Not All Who Are Lost Wander

spiritual warrior

2011-10-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

To be a spiritual warrior,one must have a broken heart;without a broken heartand the sense of tenderness and vulnerabilitythat is in one’s self and all others,your warriorship is untrustworthy.Chögyam Trungpa RinpocheShambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior.

9/11 ten years remembered-or is it?

2011-09-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

8:46 EST 9/11/01

Where were you, what were you doing, how did that day change your life? Have there been lasting effects to the way that you lived your life, or did the vows made fizzle away like New Year's resolutions? I think I can more closely understand how veterans of WWII feel, "the date which will live in infamy" has been lost on recent generations. On occasion, I ask what day that was-December 7th, 1941, the answer given is often right and often wrong. What is is about the human condition that we are so destined to relive our past, not learn our lessons and step forward into a world improved? I understand that 1941 was a long time ago to those born in the 1980's but, what about 2001? When the anniversary falls on a workday, I have tried to hold a moment of silence or at least acknowledgement of the day that so many lost their lives, so many vowed to never forget, to live a different life. The image of the most enthusiastic display of remembrance that I can recall, was from a dishwasher at the restaurant I had worked at in 2001 and 2002-on the one year anniversary of the attacks, the man we called "grandpa" a 50-ish year-old immigrant from Mexico wore a t-shirt with the American flag emblazoned across the front. He gave me a teary-eyed smile when I noticed his gesture, thanked him for remembering. We'd been working that night, the night when all the planes were grounded and the restaurant was open to offer a place for stranded business travelers to come for dinner, for a chance to not be alone on that day, the day we were all to be forever changed. I watched as men in business suits who'd just met shared tears, intimate conversations, vows to not let the little things slide and back-slapping hugs at the end of the night. I watched as my small German class gathered in our classroom and stared at each other silently with vacant eyes and listened as our professor spoke of spending the day trying to find out if her son and daughter-in-law, who were both commercial pilots, had been at the controls of one of the hi-jacked planes. We had come to class that day because we couldn't stand to be alone in our pain, bewilderment, fear and grief. We spoke little German in fact, we hardly spoke at all, just being there was comfort enough.

That day changed me-I decided once and for all and at great cost both personally and financially to end the controlling, abusive relationship I was in. I stepped forward out of a life that was killing me to honor those who had been forever robbed of the opportunity of choice by perishing in the wreckage of 9/11. I vowed to not let the little moments pass by...to cherish the blessing of each day, to cherish those whom I love and value.

Fast forward 8 years to September 13, 2009-a dear friend chose to end his life, I hadn't made that last phone call I promised to make, he died without my saying those words of appreciation that I'd meant to say. He left us all to pick up the pieces, sort them out as best we can and step forward to live, not exist, to love, not take for granted, to take chances, fail, succeed, be broken, healed, scarred, but at the very least, to live and not simply exist, ever taking from the world and those around us without a thought of giving back.

September 11 and 13 are my "dates that will live in infamy". Have I succeeded in my vows to be vigorous, courageous, appreciative, loving, giving and appreciative of those who make my life worth living? Sometimes yes, sometimes no but, my bruised and broken heart will forever remind me to step forward, to live despite the sadness or because of it, so long as I try.

9/11/2006

2011-09-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

Five years since the day the world changed forever. Five years since I stood behind the sofa for hours watching the T.V. reports too bewildered, shattered, shocked to sit down. I stood in defiance of the mess I was living in-refusing to ally myself with my own enemy who sat on the couch arrogantly claiming that we deserved the trajedy that was unfolding before our eyes. I stood watching innocence live and die before my eyes and I envied them all for their humanness, for their courage, their vulnerability. I stood in anguish as my heart was wrenched, my stomach turned, my skin crawled with compassion for those who suffered and frustration that there was nothing that I could do to intervene. I stood and watched as tragedy wove the lives of the diversity that is America together with threads of love. Love became the great equalizer, strangers embraced, rich helped the poor who tended the needs of those in between and we all suffered as one. I stood galvanized by the sheer enormity of emotion and vowed to live differently from that day forth, to find a way to honor those who suffered, to make a difference, to strive for every tear shed to have a purpose, a place of refuge. I could not fight with those who sought to survive, could not bind their wounds, ease their suffering, carry their burdens, search for their loved ones. But I could honor their pain by shouldering their sorrow, I prayed that my tears would lessen the number shed by those experiencing anguish beyond words. I stood face to face with the interconnectedness of the lives of humanity and vowed that I would serve those whose lives were cut short or forever shattered by not taking mine for granted. I stood in the quagmire of my poor choices, each breath was an apology, each day a penance for my mistakes, life was tantamount to mere existence. I stood and got angry at myself for the wasted days, the wasted life, the wasted potential. I stood ashamed, watching innumerable people pray for one more minute while I wasted years. My enemy left, I sat down, formulated
an escape and have lived with the impression of those lost, the anguish of strangers indelibly marked on my soul, seeking to take hold and live in a way so many never will.

Writing workshop with Barry Lopez

2010-12-26T21:27:00.001-08:00

These are my notes from a writing workshop with Barry Lopez at the Nature of Words Literary Event held in Bend, OR on November 6, 2010.

Barry opened by discussing the importance of integrity and being thorough in one’s work. He described himself as a person who is "not a type A personality but a straight A personality".

“A good teacher can lose their own points of reference and put themselves in the points of reference of a stranger.”

Questions to ask oneself when tempted to write:

Why do I want to write/tell this story?

Writing is a form of remembering, who we are, were or want to be-a process of integration to fight everyday’s tendency towards disintegration.

Writing is work that requires hunger/desire and discipline, things that can’t be taught.

The process of physical work and writing are not exclusive of each other, they are both processes that bring about integration within oneself and between the generations. From the work of our agricultural ancestors, our predecessors to today’s work which more seated physically than in the mind.

Writing is not about being smart; it’s about pattern making, the taming of chaos.

It’s the making of a pattern that brings about integration, a state of grace.

The real work of writing is to create something beautiful which makes the enemy irrelevant, to encourage others to be influenced by the state of grace, not ugliness.

Writing an essay:

The reader needs to know; where we are and that we are going somewhere, the setting of the story and the direction, a feeling of direction. Setting-think 3-dimensional. Think about moving the point of view within the volume of space.

Pattern making, it’s less about the right word and more about the integration of the parts and the making of something that is greater then the sum of its parts. Think fractals.

Use the power of connotation through the thesaurus. Choose vocabulary carefully and ask if every word is truly necessary. Write, write, and re-write. The process of thinking comes into play at the beginning of the re-write.

Clarity, rhythm, elegance need to be evident in the language. Tension is tantamount to the telling of the story, sagging in a high wire will cause the reader to fall off.

Create tension between the general picture and specifics of the story.

Memory:

In non-fiction, there are two vows: find out what the subject knows, respect the reader and find an elegant language and all the information you can find, putting it together in a memorable manner.

Prose can learn from poetry. Think of an adjective as a means to create dissonance in its sentence, which lends cohesion to the entire paragraph. A properly chosen adjective will “sink” through the paragraph and create

The ending of a sentence/paragraph can be inferred through the use of either a hard consonant to end or soft to infer continuation.

Suggesting to the reader the variety of things to consider, never use things that are the same size or color. i.e.: not zebra and gazelle, they’re the same size, use aardvark instead.

Use the power of the eyes; the music of your language is what makes your language beautiful.

What is the nature of the stranger?

Blessed Unrest-by Paul Hawkin

I feel that these notes are best not improved or imposed upon by my own musings and interpretation and that they will best suit the reader by posting them as I wrote them. Interpret as you will and write away!

What is Real?

2010-11-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

The Velveteen Rabbit
"What is Real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt/" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes." said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at onece, like being wound up," he asked. "or bit by bit?"
" It doesn't happen all at once, "said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of you hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
"I suppose you are Real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
The Boy's Uncle made me Real." he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

I wrote the following for a friends wedding years ago and thought it was worth sharing:
This passage and it's explaination of the journey of becoming real is the foundation upon which marriage is based.
The difference between those who become real and those who linger in uncertainty is the possession of the quality of courage. Courage to cast aside those things we can't control and to be free. To love, is to be free of worries about pain, about untruth, about losing your hair and having you buttons fall off.
Love is seeing with one's heart, feeling beauty with one's soul and being free to flow unrestrained towards oneness and love and ultimately, becoming real.
This process of becoming real is essential in relationships of all sorts, at work, home, in the community. May we all remember to seek to embody that which is Real daily and through the upcoming Holiday season.

solitude

2010-10-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

The Solitude of Loneliness

“Lonely is a funny thing...it's almost like another person. After a while, it'll keep you company if you let it." This line from “The Dive from Clausen’s Pier” (by Annie Packer) I find to be both convicting and comforting.

I moved to Eugene a year ago October and it wasn’t until February that I had friends in town to visit, or was deliberately social for more than a short run or dinner. Having visitors was a whole lot of fun and marked what I’d hoped to be the beginning of many more entertaining and friendship-building opportunities within my zip code. I felt like I’d emerged from a self-imposed social hiatus and wondered, what had brought me to spend so much time home alone and uninspired. These were the sentiments I’d intended to share on my blog last spring. I didn’t finish that post or follow through on building a social network locally. My summer was spent with the usual forays out of town for fun and being content with one person as my local contact for anything social. Now, I find myself back in the same boat a year later. I’ve grown in some areas, stepped up my career goals and skills professionally, but find myself home on weekends at a loss for social options. I sort of care, but not really.

Though I often revert to spending a great deal of time alone, the feeling of loneliness or social isolation is rarely present. This leads me to wonder if being lonely has become such a constant in my life that I no longer recognize it as such. For the sake of clarity, let’s define the terms lonely, alone, and solitude, terms often used interchangeably, but are very different states of mind/being. Alone is to be without company/by oneself; loneliness is a state of isolation-something is missing, solitude is a state of being alone without a feeling of loneliness, nothing is missing.

I live life as a pendulum from one to the other, lonely is my friend.

Isn’t something always missing?

Expectations

2010-02-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

So, it’s been a while since I’ve updated this blog. I seem to want to wait until I have something interesting to say, with grand photos to augment the recollections. Everyone else seems to have better things to say, more exciting adventures, incredible photos to share, while what I have to say pales in comparison. I was just perusing through some friends’ blogs while observing my motivation for reading them and realized that I’m not critiquing literary talent and rating the adventures recounted by the blogger. What I am looking for when reading a friends’ blog is a connection, a window into their life and current experiences. I see that waiting to write that “perfect post” is robbing both me, and my friends of the whole purpose of blogging in the first place, that connection and window into their current experiences and frame of mind.
So, here goes!
I moved from Bend to Eugene last October and life here has been an interesting mix of new experiences, friendships and solitude. People often ask me what I think about Eugene and my consistent response is that I’m waiting to see without imposing expectations. I find that the greatest source of heartbreak and disillusionment in my life result from unmet expectations. Those expectations of what I thought something would be or whom I believed a person would become are generally imposed before becoming truly familiar with the situation or person. Then when things don’t work out like I had expected, I am disappointed and jaded. In the grand scheme of things, it all works out for the best. So, all the frustration and heartache were a waste of time and effort and only clouded my ability to appreciate the beauty at hand.

This reminds me of my struggles with the Taoist concept of Wu-wei or knowing when to act and when not to act, further defined as non-doing or natural action. During my undergraduate years, I earned a minor in Religious Studies with a concentration on Eastern Religions. Wu-wei was a sticking point for me as I interpreted non-action from a western perspective of not doing anything at all, like sitting idly by and watching life pass on by. The essence of non-action is; influence without imposition and allowing something to become what it is to be by being involved in the process but not in the way of the process. Just as a stream flows around a stone and wears away the rough edges by following its natural contours, so shall we endeavor to honor the edges and inclinations of the situations and people that grace our lives daily.

Simply put, no matter how hard you try-a rose bush will grow roses, not apples.

Hellgate 100k 2005

2009-10-12T20:07:00.000-07:00

“Ice Fallies”

Reflections on the Hellgate Experience

By Tonya Olson

The race was weeks ago, yet I am still struggling to put the experience into words. So much happened to me out there that it has been daunting to condense the experience into a brief race report. Nonetheless, this is the story of my first Hellgate.

Unlike many of the other runners, I did not spend the year preparing for the challenge of running 100k in the Blue Ridge Mountains in December. In fact, I had spent most of my life not being able to comprehend just why a person would ever want to run that far. Through running Mt. Masochist as my first ultra, I met an incredible group of people who impressed me with the way they seemed to ask for more in life than to simply exist, I signed up for Hellgate to return to their world. I needed a place of retreat where people said “why not?” instead of “you can’t”. I ran to the mountain seeking to sort myself from the rubble of a mis-directed life; I was not disappointed. Running Mt. Masochist showed me that my body could handle distance, while Hellgate taught me about trust, the power of choices and the resiliency of spirit.

The start of the race scared me. It was dark, we had a long way to go ahead of us and it felt like we were running too fast. Thankfully, I was running with Rebekah Trittipoe, a friend whose judgment and advice I could trust and rely on in the miles to come. She was sacrificing her race to stay with me, as she is both fast and talented and should have left me at the start. She assured me that we wouldn’t keep up the quick pace for long, as up ahead the course wouldn’t allow it and that we needed to make time while we could. She was right. I had prepared for the distance of Hellgate…my mind could not have conjured up the challenges that the icy footing presented. At one point before dawn, we’d left an aid station laden with soup and goodies in preparation for a 2 mile walk up a hill and all I could hear were the sounds of people falling. “Ugggh! You okay man?” “Dang, I lost my soup”, “Uff, that’s going to leave a mark!”, after three of us went down like dominoes, we agreed to not turn around to check on each other, if anyone was hurt they’d need to say so. I marveled at the different styles of falling displayed; some runners were able to fall in a controlled manner, others flopped to terra firma with startling quickness, landing before they knew they were falling. I was one of the latter, at one point proclaiming “I think I broke my radial head!” as I landed. Rebekah turned to me and said (lovingly) “Well, you don’t run on your elbow-get up”. We were both right.

The sudden fall and painful wrenching of my elbow was as surprising in action as was my reaction. As I lay on the icy road clutching my cup of soup, the myriad of questions which had been bombarding my mind during the training and running of the race were all answered with my choice to stand up and continue. Nothing else mattered, the insecurities that had been the sources of doubt “Whether or not I would finish, was I strong enough, would my body hold up, do I belong out here?” all questions were answered by the simple decision to stand up and run on. As I took my first tentative steps, I fell inextricably in love with running long hard races in the woods. Like, Thoreau’s “The Road Not Taken”, that choice made all the difference. I loved Rebekah for reminding me of the necessity to get up and continue and for not feeling sorry for me. She showed me through words and actions that on the trails, you take what the day offers, without complaining; which is a fitting metaphor for the life that I seek to live.

The darkest point for me was just before dawn and the section before the first cut-off point. I was struggling to keep up with Rebekah aka. “Twinkle toes” Trittipoe. As she danced down the trail ahead of me, I flailed behind, disheartened, dispirited and marveling at the athleticism of those ahead of me. I tried everything I could think of to maneuver on the ankle twisting ice “boulders” more effectively; changing my center of gravity, foot placement, speed, concentration, breathing…ultimately concluding that I was not and never would be able to claim mountain goats as my predecessors and should be thankful for every moment that day I managed to stay vertical. As the sun rose, the mountain revealed herself not as an enemy but an ally; because just as the footing became too tedious to handle, she offered refuge in a new challenge. Each type of terrain was inspiring itself and fostered appreciation for what had been left behind or what loomed ahead. Downhill single track kept me awake, alert and warmed my toes, up-hills let me move ahead a bit without fear of falling and the icy roads heightened my skill for and appreciation of falling and landing safely.

The darkest may have been before dawn, but hope and inspiration were conferred in the form of eggs and sausage! Somewhere after dawn and between woods and icy roads, an aid station appeared and Dr. Horton was on hand with a crew of angels to make sure that we were fed both physically and emotionally in preparation for the miles ahead. A quick hug and some kind words replenished my spirit; I said a quick prayer of thanks for all of those who braved the weather to man the aid stations. I can’t thank enough those courageous souls who endured the cold and kept us supplied and encouraged on our journey!

At some point, my legs began to simply not respond to my pleas to get moving. Rebekah suggested that we pray and said something intelligent and heartfelt, I’m sure. I couldn’t hear past the din of my labored breathing and crunching footsteps so, closed with my own personal prayer that maybe a bear could leap from the woods and coax some speed out of my unresponsive legs. I began to cry as I ran downhill trying to catch up, wracked with guilt that I was holding Rebekah back and fear that I would fall and break the other elbow. I sobbed past a man in yellow, caught up with Rebekah and we soldiered on. She let me run ahead, perhaps to quell my hysterics. As we climbed the hill, tears streamed silently down my face, I felt empty, spent and alone. But I was not finished. The course, the conditions, the effort of the day had broken me, my integrity-my understanding of who I was and what I could handle had been shattered. Before the race began, I had thought that I might be able to finish the race, but not without a fair amount of pain, despair and hopelessness. Now, late in the race I was tired sure, but had never felt hopeless or doubted whether I would finish. I had been comforted by an inner sense of calm and confidence that was inexplicable given my inexperience. Through the tough parts of the race, I trusted those who had encouraged me to run the race. How could I doubt myself if people such as Rebekah and David Horton thought I could handle the challenge? .

Fittingly, the last three miles were downhill on glare ice and although I was physically ready to be done, the profound emotional impact had taken its toll, I felt numb both physically and emotionally, the day had been too overwhelming to understand. All I knew as I ran down the hill to the finish was that I would never be the same and that the race would not be over until I had been hugged by Horton. As Rebekah and I approached the finish line hand in hand, tears of joy, relief and regret fell. Joy over the accomplishment, relief of being finished and regret over not finishing sooner…most of all though, I was overwhelmed with gratefulness for the people I’d met, the experience of Hellgate, and appreciation for the mountains which had hosted the event.

“Fall down seven times-stand up eight.”

-Chinese Proverb

Dave Terry

2009-09-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

Dave Terry was a man beyond compare; he was concurrently an accomplished ultra-runner, a talented and compassionate physician, a poet, world traveler, adventurer and true friend. His friendship was timeless, regardless of the number of weeks/months/years that had passed, he remembered where you'd left off recalling detail, encouraging, advising and reflecting. He was interesting and interested in all and everything and left me wanting to be more, more like Dave.
He was understated, humble and free with compliments and encouragements and embarrassed by accolades. He was the friend I called when I sought depth and understanding and a new book to read. We didn't stay in touch as well as we should have, as well as we'd meant to but, I thought there would always be more time, more fun to be had, fulfillment to seek and to find, stories to tell, love to be lived and lost and now, all that remains is sadness and lost possibility. To all of his friends and family, I extend my deepest and most sincere condolences. I pray that my tears and heartache will in some way ease your burden of pain.

A Day in the Woods

2009-09-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

A Day in the Woods
By Tonya Olson

Uggghhh, turn off the alarm, roll out of bed, pull on my running clothes, down a glass of water while paging through the latest running magazine-searching for inspiration, wash the water down with a banana, check the mileage planned for the day, curse at the clock, shuffle off, bleary eyed and uninspired. Ive nudged my way into another day by way of more monotonous miles logged on more pavement with progress tracked in increments of time, How has my life, my running come to this? I wonder as I plod down the street, there has to be more, there used to be more to thiswhat have I become? I feel like Im running nowhere and for no reason other than to follow the dictates of the training program, within parameters set by my watch. This was my running life before spending a month in Bend, Oregon.

I went to Bend to volunteer at a youth ranch, explore the area and escape from the pressures of graduate school. I had never been there, didnt know anyone and lived in a tent. My expectations were to meet cool people, do something useful with my time and remember what dirt felt like under my feet. I was weary from struggling to create balance in my hectic world, whose pace was dictated by classes, exams and the constant pressure of the clock and the calendar. I felt out of place and needed some time to think about the things that mattered to me and determine how to integrate them back into my life. A series of fortuitous events brought life to my hopes through some impressive members of the ultra running community. Through a friend at Bend Mountain Coffee, I met Simon Mtuy, a man from Tanzania with a mission to make a difference in his world. Simon routinely finishes in the top 15 at the Western States 100 and, originally came to America to run the race as a way to raise funds for his village. Friendly, open, gracious and constantly seeking to learn about running, living and bringing awareness and opportunity to his people, he embodied grace both as he ran and as he spoke. We spent three hours together searching for a trail, and in true Oregon style, experienced all manner of weather; sun, wind, rain and sleet. Conversing as we ran, he was always seeking to learn what was around the corner up ahead. Its only a couple of miles hed say, lets give it a try. So, on we ran. I stayed with him despite being unsure of my ability to keep up or my capacity for finding the way back if I did fall behind. As we ran, it became apparent that Simon wasnt terribly concerned with our pace only that we were running, learning, and exploring and this struck a chord within me. We were running not as a means to cover distance to be recorded in our training log, we were exploring the great outdoors, carried by our legs, free to chat with folks we sought directions from and to take note of the storm brewing on the horizon. As the storm approached and we continued running, a feeling of relief washed over me and a sense of freedom began to creep into my soul. The years of running on the roads with the constant pressure of the clock and the relentless pursuit of PRs had devitalized my running. With the clock alone as a gauge of success, my pursuits had become empty, externally imposed and impersonal. On those Oregon roads, Simon reminded me of the true essence of running, learning and living, which is to appreciate the process, and to seek what lies ahead while maintaining a sense of wonder about the present.

The next and most awakening experience of my time in Oregon was a weekend spent with my brother, Dusty Olson (infamous and incomparable), Dave Terry (team Montrail) and Scott Jurek (Western States100 winner/record holder and Badwater 135 Mile Endurance Run winner/record holder). I drove to Corvalis, to watch them run the MacDonald forest 50k. They ran on a revised course that had been made particularly brutal by a downpour the night before, which had turned the already challenging footing into a mud-fest reminiscent of Woodstock, 1999. This was my first time at an ultra event and wasnt sure what to expect as I stood near the finish line. I was impressed by the community feel of the event. The general atmosphere was one of a Sunday afternoon get together, runners lingered dining on homemade soup and organic breads, chatting, catching up on the latest news, and waiting to cheer for their friends who were still on the course. People stayed not to collect their hardware and bolt, but to hang out with friends and relish in the accomplishments of the day.

After the awards ceremony, we drove to Daves house in Portland. Our evening consisted of kicking back, getting acquainted and enjoying an organic meal thoughtfully prepared by Scott. The meal was enjoyed leisurely as a reward for the physical challenge of the race, as well as a preparation for the day to come. It was a relaxed evening of conversation and I felt privileged to be among such illustrious company, listening to some of the ultra worlds elite discuss races, plans and the inevitable politics. I tried to linger on the outskirts, observing the dynamics between my brother and his friends and appreciating the fact that I had been invited to share their evening. I had never been so close to my brothers world, had only just met Dave and Scott and felt slightly as though I was intruding. My fears were quelled easily by Daves inquisitive nature and through his questions, he set me at ease, included me in the conversation and demonstrated that these elite runners were people just the same at the end of the day. As weariness set in, they began planning the course for the next days run and mid-sentence Dave turned to me and said youre running with us tomorrow, right? Shocked at the invitation, I answered yes as long as I wouldnt be holding them up in any way, Scott perfunctorily suggested an out and back route so that I could turn around when I needed to and continued with their conversation. My heart raced as I tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, while visions of vomiting, passing out and tumbling off of the mountain ran through my head, I slept maybe twelve minutes that night, if at all. How in the world was I going to run with these guys who were deep into their preparation for the Western States 100, with goals not simply to finish, but to win? I on the other hand, was just a middle of the pack woman road marathoner; I prayed that they would leave me behind early on and allow me to spend the day alone in the woods safely plodding at my own pace.

Something happened while I was out there, running in the woods, lagging behind my long-lost brother and his elite ultra-running friends. I was alone, tired, hungry, thirsty, muddy and a long way from either company or the car yet, none of that seemed to matter. What happened was the realization that it was all so familiar, where I belonged, I felt at home. This was what had been missing from my life and my running for so long! I was far behind the guys, yet their voices floated down through the trees as they ran, including my solitude in their camaraderie as they forged ahead. Throughout the weekend, my brother and his friends had been sharing their approach to life translated through running. I was struck by their unpretentious approach to the task at hand, they were all sore and tired from the day before, but that pain was simply not relevant. They ran not as though it was an obligation, but a fulfillment of who they were and a promise of who they would become if, they stayed committed to the task at hand. I was intimidated to run with them at first, as I didnt want to inconvenience their workout , they had work to do, races to win and records to break. I just wanted to run in the woods again. As a testimony to their character, they responded to my tagging along with open acceptance, there was no ego, no intimations of inconvenience or condescension regarding my slow pace, we were all runners and so we ran. I recalled my childhood and youth spent in the woods, riding my horse, exploring, singing silly songs and enjoying pure freedom and appreciation for my surroundings and the wonder of the ever-changing sameness that the forest offered. As I ran that day, I thought about how familiar it all was, I wasnt on a horse, but the other parameters were the same. Somewhere in the quest for higher education Id stepped away from the essential elements of my identity, had compromised, subverted my integrity in the quest for fitting in and was left with the empty consequences of self denigration. I had tried to live according to other peoples standards and in turn, learned to tiptoe quietly around my dreams lest they awake and compel me to step away from the familiar. All the while, a small muffled voice cried within pleading with me to loose myself from the slow, suffocating grip of mediocrity into which I had fallen. That muffled voice found its power in the silence of the trees and introduced itself to me as the dreams of my youth. I thought back to the days when it was a voice of reassurance, telling me that my life was limited only by the scope of my dreams. Somewhere along the way, that cherished and beautiful voice had faded into the background of grown-up realism. In the woods that day, I saw realism for its true double edged character, it can sharpen a person, hone their inner talents and inspire one to heights unimagined yet more often, is the excuse used to shrink from challenge, ignore ones potential, and be satisfied with mere existence. It was from the life of excuses that I needed to escape.

During the drive home, I thought of how my life had spiraled into a place where dreams withered in the shadow of reality and mused over why I had strayed so far from myself and my ways. What? I queried, was the genesis of my undoing? Regret filled my eyes, clouding the clarity of the days discovery. As the tears fell, I determined that convicting myself for mistakes of the past was counterproductive. The quandary at hand was less a matter of where had I gone wrong, but how could I make things right? I vowed to honor the wisdom of the yearnings of my heart, to seek that which inspires me and to live life as I imagined.

Bend-reflected

2009-09-07T09:59:00.001-07:00

Depoe Bay, "world's smallest harbor" Oregon coast

Yikes! It's been far too long since I've updated this blog...
This summer has been replete with travels, adventures and changes in my life here in Bend, OR. I think today, I'll catch y'all up on the grand scheme of the past two years and delve into specific detail in future posts.
It's been two years now since I moved here to Bend, OR to "live the dream", to step into a new realm of personal and professional challenges and embrace the many firsts of this chapter of my life. I chose to move to Bend to live in a place that would both allow and encourage me to live the active, interesting and diverse life which has thus far been elusive. The last 6 months of P.T. school were emotionally and financially taxing with my last two practicums being out of state and relocating across the country to Bend. I expected to hit the ground running out here-running, skiing, climbing, meeting cool people, working at a great job. That was my dream, my expectation, reality proved otherwise. Instead, I found myself alone and uninspired, teetering on the edge of a number of social networks, with none to call my own. I grew an appreciation for Deschutes Brewery, gained an extra pant size, came to terms with winter, met some good people and stepped into my first summer with a new-found optimism.

That first summer; I bought a tent in lieu of a couch, camped under the stars, made "tko" s'mores-substituting Reese's peanut butter cups for Hershey's chocolate, ran in the woods after my fast friends and limped and wept my way through 42 miles of the Where's Waldo 100k trail run. The second winter was less stagnant than the first; I bought (and used) skate skis,

View of Mt. Rainier on the White
River 50 Mile Course

traveled to Sun Valley Idaho to ski the "Boulder Mountain Tour 30k" skate ski race, adopted a stray dog, bought a Subaru wagon, started running again with the advent of the "ass" runs-badass, madass...
I showed up for some group runs and ran a solid one day a week until the Peterson Ridge Rumble 30k. And so began the story of summer 2009...a real life version of Kenny Roger's song "The Gambler".
"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run..."
The diversity I sought has taken the form of diverse running locales, with my training consisting of a series of races this summer.
April-Peterson Ridge Rumble 30k, Sisters, OR
May-McDonald Forest 50k, Corvalis, OR
June-franticness
July 11-Siskiyou Out Back 50k, Ashland, OR
July 25-White River 50 mile, Crystal Mountain, WA (quit @ 50k)
Aug. 6-8-rafting in Maupin, OR
Aug. 9 Haulin' Aspen Trail Marathon, Bend, OR
Aug. 22 Where's Waldo 100k trail run (quit @ 50k)
Sept. 5 Sunrise to Summit hill climb, Bend, OR
Sept. 12 McKenzie River Trail 50k

My hope was to get in shape, but I simply don't feel as such. Regardless, I've been some great places, met amazing people and have lovely stories to share in future posts, but there's more!
I find myself thinking "i'm happy" more often than not, was promoted at work, volunteer helping new runners at Fleet Feet and taught my dog to sit. All is well here in Bend, I'm still dabbling on the edge of multiple social circles, but that's what I do. I moved back to the "cool" side of town and could maybe call this home...
Like a deep water, much was brewing underneath my exterior of potential contentment...the realities of finances and my terminal case of wanderlust have lead me to yet another new horizon. Soon, I will be leaving Bend to become a traveling P.T. I need both the extra income and the chance to see this country. Upon making my decision, work held an intervention to talk me into staying, the fella I've had a crush on for forever finally asked me out and I feel like this really is a place I could stay. Except, I have to go...

One of the many post-runs soaks in an icy mountain creek

Bavaria-explored

2009-06-01T20:45:00.000-07:00

If I had any sense of pride, I wouldn’t repeat this tale, as no adult with an intact frontal lobe would allow herself to be in such a precarious situation. However, I feel that it would be wrong of me to rob the world of the opportunity to laugh at my foolishness, feel better about themselves and perhaps, save someone from making the same mistakes.

First, I need to explain a bit about my domestic situation prior to the getting lost incident. I traveled to Germany with a fellow whom I was dating (let’s call him “Hans”) who had taken his step-father’s last name when his mother remarried. (Remember this tidbit of information as it plays a very key role later) We were to stay with his aunt and uncle on his biological (another key fact) father’s side (Gertie and Johann). We arrived in Germany Thursday evening around 8 p.m. and sat around the fire drinking Goodman beer and getting acquainted, as I had not met my hosts before this visit (another vital piece of info). Part of the conversation centered around Hans’ fascination with the fact that on Fridays the “beer-man” delivered beverages of all sorts to houses and Hans queried repeatedly to determine if enough Goodman’s had been ordered to last through the weekend. After being assured that the magnificent and benevolent “beer-man” would come through for us, we retired for the evening. I woke in the morning, took one look at the gorgeous pine forest across the street and decided to start my day in the best way possible and go for a solo run before breakfast. Much to my chagrin, my non-running beau Hans insisted on accompanying me, for no other reason than to destroy every bit of beauty and joy that the forest and my run could possibly provide. So, we started on our run and were about a mile into the run when Hans (who hadn’t run a step since he was chased by bullies back in junior high school some ten years prior) dropped behind. I continued running and was soon enamored by the beauty, solace and grace of the forest. All was well, until I realized an hour or so later that I had no real clue as to where I was or where I was going. Everything was looking simultaneously as though I’d never been by there before or as though I’d just been there ten minutes ago. It was winter in Germany with no snow on the ground so I had no way to check for footprints in the frozen mud or snow.
At this point, I had no real cause for worry as being lost in the woods was certainly not unusual for me as I have a tendency to be geographically “challenged” and have a history of muddling my way home eventually. Unfortunately, I was without my usual resources for finding my way back home such as horses, dogs or running partners. I was not at all deterred by my disorientation, as the woods couldn’t possibly be that big (could they?). I simply needed to rely on my time-tested strategy and run uphill until I could survey my surroundings for something that looked familiar and work my way back home. May I remind you that I’d been in Germany for a total of twelve hours and we’d arrived the night before, in the dark. Neither of those facts concerned me and I continued running, figuring that a hill would happen along sooner or later.
On I ran until I came upon a residential-ish street which I happily trotted along thinking I was getting somewhere I could ask for help if needed. Happy with my stroke of luck in finding streets to run on, I rejoiced in the ability to detect if I was running in circles much easier than in the sameness of the forest. After running for a while, I began to fantasize about the possibility of running across the path of the “beer-man”. I had visions of riding along with him in his canvas-covered truck and arriving at the house along with the shipment of Goodman’s with a new friend and a good story. My hopes soon came true as I rounded a corner and saw the infamous beer truck parked in front of a house with a sturdy looking man standing behind it preparing a delivery. I approached him with a smile of greeting on my face and a certain feeling in my heart that he would set all things right. I said hello in German and promptly continued in English, to which he cocked his head to the side and wrinkled his brow in a most uncomprehending manner. Drat! I thought to myself, he doesn’t speak English…now what? I was forced to fall back on the basic German classes I’d taken 10 years earlier. “Hello my name is Tonya; I’m on vacation from America, went running and have lost myself”. His quizzical look inspired me to give him no choice but to realize that he could help this lost American, I informed him that “The name from my family is in your book…you bring them beer” At this point, he seemed to understand my confident (and delusional) understanding that the beer man in Germany was something akin to Santa Claus, omniscient, omnipresent. He nodded in understanding, turned and walked to his truck to consult his delivery book. It was at this point that I realized the serious flaw in my plan…Hans had taken the name of his stepfather in America, and I had no earthly clue as to what his father or uncles (with whom I was staying) last name. Yes, not even the smallest of inklings as to their last name! My heart sank. The beer man reached his book and looked at me expectantly, I responded with a mixture of sheepishness, dismay and hopefulness “Gertie and Johann…. that is all I know!” “You bring them Goodman beer.” He looked at me incredulously. In the back of my mind I was struck by the ludicrousness of my request. It was akin to walking up to a mail carrier in America and saying “Do you know where Bob lives? Certainly you know him as you bring him letters in envelopes.” My hopes faded as he determinedly looked through his book trying to locate Gertie and Johann. After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders, pointed in a direction that I had not yet run and started speaking quickly in German that I couldn’t possibly understand. I let him off the hook, pretended to comprehend his instructions, smiled, thanked him and ran on.

For the first time, I began to assess my situation in a realistic manner. Here I was, barely twelve hours in a country where I couldn’t functionally speak or understand the language, I had no idea where the house I sought to find was located or what it looked like, didn’t know the name of the people I was staying with and had absolutely, no earthly idea as to where I was, where I had come from or where I was going. Otherwise, all things were going according to plan…

I called upon a lifetime of being lost in some manner or another and clung to the hope of running up a hill and finding a landmark to hone in on so, on I ran.

I ran past cow pastures, small houses, big houses, fields, woods, more houses, a police station, which I thought briefly about going into, but decided I wasn’t nearly lost enough to bother them. If I just ran a little further, I’d find my way back…

Eventually, a hill appeared and I surveyed the surroundings. Unbelievably, I viewed a building that I most certainly remembered from the night before, it was quite a ways off but, I figured if I ran the direct route through the fields, backyards and swampish areas I’d get there in a reasonable amount of time and be home before anyone thought to look for me. Did I mention that I’d also begun my run that morning with no watch? My endeavor to reach the big blue building in the distance was successful and I rejoiced in my good fortunate at finding the landmark. Now, if only I could remember where to go from there? All I remembered from the night before was that we passed with the blue building on the left, went up the hill and ended up at the house. So, up the hill I ran through neighborhood after neighborhood, revisiting the feeling from the forest that it all looked liked I’d simultaneously just been there or had never seen any of it before. I chuckled at the possibility that I’d run cluelessly past the house and felt at peace with the knowledge that at least I was somewhere in the neighborhood or so of my final, elusive, destination.

The story ends with me flagging Johann down as he drove past me and found out that I had made my way back to within two blocks of the house. I was a bit sorry that I’d run into him as it brought a rather anti-climactic end to my story of what I prefer to attribute to adventure, optimism and perseverance.

Needless to say, for the duration of my two-week stay in Germany I ran with a note pinned to my shirt, which said, “If lost, please return to: Johann and Gertie at ...”

In hindsight, I am more confident in my theory of running uphill to look for a landmark, have a new found appreciation for knowing people’s last names and fondly remember the beer man for his helpful and incomprehensible words of advice.

Farewell trail

2008-11-14T06:13:00.001-08:00

After a year of living in bend, running in the same safe comfortable places, I finally ventured out to tumalo falls and ran on the farewell trail. I think it was august september of 2008 i went there by myself to try something new hoping discover the people seem so stoked about the trails out and perhaps to find a reason to stay or to smile for real for a change
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It was drizzling as I climbed through trees fell love with bend trail wound up offering views of surrounding forests mountains unafforded on my usual trails i was astounded by vastness and reminded that there i step outside the familiar

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This post is marvelously delayed and outdated; much has happened to bring a sense of home to me here in Bend. However, when I need a glimpse of why to stay-I remember that day. That day of exploration that made it all seem worthwhile...I now have a place of solace to retreat to when the need arises. Ahhhh!

Writing workshop with Charles Bowden!

2008-11-09T20:56:00.004-08:00

On Saturday, I fell in love with a man, myself and the gift of serendipity. I went to my first writing workshop which was led by Charles Bowden, an author I had never heard of who was to lead a class on submitting to magazines. I thought the subject would be the least intimidating and would perhaps find inspiration, maybe some direction. So much more happened that it will take time for me to process and I will express in future posts.
Let me start by telling the story of how the workshop and my heart unfolded as I sat listening to a gifted man speak of his life as a writer. He came in late, as he had planned on exploring Bend and teaching the class in the afternoon, not the morning. We started with brief introductions, I was the only non-writer in the room. Charles then began by explaining the key elements of a story, (non-fiction interviews, in particular) which he began to list as; conflict, conflict that threatens the person writing, then went on a tangent of how the writer should never appear superior to the reader, don't use adjectives that don't describe color, size or number (thus stealing every bit of joy from the process of my writing), don't miss a deadline, or write over 3,000 words and be a writer a magazine editor can count on in a pinch. Just when the technical writer sitting next to me settled into list-making, Charles began to describe the process of interviewing people and revealed himself as a man who has lived intimately with truth.
The following are the notes I wrote as he spoke:
Charles Bowden, an acclaimed writer with many books, publications and accolades to his name stepped into the room, holding a demi-tasse cup of espresso, his right shoelace trailing behind. he spoke as a story teller looking for connection, seeking to illuminate the gray areas in the circumstance of others. He wore levis, hi-top hikers tied in double-knots on the inside of his ankle, khaki hunting shirt and olive vest, no watch, no hair product, he lives with a standard poodle, a flower garden, goes through 150 pounds of bird seed a month, and prefers red wine, espresso, real life, not the illusion. Either the circumstance of the day or his mood did not lend itself to the dissection and examination of the art of literary prose. He spoke of the power of story to convey a message. Jesus told stories to make a point, he said. When you tell a story work it so that it eclipses the writer. He spoke of other's lives and the extent to which past events can influence one's understanding. He spoke of; "An American Tragedy" Theodore Dreiser, "The Peregrin Falcon" John G. Baker, Edna Buchanan and her leading line "Men have a way of dying around the widow Brown", Fernando Botero', Charles Keating, altar call massacres in Mexico.
He nearly choked an editor who spoke to a woman with disrespect. Here is a man who lives with substance.

2008-11-09T20:56:00.003-08:00

McKenzie River Trail

2008-10-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

October 26, 2008
So, I've lived in Bend for over a year now and had yet to take a drive on the McKenzie highway and enjoy the McKenzie river trail. I'll usually use having to always go solo as an excuse for my lack of adventurism over this past year-thankfully, friends such as Susannah and Larry have come along to rescue me from the mire of complacency in which I reside. Larry was gracious enough to offer to drive, and in return I introduced him to coffee cake at Alpenglow. The McKenzie river highway is the first, and most direct route between Sisters on the East and Springfield/Eugene on the West cutting through the high Cascade mountain range. The highway travels along the McKenzie pass which is located between Mt. Washington and the Three Sisters Wilderness areas and peaks out at 5,325 feet. We drove started out in the high desert, wound through conifer forest, a vast lava field and stopped at the lush, green of the McKenzie river trail. I've grown accustomed to running in the dusty high desert...the McKenzie trail looked felt like a rain forest.

Green Trail

The day could not have been more perfect! It was sunny, coolish at first but warmed up to what felt balmy. Larry and Susannah ran slow enough to start with so I could keep up with them and until we'd caught up with each other's lives. I feigned interest in stopping to take pictures and let them go on without me after 45 minutes. I took a moment and some pictures and revelled in being out in the woods alone.

McKenzie River

Memories from years past crowded into my mind as I settle into the familiar feeling of being cradled in nature's loveliness. I am so glad I moved to Bend. The diversity of the landscape is incredible.
I ran on for another 20 minutes before turning around, when I got close to the cars I sat on a log by the river and had lunch. Susannah and Larry came in shortly after I got back to the car. Susannah went to hunt for mushrooms and Larry and I relaxed in the hot springs.
On the way home, we stopped at Sahalie and Koosah falls. It's hard to believe that such lush, greenery is 60 miles from the dust and junipers of Bend. We were home by 4:00 refreshed and tired.

Sahalie Falls

Climbing South Sister

2008-10-23T13:31:00.000-07:00

September 6-7, 2008
I moved to Oregon with visions of hiking, camping, exploring the great outdoors, expanding my horizons, developing new skills, meeting interesting people and perhaps becoming a little interesting myself. So far, my time in Bend has included a lot of sitting at home, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the risks and benefits of subsisting soley on Reese's peanut butter cups and beer. Despite the cloak of despair hovering imminently over my shoulders and despite my best efforts at becoming a recluse the universe has graced my life with some people capable of inspiring me to get off the floor. This weekend was one of those weekends that I dreamed of when deciding to move across the country to my homeland.
Susannah, Larry, Laura, Chris and I camped out at Devil's lake on Saturday night. Susannah and Larry had picked out a lovely and secluded camping site by the lake and we all gathered around the campfire to settle in for a quiet night in the woods. Halfway through our appetizer of "deluxe" s'mores (made with Reese's peanut butter cups in lieu of plain chocolate-divine!). We watched as a troop of industrious, focused and very efficient people erected a tent city next to us. In short order, they were gathered around their own fire, eating a full meal and singing songs in what we thought sounded like Croatian. So much for a quiet night in the woods...
Morning came with no significant disturbances from our neighbors with the exception of the cry of "Vodka!" and the sound of splashing in the wee hours of the morning. We slept in a bit, had a quick breakfast and headed to the trailhead, looking forward to a lovely day in the mountains. The wind was significant for the first part of the hike, and I feared we'd have to rope ourselves together when we got higher to prevent being blown off the mountain. The weather settled, the sun continued shining and we continued along at a nice pace. The last pitch was a bit loose and steep, but we made it to the summit without incident to find our neighbors celebrating reaching the summit themselves. They'd erected a Croatian flag, were taking photos, singing and passing around a bottle of vodka. In contrast, the Americans were standing around texting loved ones and keeping to themselves. I taught a man how to send a photo text message to his wife...I couldn't help but intervene when he asked sheepishly if it was in bad form to call and share the moment with her.
After a few minutes taking in the scenery, we headed down the hill. Laura revealed her mountain goat skills as she skipped down through the loose scree effortlessly. I took things at my own, slow pace, expecting my IT band to flare up and reduce me to a weeping mes for the rest of the journey. My fears were not realized, thankfully. Just before getting through the toughest part of the descent, I passed a rather substantially built woman wearing a moo-moo hiking up the hill with her trusty walking stick. I stopped and we chatted for a few moments-she continued on her way and when I turned around to make sure that she hadn't been a mirage-there she was, casually walking up the hill, dress flowing in the breeze, talking on her cell phone! That pretty much made my day-there's nothing I admire more than people with the wherewithall to step outside of their comfort zone and fully experience this journey that we call life. Hurray for dreams realized!

Pole, Pedal, Paddle

2008-10-20T13:33:00.000-07:00

So, this post is a tad on the tardy side but the experience is worth sharing. We were sitting around at my house on Easter and I asked the ladies who were there if any of them had been invited to be a part of a Pole, Pedal, Paddle team. Since we were all relatively new to town, and several of the gals were talented athletes I'd expected that most of them had been recruited for a team alreadly. Everyone looked around the room and said No, I didn't even know about the "PPP". I then suggested that we put together our own team, have a heck of a lot of fun and start making some memories here in lovely Bend. Several weeks later, we met at Mt. Bachelor and fjorded into our first "PPP" experience. Since there were several on the team who were fantastic athletes in their own right and the rest of us mere mortals, we/I decided that we should do the portion of the course that we had the least skill as a way to level the playing field. There are five legs; alpine skiing, nordic skiing, biking, running and kayaking. The plan sounded good, but didn't take into account the versatility of some of the gals. So, I was pretty much the only one really bad at my leg-nordic skiing. Lindsey skiied the first leg in stlye, holding her "Viva la Rebound" sombrero on her helmet as she swooshed down the hill. I floundered my way through 10k of "skate" skiing through snow more reminiscent of applesauce in consistency. I stumbled up the hill, handed off to Krisssy who kicked some serious booty on her bike into town. Little lightning legs Jenn ran fast enough to make up for all the ground I'd lost flopping around in the woods. The crowning glory and highlight of the day was Jenn and Laura on the kayak built for one. shared by two. Adorned with sharpie moustache's and half submerged, they struggled their way through the kayak section. The rest of us caught up with them halfway through their leg and added a sombrero to the ensemble as well as some much needed lung power and encouragement. Several people in the crowd were seriously entertained as they paddled forward, sideways, backwards and obliquely to the exchange point. Our borrowed boat was not quite as efficient in the water as we'd expected. True to our teams motto though-we kept our smiles and bouyed by enthusiasm for the beautiful day crossed the finish and toasted our victory of winning our "division"-"women new to bend in a half submerged kayak." Beer well deserved and a day well spent. I can't wait for next year!

kevin carter-the power of a photo

2008-10-07T12:43:00.000-07:00

Kevin Carter (1961-1994) - South Africa Pulitzer Prize winner, Kevin Carter, took his own life months after winning the Pulitzer Prize for feature photography for a haunting Sudan famine picture.
This was found in his diary ,

Dear God, I promise I will never waste my food no matter how bad it can taste and how full I may be. I pray that He will protect this little girl, guide and deliver her away from his misery. I pray that we will be more sensitive towards the world around us and not be blinded by our own selfish nature and interests.

I hope this picture will always serve as a reminder to us that how fortunate we are and that we must never ever take things for granted. The poorest of our poor is wealthy compared to many of those in third world countries across the world. What do you think of when you view a scene such as this? Does your heart break? Do you wish you could help? Feel ineffective, paralyzed with no idea where to go/how to go about making a difference. Are you like so many who return to your daily routine, plagued with a pit of sorrow that you've just learned to live with? Do you feel that your meager contributions couldn't possibly make a difference? Five dollars worth of rice could have made the difference between life and a suffering death to this girl. Go where your heart leads you! Do something, find a way to honor your heart's call to make an effort and see where it leads you.

"Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired." - Mother Teresa

i carry your heart with me

2008-10-07T12:38:00.000-07:00

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-e.e. cummings

The Arrow and the Song

2008-10-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

from The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)

This poem was quoted in C.S.I. and caused me to reflect on both the dearth of poetry and the depth of friends by which I am blessed.

The Paradoxical Commandments

2008-10-07T12:34:00.000-07:00

The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.

The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.

People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.

Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.

South Africa 2005

2008-10-07T12:33:00.000-07:00

He was wearing a yellow shirt, baggy shorts, and no shoes and broke my heart with his gaze. We were under a tent on a warm day in March, 2005, day three of my first medical mission trip. I had been working in the triage area for most of the day and was weary from the heat, the long days and the strain of trying to communicate without knowing the language. It was easy to get lost in the routine of taking the temperatures and blood pressures and passing the cards on to the next station without taking note of the person in front of me. He sat down, presented his arm and pointed to a small abrasion on his toe. I smiled to myself; the scrape on his toe was minor. He was here for the same reason many of the other children came through, they came for a chance to be seen, touched, and treated as though they mattered. Something about his gaze stopped me, he looked at me searchingly, hesitantly and I was struck by the deep sense of loneliness reflecting back in his big eyes. I thought of the statistics we'd heard during our briefing, that so many of the children we would see were AIDS orphans, fending for themselves. This boy could be one of them living on the streets off of whatever he could find, steal or earn. Had he the luxury of a childhood? Or was family a distant concept he'd given up on years ago? Had he been thrust into adulthood as he watched his parents slowly die in front of him? Had he ever known his parents? Siblings? My mind turned to a vision of my little brother at the same age, bright eyed, optimistic, smiling and mischievous. Tears welled in my eyes as I silently thanked God for the opportunity to show love to this one boy. He showed me the reason we were there-not to help the masses, but to make a difference in one life at a time. Every person who helped me, encouraged me, donated money, time, wiped my tears of frustration as I prepared for that mission trip was a part of that moment with me and the boy in the yellow shirt.
I traveled across the ocean to make a difference in the lives of strangers. I wonder-how many of those boys do I walk past in my busy life in America? How do I maintain that sense of openness and sacrifice for others in my daily life? When was the last time you looked closely enough to see the pain in another's eyes?

Marriage-a death sentence

2008-10-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

Spring break of 2004 during I went to South Africa on my first medical mission trip. I will truly never be the same for the experience and could write for days as to why, but will spare the details and recount one story that left a great impression on me. South Africa has one of the highest incidences of HIV/AIDS of any nation in the world. While I was there, I asked the locals a lot of questions about what they felt needed to be done to help stem the tide of the epidemic of HIV/AIDS in their culture, the following response I found to be particularly enlightening.

I asked a woman how she felt about foreigners coming in to help, if there were any cultural differences that stood in the way of the effectiveness of the aid being offered by the USA. She responded by saying that marriage in her culture was often a death sentence for woman and not the safe haven against HIV/AIDS that we consider it to be in our culture. The South African culture is tribal, with traditions that date back for thousands of years which are unfamiliar and often difficult for us Westerners to understand. In South Africa for instance, it is not uncommon for men to live and work in the city during the week and return home to his wife on the weekends. Also common is for a husband to have girlfriends or to visit prostitutes while working in the city. Thus, at a high risk for bringing home sexually transmitted diseases including HIV. When a womans husband comes home on the weekend in South Africa, it is not acceptable to request that her husband wear a condom. Therefore, wives are at a distinct disadvantage in their culture. Their marriage is not a safe place characterized by monogamy and in theory, a safe haven against disease.

Further compounding the HIV/AIDS epidemic are ceremonial practices that are part of long standing traditions which are incredibly difficult to change. For instance, a right of passage in some tribes is for boys to be circumcised at the beginning of puberty. The ceremony uses the same knife for all of the boys. It may seem obvious to those who understand the method of transmission of HIV that the ceremonial practice needs to be altered to prevent cross-contamination between the boys. To the tribal leader, it may seem that foreigners are trying to tell them how to live, to change their very culture. History has proven that people do not respond well to being told by outsiders how they are to live-our civil war is a tragic example of this fact. The end result was suffering, death and conflict.

The history of society, of communities, of families and of individuals is replete with instances akin to the above examples. One trying to help, yet unwittingly imposing their world view on another who has different values and resents the imposition. Where can reconciliation be found? The answer lies in the simple act of listening to not just what another is saying, but what it is they would like you to hear. "Do not judge a man before you walk a mile in his mocassins." The truth in this saying is complete and convicting.

The photos above are of a remarkable young woman from South Africa with HIV/AIDS who is part of an audio diary project I ran across on NPR. Go to her link-walk in her mocassins
http://www.radiodiaries.org/aidsdiary/index.html

Life Lessons

2008-10-07T12:27:00.000-07:00

1. I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I am
with you.

2. No man or woman is worth your tears, & the one who is, won't make you cry.

3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean
they don't love you with all they have.

4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand & touches your heart.

5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you
can' t have them

6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in
love with your smile.

7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.

8. Don't waste your time on someone, who isn't willing to waste their time on
you.

9. Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one,
so that when we finally meet the person, we will know how to be grateful.

10. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.

11. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is
keep on trusting & just be more careful about who you trust next time around.

12. Make yourself a better person & know who you are before you try & know
someone else & expect them to know you.

13. Don't try so hard, the best things come when you least expect them to.

The Soulful Life

2008-10-07T12:25:00.000-07:00

I dont care to know how much knowledge youve acquired
nor countries traveled;
I want to know if youve given your soul a place to live.

Does your spine shiver over a wise poets words of grace?
Do you commune with nature long and with tireless wonder?
Have you known despair and dared to step fully into your chamber
of darkness, transforming your terror into that of a trusted friend?

Can you thrill over a star streaked sky of night,
tenderly wipe away a young childs tears,
or marvel over the majesty of an artful masterpiece?

Are you a dreamer by day? A lover of night?
Does your own vast potential fill you with awe?
Do dreams of a peaceful world arouse you to ascending
heights of hope?

Does the mystery of the universe excite you beyond measure,
and can you feel the presence of a power greater than yourself
in all of your affairs?

Then join me on the path of wonder,
and Ill meet you in a field of infinite possibilities.

-Diane Loomans

Reflections on friends

2008-10-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

"In everyones' life, at sometime our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." -Dr. Albert Schwietzer

My flame has been burning low for so long that I had grown accustomed to the feeling of non-feeling, merely existing. The rigors of Physical Therapy school and the scientific curriculum have taken its toll on that part of me who seeks to breathe free in my experiences, meander through thoughts that arent governed by logarithms, data and research outcomes, and remember who I am outside of graduate school. How easy it is for the spirit to be lulled to sleep by the sameness and predictability of daily routines and mundane concerns. I have long struggled with giving myself permission to indulge in activities that may distract me from the task at hand. As though anything outside the realm of school were superfluous pursuits destined to inspire distraction and undermine any chance of success. Im learning the hard way that its quite the contrary-think of a strong, oak tree with limbs providing housing for creatures of all kinds as well as shelter, shade and protection from the elements to the micro-culture below it. If one of its limbs is deprived of nutrition it will wither and die, thus robbing the world of its healing influence. Just as the tree needs all of its limbs to be fully a tree, we need to nourish all parts of ourselves so that we can truly live and fulfill every aspect of our potential.

Thankfully, I have been blessed with some great people and experiences lately which have reminded me where my life has been out of balance. People are the key-and not just any people, but those who live in different worlds, pursue other passions, ask different questions. Diversity inspires self-discovery and appreciation for opposition. Sadness itself is not a feeling of great consequence, it is the separation from happiness that provides the reference and power of the feeling. Today, its rainy and because of it I love sunshine more deeply. Thank you to the beautiful people who have touched my life, you have rekindled my flame.

Nicaragua History 101

2008-10-07T12:19:00.000-07:00

Nicaragua History 101

Day 1

Our first day in Nicaragua was a memorable and sobering experience which I will try and convey as best I can, further posts will expand upon the entire mission experience please be patient with my fumblings and feel free to post your comments and suggestions. My intention for this website is to bring the mission experience to you, to help you to feel a part of our experience, because without your support the trip would not have been possible.

We all flew into Managua, the capital of Nicaragua, and met the rest of the team and the missionaries with whom we would be working through the week; Mary Ezzell a Physical Therapist who organizes mission teams through Medical Missions International (MMI) and Christ for the City International representatives, Erick and Karla Su, Alcides Fuentes and our bus driver, Jose. I will introduce all of them to you in detail in future posts. We went on a tour of Managua and learned a basic overview of the history of the country of Nicaraga in order to understand the people that we were about to serve in the medical clinic. Throughout the tour, we were reminded lovingly by our guides-Dont judge a man until youve walked a mile in his shoes.
The history of a people shapes their identity and understanding of their place in the world both as a nation and as individuals. For example, our founding fathers religious conviction, independence and dedication to an individuals right to seek life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness created the American identity as a place of possibilities for coming generations. Growing up in America, children have historically been raised to expect the reality of the American dream, public education through high school and gainful employment are considered a fundamental right. Those who govern are chosen by the people and expected to honor their campaign promises and no political office is safe from impeachment and being held accountable for corrupt behavior.
Nicaragua is a nation whose identity is steeped in occupation, war, cruel dictatorship, natural disasters and marked time and time again by betrayal from those in power. The Spanish came first, earthquakes have twice devastated the capital city of Managua, fires and floods have destroyed vital crops in times of extreme need, disaster is normal, hope has become a futile luxury.

Look closely at the photo of the children, they are standing in front of a cement covered tank. The park was constructed when the civil war between the Sandinistas and Contras ended in a permanent cease fire 16 years ago. The people were asked to bring in their munitions which were covered in cement and incorporated in the walls and floors, while larger items such as tanks were used as statues. The park has since been abandoned and fallen into disrepair, but shows evidence of its former beauty and echoes of a happier time. Times where the people have a reason and a place to gather and enjoy their lives are few and very far between, usually referred to in the past sense. The children you see spend their days begging on the streets.

The statue represents the image of Augusto C. Sandino after whom the Sandinista rebels were named. His towering image was erected at the site of the home of the Somoza family who cruelly ruled Nicaragua for nearly 50 years and perpetrated betrayal after betrayal, searing into the peoples hearts the futility of hoping for a better way to live. Beneath the statues' feet lay the dungeons and torture chambers the Somozas used to maintain their power-horrors beyond what my blessed American upbringing could possibly comprehend.

I hung out of the window of the bus to get this shot of the street in Granada. Vibrant, busy, alive, the paved streets are a bit of a luxury and an indication that we were in a major city. What struck me the most was the spirit of the city, the colors, the people although relatively poor were mindful of cleanliness, there was a simplicity and openness that conferred a sense of wonder if you took the time to be quiet and open to what the streets had to offer.

Nicaragua Spring Break 2006

2008-10-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

Hello!
Welcome to my blog!! This blog is all about sharing the medical mission trip experience with my friends and family who supported and encouraged me "stateside" while I have used my spring breaks to travel to foreign lands to bring healing and hope.
I pray that through the posts here you will feel a personal connection to those that I met on my trip and who were directly influenced by your generosity.
On this page is a photo of the team which was quite a diverse crew! Six of us travelled from Charleston, SC consisting of 2 first year and two second year Physician Assistant students, a Physician Assistant and me in my second year of Physical Therapy school. We were met in Nicaragua by the rest of our team; a nursing student from Spokane, WA, a registered nurse from Ontario, a pre-med/research scientist from New Jersey and ONE, yes ONE saint of a man-a retired pharmacist from Maine. The other men in the photo are "honorary" team members-Fabricio and our beloved bus driver Jose. I am ever so impressed by the courage and tenacity shown by those that joined us as they went through the entire process of preparing for the trip by themselves; fund-raising, travel, etc.

These are typical houses in Granada, dirt streets with no sidewalks and a curb for sewer drainage is fairly common. Although the houses are very modest in size, the dirt yards are kept swept and the interiors are clean and cozy. A testimony to the adage "you can't help being poor, but you can help being clean". I was humbled by the simplicity in which the people live and their generous loving spirits, I felt envious at times by their honest approach-their view of others was not concerned with what you had-they saw through to who you were and loved accordingly.

How often do you find yourself making decisions about a persons character by what they wear, drive or where they are from?
I challenge you today to follow the Nicaraguans lead and see others for who they are and not by their appearance or possessions.