Not All Families Are the Same

It was suggested to me the other day that there are certain things I simply can’t understand or appreciate in life because I don’t have a family of my own.  A.K.A. a husband and children. At first, I was incredibly insulted and hurt by this person’s comment. Then I realized that I simply live my life with a different conception of what constitutes family.


It is true that I don’t have a husband and children. But my life is not emptier or less demanding because of this fact. The truth is that I have a very extended family that I hold myself responsible to on a daily basis.

When most people think of the word “family,” they think of their parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and cousins. They are those people that we are, whether we like it or not, related to by blood or marriage. All of these people are part of our families. But the people I consider to be family often fall outside of these conventional qualifications.

I grew up as an only child, which at times, was frustrating when I wanted a sibling to support me or back me up on something. But I had something far better than a sibling. I had a best friend, who even after 21 years, is still the best sister I could’ve ever asked for. She has been the person who has stood by me through everything, who has supported me even when some people in my “family” turned against me, and has shown me the true measure of what the word “family” means.

I’ve been blessed with several other friends throughout the years too who have loved me without question or hesitation. They have helped me through challenges and lent a judgment-free ear when I needed to talk. I consider all of them part of my family.

But I don’t just consider people to be my family who have been there to love and take care of me. I reach out to as many people in my life as possible and love them in such a way that shows them I make no distinction between them and the people who are related to me by blood. I have always done so…not because I want extra brownie points from anyone, but because it has just never occurred to me to live any other way.

I’ve had friends call me in the middle of the day bawling their eyes out over something. Rather than just sit there and text them like a normal friend would do, I get in my car and drive to their house to see them right at that moment. And did I mention I stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up Oreos for them because that’s their favorite food?

I’ve been on Facebook and seen friends post very depressed statuses before…friends who live in another town from me. And again, I get right in my car and drive out of town and straight to their front door to tell them---in person---that I’m there for them.

I’ve spent hours staring at rows of baby pacifiers in a store trying to make sure I pick out the perfect one for a friend’s newborn child.

I’ve offered to wire a friend money, as much as they needed, to make sure they make it home for a family funeral because they don’t have the funds to make the trip themselves.

I could go on forever. But the point is that I bend over backwards to love and take care of people in my life. And I do my best to love those people unconditionally. I take those people, as well as their family/friends/significant others, into my life and make them my family. I hold myself responsible for taking care of them and supporting them just as much as if they were my actual family. I drop everything in a heartbeat to be there for them. I might not do this 100% of the time but I do the very best I can because I can’t imagine living any other way.

I don’t have a husband. And I don’t have any children of my own. But I have just as many responsibilities, if not more, than people I know who do have those things. It is true that I have some freedoms that married people with children no longer enjoy. But the truth is that I usually end up filling my extra time and using my extra energy to attend to my very extended and unconventional family. So to the person who told me I don’t have a family to worry about and go home to each day, and to anyone who would be inclined to make a similar statement, I implore you to look beyond stereotypes and conventions and realize that not all families are as straightforward as society likes to portray them. They come in all shapes and sizes. And personally, I feel truly blessed to have found so many people in my life that I am able to call my FAMILY.  

You Have Been Blessed With a Burden

While watching the movie “Freedom Writers” the other day, I heard an interesting comment made during it that made me hang my head and smile. For I felt all too well the weight of those words in my life. They were this: “You have been blessed with a burden.”

Several months ago, someone close to me commented that I have “soft skills” because I am a writer. It was stated factually, not as in insult. Nonetheless, the words stuck. Unlike the highly schooled and respected skills of engineers, doctors, scientists, firemen, and other such professions, writers have “soft skills”. And supposedly my skills require less education, less intelligence, and less effort. They are less desirable in society, less respected, less sought after, and significantly less compensated. Supposedly.

Years ago, this person’s comments about my “soft skills” would’ve burn my ego like hell. They would’ve made me feel insignificant and worthless. I would’ve felt guilty about the money my parent’s invested in my writing degree. Years ago, I would’ve let this person opinion, or rather the majority of society’s opinion, of the work I do bring me to my knees. But that was before I was put through some of the hardest tests of my life and shown just how crucial and un-soft my skills as a writer truly are.

Writers are among that rugged but beautiful genre of humanity known as artists. Alongside them are dancers, musicians, sculptors, painters, and countless others. Some of them are educated—others self taught. Some live in mansions—others in boxes on the street. But all of them, all of us, live and die by our art. It is who we are. It is our most inherent quality. And it cannot be remove—even on the days when we plead with God to remove it.

We aren’t doctors. But we save lives every single day. That song you hear on the radio after a devastating break up—that one that calms your restless heart for a moment—that song was written and performed by an artist. Those words read aloud in churches all across the globe each Sunday morning—those words were scribed by writers brave enough to share their beliefs and spread the word of Christ. The words of the Bible save countless souls each day.

We aren’t civil engineers, but we build masterpieces that take people’s breath away. Every year, millions of tourists travel to the Louvre Museum in Paris to witness in person the creations of da Vinci and Michelangelo or to the Sistine Chapel to see the depiction of the Last Supper. They travel to Florence to see the statue of David.  

We aren’t scientists but we make discoveries and bring new ideas into the world. Shakespeare taught us of the exquisite depth and devastation of true love. Thoreau showed us that living simply and within our natural surroundings may very well bring us the greatest inner peace and happiness. Martha Graham dared to bring new and more modern steps into the dance world. 

We aren’t daredevils, but we do the impossible each day. Beethoven was deaf throughout most of his composing career, yet wrote music so beautiful it made people cry. Picasso broke every rule of art during his day with his cubist paintings and never sold a painting during his lifetime. Yet today his paintings sell for well over 100 million dollars.

We don’t run into burning buildings to save anyone, but we do put our very hearts and souls on the line for our art. We work for little money—sometimes for free. We spend our lives being judged, misunderstood, and ridiculed. We shoulder the relentless burden of rejection. Our lives are often plagued by solitude and loneliness. And yet, despite all of this, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

My greatest moment of revelation as a writer came nearly two years ago when a friend asked me to help him write a memorial speech to read at his sister’s funeral that had passed away from Leukemia. I was overwhelmed with both grief and joy at the request. It was the greatest blessing and burden I have ever been bestowed with. But I bore it all with the compassion and dignity and grace that all artists are called to bear.

Artists, of any type, may be bestowed with soft skills. But they aren’t soft people at all. We have one of the hardest jobs on earth. We are responsible for holding people and life itself together with one note, one word, one step, one brush stroke, one dent in a mound of clay. We dare to say the things the rest of the world is too afraid to say. We put things on the stage, in the frame, on the page, that others simply do not know how to. In moments, both personal and historical, when others flounder, we are the ones people look to for inspiration and comfort. To make something disastrous appear beautiful once more. To make sense of what seems so much against God’s plan. To bring light into the darkness of our world.

Being asked to compose a eulogy for a grieving friend is not a request many could answer. For me it was never a request. It was simply part of my calling from God as a writer. Being a writer is no easy job. It requires sacrificing parts of your soul each day in order to put words on a page that will change lives, inspire lives, preserve lives. It is a burden. But it is a burden God blessed me with and one that I bear with all the willingness that Christ bore the cross.

Give thanks today, but don't forget about tomorrow

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

All of us know about one of the first Thanksgiving meals shared in America between the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians in 1621. But the official holiday wasn’t put in place until over a century later.

In 1789, Elias Boudinot, member of the House of Representatives, moved that a day of Thanksgiving be held to thank God for giving the American people the opportunity to create a Constitution to preserve their hard won freedoms. A Congressional Joint Committee approved the motion, and informed President George Washington. On October 3, 1789, the President proclaimed that the people of the United States observe "a day of public thanksgiving and prayer" on Thursday, the 26th of November. This tradition was continued, but not on a consistent basis. Then in 1827, Sarah Josepha Hale, editor of Ladies Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book began pushing for the establishment of an annual thanksgiving holiday. After 36 years of crusading, she finally got her wish. On October 3, 1863, President Lincoln proclaimed that November 26 would be a national Thanksgiving Day, to be observed every year on the fourth Thursday of November.   

Up until know, I had never heard about these historical pieces behind the Thanksgiving holiday we know today. But I found it incredibly heart-warming that people have always for a day to give thanks for all of life’s blessings.

I always find it annoying in November when everyone on Facebook writes about something they are thankful for each day of the month. I know that as soon as the holiday comes and goes, they will all go back to being completely oblivious to the things they were so grateful for weeks earlier. But this year, I’ve had a change in heart. Whether you list out your blessings on Facebook or say them aloud around the Thanksgiving table, everyone is bound to forget those things as soon as Black Friday hits. But taking one day, or one month a year to remind yourself of those things is a good training exercise. It’s like people who only pray during a crisis or when they need something. It might not be the best form of prayer or recognition of God, but it at least proves that one does hold a belief in something greater than themselves. That moment of selfish prayer or singular day of gratefulness may seem hypocritical and transparent, but is a baby step towards offering words and prayers of thanks on a daily basis---for the good and the bad things in our lives.

So on Thanksgiving, give thanks for all of the blessings in your life. But when you wake up tomorrow, and each day after, try to remember to give thanks on those days too.

The Power Behind a Handwritten Letter

Long before I actually knew I wanted to be a writer, I developed a love for writing hand-written letters to people. For those who know me, writing is the way in which I best express myself. But that’s not the reason I write letters. Something about the act of actually sitting down and scribing out thoughts to someone just seems so genuine and heartfelt. We live in an age now where we largely communicate with each other via texting/email/Facebook. We have lost the type of personal contact that I think is so important to maintaining and deepening our relationships with loved ones. For me, writing letters is a way of slowing down and actually taking the time to express my thoughts and feelings to someone in a seemingly archaic, yet beautiful way. And from my experience, people are always shocked and extremely appreciative of such letters.

This past weekend one of my friends went on a Cursillo, or a spiritual retreat. While I have never been on a retreat myself before, I know several people who have and most of them found it to be a good and rewarding experience. Part of the retreat involves family and friends sending letters as a surprise for the person attending the retreat to read.  I was asked if I would be willing to write a letter to send to my friend on the retreat. I couldn’t have been more excited.

When I sat down to write the letter, I had a general idea of what I wanted to say and I didn’t think it would take too terribly wrong to write. But several hours later, I was still working on the letter. Apparently I had more to say than I realized. The thing about writing letters is that you don’t have to deal with the pressure or uncomfortableness of having someone right in front of you when you tell them your thoughts. You can say things you might not have the courage to say otherwise. And there is no urgency to spit everything out all at once. You have the freedom to write what you want, when you want. And of course, you have the option of revising. I tend to write letters very quickly initially, but then I go back through and revise things until I am confident it says exactly what I want in the way that I wanted to say it.

Whenever I write a letter, I always know what I want it to say…..or so I think at the beginning. But once I start writing, I often discover that I have more thoughts on the subject at hand. In writing the letter to my friend on the retreat, I wanted to focus on some of the special memories I have of him. And I wanted to thank him for being there to support me through some difficult times in my life. I had some specific things in mind that I wanted to reference, but once I started writing, my head was flooded with all of these little details and memories of him that I didn’t even know I remembered. In the process, I realized what a truly good friend he has been to me throughout the years and that I really miss spending time with him. By the time I reached the last page of the letter, I found myself apologizing to him for not being a better friend as of late and promising to make a more concerted effort at setting aside time to come visit him and catch up on all of the happenings of our lives.

I wanted my letter to him to be meaningful, particularly since he would be reading it on his retreat. But it ended up being a revelation for me, as well, on my relationship with him. Writing the letter reminded me of just how lucky I am to have him in my life. It also forced me to reexamine the type of friend I have been to him lately, which led me to realize that there are some serious changes I need to make in order to rekindle a valuable friendship in my life.

After finishing the letter and sending it off to be delivered to the retreat, I kept wondering what my friend would think when he read it….all 7 pages of it. I also kept thinking of how truly wonderful it would be to receive a big pile of letters from people sharing words of encouragement and thanks. I was glad that my letter would be among those he read.

On the day my friend’s retreat ended, I receive a text from him in the evening thanking me for my letter. I was so thankful that it had proved meaningful for him. As with most of the things I write, it is not the act of writing itself that is important to me, but rather knowing that my words have touched the lives of someone else in a profound way. That’s when I know that I’ve succeeded as a writer.

Most people I know wouldn’t write a hand-written letter unless they were forced to. But I think, given the opportunity, they would better come to see what a beautiful gift letters are---not just for the person receiving them, but for the person writing them.

As Henry David Thoreau said, (the quote that is also on the back of my business cards), “A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips—not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.”

Quotes to Live By

Not many people know that I have long kept journals where I hand-write quotes from different people. Being a writer, I am fascinated by words and constantly look to the words of others as a source of inspiration both for professional and personal reasons. I started my first quote journal in high school and am now on my fourth book. I have literally thousands of quotes from all different people and on practically every subject imaginable.    

When I first started writing down quotes, I wondered what on earth I’d ever do with them. If anything, I assumed I would just keep them for myself and perhaps glance back over them from time to time. While I do often flip through the pages of my books in hope of being comforted when I’m feeling sad or frustrated, I have found many other uses for my quote collection.

In writing articles, I often use one of my quotes at the very beginning in hopes of provoking readers to ponder on a specific topic relating to the piece. I have used quotes in letters I’ve written to people when I recalled one that expressed a thought better than anything I could come up with. And I’ve even found myself reciting certain quotes I know by heart to people when a good opportunity presents itself.

My quotes herald from celebrities, athletes, actors, friends, and people I’ve never heard of. Some come from experienced writers and others are merely lines I underlined while reading a book. And because I am a poet at heart, I throw in the occasional poem I stumble upon on as well. The topics drift in and out of whatever I am pondering or struggling with at that moment—be it relationships, love, faith, writing, loss, work, persistence, forgiveness,  But regardless of where the quote came from or who said it, they are all beautiful words that I cherished from the moment I first read them. In wanting to remember these words, I write them down.  My quote books have become my own personal bibles of wisdom and inspiration and my hope is to someday pass them along to my children so that they can better come to understand who I am, what I believe in, and what why I write.

Here are just a few of my favorite quotes right now…and some of the ones most recently added to my books:

“Making a hundred friends is not a miracle. The miracle is to make a single friend who will stand by your side even when hundreds are against you.” (Unknown)

“Just because someone has more followers than you does not mean they’re better than you. Hitler had millions. Jesus had 12.” (Unknown)

“Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

“They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” (Carol Bucher)

“I hated every minute of training, but I said, “Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.” (Muhammad Ali)

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” (Neale Donald Walsch)

“I am thankful to all those who said NO to me. It’s because of them I did it myself.” (Albert Einstein)

“A writer is a priest of eternal imagination transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everlasting life.” (James Joyce)

“Your profession is not what brings home your paycheck. Your profession is what you were put on earth to do with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.” (Vincent Van Gogh)

“We are asleep with compasses in our hands.” (W.S. Merwin)

“If you grit your teeth and show real determination, you’ll always have a chance.” (Charles M. Schulz)

“I get up every morning determined to both change the world and have one hell of a good time. Sometimes that makes planning my day difficult.” (E.B. White)

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” (Pablo Picasso)

“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” (Gloria Steinem)

“I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” (John Keats)

What I've Learned as a Writer...

A few months ago I was approached by a former college professor who inquired as to whether I would be interested in teaching a small writing class, one morning a week before school at one of the elementary schools in town. Apparently the school was looking for someone and she suggested to the principal that I would be perfect for the job. Having no experience or real qualifications to teach, I was flabbergasted at her recommendation. But I also felt a great sense of pride. I have never had a desire to teach…none whatsoever….but I immediately saw this as an opportunity to push myself out of my comfort zone and try to ignite a spark for writing in others. After all, if it hadn’t been for my creative writing teacher in high school, I might never have pursued it as a major in college. This was my chance to impact students in the same way that my teacher had.

So I accepted.

I have only taught a few classes so far and am still struggling to find a foothold in this whole teaching business. I have dozens of ideas for writing prompts to keep the kids busy writing, but what I can’t figure out is what to actually TEACH them about writing. Grammar and the technical aspects of writing are unimportant and pointless at that age....and any age in my opinion. It’s always been my belief that anyone has the capacity in them to be a writer as long as they have true passion about what they are trying to write about. Technicalities can be taught and dealt with later. Passion is the real requirement of writing and the one thing you can’t teach.

While struggling on figuring out what to teach my kids and how to make them better writers, I began pondering all of the things I have learned about writing and being a writer in the past several years. They aren’t necessarily the kinds of things I would preach to a 4^th grader but they are what I would tell anyone if they asked me what being a writer entails.

1.    Writing won’t guarantee you money, success, fame, or respect. But when done for every reason outside of those, it will bring endless fulfillment and a sense of purpose.

2.    Writing is an extremely lonely act, so it’s important to be comfortable with spending lots of time with yourself and your thoughts.

3.    Learn to toughen up your skin early on and accept that you will hear the word “no” far more often than you will ever hear “yes.”

4.    Failure and rejection is hardly a death sentence. It just means you need to keep trying and knock on the gate (or editor’s door) a little louder next time.

5.    Persistence will often times get you farther than talent, reputation, or the size of your portfolio.

6.    When you are passionate about something, pick up a pen and start writing about it right in that moment.

7.    You are never done with or above the learning process of writing. There is always something new you can learn and ways you can improve on your craft.

8.    Always take yourself seriously as a writer and don’t be ashamed or reluctant to tell people that’s what you do.

9.    Remember to thank those people who have helped you along the way to becoming a writer. People love to feel appreciated and will be more willing to help you out again in the future if you appreciate them in the beginning.

10.Write only if you cannot live without writing; write what only you alone can write.

11.Don’t fret over people who belittle your job as a writer. J.K. Rowling once scrawled ideas for Harry Potter on napkins at diners and now she has her own theme park near Disney World.

12.No matter how many or few things you’ve had published, always present yourself and your work in a professional manner. People will be more likely to take you seriously if you take yourself seriously first.

13.Take writing jobs and write about things that push you out of your comfort zone.

14.Writers often write while bleeding, but just know that those are the moments when you’ll produce your best work.

15.Write about the things that other people are too afraid, ashamed, or unable to write about.

16.The first time someone besides your mom cries after reading a piece of your work, you know you’ve really done some good work.

17.Having people ask you to help them write something may turn into the most rewarding moment of your career.

18.Describe, describe, describe. When people read something, make sure they can really see, hear, taste, feel, and touch all of the sights and sounds you are talking about. Being able to bring the page to life is what separates out the good writers from the truly great ones.

19.When all else fails, go outdoors when seeking inspiration and reason to write.

20.There may be times when writing brings you to your knees and nearly breaks you. But in the end, writing may also be the one thing that saves you.

21.Writing is not for the faint-hearted. It takes real guts to enter into and persevere through the work and life of a writer. And even if you aren’t one of those people, at least respect the ones who are trying to make it.

Transitioning into Fall

Even before crimson and orange hues saturate the trees around town, I can tell it is fall. There’s just always this moment in late September or October when I step outside and I suddenly feel it...that shift in the air that reminds that the seasons are changing---and life along with it.  

To me, fall is a time of transition. You trade in your sun-faded flip flops and tank tops for tall leather boots and knit scarves. The days grow shorter and mornings are often stenciled with frost. Kids head back to school and families start planning for the holiday season. You wondered how it took so long to get to summer, but before you knew it, it was over.

Fall is also a time to pause and reflect on the past year, which is rapidly transitioning into the next, and to daydream of all the things you hope will come to pass in the coming months. I was doing just that the other evening when I caught a glimpse of Spring Meadow Lake out my window. The water was placid, without even the faintest ripple across its surface. Trees dipped in brilliant shades of yellow wrapped themselves around the lake’s edge. With so many anxious and nostalgic feelings about fall bouncing around in my head, I longed for the sort of peace that Spring Meadow echoed that day. 

So I decided to go for a walk.

There is a trail that winds around Spring Meadow that’s approximately one mile long. There were several people jogging and briskly maneuvering strollers along the trail when I got there. I, however, chose to meander along slowly trying to absorb the overwhelming silence of the lake, save for the gravel crunching under my feet. The sun dangled low in the sky and I knew that the peaceful fall day would soon be over.

I made two loops around the lake that day without even realizing it. As I walked along I thought about so many things.

I thought about the friend I had seen earlier that day that is in her final few weeks of pregnancy. Her face absolutely glowed when she ran her hand across her belly telling me how anxious she was getting. She will welcome her first child into the world by Halloween and thus begin the biggest transition of her life—becoming a mother.

I thought about how my boyfriend of eight years has lived in another town from me for the past three years and how I much I desperately hope to close that gap soon and transition into starting a family together---like everyone my age seems to be busy doing.

I thought about how much progress I have made as a writer in the four years since graduating college. Between two newspapers, two blogs, and one magazine, my plate is forever full of opportunities to write. I couldn’t help but wonder how much further I will have progressed as a writer by the time the snow of winter has come and gone and summer graces the Montana skies again. Transitioning and growing are all part of being a writer after all.

And I thought about Thanksgiving and Christmas coming up, which always make me think about distant friends and family. Though there are some I seldom see or talk to anymore, I keep track of their transitions in life like engagements, weddings, babies, new jobs, and vacations through texts, photos and posts on Facebook.

I finished my walk feeling more at peace with the dynamic nature of this fall season. Like the metamorphic leaves around me, I hope the changes of fall will leave my life and those around me even more brilliant than before. 

The Joys of Being Published

I still remember the first glorious taste I had of being a published writer...

While taking a creative writing class in high school, I submitted a poem called “After the Day” in a writing contest my teacher told the class about. She told us that the pieces selected would later be published in a small publication called “Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.” Several weeks passed after my teacher mailed out our submissions before I received a letter informing me that my poem had been selected. I was both shocked and ecstatic at the prospect of having something I wrote actually published and read by others. 

There was a small fee for each copy of the publication you wanted. Since this was my first published work, my mom and I both figured that we would need at least a dozen copies. It might have been overkill, but it’s not every day a kid gets published. We mailed out our request for the copies and then began the grueling waiting process.

Maybe I’m a lone writer in this feeling, but while receiving news that a piece of your work is being published is exciting, it is not what I anxiously wait for like a child on Christmas morning.  What I wait for is that moment when I actually hold the book/magazine/newspaper in my hand and observe my name beaming out from the pages with inky solidity. I wait for the ink to smear off on my fingertips so I know that I’m not dreaming. That’s the moment I know it is real. That’s when I feel the sheer ecstasy of what it means to be a writer.

After months of waiting and checking the mailbox daily, it finally arrived! It was a very small, thin book… but it was a book….with my poem in it! I dashed back to the house from the mailbox, my bare feet scratching against the asphalt driveway and hollering at my mom the whole way.

It was my first taste of feeling like a real writer…..it was intoxicating and addicting....and still is.

In the four years since graduating college I have had a number of articles published in various publications including Queen City News, the Helena Independent Record, and the Helena Vigilante. And regardless of the length or subject matter of the piece, I am still always excited to see the final, printed version.

But after four years of writing for various newspapers, my desire to spread my wings in another direction finally hit. After pestering the editor of Distinctly Montana magazine for a few months, I finally received my first assignment. “Twitterpated,” is the only appropriate word I can think of to describe my reaction to reading that email asking if I would write about the Montana pronghorn. I knew absolutely nothing about pronghorns, but from that moment, on I was determined to write about them as though they were as mesmerizing and glamorous as the Eiffel Tower illuminating the Paris skyline at night. Over the course of the next month, I poured more time and effort into what would only be a 700 word article than I have into any piece of writing in years. I was determined, as always, to prove myself as a writer.

After a month of researching the animal commonly referred to as the “speed goat” and even chasing after a herd of them on a four-wheeler, I completed my 750 word article. I emailed it to the editor and hoped that it would measure up. A few days later, she wrote me back and said that the staff thought it was great and that it would be printed in mid-September. 

Time has never moved so slowly as that month of me waiting for the magazine to print. And even when an online version of it was released beforehand, I wasn’t satisfied. Because like I said, the physical act of seeing and holding your piece is what reminds you that you aren’t dreaming, but rather, living the dream.

The day the magazine hit the stands, I rushed right out to grab as many copies as possible. I even made my mom take a picture of me holding the magazine amid a backdrop of colorful magazine covers. Part of me wanted to brag to others that among all those fancy covers was an article with my by-line on it. And part of me simply needed additional proof that I did in fact have my first article ever published in a magazine. 

Myself, and I think it would be safe to say, that most writers do not write in the hope of gaining some sort of celebrity status at being published. They write because they have been called to do so, because it is who they are, and because they couldn’t imagine living life without writing. But seeing your carefully sculpted words in print does bring a tremendous sense of accomplishment and joy to a writer’s heart. While my transition into magazine writing is small yet, it is still another step towards my dream. Someday, I hope to walk into any book store in the world and find my name and words gracing the cover of one of the thousands of books so humbly shelved on a bookcase. That, I believe, will be the crowning moment of my life.  

Thank You To All My Teachers

This past Saturday at church it was mentioned that Catechetical Sunday would be celebrated the following day. I had never heard of this before, but was informed that it is a day where all catechists (teachers) within the church parish are honored for their service to the ministry of the Word. While Catechetical Sunday recognizes teachers within the church, it was suggested during the service that everyone also take time to remember any person in their life who has served as a teacher to them in any way.  

I instantly started building a mental list of all the people who have taught me something valuable. Before I knew it, I had to start writing them down because there was simply too many to keep track of. The following list includes some of my most memorable “teachers.” Among them are family members, friends, acquaintances, past school instructors and even an animal or two. Without these people I would never have survived this far in life and grown into the person I am today. I’m sure I missed some people and could never credit every single thing they each taught me, but I tried to highlight the best parts of the best teachers I could’ve asked for. 

My Best Friend, Jamie: You’ve taught me to always go after what I want and never give up on my dreams. You taught me what being a loyal friend is all about and that laughter truly is the best medicine….especially if it involves laughing at yourself. 

Hugh Ambrose: You gave me my first job out of college and taught me that I should never be afraid to put myself out there because you never know what opportunities might arise or who will be willing to give you a chance.

My favorite little kiddo, Camille: You taught me that sometimes the greatest source of happiness can be found in the simplest of things… like blowing bubbles.

My dog, Gracie Lou: You taught me that the keys to life are to live simply, speak loudly, take long naps, and eat heartily.

My college professor, Loren Graham: As evident by your office door eternally covered in rejection letters, you taught me to never let rejection diminish faith in myself or my courage to try again.

My college professor, Ron Stottlemyer: You told me once that, “If you want to be a poet, you need to be a perpetual beginner.”

My college professor, Lorna Milne:  You said that “If you are passionate about something, write about it right then.” My senior honor’s thesis was only possible by following this advice.

My friend, Sonny: You taught me that, even after 7 years, it is never too late to apologize and admit that you wronged someone. In doing so, you also taught me that one should never lose hope in gaining forgiveness. 

Stacy: You taught me that some mistakes are simply unforgivable in this life, but that should never stop a person from trying to make amends anyhow. And knowing that you tried your very best to set things right makes bearing the crosses that some will shoulder you with far easier.
  

My friend, Michaela: You taught me that something as terrible seeming as two friends getting braces in their mid-20s is still cause for a party and cupcakes. You’ve always showed me how to look for the positive in every situation.  

My boyfriend, Andy: You taught me that even the most impossible of friendships can be formed when you love someone enough. You taught me how to drop everything and lend a hand when someone is in need. You’ve always shown me how to maintain a piece of childish silliness. That when an opportunity doesn’t arise to go and make a better one on my own. You showed me the value behind a firm handshake. And you are one of the few men who has always convinced me that I can do and ride all of the same things as a guy.

My Grandpa, Ray: You taught me that taking long, aimless drives really is soothing to the soul. That you are never too old to continue doing the activities you’ve always loved. And that hamburgers truly are the one food item you can never go wrong with eating.

My Grandma, Noma: You taught me the value of devotion, both to family and friends and to one’s faith. And you taught me the importance of preserving family heirlooms and keepsakes as they hold the keys to who you are and where you came from.   

My dance teacher, Beth: You taught me the importance of loving one’s body just as God made it. You showed me how to speak from the heart and live my life the way I choose without concern over what the rest of the world thinks. You taught me the importance of faith and showed me how to live according to that faith each day. And most importantly, you taught me that I need to find what I love to do and then find a way to do something good with it. 

My friend, Chris: You taught me how to be a patient and non-judgmental confidant to a friend in need.  

My Mom, Susie: You taught me how to be a person of compassion that shows kindness to anyone in need. You taught me how to be a lady, even though I’ve often fought against it. You taught me how to always support people, even when you don’t understand the reasoning behind an action or belief. That I should never take any crap from anyone…least of all a guy. And you raised me to think for myself and to choose my own path in life. 

My Dad, Glenn: You taught me that that 4 main keys to success in life are to love what you do, work your ass off, don’t spend money before you make it, and be a kiss ass. You taught me humility and to never flaunt who you are or how much you own. How to be driven and go after your dreams with everything you’ve got.  You taught me confidence and that anything I want to do and be is possible if I first believe it. And you raised me to always be true to who I am and never worry about what the world might really think of me. 

My friend, Joey. You taught me that whatever God leads me to, He will lead me through…I still repeat this to myself on a daily basis. You taught me that no matter how busy you are, it is always possible to make time for the people who matter to you. That given enough space and time, people will always amaze you. You taught me how to love unconditionally. You taught me patience and the real reasons to pray. And you taught me that what I thought was a mere interest, is actually what I am meant to spend my life doing. 

I am eternally grateful to each of you!

Mismatched Genetics

One week ago today I lined my bike up on the start line at Last Chance Raceway for the very first time. My dad grew up racing bikes out there and he's got a pile of trophies in his garage to prove that he was better than most that raced. I grew up watching him with anxiousness and wonder from the sidelines as he whizzed by me in a cloud of dirt and exhaust.

I always longed to feel that same rush of adrenaline at the track and continue the Middlestead racing legacy. Last Sunday I finally got my chance. My dad and I tag teamed it in the annual 4 hour marathon ride.

The fact that I am a girl, made it that much more fulfilling.

As I was walking back from signing up for the race with my dad, we passed one of my dad's friends. He chuckled when he saw me and asked me how it was that my dad finally roped me into participating in his two passions: motocross and hockey. I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Walking away, he said that it must just be my "mismatched genetics."

Mismatched genetics. It's an interesting term that no one has ever used to refer to me by before. But the funny thing is, I took it as a compliment.

Standing out on the start line and glancing around at all of the other riders, I felt utterly terrified. But I was also proud to be one of the few women racing that day. There were a lot of girls out there, but most were standing by their boyfriend/husband's side supporting them and wishing them good luck. I was one of the rare women brave enough to enter into a male-dominated sport and race that day.

The race was brutally long, the track slick and challenging, and the temperatures outside steadily climbed with each lap. There were moments I didn't think I would make it. And it only took a few laps to realize that I had entered something that was slightly over my head. But I knew I couldn't quit.

One of the most gratifying moments for me was rounding a sharp corner one lap and seeing a fellow female rider helping another girl dig her bike out from a deep rut on a hillside. That rut had been tripping up riders the whole afternoon, including myself. I took comfort in their struggle, knowing that I too was in the same battle. I took even greater comfort watching two women help assist each other in an activity that is unfathomable for most women. The three of us were out there that day breaking down barriers. We were riding testaments to the perseverance and will of women.

My dad and I took turns riding laps around the track. When my dad rode in to the pit area in the final 15 minutes of the race, I knew that I would be racing the final lap. After one final hard crash and sporting some terribly crooked handlebars, I cleared the checkered flag and finished my first race at the track.

Riding back to the truck that day to change, I kept thinking about my "mismatched genetics," and how they have truly been responsible for all of the great accomplishments of my life. For me, being a typical girly girl has never been good enough. I've somehow always known I was capable of more.  And while the term "mismatched genetics" seemed somewhat strange, I realized tonight that it, in fact, merely echoes my personal brand I've come to identify with. See the "girly" side of me that people expect and is considered normal is my GRACE. But the side of me willing to try racing dirt bikes, hill climb on sleds, and pitch slap shots into a hockey net is my GRIT. And if that's mismatched genetics......well, all I can say is that I'm damn proud of them!

The Strength of Desire

Before today, I had never heard of Diana Nyad. But after today, I will never forget her. On Monday, September 2^nd, Nyad became the first person to swim the 110 miles from Cuba to Florida without a shark cage. To top that off, it was her 5^th attempt to do so and she finally accomplished it at the ripe age of 64 years old. A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!!!!

I read through several articles on her today, and became more and more inspired with each one. People said that she had her whole heart set on completing the swim and that, for her, there was a higher calling in it. The sheer strength of her desire to complete the swim is what ultimately enabled her to transcend the pain and push through until the end.

But finding out that she had already attempted the swim 4 times prior told me all I needed to know about her. That and the fact that even into her 60s she kept the dream alive and pushed for one more go at it.

While I have never attempted a physical feat of that magnitude, my long-distance bike rides make be certain that I understand part of Nyad’s drive. There were always moments for me on my rides when I wanted to quit. The pain in my back and legs got so bad that to push onward seemed dangerous and foolish. But those were the moments that I knew most people would’ve given up. And I wanted to rise above the majority and push my body farther than was comfortable or sane. In the back of my mind, I think I always knew I would make it. If I hadn’t, I don’t believe I ever would’ve had the guts to begin the rides in the first place.   

For Nyad, her 4 prior attempts should’ve convinced her body that it simply couldn’t be done. And during her 5^th try, I’m sure there came a point where her body just didn’t have anything left in it. But that’s the moment where her mind and inner desire took control and pushed her through until the end. I don’t believe any such acts get accomplished by one’s body alone. At the end of all feats of endurance, I believe the mind is what brings you to the finish line. Your body is merely along for the ride by that time.

In reading about Nyad, I couldn’t help but think back to Charlotte Sanddal, a woman I interviewed for an article earlier this year. At the age of 91, Charlotte is still competing in national and world swimming competitions. At the time of my interview, she was training for a competition being held in Italy on August 2--11. She too inspired me beyond words.

No matter the barriers, whether distance, age, past failures, or skepticism, humans have always proved that they have the capacity to accomplish amazing things. You simply have to want them bad enough. I truly believe that everyone is capable of such accomplishments, but not everyone is willing to tap into their inner most desires where the strength and courage to do them is derived. If you want something bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen. Diana and Charlotte are living testaments to that.

100 Miles to Freedom

Susan B. Anthony said that bicycling “has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance.”

On August 23, upon arriving in Great Falls after completing a 9 ½ hour, 101- mile solo bicycle ride up from Helena, I understood what Ms. Anthony meant. My ride was a battle in which I was the lone warrior fighting. My mind and body were pushed to the ultimate extremes. When I wanted to quit, I was the only one there to convince my trembling legs to keep turning circles. But somewhere along the way I was overcome with an immense feeling of peace and freedom. It was a high that I’m still smiling about and riding on at this very moment.

At 6:30 a.m., while Helena was beginning to rustle itself awake, I steadily climbed the hill out of town. My sights were set on the ever-watchful and iconic Sleeping Giant in front of me. I smiled noticing sunflowers lining both sides of the highway. Their faces were turned towards the blood red sun rising in the smoky sky to the east. To me, they were beacons of hope reminding me to stay focused on the light at the end of tunnel---whether that be the end of my ride or the next obstacle in life.    

Ten miles before Wolf Creek I coasted down onto the frontage road which I followed for the remaining 80 miles to Great Falls. Winding curiously alongside the Missouri, it is a beautiful drive indeed. But on a bicycle, it is spectacular. It was therapeutic in a way that can’t be described....only felt.

While my odometer ticked by each slow mile, my eyes wandered over the calm parts of the river where fly fishermen stood casting lines. I hollered out excitedly to herds of grazing cattle I passed and marveled at large white pelicans that dotted the sandbars in the river.  As I passed over an old trellise bridge a few miles past Craig, I tipped my helmet in respectful admiration to a trio of kayakers paddling below me. Seems I wasn’t the only one on a journey that day. 

For 101 miles I trudged along alone, but I was never without the grace of the sun on my brow, an occasional breeze at my back and the Mighty Mo serving as my compass. Many people come to Montana for vacation. For them this place is a dream. Us Montana natives often forget how truly lucky we are. My ride slowed me down and made me take notice of all the tiny blessings and beauty encompassing me.

When I finally reached the top of the hill overlooking Great Falls, I was utterly exhausted and relieved. And yet, I felt a terrible sense of loss knowing that my journey was almost at its end. To have pushed myself so far for so long was miraculous to me. All those awful memories of grade school gym teachers screaming at me when I couldn’t jog for a solid mile were obliterated in that moment. I had made it. I did it alone. And I felt the most wonderful sense freedom and accomplishment.

The Joys of Camping Life

Last weekend I went camping at Placid Lake State Park with my boyfriend, Andy, and his family. Andy’s family used to own a cabin on Placid so he spent every summer growing up boating there and tinkering away at his ever-expanding tree house out back. Andy first brought me to Placid Lake camping a few years ago and it’s been my favorite spot ever since.
 

Located on the tributary of the Clearwater River and just three miles south of Seeley Lake, Placid is a perfect getaway. That first glimpse of the lake, after rounding the corner near the dock and boat launch, is a stunning one. Bordered by Douglas fir and Ponderosa Pines, Placid is a quaint but beautiful lake. It is quite literally a visual postcard forever framed in my mind.

We spent most of the weekend boating back and forth across the lake with everyone trying their hand at wakeboarding and surfing. Thanks to all my large gulps of water from crashing on the boards, I stayed thoroughly hydrated in the heat. In our down time, we sat around the picnic table telling stories and observing the curious and gluttonous habits of campground squirrels. I also enjoyed meandering down the road that circles the lake and admired the thousands of lily pads that embellish the lake’s edge.  When evening descended, I always lingered at the dock to photograph sunsets in hues of orange and red seemingly too vibrant to be real. The spectacles of nature never cease to amaze me.

On our second evening a thunder storm put on a mesmerizing performance over the lake. Every few minutes another grumble echoed down from the sky quickly followed by a flash of lightning. Each bolt looked like a luminescent tree limb branching out. And despite my grade school warnings about not going near water when there’s lightning, I couldn’t help but walk to the end of the dock for a front row seat of the show. At one point, lightning lit up the sky in a shade of violet so brilliant it took my breath away. 

When the final morning of our trip arrived, I stayed in my sleeping bag extra late letting my senses soak up every last bit of nature around me. I listened to the buzz and hums of insects as they bounced off the tent walls. The scent of propane and smoke reminded me that breakfast was in the works, and perhaps a last minute s’more. I pictured the morning lake in my mind, smooth as glass, with small groups of loons drifting along on it.

I had loved every minute of camping, but that final minute came too soon. After a quick run into Seeley to grab a chocolate/vanilla swirled ice cream cone from the iconic Ice Cream Place, we reluctantly set our sights toward home. But with dozens of pictures on my camera and the scent of smoke still embedded in my clothes, I knew I was taking a piece of nature back with me.

 

Thinking for yourself

This past weekend at church the sermon focused around the Parable of the Rich Fool in the Book of Luke. While it had a powerful message regarding how being in rich in money and possessions means nothing in the eyes of God, I left reflecting on a different message.

During the homily, the priest discussed how Jesus teaches by way of parables in order to spark our imaginations and help us better reflect on our own lives and reach our own conclusions particular to our personal circumstances.  He mentioned that Jesus was never apt to wag his finger at people while reciting a list of rules and regulations, but rather used parables to make people think for themselves. He never imposed on them what their beliefs and lifestyle should be. Listening to the sermon I started thinking about how fortunate I was to be brought up around people who likewise encouraged me to think for myself.

I was raised with the bare minimum of religious principles. I rarely attended church and religion was not exactly a regular topic of discussion around the dinner table. As I became older, my lack of religious upbringing started to bother me. I felt like I was missing this really crucial piece of life that everyone else around me seemed to have. But as life progressed, I came to appreciate that fact rather than loathe it.

It seems like when you are raised in a particular religion from birth, you have so many opinions determined for you right out of the gate. You are told what to believe, how/when to pray, who is allowed to marry, when you have to attend church, what actions guarantee you a spot in hell, and which religion is the “right” one.  And regardless of Jesus’ parable teachings, some things in religion still seem to be very black and white and not open for discussion.

My appreciation for not growing up in a religious family is rooted in the fact that I was allowed to develop my own beliefs….they were not imposed on me. Although I still have most of the same beliefs of my religious-based friends, the difference is that I made the decision to come to those beliefs on my own. Naturally when you have children you raise them with your same beliefs because that’s what you know, but I think sometimes giving kids a little bit more space to observe the options and choose what suits them best on their own may be a better route. And for me personally, coming to my beliefs in my own time and in my own way has resulted in incredibly strong convictions that perhaps rival even some of my most religious friends’ convictions.

Being allowed to think for yourself and draw your own conclusions on what to believe also promotes greater open-mindedness in my opinion. A lot of the people I’ve met with strong religious backgrounds are unfortunately not always the most willing to consider other beliefs and lifestyles. They believe what they believe and anything outside of that is obviously wrong. This results in being more judgmental than necessary. Like everyone, I have my judgmental moments, but I do try to be more considerate of other possibilities out there even if I don’t agree with them.  

Religion, of any kind, is a beautiful and blessed thing, but sometimes I think it has the potential to compromise our own imagination.  The Parable of the Rich Fool reminded me how Jesus himself encouraged people to think for themselves. He may have supplied the stories, but he wanted his listeners to invest the time and energy to figure out what they meant and how they could best be applied in their own lives.  I think biblical passages like this encourage everyone to think for themselves and not be so sure of everything that is told to them…even by the religious figures they hold in high regard. Even Pope Francis recently made the defining comment of “Who am I to judge?” in regards to homosexuals. I, for one, was incredibly inspired to hear the leader of the Catholic Church, which has long held a staunch stance on homosexuality, concede the fact that it is not his place to judge such matters, but rather God’s. That was a true moment of reflection and consideration of an alternative idea. This sort of reflection and growth is what is often discussed in church but not always carried out. But it is at the heart of all spiritual and faith journeys.   

Do Whatever It Takes

Last night at the gym I was lifting weights next to a girl whose shirt happened to catch my attention. Across it were the words, “Do My Best.” Only the words, “My Best,” were scratched out. Underneath it was the phrase, “Whatever it takes.”  So what it meant to say was “Do Whatever It Takes.” Something about what her shirt said reiterated a thought I’d been pondering earlier that day. It had to do with the concept of desperation.

 I got to thinking about all of the desperate moments of my life where, for one reason or another, I found myself doing or saying something irrational and borderline crazy. Whether it was getting so frustrated with a boy that I drove clear to another town to give him a piece of my mind or became so suffocated by my surroundings that I rode dozens of miles away from them on a bicycle with nothing but a granola bar and bladder of water strapped on my back, I seem to continually find myself feeling desperate in life.

Up until now I have usually reflected later on such moments as times of weakness. But something about the words on that girl’s shirt tonight made me consider otherwise.

Growing up, you are always told to do your best, and that as long you do that, the outcome is irrelevant. But I have experienced just enough in life to realize by now that your best is often still not good enough. And perhaps more importantly, you should never consider your best as good enough. Giving just your best is sort of like keeping yourself in your own little comfort zone all of the time. Once you know you’ve given your best at something, you stop working at it because you figure there’s nothing left to do. But just as the night is darkest before the dawn, I believe one’s greatest accomplishments and gains in life often come when you push just passed your best.....when you find yourself in a desperate place.

All species of life on earth are hard wired with some type of survival instinct…humans especially. And no matter how difficult life becomes at times and how strong the desire is to give up, there is always that little feeling in our gut that reminds us that we do still actually want to go on living. It is a feeling of desperation. But I think that instinct has the potential to go beyond just keeping us alive. I think that if we can learn to tap into it correctly, we can use it to make us better and stronger people who work harder at everything we do.

When you choose to participate in a feat of physical endurance like a marathon or triathlon, giving your best will not see you through to the end of the finish line. You have to want to accomplish that goal so badly that you push yourself beyond your best into weeks and months of training where physical pain and exhaustion are constant. And the harder you work, the more desperate you become at the thought of failure, so you continue to do “whatever it takes” to prepare your body for the event and to not quit when you’re right in the middle of it.

When you’re in a relationship with someone that you feel is nearing its end point, you think about how tired you are of working at the same things without progress and how just ending it would bring you peace finally. Sometimes relationships do need to end. But too often, people end them without putting up a respectable amount of fight for them. You helped create the relationship initially and worked to hold it together for a while…..why give up on it so easily when things get a little rocky or complicated? Married couples that are fortunate enough to celebrate 50^th and 60^th wedding anniversaries certainly don’t reach those milestones by giving their best. They reach them by doing whatever it takes to hold their relationship together in hard times---because thinking of the alternative leaves them feeling too desperate.

When you are striving towards achieving a difficult dream, like I am with my writing, giving your best will never get you there. Doing my best with my writing would involve getting a journalism or creative writing degree and then applying for some run-of-the-mill reporter job at the local paper or as a college professor where I’d have time to work on my novel at night. But I’m trying to tap into the “do whatever it takes” motto by working 4 or 5 jobs some weeks…sometimes without pay…sometimes without byline recognition. I hound editors at newspapers and magazines until they get so sick of hearing from me that they assign me a small piece.  And the further along I get with my dream, the more desperate I get to keep moving closer.

The point is that giving your best, no matter what area of life it is in, will take you far but not as far as you are capable of. Reaching your full potential and accomplishing great things requires pushing yourself beyond where you think you are capable of going. It means wanting something bad enough that you will do whatever it takes to make it happen. And to do that, you must first taste desperation.

The Best Remedy Is To Go Outside

Maybe it’s that I was raised in the “Last Best Place” of Montana that has always enabled me to feel a more intimate connection to nature. Or perhaps it is just simply that nature, wherever in the world you find yourself immersed in it, offers visitors a momentary glimpse of heaven where everything is at peace and the world just seems to be more comforting and manageable.

One of my favorite quotes about nature is actually found in the diary pages of Anne Frank. She sums up, more eloquently than I ever could, how being in nature changes a person and how being in it, is more healing than any other medicine on earth.

“The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and is certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles.”

A few days ago I had the privilege of re-immersing myself in the abundant nature all around me in Montana and Miss Frank’s quote was the only thing that went through my mind.

With my dad, boyfriend, and a bedload of dirt bikes in tow, we headed out toward Suller Gulch past Canyon Creek. After riding several miles up slippery two track trails, we came upon a hillside that I had to blink and shake my head a few times at to make sure it was real. The entire hill was the brilliant color of fresh picked lemons. It was covered in thousands of bright yellow flowers. It absolutely took my breath away. I could’ve run back and forth through those flowers all day, bending down occasionally to breathe in their scent. 

The glorious golden field

But we journeyed on.

After several more miles we came around the corner and saw a parting in the trees. Through them was the most glorious view of rolling green hills and mountains for as far as the eye could see....and a sky so blue I couldn’t believe it was real. Standing up on the mountainside and gazing out, I felt complete and utter peace in my soul. And all of the troubles and heartaches I left town with were suddenly forgotten. As Anne Frank put it, the view brought “solace to all troubles.” That peak wasn’t anywhere near the height of Mount Everest, but on that afternoon I truly felt on top of the world. I felt happier...and stronger...and more content with the world. I never wanted to come down from that mountain.

Can see for miles and miles

I took dozens of beautiful photographs on the ride, but the ones that remain in my mind and heart are far better. They are the ones that will sustain me when times get rough in life and I long to be somewhere far away. As James Barry put it, “God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.” Whenever I feel lost and hopeless and lonely in life, I will close my eyes and go back to that golden hillside and mountain peak and find a peace and strength that nothing else can deliver.

Wherever you are, find a slice of nature nearby that stirs up such feelings of elation for you...and journey there as often as possible. Periodically immersing yourself in nature will heal and comfort you far more than a friend or a drink. It is where you feel like you are a little nearer to God and to the beginning of all things.