Twenty-Six Expressions of Thankfulness for a Year of Being Twenty-Six

I am 27 today, kicking off a new year, and a new adventure, here in Kenya.

I would love to have some words of wisdom to offer, ala my friend Koh, about moving into one's “late” twenties, and all that jazz, but all I really have is a list of things I'm thankful for from the spectacular year that was 26 (spectacular because, well, every year is spectacular, isn't it, if we really stop to notice?):

1. Joss Whedon's Much Ado About Nothing with the sibs, on (or about) my birthday.

2. A mini Tardis, which served as a good omen, linking my year of Doctor Who in the UK, with Karise, to my year of Doctor Who in Corvallis, with Marisa.

3. Blackberry walks.
4. Blueberry picking.

5.Trading a year of accomplishments in walking for a year of accomplishments in driving (the first time I was ever in a car alone was trying out my new commute from Corvallis to Newberg, and I made it =)).

6. A year of Corvallis to Newberg (and back) commuting. With the fields and the hills and the sky, alone with my thoughts and so many wondrous audiobooks.

7. The incredible opportunity of spending a year teaching at Fox. A bucket-list dream realized, and an experience that provided so many challenges and allowed room for so much growth.

8. Getting to co-teach with the spectacular Melanie Springer Mock.

9. Conversations with wise, wonderful people: Howard Macy, Rick Muthiah, Kathy Heininge, and Roget Newell, to name a few.

10. The protection of God and Mr. Toad during my scary car crash, in January.

11. Conversations and sleepovers and movies; Thai food and espresso; creating new memories, and celebrating the old; processing through who we are, and how we've changed, and what dreams still drive us -- all in the presence of the ever-fabulous Kohleun (once an FLP, always an FLP?).

12. My students, who challenged me in their writing, and in their discussions, and came to see me during office hours, and let me catch, even a glimpse, of the great beauty and light inside them. The many who met me halfway, and more than halfway, and blessed me with their friendship, their questions, and their gratitude.

13. A chance to read Faulkner and O'Connor in the company of Bill Jolliff and his wisdom and his class.

14. Theatre, even if only to watch, and not to participate: In the Family of Things, The House of Bernarda Alba, Parade, The Lion in Winter, and The Game's Afoot.

15. A year of reconnecting with dear friends (in Newberg, and in San Diego, and while roadtripping): Alicia, and Tammi, and Megan, and Michael, and Ruth, and Mariam, and Elspeth . . .

16. Time with family, at Thanksgiving (in Corvallis), and Christmas (in Bethlehem), and Brendan's graduation (New London and the Caribbean =)).

17. The World Cup, and all the joys of futbol.

18. Time (always too brief) with extended family. And what an incredible group of incredible people they are.

19. All the ways that God provided financially: Obamacare, and my job at Sunnyside, and parents and siblings who extended grace upon grace.

20. Being able to be a part of Susanna and Zack's wedding, and celebrate in the company of so many who dearly love them.

21. A friend who challenges me to write, and to seek God, and to serve others. Several days in her (and her grandparents') beautiful presence.

22. Books that gleam and spark: Art Objects

23. Films that do the same (inspiring conversation and thought): Noah

24. Others with whom to converse and think, and watch anime and Game of Thrones, and be challenged by to live the life one aspires to live.  

25. Three beautiful days in the beautiful UK, shared with such beautiful people.

26. The grace and patience of God, which undergirds all things: And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

And one for the coming year:

27. That God has brought me to this place, to this garden, to these friends (both old and new), and leads me on; God's grace, and strength, sufficient for whatever lies ahead.  

Welcome to Africa

Hm . . . so, I seem to have been locked out of my most recent blog.  Until I get that situation rectified, I'm going to go ahead and post this (written last week) on here.  My first post in . . . well, a long time. 

It's day five of my new, African, adventure.

My last few months/weeks in the States (if one can discount the packing) were pretty glorious. Attending my “little” brother's graduation from the Coast Guard Academy, going on a Caribbean cruise with the family, seeing wonderful cousins and uncles and aunts in Minnesota, spending some time on the Oregon Coast, watching the World Cup, attending a dear friend's wedding in New Mexico, and getting to spend time with special people all along the way.

As a last hoorah of our year of living together, my amazing brother and sister-in-law took me into Portland the night before I flew out. We ate delicious Thai food, swam in our hotel pool, and got up super early to make my flight out of PDX. And if that wasn't enough, they sent me off with a packet of goodies ranging from tealight candles to pictures to snacks (not to mention some utterly epic princess band-aids).

[At PDX with my travel buddy and my bag of goodies]

So off I sailed from old things to new things, feeling very loved.

My next stop was three days in the UK – a wonderful transition, both in terms of jet-lag and the extra time to catch my breath, but also as an opportunity to reconnect with some beloved people and places before undertaking the process of connecting to all things new.

And then I arrived in Africa, on the night of the 21^st, only to be met by a herd of zebra crossing the road. My drivers laughed and shrugged: “Welcome to Africa.”

Or, as one of my friends pointed out, “welcome back to Africa,” for this is the continent of my childhood, and even though the expanse of the Sahara separates the now from then, there are plants and trees I recognize, though it is all so much more here.

I'm living in a small apartment (a bedroom, a toilet and shower, a living space with a kitchen) on a compound that is very much a slice of Eden. So many colors, so much growth and life outside my windows. And my own private corner in which to drink coffee, read my Bible, and watch the birds.

My landlady is Swiss, and grows vegetables as well as flowers, telling me I can feel free to pick what I would like (herbs, and spinach, and white radish, and so much more), saying that she always offers the invitation, but no one ever takes her up on it (the implication seeming to be that young people these days prefer fast food to fresh greens) – I assured her that there is nothing I love so much as vegetables and fruit, and I have already helped myself to some of her basil and chives.

So if nothing else, I think I will love living here, in my own space, with a garden, and an awesome next door neighbor who took me hiking on Thursday to Mt. Longonot, where we walked the ridge of the volcano and I drank my first Stony and saw my first (non-zoo enclosed) giraffe. It was a glorious day.

[Can you spot the giraffe?]

And yesterday I had an adventure of a slightly different caliber, walking to the store on my own for the first time. I think I am slowly gaining my bearings, and discovering that yes, indeed, I can live here.

Though, please, don't ask me to drive.

east-coast autumn

Walking home from the library in lamplight, it took me a while to realize that blowing across the red brick sidewalk, and crunching beneath my flipflops, were the yellow-brown leaves of fall.

The Newport Mansions

On the last stage of the U.S. part of my summer, I'm staying with my family at a friend's condo in Newport, Rhode Island.  The remnant of Gilded Age America, it's the site of the "summer cottages" owned by such families as the Vanderbilts, the Astors, and their millionaire friends.

They're the closest thing America has to palaces.  

When we lived here five years ago (during my senior year of high school), we had a family membership to the Preservation Society of Newport County, which allowed us unlimited entrance to those of the mansions open to the public.  This time I was limited by a ticket to five.

I don't know what it is that draws me back to them so strongly.  Maybe it's the way they seem woven into the fabric (albeit at the fringes) of my family's life, their presence looming over Rhode Island holidays for as long as I can remember.

Or maybe it's the unquenchable longing for a doorway into other worlds -- the desire to experience other times and lives, unbounded by the limits of my single soul.  The desire to understand how other boys and girls, as intrinsically human as myself, lived in ages and styles so foreign to my own.  So beyond the borders of my ability to imagine or comprehend.

Whatever the reason, these marble palaces and dark stone castles, with their ancient trees and lovely walkways, beckon me like friends, mysterious, unknown, yet somehow familiar.

There is the Breakers, the military general of Newport houses, a towering city of unyielding stone.  With lawns reaching to the edge of the cliffs and the wave tossed Atlantic, the Vanderbilt stronghold is gilt, gaudy, and unforgiving.  Filled with Neoclassical art, gold-plated ceilings, and wide open spaces, there is no coziness within the luxury.  But there is beauty in the palatial expanse of the entrance, the light filled corridors, and the outdoor sitting rooms overlooking the sea.  It is a house built for drama and intrigue and grandeur.

Marble House, built by the Vanderbilt younger brother, is as mysterious as its passionate, complex, and iron-willed mistress.  A museum of medieval artifacts, it is exquisite with a beauty that is austere and untouchable.  The most expensive home in America, it was given to Alva Vanderbilt for her 39th birthday.  She responded by divorcing her husband, forcing her daughter into an unwanted marriage, and leading suffragist rallies -- all while shrouding herself in dense, inhuman glamour.

No matter how many times I hear the names of Rosecliff's true owners, it's impossible for me to experience it as anything but the Gatsby mansion, where Jay danced with Daisy to the light of a single candle.  A house of romance and tragedy.  The scene of many films, from The Amistad to True Lies, it's The Great Gatsby that, for me, has made an impression.

Despite it's mottled marble interior, the Elms remains one of my favorite of the mansions.  Perhaps it's the location, across the street from our Newport home, or perhaps it's the 'behind-the-scenes' tour we once took, up into the servants' quarters and kitchens, or, most likely, it's the grounds, sprawling with stone lions, garden rooms, and reading trees.  But whatever the reason, I feel I could happily live there.  =)

And today I saw Chateau-sur-Mer for the first time.  A Victorian castle with rich interiors of polished wood and painted walls, it was delightfully warm and cluttered, but so dimly lit as to make me feel almost blind.  Once the tour was over, I sat and read in a tree for almost an hour.

New York, New York! (and what I did there)

I spent yesterday in New York. Woke up at 4:30 to drive to Providence and take the Amtrak into the city. It's embarrassing to admit, but while I've been to several of the world's oldest, largest, most beautiful, and most famous cities (Rome, Cairo, London, Seoul, Paris, etc.), I've never been to the Big Apple.

I loved it.

It was unlike anything I've ever experienced in America.  A world unto itself.  If there is glamour left in this country, then surely it resides there, in the city of brownstone and brick, where age, beauty, and (let's face it) violence intermix, and history has not been flattened like so much unwanted baggage.  There was grandeur there, reminiscent of the glory (and decay) of Rome.



The purpose of the trip was business -- visit the British Consulate and get my Visa -- but most of the day was spent wandering.  Walking through Central Park, exploring Times Square, catching sight of the Empire State Building.  And yes, eating a pretzel.
But it sent shivers down my back to know that all the while I was a stone's throw away from places like Harlem and Hell's Kitchen, place names that are evocative of literature and film, broken dreams and distant hopes.  New York, like all of Europe, is alive with memory.

I even got to see an Off Broadway show.  While it's the West End in London that has really fed my taste for theatre (I've seen over 13 shows there in the course of two trips to the UK), Broadway still echoes in my imagination with memories of my first exposure to Les Miz and my early dreams of being a Broadway singer (never mind that I can't actually sing).



The show itself was an adaptation of C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters.  A two person show with one speaking role, and one Acting 2 dream part (all movement, and body, and voice).  Incredibly well done, Mommy and I were given free tickets by a professor from Carnegie Mellon while trying to get a last minute deal at the ticket window.

We got back to Newport around 11:00, exhausted, sore, and happy.