25 pieces & the search for enough

I read this morning about a woman who narrowed her wardrobe to 25 pieces – things she wore the most, anyway, so she decided to make the commitment and give the rest away. I looked at the picture list of what she owns, intrigued by minimalist methods, and thought: No wonder she could make that choice – look at those clothes! In my mind, they're each timeless / classic / never-go-out-of-style pieces that mix cozy and stylish. All the colors go together, so she has endless pairing possibilities. Maybe I'll go buy those 25 pieces and I'll be happy with my life.

The time of my life was the summer we hiked the JMT and climbed Longs Peak, when I wore the same two outfits for 2.5 months: one for hiking, camping, climbing and one for visiting friends across the U.S. I loved the simplicity and the comfort.

But reading about this woman, I have my doubts. And, naturally, those doubts have stewed all morning. What would I need in my closet to feel like it's enough? It's not a random thought. I had several frustrating mornings this week trying to decide what to wear. And a day last week when I changed over lunch because I decided what I'd chosen for work was a mistake. The timing bothers me because I just added clothes to my closet in December, thanks to a few gifts and a shopping trip in a friend's closet. You'd think I should see endless possibilities.

Perhaps it's true – too many choices ruins your life. Fear of missing out. If I choose the same sweater twice in the same week, people will notice. It's as if they stood in my closet with me and saw all the possibilities and wonder how I could end up in the same tired outfit. (We all can agree that's absurd.)

Psychology probably explains it. Decision fatigue impedes my ability to feel satisfied with whatever I wear. But it isn't just clothes. It includes the food I eat, the way I spend my money, how I fill my time. So really the question I've pondered all morning is the same I've pondered all week: How does it change my perspective when I believe what I have is enough. No matter what it is or how many. Adding or subtracting won't change anything because it's an internal choice to be satisfied.

I feel the difference when I say I want nothing like I'm trying to convince myself, laying on guilt with, 'Geez, are you really so unsatisfied?' Lately, I've remembered that more isn't better – different isn't better. Real is better. Spending the day doing things that I enjoy: being alone & quiet, reading, cooking for others, writing, working, running, yoga, keeping up with my people – feeling content, which leads to feeling creative and free. I start my day knowing it is unlikely to progress as planned, but what happens is enough for me.

I am not what I wear, but my closet – my choices – they all reveal the level of satisfaction and respect I have for life. That's why I try to avoid random trends, I don't often buy new, and I don't follow impulses. I was reading this week about forward motion in faith. Adding self-control and godliness to virtue isn't the way to redemption (which comes before & without work), but it is a sign of it. Patience and serenity make up my progress list right now. I want the kind of stillness in my soul that feels as weightless as it sounds but is neither weak nor fragile. The kind of steadfastness contained in knowledge of God, who gives and never runs out and promises to provide for me even more than the birds or flowers.

And I guess today that feels like finding all the places I hide my worries – my closet, my pantry, my budget sheet – and embracing the answer I get when I ask How much is enough?


*The photo is completely unrelated. I found it on my computer recently and I just love it. I don't know why. I miss my camera.

Life here

A robin perched on the roof across the driveway from my front door when I brought out some recycling, and I remembered how strange that felt last year, seeing robins in the winter. The daycare lady who loved birds always told us the robins were a sign of spring. I guess that's not true when you live south of North Dakota.

My word for the year is consistent. One of those habits I hope to hold onto more faithfully this year is writing, whether here or somewhere off the Internet. I purposely didn't start on the 1st because that feels like setting myself up for failure. I want to live a simple year, though it will hold big changes for us, and it feels most simple to focus on a handful of things where I rely on spurts of motivation.

Fittingly, I read a great bit of advice from a rock climber today, who said motivation is not the answer to accomplishing a goal. Establishing little habits more effectively moves you closer to where you want to go. It fell in line with something else I heard or read recently, though I don't remember where, that said setting goals isn't as good as developing processes that lead to your desired outcome. I said something about processes to my dad while we were home for Christmas and he said processes come easily to my sister and her husband – they seem to have a "system" in place for everything. My sister studied biochemistry – which is composed of systems and processes, he noted.

I wish I could blame my whims on being the artsier one of the two of us, but, as everything seems to, the thought led me back to my identity: Who do I say I am, who do I want to be? I'm talking descriptors here, not big fundamental definitions. A writer, a climber, a reader, a friend. Fun, easy-going, creative, skilled. Those kinds of things. And I figure I'm each of those in turn, and I know I don't have to be the same exact person every day, but I've noticed a lack of discipline to cultivate those interests or skills.

I can honestly say in 2014, I watched twice as many TV seasons than I read books. Yikes.

I spend a lot of time thinking in December and January. I'm quick to make light of resolutions, but I put a lot of stock in reflection and self-examination. I do year-round, but a new year offers that twitch of magic we miss when April or August roll around. I tried to draw out the holidays this year – still am, in fact. I still fall asleep looking at the lights on the Christmas tree. We're not ready to let go yet.

I feel lighter at the start of a year, as if when the ball drops, we cross an invisible barrier that shakes us free of some of our burdens. It's the magic. And part of it is that we're moving soon. That's what 2015 is for us – another move, another adventure. Who knows where we'll end up or what we'll do exactly, but it'll be a result of everything here and everything that wasn't here. The stuff we know now we don't want to live without. The people and the things – mostly the people, in my case – that help us live here.

I went in spurts last year, wishing graduation would come faster and feeling content to be here every day. But I've learned the danger of dreaming about the future (apart from it still takes the same time to get here) lies in its ability to persuade me that it must be better, and therefore the present most be bad. That's the world we live in – concepts exist only as long as they have an opposite to define them.

But maybe where we are is great simply because it's where we are. We love and play here, learning skills and tendencies we wouldn't find elsewhere. We live here – these years, this city, this too-small apartment. It doesn't look the same as it does elsewhere, but maybe that's the point.

Like the spiders

I've noticed more spiders outdoors here. More webs. Perhaps they're more visible because they hide in basements less and survive just fine in their own space. I saw one while walking home tonight. It caught the light as I was walking by the No Parking sign to which it clung. It was twitching - the spider - like it was mending the center of its elaborate home. That's its home, right? Seems strange. Exposed. We saw dozens in North Carolina. They were giant by my standards, though not as large as the one Ben took a picture of in Costa Rica. Here they hung from their webs or rested in cracks. They looked like they would cover the surface of a quarter - or at least a nickel. Thick, too. I watched the spider on the No Parking sign for awhile. They use our infrastructure, like the porch spindles and the power lines. I wonder if they're less vulnerable to predators if they live on signs instead of tree branches. I wonder what it would be like to produce on your own everything you need to survive the way a spider produces its web. It's totally self-sustaining, it seems, but I know very little about spiders. I wonder if their skill is meant for us to see at all. I wonder if my admiration of the spider's work adds any value to its existence. Humans are so needy - so dependent on others for validation and emotional sustenance. Maybe that's why nature captivates all of us, whether we believe in a creator or a cosmic boom. Nature just...is. It's impressive without trying to impress. It's artistic without critiques or lessons. It's noteworthy without calling attention to itself.

Ben and I discuss this a lot. We question our use of social media. Is it all just a way to show off? It provokes unnecessary comparisons and it invades an experience by requiring a person to break away from the moment in a false pursuit of validating it. I think this is true, but I don't think it's anything created by social media. Sharing and seeking approval is a human urge. When taken too far, it's clearly a way that we've traded the natural for the unnatural - the creator for the created. It's an example of how we've completely missed the point of all of this. But we're not like the spiders. Our consciousness, our norms require us to live in acknowledgment of one another and to seek purpose outside of creating an innately beautiful trap for our food. So we create, move, teach, serve, etc. and we share it in any way that works for us because it's how we understand our value. If a tree falls alone in the woods, does it make a sound? That depends. Is a "sound" defined by its being heard? In the same way we wonder if we are of any consequence when our best work remains unseen.

And, yet, we are like the spider. The spider spins its web, fulfilling its purpose in its tiny corner of this world. Our efforts are the same, except we have an audience. People are there...is all of this for them? Consider Col. 3:23, "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men." If we are like the spider, the only audience that matters is the one who created us and put in us the inexplicable desire to do anything at all. We are free! to do whatever we do without the consequence of its worth depending on people. If we present ourselves - our art, our intellect - to the Creator, it comes back validated. He is both the source of the genius and the patron. Everyone else can enjoy the work, like I did, stopping on the sidewalk to watch the spider repair it's glittering, spiraling web. Or they can choose not to, like the cars on the highway that glance at the distant mountains, but feel no urge to move closer. Whether they observe the work or not, the value remains. 

You can't deny the tension in this idea. Paul's letter to the Colossians states that all things were created by God and for God. And yet, we're relational beings placed in community with each other since the beginning. We improve or diminish each other's quality of life simply by our presence (or lack thereof). Take fatherlessness as an example. The statistics show that children who grow up without their father living in their house with their mother experience worse measurable outcomes than friends or classmates who grow up with their dads. This is true across racial and socioeconomic categories. One piece of research said that a father adds to a child's confidence just by being there and loving that child's mother. The examples are more subtle as well. My passion for journalism was shaped by my colleagues at my first job and my favorite color is an orangey red because someone once said it looks nice on me. It would be irresponsible - and silly - to neglect the evidence of the benefit of relationship and encouragement. 

Everything in life is real (like the effects of fatherlessness), but it is also a glimpse at our relationship to God. That's why all life's dilemmas flow back to the gospel. We struggle through questions of purpose and desire for approval because we desperately desire the kind of relationship with the Creator that puts all our anxiety to rest. We were created to have work assigned by the Creator and to review it with him during intimate walks in the cool of the day (Gen. 2). Or some equally friendly picture. But we chose ourselves - our own genius, our own approval - and severed the relationship, which could only be mended by Christ's life, death, and resurrection. For the person who acknowledges Christ's supremacy and willingly sets aside his/her own way to follow God's, the rest of life on earth is marked with the tension of seeing what is and knowing what should be. It isn't all fixed yet. This includes our deep desire to contribute something beautiful to the world and our community, and the undeniable truth that our desires and affections were made to be met by God.  He is the groom. He is who we profess our love and devote our lives to. Our neighbors - or followers - are the witnesses. Their presence increases our joy, but they are not the source of that joy.

So I admire the spider and sit down to write about it and out tumbles all this inner turmoil about doing life with the wrong motivations and appreciating the reader more than the muse. But in a way it all serves the same purpose, and we walk 'round and 'round alternating between the practical and the metaphorical. While I admire the spider tending to its God-inspired craft, perhaps you admire me tending to mine. Or perhaps you walk by and the light never catches your eye, but still I sit thinking about tension and meaning, mending the gaping hole that is no less real because I didn't depend on your pointing it out in the first place.

For when everything changes in an instant

I like to plan. Loosely. In three years of off-and-running adventures from weekend camping to 10-mile races, I realize Ben and I operate on our own schedule. So the principle of "flexibility" comes fairly naturally to me. It might have been programmed into me as the daughter of an up-and-coming officer of the Air Force, but however so, I'm a very fluid person.

Last summer as we embarked on our three-month honeymoon, we knew the big things we wanted to accomplish - the John Muir Trail, a visit to our family in Oregon, a hike up Longs Peak - but basically we planned it along the way. So it surprised me when Ben and I had our summer '13 Wyoming trip mapped out a couple of months in advance. We already knew we wanted to climb all the mountains in the Cirque of the Towers and several routes up the Grand Teton. It gave us plenty of time to complete our climbing rack and figure out what we need to know for our first taste of mountaineering.

In light of everything I've just said, we really should have seen this coming:

Last week several factors completely canceled our already-planned trip. A wedding, a can't-miss/can't-reschedule doctor's appointment, and the fact that there's too much snow to climb anything in that part of Wyoming...as far as we could tell.

We tried to quickly rethink and replan after the first two hit us, but the wedding called us to California and the doctor kept us in Minnesota an extra five days. The snow - the fatal blow - dashed any hope of three full weeks of climbing in true wilderness. I won't lie to you. We mourned. We grieved a good three days. We went through all the stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. And then we pulled out the map and calendar and planned a new and improved and awesome-in-different-ways trip to California!

We leave tomorrow and throughout the rest of June, we will climb in the desert of Utah, the mountains of California, and the peaks of Colorado (in that order). We'll stand by our friend in Redding, CA who stood by us when we were married last year. And we'll be back in time to pack a trailer and move to Kentucky.

Big and small, we all have plans that don't work out. It's the nature of being human. And so we, like all other aspects of nature, adapt. Breathe in. Breathe out. Change. Call it open-fists or a loose grip or whatever you may. You have to adapt to enjoy life. The way I see it, you can either plan, encounter unforeseeable road blocks, get mad, feel entitled, and do nothing. Or you can hold onto a big picture and let the details work out themselves. In my experience, the second has opened me up to a lot more thankfulness and a lot more life.

Because we couldn't leave as early as we planned for our adventure, we were able to stay a few extra days at my parents in Bismarck. On our way back to Minneapolis (the opposite direction we planned to go, but a necessary one for the doctor), we stopped at a friend's lake and spent quality time with quality people. And now instead of feeling rushed between work and graduation and our big move and this trip, we've had time to focus and pack for California. I'm honestly thrilled that I don't have to hold the master list of things to get done and details to consider. I'd go crazy. I almost went crazy just packing today:

I think it is fundamental to anyone adventurous, artistic, entrepreneurial, inventive, passionate, and ALIVE to embrace change with flair. Setbacks happen. Dreams morph as they become reality. If you don't feel resistance, you're not doing it right. Fight for the big picture and close your fists around the details that really matter. Let go of the rest. This isn't a passive "let go and let God" way of thinking. Flexibility is not fickleness. It's equal parts "don't take no for an answer" and "it is the LORD's purpose that prevails." If you really care about where you're headed in life, it'll hurt when plans are canceled and people bail and the winter lasts longer than usual. Grieve. And plan again. Then enjoy your adventure all the more because now you know you're not just there by chance.

And check back often for updates on our Summer '13 adventure!

"Fighters fight"

I have never known what I am capable of, or what I have longed to be capable of. I just have this fire inside of me. You know when you close your eyes and put yourself in place of your favorite movie or book character. 

But they were just dreams. Like a child reading fairy tales. 

It's been a year in the making - maybe two. Our first anniversary approaches, as does our second annual endurance adventure. I've begun to believe this life course is too good and too true. I've doubted so many times that I could muster true enthusiasm for our outdoor pursuits. It wasn't because I doubt Ben's seriousness or the thrill of the adventure. I doubt myself. 

This has lived inside my heart as a dream for so long, but I still didn't recognize it. Greatness. Beauty. Danger. Strength. All out - I didn't know how, but I knew I wanted to live all out. Suddenly the way lay before me, but I closed my eyes. My dreams had traded places with my reality while I wasn't looking. For reasons unknown I sought contentment in an obvious career path and in friends that prefer sitting and talking. 

Sure, I've been climbing for a couple of years and I've hiked a 220-mile trail, but I already had substance. I lacked passion and you always need both. I've been on a quest for passion.

"You've been sitting quietly for far too long."

Bilbo needed Gandalf to remind him that world is not in his books. He never offered safety, but he did promise a changed life.

Rocky Balboa knew the only answer to the fire inside is to fight even though it's crazy because "it's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward." Because fighters fight.

When Sam saw Frodo had been attacked by a giant spider, he didn't repeat his usual self-deprecating speech. "Sam did not wait to wonder what should be done, or whether he was brave, or loyal, or filled with rage. He sprang forward..."

So I did the only thing that made sense. I decided I'm a hiker and a climber and an all-around adventurer with a camera and a background in reporting. I'm married to a man who sees the world remarkably similar to me and different from most others. I decided I love news and I'm curious about nearly everything I learn and I love to ask questions. I decided I love running and feeling strong and attacking hills. I set my mind on learning to embrace the moment, pain or pleasure. In short, I decided to open my eyes and say yes to the life I always thought was a dream and no to the dream I always figured was my life - a dull, uninspired, voyeuristic existence.

Mark Driscoll says when you know who you are, you'll know what to do. I've decided to leave it as simple as that.

Climbing the Devil

Sundays we go to church because that's the day everyone is there. People are baptized, communion is shared, the Word is preached. An infinite God loves you and loves me and gave us life while we lived in death. The One who paints the sky that gorgeous shade of orange and pink that fades into blue and green stirs inside my heart as words like, "Did you feel the mountains tremble? Did you hear the oceans roar?" pass through my lips and I answer, "Yes."

In September, I went to church with only two people. I woke up one Sunday morning in Spearfish, SD; I dressed, loaded the car with Ben and David, and watched the darkness lighten out the backseat windows. We looked for Devils Tower, not knowing it would seem so small from the road. And so high at its base. We hiked at 6:30 in time to see that morning's sunrise reveal rock and river and meadow. For 45 minutes, we were alone. For 10 hours, we climbed, and I knew the gift it is to be human - to know God with heart and mind and strength. To know Sundays in the pew and Sundays on the rock. There is more to thrill-seeking than adrenaline. It's seeking God in the cathedrals not built by our hands - His omnipresence. It's challenging every faculty, every muscle because it's what we were made to do.

We were impulsive. We settled on our climbing location only one week prior. Only one of us knows how to safely place protective equipment - we trusted Ben. We wanted the risk. We wanted the memories. We didn't take the time to plan it out because all the pieces were already there, and we simply wanted to go. We'd fit them together on the wall. We drove west. The climb was physical and long - full bodies jammed in cracks, breathless. We learned. We loved each of the eight pitches, especially when they scared us. The same philosophy we believe on Sundays at church holds here: This isn't a fluke. This isn't a once-in-a-lifetime (or even a once-in-awhile) thing. This isn't just for honeymoons or Sundays. This is who we are and who we are continuously becoming. We are creatures with heart and mind and strength, and we want to use it all. We want to reach the edge of our capabilities. And then we want to go farther.

White-space adventuring

Life is quiet right now. Quiet, not silent. I wake up remembering the fog that settled between the mountains on our drive through Missoula, Montana, aching for the views and the sky and the rock from the summer. I've devoured countless books since we've returned - fiction and nonfiction - as I use up excess time in my day and meditate on what it means to tell good, true stories. What does it mean to soak up life so that along the way - not just in the end - there are beautiful, dangerous, inspiring stories to tell? I'm taking lessons from the white space of our summer.

Remember the days after the biggest adventure of your life.
The day we got off the John Muir Trail was a blur of trail-friends catching buses, finding lodging, eating, and sleeping. The days that followed were filled with friends who gave generously of their time, gas money, and pantry contents. I didn't take a single picture in Redding, California because I was too dang tired, but our good friends Seth (pictured) and his sister Hannah are champions. He flew to Minnesota for our wedding; he and Hannah drove 10 hours to pick us up at Mt. Whitney only to turn around and drive 10 hours back. On Hannah's birthday. With endless enthusiasm. They listened to our stories, sympathized with our limps, let us lounge, and introduced us to one of our new favorite comedies.

Admire people who, in essence, live the way you want to live. 
Take our brother and sister, Aaron and Lisa. They live in a dream-like treehouse on the Oregon coast, nestled in the the trees half a mile from the ocean. For the week we were there, we felt so free. And that's the way they live, it seems. Active, engaged, laughter-filled.

Turn oddly normal things into oddly big deals

Still in Oregon... why not cut Ben's hair on the deck facing the ocean before grilling homemade pizza while listening to a jazz singer we've never heard of?

Choose memory-making activities over mind-numbing habits

After Oregon, we visited my parents in North Dakota. They had been wanting to try kayaking, so we ventured out onto the Missouri river instead of planning our usual movie marathon. Of course we still watched movies and we ate good food, but we also made this great memory that involved several hours out in the sun.

From big adventure to quiet afternoon of hand fishing, this is how we want life to look.