recuerdos de denia (memories of denia)

I recently wrote a contribution to a book of memories commemorating the twenty-eight years that students from my alma mater--myself included--studied in the sweet and lovely city of Denia, Spain. The program will be moving from that eastern point of Valencia's coast to Oviedo, and I'm certain the new location will be wonderful, though much colder, and without the people and fallas and streets of Denia that I loved.

I have about a million things that I could say about that beautiful, deep, full semester of my life, the spring of 2007 when I was a sophomore in college, wide-eyed and ready to embrace the world, but for today, I'll just share the reflection I wrote for the book.

Oh Denia. Was it really so long ago?

All of my lovely neighbors

María, me and Maite

Cuando considero mi semestre en Denia, la primera cosa que viene a mi mente es la gente: mi querida mamá española, la hermosa Maite; su amiga María; mis vecinos; los amigos que conocí en la iglesia; mis profesores. Es verdad que hay un mar increíble, calles bonitas, un gran castillo y el formidable Montgó, pero últimamente, estas personas son mi Denia.

Maite, mi madre española, influyó mucho mi buena experiencia en España. Comíamos juntos, me enseñó como hacer una buena tortilla y íbamos a los cafés para meriendas de pan tostado y café con leche. Ella compartió conmigo no solo su piso y comida bien preparada; también compartió sus historias, su sabiduría y su amor.

Y compartió sus vecinos. La mesa de mis vecinos era una buenísima aula de clase. Mientras comía un gran plato de paella, escuchaba sus voces, cada uno tratando de hablar más fuerte que los otros, y aprendí mucho de su país y su cultura. Pero también aprendí las cosas que solo se puede descubrir a través de una amistad: las historias personales, las raíces de su cultura y las razones porque le aman su país.

Y yo también me enamoré de España, de Denia y de cada uno de estas personas queridas.

When I think about my semester in Denia, the first thing that comes to mind is the people: my dear Spanish mamá, the beautiful Maite; her friend María; my neighbors; the friends I met at church; my professors. It's true that there is an incredible sea, lovely streets, a castle and the formidable Montgó, but in the end, these people are my Denia.

Maite, my Spanish mamá, had a tremendous influence on my good experience in Spain. We ate meals together, she taught me how to make a proper tortilla española and we went to the cafés for pan tostado and café con leche. She shared with me not only her flat and delicious meals; she also shared her stories, her wisdom and her love.

And she shared her neighbors. The table of my neighbors was an excellent classroom. While eating a plate heaped with paella, I would listen to their voices, each one trying to talk over the others, and I learned about their country and their culture. But I also learned the things that one can only learn through friendship: the stories of their lives, the roots of their culture and the reasons why they love their country.

And I also fell in love with Spain, with Denia and with each one of these dear friends of mine.

the thanks giving post.

Though Thanksgiving has come and gone, I want to voice my thanks before continuing on with updates and new reflections and the Christmas-themed posts sure to ensue.

I got out of town and had a wonderful holiday weekend with family and an extension of my family (aka my brother-in-law's family...my family in-law in-law?) and also that boy I'm so fond of. We went to fetch the Christmas tree for my parents' house and decorated it with twinkly lights and cheery ornaments, which means that I will soon begin waxing poetic and becoming wildly excited about any- and everything even remotely related to Christmas. That's right. Be ready.

But first, some giving of thanks.

It's unfortunate that we need a national holiday to remind us to be thankful, but it seems that we do. (We don't need a national holiday to remind us to eat, so I'm going to stick to giving thanks as the primary purpose of the day/this post.) I probably complain more than I give thanks, which is a horribly skewed way of going about things in a life that has been filled with far more goodness than suffering.

And I want to live a life of gratitude.

There is much to be thankful for, after all. On the most elementary level, I am thankful for the material things that I have but don't need or deserve and so many go without--big things like plenty of food for the table and a little apartment all my own; simple and ultimately unnecessary things like cooling racks for hot loaves of bread; the electric blanket and humidifier that, though also unnecessary, make my Michigan winters much more bearable; shoes for my feet to stay warm and my body well, because it could be otherwise.

And of course, there are the good people surrounding me. There's this one girl who has now lovingly listened to a year's worth of joy and heartache and anxiety, who picked much of my summer sustenance with her very own hands, with whom I've never cooked a disappointing meal and whose single-syllable laugh I at some point unconsciously picked up. There's this other lovely lady in my city but from my hometown who absolutely makes my "short list," whose presence seems to ensure an eventful evening out and with whom a bottle of wine, a dessert (two desserts?), a platter of cheeses or a Valentine's day celebration was never unhappily shared. There is an incredible woman who believes in me more than I believe in myself, has a strength and vitality I strive to emulate and is the kind of mother that makes me want to be a mother.

I have a father who is a source of constant joy and offers much-needed guidance for my professional life on a regular basis, and my mom--who is also one of my very best friends--listens to me talk nonstop whenever I need to. (Seriously. My parents are awesome.) My sister and brother-in-law are living in the same country I am living in, which is something to be thankful for in itself, and on top of that, they are great house guests, read even my longest emails without complaining and are full of wisdom and hope.

There are good folks at my workplace; wise mentors from college and church; dear old friends now living in other cities, states and countries far off; kind landlords who fix even little things like broken doorknobs; new, inspiring acquaintances in this city that is my home.

And there is also a boy who makes me laugh until my face hurts, sees the bit of goodness in everything, listens to every last story even from a boring day, runs with me in the dark, cares about the world and appreciates a good meal or a well-made scone just as much as I do.

Along with all of that, I give thanks for the great big things, the things I ought to be expressing gratitude for with every breath: justice in my daily life, freedom, opportunity, health, peace in my neighborhood--and a good and sovereign God who holds everything, even that which is not just or peaceful or right.

Finally, I am thankful for a vast miscellany of other gratitude-inducing aspects of my life, such as my (currently) pest-and-rodent-free apartment, the fact that said apartment is in a house painted purple, my job (for both its good days and its bad ones), my little office with its fake plant, local businesses where they know my name and cardigans and baked goods and music and artwork and poetry and cookbooks and hope.

May I remain thankful all the year 'round.

where the pines are so high

Good heavens, it has been more than a month since last I posted! Summer is (unofficially) here, and life continues moving rapidly along. My apologies for my brief hiatus from this space. One reason for my absence was a recent trip out to the beautiful west, first to a wedding in Minnesota and then to see family in South Dakota. And yes, recap follows.

So first things first: the wedding was wonderful. I loved seeing Rita and G at the start of their adventure together. There were many dear folks to catch up with at the wedding, a couple of charming little farm towns to explore, reception tables to decorate and, of course, joy-filled tears to be shed. I love these two so much, and I'm confident that they will make it and, together, offer the world so much wisdom and hospitality and strength and goodness and beauty.

From this weekend of celebration, I journeyed on to South Dakota...

Although I am from Michigan, through and through, I've always felt that some small part of me is from the Black Hills. My parents both grew up in Rapid City, South Dakota, and most of my dad's family still lives there, along with my mother's tall and lovely aunts (seen in one of the pictures below). Every summer of my childhood, my parents, sister and I would vacation out that way, and my memories of growing up are peppered with the moments of those trips. When I walk through the door of my beloved grandparents' house, that peace of home settles into my bones, and I am flooded with the memories of family gathered together and rhubarb pie and card games at the kitchen table, reading books in the living room and falling asleep in the big bed I shared with my sister as the cool summer breeze drifted through the screen of the open door. Life was safe, simple and ever-so-good.

This summer's trip brought meals and ice cream and coffee enjoyed over meaningful conversation with loved ones, long morning runs with my dad, a cousin's graduation party, a bike ride on the Mickelson Trail, a morning of baking with my grandmother, hours spent poring over old photographs while drawing out stories from the past and the simple joy found in the togetherness of family.

And without fail, when I am up in the Hills, surrounded by the deepest browns and greens that nature has to offer, with a herd of buffalo around each corner and elk hiding somewhere in the woods, the sense of home returns. Maybe it's that song my mother used to sing to me, a song, she told me during this trip, that her mother once sang to her: "take me back to the Black Hills, the Black Hills of South Dakota, where the pines are so high that they kiss the sky above." When we were riding our bikes on the Mickelson trail, my dad breathed in deeply and told me that that smell, the smell of the Ponderosa Pines, smelled like the Hills to him. Like home.

And the tiny green leaves of the aspens turn and blink in the light, flickering like candles, clapping like the smallest of hands, welcoming my soul home, urging us to live on in gladness.

jumble.

I don’t have any one specific point to make today, just a few thoughts to offer, and as I haven't posted for so long, I feel quite alright forgoing my usual attempt at a thematic post. I hope you all are well, and many apologies for my brief absence!

Life continues, and it really is good and altogether quite lovely. I recently celebrated a birthday, enjoying the company of my parents and lunch at my favorite restaurant ever (free of charge as a birthday gift from the kind owners of said restaurant!) the weekend before, a peaceful dinner with a few of my dearest friends at another favorite the night of and a small potluck this past weekend, which also served to christen my new home--more on that in a moment. I love potlucks. At this particular potluck, I gave very few specifics when asking people to bring a dish to pass, which resulted in a meal consisting of my big pot of vegetarian chili and batch of Dorie Greenspan's World Peace Cookies and guests' contributions of eight bottles of red wine, five types of bread, two batches of hummus and Dave's promised package of Oreos. As one friend very aptly put it, it looked like a glorified communion. But the 20-or-so of us ate well, laughed much and were happy.

I am feeling somewhat old, in the most positive sense, of course, at what I realize is still quite a young age. As I begin this new year of living, I have once again been thinking about everything I have learned in the past few years, but particularly in the past few months, and how very glad I am to be in this post-collegiate, great big world before me, young single and free, idealistic and hopeful stage of life. Honestly, my friends, the world is glorious! There is so much life to be lived! There is so much hope to be held! It is not always easy or beautiful, I know, especially at first glance, but I am convinced more and more each day that we must indeed choose joy if we are to have it.

In other news, I have been working full-time since the start of the month at a job that most days I like reasonably well, and I recently poached my first egg. Today I am wearing dark pink tights, which, as always, is making me feel a little better about the world, and I wrote/edited up a storm at work today. A storm, people. And finally, most excitingly, I have moved yet again and am now happily settled into a new little place in a big old purple house. I love it. I think it is absolutely perfect. The space, the location, the hardwood floors and brightly colored walls, that amazing little hutch in the kitchen, the fact that the kitchen is so adorably tiny, the pocket door between the two biggest rooms, the footsteps of my upstairs neighbors, the bay window above my bed. With all respect and love to past roommates, I have not been this happy to come home in a very, very long time. Goodness, I haven't felt this at home while home in a very, very long time. Furthermore, when one of my landlords asked me to be sure to regularly take out the trash because they do not have mice in this house and told me that they have all of the paint colors to touch up my walls once I’ve decorated and explained that I could call if it gets too cold and they would come adjust the heat, I wanted to throw my arms around him and embrace him and then burst into tears of pure joy. I didn't. But let me tell you, I was very close. All that to say that I love this new little place of mine. Come visit anytime. I have a fold-out couch. And leftover wine. Just saying.

To close this post, as it is Martin Luther King Jr. day, I offer a few of his own beautiful words, with somber reflection on our soiled human history, recognition of the inexplicable and confounding tragedy that has now fallen upon Haiti, awareness of our brokenness and the brokenness of this world and persistent hope for the future:

“Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long-but-beautiful-struggle for a new world.”

Amen. Let us begin indeed.

late fall in chicago: community, place, getting dirty, drinking deep

I traveled to Chicago this past weekend with Sarah, Lindsay and Taylor to visit our very dear friends Laura and Jer who married and began settling into a new home in Westmont early this fall.

married.

(Note: Sarah wrote about our travels more promptly than I, so for our shared readership, please forgive the inevitable repetition!) It was wonderful to see Laura and Jer -- we miss them so much back here in GR -- and to establish an accurate image of their new city and apartment in my mind. The six of us wandered together, cooked together and laughed together. Because of shared values, loves and experiences, comfort in this community runs deep, and that is a very beautiful thing. Community itself is a very beautiful thing. Yes, it is hard to establish and to maintain, and it really is kind of a crazy endeavor, but oh! how good and pleasant it is when God's people live together in unity! (Psalm 133:1)

Then, on Sunday, Sarah, Lindsay, Taylor and I journeyed to the Rogers Park neighborhood to visit a wonderful community coffee shop called The Common Cup.

We loved it. Clearly.

As we drove through the city towards the coffee shop in North Chicago, past row houses and old architectural beauty, rundown neighborhoods brightened by community gardens and people on sidewalks under buildings market by graffiti, I was overcome by a desire to go and, once there, to stay, to invest in a place, sinking my feet in deep and being part of it, cultivating hope and making things more beautiful. I hungered for adventure and change and envelopment in something bigger and more powerful than I am. I was drawn not to any specific street in Rogers Park or to any particular place at all, really, but rather to the act of jumping into life completely and without abandon or fear or hesitation, immersing myself fully its enormity and overwhelming complexity.

And as I felt all of this, I wondered where it all came from, these firm beliefs about and desires for community and city and place and intentionality that course so deep and so fiercely within me now.

And then I wondered what to do with all of it.

I was somewhat overwhelmed, to be honest. I want so much from life, and I hadn't realized this before. I want so many experiences; I want such depth of feeling and passion. I want complexity and difficulty and unpredictability, because that is what is real. I want to get dirty, to run as fast as I can straight into the mess of humanity and its intersections with space and environment and God and to live right in the middle of all of it, forever, until I die. I want to reach out with hands cupped together tightly, to fill them with water and to drink deep of life, renegade drops splashing my eyes and soaking the front of my shirt.

But though I want so much, I am so small. It is hard some days to fit my dreams within a world that necessitates money and health insurance, a world of broken structures that complicate the path. And yet, I am hopeful, because although I remain unsure of what my very near future holds, I realize that whatever comes will be beautiful. Staying would be beautiful. Leaving would be beautiful also. Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I can and will drink deep of life and settle right into its tangled center.

This weekend refreshed my spirit and renewed my vision for life. And if that wasn't enough, there was Ethiopian food, a trip to Trader Joe's, innovation and the casting of dreams, relational problem solving, seeking ways to change the world and giving thanks for grace.

In closing, a reminder to do your part to save the world: recyle.

Ahem... pardon, recycle. Thanks, Sarah.