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.

Beyond talent

I've acquired an unexpected number of shoes the past several years. I used to wear a trusty pair of Converse – through high school, through college. I owned a pair of nicer shoes for the days I dressed up for work or church, but I patted myself on the back for being so low maintenance. Then I started running, and I bought minimalist shoes because my toes fell asleep in the cushy ones. Then rock climbing and hiking. Then a pair for hiking into a climb. This year, for Christmas, Ben bought me my first pair of bike shoes.

At some point my Converse were thrown out and replaced, which is fine. That's another pat on the back for me: I attach very little to clothing. Clothing specifically, because if you asked me about books, I'd tell you it depends. Once I've read it, it's unlikely I can part with it. It's like an animal shelter director told me: You can think medically (logically) about a new animal when it's just come into the shelter, but God help you when you've learned its personality. Who can part with a kitten with a name and a temperament? Books are my kittens. If I've held onto it for years and never read it, I can make the logical decision.

Last year I replaced my first pair of minimalist running shoes (which were vibram five-fingers) to return to a regular-style shoe, figuring I could run more comfortably year-round because I could wear socks. I ran a few times one winter in five-fingers, and it felt like I could have lost of feet and never realized – running on ice blocks. But since Ben and I married, we like to run together, and he's basically immune to temperature changes, so I needed something more versatile.

And here's where I made a mistake.

I'm an amateur distance runner – never broken 10 miles, though I've run that comfortably a few times. I don't know a lot about shoes and feet and everything. I bought these shoes that hurt my feet. It was nearly a year ago that I started to notice my heel ached at work and I would roll onto the outside of my foot when I stood to avoid putting pressure on it. And I wore my running shoes to work (at the bookstore), wearing them for up to 8 hours, maybe running later. Anyway, the muscles in my lower legs and feet weren't ready for so much barefoot action. It took me months to realize it was a runner's injury and more months to figure out the right remedy.

I took a lot of time off until finally my foot started cooperating enough to run a half a mile each way to the park at the top of the hill to workout. 1 mile total – maybe three days a week – for a couple of months. That was in October, and it's when I started asking myself questions about consistency.

When I wore Converse, my only activity shoes were soccer cleats, the left one still tied up with a pink shoelace from the year on JV when the team vowed to practice using our non-dominant foot. No more extra touches on the ball to play it to the right foot for that shot – use your left. But using your left foot when your right-foot dominant is very similar to trying to write with your left hand when you're right-handed. 

I grew up competitive in everything, seeing every class, every job as a chance to be better than someone else. In my quest to add miles to my running record, I overdid it and got hurt. And now I'm back to square one. In December, I stepped it up to 2 miles three or four times a week. My feet feel great, and I'm tempted to go farther because I want to prove my progress. 

I want so many things out of life. Because they're things like run a marathon or climb Longs Peak, I think they're worthier aspirations than someone else's. I catch myself feeling wild, frenzied jealousy or earth-shattering depression as I compare my goals and progression to others'. I crave the next thing, rushing through moments to get to whatever landmark I think holds my happiness. When I realize it isn't there and I'm back at the beginning, I want to give up.

It's materialism: abiding by the American way, clamoring for things I think I deserve, wrinkling my nose at the work and slowness of discipline. I used to think the right things came quick and easy. Build a life on talent, and do fine. It never goes far enough. I get to the edge of my easy life and I want to go farther. It seems like I spend my days building, looking out at 'what if I did this?' and knowing it will take more building to get there. 

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.

Boring & unadventurous

Living in Bowling Green, I'm tempted to settle into a routine that doesn't really fit me. It's the one I would have lived if I'd followed my old instincts – I made little effort. I waited to be told what to do. Passion rarely gave way to hard work.

With ease and comfort comes boredom. I've grown bored. Only boring people get bored. I'm offended by my boredom.

I mourn the loss of adventure. This was my first summer working full time, and I'm committed to this period of my life when weeks-long road trips will be fewer and further between. And that's okay because, as Ben and I have reviewed our priorities, we agree that one big summer is fun, but it's not sustainable. We want our day-to-day, month-to-month to include the adventurous living we enjoy so much. And hey, guess what, I'm not a freelance writer and he's not a computer whiz who can work from anywhere, USA. We will have to have roots of some kind for some time.

That scares me a little. What if ... I'm actually boring or unadventurous? If a boring person gets bored, maybe unadventurous people don't have adventures.

Tim Challies recently presented two separate thoughts that keep me pondering:

No. 1: "This is our temptation in all areas of life: To look for the quick fix, to look for the one or the few great moments that will accomplish more than the hundreds or thousands of smaller moments. Anthony Trollope, the nineteenth-century writer who managed to be a prolific novelist while also revolutionizing the British postal system, observed, 'A small daily task, if it be daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.' Over the long run, the unglamorous habit of frequency fosters both productivity and creativity."

No. 2:  Boredom stems from a lack of wonder. In talking about his children, he writes, "It makes me see that the challenge with our children is not to find things that will entertain them, but to find things that will impress them." He says it's true, boring people are boring. Curiosity sits opposite.

In college, before that, and now in Kentucky, I relied on special occasions for adventure. Weekend getaways, summer-long trips. And in the in-between? What then? I've learned so much from those experiences – things I never would have noticed if the growth had been slower. I had to be thrown off a cliff, and that's how I preferred it. But it is still the quiet daily choices you make that really say who you are?

Years ago, I advocated for adventuring in life's white space. It's been hard in practice because I haven't broadened the definition of adventure to include the place I live every day, people who don't share our passion, big-kid jobs, and unimpressive landscape. I won't pretend to turn southcentral Kentucky into an adventurous place to live. When Ben graduates in May, we're going West or North, and I will continue to dream about that future.

For now – right here, where I am on a Sunday afternoon trying to turn thoughts into words into action steps, I just want things to be different.

About six weeks ago, I quit my second job and went to 32 hours at the newspaper, allowing me to focus on writing and reporting. I've received a gift of roughly 20 hours a week that I was working. So I guess I'll start with that, dig into the curiosity I've relegated to my work, and practice wonder.

On the seventh day

I came home to swept floors, washed dishes, and packed bags. "You just have to pick out your own warm clothes," he said. At 8 p.m. Saturday we made tacos. We drank cokes out of glass bottles and talked about the colors of the sky when the sun sets. Each Saturday night, after I finish work at eight o'clock, we offer a quiet acknowledgment to six days of work gone by. On the seventh, we'll rest. On this particular seventh day, I preset my coffee pot to brew at 4 a.m.

Our jaunt to Red River Gorge did more for my refreshing my soul than Sundays of sleeping ever could. My usual seventh day follows a very logical order: Sleep late – how blessed 8:30 feels after six days of 5:30. Book, coffee, corner chair. Church. An afternoon of mindless diversion.

By 5, we were on the road. The sun crawled up the horizon as we turned east, setting leafless trees on fire and literally thawing frozen fields. That day it reached 60 degrees in some parts of Kentucky. We saw a man running on a country road. Our souls reached out and shook his hand.

The narrow, winding road through the gorge doesn't get plowed, though there are residents who use it regularly. According to the tracks they set to guide us, it is safe to drive in the middle, even if the frequent blind hills seem too frequent – too blind. We've climbed here only one time before, and it was fall, and there was a climbing convention. Now, empty and snow-covered, it felt eerie. The tight guardrail-less turns: unsettling.

We spent the holidays home in the frigid north where snow abounds, but I didn't do more than walk on it. Bowling Green hasn't kept more than an inch of snow at a time this winter. But in the gorge, we romped through enough to at least cover our boots. If I had to, I would compare it to my "winter" hiking trips on the Superior Hiking Trail in northern Minnesota – in March. Our coats were unzipped but the air remained crisp. We saw no human tracks as we hiked the trail to the wall we were set to climb.

The caver's route is considered a must-do, reviewers say.

"My first route in the Gorge, 1981 with my big brother Robert who got me hooked"

It's all chimney. The first section froze my fingertips, but I was jammed into a crack the same width as my body. I used perfect finger holds to hoist myself up a few inches, settled into full-body jam, and took a minute to warm. When I reached a point, Ben, my belayer, was revealed at the top of the route, peeking at me through a window just big enough to climb through like he was peering down the center of a winding staircase. In the final section, I was stuck each time I exhaled. Minor moments of panic set off enough adrenaline to inch my way to a wider area.

This trip was a good choice, I told him. "Why?" he asked. Because I needed to remember this is who we are. "What? Crazy?" Yes.

We ran down trails, using trees to brace agains the inevitable slip and slide, admiring snow balls that formed when just a little sticky snow shifted and fell down a slope.

We field questions regularly about our more unorthodox way of living. It's a contextual unorthodoxy: biking to work, working two jobs every day, shrugging at the temperature. To some, all of this is common. So we keep our mouths shut when others talk about money trouble or spousal separation because it seems better just to live the quiet life we've chosen without having to explain ourselves every step of the way.

Show, don't tell. It comes to mind regularly as I edit others' writing. As the writer, we think we need to spell out the nuances of a situation so readers grasp our insight. I started to feel like all I do is tell. I have stories from back there somewhere, but right now I just work. And I'm tired. I know – in my bones I know I'd go every week if I could, but I only have one day off and  ——

We drove home – west. We watched the sun set, bouncing its colors off the clouds, which reflected a rainbow in its fluffy ripples. "I wonder if anyone else sees this," he said. I hope they do.

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.

Swift weekend adventure

I spent a week in North Dakota, living at a hospital. My dad had surgery. After a week, he was back at home and under the expert care of my mom. I flew back to Nashville, met by Ben and our friend Brooks. They'd tied two kayaks to the top of our Rav-4 and put a small 6-foot play kayak in the trunk. Add climbing gear, camping gear, and food for three people. It was a tight squeeze, no doubt. We ate pizza on the curb, sweating just while sitting. The humidity down here is alarming. We drove a couple of hours and slept in a state park campground.

It's about a 4.5-hour drive to the Nantahala River. The fog settled just below the tips of the trees as the sun rose. As the early morning driver, I was enthralled. It was bright and lovely as we parked at the take-out of the river. We bought our passes and drove our boats to the put-in as it started to downpour. It took us a couple of hours to get our car and boats in the right spots, and it cleared up briefly in time for us to get used to the water. I was dumped in the first rapid. The cold water shocked me and I could hardly speak for the first minute, as I floated, feet downstream, butt skimming the rocks. Apparently the water in the Nantahala comes from the bottom of the dam, which keeps it frigid. So I made sure I didn't fall out again.

I wish I could have brought the camera on the river, but it wouldn't have survived. The fog covered the water, and despite there being hundreds of paddlers, you felt alone. It drizzled, but the rain was warmer than the water, which I sat in for the duration (my sit-on-top welcomed every rapid).

From there, the plan was to continue east. We stopped at a camp in the North Carolina country. Brooks worked at this adventure camp earlier this summer. We compared it to the summer camp in The Parent Trap - the programming sounded incredible. The land was gorgeous, surrounded by the Blue Ridge mountains. We cooked dinner in a shelter while it rained. We talked rock climbing with the camp director and learned North Carolina has seen record rainfall this year - more than 70 inches. The rock we wanted to climb would be soaked. The rocks we wanted to climb anywhere would be soaked. So knowing our chances were slim for the next day, we pitched a tent in one of several camp-out shelters on the camp property and we let the noisy critters put us to sleep. I finally got the pictures the next morning.

Oh the fog. Oh the mountains. They aren't as big as the west, but they're bigger than Minnesota. I will never tire of mountains.

The morning, though sunny, didn't prove any less sopping. We drove back to Bowling Green by way of Chattanooga. We ate burgers at Urban Stack and stopped at a sport climbing crag next to a waterfall. Spiders the size of quarters. We called it a scouting trip because now we know where to go and it's only 2.5 hours away. It was a crazy end to a whirlwind week, but it was great to finally get out and explore the south.

She said my name with a country twang

Let me say first that moving is hard. It's been a couple of weeks already and we're completely moved in, but nothing prepares you for all the time you have in a day when you've unpacked every box and you're still looking for work (or, more accurately, waiting for the call back). One day I did four hours of yoga. And I've discovered I can do Sudoku. And I read a lot of news. None of these are bad, and I'll never have this kind of time every again, I'm sure. But it leaves me going to bed wondering why I even need sleep.  Anyway, I wanted to share some thoughts on moving to this new "city."

We drove 15 hours in one day then unloaded our Uhaul (graciously driven down by my parents) before calling it a night. Finally there is practical application for all the hours of road-tripping we've logged. It rained the next few days, but we did a lot of driving tours of the city and unpacked our entire 700-sq-foot apartment (which is a studio and is more of a duplex because we share a house with one other larger unit). We live downtown in a renovated house that is 106 years old. Our neighbors work at Western - same as Ben. There's a pizza place on the corner that we smell every night. We're waiting to try it. Bowling Green is small - its inhabitants highly varied. Downtown is small, but it does have a couple coffee shops, a breakfast place, several bars/restaurants, government buildings, a theater (not for movies), and a few consignment/boutique stores. The Daily News' office is there, too. 

It's charming. People read in the square over lunch and kids jump around in a fountain in the evenings. We run after the sun goes down and see some of the same people sitting on their porches. There are solid-colored brick buildings with colorful doors and lots of flowers. It's completely separate from the commercialized area of town with every chain restaurant you can think of and the mall which reminds me eerily of Roseville's in Minnesota - right down to the train. With the exception of Subway, which pretty much only opens for weekday lunch hours, I'm told. That's downtown between the candlestick maker and a clothing store. We found tattoed, fedora-wearing hipsters in a coffee shop that gave me a miel called the "Honey badger." It tasted like Spyhouse.

I've only just started taking pictures, but they're a great example of the fun surprise we get at sunset. From our apartment, the sun sinks right behind downtown, so anywhere we run or look orange, pink and purple dances in windows or behind church steeples. So...be charmed.