Photo post: Goliath

Yesterday I posted about my first dog. Today I want to post about my second dog, my wittle bebe Goliath. Goliath died in July 2014. It was very unexpected and very sad. But if any dog lived his years to the max, it was Goliath "Armpit". He would eat his food and some of the other two dogs'. He would viciously fight off anyone he perceived as an attacker... and yet he could also be the sweetest, rag-doll-iest cutest dog ever. There's really no way I could do him justice with words alone, so here are some photos of him. 

So snuggly!

Seriously, this dog loved to cuddle - on his own terms

Look at his fuzzy little head!

On his last Christmas, Caleb lulled him into a state of relaxation so transcendent that not even having candy placed on top of him could wake him. You guys. Caleb is so good with dogs. 

He was very fierce - the only one of three dogs to ever kill something (bugs and maaaaybe a mouse?) Also the only dog to bite a visitor on the ankle.

He pretty much always had his tongue sticking out. We're sure it was just too long for his mouth. He is mostly hair in this photo.

Hard to capture, but he loved to be held. Hence his middle name "armpit" (because he rode around tucked under people's arms... and sometimes smelled accordingly!)

Just look at his face!

Oh Goliath. You really did have nine lives. Thank you for surviving that time you ate an entire dark chocolate bar right before my wedding. You were the snuggliest, weirdest, feistiest dog ever. We miss you pretty much always because we weren't ready for you to go, but I have to tell you, Lola is sure living it up now that you aren't there to boss her around... May you be always finding snacks and adventures in heaven.

To my first dog

We got Scout during a very momentous summer. We had moved away from my childhood friends. I was about to start high school. Shortly after getting him, Michael, my brother got really sick and had to be hospitalized for what seemed like months (but was actually much less time). Scout was born in July, and we picked him up at the end of August. He was a dark little puppy.

It was my grandpa, the agronomist, who named him. We got Scout in hopes that he would help keep snakes and other unwanted critters away from our house. (Looking back, I am not sure he succeeded. The second [tiny] dog we got just a few month later was much better at killing things.) Scout was a wheaten terrier. My grandpa suggested the name Scout, a variety of wheat, but also hopefully a christening of his dog duty to scout out the yard. 

Scout and I bonded. I would crawl into his kennel at night or try to get him to sleep in my bed. My mom and I took him to obedience classes once a week. He liked it, liked learning and meeting new pooches, and would sleep happily on the way home.

Taking the dogs out, B.F (before fence) My dad is like a classy secret agent in a trench coat.

Unfortunately, when Michael got back from the hospital, we learned that Scout had a problem with dominance. He seemed to not like Michael, and it quickly became mutual. When we got Goliath, a tiny yorkie maltese with a big personality and zest for life, in February, he helped calm Scout's angst.... partially by chasing him around and chewing on him.

Michael eventually grew up to be much bigger than Scout and developed ways to play with him that were... unique. 

My parents went on to get a third dog, Lola. I loved Goliath and I loved Lola, but I was always very careful to to give Scout special snuggles. He was the oldest, like me, and we shared a special connection. I never wanted him to feel like he had been replaced or overlooked, and to remind him that I remembered our special bond from the beginning. The two little dogs would chase each other around endlessly, and Scout would mostly just let it happen, the quiet observer.

The little dog family that eventually came to be at my parents' house. Lola, Goliath, Scout

 Scout loved going for rides - sometimes we would just put him in the car on a cool day and he would happily sit in the front seat for an hour looking out the window at the driveway. He loved going to the vet and visiting the kennel. He had his share of at-home adventures too... like the time he ran away down to the pond and fell in the ice. Fortunately he was near the edge and just climbed right out. I tried to get him to go swimming at a friend's pool once, but though he loved exploring ponds, he wanted no part of the pool, and I ended up with a lot of scratches on my stomach.

Scout had many nicknames including Oo-tar and Mr. Fluffers, and Wooly-face. 

For years, one of our family's favorite dog activities was to rile up Scout until he wanted to sprint up and down the hallway. Then one by one, we'd lay down in a little ball for him to jump over us. When Goliath came along, we'd get on hands and knees. Scout would leap over up to three people and Goliath would run underneath us.

The past few years, Scout became what we lovingly referred to as a "crotchety old man dog". He loved to go for walks, or stand outside and smell things, but his memory was foggy, and he sometimes couldn't be bothered to get up when the doorbell rang. 

And when he passed away last July, it was sad because it's always sad to be parted from a creature you loved. Especially your first dog. But it was also his time. I was in Kenya then; but I had hugged him a little tighter every time I'd left him for the past 18 months. 

To my Scoutie: The years between 14 and 28 were long and full of innumerable life changes, though we both know I didn't get any taller. You were the best. Remember when I tried to take you on a long run back when I ran, and ended up carrying your 50 lbs self at least half a mile home? I'm glad we did that. I loved snuggling up with you in your kennel and trying to make you sleep in my bed. I even loved when you got old and stinky. I'm so glad Caleb was there for you at the end, since I couldn't be. I hope you are playing with Goliath in some big field where you can eat all the snacks and lick all the salty things. 

Cocoon

Summer was a busy time, we bought a house, moved, started settling in. Fall came, and we burrowed in, filling cracks, cutting back the overgrowth, painting. 

Winter came and we cozied up inside. We installed overhead lights, made decadent food, celebrated. I traveled and traveled and came home and nested. 

I started noticing a flame flickering deep within my soul. It was way in there, under the brambles and sticks from last summer that had died over winter. The snow and ice fell on them, but they shielded the little spark, became a cocoon for it. I don't really know where this little flame might lead, what it's trying to burn away, what it's trying to cook, what it's trying to thaw out inside my heart. 

But these are the kinds of things you have to follow. You have to listen because you know there are bits and pieces of yourself that lie forgotten in the frosty forest of your soul, and they need to be warmed up. 

We can't be on fire all the time. This winter, I learned how to build a fire in our fireplace, and I am amazed at how much wood a small fireplace can burn when the fire is blazing. Once I even cried out, "This fire's on fire!" But we don't have unlimited wood in the world or unlimited wood in general. For a fire to last all day, sometimes you have to let it die down a bit so that it burns slower. 

And this is adulthood, right? Or maybe I should speak for the only decade of adulthood that I've experienced: my twenties. There's a lot of ways I could view my twenties, but when I think about that internal spark, it seems that it was fanned into a flame really quickly, consuming new ideas, new experiences. Then it had to die down for a bit, re-find itself in the steady embers. 

Me jumping over a bonfire once in during college. I cannot believe I did this.

If you'll allow me to mix my metaphors, the foliage of life cocooned around those embers. I always knew they were there, but I wondered if they might burn again the way they burned before. 

I believe they will. But I have to keep trying new things, because fires need fresh air. So little by little, I'm fanning the flames. The spark cocooned inside me is not dramatically unfolding yet, but it's kicking and wriggling and moving. 

Wriggle on my friends. Fan your flames. Spring is coming.  

the pits

[This post is originally from 3/23/15]

It's Monday at 5:47pm.

Know where I usually am at this time?

Yoga. Not sitting on my couch. Not looking at a screen.

As previously discussed, I love my couch.

But right now, I want to be doing cartwheels and handstands, and general frolicking.

But I'm sitting here, on my couch.

Stupid back.  

birthday reflections

[This post is from May 2015]

Fifteen years ago, I turned thirteen. I was in seventh grade, the first year of school I was allowed to shave my legs. For my birthday, my parents bought me stilts. Not just any stilts - drywall stilts. They let me walk around their house in them and I balanced myself on the ceiling.

I remember ten years ago, when I turned eighteen. Eighteen felt so old. So grown-up. Anyone else remember feeling like that when you turned eighteen? I remember that my then-boyfriend came over early in the morning to surprise me.

Unfortunately, I am a difficult person to surprise at the average level. You see, in my family, we have a tradition of really good April Fool's jokes, and not just on April 1. [this year, I actually avoided talking to any of my family all day on 4/1, since I hadn't prepared anything and my dad had just had surgery.] For survival, I have developed a sort of sixth sense that I call the surprise sense. Sometimes this gets in my way because I love surprises.

So I got up even earlier, brushed my teeth and my hair, put on chapstick and the cute pajamas and tried to look peaceful. After he had "woken" me, I got the sense that he was trying to keep me from looking outside. Obviously, I then worked my way to a different window and saw one of my friend's cars. We went downstairs for a surprise breakfast. The most surprising thing was that they had filled my car with balloons. I recommend this as a very fun surprise.

Five years ago, I turned twenty-three. All of college behind me, I was finishing up my year of living in Spain and threw myself a party. I baked ALL my favorite American sweets - a huge layer cake, cookies, apple pie, and more. I invited everyone I knew. They sang me happy birthday in Spanish then in English. I loved it. It was beautiful. Even though I had specified on the invitation that the only gift I wanted was for no one to smoke, everyone still brought gifts - a Juanes CD, a coffee table book of pictures of Spain, jewelry from Galicia and from Jerez, scarves, and more. It was one of the most beautiful moments for me, to see all these people there, the life I had made in Spain.

And this year, on the eve of my birthday, I picked up my husband at the airport. He'd been in Central America all week, and I was so excited to see him. I couldn't stop smiling on my way to the airport, and  walked very quickly to get to his gate to be there in time to meet him - my ankles and hips burned. We got home and soon it was 12:04 am. My birthday!

We celebrated the next day by sharing stories from our week, swimming, and having dinner and cake with my parents and dear friend Carolyn. Though not a big celebration, it was just perfect.  

Digestion, bacteria, and the tornado

***This post contains descriptions of digestive upset. If you don't want to read about it, don't!***

"Isn't it basically like being on vacation all the time?"

Once I started my current position at work, which involves traveling, someone said this to me. Let me say this: I LOVE my job. I love traveling to other countries, I love building cross-cultural relationships, I love visiting the families we work with. However - it is not at all like being on vacation. It's kind of like... going to summer camp, except for that you take your laptop and work all the time. But you're far away from your family and friends and normal activities, and so it's not a big deal to work from 8 am- 7pm or even longer. Because that's what you're there for. And like I said - I love my job. But vacation it is not.

Since January 2015, I have taken six trips to six countries. Today I would like to talk about something I experienced on 50% of those trips - getting sick from something I ate. It's happened in three different countries from three different things, but the symptoms for me are always the same.

1. Start to feel a little carsick, but all the time. This is when the bacteria is in the top half of your digestive system. Some people get a little feverish or throw-up during this stage. I only threw up once during the three bacteria attacks.... could we call them bac-attacks?!?! I have a couple of photos of myself in this stage, but decided not to post them due to the yellow/ green color of my face + sweat.
2. Feel like your intestines are full of cold gel. (It's that creepy blue-raspberry color too, which sure doesn't help. Such an unnatural shade of blue for a food - and raspberries are red!) Sometimes you can put off entering this stage for a while by not eating very much... which if you are feeling carsick and nauseous all the time might happen naturally.

Here's me on a trip right before stage 3. Please note the skirt which is extremely stretchy and lose on the abdomen. When I got dressed that morning, I knew that pants were not going to work. 

3. Picture a tornado. Now imagine looking at it from on top. Now imagine that the point of the funnel is on your belly button. This is what stage three feels like and sounds like, complete with tornado-y rumble sounds from your belly. This is the best of the three stages so far because it means that your body is working to get rid of the bacteria. 

4. This is the stage where you can be certain that you had a bac attack: elimination. Eventually, you will start pooing liquid if you don't have an antibiotic. This can be a weird experience the first time it happens, but major props to your body for doing work to get the stuff out. Stay hydrated. 

And there you have it! 

international travel and coming home

I love traveling, but I also love coming home.

I love feeling the energy of another place, another country. It helped that on my most recent trip, I didn't get sick, and it was safe enough for me to walk around by myself. The country was beautiful, and there was enough infrastructure that we could get ourselves from the airport to the hotel. I read a lot on the way there, and had a lot of really good discussions with my co-travelers about everything you can imagine. I laughed until I cried twice.

The days were long - sometimes we were out working for 12 or 13 hours. We'd come back, grab a late dinner, and tumble into bed exhausted, but usually not before checking emails. One day, my mom had sent me a long email. I read it all and responded something like, "I read this. I loved it. Too tired to write more." (But really, isn't it better to respond this than to not respond at all?) On days where we were out and about less, we'd meet and plan the next day, figure out what things we needed to prioritize.

We made ourselves slow down a couple of times - a few hours on a Sunday, for Saturday night dinner, before we caught our bus to the airport on Tuesday afternoon. Those are the moments that you see photos of on social media. Like most social media, it paints an incomplete picture. I didn't photograph the time I stayed up till almost 1 am answering work emails, or the time I chose to go to bed instead of staying up to answer them (balance!). I didn't photograph our late night meetings. I did photograph myself when I found out my flight home was delayed yet another hour; but I won't be sharing that one. You can just imagine it.

I met some amazing people - international coworkers, hotel staff, sponsored families. I heard painful stories and stories of determination to get to where they are now. I had to write them down late at night because I want to remember them and I want them to shape me.

I believe that the amount to which we can experience and hold pain is also the extent to which we can experience joy. For me, traveling is a mixture of both. It's not just the wear and tear of travel - it's seeing the lack of opportunities or the corrupt power systems. But it's also seeing the spark that families carry inside them. To focus on only the positive things is easier - but just like in art, the negative space brings perspective, clarity.

I love traveling, but I also love coming home. Coming home gives me space to process the trip. And when I travel, I miss parts of being home, especially Caleb. But leaving makes it sweeter. I came home to a clean house, homemade lentil soup (per my request), flowers and a welcome sign, a fire in the fireplace, and taps on the maple tree to make homemade syrup. I spent a few days remembering what it means to slow down, rediscovering my own rhythms and waves.

I love traveling, but I also love coming home.