Running with Scissors.

“When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.” –Eric Liddell, Chariots of Fire

Out of the many things I do that make very little sense to many people, perhaps the one which makes the least sense is how much I love to run. Unless you are a runner as well, there appears very little purpose or practicality in running for miles and miles with no decided destination besides returning to where you started. And yet, compulsively my soul grows hungry for the rhythm of my feet against the ground, to feel the echo of my footsteps resounding through the dirt.

On the beach, running is a song. It’s like each breath in and then out is the crescendo or the melody that you sing with the sound of the waves as they too move in, and then out. But, despite all of the power in your own body, the force in each muscle to move your legs further down the beach, you are so frail compared to the surging and ever approaching salt water. And so exists a mutual respect between the sea and the runner. The sea does not cross its boundaries, the runner knows his place. Jumping in and out of the sea foam, avoiding sharp shells, splashing through the tide pools, blisters form on the bottom of feet so used to being  confined in a pair of shoes. The sand though, is not like the ocean. It is resistant to the interruption of an intrusive runner in its fragile rest, piece lying precariously upon piece. And so it moves to make the ache in your calves grow with intensity, never supporting the push off, scratching and biting at your bare feet. But, the soothing salt water rinses off the anger of the sand, and instead makes the sand cooperate, binding the pieces together, restoring unity between the runner and the sea.

In the woods where I run, the trees bend down. They are the admirers of the creatures who can move, living their movement through the footsteps of the runners passing by. And the path carries my red shoes for the miles, but strikes back if I step too hard, reminding me I am only human and my fragile legs can be hurt if I run too long. But, the bond between runner and nature grows, as I run my same path day after day, and look down to see my own footsteps still etched in the soft dirt from yesterday’s run, or the day before. The path remembers the energy and rejoicing between my soul and the soul of my Creator experiencing creation, and preserves the reminder that I have been here. I have seen what too many people pass by. Each puddle is a hurdle, each bird is cheering the runner by, each twig that snaps is a word to endure from the earth who understands what it is to grow tired, and to be overused, out of breath.

Why do I run? Because. Because I can. Because that dull pain which starts throbbing in my muscles is really just the story of another adventure; on the beach, through the words, in the city, traversing the world. Because it is the one place in which all of my senses interact to make me feel at home, to make me feel complete. My mind, my body and my soul. I hear the sound of the waves, or the  stillness of the woods. I feel my body creating a rhythm and all parts of my working together to continue each step. I see the beauty around me, the sunshine and the sky, the sandpipers and the seagulls. I smell the salt, the fish, the pinecones and the dying leaves. And I taste the sweat that drips down my face, the chapstick which protects my lips and melts away as my run grows longer. There are more reasons than could possibly be explained by words, because it is a holistic “because” why I run.

Camouflage Travel

I have the privilege of writing again from my favorite place: the airport. Today as I sit in the Denver airport a thousand thoughts fly through my mind, with or without destination. With or without a place to land. I sat upstairs and ate my dinner while drinking a paper cup of jasmine green tea (thank you Target) and watched the rest of my fellow travelers walk by, always familiar, always strangers. Today, the airport was full of soldiers. They’re coming home for Christmas from wherever they have been in the world. Their families, wives, children, parents, girlfriends, and best friends will be waiting for them when they get home. And, after 20 days or so, most of them will leave again.

The aim of my blog at this point is not to express my opinion. I will not pretend to be learned enough to have something to say on every issue, and even if I do I will not be so presumptuous to think I have all the answers, or that I am anywhere near done forming my opinion on life. My views on the military have changed drastically in the last years. But, let us shed the mask of politics. I want to say what I see. Moving through the Denver International airport, I saw very few grown men. I saw so many young boys. Young ambitious boys, dedicated perhaps, lost maybe. And it doesn’t really matter which side of the issue we fall on at this point, because what I see are their faces. And I really wish I could give you a look at the photograph that is etched in my mind of this young soldier sitting alone on the floor of the airport. His eyes follow the people who pass, flitting from traveler to traveler. He wanders back and forth in front of our gate. As my mind replays the words of Howard Zinn in his book A People’s History of the United States, I think about our government and I think about the ambitions and missions of the empires of the past. I watch us fight what seems to be the same wars over and over…. And I see it in the eyes of this soldier.

But I watch camaraderie form between strangers as more soldiers join this one in front of our gate, and see fraternity that has been developed between them since the first day of boot camp, despite whether or not they knew each other before this moment in time. And, there is something that we all long for in finding a brother in every place we go. I sit and watch them smile and pace, waiting to be off the ground. And I desperately want to shed the presuppositions and the politics and instead see stories. Why is it that we have clumped people into groups and prejudices so that we can more easily dismiss their humanity and assert our beliefs? Our very nation was founded on our efficiency in this area. If the land was “given to us by God,” it is simply righteousness which drove us to destroy the humanity and value of the Indians and claim that the earth held its destiny in the hands of our empire. What will it take to strip our eyes clean so that we no longer look at people and see a philosophical stance or membership to a movement, but the face of a human being, a child of God, a design, with innate not assigned value? I begin now, thinking that the first question I would like to ask this soldier is, “If you could build a house, where would it be and why?” Stories are the angles in which our existence takes place and they long to be told, bursting forth from the one dimensional plane of acquaintanceship into the deep, complex, and multidimensional planes of personhood and friendship.

Semester.

In three words I can sum up everything I've 
learned about life: it goes on.
-Robert Frost

Another semester draws to a close. I don't think anyone can really complain. As I reflect on this semester I cannot say that it was a semester that was a particularly happy one. It was long, and hard. I had a lot of amazing and good times, but I walk away very tired. There is something very melancholy about watching everyone leave campus and seeing the parking lot empty out. It's like the real beginning of winter. The end of the semester is never bad, just cold I think. 


I walked out of my Anatomy/Physiology class Monday afternoon after finishing the final, and I was genuinely sad. This semester I changed the direction of my career completely, though most of my goals remain the same. But, leaving behind medicine has been exciting, and now suddenly very sad. The dreams I had for so long about becoming a nurse or a doctor remain in the seat I had occupied this semester as I walk out to pursue new dreams. The vivid goals I had wanted to accomplish will stay behind and become some other young ambitious student's passion, as I chase down some new study. It's scary to let go, even for someone with so little attachments. Make no mistake, I do not regret changing to social work from medicine, I finally have peace. But, it was my consolation that my career would have meaning, that I would be successful. It was a fall-back identity. I am forced to stand on the raw truth straight from the mouth of God to know who I am, instead of upon the reward of a guaranteed meaningful career. 
 

At the end of this semester, I stand with frayed ends, and an unusual contentment at the prospect of returning to Joplin next semester. I will miss Ozark over Christmas strangely enough, it has brought me comfort this semester in my hard times, wisdom when I was helpless, and community when I found myself isolated. I look ahead, so excited to see what will happen, embracing the things that I love: writing, music, running, nature, friends, adventure, football!, philosophy, and new ideas. As I continue to process the vast amount of things I have experienced this semester, wisdom will come I think, and maturity. Growth can leave you ragged... but ready to run farther, study harder, and travel more. Even when exhausted, I have found the answer to my clouded mind to be, move. One day at a time we move, led sometimes only by the previous direction our feet were headed, and when the sun again shines, we'll have clarity. Time has no patience, it will not wait for us to be ready to handle what comes, we fight through and enjoy the times of rest when we are granted them. Thank God for Christmas break. 

The Traveler

The best part of my day got a little better today. My lovely friend Jordan stopped by my room right after I ran. Firstly, it's always great to see her face. Secondly, it's always wonderful to hear her thoughts and her heart. She came in and handed me a book, she told me it made her think of me. After she left, I read it. It's a deep little story, thoughtful and simple. The sketches are mostly done in black, gray and white, leaving only Charlie, the protagonist to carry the color. I just want to share my favorite parts.

Charlie seeks excitement, he wants to see the world. So he grabs a suitcase- and he packs up all his time.

"And pack up his time he did:

starting with his big, bulky decades,

then the round, squishy years,

the square, mushy months,

triangular, shiny weeks,

and raggedy days,

tons of silky, smooth hours

and crumpled-up minutes.

Charlie squeezed in loads of itsy-bitsy seconds for the journey,

too, even though they didn't seem to want to go."

In the end, after he's seen the world- the woods, the desert, the ocean; heard the languages and passed by all of the sites, none of them making him happy- he goes home, lonely. He realizes this is where he wants to spend his decades and years. But he finds he couldn't save his packed time. With one square, mushy month left, Charlie spends it with the prettiest girl he ever knew and the friends she brought him to.

"And as Charlie spent his final itsy-bitsy

seconds on his friends,

he was loved.

He loved.

It may not have been perfect,

but he was happy."

"Life is a journey..."

Blow Away

Today while I was walking I had the most magical moment of this fall. Anyone else who is still really quite a child inside will share this excitement.

The turning of the leaves is always the best part of the year, it's like the buildup in a song that leads to your favorite part. The grand crescendo, the climax of the story! And then it's silent, the gentlest part of the song: winter. And it brings with it all the peace and rest of the months, a sleep from the technicolored summertime. But the leaves blaze the way, in all their colors. And when their life is lost they fall to the ground to continue bringing to us a change in the seasons for all of our senses. I was walking across the campus at Missouri Southern, and as I passed under the road through the tunnel, I could hear the scratching of a leaf as the wind pushed it across the concrete. But, with my aviators in place I couldn't see it... until it was right in front of me. And I stepped right on it. It was hands down the most satisfying leaf-crunch I have ever experienced. It echoed in the tunnel. It was like it had been running right towards me. Because at this point in the season, most people are dreading the cold, hating the mess of fallen leaves, and despising the empty trees. This little leaf was a lone herald, begging for the continued beauty of fall to be appreciated and noticed, even in its fading life. And I did.

Running outside today was like a continuation of this high. I ran and looked up at the skeletal trees, with the curled up leaves hanging on for dear life. Yet, here on the dry trees they will find no nourishment. So, they flocked to the sidewalks, where my red running shoes enjoyed once more the percussion section of nature. I ran through pile after pile that the wind had selflessly made just for me. And it was beautiful. Every stick, every stone, every brown leaf. The bend, twist and knot in every branch that has fallen to the ground, blocking my path, causing me to hurdle, is a masterful piece of art. It's not just the sharp wind that brings tears to my eyes, but the act of loving my Creator by loving His creation, by crying out with the puddles in the woods, by slowing my pace just to watch the deer bound across the trail, by running- face towards the sky- feeling the pulsing air of the birds' wings. By listening to the leaves blow away, and stalling them with the sole of my foot.

Life as a House

This is another recycled piece of writing. One I enjoyed writing more than most. In another round the question game with a friend, I asked, "If you could build a house, what would it be like?" After watching the architecture of their house come together with words, I built one of my own.

If I could build a house now, it would be in a place where I could be near the ocean and in the mountains. Probably somewhere in Maine. It would be in a small town, maybe built around a lake in the mountains... where everyone's house backs up onto their docks on the lake. And you can swim looking at the mountains. It would be New England style with a high roof and wood floors... and bay windows. And there would be a room in the house that would look out to the mountains or over the ocean and it would be full of huge windows. The walls would be lined with them. And in it would be my piano and it’s there that I would write music. And the kitchen would have yellow walls. There would be an oak table. And red couches.

I want to have my home decorated with pieces from other people's stories. I like to re-use beauty. I think it makes me feel like the quality in the decor is not synthetic. I want to have paintings hanging in my house that my friends have done. My room will be green, the same green as the lichen that grows on the maple trees in Maine. And I want my house to be lived in. I want the guests who come in to feel like they live there too. I want my kitchen to constantly be full of people, cooking together, eating together. I want a big kitchen for that. With blue tile counters, that I have to clean every night so that they aren't smeared, but when they're clean, they're the color of a mountain lake. Deep blue, reflecting the ceiling. I want floral plates- they won't match. I'll buy them from all over. It will be a collection of recycled beauty.

I want a room whose focal point is a giant map on the wall. I want pictures and artifacts from everywhere I've been to be in this room. Maybe it will be my children's room so that they will always remember the value of exploration. No, it will be the library. Where I keep all my books. My children’s room will be white. They will be allowed to decorate the walls with their dreams and their favorite super heroes, their best art attempts. Because my children will know that what they create and what they dream is more important than having me decorate their rooms for them. And that their creativity is more beautiful than my inspiration to decorate. They will absolutely have a loft in their room. It will be their pirate ship, their fort, their stage, their space shuttle. Just like it was for my brother and I.

The windows in my house will always be kept open. I want to always remember that the world is bigger than my reality. And I want extra rooms, each with their unique qualities. Because I want enough room to give people who don't have a home a place to stay, or those without people to love, a family. Single mothers without a roof will find a home in mine. Missionaries, friends, neighbors, travelers and strangers.

The backyard will be unkempt. Or, it might be a lake. I don't know. But, it will be the source of many adventures. And it will be wild, because I love nature. And I want to see it in an explosion of freedom in my backyard- not untidy, just untamed.

Lastly. I want a red front door. It is the passage-way to bold adventures, so it deserves an electric color.

Takeoff

I’m sure I’ve said this before: my favorite place to write is 30,000 feet in the air. So here I am, looking out my window on my flight to Baltimore, Maryland on my way back to Missouri. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros sing my flight safely to the runway. I am accompanied by my tall Starbuck’s Christmas blend, and the happiness that is a good trip home.

I’m not attempting to be morbid, but I’ll be honest. If I could die anywhere, it would be right here, up in the air; on an airplane, embarking on a new adventure or returning from some exploration. My mind would be full of stories, my feet dirty with the memories of a new place traveled to, or an old one revisited. And it’s here, right up here, that I feel most at home: on my way somewhere. It’s my muse, my element, my passion.

Takeoff is a surge, sure of momentum, but for me, it’s my healing. Airports breed a whole host of emotions: aching at the departure of a loved one, anxiety at the prospect of being so far off the ground, ecstasy at the return of a missing piece, anticipation at the road ahead, fear of the unknown, and comfort in business routines. Despite anything I’ve been feeling prior to boarding the plane, it dissipates the moment the plane accelerates. It’s the deepest comfort, soothing my ever spinning soul, opening the flood gates for wanderlust to take over my mind, and to be safe knowing my longing will be fulfilled. Back to morbidity then: such contentment… this is where I would want to have my last breath. Here, this channel for such great journeys on earth, to be the gateway to the greatest adventure I’ve never tasted, death. New life. Completion, touching my Savior.

So, if ever my life ends en route to a new adventure, whether it be crossing a great ocean on the deck of a ferry, flying across the great mass of continents, or blazing through the miles of some beautiful country in a long black train, don’t cry for me. It will have been a reflection of every other moment in my life, always moving, a transient soul longing to taste all the energy of exploration. My bittersweet drug, always dragging me from one place I love, into the hurricane of lust for the next place.