DIY BluePrint Juice Cleanse

Confession: I am doing the DIY BluePrint Juice Cleanse.

Another confession: it will be more of a smoothie cleanse because all I have is a blender. But I'll blend it on liquefy, so it still counts. I plan on using either a coffee filter or my french press to deal with pulp if it becomes an issue.

I was inspired by my beautiful friend Kathleen after she blogged about her experience with the same cleanse.

The theme of becoming a healthier person has been common in recent conversations with friends. Not necessarily thinner or more obsessed with working out, but healthier overall. I want to eat more fruits, vegetables, and fish, I want to sleep more and be balanced, and I want to find more active things that I enjoy and can do daily!

So far it has been a fun journey towards becoming healthier, and after totally overindulging in the delicious birthday cake that my sweet sister-in-law baked for me, I thought a cleanse might be a nice change up, especially since a friend and I plan on starting the Daniel Plan next week! However I do plan on cutting the cleanse a bit short. Instead of doing the whole three days and juicing it up until Sunday morning, I will be ending the cleanse by dinner on Saturday night so that I can enjoy my birthday party dinner with friends at True Food Kitchen (see the menu here).

Tomorrow will be day one, and while I don't anticipate being hungry since there are six difference juices throughout the day (see descriptions below),  I'm anticipating desperately missing wine and sugar. My great weaknesses.


Here are the recipes for the six juices, all thanks to Kathleen at www.carriebradshawlied.com.

Green Juice (first and third drink of the day):
5 ribs of celery
1 cucumber
1 green apple
1 cup of kale
3 romaine leaves
1 handful of spinach
1 oz. lemon juice

P.A.M Juice (second drink of the day)
1/3rd of a pineapple
1 apple
mint

Spicy Lemonade (fourth drink of the day)
14 oz. water
2 large lemons, juiced
1 tbsp agave
dash of cayenne pepper

C.A.B. Juice (fifth drink of the day)
1 green apple
2 beets
5 large carrots
1 1/2 tbsp ginger
1/2 lemon, juiced

Cashew Milk (sixth drink of the day)
3 oz unsalted, raw cashews (must soak at least 3 hours)
12 oz water
1 tbsp agave nectar
1 tsp cinnamon 
1 tsp vanilla extract 


I'm adding a picture of all of the ingredients to all of the juices. I can't believe I will consume all of this in the next three days! I bought all of the ingredients organic (mostly) at Grower's Direct for under $45.

The Paris Wife

I couldn't decide whether I wanted to write about this book or burn it. Which made it quite clear that I should absolutely write about it.

As you may guess from my opening lines, I loved The Paris Wife, but I also hated it passionately.

I loved it because it simply begs to be loved. It is written in the cadence of the 1920's and introduces us to our two main characters, the author Ernest Hemingway and his first wife Hadley Richardson while they are young and carefree and falling in love.

You can't help but be whisked away to another era as you read the story of their romance. Their short courtship and marriage eventually leads you to Paris-- and seeing Paris during it's golden age makes the story even more beautiful and rich. You are introduced to a Paris filled with artists and writers. Paris before it was the destination for wealthy tourists. Back when Montmartre was more than just a scenic stop for a bus load of vacationers. Back when the cafes were filled with sleek, short-haired women, all dressed up in beaded dresses, smoking cigarettes while they sip champagne and dance with dashing men in fedoras. You watch our hero and heroine fall in with great names like Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his Zelda, and you are transported to a time when Paris was filled with beginnings-- back when Paris was in the business of creating something new.

You are introduced to Ernest, Hadley, and Paris, and you simply can't help but to fall more in love with each page.

But the story is a tragedy, and you know it from the beginning.

The entire book is a marvelously written account of a marriage that falls apart. The characters are deeply and realistically flawed. There is no villain who sweeps in and destroys things. You can't even hate the "other woman." She is so flawed and has deceived herself so fully that although you want to hate her, you instead almost pity her. The downfall of the marriage has no mastermind behind it-- it crumbles from the inside out, and for the everyday reasons that marriages fall. Small and stupid everyday sort of flaws, like weakness and selfishness and pride and lust.

The story is told from Hadley's perspective, and you fall in love with Ernest while she does, despite his arrogance and drinking and high opinion of himself. You see the best of him, as she does, and you feel proud of her as she stands by him firmly, especially after they move to Paris and you see all morality stripped away for the sake of modernity. You worry for him with her as he allows Paris to change him, and you cheer them on as they rally time and time again.

And your heart breaks with Hadley's heart when Ernest gives up. And it feels so real. There is no dramatic war whoop signaling the end, there is just the silence of broken hearts and tears and betrayal.

It's so real, and that's why I hated it.

Ernest and Hadley's story takes all your fears of love and marriage and commitment and whispers to you that your fears are valid. If I wanted an example to hold up as a prop to answer the question (the one that people in relationships so love to ask each other). The classic: "what are you so afraid of?" that all I would have to do is display this book.

The reason that this book resounded with me, the reason that it has resounded with so many people and has become so incredibly popular is because in that conversation of why we are afraid of love, we know that once we are in, and I mean in, all in, there is no going back to that time when you weren't vulnerable. And after you are all in, there is nothing to protect you if that other person changes their mind.

This is the story of a mind that changes, when it was once firmly settled. It's the story of a weak woman becoming strong, in a worldly sort of way, and after all of the happiness and heartbreak and endings, finding a new beginning.

After reading this book I think most readers would answer the question of "what are you afraid of?" with, "I'm afraid that I could be your Hadley. That we could love each other enormously and with everything we've got, but after I am completely invested and in love with you, you will simply change your mind to suit your desires."

But oh, how magnificent to take that chance. And how good to have a long hard chat with yourself about what you're risking when you fall in love, making sure you really know what that risk entails, and then throwing it all on the line anyways.

You watch Hadley and Ernest fall apart, and then you see how happy a life she gets to have anyways. Despite him. And she feels, in a way, because of him.

This book makes you struggle against the reality that love can often be painful. It makes you think and it makes you imagine and it makes you happy and sad and so, so angry.

It is a book that I would recommend to a friend, but with cautionary words to accompany the recommendation. I would tell her not to read it unless she wants to deal with heartbreak. But if you're looking to make peace with what heartbreak is and means and represents, it's just the thing.

I will say that reading this book made me very grateful for my faith. If it wasn't for my faith, I don't think I would be very hopeful about any of my commitments lasting. I'm far to quick-tempered and passionate to have much hope for myself if I didn't know that when I marry, it will be to a man who will work with me to have a marriage centered not around either of us, with our selfishness and childish wants and pride, but around our faith in Jesus Christ. The only thing perfect and good and worthy in either of us will be our marriage's foundation, and that gives me hope. Without that, I'm afraid I would be just another Hadley. Sad and lonely even in my happiness, grasping at straws in love.

Ernest, Hadley and their son Jack (Bumby) 

Birthdays

I love birthdays. Absolutely love them. No matter what the circumstances around them, they are always a day just for you. To celebrate your life and your presence in the lives of others.

Yesterday was my 25th birthday. Part of me is a little intimidated with this birthday. Twenty five seems so grown up, and I still feel very young on the inside. Part of my intimidation stems from the knowledge that my mom was twenty five when she married my dad. I think when I was growing up, I thought that I too would marry at 25.

I think it's pretty safe to say that won't happen this year (though I may shock the world with a whirlwind romance).

Thinking about being twenty five made me realize the amount of the pressure I (and many others) unwittingly put on making sure that certain things have happened by certain ages. The focus can so easily be on being "on track," not on being fully prepared, and certainly not on simply enjoying life as it happens. It made me realize that it's a hard thing to live on your own timeline, and not on a self-imposed schedule that is based on other peoples lives. I think it's one of the most difficult things to learn how to do.

This year, my only New Years resolution was to learn how to be content with where I am at (both geographically and in life), and then learn to consistently choose contentment. I think the struggle of learning to live on my own timeline kind of goes hand in hand with learning contentment. Contentment and peace with how things are progressing, and with the speed they are progressing at. Because really, if God says His plan for me is good, and if I truly trust that, there is no reason to be anxious. I've had lots of burdens and worries on my mind for the last few months. It's a good reminder for me to let them go and enjoy where I'm at, who I'm with, and what I'm doing.

Year twenty five will be a year of contentment and enjoyment.

Anyways, back to birthdays and my love for them. This is the first birthday I celebrated with no trip home to visit my family. I really missed it. I expected yesterday to be a pretty typical day with just a dash of extra special on top. No plans other than to have a simple dinner and movie night with Ben and Liz.

You can imagine my pleasure, when I returned home from work, walked in the door, and saw a sparkling clean apartment, pink tulips in vases in the living room and kitchen, with a "Happy Birthday" pendant banner hanging from the wall! A delicious candle was lit, and the table was decorated with flowers, presents, and to top it all off-- A CAKE!

Only a few of you will probably realize how much I love cake. Do you want to know what my favorite part of weddings is? Cake.

Same with birthdays, christenings, Easter, funerals, etc.

My love for cake is really only surpassed by my love for cookies.

Anyways. The room was beautiful, and I felt extremely special and celebrated. I just have to brag on my wonderful brother and sister in law for making it happen.

We celebrated by eating Thai food and opening presents while skyping with my family. It was lovely. I got some pretty amazing gifts-- an incredible book of maps, my favorite lipstick, Steve Madden boots, a new comfy robe, Moroccan hair oil, and a new wallet! I'm a lucky girl.

Here are some pictures just for the sake of showing off a my special day.

Snow Day in the Sun

Yesterday I watched as my fellow Californians turned a green, summery hill into an impromptu bunny slope so that kids who grew up in the mild Californian winters could have a snow day!

How funny that as the rest of the country is having an uncomfortably cold winter, we're importing snow to play with! It adds to the surreal feeling that my life in California isn't quite real. Like I'm on a constant vacation and time has been suspended.

They turned this little snow day into quite an event-- there were Disney princesses and Star Wars villains present. There were treats and games and rides. Snowball fights and sledding beneath a blue sky and a brightly shining sun.

What a fun place for a family to enjoy themselves. That's one of my favorite things about living in California-- there are always things to do, whether you're young and single, or married with
children, or a grandparent!

There's never an excuse to stay inside.

Eowyn Ivey's The Snow Child

I read a beautiful book this month. It is the adaption of a Russian fairy tale called The Snow Child.

What first drew me to the book was its beautiful cover. Seriously, the publisher did a fantastic job of making me want to pick this book up off of the shelf.

I initially saw this book for sale on Amazon this summer. I read the first few chapters that were previewed and knew that I had to read this book, but I waited. One cannot go off and read a book called the Snow Child in the middle of summer. It's just wrong.

So it was perfect when my grandmother gave me a copy of this book for Christmas! Some books are so lovely that you simply must make their reading a special event. They need big blankets and cozy chairs and cups of tea to add to the magic that is in their pages. And so it was with this book. Rarely have I enjoyed reading a story as much as I have enjoyed this one.

The writing in it feels like poetry. It is simple, but it flows like a song. It is a haunting and bittersweet story of an old man and woman who are childless and who have moved to Alaska to give free reign to their grief over the stillbirth of their only child. It is only then, when they have given up hope on their dream of growing their family, and when things are at their darkest and bleakest point of the Alaskan winter that something astounding happens, and the little snow child comes.

It is magical and sweet. It uplifts your heart, but makes you want to cry.

I loved it.

Becca Stadtlander

Today, I got my new journal in the mail.


I love it.


All drawings are done by Becca Stadtlander, who is my new favorite illustrator.






Look at the pages... aren't they beautiful? I love having pretty things on the same pages that I will record all my prettiest thoughts on.





The back of the journal says "to take the time to reflect is to truly appreciate a life well lived..."


I love that.




I first discovered Becca Stadtlander while browsing through the treasures at Anthropologie. I promptly found her Etsy store (see here) and fell in love with what she creates.

I mean really. How can you not love her work?


All her illustrations make me
think of stories. They remind me of imagination and childhood and light hearts and good things.


I'm adding some of her work (all available on her Etsy store) so you can see what has me so excited!


Can't you just imagine little Scandinavian children inside her little houses scurrying to put on mittens and hats and run out in the snow to play?


I love how she has combined pencil and ink and watercolors. It has inspired me to pick up a pencil again and try out some sketches.

This is one of my favorite things-- finding beautiful things created by someone, and feeling inspired to try to create something beautiful yourself!

Even when they turn out to be epic fails, it's so good for your heart and soul to just make yourself go do! Do pretend that you're an artist, and make things that are fun and creative and pretty, just for the sake of creating.

We all have a little bit of an artist in us. Let's not let that part of us die of neglect!

Heart of hearts

In this whole series of posts about who I am and what pieces of my past and experiences and heart make up who I am today, I have saved the most important thing to write about last, mostly because I don't know how to explain why it is so important-- not without sounding insincere or rehearsed.

As much as I love to use words, they are found wanting when I try to explain (even to myself) why my relationship with Christ is the most important thing in my life. Why it defines so much of who I am. More than my family and my friends and my wants and my dreams and my sweetest memories.

As far as dreams are concerned my biggest dream for my life-- bigger than becoming a wife and mother someday, or having my own home, or going on adventures with the man who will be my husband-- bigger than all that is the knowledge that my dreams are emptiness if I am not allowing the Lord to make me more like Him every day. If I am not inviting Him into my life, my friendships, my marriage, my career, my fun, everything... then I am in the wrong. I will not experience true contentment or peace, because I am not fulfilling my purpose, to glorify God with every second of life and to make my life and love mirror Christ's as much as I can.

I am so imperfect. In the last few days my flaws have felt like they are closing in on me. I am self centered, and quick tempered, and unforgiving, and flighty.

The sweetest bit of encouragement I can hear on days like today where I feel discouraged by my failings is that Christ has started something in me, and He will see it through to the very end. He won't leave me to my own devices. Where I am flawed and where my faith is weak, He is strong and whispers that His grace is sufficient for me. Where I am afraid and distrustful, He holds me tighter so that I can feel Him and be reminded that I am not alone. He gives constant hope.

When I sin and turn away from God's nearness in shame, He reminds me: "I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you." Is 42:22

Who Christ is, is the ultimate truth. Even if I were to ignore it or refute it, it would still be true.

It guess that the reason that my relationship with Christ defines me utterly is because it changed from the very core what my destiny is. It made me a daughter of the King. It gave me eternal life and purpose when before there was only fear and death and sadness and empty longing.

Christ's call on my life changed the ending to my story, because my story isn't about me anymore. It's about how I can take this love I have been given freely and give it away. And it's a journey of accepting grace. Every time I stumble or turn away or am unfaithful, He will remain faithful and steady and present, for my shortcomings do not change the nature of God's heart towards His child. He will be faithful, to lead me and guide me and discipline me as He sees fit, to mold me into a vessel that gives glory to Him.

He is the only thing in me that is truly good. Where I wander, He will be before me and behind me. He will not abandon me, but will carry me with Him, and in Him, I will be strong.

Wanderlust

I think that everyone who wants to really understand the world and how exactly they fit into that world has to go out and travel.

How can you understand and know something without getting out into the messy thick of it all?

I love travel. I love packing my bags and going somewhere new with the express intention of simply seeing what there is to see. Meeting new people who are nothing like me, and yet, not that different.

I want to know how life changes when I step into someone elses shoes.

I want to wake up in the morning seeing what has grown dull to them after a lifetime of waking up to the same view.

I want to taste the flavors, smell the scents, see whatever beauty there is to see-- I want to take it all in, and I want to revel in the newness, the danger, the adventure of whatever it is that I am seeing.

I am so glad that I have been able to see as much of the world as I have. Ecuador, Peru, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Canada, France, England, Spain, Portugal, Belgium, the Netherlands, Italy... and many more to come.

Some of my favorite memories were made while traveling. Nights spent in airports, standby flights, spur of the moment train rides, looking out the window and watching mountains go by as I listen to that song. Watching the sun set and the stars come out, drinking sangria, swimming in the ocean at the middle of the night, streets that smell like jasmine, new friends that you only spend a weekend with, but remember forever. Remembering home and having the memory be all the sweeter for how far away it seems.

For me, travelling is like seeing a new color. It touches something in my heart and addicts me.

Our world is wide, and is so full of things that stretch us and grow us and test us and force us to think and imagine and wonder.

I don't think I will ever get my fill of it, and I hope I never do.

My love for travel is a part of me that is good, and I will carry it forward with me and keep it strong.

Je ne sais pas

I used to speak French, but the language is now lost in my head.

Quelle dommage.

Lately I have been thinking about what a tragedy that is. Language is beautiful, and the ability to reach across cultural border to speak with someone is an important, beautiful thing.

It's important to me, and I don't think it will become less valuable as I get older.

So, I have decided to re-learn French. It's been tough. Mostly I have been reviewing a lot of grammatical concepts that I've totally forgotten in the last few years.

It astounds me how easily one looses a language that it took years to cultivate.

Part of my love for language (any language, not just French) stems from my desire to understand and see other cultures and ways of life. How can you really and truly experience that if you can't speak to someone in his or her native tongue?

How can you understand their heart if their words are a mystery?

I'm fascinated by the work of linguists who travel deep into lands where there are people groups who speak an undocumented, unknown language. How fascinating to go in and live as a complete oddity among a people, and slowly begin to piece together the puzzles of their words.

It makes me think of ministries like Wycliff Translators who employ teams of linguists that translate the Bible into the native tongue of forgotten people groups. How wonderful, to give people the gift of God's word in their own tongue.

My love for language and communicating with new people is a part of me that I like.

It is a part of me that is good, and I will carry it forward with me and keep it strong.

Tumbleweed Girl

I love to move.

In college, I relished the thought of moving every year, even if it was to a house down the street.

I love packing up all my belongings, taking things down, gathering things up, ridding myself of the clutter that I never really needed but always held on to.

I know that for most people moving is a very stressful thing, and it is stressful for me too, but it's a good kind of stress.

I like gathering up everything I have so that I can build it back up somewhere new. Things always seem to have an extra shine when you take them out of boxes.

I have lived in sixteen different places in my 24 years. The first eight were while I was still under my parent's roof, and although even then I enjoyed the newness of it all, it was not until I went away to school and really had things that felt all the way mine that I grew to love the moving process.

I like the fact that I love to move. While on one hand I think it can be dangerous to cultivate a love to leave things, I try hard to focus on creating roots and good friendships no matter where I go. I like that I am ok with going on to something different. I like that I will do something that feels foreign. I think it will prepare my heart for the adventures to come, and I think it forces me to put down my desire to control, and choose to trust instead.

It is a part of me that is good, and I will carry it forward with me and keep it strong.

Brothers and Sisters

One thing that I can confidently say has always been true of me is that I deeply love my brothers and sister.

That's not to say that we didn't fight, because we did. Some of the fights my older brother and I had as children feel legendary.

And that's not to say that I always liked my brothers and sister, because there have been moments I certainly have not.

But even when we fought, and even when I had days where I didn't like them, I wouldn't stand to hear anyone else say anything bad about them. After all, they were mine. Part of my family, and while it was understood and even expected for me to get angry and fight with them, the best way to make me mad was to talk badly about my brothers or sister, whether it was deserved or not. And, on the whole, we didn't fight that much. Especially me and my younger brother and sister. We played and enjoyed each other and life was good.

I have one older brother and until I was four, it was just us. I only have a few memories before my second brother was born, and they are all tiny snippets-- playing on the beach, finding a baby bird, playing with a toy dinosaur. There are lots of pictures from that era though, and I love looking at them.

I was four years old when my baby brother was born, and I have fuzzy memories of going to the hospital to see him for the first time. I didn't really understand what was happening, but I had been told that we were getting a new baby, which would resemble my favorite doll. I remember feeling cheated when I saw him. I was confused and a little outraged. He looked nothing like my doll! He was big, almost as big as I was, and he had so much black hair on his head! I distinctly remember looking at him and wanting to ask my Meme why they put a big boy in with all of the new babies.

My initial shock gave way to a very deep love for my little brother. He was very sweet, and I was very protective. I remember yelling at a Sunday school teacher once when she was impatient with him. I remember righteous anger when I ended up being the one who got in trouble with my parents and not her-- after all, she was the one being mean, not me.

Halloween with my brothers

I have many memories of my two brothers and I playing outside and getting dirty and playing army games.



I was a typical tomboy and my favorite outfit to wear was a pair of my brothers hand-me-down jeans, no shirt or shoes, with war paint (lipstick) covering as much of me as I could manage, and a couple of haphazard braids in my hair to complete the effect I was going for-- Indian princess.

As much as I loved my brothers, I felt that it was wrong for me to not have a sister too. One should always have a sister. I remember telling my mom one night as she tucked me into bed that we needed another girl. When she didn't respond particularly enthusiastically to the idea of another baby, I saw that I would have to go over her head in this matter, so I told her that I was going to pray for a sister every day until I got one. I wanted a sister badly, and this prayer became part of my nightly ritual.

I think I had been expecting it when my mom and dad announced that they had been surprised by a fourth pregnancy-- this time with a little girl!

I remember carefully picking out the outfit I wanted to wear to the hospital when it was time to meet my new sister. After all, one really must make a good first impression. I believe I picked out a gypsy vagabond outfit which my grandmother immediately nixed in favor of something drab and boring and hospital appropriate. My brothers and I went and met my very small, very pink sister, and I immediately knew we were going to get on splendidly, despite the fact that she did not stop crying her first week of existence.

I remember sneaking her into my room when she was still an infant and dressing her up in my play clothes and jewelry like she was a doll that had come to life.

As the four of us grew older we played "lost kids" and "house" and "war" and got into all kinds of trouble together. We fought and laughed and imagined and grew.


I love being a sister. It has always been important to me that my siblings and I be there for each other and love each other well, which I think we have done, and which has grown easier as we have grown older.

I love getting to live with my older brother, and I miss my younger brother and sister very much. I think the thing that I love the most about sisterhood is the security and finality of it. I will be there no matter what happens. Never perfect, but always there. I really don't think any circumstances can change that.

I remember when I was a little girl thinking about how there were good brothers and sisters who were friendly and kind and loving, and there were bad brothers and sisters, who were cruel and cutting. I remember very clearly thinking it over and deciding that I was going to be the good kind. I haven't always been as kind and loving as I should have been, but in general, I think I've done alright.

My brothers and sister are a huge part of who I am today. I love them and hope that we can always be the kinds of siblings that are also friends, who love and uplift each other, and who are always there to share the burden when life gets hard.

They are a piece of me that is good, and I will carry them forward with me to keep me strong.

Reading and Writing

When I was about 10 years old, my family moved into a barn house in the country.

Literally. It was a house that looked exactly like a barn. It was on 30 acres of land next to a pond, and we had beautiful flower and herb gardens that surrounded our entire house. It was awesome.

My little brother and sister would spend summer days sitting on our back porch drawing pictures or writing stories and drinking iced tea. We climbed trees and made forts in the woods. We would walk to our neighbors house down the road (about 2 miles from us) and sneak under the pasture fences to get close to our neighbor's horses. I still remember making friends with the horses, whispering to them and climbing onto their wide backs with no help from saddle or bridle.

One of my favorite parts of our house was the attic. It was cluttered and dirty and hot, but it had floor to ceiling shelves that were filled with books. I would go up there and not come down for hours, and when I'd finally emerge I would be covered with sweat and dust with five new books in my arms.

It was in this same house that I started writing as well. My first few journals are probably my favorite. Reading the "serious" thoughts of your eleven year old self cannot fail to make you laugh and adjust your perspective.

I am so glad that I have spent so many hours of my life reading books and writing down stories and thoughts and events. Where would the imagination be without the written word? To read and write gives you something. It teaches you how to listen and understand and get the mood of something unstated. And writing, it teaches you how to communicate and how to understand yourself. I know my own mind the best when I force myself to write about something, because then I get the "why's" behind reasons. It forces so many more details from your mind than what a few skittering moments of thought can afford you.

I love to read and I love to write, and I think those two loves are a pretty integral part of me. They have made my imagination strong. They have shown me how to express my thoughts well. They have shown me how beautiful it is to learn.

It's a piece of me that is good, and I will carry it forward with me and keep it strong.

Ecuador

When I was fourteen years old, my parents let me live in Ecuador for a summer.

Since then, they have told me how they regret letting me leave when I was so young, to go so far away for so long, but I loved every minute of it. I remember trying to convince my mother to let me go to Mongolia instead, but South America was as far as she would allow.

Fair enough.

I went with a team of other highschoolers from a Christian missionary organization, and the purpose of our trip was to build a large boarding house for a remote Huarani tribe that had made the decision to start a school. Children would come from the surrounding villages (many 50 miles away) and would often camp in the jungle during the school week. This was unsafe, unhelpful to their families and the host village, and stopped some from going to school. Our organization had contacted the tribe and offered to come alongside them and build a boarding house for school children from neighboring villages.

Our location was remote, and we left for the highland Ecuadorian jungle two at a time, each pair flying in a twin engine plane that rattled as it took off the packed dirt runway in a nearby village.

I remember the excitement of the Ecuadorian children in the village as the strange Americans grouped together in the shade waiting to fly away to the Indian tribe.

I remember green mountains and waterfalls seen from the air.

I remember landing in a warm valley and stepping out of the plane, opening my eyes and taking it all in. The mountains were so different from what I'd expected. My experience with mountains had been the Rockies of Colorado-- widespread, thick mounds of rock. These were so different. Steeper. Greener. Conical somehow. I fell in love with them immediately.

I remember the river. It was cold and deep and fresh. It was surrounded by vines and red flowers. Us girls went every morning to bathe and wash our clothes. There's something about bathing in a fresh, outdoor stream in the middle of a highland jungle that just makes you feel so alive. I remember feeling so right and pure and beautiful.

I remember lacing up my boots every single morning. Always the same boots, every single day. I still have them. Ten years later and they still fit-- worn perfectly to each contour of my feet. But I remember when they meant new blisters every day.

I remember the beginning of construction, and hiking up the mountains that were slick with red clay to haul the iron wood lumber that had just been cut for us to build the boarding house. I remember the trip down the mountain, sliding down the steep, slick hills with a heavy board on my shoulders. Over and over, until it was all in the village. I remember my bruised shoulder, and my weariness, and I remember a new feeling-- pride in hard work done to build something good. I was fourteen, and I helped build something real.

I remember the rain and the mud. And I remember the sidewalk. The cement sidewalk that we laid on the doorstep of our newly built house to combat the thick, black mud that would suck your feet down deep.

And oh, I remember the butterflies. Thousands of them of all colors and sizes.... attracted to the minerals in the cement as our sidewalk dried, the jungle butterflies flocked and landed on it. It looked like something from a fairytale world. Our own magical sidewalk of all colors, about to fly away at any moment. I remember looking at that beautiful piece of my fourteenth year and smiling, and closing my eyes tight and telling myself firmly, "don't forget this."

When I look back now, there are so many snippets of memory: a night sky with new constellations, natives hunting capybara, the coral snake chasing a boy out of the river until it met its death on a villager's spear, dancing at night, stealing fresh bananas from the kitchens to eat with a friend later in fits of hidden giggles, sisters, brothers, letters dropped twice a month by a plane, praying every night and actually understanding what God's presence meant....

That summer in Ecuador, with the high mountains and the fresh streams and the sweat and tears and learning and butterflies. It was part of my transition out of childhood, but it was beautiful and gentle, and it was bathed in prayer and river water.

We were a group of privileged children, but we went with love in our hearts and the desire to serve.

That is the thing that brings these memories up as I think of who I am and the things that I am proud of that brought me where I am today.

That heart of serving others as a child would. A service born from love and obedience to God. I remember my response to commands that as we grow older we tend to see more as suggestions.

Didn't He say that the harvest was great but the workers few? I heard and believed Him, and my response was simple. I went.

Didn't He say that the second greatest commandment was to love others as I love myself? And don't I want myself taken care of-- to be educated and healthy and happy with a full belly, able to learn about the Lord whenever I want? So if that is how I love myself, then isn't that how I should love others?

With no cynicism or superiority or ugly pride. Willing to serve others so that they have the basic, simple things that I rarely think about.

I went to Ecuador with a thirst for adventure, yes. But a thirst to serve also. I went with servant's heart born from of obedience and love.

It's a piece of me that is good, and I will carry it forward with me and keep it strong.

Joss Whedon and Me

Lately I've been thinking a lot about identity. Who am I? Where does my confidence come from? What are the little pieces of my soul and heart and past that make me the woman I am?

There's a quote by Joss Whedon (random, I know) about identity  that I like:

"Identity is something that you are constantly earning. It is not just who you are. It is a process that you must be active in."

I like that. The idea that my identity is a process is good, I think.

It makes me wonder, what are the things that I have done that I am glad of? What are the little actions that I've kept up that spell out the answer to that question of who I am?  And what are the little things that I want to do more of? Or the things that I've completely neglected and want to pay attention to again?

All these thoughts started when I thought last night that it would be nice to make a list of things that I've done that I'm proud of. It struck me that that was an odd thing to want to do, so I asked myself why it seemed like such a good idea, and the answer was that I wanted to dig down real deep, down to the bones of me, and see what I'm made out of so far.

So, I'm going to be thinking of things I've done that make me proud, and I'm going to be writing about them.

The timing seems good-- it's a new year, and I turn twenty five in two weeks. Time to whittle down my reasons why, and separate the good from the bad and try my hardest to carry all the lovely pieces forward.

Shakespeare and Babies

  Words just cannot describe how much I love this pup.                                    

When I lived in Oklahoma, I spent hours researching different dog breeds that I dreamed of someday owning.





I still do that, but it's funny how the dog I dream of now looks and acts remarkably like this sweet guy.







I tease Ben and Liz that should (God-forbid) anything ever happen to them, I will adopt Shakes.



I'm his god-parent. It's a thing. I may try to get it in writing.


But seriously, I have a secret hope that once they have the baby, they get just a tad overwhelmed and decide it's best to let Shakes stay with me, at least from time to time.


It could happen, right?


What I really wonder is this-- if this is how obsessed I am with my favorite dog in the whole world, how obsessed will I be when this new perfect baby arrives? My nephew will definitely run the risk of being spoiled by his doting aunt. As much as I love Shakespeare, I have a feeling there will be no comparison when my nephew is born.

My family has always been pretty spread out. I remember growing up and being astonished when my friends had aunts, uncles, and cousins that they saw several times a week. To me, family that exists outside of siblings and parents always meant a trip. Plane rides or car rides to new cities and towns. It was always an event to go see family! In fact, as a child I always felt that my friends whose extended family lived near them had been cheated. What was their excuse to travel to new places?

However, now that I will be the only aunt (or family member) in the same state as my nephew, I'm starting to really fall in love with the idea of family being close. I plan on having such fun with Baby Gray.

Maybe I will even take him and Shakespeare on walks together-- my two favorite guys! It can't get much sweeter than that.

Hiking

Yesterday I went on a walk. 

I hiked around the trails of Alta Laguna for several hours. I don't think there is any better way to waste time than to go wander around and see what there is to see and do. 

Climb things, conquer new hills and valleys, watch for bobcats and snakes, look at the ocean and sky, explore trails that usually lead nowhere, be alone and keep quiet, and think about whatever needs to be thought about.

I don't like how easily we've robbed ourselves of our desire to go explore when we're bored. Why not save ourselves the trouble and stay at home watching other people have the adventures that we should be off seeing and accomplishing? My afternoon reminded me that the world is big, and it's worth being seen in person! It's good to sweat and get out of breath and a little bit dirty. 

One of my favorite quotes comes to mind when I think about wandering just for the sake of wandering: "There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after."

Here was my view during my adventure yesterday-- not too bad, I must say.

Change

I have decided to start blogging again, but this time I want to do things a little differently.

I think I like the idea of much shorter posts, about any random things happening in my life that I think are worth writing about.

Food, thoughts, travel, friends, ideas, God, love, politics, anything.

I'm about to go hike at the Top of the World park in Laguna Beach. Who knows, maybe that will be my next blog post?