Being Home

It's weird being back home. This lack of propulsion. This continuity. This sameness.

I suppose it simplifies things exponentially to claim that being home is "sameness."  Certainly my days vary. Work is never the same from one day to the next. I even took a turn down a street I had never driven today to prove to myself that there are things here in my own neighborhood I have yet to discover. And, yet.

Things that I so looked forward to: Portland restaurants, my bed, streets I can navigate without a map, and an entire wardrobe.  These were things that made me smile through my exhausted tears as TSA disposed of our Thai snow globe, emptied out the entirety of our three months worth of travel paraphernalia and paraded us through body scanners like herds of cattle. It was the promise of "home" that helped me bite my tongue as American Airlines charged us to check a single bag and proceeded to refrain from feeding us on a six hour flight. 

And now, home these past 2 weeks, I find myself restless and overly organized. 

It's strange to me how often I have been asked by friends, family, co-workers, "where will you go next? Have you started planning your next adventure?"

I chuckle and answer truthfully, "no, I don't have any plans."

It feels so lackluster. I have nothing planned.

I had hoped that three months of travel, self-reflection, and adventure would open doors to my future.  I had hoped that when I returned I would know where to steer my life. Back to school? A change in work? A change in location?  I thought that certainly, by the time I arrived back home I would have figured it out.

Instead, I am filled with even more questions and no plans.

And so, I work. Buy groceries. Mother the chickens in the backyard. I wash dishes. Wash clothes. Sort my mail. Pay my bills. And twiddle my thumbs.

(see... I even still look the same...)

What's next?

Read this because we can't call

Hey...

So as much as I love griping and moaning.... I will most likely be throwing the brunt force of my blogging talents (or lack thereof) in the direction of a shared blog I will be keeping with a traveling companion of mine.  To follow my story for the next several months, tune in to:

http://readthisbecausewecantcall.blogspot.com

Having a Story Worthy Week.

Good news people!  The leave of absence is a YES!  Now, things get really interesting.  I find myself nesting for an adventure is strange ways.

Take for instance, my refusal to listen to any of my favorite pod casts.  I have this irrational fear of running out of things to listen to on my trip and want desperately to have something "home-like" and "American" to listen to on my journey.

Please don't mistake my sudden patriotism.  I mean, lets be honest, I trying to leave the country for three months because I desperately want to see the rest of the world.  But, there's this underling anxiety that I have.  I find myself leery, you see, I have never been away from good old red-white-and-blue for so long, and I find the idea a bit daunting.

I am recalling my trip to Uganda, where after 3 weeks in Africa, having arrived at the airport to head back home,  I realized we had no way to get there.  A sudden panic and longing for home seemed to overwhelm me.  The sudden tug of distance that separated me from everything I'd ever known sucked the air from my lungs and left me breathless.

I was ready, at that time, to spend whatever amount of money to talk to my parents on the phone.  To make some kind of connection.  I found myself tearful, lonely, and forlorn. 

It was such a stark contrast to the rest of my journey, where I had been all too happy to explore and see a place in the world that is so different from my own.

And so, like the crazy hypochondriac that I am, I am stashing and hording pod casts. I am collecting and saving for that rainy day of my journey, where all I want to do is listen to an American disk jockey from Chicago tell be about "this American Life" or to have a "story worthy week."  Goodness knows, I should have a few of them along the way of my 3 month adventure!

Standing Outside the Fire

Death is rude.  It is cruel. Unjust. Unkind. Unfair.  It plays by a set of rules we are not allowed to see. It scars us. It comes swiftly and it drags its heals.  It steals us away.

And, at some point it becomes what it is.  The end of a life. 

 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I work around Death all the time.  You work as an oncology nurse long enough, and that light at the end of the tunnel ends up being you more often than you might think.  My colleges and I have learned the art of Death. In fact, my co-workers often joke that we are angels of Death. 

We put on our nurses cap (figuratively, of course), strap on our stethoscope (literally), and play nurse.  We can put away all those fears and doubts and sadness that surround Death, and we can become it's angel. We can comfort a family member; we can count breaths, look for signs of discomfort, for that frown line that appears when they hurt; we can call the donor line and pronounce a death; we can touch a hand softly and whisper a quiet word of support, letting someone know they are not alone.  We are the tour guides on this journey.  We are asked, "How long?" and, "Is this normal?."  We get to warn people when things have changed, when we see the lights begin to dim and flicker. We get to coach and console.  We sympathize and council.  We nurse.

We all have our oddities: we buy the newspaper for the obits, we suggest that the baby lullaby that plays over the hospital intercom when a baby is born should be have a musical counterpart played when a soul leaves the hospital, and we oftentimes make crass and inappropriate jokes about dying. This is because we know, perhaps more than anyone, how emotionally and physically wrong-side-outing death can be, and so we cling to each other and our silly little oddities.

And we are good at it. 

It's strange.  Being good at Deathing.  (New word... go with it. I think it means, more or less, to bring about the process of death)  But, my co-workers and I take great pride in a peaceful death on the floor.  We celebrate his or her life and memories and sigh with relief when a suffering soul has been released from his or her Earthly prison.

Sometimes a death takes us by surprise.  It shocks us in it's timing, it's urgency, it's victim.  We get too close, we stand too near the fire and burn our fingers, singe our hair.  We step away holding tightly to our burns with a kind of awe that follows you around when you burn yourself on a pot you've cooked with for years.

And we tell ourselves that we were mistaken for standing so close, and plan to take a step back the next time.  To pull ourselves away.  Protect ourselves.

And at some point, we find ourselves burned again.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Standing outside the fire
Life is not tried it is merely survived
If you're standing outside the fire 
               -Garth Brooks (Standing Outside the Fire)


The question remains: is it better to have been present, been there, been emotionally invested and then have been burned?  Or, is it better of stand a distance away?

The burn hurts.  It marks you.  Leaves you changed permanently.  The burn lives inside you always.

But, having burned, and then having stood back a distance, I have come to wonder if I do a disservice to myself and the world by creating barriers between myself and the fire?  I find guilt inside myself for not having been closer.  And so I step forward.


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I was burned again tonight.  A girl I've never met, from a town I've never been to, in a car I've never seen, died.  Today.  And I felt a new kind of burn.  A kind of sympathy burn.  The kind of pain you feel when the burn doesn't really belong to you and you have no ice to give the burn victim.

I know cancer death.  I even know young cancer death.  You can see it coming from a mile away and you can brace yourself.  Sure, that bracing may not save you much.  The train impacts just as hard when you see it as when you don't.  But, there is something about this foresight that protects us.

Car accidents are not anticipated.  They are not foreseen.  They are an unexpected phone call. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I wish I could pat a hand and listen to the life refection stories.  I wish I could be there.  Help guide the way. Warn someone.  Help navigate the tumultuous storm.

I wish I had an ice cube for my sister. 

Missing the Super Bowl

I have never "gotten" football.

No matter how hard I've tried, the magic of the game has yet to tickle me just so.  Me.  The ragingly competitive, overly invested, and fastidious score keeper in almost any and every walk of life, has never bothered much over the sport.  I'd watch hokey, cheer on a soccer game, perch at the edge of my seat and enjoy a basketball game, I'd go to a baseball game, watch curling with great interest.  Shoot, I'd rather watch a marathon on the weird sports channel we get for free at my house, before I'd watch a football game.

I had a roommate once, in college, that was utterly appalled at my lack of football enthusiasm.  She would dress me up like in pep rally paraphernalia, adorn me with scarves and team colored hats.  She would point out rules and jump excitedly around with each play.  But, do you know what I remember most about those football games she forced me, under duress, to attend? I remember how stinking long the game was, and how stinking cold it was outside.

And, you have to stand. Like the whole time.

(I'm really earning my keep as "whiner-shiner" here, make no mistake.)

Anyways.  Today was the most holy of holy days to football lovers: The Super Bowl.

I realize that for many Americans, Sundays are a sacred day for watching Bowls (note: I was curious about the etymology of the word "bowl" to describe a football match, and was surprised to find it so remarkably mundane... but, here you have it, (per the internet): "The Yale Bowl started the name. It was a bowl-shaped stadium. The bowl games started with the Rose Bowl named after the stadium." Go figure.)

I can count the number of times I have had to widdle away a perfectly good Sunday with football, and I'll promise you that none of them were by choice.

I'll admit, however, that football gatherings do have some saving graces.  Those being: people, food, and beer.  Of course, all of those things exist perfectly well on there own, and need not suffer under the dictatorship of football to be enjoyed.

So, as you can imagine, it has been mildly entertaining the past few days, as people I know have offhandedly asked my "super bowl plans."  To each football enthusiast I have mournful explained that I HAVE to work.  Note the stress on the "have."

The askers eyes grow wide and they slump dejectedly, as if they had just realized that a poor soul might not be able to enjoy their most sacred day.  Its as if my inability to fully enjoy this American past time offends and depresses them greatly.  I can see in their eyes that they want to reach out to me, comfort me in some way for my loss.

And, on the inside, I smile, because this is the best excuse I've had in a while to miss a game.

Where would you go?

Let's say, for instance, that you could take three months off of work and travel anywhere you pleased (well, maybe not Egypt or the Ivory Coast- for political instability, or Cuba- for long standing embargoes and other governmental hoopla).  For, posterity's sake, you could go anywhere.  Where would you go?

What a fun brain-teaser, no?  Except, there are 195 countries in the world, and when this questions becomes more than a philosophical dilemma, it starts becoming an exorbitantly long pros and cons list with no end in sight.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "golly this girl really can complain about anything!"  I mean, I am so lucky to even have the possibility of this question laid out in front of me, how can it be possible that I am whining about the complexity of choosing the right adventure?  Have you read my blog title?  I digress.

When I explain to people that I am considering this life hyatus, they all seem to nod and ask some form of "and how old are you?"  and then nod again sagely adding, "well you better do it now while you still can."  The ticking clock on the proverbial wall (or is it hypothetical wall?) has me anxiously pacing my mind.  This is my one and only chance.  I have to fit as much "experience" into it as possible. 

Then there is the whole issue of cost. 

Dislike. (to quote Facebook)

My roommate and I have been looking at "Around the World" tickets.  They actually look like a much better option for the type of adventure we are planing.  However, they are not exactly cheep.  And they come with a list of stipulations to boot.   (From the Star Alliance website:)

• On your Round the World journey, your travel must follow one global direction only (East or West) and each Traffic Conference must be crossed only once:
• The Atlantic and the Pacific must each be crossed exactly once. Only one crossing between Europe, Africa/Middle East and Asia is allowed.

What on Earth is a Traffic Conference?

I get out my map and start tracing routes along the flat planes of Easter-egg-colored countries connected by thin black squiggly lines and long stretches of blue.  Everything on a map seems so small and close together.  My fingers can walk easily from China to Spain in just a few quick moves. My mind tries to comprehend the meaning of space via the key, but my brain doesn't stretch that way very well.

As my fingers dance across continents I ponder what is miss-able.  What can I forgo? 

I try to pacify myself by repeating a mantra of, "I can always go there some other time."  But, the pit of my stomach twists and I wonder: when?  Don't I want to go back to school?  Won't I be poor as dirt when I get back?  Will the opportunity come again?

So the question remains: where will this journey take me.  Here's one itinerary (perhaps the "not-quiet-paired-down-enough-to-be-feasible itinerary,  but a start):

Portland--> Japan--> Indonesia--> Cambodia/ Thailand-->  India--> Russia--> Ukraine--> other European counties (Turkey, Czech Republic, Hungary, Switzerland...)--> USA

Or the opposite order? 

When is monsoon season again?

Which of these counties need a visa prior to entry?

Am I missing anywhere vital? 

Can I afford this?

What are your thoughts?

My Sisters

My sisters and I got into a "remember when..." conversation recently.  At a wedding (which may or may not have influenced the direction of our conversation).

It's funny how time and memories can alter any event.  Each pair of eyes sees a different image.  Could there really have been only one image to begin with?  People say that hind sight is 20/20.... they could not be more wrong.  

My sister's wanted to allude to an event that my memory finds rather hazy.  Something about my refusal to admit that I was going to get married.  My sisters would have you believe that whenever the opportunity arose I was all about condemning marriage.  Saying things like, "who say's I'm even getting married, anyway?" I was a born feminist, I guess.

I, however, remember a very different event.  A car trip.  In this car trip my sisters and I are playing a game of M.A.S.H. or some other nonsensical girly game.  Perhaps they were playing and I was overhearing.  Perhaps I was playing too.  That part has slipped from my mind.  What I do remember was the taunting.  "You're going to die alone!  You and your 20 cats!" The part about the 20 cats was definitely a word for word quote.

There was nothing I could say to dissuade them of this, if my memory serves.  It might because, I had denied it on previous occasions.  Maybe.  But, that is the marriage memory I have.

Anyway, when I brought up this fond childhood memory, my sisters seem to have completely forgotten this event.  My sister, who we all claim has the memory of an elephant (at least where she is concerned) laughed and said she had no recollection of such an event.

It's funny what we hang on to.  I remember being entirely offended and hurt.  My sisters remember a girl who refused on principle to marry as an adult.

The past is such a pliable thing, it would seem.  It changes as we change.  Pieces disappear and others appear years later.  Who can tell what really happened.

But, as a point of memory keeping, which I suppose a blog can act as, if I so choose it to, I will add this memory to the mix:

The dreaded, who's getting married next came up during this same conversation.  And, since my little brother is suddenly facebook friendly (i.e. relationship status change-worthy) with a cheerleader at school, my sisters and I felt it would be important to set up some ground rules.

The word "BIRTH ORDER" came up several times.

It was pounded in and spelled out.  Our brother was not, under any circumstance, allowed to marry before any of his older sisters.  With the small caveat loop hole that he proposed himself : in the event that we (his sisters) were still single on his 30th birthday (a non-negotiable number) he would then be allowed to marry with our consent.

The other rule introduced was the rule of "PERMISSION."

This rule involved the permission receiving of all siblings prior to a marriage.  Our brother was to ask each of us for our permission prior to even asking the father's permission.

Now, this relationship may be new and against great odds, but my sisters and I would take no chances.

The rules were followed by (no surprise since both of my sister's are born teachers) a list a consequences should either of these rules be broken.

Threats, if you will.  I believe blackmail, stalking, harassment, terrorism, and even physical violence may have been thrown around.

"We would track you down."

"You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family" (or nose?)

Anyways, the girl would feel unwelcome, was the point, I believe.



I feel better having written the rules down.  They seeem more impermbiable and solid typed out this way.

I hope my sisters remember these rules, because I think they apply to each of us.  That's right.... BIRTH ORDER people.