan, and he was glad to share his memories with his new friend. If he wrote enough enticing letters, maybe Will would even come visit for part of next summer.

Still, though. Seven letters. Marty knew the post office might lose one or two here and there, but seven consistently? That would be cause for rioting in the streets and an overhaul of the whole mail system. No... maybe Will just lost track of time in the land of sun and beaches. Every day starts to feel disorienting-ly the same, and seven weeks could feel like two days.

- - -

Nothing. Not a thing. 

Junk mail, sure. There was always junk mail and those credit card offers that fueled his parents' fire pit. But no letters. Not from Michigan, not from nowhere. 

At first, Will would check the mail with excitement. Now, it was just a ritual on his way to the beach. Will was sure that Marty would have been different than other want-to-be penpals. Shoot, they both read letter correspondences of famous dead people and joked about their own letters being published someday. 

Unfortunately, you can't publish nothing. And that was the extent of Will's correspondence with Marty. True, he wrote a couple of letters at the beginning. But it was difficult to keep it up with no returned discourse. You can't keep firing ideas out into the void like that. His last letter was four weeks ago. Four pages. Filled with J's in different script. If Marty wasn't reading his letters, at least he could practice his handwriting skills. Now, Will could state proudly, without refute, the ability to reproduce a perfect J in 237 different scripts. How about that for fame? 

Of course, he would forgive Marty of the many reasons or excuses given for not writing. Life happens. But after getting that all sorted out, he might torture his friend for a little while with script quizzes or another viewing of "Helvetica" before letting on that everything was okay. 

Sketchbook Memories: Fishy Drifters

Sigmond was at a complete loss at their surprise. He had been telling them of his plans for months. Even still, the Accounting Firm of Oceanic Investments' manager doubted Sigmond's bravado at leaving, not only his very secure job, but also his very safe home at the coral beds. Why in the world would he not settle down to raise a few hundred baby seahorses of his own? What could he find out there that wasn't offered by the Firm?

Still, the lure of the ocean pulled him like a mid-August current and he knew his path would be decidedly different than the thousands of extended family making up the Firm. Barely looking back, he trudged his suitcase to the far, far coral and waited. 7:03 his pocket watch told him. The taxi should be arriving soon.

Sigmond chuckled to himself as he remembered the puckered look of their faces. He, Sigmond Bartholomew XXIII of Investments Group 437, leaving in search of more fish and the sea. Who could have guessed it? Should his travels go well, perhaps he would consider making good on a friend's invitation to visit the surface. What would they think of him then?

He checked his watch again. Where was that blasted taxi? The watch read 7:03. Worthless thing, this pocket watch. With the salt water corroding the gears year after year, it was a surprise the watch held together at all. He kept it for the sentimentality. This pocket watch was a gift from his late father, and even though it never told the time, Sigmond liked having it near him. The round watch filled his pocket nicely and gave him something to do if he got one of his nervous spells.

Now, for instance. He practiced taking it out and putting it back into his pocket with the refined swish of his tail. Out, in, out. 7:03. In, out. There was comfort in knowing every important moment in his life happened at the same time, never a second too soon or too late.

A sound reverberated through the coral and Sigmond turned his head. Ah, the water taxi. Right on time. As the blurb, blurb of bubbles drew nearer, his heart quickened. This was it. Now was the start of his greatest adventure yet! With a flick of Sigmond's tail, the watch was back in his pocket and his luggage in tow. If only his father could see him now!

The Great Parade of Sins

It happens every Sunday morning since I was brought back into communion.

I wake up early to get ready for the new day and the liturgy. As I prepare to say my pre-communion prayers, a weight of doubt settles on my chest. In Orthodoxy, communion is not simply a matter of remembrance, but through the prayers and mysteries of the service, the bread and wine becomes the actual body and blood of Christ. Communion is not to be taken lightly, as that bread and wine is a piece of the Son of God, the essence of all life and goodness, swallowed and consumed for the healing and salvation of my very own body and soul. Preparation - prayer, fasting, confession - is necessary to receive communion, lest I drink and eat judgement and death upon myself. Have I done enough to prepare for communion?

The answer is always no, and thus starts a Sunday morning phenomenon that I have come to call my Great Parade of Sins.

First, I see all the non-Lenten foods I may have eaten on Wednesday or Friday (days that are set aside for prayer and fasting by the Orthodox church). Then, all the mornings I was in a rush, or I slept too long, and didn't complete my morning prayers. Next come my fits of impatience, my stubbornness, my frustrations, my unkindness and slander for the people around me. All the ugly characteristics I have embodied in just the last week are marching back and forth in front of me. Heaven forbid my thoughts dredge up anything from my past! Of course by this point, I decide that I have not adequately prepared for communion, I am not worthy to partake of the body and blood of Christ. In years past, this is the point where I give up, do not say pre-communion prayers, and remove myself from communion entirely, hoping to schedule a confession and do a better job next week.

This, of course, is never the correct answer. When I have made this decision in the past, I realize my error halfway through the service as everything in me yearns for participation at the communion table. I have removed myself, now standing sad and mute at the back of the church. Why am I even here? I sometimes wonder, in moments of dark despair.

As a protestant converted to Orthodoxy, I hold a tension inside my heart. In regards to the communion table (and my personal salvation), this tension is between works and grace. My protestant upbringing balks at the idea of preparing for communion. Divine grace, it yells into my ear. Forgiveness through belief alone and not works.  Throughout the Gospel and the apostle Paul's letters to the early Christian churches, there is a tension in understanding God's movement toward us and our movement toward him. In protestant beliefs, this tension has been interpreted as an opposing binary between faith or works. On one side, there is only grace activated by our faith. God moves toward us, but only after we invite him to do so. In many circles, this invitation comes through a simple prayer consisting of several sentences. Taken to the extreme, the belief that God only moves toward us has lead to controversial (and some would argue, heretical) doctrine such as predestination, Calvinism, and the total depravity of the individual. The responsibility of grace and love is entirely in the hands of the Divine toward us lowly humans. Sadly, in circles holding these beliefs, there is very little grace left over to extend love to those around us.

The other side of the protestant binary is work based faith, or participation in religions that focus on good works as a means to salvation. Through our actions, we move toward God and the promise of paradise. Catholicism and Orthodoxy are lumped in with this description, though since converting I realize this is a labeling of the "other" by protestant doctrine rather than a belief held in the Church. My preparation for communion - prayer, fasting, and confession - can be seen as works (they are actions that I do or do not perform). The binary of my protestant upbringing whispers that completing these actions makes me worthy to participate in communion, while failing removes me. The tension between works and grace remains in my heart as I watch my weekly sins like a Sunday morning soap opera of guilt and shame.

No, I am not worthy to participate in communion.

A wise woman once challenged me on this thinking. "Who gives us the right to determine if we are worthy or unworthy to partake in communion?" Her words stay with me now, years after she confronted me. Rather than remove myself for fear of my own sins, I begin my prayers of preparation. The words strike at the chords of my heart, drawn taught with the works/grace tension. Like the leprous man who approached you, so heal my leprous and sick soul. Like the woman who touched your garment and was healed, so hear my prayers and heal me, though I be sinful and unworthy. Reduced to the simpliest meaning, each line breaths a simple request: Lord, have mercy on me.

I think on my week, the sins now parading around the living room and the kitchen, and feel the request deep in my heart: Lord, have mercy on me. As I struggle with knowing if I should take communion or not - if I have adequately checked all my boxes (I never have) - I focus on and repeat the words of the prayers: Lord, have mercy on me. When the time finally comes to receive the body and blood of Christ, to uproot my feet and move toward the chalice, I walk in the faith of God's grace and goodness. My great sin parade marches in front of me, now frantic and waving every arm and banner, shouting my unworthiness at a deafening screech. Their concerns are well placed: I walk like dry grass to the fire, a cold fear emanating from the black base of my heart, judgment and condemnation await me, the sinful and unrepentant. Still I approach, fixating on and crying out with every movement of my breath: Lord, have mercy on me. Lord, have mercy on me. Lord, have mercy on me. 

A portion of the divine, a fragment of Christ himself, is spooned into my mouth. I chew and swallow. As the prayers promise, I partake of the fire, though I am dry grass. O wonder! I am refreshed and not burned, as the bush of long ago, which was in flames but not consumed. Thankful to the depths of my soul and heart, my parade takes its leave and I sit in the light that is God's grace toward his creation. This grace is real to me. I am not burned or destroyed, though I am unworthy to have God dwell in me. I have not adequately prepared for communion - I have not fully repented my sins - and still God enters under the roof of my soul. If my faith is works based, I deserve damnation, judgment, and death for my sins. But, through faith in God's goodness I approach, trusting in real grace, real love, and real forgiveness. I have cried, Lord have mercy, and for one week more, God has answered my heart prayer and drawn me closer.

Week after week passes. My sin parade still visits me on Sunday mornings, and still my heart cries out its prayer of desperation. Again, I partake of God and am not consumed, but left in awe of the mystery that is God's love toward creation. The tension in my heart is loosening, the divide between works and grace blurring into a different understanding. I am beginning to experience terms that were always too abstract before: faith, forgiveness, and grace. The requirements and standards put forward by my church intensify my belief. The standard is there and I am here, far below, looking up at what I am meant to be. Every week, I fear condemnation. Every week, I breath repentance. Every week, I approach the chalice with faith. And every week, I experience God's forgiveness and grace. I turn to a new week with thanksgiving and conviction. Perhaps this week, I will do a little better - I can love better, be more disciplined, and more earnestly remember paradise in all that I do - by the grace of God who gives me breath to whisper: Lord have mercy.

When Math Wins

Today, I did the unmentionable and betrayed the indolent adolescent in us all.

This day, April 28th, 2014, will go down as a day of victory for high school math teachers everywhere.

Today, I applied SOC-CAH-TAO to a real life situation.

I know, I know. How did this happen?! you wonder, incredulously. See, there was this ladder... and a loft bed... and the legs on the loft needed to be cut, but the distance cut from the ladder was unknown.

Trial and error is a dangerous method to employ when cutting real life wood with a real life saw. The wisdom of that proverb "cut once, measure twice" hangs heavy when the object modified is a $300 bed frame and the consequence determines whether or not your new studio apartment will work for the next two years.

When first considering the problem, I felt the faded and lurking memory of the Pythagoras Theorem rise to the front of my memory like oil slicked across the water of my mind. Right-angle triangles floating on pages of old math books, taunting me with squared a's and b's equaling c's matching pencil drawn triangles. I quickly pushed the theorem away in search of a different solution.

I turned to Google. How do I cut an Ikea loft bed and ladder? 

While the internet offered many parent opinions on whether the bed should be modified, it lacked concrete measurements, ratios, or equations to correctly make the cuts. Even with technology jumping in to dominate every area of my life, it appears I would still have to do my own thinking for my modification. So, remembering 10th grade math class and the quirky Mrs. Anderson, I now Google searched a refresher to SOC-CAH-TOA and a pattern for a printable protractor.

With a tape measure, pencil sketches, and my incredibly sad printable protractor, I am determining the length cut from the ladder of my loft bed given the decreased length in each of bed legs, not so unlike a test problem I worked out 15 years ago.

And, because I have to measure twice and cut once, I even have a method in place to check my work that involves a weight on a string and a leveler.

sigh

Math, today you win.

MaddAddam Book Review

After finishing this book, I read both the good and bad reviews to help sort out my own thinking on Margaret Atwood's conclusion to the Oryx and Crake trilogy. There is truth in the bad reviews. If I was expecting the deep and complicated world of Oryx and Crake or the Year of the Flood to continue in this novel, I would be disappointed. If I wanted to continue getting to know the previous main characters (Jimmy, Ren, Amanda or Toby), I would be sad how one dimensional or not at all present the characters have suddenly become. In MaddAddam, Atwood does not give us the conclusion we have been wanting. 

She gives us something better.

In the previous two books, Atwood shows the destruction of a world through two different viewpoints. In Oryx and Crake, we see the world inside the corporate compounds and are drawn close to the master of the apocalypse, Glenn/Crake, through the narrative of his childhood friend, Jimmy. In the Year of the Flood, the world is further explored outside the compounds, in the black market free-for-all known as the Pleeblands through a resistant movement known as God's Gardeners. As the story concludes in The Year of the Flood, the characters in two seemingly unrelated stories turn out to be very intertwined through their pasts and are joined up again in the present, post-apocalyptic world. As it turns out, even the dystopic world is a little too small for comfort. 

For most readers, myself included, the anticipation leading up to the release of MaddAddam is the question as to how these characters will deal with their sudden re-acquaintance as well as to continue living in the pre-virus world of the past. This expectation toward drama and conclusion is precisely what Atwood refuses to deliver in the third book of her trilogy. After I get over my own frustration at not receiving what I wanted/expected, I realize that Atwood's approach moves the story much further forward, and offers a stronger and fuller message than if she were to stick with the approach present in the previous books. This is why: 

1. The world the previous characters have known has ended. As much as I want to go back, as a reader, and continue exploring the corruption, greed and violence that led to the present collapse, it is pointless. I have already been back in that world twice. If this book seems to lack the intricate plot and complex characters of the previous two, is it perhaps because the day ins and outs of survival can be boring? 

2. The questions the characters (and the readers) are struggling to understand are unanswerable. Why did Crake kill Oryx? What were the motivations and reasons behind Crake's destruction of humankind? What happened to all the other characters that didn't survive? Why did they have to die? Are they still out there somewhere? To be given conclusion to these questions would not be honest to the present world the characters are struggling through. Crake is dead and unfortunately, he didn't write his motivations into a journal. Families with a missing loved one rarely receive conclusive news that their husband/wife/child is in fact dead. This is one of the reasons this dystopia is so believable. Just like us in everydaylife, the characters in MaddAddam have to deal with the frustratingly unanswerable and choose what to do moving forward (if they do, in fact, chose to move forward).

3. Finally, and perhaps the most important reason why Atwood's approach with this book and reader expectations is incredibly well crafted: this is not a story about Jimmy, Toby, Ren, Amanda or any of the other previous characters we have know and may or may not have loved. Everything we need to understand these characters has been given in the previous two books. Their stories are about the ending of the world that they knew and their luck (or unluck) at ending up in the present time of post-apocalypse. MaddAddam is about the future, about life after the dust settles, about the building of mythology and culture, and the adaptability of humankind and the strength to move forward even in the midst of extinction and tragedy. 

The more I think about what Atwood is doing in this novel, the more I love it. There is beauty in the simplicity. The exchanges between the survivors and the Crakers is hilarious and endearing. Atwood captures the irritating frustration adults sometimes feel when faced with the insatiable 'why' of a child piecing together their world. Her skill in first building a complicated world falling apart and then speculating how to see that world through the new eyes of a different culture is brilliant.

As others have mentioned, this is not a stand-alone book. You will need to read the previous two books to gain the backstory on the characters and the plot. I enjoyed this book and highly recommend the whole trilogy to anyone who likes dystopia or speculative fiction. 

Silliness: Part 2 - The Build-up

The heartbreak, loneliness, disappointment and exploitation I felt in Scotland didn't sink in in any meaningful way. In the following years, I perfected the art of leaving and hatched farther fetched and more ridiculous dreams of traveling the world.

At 18, three months after coming home from Scotland, I landed on the Western Washington University campus my freshman year of college only to pack up and transfer to community college nine months later. In the first month of my freshman year, I tried to move out of the dorms and into an apartment with high school friends only to have the move vetoed by my parents. My college career continued to scatter as I attended one community college to transfer to another in Seattle, to finally land at Washington State University in Pullman to then transfer to WSU - Vancouver one year later. At the end of five years, I had attended a total of six higher education institutions and moved nine times, with the tenth move landing me back at my parents' house in Bremerton. 

My ideal career path was just as scattered as my home addresses. I graduated high school thinking I would pursue education, then switched to biochemistry and pre-pharmacy, only to finally graduate with an English degree and bucket loads of science electives. I wanted to be that teacher in the African villages, then the pharmacist doctor who would deliver drugs to poor countries, only to give it all up in a large dream to walk around the world volunteering and writing poetry to make a living (because, you know... volunteer work and art sell). My boyfriend and I called it "the Plan" and drew a line from one part of the world to the next. I would have been happy to pursue English teaching abroad with him, however he became more concerned building a professional life after college and I landed back home in Bremerton, trying to decide if I would volunteer with this organization or that, take this career path or that, and generally, hatching a plan to leave Bremerton as quickly as possible.

Rather than understand my desire to leave, I believed the scheme came from a love of the world, experiences and adventure. This belief was not unfounded or entirely incorrect, but there was something deeper there as well that I refused to address. Like the need to keep moving even while in exotic or new places. Or the inability to think further ahead in my plans than the landing of my feet in a new location. In each of my adventures, I left a very small margin of error with both my finances and my safety. If anything went wrong, I didn't have savings to do more than get me back to Bremerton.

The plans grew more and more radical. Six months working with street children and former victims of prostitution in Kathmandu. Dead-end job with Raytheon Polar Services in Antarctica for six months, live-aboard and sail the world in the six month off season, repeat. Nursing degree followed by career as traveling nurse indefinitely. On and on the dreams piled with some catch as to why I wasn't off living them or setting them in motion. Rather than invest in one dream or the other and focus, I would float until I couldn't anymore and frantically run toward the option easiest to execute. I remained in flux, either between the desire to leave or the return home when things didn't work out as I had planned. I was making a career of dead end jobs, a scattering of college classes leading nowhere, and the ability to leave at a moments notice.

After nearly two years of floating in Bremerton and around Seattle, moving another five times, and working a total of four temporary and semi-permanent jobs, I'd hatched the perfect escape plan. With $5,000, I was going to live in Mexico and Central America for at least 18 months. I would work on my Spanish skills, I told myself. I would decide if I wanted to work in Orthodox ministries or live in a monastery, I told myself. I would come back finally knowing if I wanted to go to graduate school and what to study. I convinced my friends and family this was not running away, that I had purpose and plan to this trip, and that I would do my best to include them all in my travels.

These were not lies as I fully believed the reasoning myself, but there was something deeper just under the surface of my good intentions. This something peeked through as I sorted and got rid of nearly all my possessions. The feeling of escape was tangible as I either waved goodbye or completely ignored people in my life, be them on good terms or bad terms. While still trying to love and honor my family, I was also trying to annihilate history and ties to my Washington hometown and city. This was to be the ultimate of all leavings, and I hoped against return unless to cuddle a nephew or celebrate Christmas with the family. Good riddance was the phrase held in my heart as I left. My attitude that peeking something sabotaging my intentions and spinning this trip as my greatest movement yet.

Four months into my trip, I landed back in Seattle for my uncle's funeral. I was home for 10 days before I left again, this time for Alaska and this time very much aware of the fact that I was running away. In the face of death, I could no longer keep up the pretenses of movement for adventure and the alleviation of poverty. My noble intentions now stripped away, I was forced to view my budding legacy as that of a professional runaway. With the finality of my uncle's death, I finally experienced the bitter taste left behind the person who leaves.

Exhausted, confused and suffering a little bit of PTSD, I returned home from Alaska after four months. My thermos was dry, my crackers were gone, my uncle was still dead, and I needed to finally look at why I couldn't stay in one place for longer than 3 months.

Silliness: Part 1 - Scotland

Life has a way of being silly. Given the plot twists and turns since my 30th birthday, I'm not sure that I can say much with conviction in regards to life plans aside from this: expect silliness.

For years I have been trying to leave. I would say that it started when I got my passport as a junior in high school and traveled to Peru, but that is just when my ability to travel grew to an international scale. The truth is, I was the kid who would irrationally pack up my few prized possessions and flee home for the smelly bit of woods near the sewage stream, the shelter of trees behind the neighbor's wooden fence, or the hallowed out stump/cabin near our neighborhood playground. A brother or two would always follow me on bike, disclose my new secret home to the parents, and convey messages from my mother that if I didn't get home in time for dinner, I would be grounded. The logic of this doesn't make sense, come home now or be grounded, but neither did my new life as a gutter renegade. For instance, I had no plan on how to get water when my thermos ran dry or where to get food when that package of saltines was fully consumed. I always returned home and just in time for dinner. 

As I got older, the home leaving schemes grew larger. At 15, I learned of a fellow 15-year old who started teaching in villages in Africa. I almost badgered the news sharing missionary into telling me exactly how this could be arranged before realizing that my parents valued education and would never support a scheme that didn't have me finishing high school. At 17, my boyfriend introduced me to the idea of crewing for a rich person's yacht, traveling the world and serving various forms of alcohol and food to the 1% while they were around, and enjoying port and boat while they were not. I nearly married the chap for his perceived connections within this high-brow boating community, knowing exactly which states allowed underaged marriage without parental consent, before my puritan fear of sex scared me into acting otherwise. Thank goodness for my parents and that fear. 

At 18, I finally made good on one of my plans. In February, I accepted a nanny job in Scotland, set up independent studies for the classes I still needed to graduate, withdrew from high school, bought a one way ticket to Scotland using funds borrowed from the aforementioned boyfriend, and boarded a plane for Edinburgh foot loose and fancy free. What I didn't see while leaving were the worried and teared up faces of my parents, the devastated look of my childhood friend upon learning that we may not be walking together at graduation, or the general confusion and hurt from countless mentors, teachers and adults in my life that wondered what in the world was going on with me. It took me about a week of performing nanny duties inadequately, experiencing British aristocracy as the serving class, and communicating home (infrequently but enough to realize that life does go on without you) before I finally realized what it really means to run away. 

Or, looking back now, I wish I had learned what it meant to run away. Instead, when things started going badly with my job, when I started feeling homesick and nauseated at the opportunities and friends I'd left behind, when aforementioned boyfriend didn't in fact wait for me and I had no friends with enough history and investment to help me through the heartbreak, I ran away again. This time, from the home of the family where I was working and into the home of my adopted Scottish grandparents until my parents helped me buy a plane ticket home.

My adventure in Scotland consisted of 4 months of employment and 2 weeks of recovery before arriving at the Seatac airport, just in time for prom and graduation. While I learned important lessons about myself and the world on that trip, my desire to leave stayed strong. Thanks to my parents, I'd made it home in time for dinner, experiencing few consequences and never really learning what happened when the thermos dried up or the saltine crackers package was empty. 

Mental Breakdown, My - Brief

Last weekend, I threw a handcart at a UW parking official.

It was somewhat provoked, and I'm sure if more people had handcarts at their disposal this would be a common occurrence for him. I jumped in my car and drove away before he could print the ticket and give it to me. Of course, my trunk was still filled with the heavy boxes of resources I was trying to drop off for the College Access event I needed to start in 30 minutes. I was running on my fifth consecutive night of less than 5 hours of sleep and lugging the boxes from our free parking location back to the building seemed more daunting and depressing than my decided action.

Having just fled the UW parking official, I stopped my car not 20 feet away, around a corner, and threw the heavy boxes and bags of buttons onto the UW lawn. I drove away very aware of the fact that I was snapping. Professionalism be damned. UW parking official be damned. My job, my life in Seattle, everything that I'd built in the past three years be damned. I was done playing Atlas, shouldering way more work responsibilities than I was being given support, recognition or compensation to justify the 50 to 60 hour weeks.

I drove home, transitioned into biking gear and returned to campus for the boxes on the lawn and the event that was now going to start late. As I rode, the only condolence I could give myself was the conviction that after my event, I would finally send out the email of my resignation. I planned it all out in my head: I quit. Short and simple. To the point. No room for negotiation.

I quit. As I breathed the phrase in, I started feeling the tightness loosen in my chest, the weight lift off my shoulders. I cried, briefly, either from the wind in my eyes or the release of stress I'd been holding close for so long. It's true, I was embarrassed at snapping, at losing my professional cool at some sad parking official who probably hates himself more than the people he treats badly. But I'm glad for the breaking and the embarrassment... they were feelings, at last. I'm not a robot: I can still break if pushed too hard. I'm not an alien: I can still engage feelings of embarrassment, loneliness, relief and hope.

Back on campus, I retrieved the handcart and the boxes, still exactly where I left/threw them. I started the event with partners, distributing resources and beginning conversations with students and parents about colleges and the financial aid packages they had been offered. Someone from a partnering organization said that I looked like I needed a hug. As the event went on, I remembered why I was doing my work. It was for the students and their families. It was for the partners who helped support all the resources we brought to the schools. It was for the fact that I actually like program management, evaluating successes and failures, brainstorming strategies to make our programs relevant, better. And it was for the belief that education can lead to social change, that each student holds a potential to change the path they've been given and that perhaps a college education can help them get there.

I didn't end up quitting. I'm still at my job, though I don't feel as stuck as I did before. I'm committed to a 40 hour work week and calling sick days for meltdowns. I can make it to June 30th, when the company sunsets my work and lays me off, rather than terminating my own employment. I'm committed to finding ways to feel human, to connect with people, to gain my bearings and space in this city before I leave.

I need to find the present. I need to be here, now, especially when life is the most frantic and busy. I need to cut those puppet strings attached to people willing to use me up and start dancing for myself. Then, I'll be able to climb to the rooftop and sing out like Pinocchio: I've got no strings! and like those blessed Harmoniums: Here I am! Here I am! Here I am! 

If I quite myself enough, I can hear the answer in the wind or the sun on my face: So glad you are.

I'm only loosely attending to work today and only as it happens to fall in between cuddling my niece and playing trains with my nephew.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

It's a paradox, living in a city with roots. I cross a bridge in February and the sun hits the water just right, illuminating the leafless trees filled with crows watching the canal for who knows what. The water, one minute stoney grey the next emerald blue, shows you a depth in the flickering of a second. You have crossed this bridge and seen this light before, many times before. And still, in the throes of your busy day, it stops you cold - in the cold - as if you had never seen a canal, a crow, or a flickering of a second so beautiful. In this moment, with the buildings and trees suddenly grown up around you, you realize you know this city and it knows you.

When I was growing up across the water, we took a ferry to the city. On our boat, we would watch the wild and unruly slowly come into view around the last bend of island. You could feel the change in the boat and the water.  The waves would grow strong and rock us back and forth as we hit the open waters of the Sound, no longer safe in our inlets and bays. Making those open waters, the engines would rush us forward to the foot of skyscrapers and city lights before depositing us among aquariums, homelessness and too many seagulls. Somewhere on these docks I begged a classmate to leave a dead bird alone. He stepped on the bottom half and I heard a pop of bird insides flooding past decaying bird skin. I ran away plugging my ears to the pop and the laugh, cleansing myself with the vomit that followed. But I think the tears were really a fear for my classmate's soul. Some rule of life was broken that day, though I couldn't explain what and can't remember my classmate's name. My stomach still churns and my ears hurt a little when I turn the corner to the aquarium. I try not to look at the boards that once held a little bird's body - try not to wonder if a stain of life could outlast the rain of 20 years, or if that is really just an old piece of bubble gum greased into the wood.

The family trips took us to the Market and we would eat peaches and honey comb while men threw fish and musicians begged for dinner with open cases, cello strings and a baritone to break a thousand hearts. I have a family photo with cousins lined up and on and around a brass pig as if it were a prized pet. We are tanned and grinning, creating a memory around the stoic and metal face. Carrying my first found tulips of the early spring, I see him in the market. He is still stoic and still brass, photo bombing countless memories of families, lovers, and Seattlites who find themselves in the market at night - too intoxicated to drive and too late to bus home. I nod to him and feel the sense that if pigs could, brass or not, he would nod back.

Followed by these childish outings were the right of passage trips. Dropped off on one side of the water with a group of friends to ferry alone and roam the Old Navy, Sees Candy, Westlake Mall as group consensus deemed fit. As a pack, we would suck down the first sips of adulthood while still too young to drive. One birthday party trip was in late August. Our group of six galavanted the piers, the Old Spaghetti Factory and the market. The boardwalk lights dripped with magic and the sunset whispered romance to our adolescent ears. If I walked a little faster or slower than the other four, I could almost convince myself I was alone on a date with my childhood crush and that maybe he thought so too - the city held that much hope and opportunity. Quickly walking the same pier, I see the spot where a summer job clown broke the magic by calling me freckles. I remember the rage of that adolescent self and feel warmth that at one point, wonderful was as simple as city lights and matched pacing.

Biking along the Burke-Gilman, I see the place where I was once a wife. It wasn't the first home we built, but it was the most successful out of the three. Still, the walls were barren, the kitchen untouched, and boxes left unpacked and begging the question if either of us wanted the arrangement to work. His boxes were full of momentos from girlfriends. I was too young to own boxes, full of momentos or no. Ghosts of me fight with ghosts of him and further along, another ghost of me wanders the streets at night, wishing for a worse worst - murder, mauling, suicide - to brush the boundary of what could go wrong so I could handle my current bearing, or wouldn't have to. A mile up the hill, I run past the house that provided escape, companionship, and a return of hope. My childhood friends and I would drink vodka and sit on our porch couch, watching the buses irreversibly shuffle residents between stops. Both houses have been torn down and replaced with buildings more friendly to family growth and development in urban sites. Still, past versions of myself wander between the locations, trapped in love, despair, happiness or hopelessness.

In the thick of it, I build a home for myself. It is the most successful home I've had, a basement studio apartment approaching whimsical. I have a job and steady income - at least for the next 5 months. In these walls, I've built a place where I can create myself free of the memories. And yet, I leave and there they are, in nearly every part of the city. Some happy, some terrified - they live out memories like windows of gold against the landscape. I see in their eyes glimmers of wonder, hope, love. I think of the things they hold dear, the fights they endured, the tenacity of their character. I wonder if I have impressed them, if I have done the most in my present to honor their struggles. If I was the happiest present, if I could build something to outlast their golden shimmer, would they finally fade into the distance? Would this city finally be my own?

The paradox is bitter, almost like a catch snagging a nail on a new sweater. Is the very thing that binds me to this city the very same thing to drive me away? Am I continually drawn back, unable to survive without my roots, my saltwater canals, my mountains and yet, unable to live once I'm here? Can I build something that doesn't have the threat of blowing down or away in a year's time?

And yet, I know this city. The lazy February sun will be enough to pull the cherry blossoms into spring.  The crows will watch the canal and the bridge I walk across will, with the budding season, lift for sail boats and summer water traffic. From those leafless trees a brighter and stronger green will grow until the Emerald City regains it's name. With shards of me so hopelessly scattered about, can this city believe in the same growth in me? Will warmth bring out my blossoms?

Valentine's Day Cynicism

Love is throwing yourself into a volcano for those last moments of happy togetherness. (Image lifted from  the Reduced Shakespeare Company.) 

It's Valentine's Day.

At this point, I'm cynical enough to dislike the holiday and old enough to not care. There are some wonderful things about turning 30, the least of which is the death of teenish hopes in romantic gestures by people you barely know on a day that wouldn't be important if Hallmark didn't deem it so. Seriously, guys. It's not romantic, it's creepy. Don't let Hollywood tell you differently.

Of course, my first boyfriend might say that the very same cynism was around even during my adolescence, terrified as he was to give me flowers and chocolate only to have his jugular ripped out by the sight of romantic weakness. Instead, he shaving creamed "Happy V-Day" down the side of my parents' giant blue Astro van while I was finishing an AP Chemistry test. I stayed at school late that day, running an experiment or a study group of some sort. By the time I saw my surprise, the rain melted the script into a somewhat menacing and snarling frowny face. After I puzzled out the meaning in a nearing twilight, I was quite flattered.

The next Valentine's Day he broke up with me. Could have seen that coming, right? I dropped high school and flew to Scotland for a nanny job, leaving the whole mess behind me. Ah, young love.

I know it's a self perpetuating cycle. I clearly communicate that I don't trust men and their affections would be better spent on a less intelligent and easily flattered sprig in her early twenties. (I don't believe that she is less intelligent, of course, but perhaps due to insecurity, she presents a hyper-femininity to stroke a weak male ego and years of male attention have reinforced this persona into a strongly fortified shell against the potential of who she can be.) They do this and I'm left disappointed. The inability of men to puzzle the question "Why the weak ego?" or "What is wholeness and growth?" an apparent epidemic of our 20th century culture.

Of course, I create the world I want to see. Lately, that world has been riddled with male entitlement, porn, weakness and addiction. But, if I breathe and draw a frantically bitter mind off the brink of a destructive worldview and back into my body, I start to see a different scenario. My impenetrable shell of under attachment and cynism isn't due to the lack of pursuing and eligible suitors, but a deep desire for a break from it all. I want to be single. I need a pause in my life, where I can live life for me, pursue the dreams I have, and see where it takes me. In what ways am I allowing entitlement, weakness and addiction run/ruin my life that I'm blind to and not addressing? This is the question that expands out of my chest when I take a breath and it holds me in the present. Where is my ego weak and sensitive to the slightest provocation? Where am I stunting myself to wholeness and growth?

It would be nice to be doted on, Valentine's Day or not. But perhaps I am doted on already by family and friends but I am not in a place to understand or accept the doting. A short list consisting of the following comes to mind, to make this statement more truth than hypothesis:

• Last weekend, I had surgery to remove my wisdom teeth. For two days, my dad offered to blend anything into a liquid that met my fancy. Soup, french fries, cookies, fish sticks. Nothing was safe from my dad and his blender. 

• Several days ago, a very close friend offered to pay for an Avalanche class because an upcoming layoff has left me more than little worried about finances. 

• My two month old niece is a relational prodigy with her recently developed smile. She coos to get your attention, studies your face, then responds with the largest of aunty melting smiles. 

• In the International District, the first of the boldest cherry trees have started blooming. Fragile and new, they brave their pink against the incessantly grey February sky. 

My question this Valentine's Day is not in regards to woe and bitterness but rather, how can I fully dote on the people in my life who mean the most to me?

How do you dote on the people who mean the most to you?

Letter Anxiety

I love to travel. I love the feeling of complete freedom as I wander from town to town, ride on buses with locals, or finally uncover that wonderful smelling bakery in an alley on cobblestoned streets. Traveling brings on a constant feeling of wonder and surprise, as you are quite literally seeing every building, street, river and mountain for the first time. I'm not content to store all this wonder away for myself, so one of my favorite ways to bring my travels to the ones I love is through letter writing. Postcards of Scottish castles, letters written from the roof of a hotel overlooking Lima, or local art sent from San Cristobal de las Casas. Most often, these are the gifts I share before I return with the awkward clay pots, shawls and other souvenirs from my journeys. Traveling is an easy way for me to feel alive so I can then share that life with others.

Unfortunately, I've been in a bit of a traveling dry spell since my journeys of 2010. I run to stay in motion, I hike to explore new corners of the Cascades and Olympics, I try new activities to meet people who otherwise wouldn't cross my path. However, most of my time is spent in the same handful of locations, wearing down ruts into the routes I traverse daily. If I think about this for too long, an itching, nagging anxiety starts to claw at my chest and I feel depressed and stifled. I've read too many books on spirituality and gone through too much counseling the past two years to allow that anxiety to rear it's head for too long. No, best to find local ways to fill the needs that traveling feeds while cultivating a thankfulness for this period of rest and healing.

And so I turn to letter writing and its partner, envelope decorating.

By writing letters to friends and family, I have the freedom to show my experience of Seattle to someone new. I may have to work harder, but there always seems to be something - a building, a drawing, a new turn of an autumn leaf, or the ground covered in shattered chestnuts - that I haven't noticed before. Can I capture this image in a few sentences to loved ones? Can I use my box of 24 Crayola crayons to capture this moment on the envelope? Sometimes I get one right without the other, sending decorated envelopes filled with fall leaves hoping the recipient will understand the gesture and accept the leaves as letter enough. But then again, maybe I'm like those eccentrics in the park feeding the ducks and muttering to themselves... instead of ducks and muttering, I recluse in my apartment and send decaying tree matter to people who may or may not have once given me their address. Oh dear, am I on my way to becoming the crazy bag lady?

And so in comes the new anxiety. In an age where you can voyueristically find anything about anyone in under 5 seconds without actual contact, is letter writing too intimate, too archaic? With every envelope I decorate and letter I write, I run the risk of the receiver just not getting it. Whether this is a fault of the postal service machines munching your letter to bits before delivering 10% of the original to the recipient, or incorrectly assuming the person would receive the letter as a friendly hello instead of invested love interest, or even more incorrectly still, becoming that reclusive bag lady sending really odd things to people who may read the dying leaves as a threat against their lives. Is my letter writing manipulative, clingy, or even threatening?

On top of that, writing letters and coloring envelopes takes a lot of time. Each package is like a tiny masterpiece being released into the world and placed at the mercy of the postal service and recipient. Will I get word the envelope arrived safely and is well received, like a nervous parent waiting to hear their child reached a desired destination without catastrophe? Not liking to send the same words or images to two different people, I have to worry about pairing the recipient with the right letter. Will they see the value of the letter or open it, read the contents, and throw the whole mess away? Maybe this is why very few artists make their medium envelopes. Maybe I should see this as part of my personal process to better let go of the impermanent and cultivate deeper stability in myself without response from other people.

But seriously, who wants to do that? Instead, I take a picture of the envelope so I can have some record of the idea, the art, before sending it out to the unknown. In 2009, I called the collection of pictures "Letters Without Lovers" because at the time, it was a new exercise to send letters to family and friends rather than the all encompassing and time consuming significant other. Now, I wonder if this title better captures my anxiety of sending a letter to someone who may not love it as much as I do. Perhaps this collection is a way for me to love my art regardless of the response from the recipient, and hold a piece of it close while also sending it away to bless the world as only beauty and imagination do. In that spirit, I share my envelopes here for your amusement. Not because I'm searching for some form of validation, but because I think they are beautiful. If I had all the time and crayons in the world, I may find a way to send an envelope to all of you.

Joy of Autumn through the Eyes of a 2-year Old

Any day I get to hang out with my nephew is a special day. Last weekend, my brother and sister-in-law invited me to come with them to the farmers' market near my home. Having successfully cleared my morning of previous engagements, I enthusiastically agree to such an outing. My nephew with loads of fresh produce and fall colors dripping from trees under a sapphire sky? Absolutely, positively, yes.

I ride my bike to the market and get it chained up right as my brother is parking. In the back seat, my nephew is looking out the window with a blank stare. I wave to him, watch as he first scrutinizes the person waving at him, recognizes me, and then starts bobbing around in his car seat, pointing and exclaiming what I can only imagine is "There's Aunt Katie!" with much squealing and laughing. Heart melt... now.

My nephew is turning into an amazing human. He is two and a half, speaks in full sentences, exclaims with pride his complete success at potty training, and runs circles around us like a smiling, laughing, energy-filled moon of happiness. He loves life and his joy is infectious. Of course I'm biased, but I notice people watch him, smile, and seem to love life a little more because a two year old is thrilled by bins full of "appos." I get to re-experience the autumnal world through Aidan's eyes, as we run from booths of many colored tomatos, to apple bins, to small pumpkins all lined up and gleaming, to the harmonica-playing-guitar man for a dancing intermission and finally, the deliciousness of an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie the size of your head! How wonderful to be a small human, if only for the joy of food disproportionately large!

After the activity of the market, I invite Todd and Sarah to my apartment. We drink water and talk while Aidan explores every cabinet and basket available below 3 ft. He finds boxes, bags of art supplies, weird head massaging devices and a container full of beads. We watch Aidan very carefully lay out several small boxes and start emptying the beads into a new system of organization that makes sense only to him. Sarah tries to intervene as about 15 separate tubes of beads find themselves into the same box, but I can only laugh at Aidan's correct assessment that yes, the objects present are all beads and should be classified as like. I thank Aidan for the re-organization and the daunting task of separating the beads, and he dutifully responds with "You're welcome."

Aidan has been a gift to my family. He is the first of hopefully many children from my siblings and cousins (who are like siblings to me) be they birthed, fostered, adopted or just picked up along the way. While we mourn the death of my uncle, it is refreshing to have the tangible evidence that life is cyclical, that a new generation moves into the space left by the passing of the former, and that while two distinct bookends mark this thing we call life, there is so much joy and discovery in between what could be 10 years, 40 years, or 90 years. I don't understand why, but this is the way of things. The deep pain of loss, of longing for the creation of more memories with a beloved uncle/father, son/husband/brother/friend, cuts through the noise of life and makes the moments of joy more real, more profound, more precious. Death and separation gift us with the urgency to re-prioritizing life. Birth and togetherness give us the means to enjoy that life to its overflowing brim.

In a similar way, Aidan has been a gift specifically for me.  The baton has passed and we, my generation of cousins, are now the adults deciding what traditions and family functions are going to remain important for the next 20 years. Perhaps I decide these things not so much for myself, but for the enjoyment of my little nephew, my parents and the larger family and friends around me. When I bump into my little nephew's temper, inability to stay still and focused, or his stubbornness, I put myself and desire to the side and make decisions that best guide him toward the little human he is going to be.  My childish narcissism has met its match with that of the new generation, and in love for them, I decide death to myself as best I can. Parenthood becomes our salvation, our awakening. For the love of this little, joy and awe-filled human, I can start my journey into adulthood, selflessness, the understanding that love can be unconditional. My nephew has helped me to see the importance of children in life, and perhaps given me the hope that should the stars align and the perfect circumstance present itself with the perfect person, I might have what it takes to be selfless, to love a child unconditionally, to become a better me through the purifying process of parenthood.

Whether parenthood happens for me or not, I get to experience a fraction of this process with my nephew right now. I sit down in front of a box containing a kaleidoscope of beads. The morning sun filters through my window, the steam wisps up from my mug of earl grey tea and I begin to separate the beads into their 15 appropriate tubes. Surprisingly, rather than frustration, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of thankfulness that I have this box of mixed up beads to remind me of the happiness and meaning my nephew brings to my life. Who knew a mundane task such as this could be a profound meditation on love, on the life my little nephew has brought to everyone around him. Thinking on this, my heart melts and I find myself just a little more enamored.

Writing Family Traditions

How should families spend their time once Santa has long since been revealed as clever packaging and an uncle eating your plate of cookies? What happens to family traditions when wine becomes the beverage of choice and all members are well above drinking age?

Answer: You convert 450 lbs of tomatoes into 260 quarts of salsa in one day. 

Labor Day, 2012 marked the 3rd Annual Trembley Salsa Making Fest. I'm not sure anyone remembers why salsa making started aside from the converging discoveries that canning things can be fun, too many tomatoes eventually go bad unless converted into something, and that my uncle Ron has an almost disturbing obsession with capsaicin. These discoveries - paired with several cases of beer, plenty of wine, 15 to 25 family members or friends-like-relatives, and about 20 knives and cutting boards -  birthed the Annual Trembley Salsa Making Extraordinaire. 

Our family has tried to make post-high school family traditions before with little success. We have the Painted Deer Classic - a bike ride that spans one side of Lake Coeur d'Alene and involves a deer chasing my father for nearly 5 miles - waiting for its second manifestation. There is the DATH, Day after Thanksgiving Hike, which started out strong with mountain summits reached in stubborn response to consumerism but has since dissolved into boardwalks and seafood fetching. I blame the lack of follow through for these activity-based traditions on the appearance of T3 into our family, the Next Generation. 

The Trembley Salsa Making Extraordinaire is different and contains the hope of longevity as a sustaining tradition for several reasons: 

First, my family loves food. As long as there is food, there will be too much food. As long as tomatoes grow somewhere in Washington, there will be too many tomatoes, too much salsa. 

Second, there is an obvious take-away to remind you of salsa epicness throughout the year. Last year, I took home 8 jars of salsa. This year, I took home 12. 

Third, who wouldn't jump on the opportunity to mix knives with alcohol in something that looks like a brutal murder scene with mom and grandma?

The last reason, is that the tradition of salsa making allows friends and family to play into roles otherwise denied them by the mundane of everyday life. 2012 starred characters such as Al the Angry Foreman, Derek the Salt - working for his people, the Tomato People (formerly known as the Garage People), Steam Pressure Jim, Rosie the Riveter turned Butcher, and many, many more. As hour after hour slips away into the same repetitive task - be it blanching tomatoes, squeezing tomatoes, chopping tomatoes or mixing it all together and completing the canning process - and as more and more wine is consumed, inhibitions are dropped and dynamics in the family reach their height of absurdity.

Salsa Making Cast, in order of appearance (that was a lie, the ordering is completely random):

Things change, and they should. The kids grow up, get married, and start their own families. Extended family gatherings become more difficult given travel times, nap times, and time sharing with in-laws. As couples plant their own family trees, it makes sense that they should branch out and start making their own traditions instead of relying on those of the larger family. In one sense, the distance away from how-things-used-to-be leaves behind a poignant sense of loss for those cousins and uncles moving on. In another sense, it leaves behind more wine for those remaining. 

Next year, we aim at 600 lbs of tomatoes. Bring it, Foreman Al. The tomato people are ready. 

Speed Dating Fails

Best of 8/19/2012

1. “We can still leave. Let’s go kayaking!”
“Well, we aren’t really dressed for kayaking. Let’s stick it out.”
“Alright, but I’m going to need a glass of wine.”
Bartender informs that Sunday nights are 50% off wine bottles.
“Oh no....”

2. “If you are leaving, you need to put your bottle in a bag.”
Bartender wraps bottle in a plastic bag, Thank You written multiple times down one side.
“Thanks...”
Complete registration and enter speed dating group, bagged bottle in one hand.

3. Email to registrants. “It is very important that you either show up or cancel with enough notice to fill your spot. We strive to keep an equal number of men to women.”
“How many people are registered tonight?”
“We have about 18 male/female pairs.”
Show up at my table along with another female, also numbered 19.
“Umm... it looks like we over registered females. Wait here until the men catch up to your numbers.”

4. “I was recently awarded the Speed Dating Facilitator of the Year. That’s nationwide.”
“There are two number 19, 20 and 21’s.”
“Hold on!” under breath “how is this happening?”
“Is this how you win Facilitator of the Year?”
Looks. Blinks. “I’m still ahead of Tampa.”

5. To group of 5 over-registered women: “So, who coerced you guys into coming to this thing tonight?”
“I don’t understand. I googled searched for it.”

6. Arrival of Bachelor #1: “I got here late. What are we supposed to do?”
“See, you have this sheet with numbers and people that correspond with each number. You talk with someone and take notes on this sheet, then you mark whether you liked them and want your contact information sent to them.”
Watch as my name is written down by the Number 1 slot.
“No, I’m number 19, so you write my name right here.”
“Thank you. You are so informal.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know, you know so much stuff.”
“Um... thanks.”

7. Each person gets 4 minutes to determine if they want their contact information sent to the opposite person.
“How is your night going?”
“Um... great.”
Awkward silence. Bells rings.

8. Four bags of candy sit on my table. Next guy approaches.
“Would you like a bag of candy?”
“Well, my brother is the organizer to this thing, so I’ll probably end up with all the candy anyway. Also, I’m fat.”
“Oh. I suppose you could throw it up later, if it’s a problem.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”

9. “So, do you have a 4 min schpeel? Did you practice any questions before hand?”
“No, I thought I’d just wing it and see how things go.”
Awkward silence. Bell rings.

10. Meanwhile, two tables away:
“Is Becca short for Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“Do you just not like your full name?”
“What?”

11. “What were you doing in New York city?”
Answer for 3 seconds before noticing the blank look and stare over shoulder, which happens to point toward a wall.
Still in conversational tone of first three seconds “and it doesn’t matter anyway since no one is listening.”
Smile.
No reaction from blank stare bachelor. Asks next question.

12. Awkward conversation #7: Bachelor offering suggestions on what a vegetarian could possibly eat in Brazil that is not bbq. Answer, vegetables.
“I think we really connected.”

13. “I just took a test to be a nursing assistant.”
“Oh, is that like changing a bedpan?” joking.
“Actually, there are 15 steps to changing a bedpan.”
E-how only has 6. I shudder to think what 9 steps are missing:  http://www.ehow.com/how_8280270_change-bedpan.html

14. Reconvening with Becca at the end to discuss the night.
“This is a rule. You have to circle at least 5 guys.”
“5!!?!?? I’d be hard pressed to choose one for another 4 min conversation, yet alone exchange my contact information.”
Ugh...

15. “Pancakes?”
“Pancakes.”