I’m sitting on the tiled front porch of my rental apartment in Noosa, enjoying the gentle stream of sunlight hitting my legs and the crisp fall breeze.  Sure, I should be inside a dark room watching powerpoint presentations about land acquisition and the need for simplifying planning to focus on policy outcomes rather than procedure, but I’m not and I don’t feel bad about that fact at all.

Yesterday I woke up on a jet plane somewhere near Fiji, and by the time I ate breakfast and watched Avatar I was descending into Brisbane.  When I got there at 5 am, I surreptitiously entered the country with a large number of contraband items including but not limited to peanut butter chocolate chip Lara Bars and chocolate chip Clif bars, stealthily bypassing the drug-sniffing dogs and under-caffeinated customs agents.  Before they could catch me, I was in a cab, out of cell phone range, in the airport link tunnel.  Operation Lara Bar was in the bag.

I entered the Queenslander, unlocked and empty at 5:40 am to find my fiancé gone, as well as the two-dishes of lasagna I’d left him 9 days earlier (a small win garnered for the budding-domestic-goddess-slash-international-granola-bar-smuggler).  A quick shower later an even quicker realization that my phone was no longer functioning, led me on a pre-dawn manhunt to find the Telstra agent who could rectify this mess.  Completed, fiancée snuggled, and tea consumed, I was soon in another cab to a meeting point at the Chermside bus station, where I’d intercept my manager and journey next to his 1-year-old for the next two hours to Noosa where operation “Attend a Relevant Conference in an Amazing Resort Town” commenced.  And, here I am.  It’s been a whirlwind.

I spent the last week in the US.  It wasn’t planned and that made it sad and wonderful at the same time.  Last week Sunday I called my Grandparents, and finally after months of hearing she was doing okay, got a real response to the question of what my Grandma’s condition was (she had battled lung cancer for two years).  Within 24 hours I was on a plane.  I made it home and held her before she passed. I thank every ounce of luck and grace in the world that I had the resources and ability to do that.  And even more, I thank those same forces for giving me the next week to grieve and support my family, particularly my Grandpa, as we all interpreted her loss.  My Grandma, as my dad put it, was “steel.”  Nothing less.  She was a firecracker and a sage.  And in her own way, the same way she nurtured her immense gardens, she nurtured her whole family with a frank, unsentimental, but unshakable love.  She passed in the evening, surrounded by the edifices she’d built; her family, her gardens, her home, as she lay in her own bed.  When she was gone, the lights flickered and within seconds a gale force wind shook the house, bringing down shingles and tree limbs.  The wind howled in the fireplace and then the storm passed.  And so did she.  Without hesitation or uncertainty.  Like Grandma would.

I had never seen anyone die.

And I held my Grandpa and he shook.  Sixty-four years of life together, ended in that moment.  There aren’t words for that.  There’s nothing that you can do for that.  So I held him.  He and I have always had a connection, but there isn’t anything to say.  All you can do is let your heart ache as it must and envelope the shaking pillar of your family in your arms.  All you can do is direct every bit of the love in your being toward him who must wake up the next morning and make a life anew.  All you can do is walk in her gardens and through her kitchens with reverence, and listen to the birds hoping that her spirit is in their song.  All you can do is share a kind smile and an ear with the piercingly sorrowful eyes of one who loved her more than I can fathom.

If I could, I would stay there.  I would be there to eat breakfast with him each day and to argue over politics to keep him feisty.  But I can’t.  I always feel the distance, but most keenly now.  Here.  Far away.

Death doesn’t scare me.  And in many ways I don’t find it sad.  But life without those we love is terrifying and heart-wrenching. The hole that cannot be filled is more tormenting than anything I can imagine.

People adapt.  People are built to survive.  And he will.  We all will.  He will ask himself each day, what Mary would do, what Mary would want, and he will do it.  I think we all will, as we have always done.  She was steel, and so we need to be too.

Mary Louise Sachs.  April 4,1930 – May 14th, 2013.

I turn to Gabriel Garcia Marquez when I need perspective in my life. Lately, with the oppressive heat of summer thrust upon me I feel a sense of urgency and anxiety, a need for cool breezes, mountaintops, and clarity. Though he can’t give me all of that, again and again he delivers on perspective.

His writing has a strange and wonderful way of honing in to the intricacies of character and situation with such wryness that each small personality trait or observation he describes stands eternalized as a vignette of the flaws and triumphs of humanity. I like him for that, for his symbolism and simplicity.

I like him for these descriptions of a man facing a firing squad, which I read late last night:

“He thought about his people without sentimentality, with a strict closing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated most.” (One Hundred Years of Solitude, Penguin Books Version, P. 122)

“His nostalgia disappeared with the mist and left an immense curiosity in its place.” (P.123)

——————————————————————-

The first phrase truly made me think. Marquez summed it all up so concisely. And I had to think if that statement was actually true.

Do you actually love the people you hate? I’m not entirely sure.

Does your hatred build structures wherein you can act out your own narratives? Does it facilitate insecurities and the existence of doubt or shame that you can’t or won’t move past? Does hatred allow you to continue to react to hurts that have long since disappeared? Maybe it does all of those things and more.

So, when everything else boils off you may not love the people you hate, but you may need them. You may rely on them. And you may live comfortably within the edifices that such hatred enables you to justify.

It’s a bit scary to think of how much that kind of negativity can limit your outlook and your openness.

The second phrase ““His nostalgia disappeared with the mist and left an immense curiosity in its place,” hit me over the head because both Rick and I are in a place of decision-making about our lives and our futures. It’s hard to know what we want, where we want to be, and how we want to make it all happen. Sometimes the questions can feel paralyzing. But, reading that phrase – so short and sweet – you ask yourself what you would wish you had done if you were facing your death. You wonder at what you would still be curious to see and do in the world knowing you were counting the moments.

Who would you remind of your love, who you would forgive, and what you would want to have achieved, seen, created, or felt? With those questions in mind it’s easy to get a sense of your priorities.

I know that both of us are really considering our own trajectories, and where we want the next few years to take us. After some solid years of saving money, traveling, and seeing a lot of the world, we both know that one of our main priorities is setting down some roots in the near future.

Where and how those roots take shape is the next question, I suppose.

I saw dolphins surfing.

I saw them as I gazed down from a high, rocky cliff overlooking the deep blue swell below.  The waves rolled steady to the shore, rising as they neared the jagged cliff edge, exploring each crag with white foamy fingers, and then receding in an uncoordinated mess of turbid bubbles.  The dolphins swam together about 100 metres from shore – nearly 10 of them.   Suddenly as a swell rose beneath them and as they realized it,  the whole pod was caught together in the momentum and began to surf the front of a wave.  A few of them jumped out of the water as they surfed –  their need for action just a bit stronger than their peers.

From the cliff, my eyes locked on this.  I felt as if my body was exploding with the kind of excitement you get when you see a shooting star, or witness a small miracle unfolding before you. Standing next to Rick and a group of friends, I could have been alone by myself – the immediacy of my need to witness drawing me into a brief but deep solipsism.  The world’s beauty, on a plate before me.

The wave died and suddenly, our eyes no longer fixed on the dolphins, we turned them back on ourselves, giddy and round-eyed.  Amazed and breathless.  “Did you see that?”

“Yes, did you!?”

The palpable glee shared between us seemed to wait a beat for us to internalize the moment as witnesses to the small miracle.   It’s funny the subtle miserly-ness of the human heart, tucking away its share of joy before sharing with others.

But we soon realized that all of us, ten people in total, had seen it.  The universe was generous, and we could all revel together in its gifts. We looked around at the world with new eyes, and with recognition that the universe handed each of us a small reminder that the world is a beautiful place, bursting with joy.

The other day I opened my inbox to find an email about a comment on a blog post I wrote nearly 8 years ago on a blog 4 steps removed from this blog.  Hello, blast from the paaaast.

It was a reminder that those words are still out there on the internet.  I have been writing about my life on blogs for eight years.  Eight years!  From my dorm days in college in Minnesota, blogging about the boy I liked, my dreams, and my weekend plans to ex-pat life in Australia writing a blog about the boy I like, my life, and my weekend plans. Life really is wild, isn’t it!?

Looking back, my blogging has changed over time.  In college and for a few years after, I assumed about 3 people read my blog, so I wrote whatever I wanted. Which tended to  echo the things I’d tell my 3 readers in real-life when I talked to them.   I’d delve much more deeply into my personal life and its dramatics (which at the time were ever-present) than I would feel comfortable doing today.  In fact, sometimes I look back and cringe a bit about the things I said about other people, about my life, and about my then-love.

But, despite making me uncomfortable now, these posts were real, candid, and completely unfiltered – often posted on whim without even a cursory proofread.  In that sense, they were beautiful too.  Reading them, I get a sense of who I was then and how I’ve grown up.

Lately I have been thinking about this a lot. I have struggled in recent months to write a blog that abides by my initial blogging goals of interpreting life and love through the natural world. In the last couple years, I have experienced SO much growth and change in the realms of life and love, and I have been reluctant to address it here for personal reasons.  I mean, how does one write about life and love in the throes of falling in love with one person and out of love with another?  It’s the most lurching, hectic, wonderful time to delve into the crazy feelings that accompany such shifts, and also the most treacherous.

In theory, I believe in sharing your experience. As much of it as seems appropriate to you.  The more real the better.  Relate your story in whatever artful, crazy, and fun way you see fit.   But, as my life has taken shape, the words of my past have proven problematic for me.  For the most part I have let these situations roll off my back as a consequence of choosing to blog about my life.  But, as I’ve grown up I’ve realized there are more than 3 readers of my blog, and not all of them are my friends. It’s changed the way I blog.

So, in thinking about this, I decided that rather than stew on it, I’d put it out there on the blogosphere and see if anyone else could relate. How does one pursue writing of a personal nature on a blog without regret?  How do I accurately relate my history and what colors my views knowing these words will be here indefinitely and that others may not read them through the eyes of friends or people who care about me, but perhaps even as one who actively dislikes me – who wants to use my words against me?    How do I address these considerations when I have many years of blogging ahead and behind me to consider?

I have been told that my blog is special because of my writing style and my authenticity in expressing my feelings.  So, it’s a real worry to lose that. But, during the course of a bad break-up a few years ago up my blog became a tool for the people I dated (and who my ex dated) to “research” on me – weird as that might sound. It has been an issue in my life and theirs, so I’ve tried to rein in my writing to protect the innocent.    Censorship is a sad thing, people.    You missed some juicy shit.

Was it wrong to write in the past so unabashedly about my feelings (hotheaded, sorrowful, jubilant) as I traveled through an incredibly turbulent relationship?  I don’t know.  Looking back on it and my writings,  I got a bit confused. Was I in the wrong? What’s the price of authenticity?

So, to help me put things into perspective I did a bit of research about writers and how they think and talk about writing.  Apparently in 1962, Jack Kerouac, one of my all-time favorite writers, wrote an article about whether writers are born or made, which closed with the line “it ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.” In some ways I have to agree with him. It should be about the beauty and realness of the words you write, the content should be a conduit for the expression of experience.  In that sense, I don’t feel too bad for delving into my personal life – though I still do have some regrets. He also said that one should write as if she is the first person on earth, experiencing everything for the first time.  In that sense, I guess I feel like I’ve honestly written like that – a lot.  I never claimed I wasn’t a bit narcissistic.

Kerouac, man!  Good advice! And obviously that guy knows a thing or two about unfiltered writing, but I wonder if he ever looked back and thought, “I should have really taken it easier on so-and-so?”  I doubt it.  He says never to apologize, and I tend to believe him, except of course when apologies are heartfelt and real and seem to make the world better. Except when you write whatever you feel like on your blog and with the click of a button it’s public.  What then, Jack?

Of course, Kerouac wasn’t a blogger.  I wonder what he would have said had he been.  That’s a blog I’d follow – though maybe he’d be more of a twitterer.  Hard to say, really. Maybe he would have blogged like me though – tracing an evolution from specificity and realness to generality and artifice; hiding too raw feelings, and too wild trains of thought under edits that slowly kill one’s voice.  Would he have been bold enough to tread the path of continuing to speak openly, directly about his experience here on earth?  He probably would have, and that makes me feel like a real wimp.

My blog has always been a means for me to write about and consequently, understand my life.  And in having to censor my writing and my self-reflection here over the last couple years,  I have felt a real loss – a disappointing chasteness.  What is a personal blog if not a running narrative of the way one looks out at their own life?  And if the narrative is dictated by the external pressures then it simply isn’t your narrative – it’s someone else’s narrative.  I’m hoping to take back my narrative and re-gain my mojo.  I have been reading some hilarious shit in the blogging world, I feel inspired, and I am done holding my own reins.

I’ve noticed in my travels, both here in Bali and across South and Central America, that roosters don’t only crow in the morning the way I was led to believe growing up.  They do crow in the morning, but then they continue to do it all day and night.

I noticed this yesterday while showering outside to some music.  A rooster crowed at the perfect moment in the song I was listening to.   A rooster crow could really mix nicely into some of the music I like.  If I was a DJ I would definitely get on this.  It could go big.

I was listening to the above song when the rooster came in.  I was mid-shower-thought, which are the most powerful thoughts.  I’ve been having a lot of them lately.  My shower-thoughts were reflecting on my day on the water, where I looked around and realized that I am totally and completely petrified of becoming a boring suburbanite.

I started thinking about how my early life led me to believe that college, marriage, kids, and the suburbs were part and parcel of making your way successfully in life.  In some ways, it’s been pounded into me to the point that I didn’t even realize it was based on a myth – like the myth that rooster’s crow in the morning. But looking out at the line up yesterday on the water, I saw such an array of visions of happiness.  So much beauty was there, and in such myriad forms.

The preconceived notions we live with can be so constraining.  I find that I constantly feel annoyed by them, sometimes without even realizing the root of my frustration.    When I travel, I inevitably gain new perspective, but sometimes you have to go out of your way to find that.  And more and more, I realize I’d like to find out what other important knowledge the world is keeping secreted away in hard-to-reach pockets.  And more and more, I realize that my desire for this seems stronger than my desire for all the aforementioned things that I once thought defined a successful life.

As I sat on the water looking around at the crowd gathered in the line-up, I was overwhelmed by all the beauty there.  I started talking to a 12-year old.  His family was Australian but they’d moved to Bali full-time and the kid knew the surf like the back of his hand.  He was pretty rad. I looked over and saw a woman a bit older than me with some amazing tattoos and a skimpy bikini riding waves like she does it every day.  I saw my guides, who put in full days on the water, and I just thought to myself, “I don’t ever want to give this way of life up.”

Long ago, someone asked me what I wanted most in the world, and after some thought I told him I wanted to experience everything.

Yeah, I know it’s not the most solid goal, but I can’t help it.  When I think about what I want, it’s not to become a teacher, and it’s not to make millions of dollars, and it’s not to become famous.  I want a rich life.  I want an enviable array of experiences.  I want to bike across Africa.  I want to do aid work in a foreign country, I want to enrich the people around me.  I want all of that. And, you know what else? The more I age, the more I want that.

I feel sort of weird about it.  I turn 30 this year, and all around me in Australia and at home bellies are popping and babies are emerging onto the earth.  They’re beautiful little beings and I increasingly find joy in their smiling faces.  I’ve had the thought that my clock has begun ticking.  But, then I think about who gets to surf while there is a two-year old to watch.  That’s when I cross my legs and start plotting my next adventure.

It’s not that I don’t want kids or a family or a husband.  I do, and I always have.  In fact, growing up I was convinced that by age 24 I’d be married and hoped to have at least 4 kids. I also assumed I would move back to Milwaukee and I’d become a lawyer or an advocate, and live my life doing something I loved.

In taking a year off, attending Macalester, and spending time traveling after college,  I glimpsed another way of living life, and realized the parameters I’d set up for myself were false.  I could make my way through life differently.  I didn’t have to return to Milwaukee, send my kids to the right schools, buy a house in the right neighborhood, and drive a large car full of sporting gear.

I guess I have become increasingly aware that I don’t know if I want to settle down in one place for too long.  I am with someone I love, who loves to do the things I do.  He wants to see the world, travel, do things differently, and that singular vision is such a uniting force for us.  I don’t get the feeling that my craving for seeing new things is subsiding.  In fact, it’s probably growing.  Can I have my kids while working in Namibia?  That sounds nice.

Marriage, kids, and a settled life actually makes me squirm.  It seems like a slippery slope of rings, weddings, and then just a hop, skip and a jump to a gas-guzzling SUV and soccer practice.  This isn’t bad stuff at all.  It’s a dream for so many people.  It’s a worthwhile dream too.  And, for me someday it may be the right fit.  That day isn’t today, though.

I love the idea of two people whose intellects, goals, and priorities align making their way through life together. It’s a beautiful way to be in the world and I respect it completely.

Even more so, though, I love the idea of people making their way in life carrying love in their hearts, whether it’s for family, friends and loved ones lost or far away, or just love for the beautiful world that lays itself before each of us daily.  Whether alone or surrounded by friends, these people seem the richest to me, and I aspire to be one.  I am enamored with the notion that love for the world and the souls contained in it, is something that once ignited never really dies out, and whose embers are carried within each of us in a small protected part of our soul and nurtured through good and bad by our faith and appreciation for the positives of each day.  I think it’s a beautiful way to live and as I’ve learned to cultivate gratitude in my own life, I have felt richer by the day.

But this way of living indulges in its own privileges that I would be remiss not to acknowledge.  This type of love for the world is rooted in an intellectual appreciation of the world’s offering, I think. It’s not rooted in a place of comfort or stability in the material world.  It is a privilege to be comfortable enough in one’s life to be able to forgo material things and the day to day sustenance of one’s relationships with those around them.  And though for me this type of love has always held the greatest appeal because it is based in a place of constant engagement, discovery, and faith; it’s probably not everyone’s ideal.  In its quest to eschew accumulation of things, in favor of accumulation of experiences and knowledge, this attitude can be a bit demanding. The lifestyle, while rich, also demands the faith and devotion of others or it crumbles under the weight of itself spread thin over distance and time.  Though my support structures in life may be spread out, the structure they’ve created for me feels strong.  I have been so blessed to have people in my life who sustain me while I am far away, while I have been difficult to be around, while I have explored so many versions of myself and grown.   I know it sounds corny, but it’s these people, and some may not even realize their roles, who sustain me, keep a fire of love for the world and it’s beauty alive in me, and  allow me to feel safety exploring who I am and how I travel through the world around me.

I don’t know what else I have to say on this subject, my thoughts on it are in constant evolution and flux.  Travel always awakens my reflective side.  I will probably share more on this as my reactions to my recent trip and all that led up to it settle in my mind.  What I do know is that the redhead sitting next to me drinking a Bintang gets it for now.   And though we’re not sure what the next steps after Australia may be, we do know that both of us share the goal to avoid following the crowd.  That’s the kind of commitment I can get on board with.

I’m sitting on a beautiful, carved-wooded seat on the porch outside my bungalow, looking at verdant, green gardens and listening to an assortment of tropical birds.  In my hand, a cold Bintang.  In my mind?  This morning’s amazing surf.

It’s hard to believe it’s Christmas Eve.

We arrived at the Chillhouse – Bali Surfer’s Retreat two days ago.  We were picked up after a short wait at the airport and driven through the madness of Balinese traffic for about an hour before arriving here.   I think it might be hard to understate the absolute pandemonium on the roads in Bali.  Never in my previous travels have I seen quite so much going on at once.  In fact, the trip felt more like being transported down a river full of fish than driving. With motorbikes zooming on either side of you into oncoming traffic, families of up to 5 people jammed onto a bike, and massive crates of eggs somehow coasting through the madness on the back of a scooter, unscathed, it was wild.  At intersections, critical mass (and mass in general) ruled the day – the flow dictated, in turns, by the number and size of vehicles attempting to travel in a given direction more than any sort of logical progression.  The result, was a surprisingly peaceful ride where one simply accepts the status quo, suspends judgment, and trusts the driver’s survival instincts.

So, now, here I am sweating profusely, but hardly complaining.  In 45 minutes I have a yoga class with an adorable little man named, Wayan.  Yesterday’s class was nearly full, with 4 expat Brits living in Sydney, Rick and me, a German couple, some Australian’s on their honeymoon, and two German girls.  It was a bit of an oddball group, and the yoga was a somewhat bland mix of beginner-friendly poses and more challenging stuff, but I was so thrilled to have the breeze blowing over me and Rick behind me grunting with effort, that it made it all worthwhile.  Hell yeah.  Yoga in Bali.

My joy in the yoga class was perhaps magnified by the fact that I was anxious to move around a bit.  The whole day was spent with our kind driver traversing the various sites of Bali in a 7-person van.  Rick and I banded with a group of 4 British/French types and visited Ubud’s Sacred Monkey Forest, as well as the volcanoes of the Northeast,  near Kintamani, and a beautiful Balinese temple where we paid a small donation, and were wrapped in gorgeous silk sarongs and directed to explore.  It was a day of so many sights that I could hardly take it all in.  Bali is a beautiful place.

Today, we headed to Canguu beach for a surf session aiming to get a read on our surfing abilities.  I have to admit that when we arrived and everyone looked out at the surf, it looked pretty large to me.  I was a bit nervous watching the thick, towering sets come in, but in trying to avoid sounding like a wimp I agreed that, yes, it did look like a perfect spot for all of us to get our feet wet.

We paddled out, avoiding the nasty shore break, past about 3 spots of breaking waves, until we were well off the shore.  There, our guide Nova chatted a bit with Rick and I, but mostly eyed the incoming sets, keen to get us on some waves.  The surf in Bali can appear quite calm, but there are unexpectedly strong sets that just emerge out of the sea.  Just the day before, a person had disappeared in to the ocean at the beach we were surfing, and not returned.  Surf boats were patrolling the area as we surfed. (Thankfully I learned this AFTER surfing.)

Anyway, we watched some big waves roll in and eventually, Nova told me to paddle for the next incoming wave.  I did, and I caught it.  It was bigger than anything I’d ever surfed before and as I dropped about 2 feet from the lip onto the wave I realized this fact.  Nearly straight-legged from the simple shock of standing on such a large wave, I tumbled quickly into the whitewater below me.  It was less powerful than I anticipated, which was heartening.

Knowing the sensations after my first tumble, I felt a bit better going for the next few.  We saw a set coming in and Nova nodded for me to paddle. As I paddled I heard him yell, “MORE! BIG WAVE!” Which of course made me want to immediately stop, so I tried to look back and say that I didn’t WANT a big wave, but I was too late.   There I was at its break and I apparently I wasn’t getting the job done because as I felt the wave rise beneath me, I got a strong push from behind and heard him shout, “UP!!!”  So, being the good-direction follower that I am, I did just that.  I popped up on what was undoubtedly the largest wave I have ever ridden.  And, it was UNbelievable.  Steep at first, fast, but patient under me,  I rode it almost to the beach, where finally I got swallowed up in the whitewater. Emerging from my tumble, all I could do was laugh and shout.  It was an amazing wave!  And I rode it!  And I nailed it.

Then, then I looked back, and realized just how far I had come, and how weakened my arms felt from the post-wave adrenaline giddiness. I turned my board around and began the slog back out.   And that was the beginning of me getting wrecked by my surf session.  I caught 4-5 more waves, and managed to ride them pretty well though they all broke left and I had to ride them with my back to them, which was weird after all of Australia’s right breaks.

I was an amazing session.

We came back to the house, had a quick lunch, and then I got my first (of many) full-body massages in Bali.  Also amazing.

I can’t really even begin to state how much fun this place is.  Each day I have a surf, then yoga, and various other trips or classes planned.    I am especially excited for my cooking class later this week.

I have had a lot on my mind recently, but it’s easily erased here.   Thank the sweet Balinese waves for that.

I am probably not the world’s best writer while jubilant.  I just read my last post and even I felt a little annoyed with myself.

I really do value my positive side, annoying blog posts aside.  I have been cultivating that side of me for a while now and I think it looks good on me.  But I have always been innately positive, it’s just been suffused with a twisted inner cynic who comes and goes as she pleases.   I do love that cynical firecracker within me, but she needs to be kept in check.  She’s been on a tear today, but I’m hoping to keep her in reigned in.

I’m sitting on my mauve couches late at night, eating the last of my Christmas swirl cookies.  I had been so good about resisting them and making Rick gorge himself, but tonight is for cookies. (And holy shit, these cookies are UNbelievable.)

Cookies, beer, and 2 perfectly hand rolled cigarettes of to be exact.  And a soccer game.  And a meet and greet with a Schnauzer named Pepper. And learning to drive stick shift with my left hand.  Ah, yes.  What a night it was! Any night involving a schnauzer is a good one.  Just say schnauzer and try not to giggle.  I can’t.  Schnauzer.  Who named those poor little beasts?

I leave for Bali in less than 2 days, which is unreal.  Well, actually it’s not unreal at all. Bali is like 5 hours from Brisbane by plane.  And it’s an island nation that is supposed to be amazing.  Of course we’re going there. What else does a young couple with two incomes, family far away during the holidays, and a surfing habit do?  But, I have to admit that I’m a bit tired.  In the last month I have been to Cairns, Byron Bay, Sydney, and various other beaches and cities along the coast. Actually, make that the last 3 weeks.  Now I’m off to Bali.  Life is so good, but sometimes a girl just needs a little weekend routine of 7:30 yoga, juice bar, farmer’s market, and hanging out with my manfriend.  Sometimes that seems more appealing than a sandy beach.  But that’s just my tiredness talking.  Ignore it.  When I’m getting $10 massages on the beach in two days I will deny ever having said what I just said about beaches.

Now, you might ask yourself, why is Kat up at 12:22 writing about how tired she is?  And you might be on to something.  There isn’t a good reason really.  There is a reason (many actually), but they’re not good.

One of the reasons is that it’s too hot to sleep.  The second reason is that I think I had a spider in my bike helmet this morning because all day long I have been slowly growing a horn in the middle of my forehead which itches.  I am forced to conclude that a spider made his home in my helmet and that by flipping his house upside down and shoving my head inside it, I angered him.  I guess if someone did that to me, I’d bite them in the forehead and teach them a lesson too.  The other reason is that I didn’t eat dinner, which partially explains my cookie binge.

I’m not feeling all that bad about bingeing on cookies late at night, through it’s certainly not my proudest moment.  But,  hell, someone needs to eat them, right?  And, my yoga teacher (male, Anusara teacher – if you’ve followed the John Friend thing you might find this amusing) told me that my yoga outfit plus heels  and bike was disturbingly sexy, so I’m feeling pretty fly for horned beast.

So cookies.  Send ’em my way.

Ok, ok, let’s get to the meat of this. I felt writerly so I thought I’d stay up and finish this site rehabilitation report I’m writing for work, but when it came down to it I just couldn’t get excited about 1:1 plant ratios and floristic composition.  Plus there are possums outside hissing like the world’s going to end, and I’m concerned that they have some sort of extrasensory perception about tomorrow.  You know, like dogs before earthquakes?

Ok, so the world ends tomorrow. Because, obviously the Mayans are good at predicting the demise of things. Work with me here though.  What would you want your last note to the world to be?  Probably not a rambling diatribe about a spider bite on your forehead and cookies.

I’m failing this test miserably.

I guess I’d want the world to know I’m happy.  I’m in love. I have found a way to make the pieces of my life that previously felt incongruous fit together.  I have figured out a path forward where I used to feel stagnant.  And even though I don’t know all the answers yet, I know I have the right tools to figure out what I want, and the right people around me to support the process.

Also, I would want to say that it hurts me that I live as far away from my friends and family as one could possibly get and I can only talk to them while sitting in a lizard-infested corner of my office parking lot during select hours of the day, but I do it almost daily because I feel such a hole when they aren’t around.  I even almost sacrificed my best Tupperware to a monitor lizard for the pleasure of a lengthy chat with my mom.  If I could share a last message with the world, it would be that I so value the good people in my life and feel immensely blessed for all the love and support that I have.  Especially in tough times – and this year has given me a few speed bumps.  I’ve really learned a lot about gratitude and making your way with grace.  I can’t say I always embody these things, but my closest friends and family have reflected back to me that I have grown a lot over the last year and their smiles and pride make me really happy.  My favorite of these moments was when my Lifey told me that she could tell I was almost 30, because I was starting to sound wise.

Hot damn.  I’m wise.

(More like a wise ass.)

I don’t really think that this post contains ALL of what I’d share with the world.  Mostly it’s just a vignette into the ramblings of a tired mind bearing a fair bit of unexpected weight in the last few weeks.  That mind, and it’s owner, are well and excited that a year of unprecedented growth and personal development is in the books.  That mind is also reeling knowing another year has passed, and marveling at the way time slips away so quickly.

And on that note, that mind and it’s owner are crawling into bed to rest up for a week of surfing in Indonesia.  Merry Christmas to all!

I clucked mock-prudishly as my dear friend recounted her last weekend’s shenanigans.  Oh dear, I thought.  Who have I become?  When did I start saying, “Oh dear?” And clucking?

My friend teasingly reminded me that I was hardly one to judge anyone’s wildness, with my own hiding just in the shadow of my current existence.  And she’s right.  I can hardly judge.  I was a little wild. Yet my life has become so relatively sedate in the last year that can hardly fathom that I am still the same person who was living my life just a few years ago.

I think adulthood crept up on me while I was looking for something else.

It’s kind of like this (without the German (?) subtitles):

In chatting with my sisters and friends, I’ve been reminded on a few occasions recently of who I am.  Or, who I was.  It’s a bit unclear, really.  I am not sure I’ve left the old me entirely behind.  Perhaps she’s just dormant.

I find myself wondering if it’s my situation in life or my age that has leveled me so swiftly.  In a few months I turn 30.   It is definitely a milestone, but it’s not particularly stressful to me because part of me already feels 30.  Perhaps it’s the part of me that neurotically covers her plants each night to protect them from possums, or the part of me that has become a compulsive floor sweeper and counter wiper.  Or maybe it’s the part of me that wakes up the morning after a few drinks and promises never to drink again because I feel worthless and unproductive.  There’s been a small death in me of the carefree 20’s, but it’s happened before my 20’s reached their end.

For a long time, 30 represented the end to me.  It was the end of all things interesting and adventurous;  no more travel, no more goofiness, no more fun.  After that, life would just be babies and business and probably dogs, too (maybe a running stroller if I was feeling frisky!).   That was it, according to my feeble 20-something mind’s view.

Thus, it was planned that if we were single, just like in My Best Friend’s Wedding, I’d marry my male best friend and Ithen I would pop out some kids and a stroller.  (Well, let’s hope I never pop out a stroller.  That sounds awful.)

But that’s really what I thought would happen.    Consequently, I believed that all things crazy and fun must happen before the clock struck 30. Bottom line.  Non-negotiable.  Then your carriage turns back into a pumpkin.

It was, perhaps, a misguided approach.

But, I value the past me.  I value the me who was the frisbee MVP (most valuable partier), and the one who secured wedding invites for the entertainment value I could provide.  I value the me that was utterly ridiculous and would ask police officers seductively about their handcuffs while my fake gun was being confiscated.  I value the me that pretended nobody could see her white butt while skinny dipping in a cold Northern Wisconsin lake, hiding under the pier when urged to get out of the water.  I like to think that version of me has a fair amount of comedic value to contribute to the world.

But that’s not me anymore and I don’t know where that me has gone. It’s not a bad thing.  It’s good to be a grown up, and I think my dedication to real life rather than a wild, escapist existence of seducing police officers and swimming naked probably indicates a maturity on my part that may have been lacking before.  So kudos to you, Kat.  You’ve become mature.  It only took 30 years.

The real reason I’m thinking about this, I suppose, is that I’m just approaching a year of having been here in Australia.  It’s been a huge change in my life in some very obvious ways, but also in more subtle ways.  Last year at this time I was in Nicaragua learning to surf and building a house for a family in Granada.  I was waiting for my Australian visa, and with the free time that gave me, decided that a trip to Central America was in order.

At the same time, I was in the throes of some deep soul-searching, wondering what this move would mean for me in my life and whether it was the right thing.   It was a scary time and I was emotional.  Moving to Australia was a decision borne out of so much more than a sense of adventure.  It was also sort of like releasing a safety valve on my life and letting the chaos of me spill over oceans and continents far-removed from where it could do too much harm to anyone.

It’s hard to fully explain what I mean, but as much as I loved my life in Colorado, it was reinforcing some patterns that needed to change.  I needed to get out of the line of work I was in as it was breeding an inner cynic I couldn’t turn off.   It was killing my soul.  I needed to stop the slow death of my soul so that I’d stop slowly pecking away at the souls of other people I cared about.  I needed to make some changes that were going to be painful. Hard.  And, lacking the spiritual, emotional, and/or physical ability to change my life in the place I was, I had to pick up and move as far away as humanly possible to make it happen!

Anyway, enough teetering around sensitive subjects for now.  The bottom line is that I placed myself on the other side of the world, for adventure and to change my life and here I am now. So what have I accomplished?  A year later, I have a job that I like and which is meaningful and fulfilling most of the time.  Check.  That was the first goal on my list on the wall.  Second goal was pursue writing projects – yeah, haven’t really done that.  I want to do it, but I have been suffering from a malaise-y sort of writer’s block that hasn’t made writing about anything all that appealing.  This has never really happened to me before.  Third goal – set better personal deadlines and stick to them.  This is going pretty well, minus that sticky writing thing.  And lastly, set a new marathon PR.  That one I eeked out by a slim margin.  I’ll take it.  I’m kind of over running for the time being anyway.

But checklists and goals aside, my year so far has actually changed me a lot more than even I anticipated. Most notably, I am becoming domestic.  THIS is probably the biggest, weirdest change to date.  I cook a lot, and garden, and hang my laundry outside and find my time to be increasingly consumed by domestic pursuits.  It’s weird.  I have friends who think I cook well.  I have living plants.  These may not be big accomplishments for many people, but let me tell you – for me this is major stuff.

Also, another mind-blowing but obvious thing:  I have been living with my de facto partner (here that’s as good as marriage!) for almost a whole year.   Me!  I once said I’d never get married.  I wanted a non-traditional relationship.  I wanted to overturn the hierarchical structures that bind women into marriages that suck them dry and hold them back.  Damn the man!   And here I am, living the dream!   Yeah!

I am 29, and in a committed relationship with a guy I love.  I’m so subversive.

I think I came to Australia and turned into an adult. It freaks me out a little bit. Somebody get me a beer bong STAT!

But I really wonder what catalyzed it all.  There have been so, so many changes in my life since moving here that it’s hard to pinpoint causation.  Am I an adult because I have grown up finally?  Am I an adult because I have nothing better to do?  Am I an adult because I have removed people/things from my life that were problematic?  Am I an adult because I have spent the last year committing myself to some personal and spiritual growth?  Impossible to say.  All I know is that a reality once presented to me of a life with a garden and babies, no longer sounds so unfathomable. And though just the other day Rick looked at me, smiled and said, “Kat, you look so young!” with my freckles, big cheeks, and unruly curls, I feel old—in a good and peaceful way.