Finding Somewhere

I stepped onto the plane in Portland, Oregon in the early morning, a sheen of sweat on my upper lip from the night of Halloween partying and regret the night before.  My tired eyes searched the plane for my row number and I sat with relief to see I would be able to rest my head against the window for the few hours to Dallas.  My last few days were a blur of packing, throwing away long-kept unnecessary items, saying goodbye to new and old friends, and what seemed like an endless amount of drinks and social activities.  I had joked that I would be crawling to the plane but truly, the joke felt more reality than jest.  My head throbbed with so many emotions, undealt with feelings about Tilly and the last year I had held at bay till I crossed this imaginary border, my heart swelling and shrinking in a manic frenzy to make sense of everything inside of me and to also hold back the flood I knew was coming.  I was not right and close to breaking.  Thank God for Devon.  

A young attractive man around my age with a big red beard and kind brown eyes sat next to me. He looked at me as if to say he had an idea I was struggling.  "So are we drinking blood mary's this morning?  Cause you look about how I feel."  

I laughed out loud.   Judging by the nearby passenger reaction maybe a bit too loud.

"Probably not a good idea," I confessed pathetically.  It took me a microsecond to look at him again and say, "Oh what the hell." 

"Atta girl," he laughed.  

Devon is an Oregonian headed back to military base in North Carolina.  We talked boats, travel, family, and future aspirations…all before takeoff.  I must have said a dozen times, "Where the hell have you been?"  We laughed and laughed with ease and I thank God I didn't sink into the window just yet.  He was a welcome caffeine to my drudgery.

After the plane took off, he hailed down our flight attendant for a drink.  Scott, as we came to know him, was an older male flight attendant who had obviously seen a few too many flights and was over it.  He was more than happy to have some morning drinkers on his route this morning.  He came back with an extra beverage for us and wished us a good day.  We said a cheers to him and had an amazing flight to Dallas.  After a warm hug goodbye and a promise to write, I said good bye to Devon.  I slept in the airport there for the entirety of my 4 hour layover until I heard my name being called over the intercom for the final boarding call to Costa Rica.  Rushing up to make my flight, I was the last one on the plane, I am embarrassed to say.  But hell, I made it. 

Continuing my forage into the world of sleep, I drifted in and out of sweaty consciousness the rest of the flight, waking occasionally for a drink of water or to the sound of someone laughing nearby.  In all honesty, it was a blur.  I woke up as the plane made a ridiculously rough landing, gasps erupting from startled passengers as we bounced onto the runway, the plane as drunk as I was the night before.  I didn't care so much about the landing…I was in Costa Rica finally.  No more explaining where I was going.  No more waiting to get there to let go.  I was here.  The moment had arrived.  I wanted to cry and I still couldn't quite put a finger on why or what the emotion was or if it was just exhaustion.  I just knew I needed to get off the plane and get to my hotel and deal with it later.  Suck it up for now Sarah.

My elation was quickly sated by the reality that I was in Costa Rica and I am a gringa, which in simple terms means I am easy to over-charge and easy to take advantage of.   After an hour and a half of cab drivers taking me to the wrong Marriots,  (there are 4 in town) despite having handed them the correct address, I finally made it to my hotel at 1am in time to sleep a few hours before my 5 am flight to Golfito.  And true to Murphy's Law, I couldn't sleep a wink, though the bed was as comfortable as a cloud.  Dragging my bags in the early morning, I wearily took a cab to the tiny airport where my flight to Golfito departed from.  A tiny establishment, the size of a small house, I wasn't sure I was in the right place.  Knocking on the front door and peering in, hand over my forehead leaning on the glass, I gazed into what seemed to be an empty airline check-in, unlit with no-one in view.  I knocked and called out, "Hello!" and a young man peered around the corner of the building. 

"Buenos Dias!" He was friendly and smiley, a welcome sight.  Through hand signals and broken English and Spanish, I realized I was the first passenger to arrive.  They hadn't even opened yet, thus the reason the employees hadn't turned on the lights.  In fact…I was the only passenger until noon.  However, they opened the doors, turned on the lights, brewed some coffee, and were as kind as I have ever seen for any airline.  I was greatly impressed and relieved for a friendly face.  Two very happy, charming captains escorted me out to the 12 passenger Sesna, joking that I could brag I had my own private plane to my friends.  I smiled feeling at ease and sat right behind them for one of the most beautiful flights I have been privileged to have down the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica during sunrise.  

I can only describe what I saw as breathtaking.  Clouds rested in pockets of lush green hills, mist steaming off the mountains as the sun parted the evening into the day.  The plane dipped in and out of clouds as the two captains chattered in Spanish about this and that.  I watched the city dissipate into jungle and wilderness, orange sunrise bathing the green in its warmth.  Undisturbed coastline with inlets leading into marsh cleared into deep blue water as we made our way over land and out over ocean.  Memories of how small I used to feel out at sea, my respect for this world so unknown and so untapped began to wash over me in a familiar and old way.  

We circled a small gulf surrounded by green jungle and mountains, a sprinkle of buildings and fishing boats began to emerge.  In a matter of minutes, the plane lowered itself onto one small runway.  A handful of people awaited the plane. My fraction of working brain couldn't conceive of why so many people would be waiting for me, as I was the only passenger.  However, they weren't.  One man waved at me, a large smile on his face and a rain jacket covering him appropriately for the changing weather.  A young white guy with freckles, blue eyes, and a stocky build, he wore surf shorts and a pair of sandals.  I knew he was from the yacht.

"Hey there!  I'm Brady," he smiled, hand out with a firm shake.  He grabbed my bags and spoke perfect Spanish to our cab driver telling him to wait.  We went into the small terminal, a shack with a tin roof, and waited for a package he was also waiting for.

"Sorry to make you wait, I'm sure you're tired.  Getting mail here is ridiculous. You have to pay nearly $500 to mail something back home or wait for the random flight that comes to town.  Those other five people are pretty glad you flew in today," he laughed, a look of sheepishness on his face.  I smiled and let him know I was not bothered at all.  

"Oh, you'll get bored here quick.  There really isn't much to do here but surf and sweat out in this damn humid rain.  It's beautiful but it gets old quick."  

"I think I"ll be just fine," I laughed assuring him.  At that moment I knew I would.  This was heaven to me.  After my new captain grabbed his parcels, we loaded my luggage into the cab and rode the bumpy streets to the tiny Banana Bay Marina where my new residence would be. This town was truly tiny with one small road that ran through it and very little to speak of aside from an occasional restaurant or fishing boat.  In my exhaustion I grinned as I stepped out of the cab and wheeled my bags up to the sole vessel in the tiny marina.  Smiling to myself I realized I truly was in the middle of nowhere.  Thank God.  I was finally home. 

Last Walk With Tilly

My last walk with Tilly was 4 days ago before she got sick…before she mysteriously lost the use of her muscles and slipped into paralysis…before I wept holding her as the doctor euthanized her.  In these dark dark moments of life when your heart is drenched in tears and sinking to the bottom of your empty gut your friends pop up, each an individual burst of light to help you find your way through it.  They tell you the things you need to heal and often the right things to get you through each step of the cavern of grief.  In one of my many recent moments of deep belly cries this afternoon I received a text from a friend telling me to try not to cry that it is over, but to smile because it happened.   As I pulled myself up off Tilly's dog bed and wiped my face for the hundredth time in 3 days, I smiled at the thoughts of  my favorite memories of my beloved little girl and our many walks.   It led me to want to share with my friends as I try to forget the final memories that cause so much grief.  

It is only fitting that a walk with Tilly would be a part of todays' writing, not only because it has been the opener for many of my blogs, but also because it is Sunday.  Or as I used to and always will call it "Sarah and Tilly Day".  This was the day of the week I would set aside to go on an adventure with Tilly on foot downtown.  Sundays would begin early like any other day with Tilly pounding my back with her front paws to wake me up.  As small as her 35 pound frame was, she could pack a decent kidney shot.  I would grumble for her to leave me alone and try to go back to sleep.  She would jump off and sit on the floor, tail twitching expectantly for me to acknowledge her.  If I didn't,  she would whine and jump back up on my back and then quickly jump off back into position before I could swat at her.  She would pound her paws on the floor till I would look at her.  At this point I would roll over and acknowledge her complaining, "What do you want?"  She would whinny like a little horse and motion her head to the door, taking a couple paces to it as if to say, "Let's go already!"  I would teasingly pretend to go back to sleep knowing full well I was about to get another forceful pounce on my back.  When I would finally sit up and give in, hands up in surrender, she would jump up on the bed and roll around on her back kicking her feet to the sky and making weird dog noises of joy.  I can't describe them but they were pretty funny.  After our breakfast, a coffee, and a download of NPR podcasts, I was ready to take Tilly on our Sunday adventure.  I would pack a backpack with water, treats, a book, and my radio shows and take off on foot towards the river with Tilly leading the way.  We would walk down to the waterfront and walk along the waters' edge away from Sunday strollers and near the small wakes that Tilly loved to jump into.  We'd walk downtown and get her a bone at Canine Utopia, find a patio to sit at for lunch, and I would read while she went to town on her bone.  We'd spend a few hours out together exploring our neighborhood each week.  Sometimes we would be on the Burnt Bridge Trail, sometimes downtown, sometimes out to Frenchmans' Bar.  But we always spent Sundays outside and having fun, her sniffing around and me listening to radio podcasts off somewhere adventurous in my mind.  I think I loved these days so much because it is in these days that I see so clearly the wonderful influence she was on my life.  She made me exercise, even when it was pouring rain.  I did a lot of thinking and working out of my life, a lot of question answering, and a lot of soul searching on these walks.  I would never have done that if not for her.  She was a very special influence on my life in this way.

When I first saw Tilly I knew she was very special.  Brian and I had been talking for a couple months about getting a dog to keep me company while he traveled for work.  We had both always loved Pitbulls and so we decided to go check out the Humane Societies in Portland and Vancouver to look around.  One day after several prior attempts to find a dog we decided to check out the Humane Society in Vancouver.  In the first hallway we went down, 4 cages in, I saw this little tiger-striped dog sleeping on a bed.  She looked up at me sadly, curled into a little ball, tail wrapped around her.  I put my fingers in the front of her cage and called for her to come over.  She didn't get up but her tail wagged furiously.  I looked into her eyes and saw a sweet soul.  I asked Brian if we could take her.  He wasn't convinced yet so we had a tech bring her to play with us outside.  On her paperwork it said that she loved to play ball and frisbee.  Brian tossed a ball around and she jumped around after it.  When she brought it back she reached up her paws to him and licked his face.  He was sold.  We would high-five each other every day from then on how lucky we were to find her.  She proved to be a snuggly, silly, amazingly athletic dog with a huge heart and an energetic personality.  She was also a great companion.  When Brian and I ended our relationship and I moved home, she was an amazing comfort and a healing presence.  She always knew when I needed her and she had an amazing ability to understand what was going on with my life.  

True to her pitbull breed, Tilly was an alpha.  She wanted to lead the way, she wanted to protect me, always pulling and on alert.  Stubborn as a mule, I always joked I couldn't break her but I never wanted to.  She had such a loving and curious spirit, such a joy and excitement around people, and such an athletic nature. I found her stubborn morning alarm routine to be funny.  I loved that she would roll in the grass when I would yell at her to come inside from playing,  knowing I would think it was cute and buying herself more time with her rebelliousness.  I enjoyed the keen hunter she was, even when she brought a live 20 pound possum into my living room and it walked out the door after playing dead.   When we would leave the house, she would walk with a hop in her step, ears bouncing with curiosity.   A random squirrel would pop out and she would turn into a jungle cat and try to pounce on it.  I remember on one of our daily walks when she caught a squirrel several feet in front of us and shook it to death in her jaws.  Not one of my favorite walks, but amazing, nonetheless.  That was Tilly…amazing.  She stood up to big dogs and hid behind my back scared of cats.  She loved to chase butterflies, jump into water and swim,  and bury her bones in the yard.  She was funny and a character all her own.  And that was how she changed my life.  Because she challenged me to try to be like her adventurous spirit.

As I look back on my last walk with Tilly I wish I had known it would be our last.  I would have walked her further, fed her more treats, given her the best day of her life.  But most of all, I would have let her know what an amazing friend she was to me.  She may have only been a dog to most people that looked at her but she was my family.  I was always met with her unconditional love and her sweet snuggly disposition.  She would walk in sunshine or rain with the same happy gait.  Her loyalty had no end and her love through even her own pain was constant until the moment her eyes closed in death.  The doctors and the nurses that cared for her said that even when she was paralyzed in the oxygen cage with IV's stuck in her arms and trying to breathe through her closing esophagus, she would still wag her tail anytime someone would walk by.  Even in these last moments she was teaching me that no matter how bad the situation may be, there was something to be happy about.  I may have lost her and may not be able to take her on walks anymore like we used to, but I will always walk with the lessons she taught me and the love she gave me in my heart.  She will still walk with me everyday.

My gratitude...

  It is hard to remember in full all of the special memories of my childhood but one that is blazingly memorable was my introduction to my first friends in the United States and who would later become sisters to me. True to my routine, I was inspired today on one of my walks with Tilly to remember these special people who, for a short time in my life, made an impact that sends ripples through my life today.  In truth…there are really so many people if I were to focus on this time, but today I choose these.  If not for their intervention and love for me, I would not be where I am today.

My family moved to the United States when I was in the second grade to a suburb of Detroit, Michigan where my mothers' sister Wendy, my Uncle Tom, and their three kids lived.  I will never forget walking through the airport and seeing a t-shirt with a big yellow smily face with a bullet hole in the head and blood trickling down.  The writing on the shirt said, "Welcome to Detroit."  I often joke about this first impression of Detroit today and how I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It is one of those funny childhood things whose punchline didn't grasp me till years later, but freaked me out enough to have some hesitation as to where we had just moved.  Little did I know I the love, the acceptance, and the warmth I would be walking into in this new life.  

My first introduction to TBC was in our girls' church group of Missionettes on a Wednesday night.  A Christian version of Girl Scouts,  they would meet every Wednesday night and you would move through the ranks through badges, activities, volunteering, and memorization of chapters of the Bible, including reading the entire thing all the way through.  Once all the hurdles were hurdled, you would receive the recognition of Honor Star, in which you were paraded in front of the church in a pretty white dress and a crown was put on your head to applaud your 4 year accomplishment.  (Which I did)  When I first  I walked into the younger class of Prims (kind of like Brownies) I was terrified and alone.  Not having started school yet and knowing nobody outside of my family in the United States, I felt I would stick out like a sore thumb, with my ugly K-Mart corduroy pants and oversized knit sweater.  And I did.  The MIssionettes leader Mrs. Sanchez paired me up with a young girl with an equally awful fluffy knit dragon sweater and corduroy pants named Brianne, asking her to be my friend and show me around.  With a reluctant huff and roll of the eyes she ushered me to the small band of girls, wiggling impatiently for the meeting to begin.  Tall, awkward, and spunky, the last thing I am sure she wanted was this mousy little shy thing clinging to her side.  But she took me under her wing, nonetheless, patting the carpet next to her on the floor where she sat for me to join her.  The girls started into their chorus of mottos and pledges and were each prompted to introduce themselves.  When it came my turn Mrs. Sanchez introduced me and enthusiastically said, "Sarah is from EGYPT, like from the Bible. Welcome her, girls."  And much to my surprise…They did.  In any other group my foreign upbringing may have been a nail in the coffin to coolness, but in this group, it was my acceptance.  "Wow, you're from EGYPT?!"  "Oh cool."   A round of gasps and smiles and "sit with me" were to follow.  Being from Egypt had never been cool to me but I wasn't about to correct them.  Brianne quickly grabbed me to sit next to her again, "I met her first. She was my friend first."  And so a spark to ignite the beginning of my friendships with some of the most amazing girls I have been privileged to know.  

From Left: Me, Christy, Sarah R. and Brianne (Her face has an arrow because I wrote an arrow to her as My Best Friend in my childhood scrapbook.  Sorry B.)

I had a unique school experience in that, I went to school where I went to church and led a fairly protected life for a time.  The girls in my Wednesday classes became my school classmates, my fellow Sunday school attendees, my pew partners for Sunday night church, and the members of every sports team I played in.  We played kickball together at recess, went to ski classes on Monday nights,  played truth or dare in our circle of sleeping bags for one of our many many sleepovers, and often regarded each others' parents as an extension of our own.  It was very rare we were apart.  We idolized the awkward characters of Anne of Green Gables and Calamity Jane, who were quirky tomboys that would eventually blossom into strong beautiful women.  In an effort to emulate our idols we formed a girls' club called TBC…or The Tomboy Club…refusing to ever become a prissy girl who didn't love running around in the mud and could beat any man at any sport.  How naive we were!  We traded Baby Sitters' Club books and gawked with blushing faces as we read the inevitable future we would have in puberty after reading Judy Blume books.  Not too long after, reality hit and we went through that lovely monster truck of puberty together, discovering cramps, pimples, and who would and wouldn't get their boobs for Christmas.  (I didn't)   Kept in a world of innocence with strong encouragement towards sports and spirituality , we were very fortunate to be able to truly enjoy being girls and to slowly grow into women.  We were encouraged towards kindness and music, giving and achievement.  Even more lucky…we got to come into our own together and though we DID become prissy girls who sprayed their bangs to unimaginable heights, we still kicked ass in sports. 

Around late junior high, my parents had decided to end their marriage and my mom moved my sisters and I to Arizona.  I quickly declined.  We moved to a rough part of town and my mom had to work very hard to provide for us 3 girls.  I remember being terrified my first day of school in 8th grade. There was a riot and one of my classmates had knocked one of my teachers unconscious and beaten two others into an ambulance.  Gangs were feared by our neighborhood and our teachers.  Bullying was extreme enough that I remember a couple classmates carrying guns in their lockers for fear of a rival gang jumping them on their way home and a couple knife fights in the hallways.  I befriended two Hispanic girls at this time who were well-respected amongst some of the more powerful gangs in the school and therefore protected from being bullied, as I undoubtedly would have been.  They used to giggle at my innocence and my preppy clothes.  Once again, I was a foreigner in a strange land.  And once again, wanting to fit in, I adapted.  This is where my decline began and fast.  Over the next couple years and into my teens I cringe for the terror I was to my mother and the things I did.  I think she was at a loss for what to do to help me and I can't say I would have known myself what to do even now.  Having experimented with all sorts of drugs and skipping school, sex and drug houses with all sorts of experimentation at my fingertips, my weight declined and I sunk into a deep depression.  My one salvation through this time was my good friend back home who continued to write me and to call.  Just like the first day of Missionettes,  Brianne kept me close to her side and wouldn't let go.  

In what seemed like the darkest hour and a time I was very close to taking my own life for what I had seen myself become, Brianne's parents called my mother early one morning and asked her if I could come to stay with them for a year.  My mother was (and still is!) a great mother but had to work very hard to put food on the table and a roof over our heads,  while dealing with us older two becoming completely unmanageable.  Supporting my two sisters and I and our grandmother, it was probably one of the hardest things she had to agree to do.  It takes a strong person to be able to let go and to ask for help and I can never thank her enough that she did.  In a couple weeks' time and after many tears, I left my home to live with the Christmas family back in Detroit.  I look back now at how nuts these people were, with 3 teenagers of their own, to take on a 4th.  To give me my own room, to feed me, to take me to counseling weekly, to pay for me to attend the same private school I had gone to as a child, and to nourish my body and soul back to health.  Many nights of me shouting and rebelling at the new rules put upon me, crying in the arms of Mrs. C in her car after church, being brought to family functions and being treated as one of their own children.  Mr. C, who is the kindest and dearest man I may ever know, arm around me, treating me as one of his daughters.  I lived with them for a year and they helped me to raise funds through hard work and fundraising to complete a life dream of a trip to Africa to work with missions.  What a difference one year can make!  I can only imagine what else I would have been doing with that summer, if not for their intervention in my life.  I cannot imagine the woman I would have become if not for their love and protection of me and if not for my mother's hard decision to let go for that year.  I cannot imagine my life without the friendship and sisterhood of the girls of TBC, how they held me and brought me back into the fold.  I cannot be more grateful for the love Brianne had for me to take a strangers' hand at that young age and to never have let go.

I had tears in my eyes today on my walk thinking of how grateful I will always be for all I have been given.  Thank you Mom, Mr. and Mrs. C, Brianne, Brandon, Colette, Heather, Sarah, and Christy…and all the names that would take up two more pages.  You know who you are and I thank you for the wonderful memories that are able to take over my thoughts today because of your love for me.

From left: Brianne (pregnant), Sarah R., Me, Christy (we are missing Heather here...)

Alone

A turn of keys and I am home from work. I let the dog out the front door to romp around in her newly found freedom as I return to the confines of my lonely castle.  It has been a long day and my mind needs to sigh some relief.  Drop keys on my entryway stand and remove sunglasses, nudge work shoes off socked, sweaty feet, and pad my way to the bathroom to gaze at the small wearings a day at work has given my face.  Take a quick wash, remove my firewood and smoke fumed uniform, and adorn my limbs with soft, clean comfort.  Shuffle my feet, cell-phone in hand searching for messages of validation, and relent to sit on the front porch watching Tilly chase butterflies, wings floating bug-like towards her chomping anxious hop.  My desire to not be alone is overcome by my desire to be lazy and I cancel a couple tentative plans for the evening because…well…sometimes that is lonelier when your mind is somewhere else.  I opt, instead, to grab Tilly's frisbees and watch her charge at them over and over, my feet running through fresh cut grass, my ears listening to my latest npr show.  I let my mind get engrossed in the stories on the radio and laugh out loud as Tilly makes a powerful leap too high and almost trips herself on the landing.  Funny dog.  Stories of  humility.  My breathing slows into an attitude of gratefulness and my focus is blurred into relaxation as I realize that all the dumb little things that have built up on my shoulders throughout the day are really not that heavy.  And suddenly…I don't mind being alone in my little castle.

I have been in a slump lately with my attitude towards life and I believe it is probably part product of my age and part observance of my financial accomplishments topped off with a dollop of relationship failures.  If I were to look forward into my life at 25, I never would have seen myself living with a dog at 34 in a duplex in Vancouver, Washington.  I certainly wouldn't have seen myself alone.  Life doesn't always turn out how you plan and often as the result of the small choices made along the way.  It is the listening (or in some cases ignoring) of that inner voice, that turn to the path less traveled, that "Don't do this" that we do or that "Don't stay in this" that we stay in that brings us to a clearing with a view that we did not expect to end up at.  

A lot of these decisions in my life have been made in respect to the men in my life.  In fact, almost ALL my major moves have been based on men.  Move to the U.S….my dad.  Move to Arizona…mom leaving my dad.  Move to Colorado…me leaving my husband.  Move back to Arizona…not a man.  Move to Oregon…first move with boyfriend.  Continued travel on yachts…moving around with boyfriend in the business.  Move back to Oregon…lack of man in life and breakup from previously mentioned boyfriend.  Move to Vancouver…boyfriend.  Move to China…same boyfriend.  Move back to Oregon…same boyfriend broke up with me.  At some point the madness came to an all out dizzy spin and I collapsed to the ground.  I have been on the ground for the last year and a half trying desperately to avoid the low flying planes of more bad choices.  And as sad as that may sound and lonely as it has become, it has been the best thing that could have happened to me and something I need to remind myself of.  I have become safe and cautious, closed in and protective, gained girlfriends and weird guy friends, and sat still in one place by myself ON MY OWN for the first time in my life.  There are no boats to jump onto, no surprise trips to Brazil from my boyfriend to brag about, no one to tell me that I should be doing this or that with my life, no one to help me manage my money.  The need to have someone there just to fill the void diminishes more and more as time alone is more wholesome than time with the wrong person.  Waiting feels better…silence sounds clearer…budgeting is an accomplishment.  Why it takes some people longer to truly discover themselves, I don't know.  But it is a happening so important and necessary and one that makes me thank every path beforehand that brought me to here FINALLY.  I have to remember these moments when I am down on myself for what I haven't accomplished.  Because if accomplishing joy and a knowledge of oneself had been my original goal, I never would have taken such lengthy paths to get here.  But I am here, nonetheless and the growth doesn't end here.

I take a quiet stroll with Tilly, enjoying Zac Brown in my ears. It unravels the day and brings on the setting sun.  I walk back into my home, turn the oven on, prepare my dinner for one.  Tilly wiggles anxiously at my feet, tail twitching in expectation of fallen food.  Okay…dinner for two. Amy calls and we chat about our odd weekends, how we will get through the next week's stresses, and why men are so strange.  Comfort and acceptance, love and sisterhood, see you later, and goodbye.  I grab Tilly, snuggle into my couch with a book, softly pet her head till her eyes droop, and the day ends one more time.  I am home and home is me as I should be in my cozy castle safe and sound.  I am content. Alone.

Home

My mind wanders back today to a very special place that holds a little piece of heaven I remember when I am missing home….Hurghada…

When I was a child my family and I lived in Egypt in a rural town on the Red Sea coast named Hurghada.  We enjoyed the innocent beginnings, unobstructed landscape, and quietness that would later drive others to follow my parents' footsteps and bring this sleepy village to what is now a bustling tourist trap of city life.  Desert cliffs stand behind this small gem that runs a 22 mile stretch of sandy shores.   The calm crystal waters that are home to colorful tropical fish, dozens of uninhabited small islands perfect for weekend camping, subtropical climate, and hundreds of government protected coral reefs provided our family the majesty in which to share with others and to live an amazing life.

My mom and dad owned an international diving and adventure company which ranged from teaching a carousel of interns how to scuba dive and teach, to Europeans on holiday taken camping on a small private island. There was always someone new to meet in our home and always work to be done.  Many long days were spent packing up generators, tents, kitchen supplies, and diving equipment in preparation.  We'd gather the vacationing group from their hotel and head out to sea.   My dad's team of fishing boats swayed back and forth in the waves, my sister Maryam and I climbed around in the wobbly dip and plunge to stare at the new faces.  We'd ask them questions, bring seasick travelers water, and jump into the laps of attractive young men, smiling up as only a 5 year old is allowed to do.  My father would tell one of his many loud and boisterous stories, my mom would smile quietly in the background holding onto the boat rail.  We would arrive and set up camp as the guests would take a stroll around the 1 mile radius island, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the tiny paradise they would call home for the week. My mother would take to the arduous task of setting up the kitchen tent, where she'd spend many a hot day preparing lunches and dinners for 10-15 people at a time over bunsen burners and small fold out tables. Dad and the fishermen would haul out the diving tanks and scuba gear, engaging the tourists in friendly conversation.  My sister and I would gather shells, play in the water, snorkel the nearby reef to check out the fish dad had taught us the names of, and giggle at the naked Binaca-nosed Germans sunbathing on the beach.  Hot days became cool nights and the buzz of the generator allowed for evening festivities of music and lights.  When all was finally still and guests asleep, we would sit under a blanket of stars and watch the hermit crabs crawl up the shore, listen to the waves in their faithful rhythm, and lay our heads in mom's lap while dad drank tea and smoked the sheesha with the fishermen.

On other occasions my parents taught scuba diving at the local Sheraton Resort.  The amount of business exchange between both entities allowed for very friendly relations and almost a feel of a second family for my sister and I.   Many of our friends were the children whose parents docked their boats in the hotel marina or the random guests my parents would befriend.  My sister and I spent a lot of time swimming in the chlorinated shallow waters of the heart-shaped outdoor pool while mom and dad instructed scuba classes in the deep end.  These days are amongst my favorite to recall, eating French fries by the pool or running into the hotel kitchen to beg the head chef for a ball of dough so my sister and I could use it as bait for fishing.  He would smile down and place a small perfectly formed ball in each of our hands and we'd run off, spools of fishing wire unraveling behind our skipping bare feet.  Dangling legs over the wooden planked ledge, hair tangled and salty, skin dark and dry, we would catch a couple little fish and felt like we had found gold.  Other times at the resort we would run in terror from the oddly kept hotel "pet" goat that some employee would let out of its cage, angry with horns down, chasing us into jumping into the safety of the pool waters.  We often fell asleep late at night beside the same pool on its plastic chairs, the breeze cool, the discotheque playing the BeeGees in the background.  Mom and Dad would come carry us back to the car after a long night of socializing with guests that were heading back to their European homes.  And we would finally make our way through the winding cliffs along the seashore to our little home off the resort line.  

We lived in a stucco duplex which was half dad's scuba diving office and a home for interns who temporarily stayed with us. The other half was where we lived.  Electricity was spotty at the time, and many a night was lit with candles and the luminescence of the moon.  We would sit on our raised balcony and drink tea, watching the stray dogs and foxes roam the streets, the occasional police officer strolling with rifle in hand.  On evenings when we had electricity we would watch American television shows on one of our 2 channels and eat one of my mom's amazing pizzas she was well known for.  The Russian ballet would perform on certain evenings and my sister and I would dance in front of the screen, imagining ourselves into the scene.  Days we would play outside with the neighbor kids and kick a soccer ball in the sand, the local mosque blaring the daily prayers over the city. 

Our neighbors lived right next door and were a simple and hard working Egyptian couple with 6 children…3 boys and 3 girls. The father was a quiet and small older man who was a lawyer in town and smoked like a chimney leaving a confetti of discarded cigarettes in the front yard.  His wife was a large woman with a loud voice, a hand that always seemed to be slapping one of her children on the back of their heads, and a kitchen that was constantly cooking something tasty that she had slaughtered from their backyard pen.  I would often linger on their front porch around lunch time, kicking rocks and looking up longingly like a little beggar waiting to be asked in to eat.  Reluctantly and eventually she would appear in the doorway, wipe her hands on her thin cotton dress, sigh, and then wave me in.  I would run in and sit next to my two best friends Noosa and Hibba.   Cross legged sitting in a circle on the floor, we would each grab a piece of pita bread and begin dipping into the bowls of food she would lay out on a table of newspaper.  Rice, black eyed peas cooked in garlic and eggs, tahini, roasted eggplant, boiled chicken, tomato stewed okra, lentils, and parsley salads would be gone within minutes.  The siblings would fight over who would get to eat the chicken head and I would squirm impatiently as honey soaked baklava and dates replaced the lunch fare.  I often look back at these times in gratefulness at the hospitality of this poor family to feed another mouth with so many to already feed.  My mother, upon discovering I had snuck off,  would run over, embarrassed and red faced.  She would be waved off with an "it's okay" and out of respect would thank profusely, exiting with a glare at me that let me know I would hear it later.  I think she understood, though, and never gave me too much grief over it.

 A few years went by, my little sister Hannah was born, and my parents knew that it was time to bring us to a more formal education and structured life.  As a child you don't always see the reality of the memories you hold dear…the state of the country after the President's assassination, the arguments with the neighbors over their children stealing from our home, the growing tourism industry in Hurghada that was choking my parent's business, the loneliness and rough comments my American mother had endured in this foreign place for 11 years, and the tragic drowning of one of our beloved interns at sea on one of our trips.  One day we packed up our home and said goodbye to our neighbor friends, promising to see them next year.  I hugged Noosa and Hibba in tears and climbed into the van that would take us to the airport, unaware this was the last time I would see this life again.  I remember the winding drive up into the hills along the water, the breeze through the open windows, resting my chin in my hand and looking out, excited to go to America.  I wish now I had paid more attention, had appreciated it more.  These memories, as fresh today as they were then, are locked in time back in a special place, like a forgotten treasure at the bottom of the sea.  It is on cloudy quiet days like today that I close my eyes and they resurface.  I hear the faithful rhythm  of the shores again, I feel the gentle salty breeze lulling my mind quiet, and the moon bright and full illuminating the paradise I once called home.  

As Iron Sharpens Iron

Tilly sits next to me on the couch on this chilly morning, furry butt rested up against my leg, head turned to the open side door, ears perking every now and again to a passerby or leaf scratching the pavement.  Occasionally she sprints out to bark at some poor unsuspecting person having a conversation she deems too loud or a bird that dares to fly near enough to be caught.   Satisfied all is safe, she returns to my side and resumes her post, grumbling under her breath like an ornery old man.  Only when silence and outside activity has maintained its peace for an appropriate period of time does she relax enough to lay more comfortably, head in my lap.  These moments of rest, however, are only minutes.  She is always on alert, always protecting, always loyal.  Even with eyes closed, ears are sentinel.  I am reminded everyday of the kind of friend I need to be and the kind of friend I ought to have in the spunky and lovable character of my dog.  In exchange for her loyalty and love, I am loyal in making sure she is well fed, she is walked and played with, even when I am sick or depressed and don't want to walk the hour.  I bathe her, I tell her how much she means to me, and sometimes I spank her to keep her from running out of the yard into the street.  But I protect her, as she protects me…because…I love her.  It is not a rule, it is not something we do because we feel an obligation to do so.  It is not a choice when you love like this…you behave how love behaves in its truest and purest form because it is there. Simple.

The subject of friendship has come up a lot recently, in the way spiritual tides ebb and flow.  Strangers, books, music, and even television spout quotes and anecdotes that intersect with this topic in such a loud way that has made me feel like I should attune my ears.  It is in these times, and I know everyone has had them, where it seems like EVERYONE is saying to you the same thing, that you must ask the powers that be "What do you need to say to me?"   My father when he visited recently told me to be careful of the company I keep and to remember the heart I have and the way I was raised.  He spoke words of love and encouragement every day he was here.  It had been so long since I had had anyone say these things to me, I drank it up like water and still feel the healing of it now.  My counselor recently told me that in order to be my best self I need to have the gain of good friendship and to try to be friends with someone I admire and who can tell me what they admire in me.  Someone who will tell it to me straight, will not tell me things to try to hurt me, but is willing to hurt me to heal me.  We often become friends with people who are in the same place we are in because we selfishly feel understood and can go about doing what we do without changing.  But to be in a healthy friendship, we must sharpen each other, demand better of each other, be in a constant climb upward.  I am reminded of one of my favorite proverbs, "Faithful are the wounds of a friend; But the kisses of an enemy are profuse."  Everyone is friends at the end of the night at the bar.  But few friends will call you to wake your lazy ass up to go for a healthy jog.  

A good friend of mine stopped by late the other night to check on me.  He had heard I had given myself a rough week and sat to listen and give sound advice, judgement free.  Though he had had a long day and children at home he wanted to get to, he was compelled to take the time to show concern and love.  Much like me walking my dog when I was tired, he took the time to show he cared when I am sure he was tired.  It was a simple selfless act, and one he doesn't even probably give a seconds' thought to, but one that made all the difference to me.  I have had my eyes closed to a truth that has been standing quietly in front of me waiting for me to open my eyes. And sometimes that it the beauty of true friendship. The subtlety in which it effects you positively later, like my father's words of life.  We don't always appreciate the slap in the face when it happens…but when it saves us from getting run over later…we do.  And we don't always appreciate the blanket someone has put around us, until we are met with the cold wind of our enemies…but when it keeps us warm…we then do.  

I endeavor to be a better friend to those around me like the ones I have been blessed to have, so that they don't feel like I bring them down, so that they know how much they mean to me.  In turn I pray for the wisdom to measure the effects of the company I keep and so I can continue to grow in the TRUTH and LOVE that stands quietly in front of me waiting patiently for me to see. 

Clarity in the Rain

Machlemore and Ryan Lewis, Tom Waits, and Brandi Carlile take turns today inviting in the grey and the cold into a porous mind through their songs.  Sticky leaves on the sidewalk and a brisk chill that, after an hour of walking Tilly  made me wish I'd worn a hat and gloves.  Spring is fickle with warm days that turn quickly to sweater weather and then jacket weather.  Fast music turns to slow…and thus…my tempo.

I was listening to a lecture online today about self-sadism and how we can be the greatest abusers of ourselves.  We so often take notice of biological death but forget that a person can indeed die a spiritual death through negative self image, breeding a need for validation from unhappy sources, living in an endless cycle of need and desperation.  This creates depression, anxiety, and an inability to feel one "measures up."  An unhealthy cycle perpetuates in accepting unhealthy relationships that we endure because they are slightly less abusive than our own self-abuse.  Deep shit.   Woke me up.  Made me want to write...

Set the wheels, ignited a chemical reaction in the magnets bouncing in my brain, made me want to go back out into the rain, walk it out, think it out.  How does one return to one's TRUE SELF? How to stop living unconsciously, not be ruled by unhealthy answers to need and desire…how to engage in silence in quiet thought in a healthy manner?  More crunching of leaves, hands wringing, heart singing with a mind willing to be open and accepting to the bells that have just begun their ringing. 

True Self.  An interesting couple of words.  Pura Vida.  Sincerity, truth, saying who I am, saying what I want and meaning the truth I give to others.  So many of the nights at work, out in a group, answering phone calls from loved ones…it is hard to not paint a smile and say everything is alright while running from being smothered. It is so much harder to be sincere.  I feel my face twitching uncomfortably, my eyes looking pained, while I wait for the moment that requires my sincerity to pass and I can start being real .  End it with a joke or witty jab to wrap it up in a comfortable bow so no one will know.

Why is showing you are alone a weakness and why do I replace it with an imagined whirlwind of greatness? So many searches in these moments of unhappiness churn my stomach and my imagination as I try to figure out the meaning to becoming happy again.  Because I am not happy.

I am not happy with my shallow choices and searches for warmth in temporary flames.  The ashes in the morning are a symbol of the death, the inevitable and eventual state of loss, withdrawal and shame.  To be alone in the presence of so many people and so much noise…I am asking for something from the world I can only give to myself and enjoy.

I feel another change, another insight in my view that is the ironic blessing of adversity and pain.  It takes a steady willingness to walk up the hill, mingle my own sweat into the rain.  These days in the dark and cold moments, I grow so much more than in the sunshine because there is no one but me.  Just me.  As much as it sounds like a breaking it is a growing, like the slow evolution of a tree.  It is a realization anew of responsibilities to myself I have neglected.  I am like my yard, overgrown with dead branches and forgotten flowers, vegetable gardens feeling rejected.  It is a realization that change must come from within, a clearing of the overgrowth that releases all hostages of my blame. 

And all it took…was a simple walk out in the rain.