The Laws of Relativity

Mmm … Seattle rain. I love it. Not just the standard drizzle we get year-round, but the kind of rain that drenches you in seconds, the sort I used as a make-shift shower whilst living in Nicaragua, the warm and torrential rain that the northwest is only blessed with in early summer. When I was little, living in a house on Broadway Park in Bellingham, I used to climb into the attic during such storms to listen to it pound on the less insulated part of the roof. The constant staccato was soothing, predictable, and would often lull me to sleep on a dusty mattress we kept in there for such moments. And still, at the ripe old age of 27, listening to it come down outside my window is nostalgic and one of the greater simple pleasures of life I enjoy. Purely delicious.

Memorial Day weekend I was home, in Bellingham, at the Schuette compound. I had spent two days cooped up in the house attempting to edit, write, read, and paint … so as Monday rolled around, I decided it was high time to get out of the house and force my body into motion. I laced my running shoes, grabbed my ipod from its happy place near the outlet, and turned to Carol.

Me: I’m going running.
Carol: (considerately thinking I may want to cover my electronics with some sort of water repellent material) It’s going to rain.
Me: No it’s not. I’m running out to the beach. If I’m not back in two hours, send Lola.
Carol: Oh, you’re hilarious. Why don’t you bring your phone?
Me: You said it’s going to rain. Don’t want to ruin my phone.

I should mention at this point that my parents don’t have television and I don’t know that either of them have read or heard a weather report in several years, however, both of them, my mom because she’s a master gardener and my dad because of the farmers intuition he picked up during his childhood in the county, have an uncanny ability to predict the weather. It should also be mentioned that despite their  accuracy, I consistently choose to ignore them and believe what I want to believe about the unpredictable nature of the Pacific Northwest’s chronic El Nino.

Thirty minutes later, three and a half miles in, and three and a half miles out, I found myself caught in a torrential downpour. My shorts and tank were soaked through within seconds and in a desperate attempt to save my ipod, which was already becoming  waterlogged and schizophrenic, (standard behavior before it’s vacations in bags of dry rice) I relinquished control to the playlist, set it on shuffle, and wedged it in between my hip and the band of my running shorts. And that’s when it happened. Timbaland’s “Carry Out” slowly faded and was immediately followed by the soothing sound of MJ’s voice in his oh-so-famous “Will You Be There.” A song thick with memories; the year of Free Willy, of 1993, of the fourth grade with Mrs. D’Amelio, the year of a desire so passionate to “save the whales,” I spent it sleeping on a homemade puff paint pillow that would often imprint PETA’s slogan across my innocent face, and the year, that perhaps most significantly, I locked myself in a locker.

As previously stated, the year was 1993, I was ten years old and because of my sister’s recent re-occurrence, a loving group of her adoring fans had decided to send our family on a weekend trip to Victoria, B.C. Since Jesse loved all things dainty, most of our vacations revolved around high tea, which for me, was a low point of childhood. During these trips, I spent most of my time in the pool, splashing about until it was absolutely necessary for me to join the rest of the Schuette royalty for an absurd four o’clock tea time. One such day, at the Empress Hotel, my mother had drug my pruned body out of the pool and had sent me into the locker room with strict orders to get ready as quickly as possible. We had a tea time to make. Whilst in the locker room, I had seen several girls, about my size, climbing into the lush, pillow-covered lockers and once inside, almost closing the door on themselves, only to seconds later jump out and run around like wild banshees once again. As a second child and a master in the art of mimicry, I waited until they left the locker room, casually stepped into the confines of my locker while still mostly naked, and slammed the door shut. Several moments later, after my mom had successfully gotten the rest of her brood out of their watery paradise, she entered. Hearing her voice, I laughed, relishing in the brilliant trick I was playing.

Carol: Lindsay?
Me: (laughter) Guess where I am …
Carol: Oh, Linds. You’re in the locker. Very funny, but time to come out. We’ve got to go.

I pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

Me: Mom … (beginning to panic) MOM! MOM!
Carol: Lindsay, is it locked? It’s okay.
Me: MOM!
Carol: Lindsay, stay calm, it’s going to be okay. Just tell me where your key is. I’ll grab it and unlock the door and we’ll get you out.
(Long pause)
Me: NONONONONO! Ohgodohgodohgod.
Carol: Lindsay, stop panicking. Where’s the key? Just tell me where the key is and I’ll get you out.
Me: (Through terrified sobs) MOM!
Carol: (The picture of calm) Lindsay, where’s the key?
Me: IT’S IN MY HAND!
Carol: (with an tone of resignation all too familiar with my haphazard childhood) Oh, Linds.
Me: (sadly embracing my sure demise) I’m too young to die …

Twenty minutes of an eternity later, the front desk had located the janitor that held the master key to the pool lockers and after clearing the room of topless women, he’d come to my rescue and released me from the precincts of my tiny, airtight cell. I collapsed into my mother’s arms, tear-stained and gasping for breath, but appreciative of the new lease I had on my ten-year-old life.

Carol: (in her typical fashion) Okay, Lindsay Bear. Say thank you to this nice man.
Me: (in mine) No.

A traumatizing event to say the least and ironically, like most of my life events that have completely lacked any sort of foresight, it’s been chronicled with the rest into a reservoir of Havianna’s favorite stories, tales she likes to call upon for a good laugh and an almost instantaneous healing of the various pain that often inflicts itself upon her tiny body. About a week ago, I was fighting my way through Montlake’s notorious traffic in my soccer mom Navigator with Havianna and her cousin Beverly (8) safely packed in the back, when the “mini” felt a desperate need for me to recur the story of  being locked in a locker, so Beverly could share in her joy at my expense. When I finished telling my sordid tale, I looked in the rearview to see Havianna in her standard position, curled over in her booster seat giggling while Beverly sat stone-cold, meeting my stare in the mirror.

Bev: I just don’t understand why you did that. I would never have done that.
Me: That’s totally fair, Bev. Hindsight’s 20/20 and looking back on it, I don’t think I would have made the same choices either, but that’s what makes it a funny story.
Bev: I seriously, would never have done that.
Havianna: But Bev! It’s SO funny …
Bev: I wouldn’t have ever made that choice.
Me: Beverly, I wouldn’t either, but have you ever had a moment in your life where you’ve made a choice and then after seeing the outcome, realized you maybe made the wrong one?
Bev: No. Never.
(Several moments passed. Havianna continued to giggle. Beverly gazed out the window in disgust, then, eventually broke the silence and decided to try to give my inanity an out.)
Bev: Those girls in the locker room … They were Italian?
Me: (What?) No, they were Canadian.
Bev: Oh … So, they were speaking in Spanish.

I’ve been reflecting on this car chat and the unfortunate circumstances that inspired it ever since. The irony in of it all was tangible. Like so many of the conversations that I have with children, (Havianna, usually) it represented to me a paradigm that I see vividly in my larger world, a truth I experience almost daily among my contemporaries; an accepted loss of empathy, a decreased amount of interest in relating to one another, and a comfortable adoption of competitiveness and judgment in compassion’s void.

That day, in the locker room at the Empress Hotel, I learned an invaluable lesson, that of staying true to myself and asking the necessary questions. Had I decided to admit my jealousy of the “Italian” girls brilliance, gotten over my pride, and asked for their advice on how best to hide in a locker, perhaps they would have taught me about the automatic lock system that I was so blissfully unaware of. Simply walking alongside these girls and trying to understand their methods, rather than mimicked competition, could have saved me an hour of hysterics and a lifetime of being the brunt of locker jokes.

Furthermore, if there were one child I could imagine following me right into the next locker over, therefore displaying her complete lack of common sense, it would be sweet Beverly, yet she was the first to cover my inadequacies with blanket statements of judgment. This got me thinking.

How true is it that we most fear traits in others that we see in ourselves?

I’ve found it a lot truer than I’d like to admit.

Living in a world driven by competitive drama and comparison, allows us to fit quite comfortably on a vertical spectrum, a space where we understand that there are people below us and people above us, and based on that, we can almost instantly size individuals up upon meeting; “she’s taller than me, smarter than me, has a successful relationship, and better skin tone, but thank god, she seems to have zero personality …” Judgment and comparison increase a false sense of comfort by making us constantly aware of where we stand. However, since these snap impressions are rarely, if ever, correct, it ought to nullify the theory entirely. In the land of this vertical life spectrum, friends become less of someone to love, to encourage, and to extol, and more of entity to compete with.

So, what happens when we let those guards down and admit that we’re all hanging onto a quickly sinking lifeboat? What happens when we let go of the judgment and try to walk in someone else’s shoes for a mile or two? What kind of community does that foster? What kind of understanding could we achieve if we only tried? And what if we embraced and adored each others accomplishments and talents rather than competing with them? What kind of incredible successes would this inspire in our world?

I feel absolutely blessed to have a small handful of friends I can say I share truly honest and thoroughly encouraging relationships with. Friends that love and adore me despite my shortcomings, friends that, rather than judging my momentary insanity, choose to laugh at me, try to see life from my lens, and embrace who these inadequacies have created. It is thanks to these relationships alone that I am in the midst of this incredible process of becoming who I am. They are my daily inspiration. My deepest desire would be to be an equal source of encouragement and unbridled support in their lives as they have been in mine.

Nelson Mandela said in a speech whose words now hang on the walls of my bedroom, “As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

It is a truth worth remembering and repeating every morning. As we let down our guards, as we learn to live life on a horizontal plane rather than a vertical one, looking one another eye to eye, embracing who we are, shortcomings and all,  we become the best possible version of ourselves and we allow others to do the same. And, as this is reality in a  few of my most treasured friendships, I can be the first to tell you that attempting to learn to live and love this way is absolutely worthy of our efforts and carries a better outcome to our fate here on earth than we could possibly imagine.

So this has become my goal; to stop with the competing, stop with the judging, to stop saying “I would have never done that” and accept that maybe I would, to jump off the ladder of comparison, and to start loving in  a way that allows people enough time outside the boxes society would love for them to fit into to give them an opportunity to transform and grow into who and what they are.  And to those of you done the same for me, those who have aided and embedded me in this gloriously absurd process of becoming who I am, you have given me hope, I am forever grateful.

L

Sisterhood

A few weeks ago, I was at home in the delirium that is my parent’s “living room” in Bellingham, Washington and I was overwhelmingly thankful, thankful for a million things. I was grateful for parents who have loved me relentlessly and unconditionally. I was unbelievably appreciative for siblings I have had the privilege of sharing life with, and in doing so, have managed to fall helplessly in love with. Life was filled to the brim with sighs of contentment.

Since all her chicks were present and accounted for, Carol decided it was a prime time to empty the garage of its relics and make us either lay claim to said memorabilia or throw it away. Therefore, for hours, we wandered through boxes that were thick with sawdust and the intoxicating smell of childhood, I tried on my mom’s clothes from the seventies (hot, by the way), Taylor bit medals from winning the Jr. Ski to Sea Race in 2000 and various elementary jog-a-thons, to determine their worth, and Kate oohed and aahed over china tea cups and grandma’s silver she had long forgotten. We frolicked through box after box of photographs, letters, and trinkets that reminded us of where we came from.

As we wandered through these boxes of old, I realized like so many families stories, ours isn’t what it was originally, chapters shortened and the characters altered to make way for a story quite different than the utopian version parent’s expect when the hold their first child, counting fingers and toes. Tears came to my eyes as I watched Kate and Taylor’s expressions as they looked at objects that had defined us, pictures that had captured us, and heirlooms that reminded us of impossible, but genuinely cherished childhood dreams.

Along with pondering my completely delinquent attitude toward writing, I have also reflected on those sweet hours in the soft light of my parent’s house several times ever since, knowing that I wanted to put my experience as Lindsay Schuette, member of the Schuettte clan into words, but unsure of how to begin. I often go through periods where I doubt myself, my ability to write, my reason for writing and have blamed my recent absence on that, but upon deeper introspection, I’ve realized it’s more than that, it’s the complexity of my subject.

My family.

More specifically, for this particular entry, it’s my sister, the one and only, Kate Christine Schuette. How does one even begin to put into words a person that has captured their heart since almost the beginning of time? I’m not sure, but our attempted journey begins here.

A few years ago I went through what we shall describe as the “birth order” phase. I read books, I poured over websites, I could accurately predict the birth order of my friends and give advice on who was better suited for them than their current flame, based on where they fell in their family.  My poor freshman year roommate, Emily would come home with a new crush every week, and usually I would dash her hopes with something along the lines of, “But he’s the oldest of five … and you’re the oldest and the only girl, therefore you have only child tendencies … It’s simply a bad match. Don’t pursue it.”

Really? Really.

The object of my obsession with birth order was, like so many things before it, less of an academic venture and more of a search for my wandering soul. In a world where I often felt I didn’t belong, I figured if I could determine where I fit on the small scale based on psychological tendencies and equations, this would nurture a sense of belonging in the larger world.

Unfortunately, all birth order predictions are null and void if there is a sick sibling in the mix. Especially if it’s the oldest.

Awesome.

Jesse was born on March 30th, 1980. I showed up on February 10th, 1983. Kate arrived May 6th, 1986, and Taylor (our token boy) decided to join the clan December 27th, 1989. Despite Jesse being sick for much of her life, she took her role as the first born quite seriously. She was the eldest; driven, precise, compassionate, and nurturing. Kate and I shared the middle child position, and combined were able to rightly fulfill almost all predictions made; relational, people-pleasers, secretive, amiable, non-confrontational, unable to set boundaries, and (usually) peace loving. Then there was Taylor, the ultimate baby, the only boy in the sea of estrogen that was the Schuette household. All of our Christmas letters to Santa and prayers to the sweet Lord above (especially my father’s) had been answered, belated, but accomplished nonetheless, a baby brother.

I distinctly remember sitting at Jesse’s funeral with Kate and Taylor. A distant relative of some unfortunate sort, who should have been taken out and shot on the spot, had looked at the three of us sitting in a row, then bent down to eye level with me, and said with an aggressive air of unwelcome wisdom, “Well, looks like you’re the oldest now.”

I looked over at Kate and Taylor and immediately realized the colossal mistake that God had made in taking Jesse over me. I was dispensable, I was one of two middle children. A family of three, oldest, middle, and youngest seemed perfectly rational, but the unfortunate mix we had been left with, a family of two middles and a youngest … Well, it was a birth order nightmare, just waiting to implode.

Thankfully, it never did, at least on any tragically grand level. While I allowed the relationship between sisters to be defined for the next several years by my need to know where I fit, Kate didn’t seem to let it phase her. As kids, we would play endlessly together … normal “kid” games, like doctor, where we hooked each other up to hickman lines, fake IV’s and carried brooms decorated by sandwich bags around the house. When Jesse was there, everyone had their assigned role, without her, things fell more naturally into place, Kate was the nurse, because that’s what she wanted to be when she grew up, and I was the patient, responsible for nothing but to lay there and push the button when the kool-aid bag ran dry. It was quite ideal. She also endured the brunt of much abuse, like the time I forced her to drink muddy creek water out of a rusty tin can to earn my affection and other like experiences, which she, eager to please, followed through with almost immediately. (I’m so sorry, Kitten) During high school, we fought like most teenage girls fight. I would lose something, ask Kate if she knew where it was, she would say no, and then I would force my way into her bedroom, which, as the “secretive” one,  she protected like the ark of the covenant. There would be tears, screaming, hair pulling, and later apologies after we both calmed down enough for her to tell me, in detail, exactly where my shirt was in the laundry room. To this day, I don’t understand why she didn’t just start the conversation with that, but what can we say? There was a power struggle almost constantly present.

Lurking just below the surface or our normal sibling rivalry, our confusion about where we fit, and our failed attempts at growing up, was a truth that we had learned much too young. A truth that drove us to love one another passionately and relentlessly; sisters were completely irreplaceable.

Three girls pared down to two. How is it decided who will take on what role  when the eldest is gone? It was a debacle I struggled through for years before realizing that the answer had been standing beside me all along.

Kate has protected me fearlessly. She has kept my secrets, she has advised me, she cries with me, laughs with me, and knows the depths of my heart like no one else. She is compassionate and good. She is intelligent and usually right. In one word, my sister is brilliant. She is funny, generous, compassionate, and smart. She dresses me for parties, and readies me for job interviews. She cuddles with me through break-ups and cheers me on in any endeavor, no matter how nonsensical. She believes in me with an absolute confidence when no one really should. In a world where the ground beneath me is almost constantly shifting, of my relationship with Kate, I’m sure. Our ability to work together, thanks in most part to her, my miracle worker, is like nothing most people have ever seen.

Me: (whimper, groan)

Kate: Your keys are under the couch cushion.

Me: oh … damn … Where is …

Kate: You left your purse in the car.

Me: (defeated sigh)

Kate: And your camera is in there too. Is there anything else I can get for you?

A few weeks ago, my mom and I were walking through the cemetery, talking about life, about family, about Jesse, about what could and should have been versus what is. She turned to me with a clarity known only to mothers and put into words the answer to my birth order struggle that had haunted me for so many years.

“You know what’s funny, Linds? Jesse never left her position as the oldest, neither you or Kate ever took it on. But in those moments where one of you has needed an older sister, both of you have stepped up. It’s like you’ve raised each other.”

And that is the beautiful truth. Webster’s dictionary defines “sister” as a female offspring having both parents in common with another offspring. And while that stands as fact for Kate and I, Webster fails to capture the true nature of sisterhood. Besides renting space in the same womb, we’ve shared a life, our experiences are forever intertwined, her existence defines mine and mine, hers. She is my best friend, my confidant, my protector, my vault of secrets, my older sister, my younger sister, and my world. And while our story isn’t what it was originally, while there are a thousand and one things I would change about my history, and despite both of us being a bit of a self-created train wreck at times, I am and will forever be thankful for the trials that have helped to create the bond I share with Kate, that of sisterhood, two people, inexplicably held together by things too difficult to explain to someone new, built upon the cornerstone of mutual adoration, a tie that is deeply connected, ultimately divine, and utterly irreplaceable.

I love you, Kate Schuette.

To life. To sisterhood.

L

Off the Record: Clearing Mine. And Other Misadventures from Behind the Wheel

Exactly what is it that goes into the making of a “good driver?” It is a question that I’ve pondered often since receiving my license at 16 and is a topic that throughout my licensed history has been frequently broached by passengers in my vehicle. A few weeks ago, I was on an epic road trip to beautiful Missoula, Montana with one of my favorite people in the world, Katelyn Price, who, 22 minutes into said road trip while discussing the travel time of the 500 mile distance between Seattle and Missoula, stated, “oh, right. I’ve heard about your driving …”

Really? Fascinating.

And based upon this conversation and hundreds other like it, I have decided to advance upon the truth of a subject matter that has rarely been approached.

That of my driving record.

Like most of America, I was sixteen when I first received the documentation allowing me to legally operate a motor vehicle, but had been doing so for years before. Not in any extensive sense … But I grew up with Pat Schuette, who, being raised on a farm, thought that it was only right that his children know how the gas pedal and wheel of a car worked by the age of six. Therefore, since then I had driven a 1982 Ford F-150 around my grandparents property and had taken part in more than a few scandalous illegal trips to the closest grocery store, courtesy of my dad and godfather. So, at about sixteen and a half, I was granted my first, official, State of Washington, license to drive.

I would like to begin all of this by stating for the unbelievers that I have had a completely clean ticket record since the late 1990’s, I was on the Pemco Good Student Driver discount until I was 25 or so, have never been at fault in an accident, and my mom would tell you I’m one of the most brilliant motorists she knows, but like most humans, I have had my share of misadventures behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, hence the misconceptions. So this is me. Coming clean.

Two weeks after being awarded my driver’s license, I was pulled over on my way home from church. Imagine my confusion. Just having merged on the freeway, in my 1983 Volkswagen Cabriolet, I knew that there was absolutely no way I was speeding. My car rarely achieved the 60 mph speed limit unless I had dropped a few pounds during the stress of high school musical season. Therefore, I tried to be calm as my driver’s side window was approached by a menacing state patrol officer.

SP: License and registration, please.

Me: License. Check. And registration? (At which point I began nervously rummaging through my glove compartment which was clearly filled to the gills by a large selection of Wet N’ Wild nail polish … totally helpful … ) What does the registration look like again?

SP: It’s that one.

Me: Check.

SP: (Looking everything over)

Me: (Speaking faster than humans should speak) I’m sorry,sir. Did I do something wrong? I couldn’t have been speeding … My car doesn’t even go that fast and I really do think that everything is up-to-date and my headlights work, but that’s really my dad’s responsibility and you’ll have to take it up with him if there’s a prob …

SP: Your license plate light is out.

Me: My car doesn’t have a license plate light.

SP: (Smiling) Alright, truthfully, I didn’t realize you were old enough to drive. Have a great night.

Offended Shock. (Especially considering that (*see picture) is what I looked like at almost 17.)

I continued on without incident for several years, until one fateful Spring day in Seattle. My darling sister and I sat innocently waiting for a light to turn green, after having a delightful breakfast on Lower Queen Anne Hill, when our conversation on Beyonce’s latest work was abruptly interrupted by a vehicle hitting us from behind. I looked in my rearview mirror.

Me: Oh. My. Gaw. We just got hit by a clown.

Kate: Oh … I have some different words for the idiot who just hit us …. (going off into a stream of angry rhetoric that is classic to the Kitten) …. You’re being too nice … a clown … seriously Lindsay, you are so bad with insults … You’re so mild … Our car just got hit!

Me: Yes. Yes, we did. By a clown. A clown just rear-ended us.

We both looked back to see who we would later come to know as “Princess Pinky,”a woman in full clown garb, sitting in the driver’s seat of a mini van, fuming and looking for what I can only assume were her insurance papers. I got out of the car, Princess Pinky emerged from hers and in assessing our vehicle and finding no visible damage, I turned to her.

Me: (Stifling laughter) I think everything’s fine, but could we get your insurance number?

PP: (Gave me requested information and asked me to contact her in case of damage before contacting the insurance.)

Me: (No longer able to control audible laughter) Of course. Can I have your information?

PP: (Hands me her business card, which read (with a picture): Princess Pinky. Clown. Available for Birthday Parties and other Events. Princesspinky77@yahoo.com)

Me:(Uncontrollably laughing at this point and doubled over outside of Tower Records attempting to catch my breath)

PP: Stop laughing! There is nothing humorous about this! Stop laughing. What is so hilarious to you? What about this situation is so incredibly funny to you?!?!?

Me: I’m sorry, Princess Pinky. It’s not funny! It’s very serious, we just got in a car accident and I completely understand the ramifications of that. It’s just that … Well, you’re a clown.

Incredible.

In the years that followed my minor incident with Princess Pinky: Clown, I decided to take on the role of a professional driver. I trained, received my Commercial Driver’s License, Class B with air-brake and passenger endorsements and promptly moved myself to Skagway, Alaska to be a seasonal Driver/Tour Guide for Princess Tours. The questioning of my credentials usually began shortly after I had my bus loaded full of cruise ship passengers, who thought I was adorable, as long as I was staying on the dock, answering questions, flirting, and collecting their tickets. But imagine their collective horror as soon as I closed those doors, lifted my eyebrows, and put on the headset to begin my safety speech as their driver. Panic at the disco was a daily occurrence. Nervous laughing. Chatter.  Terrified glances toward the doors I had just secured. And then, finally, “Are you old enough to drive?” My typical response to this question was; “Yes! Hello! I’m 16. It’s super great … Skagway High gives us a long summer break so we can support our local towns dwindling economy. Don’t you just looooove it? We’re going to have so much fun today! If we have time, I’ll totally drive by the school and show you where I watched my team win a regional soccer championship. YAY!”

I often left it at that … Drove them off of the dock, into town, and through a treacherous mountain pass before explaining that I was actually 25, had been doing this for four years and was one of only a few people that had been driving buses in Skagway for so long without incident … Other days, I left my statements on the dock uncorrected. I found people tipped better when they were shocked and thankful to simply be alive at the end of the day. Which leads me to driving incident #3.

It was a beautiful day in Skagway, I was driving a full MCI up the Alaska Highway, and we were all enjoying the view from 4000 feet up when I decided to pull over to explain what I knew about the geography of the area (all lies) and let people take photographs. At said stop, I was approached by a passenger; an old, grizzled, angry man.

OGAM (Old Grizzled Angry Man): You terrify me.

Me. I’m sorry. What?

AGAM: YOU TERRIFY ME.

Me: Would you like me to take your picture? Or is this conversation leading somewhere else?

AGAM: (Angry) You TERRIFY me. You’re up there in the passenger seat and your little and your blonde and you’re just laughing and driving and talking and playing with your hair and pulling your safety pins out and putting them back in and you terrify me.

Me: (Offended) No sir. You terrify me. Who thought it was a good idea to let you out of the nursing home? You’re as old as the hills. And sir, those would be bobby pins, not safety pins, who do you know who puts safety pins in their hair? And today, I’m wearing neither safety pins, nor bobby pins. This is a ponytail, have you heard of it? It’s secures my hairs in a concise spot on the back of my head with the aid of a hair tie. And if I’m so terrifying to you, feel free to ride on my friend Cale’s bus.

He chose to ride with Cale. And his wife gifted me with a $20 at the end of the day. She said it was for a brilliant tour. I like to believe it was a payment for the first day of peace she’d had probably had in 55 years.

Later that summer, I went on to receive a Four Year Safe Driving pin from Princess Tours: a coveted award, almost as much so as the gold pin, and one rarely given.

Fact.

Thus we come to a more present day mishap. Last year, I spent hours behind the wheel of my Subaru, driving between Seattle (my hometown) and Missoula (where I’d taken an internship for a year). On one of these many state road trips, I was minding my own business with four college students in the backseat, my boss in the passenger seat, when we were pulled over by another (less) menacing (actually quite attractive) state patrol in eastern Washington.

SP: Do you know how fast you were driving?

Me: Yes sir. I was driving 76 miles per hour which I realize is 6 miles per hour above the speed limit, therefore making it illegal and something I definitely should not have been doing and a decision I have recently come to regret.

SP: Do you honestly think you were going 76?

Me: Yes, sir. I had cruise control set and I never set it for more than 6 miles per hour over the speed limit … which I realize is illegal and something I definitely something I should not …

SP: I clocked you at 84.

Me: (SHOCK)

SP: You honestly thought you were going 76. Wow. Get your speedometer checked. What else might you have been doing that I would pull you over for?

Me: (thinking through all of the things I’ve done in cars before that have been illegal that I hadn’t currently been doing … 15 seconds pass … I purse my lips, look toward the heavens, squint, purse my lips again … 30 seconds pass)

SP: I’ll give you a clue. (He motions with his hands, animatedly talking on a cell phone like a valley girl)

Me: (Slightly offended) Sir, do you HONESTLY think I would speak on my cell phone with all these young lives in my hands? (Motioning to said college students) I don’t even know where my phone is. I may have left it in Montana for all I know. (Honest)

SP: You weren’t talking on your phone?

Me: No sir.

Boss: I was talking on my phone.

Student #1: I was also talking on my phone.

Student #2: Fine! I admit it. I was talking on my phone too.

SP: (Laughing) Does anyone else have anything they’d like to confess?

Me: (Looking at him, at my boss, back at him) Well … how much time do you have?

SP: (Laughing) Slow down. (Walks Away)

Me: (To my passengers) Wow, bummer he was married, huh?

I was given a many accolades the next day for my ability to talk my way out of ticket using painful honesty, admit to my sins, and simultaneously check the marital status of the State Patrol agent doing the questioning.

Win.

While this is not a exhaustive history of my time behind the wheel, it is a glance upon my participation in an art that while I in no way have perfected, have certainly not completely botched. Indeed it fails to mention several other instances where I’ve been forced to use honesty to explain to officers why exactly I was making certain choices and in no way gives the credit due to the parking ticket escapade, designated to me by bicycle officer in Skagway Alaska, while I was driving a bus full of passengers down Main Street that almost forced me into exile in South America. Turns out going to the DOL to replace your lisence 10 days after your birthday, only to find out that it has been suspended for the last 4 years because of aforementioned (paid) parking ticket, is a sensation akin to that of falling off a rapidly moving treadmill in a gym brimming with meatheads, both painful and embarrassing. (Unfortunately, I speak from experience on both accounts) But, as for the rest of this story, it will have to wait as I’m due at the DMV to replace my license that I lost a few weeks ago during that completely unfortunate run-in with Officer Rich  …

Cheers.

L

Stay …

To the Faithful:

Life has been particularly delicious lately. Spring has sprung and I couldn’t be more delighted to welcome sunny weather with open arms, iced Americanos, picnics, dancing, and white pants … after Memorial Day, that is.

I am writing, I promise. There are many things in the works …  Apparently, I have a very high opinion of myself, in assuming that you’re so incredibly interested and mildly concerned at my lack of deep and less so thoughts of late … Well, a little ego never hurt anyone … oh wait …

Until I have some concrete words to share, I thought I would share the other things I’ve been working on … That is, playing with my new toy. Anna and Cory left for Alaska on the third of April and before they abandoned me for life, they kindly allowed me to shoot some photos of them … to remind them in the Northern lands of how in love they truly are …

Without further adieu, ladies and gentlemen, Anna and Cory in their “It’s been six months and we’re STILL married!” Photoshoot.

Anna and Cory, I love you for almost everything you are.

Cheers.

L

He loved her for almost everything she was & she decided that was enough to let him stay for a very long time.

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All the Single … People

A few months ago I had what I thought was a brilliant idea brewing for a book …  a novel if you will. It was entitled: “Redefining Masculinity … Aiding Men, One Clueless Homo Sapien at a Time.” Unfortunately, I realized recently, much to the jubilation of most of the gentlemen that have ever taken minor part in my life, that I know nothing about the male psyche or process, and therefore the idea was to be forcibly shelved until I find a counterpart worthy of co-authorship. So instead, I decided to write a bit on something I do know … that of being female … And that of being single.

In a confusing world.

A world where it seems that everyone is getting married. There is in fact, something in the water. If you’re anything like me, you have not partaken in said water, nor are you sure you want to. To be completely honest, you avoid the faucets and stick to the bottled variety in locales you find suspect, knowing despite your best efforts you’re probably still drinking tap water from somewhere, thanks Dansani, but your hopes are that this select H2O is from the east coast … somewhere like Chicago, Boston, or New York City, some rational city where the average age for marriage has steadily risen into the mid-thirties since the early 90s. But here, in your West Coast reality,  you’re getting a definite Jonestown vibe from life. In the words of one of my newfound favorite people, Sloane Crosley, marriage, seems to be “an epidemic, and we’re all invited.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone found out I was single and responded with the dreaded, “Oh my gosh! Really? But you’re so cute, what’s wrong with you?” some rogue cowboy looking to be a kept man would have swept me off my feet for my millions years ago.

The above statement is wrong on so many levels, the most profound of them being the unwelcome assumptions, including, but not limited to:

a. There’s something “wrong” with me (and let me be the first to tell you, there are a million things despairingly “wrong” with me, my mom would tell you that there are also an equal number of things that are charmingly and impossibly “right” with me)

b. The only reason someone would ever want me is because I’m “cute”

And, finally

c. I desperately desire a ball and chain, but because of all aforementioned faults, no one will fit me with the ankle bracelet required.

Alas, I am a (dare I admit it?) contentedly single twenty-seven-year-old female. Shocking, I know.

Could I be married? Probably. Am I? Not last I checked.

Other than drunken proclamations of love, romantic nuptials, and unconceived children, hands down the best marriage proposal I ever received was at the ripe old age of 19 and not from a man … rather from the mother of said man, Pedro, who offered me, in exchange for my hand in marriage to her son, a shanty, three cows, and a considerable plot of land viable for many crops of plantains on the shores of beautiful Lake Nicaragua …

I told her to throw in the chickens and she had herself a deal.

Unfortunately, the avian animals of an egg producing persuasion were simply something could not part with.

Therefore, a few weeks later I joined some Euro friends on the back of a flat bed truck bound for the capital city of Mangua. Amidst entertaining the locales with blood curdling screams when spiders of pre-historic proportion would fall from the trees above into my tangled web of blonde hair, I filled myself with an appropriate amount of Romeo and Juliet inspired despair, wept, and bid a painful farewell to what was surely my one chance at marital bliss.

“The misery, the exquisite tragedy. The Susan Hayward of it all…”

One of the greatest delights of my life has been investing and being around women. In this, you’re indefinitely going to join them as they navigate the rough seas of romance … dating, processing, falling in love, breaking-up, getting back together, breaking up again, and generally learning to define who they are as individuals, as women, and as members of a much larger world.

It is one of the greatest beauties of being women … of being human … of being alive.

Am I here to downplay the magnificence of the romance working out … marriage, commitment, the largest of which we can make person to person whilst here on earth … certainly not.  And for all those I know and don’t have the pleasure of knowing who have or are tying that everlasting knot in the near future, my most sincere and honest congratulations.

BUT, am I here to tell all the single ladies of the world (thank you, Beyonce) that you’re not alone and that you’re not without hope? Most Certainly.

Lest we forget, “Husbands are like tattoos – you should wait until you come across something you want on your body for the rest of your life instead of just wandering into a tattoo parlor on some idle Sunday and saying, “I feel like I should have one of these suckers by now. I’ll take a thorny rose and a ‘MOM’ anchor, please. No, not that one – the big one.” (Sloane)

The comment I hear from singles that causes me the most profound heartbreak is: “If I get married, then I will __________ (fill in the blank).”

And ladies, (In the words of a multi-billion dollar ad campaign by Nike) Just do it.

Despite what your statistics (for Communications Majors) professor led you to believe, life isn’t a physics problem, easily explained with the correct formula, the “if … then” … isn’t always plausible … and love and our existence is most definitely not something to be solved.

Do it now. Don’t wait. Prince Charming (or Aladdin, if you’re me) is unpredictable … who knows when or if he might show up. And chances are, when and if he does rear his enchanting head, I would be willing to bet that you hope you’re living life to the absolute fullest, doing something you love, so he loves it too. Don’t put off the trip. Don’t put off the dreams. And most definitely don’t put off the dancing.

Carrie Bradshaw, another famously once single (until she finally wed Mr. Big in SATC Movie … whatever, Carrie) female once said of relationships, “You have to figure … if the world’s fattest twins can find love, there’s hope for all of us. Somewhere out there is another little freak who will love us, understand us, and kiss our 3 heads and make it all better. And until then, there’s always Manhattan.”

So, don’t ignore the proverbial Manhattans. Life is brilliant right now; this moment is here for the taking. Grasp it. Hold it. Cherish it. And never let it go. Today isn’t going to happen ever again, whether you have that special someone in your life or not. And the inevitable loss of the present creates the utter brilliance and sheer urgency that makes our existence here on earth worth fighting for.

I have had the supreme pleasure of dating many an eligible bachelor. They have been charming, smart, funny, successful, and in more than a few cases exactly what some lucky lady was looking for. Her irreversible, for life tattoo, if you will …  That lady, however has yet to be me. Therefore, I have, without regret, relinquished my right to these men, with amicable delight realizing that they have found their happiness, while knowing, with unequivocal confidence that I’ve found mine. And when and if I stumble upon someone I want for life, the tattoo that’s right for me, a male counterpart, and most importantly, a competitor for an absurd number of card games, I hope to honestly say that my life will simply go from brilliant to brilliant.

And, until life makes that jump, I plan on living … on going … on seeing my life’s goals through from learning to eat with chopsticks to speaking Spanish fluently to stalking my favorite authors until they agree to meet me for a beer (or a cup of coffee, considering most of my favorite authors are recovering addicts) to jumping on a plane every time I can get my dirty mitts on a ticket to writing a memoir to kissing many sweet kids to catching up on Lost before its rapidly approaching finale.

There’s no need to put off life. Don’t buy into the “But I don’t have anyone to share it with  …” argument. While I would be lying to say that there aren’t flashes of short-lived loneliness, moments where I think to myself, “Wow, it would be really great to have someone who I could forcibly convince to sit with me on my bed, learning to eat phad thai with chopsticks from a “how-to” website while listening and attempting to interpret classical music that neither of us actually care about …” Or to have someone around obligated to laugh at my antics to please me (which, let’s be honest, won’t happen no matter what) … Frankly Connect 4 seems like it would be less predictable with a partner. That, however, I could be wrong about … if you throw those damn checkers in fast enough …

However, a beautiful sense of clarity never fails to make its welcome arrival once I remember to look up, to see. I share the planet with billions of other people, billions of people with a brilliant story to tell. They may not be in love with me, but that’s neither here nor there, we can share life on an incredibly profound level regardless. At the end of the day, when I’m truly honest with myself, I recognize that I  fall more deeply in love with life daily, despite the minor detail that there is not a man written into the script of the Lindsay Schuette Show anytime in the near future.

So, like our gay friend George, from “My Best Friends Wedding” so eloquently reminded us all, “There may not be marriage, there may not be sex, but, by god, there will be dancing.”

So, let us remember, No one promised us romance. No one promised us marriage. In fact, no one promised us tomorrow. So dance.

Immediately.

L

Helplessly Twenty-Seven

As a specific rule, I hate birthdays.

Specific in that I don’t hate the birthdays of my family members … Friends who throw elaborate parties in swanky dive bars downtown … Gatherings where I’m required by social law to kiss my 86 year-old “Gampy” … I’ll even feel twinges of joy reading about the ornate celebrations thrown by celebrities featured in US Weekly and am ashamed to admit that I’ve experienced the occasional tear-up when that over-privileged adolescent’s daddy finally buys her the Hummer she’s so deserving of on MTV’s “My Super Sweet Sixteen” … No, my hatred for birthdays is specific to my birthday. It shows up annually on February 10th … and for the last fourteen years has been met with a familiar pit in my stomach, impassioned tears, and the desire to stay in bed, blinds closed, catching up on some B-list TV show I never watched when it was actually on air, until February 11th rears it’s most welcome head.

This abhorrence for my “special” day has perplexed even the most avid of social anthropologists, considering my predisposition toward attention. What they fail to realize is that I like to earn my position of noteworthiness. If I don’t have it, I didn’t deserve it. I realize this peculiarity affects other aspects of my life, for example;  sneaking out of my high school graduation party without saying goodbye to my guests, refusing to walk in the ceremony or acknowledge my collegiate commencement on any level, if I ever have a wedding day, we can all rest assured the most “magical day” of my life will be a complete and total nightmare, and I’ve only begun to contemplate what I’m going to do about my funeral. Therefore, the thought of having people forced to celebrate me, my life … my ability to survive the last 365 days … my talent for growing one year older, makes me want to curl up in a ball and slowly die.

Not literally.

But still.

It all began on my 12th … evidently not my lucky number. I was in an classically unattractive and awkward stage of life, I had the “Influenza” which left me flushed by fever, coughing, and the proud proprietor of a constant stream of snot dripping from my nose. To top it all off, my sister, who had been battling cancer for the last 8 years was forced to leave our Bellingham home that day with my parents in tow to pursue an experimental treatment that would end up taking her life just a few months later. Needless to say, the memory didn’t bode well for creating new, happier ones in the following years.

It is a fact that it greatly troubles my mother to see me cry on my birthdays … Not only does my negatively charged emotional approach to my “special day” bring her an enormous deal of grief, but coupled with the financial strain in my older years of constantly adding a Coach bag or a new pair of designer denim (I hope you’re not reading this Dad) to my already completed birthday list in order to ease the pain and make me smile, has made that day in early February a parental nightmare.

February 10, 2009 was especially disastrous. Carol Schuette, fueled by worthy aspiration to manufacture happiness on my first birthday away from home (I was in Montana, and yes, I was turning 26 … I don’t want to talk about it) had gone on a pre-emptive strike to make sure that my turning twenty-six was as delightfully memorable as possible … She hired friends to come to Montana and entertain me, (thanks, Annie) had given Greer the recipe for my favorite macaroni and cheese, and my favorite flowers were delivered to my bedroom alongside an artisan Americano with an inch of steamed non-fat milk upon my awakening. She had coached all who surrounded me to overwhelm me with as much adoration as humanly possible, all in an attempt to avoid the liquid sunshine that had historically tended to unattractively pour from my overworked ducts on that given day. What she had failed to take into account was the fact that, based on terrible timing, she was forced to disclose to me that her cancer had returned, just two days prior.

Needless to say, a tear-free February 10, 2009 was not in the cards.

Fast forward to 2010: three weeks ago, I had the ultimate privilege of celebrating my birth alongside people who love me the best … My family and I frolicked on the islands of the San Juans, partaking in animated conversations, crackers, sharp cheddar, salami, and cheap wine. Later with friends, we consumed the “best pizza in Seattle” according to Sunset magazine, which proved as delightful as promised. Throughout the day, I was surrounded by many festively wrapped gifts (one of my favorite things in life) and finished it all off, tear-free at my favorite bar, blowing out 27 candles, surrounded by my friends, and my family who have proved themselves more remarkable than I can rightfully put into words.

Earlier that brilliant day, I sat with my dad on Orcas Island, staring out at the ocean when he turned and asked, “Is this where you expected to be at 27 … like during childhood, or back when you were in high school? When you were 21? Is this what you expected? All you imagined it to be?”

I turned to him. “No. It’s better.”

And it is. Since February 10, 2010, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around describing my 27th year here on earth. All that has occurred since that memorably painful day in February of 2009. Since the summer, when I’ve been asked for a sum of last 12 months, my answer has been vague; “It was a learning experience.” A broad and indefinite response at best that typically quenched the public’s need to dig any further into a year in which I felt that I, personally, had become something of a lost cause. In reality, I’d avoided processing the last 365 days for fear that in doing so, I would see the truth of heartbreak staring back at me in indelible ink. The series of events that somehow left me drowning in a pool of self-doubt, the reality of an impossible loneliness in Montana, the uncertainty of short-lived unemployment, the unsettledness found when one lives in 6 residences in one year, the grief of cancer once again hitting my family way too close to home, the truth of personal hardship, realized.

In attempting to process my 27th birthday, I’ve avoided looking back on pictures or what I expected to be tear-stained journal entries and have therefore, been at a total loss for words. (Rare, I know) I tried blaming everything for my writers block, including, but not limited to relationships that existed in my life apart from true reconciliation. So I spent a week searching for forgiveness, found it.

And still, was at a loss for words.

Perhaps my 27th birthday, like others before it, would be forced to go unprocessed and unacknowledged.

Then a few days ago, I was with Havianna, who was celebrating her 100th day post bone marrow transplant, a day that marks the beginning of a hopefully permanent remission from the cancer that had done it’s best to take her out just months ago. She spent the morning in my lap and together, we reminisced. Reading her old blogs, (Yes, she’s a six-year-old with a blog) looking at pictures, watching videos of life in the hospital, and listening to podcasts she had created attempting to illustrate to the general public an existence impossible to rightfully explain.

We laughed. I cried. And when all was said and done, she turned her little bald head and looked up at me.

“We’re lucky, you know.”

“Why, Havi? Why are we lucky?”

“Because we know. And no matter how hard life seems to be, there was a time when it was harder.”

Ah, perspective. I kissed her head and seconds later we were moving onto things she deemed more important … Like Polly Pockets.

But in that moment, with her divine clarity, she gave me the bravery to look back. What I had been missing was perspective. In light of my 12th year, my 26th was a breeze. I was one of the lucky ones … I knew.

I went home that night and fearlessly dusted off my external hard-drive and loaded up “26’s” photo archive, I grabbed the journals off my headboard that had been incessantly taunting me for the last 3 weeks and began reading.

And what I found, was quite different than what I expected.

Of course some entries were painful to look back on; Relationships gone awry, evenings of hyperventilation due to emotional distress, and demonstrative contracts with God surrounding my mom’s illness and my perceived failure at life. But mostly what I found was brilliant, this year had indeed left it’s indelible mark on my life, one of being inexplicably overjoyed and helplessly overloved.

I saw myself fall head-over-heels in love with 30 kids from Montana. I watched more than 10 incredible East/West road trips solidifying for life, relationships with my best friends. As it turned out, much of my time in Montana was filled to the brim with love, laughter, visitors, americanos, hikes, sunshine, and remarkable conversations shared over a glass of wine. During the summer, I had the opportunity to again become completely enamored with another group of individuals, my extraordinary work crew kids at Malibu, people and an experience I will never forget. Short-lived unemployment in Bellingham left me available to spend long days with my sister, laugh for hours at my brother, two of the most brilliant people on the planet, and have remarkable life discussions with my dad. There were trips to Swedish with Carol, literally hundreds of hours, where my mother seemed to morph before my eyes into one of my best friends. Unexpectedly, I watched as the Schuette Family yet again walked out of the impossible, stronger and more in love with one another than before. Looking back, my 26th year on earth became one defined by this love, relationships, ab-toning laughter, colorful photographs canvassed by genuine smiles, travel, Havianna, life-altering summits, my brilliant family, and while sometimes painfully honest, a plausible relationship with Jesus, where he again seemed to defy gravity, ignoring my selfishness and contracts, and faithfully brought me back to a place of peace that passes understanding.

As she always seems to be, Havianna was right. Because I know, I am in fact, one of the lucky ones. And after 3 weeks on a sometimes fanatical journey of reflection, I knew what I needed write about. Not a step-by-step guide on how to survive your birthday, not a commentary on how impossible the last 14 have seemed, rather, a narrative on my year; what I’ve learned, where I’ve been, and who I am because of it.

Was my 26th year what I expected?

Absolutely not.

It was better.

Cooper: A Tribute to Luxury Items

I sat across from him in an anonymous neighborhood at a table in a bistro that shall remain nameless. We had been on a few dates and he evidently felt that things were serious enough to now educate me on the finer points of fiscal conservatism. My mind quickly retreated to a happy place, sea otters, endangered snow leopards, and penguins. Despite my best intentions to actively engage, a slow and familiar process of a Planet Earth blackout was beginning. As I resisted this familiar escape, praying for the moment when he would leave the monetary topic and jump to something at least mildly more entertaining, like the weather or his recent trip to the dentist, I heard a word that piqued my interest … “Dogs” … What? What is this you speak of? Dogs? Ah, dogs, the sweet four-legged angels hailing from the most premium realms of heaven. I came back into the conversation just as he was proving in a bullet point lecture format how dogs were, in fact, luxury items and as such, were a ridiculous thing for the average American to own.

So many things were going wretchedly wrong in that moment. It would seem to the innocent bystander (me) that he believed that talk of financial security was somehow a romance-inducing, date appropriate subject  … it has quite an opposite effect on me … ranking the highest among topics for making me feel impossibly claustrophobic and wanting to rip my hair out, follicle by artificially blond follicle. He also seemed to have something against dogs, one of my favorite things in life, and evidently lacked a soul, but that, unfortunately, like most crucial factors, took me longer to figure out.

Yesterday, as I sat in the Fountain Veterinary Clinic, in Bellingham, Washington, looking in the eyes of my sweet Cooper, who was about to leave Earth to head home from whence he came (the most premium realms of heaven), I thought back on that conversation and laughed.

If there is one thing I’m confident of in this life, it’s that no one … ever … would describe my Coop as a luxury item.

The summer of 1995 was most poignantly described by Charles Dickens in his novel, A Tale of Two Cities …  indeed, “it was the best of times and the worst of times.” The worst of times in that my Jesse, my older sister, had just recently died, I was an awkwardly lanky thirteen-year-old with teeth far too large for my face (no exaggeration, they would later be cut down by my orthodontist to what he deemed a “rational” size), hair that never fell right, and having generally exited real life the year before, lived in a constant state of terror for the day I would once again have to return to middle school (Take me now, Lord) and a social order I had left happily in the dust when my world stopped. However, it was the best of times, in that one beautiful day of that summer, Grandpa George would take pity on me, packing me into the car, telling me that it was about time I get a puppy.  Hallelujah.

Ah Narnia. I sat among a pile of newly weaned Lhasa Apso puppies, hardly the size of guinea pigs, fluffy, squirmy, playful and perfect. This was truly heaven. I was giggling uncontrollably and attempting to figure out how I would ever choose just one, when one of those angelic puppies, black, brown, and white, crawled into my lap, up my shirt, and put his tiny paws one either side of my neck, embracing me as best he could. Game was over. I was head-over-heels in love.

We took him back to the lake house dressed in a red bandana and matching leash, the first of many outfits … he became “Cooper” and the new sixth member of the Schuette clan later that day. Cooper and I had each other, and for the first time, someone needed me. He followed me blindly and depended on me to give him a lift across surfaces he disliked walking across himself, including, but not limited to grass, moss, gravel, wet sand, dry sand, tile, linoleum, concrete, carpet, and hardwood. The focus on my own grief dissipated in a desire to best take care of this new little soul that I so adored.

Now, not to send a false message, please understand that the Schuette’s have always been an animal happy people. There was State-Puff Marshmallow, the kitten that we had saved from a disturbed, dumpster-diving child neighbor, Kenya and Poppy, rabbits that belonged to Jesse and I …  Kenya (Jesse’s) mild-mannered and perfect, Poppy (mine) depressed, belligerent, and aggressive, who habitually attempted to sink her pointed, bunny teeth into my carotid artery every time I freed her from her pen  … I don’t think I’m being dramatic when I say that I honestly believe that rabbit was trying to finish me off. Later, Alley, the runaway Welsh Corgi joined the family. When she was home, she was attempting to herd us, by nipping at our heels, (especially Taylor, he looked the most sheep like) and when our backs were turned she was constantly escaping through minor gaps in our picket fence or through a lazily closed front door. After the 13th time my mom was forced to bail her out of doggy jail in one month, we accepted an offer for her to move to a greener pastures (literally) better suited to her athletic tastes. There was Opie, the opossum, the three blind baby squirrels, and “Taffy” the demon-possessed hamster, but those are lengthy stories better saved for another time. Finally, there was Bender, an overrated, consistently matted, black, reject Himalayan a neighbor had decided was better than a sympathy card. (Epic Fail)

So, while we had had, in our possession, other animals, Cooper was new territory for us; a pet, unlikely to run away, have rabies, completely ignore us, or go maniacally bunny suicide on us. Novel.

Now, not to put an unattainable doggie halo over my new canine’s head, in fact, while I realize I’m risking sounding extremely “Marley and Me,” I might go as far as to describe Cooper as “the worst dog ever,” but in quite an opposite fashion from the standard most “worst dogs” adhere to. He didn’t run for the door when you opened it, he didn’t jump on people, chase cats, or lick … anything. He couldn’t hurdle high enough to sleep on the furniture or sniff our guest’s unassuming crotches, rather than eating everything, he was extremely picky, driving my mom at some points to cook him personalized lamb dinners. He was less dog and more lazy, choosy teenage boy, happy to lay about, watching reality television while munching on buttery, homemade (not microwave) popcorn.

That first summer, we learned out that Cooper was terrified of fireworks and loud noises… in addition he hated the rain, other dogs, the snow, children, the outdoors, strangers, and moving … any and all distances. If you were to throw a ball in his general direction, it was much more likely to hit Coop in the face leaving him with a concussion that was worthy of a several hundred dollar veterinary bill rather than the standard chasing said ball, retrieving it, and engaging in your delightful and completely asinine game. I used to flatter myself that my incredible training skills and Cooper’s divine intellect taught him to understand “sit” and “lay down”. I realize now, however, that his eagerness to follow these commands were born solely out of a desire to no longer be upright, rather than an aspiration to please me by following direction.

A few years later we learned that Cooper had bad ears due to probable inbreeding, a cardiac condition, dental issues, and was most likely allergic to humans … a circumstance that gave him horrible skin allergies, requiring frequent baths and regular trips to the groomer. On one said visit, we were charged an extra thirty dollars because of his “aggressive” nature. Had the groomer known that Cooper’s teeth would have fallen out had he followed through with the assumed crime, mayhap she would have been less likely to see our sweet ten-pound pup as such a threat, but that is neither here nor there.

For all that Cooper wasn’t, mostly dog, he was everything stable and rational in a life that usually swayed toward the opposite. He experienced and somehow survived the excessive squeezing and forced sleepovers of middle school. Throughout my high school career, he bit every single one of my friends, my siblings, my cousins, and other strangers, completely unconcerned for anyone’s opinon or affection, but mine. And for reasons I still can’t imagine, our little Ewok was consistently returned to us after we attempted to give him away to charity or Young Lifer’s playing “Bigger or Better”. While away at college, I always had Cooper to come home to. No matter how catastrophic the date, how devastating the exam, or how impossible the trial; Cooper was there, ready to listen. Regardless of how far I wandered, who else I devoted myself to, or how long I chose to stray from the comforts of my parents cottage, Cooper was a constant presence, waiting for my return, his attitude toward me steadfast and unrelenting. He loved me.

Last Monday was a day like any other, as I walked up to the house, Cooper rose from his pillowed palace, cozy by the fireplace, and wagging his tail, struggled to strut over and meet me at the door. Despite being mostly blind, deaf, dealing with chronic heart failure, and suffering from daily seizures, he still knew my step and was unwilling to give up tradition. Seeing him exhausted from the small feat, and  so clearly with little life left, I collapsed to the floor in tears and he, taking my cue, shrunk into my lap and fell asleep.

The next morning I sat in Fountain Veterinary Clinic, and looking into Cooper’s sweet tired eyes, held him in my lap and kissed his head in a peaceful farewell as he left my world.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve said goodbye to Cooper, I’ve been giving him “just in case” kisses for the last three years, but it would be the last. In that tear-filled moment, I realized that throughout our years together, despite the mixed and negative messages I had received courtesy of personal doubts, a sometimes harsh world, and fiscally conservative boyfriends, solid proof of what was good and true, that I was worthy of love and capable of loving back, had been greeting me at the front door, tail wagging, all along.  That fact alone made my dog perhaps the greatest and truest luxury item I will ever be blessed to know. And for that, my sweet Coop, I am forever grateful.

Rest Peacefully.

L

Lindsay On (Fill in the Blank) … A Mildly Entertaining Topical Discussion in 3 Courses

Since I know you wanted my opinion …

Course 1: Lindsay on The Dangers of Layering:

We all know Seattle winters … They’re hot, they’re cold, they’re in, they’re out, they’re up, they’re down, a typical high/low weather prediction almost constantly varies by 50 degrees, and always with that probable chance of showers, they’re a Katy Perry song just waiting to be written … In short, they’re unpredictable.  To manage this dilemma, the classic Seattlelite knows to dress in layers … wear leg warmers with your Rainbows, a Northface with your mini skirt, Uggs with your sun dress. I, of all people, cursed by the dreaded long torso, should understand the profound beauty of layering better than most … bra, tank top (to cover midriff), tshirt (the necessary fallback if aforementioned tank top fails), hoodie, and finally, the cherry on the top of this material sundae, a down jacket … based on the slim chance that Steve Pool is right and it in fact does drop from the current balmy 55, to the sleety and tragic 12 degrees Fahrenheit he predicts.

Now, the dangers of this habit are found in the pre-emptive strike to begin the layering process when one is not properly mentally prepared (i.e. yet to ingest even one Americano) Tuesday of last week, in such a state, I dressed myself (I do that now), got in my car, set off to work, grabbed an Americano on the way, feeling adequately layered if you will, only to arrive on my jobsite to realize that I had forgotten two essential layers … tank top, and shirt. Yes, I was wearing a bra (thanksagod that was remembered) a zippered (newsflash: metal zippers have a tendancy to get cold when making contact with bare skin … wish I’d realized that 15 minutes ago) hoodie that was two inches too short for my torso (everything is, it’s nine feet long), and a down jacket.

Brilliant. Like the rest of the Seattle who forgot essential layers and don’t happen to work in a field that includes being regularly topless, I was committed to a down jacket … in a cozy house … all day.

Course 2: Lindsay on Modern Technologies Place in Our World:

I’m not going to deny loving The Facebook and text messaging as much as the next giddy, twitter obsessed, middle-schooler. The ability to connect and converse with people so instantaneously is something our forefathers only dreamed of a hundred years ago when they were far from their families and communities, in their wagons, dying of cholera, losing their oxen to the thieves, and caulking their wagon to float it across the river, only to have it tip and in the process lose 100 pounds of food and little Johnboy …. Damn, turns out we should have hired that Indian for five dollars.

Oh well …

Okay, fine, maybe I haven’t spent a lot of time actually researching American history, but I feel like The Oregon Trail gives you a pretty good idea and I can only imagine that the ability to shoot a text to the wagon a mile back to let them know about that snake, would have been helpful … poor, little Mary. This, however, is neither here nor there.

While I appreciate the convenience of technology, I fully believe if we ever decided to prosecute, it would end up charged with murder in the first degree for the premeditated death of the true and civilized, personal aspect of human communication. In saying this, I realize I’m being completely hypocritical. I’m as much of a offender as the next person over. I use texting for conversations I don’t really want to have, the Facebook to connect to the people with whom the thought of sitting though an entire bona fide conversation gives me hives … (no offense to anyone I connect with on Facebook, I don’t mean it), and I sit alone at the corner table of Zoka or the Stube, face-down in my laptop, completely unaware of my surroundings, blissfully engrossed in celebrity gossip on people.com (OMG, Heidi Montag is addicted to plastic surgery … Sadness!), more frequently than I’d like to admit. But, the reality is, while I sometimes fall victim to the convenience of modern life, in my heart-of-hearts, I would much rather be with my friends, talking over a glass of wine, experiencing the joy and sorrow in their faces, hearing the inflections in their voice gently rise and fall, as they graciously allow me a glimpse into their lives.

My love for this “real” connection is probably what drives me obsession with Latin American culture. Every afternoon, whether your in Sayulita, Mexico or Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina, you have absolutely no chance of finding an open tienda, restaurant, or surf shop … It’s “siesta,” usually celebrated by sitting on the front porch in a hammock, drinking a Classic Coca-Cola out of a baggie with a straw, and talking about life with the neighbors, individuals decidedly ignorant of the business they may lose not being present and accounted for at their place of employment. It’s a risk they take, because for that hour, they’re present somewhere that is much more important. Face-to-face connection, a beautiful thing, somehow lost on us, thanks in large part to the marvel of modern technology.

This September, I accepted a nanny job, willingly throwing myself into a situation I never really wanted to see again, between the hospital room and home of a family who’s six-year-old, Havianna is in the fight of her young life against leukemia. The day she was readmitted to the hospital for a bone marrow transplant, I was at home with Austin, her nine-year-old brother, as his parents left him, in my care, sick, jealous, and lonely. Feelings of the raw and total abandonment I felt the last time my sister and parents left me, in an almost identical situation, flooded my mind and as I sat upstairs in his room, staring at him from my perch on his desk , while he ignored me and hid under his covers. I thought back, recalling what my existence was like at nine, constantly watching life as I knew it crumble before my eyes without anyone ever thinking to stop to ask for my permission. Although his story was my story, his hurt, my hurt, I was at a loss for some way to convey that I understood. Unfortunately, I knew as well as he did from personal experience that there was nothing I could say to quiet his heart and mind in a moment of such pain, immersed in a fear too profound for words.

But still, I had to try.

“Austin, I’m sorry … I’m sorry you’re sick, I’m sorry your parents had to leave … I’m sorry Havianna has cancer … My sister was sick when I was little too and …”

His hand shot out from under the covers, wielding a cell phone (Yes, he’s a nine-year-old with a cell phone) On the screen, two brief words, a command.

“GET OUT”

“Austin, if you need to talk … if you’re sad … We can …”

Again, the hand, brandishing his phone like a handgun in the grasp of a perpetrator.

“I’M SERIOUS. GET OUT.”

Tears sprung to my eyes as I realized my complete and total helplessness. Even with similar experience, even knowing firsthand what he was feeling, there was nothing I could do to ease the sheer grief of his situation. Defeated, I walked downstairs and sat on the couch, feeling that familiar instinct in my gut telling me to run, run away from this place, these circumstances, this hurt, as fast as I could, without ever looking back.

Then, a breakthrough. I looked down at the couch at my cell phone, my pocket PC, my marvel of modern science, that lay there, neglected and unused … Two could play this game. I picked it up, hit the text message option, and began typing.

“Austin, sorry this day sucks. I’m downstairs if you need anything.”

A minute passed.

“I need water.”

Relief. “Do you want a bottle or a glass?”

“Both.”

Okay, we’re being difficult, but you deserve to be difficult today … I went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottled of water and filled a glass with the same from the fridge. Then, walking upstairs, delivered them to his nightstand and left.

Back to the couch. Ten minutes later.

“Can we make a pumpkin pie?”

“Absolutely.”

We spent the next 5 hours together in complete silence, present in the same room of the same house,  interacting solely by text. For that day, we completely ignored the fact that we had vocal cords that could promptly fill the same necessity of communicating how much sugar we needed in the mixing bowl with ease, without running up a catastrophic phone bill, but we chose against it. Our boots were heavy with realities too hard and too scary to discuss out loud, so instead, we utilized the phenomenon that is text messaging. Until then, I had always criminalized our technological advances as something that was aiming to tear society apart, tools bound and determined to make us shallow and unable to communicate on a deeper level. But, that day, in the kitchen with Austin, I realized sometimes we need shallow, sometimes that deeper level is simply somewhere we cannot go, because if we do, we’ll cry and as a “tough” nine-year-old boy, and as his nanny who understands him on a level more profound than he will ever know, tears are simply not an option.

Course 3: Lindsay On The Imperative of Imagination:

When people hear about my job with Havianna, they often look at me with sadness in their eyes, slowly shake their heads back and forth, then with pity in their voices, usually murmur something along the lines of … “Wow, that must be really hard.” And don’t get me wrong, being around a bald, often sick, cancer-stricken six-year-old everyday, isn’t what anyone wishes for, but what these well-meaning people don’t realize is that Havi and my interactions, rarely, if ever include talk of chemotherapy, cancer, illness, or death. Topics of reality are hardly ever breached.

Instead, the fairies that have taken up residency  in the attic, take up most of our time, followed closely behind by the mermaids that dance recklessly about in the Montlake Canal, and then onto discussing the probability that Tux the dog is actually a goblin in disguise and how we’ll address that issue. Occasionally the ugly facts of life rear their head, like the tragedy Havi believes it is that some people actually have red hair, but those subjects are the exception, not the norm.

Last week, she and I were lying on the floor of the “fairy room” discussing life, the fairies, and why they only write backwards, when she turned off the light, leaving us to stare at the ceiling in darkness. The world was completely still for a moment, then she broke into the quiet with a request.

“Tell me a story.”

Again, silence. Then, the rusty wheels of my imagination began slowly turning and I told her the story of naughty fairies who stole gems from children and gave them to Mrs. Hodge Podge, an old lady who smelled like dust and soap, who had aided the fairies with the downfall of a wicked goblin during her childhood and now, even though she was decrepit and living in an old folks home, the fairies returned her kindness to them by bringing her stolen goods … Havianna loved it.

The next day, laying on the bean bag, staring at the ceiling, the only noise, the rhythmic hum of Havi’s feeding tube, the appeal was the same.

“Tell me a story.”

Afraid that my previous tale might encourage kleptomania in my small charge, I told her a new fairy-tale, this time about the Woodland fairies, racking my brain for over fifteen minutes to come up with the details of toadstools, wands, and sparkles I knew her inquisitive, little mind would require. What seemed like forever later, the light went on, and she turned to me with raised eyebrows.
“I liked Mrs. Hodge Podge better.”

Sigh. Personal defeat. Then, almost instantaneously we were onto bigger and better things.

That night, after a particularly harrowing day of medications, vomit, eyebrow loss, and vivid flashbacks, I was laying on the floor of my living room, staring at the ceiling, with JB. Tired and feeling slightly assaulted by reality, I voiced my own request.

“Tell me a story.”

Silence. I figured he had fallen asleep, or hadn’t heard me, or more likely, had heard, but was ignoring this outlandish and child-like appeal. Then a minute later …

“Back in the days of ancient Egypt, there lived a Pharaoh on the banks of the Nile who, before dying, hid his considerable fortune …”

His narrative transported me to modern day Morocco where I watched as a boy and a girl wandered the markets, eating their weight in hummus, taking photographs, and making friends who would aid them in finding a legendary fortune. In my mind’s eye, I watched them experience a grand adventure as they were kidnapped and held prisoner at the border by greedy customs guards, managed to charm their way out, then skipped from oasis to oasis through the desert as they traveled on the backs of camels with a Bedouin tribe  ….

My eyes were heavy when JB ended the first “chapter” of this story, leaving our heroes at the Algerian border, waving goodbye to their newfound gypsy friends. He kissed my forehead, left me to fall asleep, and as I lay there, letting my mind drift, I realized the imperative of imagination. There was very little difference between me and my six-year-old mini. We both needed escape. We both needed to let our mind focus on a locale that was different than the place and situation it was  in at present. We both needed adventure of epic proportion and to experience the brilliance and majesty of the unknown …. Of a world beyond our own.

Imagination allows me to believe that there will, in fact, come a day when I once again roam the globe, a directionally impaired vagabond, dependent on  limited charms and the kindness of strangers to safeguard me from awkward and potentially dangerous situations. Once again, I will feel the chill of Lake Nicaragua whirl around me as I wash clothes alongside local women, while their children splash and laugh, and they recount to me tales of war and peace. One day, I will again sit in a Argentinean park with a demitasse of espresso in hand and watch the uninhibited Latin lovers kiss because it’s Tuesday. And there will come a day when I’ll feel the sun’s heat on my face, and the blessed relief of an oasis in the desert as I travel to Algeria by camelback with a Bedouin tribe. Imagination gives Havi and I the right to believe, with unbridled expectation, that someday, with the help of fairy dust and her sheer determination, she will earn her wings and fly.

We all need a story, an escape, an adventure, a fairytale of its own right,  that safeguards us from the reality of the moment … It lends to us, hope. A gentle promise that the pain of today isn’t the end all be all, that what we feel now, isn’t forever, and while life is not always as it should be or as it could be, we have within us the power to create a a time and a place where it is … Which is why, whether we’re six, twenty-six, or ninety-six, it is simply fact that in order to accept and joyfully embrace the sometimes cruel and unjust nature of reality, we must resolutely cling to the imperative imagination.

Dream on.

L

Transformation … Or “Out to Prove, I’ve Got Nothing to Prove”

One year ago, to the day, I was wandering the beach of Sayulita, Mexico, in a passionate search of baby sea turtles to potentially kidnap … or turtlenap, if you will. In addition to tanning by day, “swimming” by night, surfing, running, laughing, writing, eating my weight in guacamole, “fishing,” shopping, reading, eating my weight in fresh tortillas, “lobster diving,” boating, drinking icy Mohitos, and dancing with any Latino I could get my hands on, I spent a lot of time thinking.

Shocking, I know.

I was in the midst of what will go on the record for now as one of the more tumultuous years in the history of Lindsay Schuette. I had left my world, my friends and my family to take a job in Montana. I was lonelier than I had ever been, I had, once again, been an firsthand spectator of death, and recently, had been unexpectedly dumped by someone I genuinely cared for … over the phone.

Classy.

Thus, starting a fresh year in a place like Sayulita, Mexico drinking in the sea air, inhaling corn tortillas fresh off the grill, watching the salt dry on my skin after a great session in the surf, and throwing around my less than fluent Spanish skills with the charming locals, among a culture I happened to adore, was like giving a tall glass of water to my severely dehydrated soul.

It was gorgeous.

As those who know me well, know well, I have a tendency to fixate on things. This compulsion stretches across the board of life matters and while it sometimes can be beneficial in pushing me to finish things I would not otherwise finish, or perfecting things I would not otherwise perfect, it has also caused sleepless nights, sweat, tears, and the necessity to  be occasionally sedated. When I was little I used to concentrate on the more depressing aspects of my life, like my grandma’s nails. They were brilliantly long, strong nails that she would tap incessantly on the kitchen counter as she looked out the window, smoking and contemplating life. I loved those nails. The tragedy of it all lay in the fact that her nails that left me so mesmerized would never know the thrill of a sassy red manicure, as she was allergic to nail polish. In retrospect, I realize that her “allergy” was probably less of an allergy and more of a manifestation of a desire not to have her fingers sloppily painted red by my clumsy 8 year old salon skills … she had, after all, seen the haircut I gave my sister … (all I had wanted was to help her by getting those perfect brunette ringlets out of her face …) Short story, long, coloring within the lines has never been my forte. Had Gram known that her nails would have caused me fine lines and so many sleepless nights, I’m sure she would have just let me paint them … But that is neither here nor there. The point is, as I’ve grown up, I’ve made a goal of trying to make my talent of compulsive focus at least slightly more productive.

The chosen object of my affection and obsession in Sayulita was one of the most dilapidated old houses I’ve ever seen. It sat on a small bluff above the beach where it looked out over sunsets and surfers. Windows broken, ceiling caved in, and what used to be a bright white exterior now abused by spray paint, it was a sad sight sitting decrepit among the newer, more impressive waterfront mansions that surrounded it on all sides. Despite its obvious shortcomings and the fact that frightening tropical bugs infested its interior, the little casita left me entranced. On my morning runs, I would stop by, look up, give it a smile, and run on. When we walked to the square in the afternoons for lattes, I would dawdle past, imagining my life within its walls. One night, the house and I enjoyed a beautiful sunset together. I climbed up a more than rickety staircase to its ramshackle veranda porch and through the palm trees and overgrowth of the front yard, we watched as God painted the sky in brilliant reds, vibrant yellows, and effervescent oranges. As the heavens went black, I kissed its weatherworn door and told my house that I would come back to it someday … That I believed in its ability to be transformed, to be beautiful and useful once again.

Obsession with house: Strange? Definitely. Unhealthy? Probably. I blame it on my mother.

Throughout the year of 2009, the house I met in January was ever present in my mind. And in reflection, this inanimate object has somehow taught me a lifetime of lessons.

I returned from Mexico with a renewed passion to live life well, to let the past be the past, and to become someone new, to simply be all those things I thought I should be. Thus began another year of strenuous contracts and resolutions, starting with harsh judgments of myself that included, but were not limited to grasping the absolute necessity of a total personality change. These outlandish commitments for 2009 were nothing new. They were just another unrealistic list of impossible modifications in the existence of Lindsay Schuette. Life had taken me many places, through states, countries, and relationships.  In each of these subsections of life, whether getting on a plane, packing up my car, dating someone new, or starting a fresh year with the rest of the world, my resolve was unchanging. Always to be different, to be someone new, someone transformed. I quite literally wrote a contract when I moved to Guatemala, vowing to God and my journal, that I would indeed become one with the quiet, subservient, Proverbs 31, “good” girls I had met in the middle school youth group. While their lives seemed rather dull and their naivety less than charming, I so idolized their “perfection.” After all, becoming “them” was the only way to reach my goal of loving Christ and living for Him. To say that this Guatemalan pact with myself didn’t pan out would be the understatement of the year. Within a week of moving in at the YWAM base, I was in the director’s office explaining why I truly felt that bananas could easily be equated with habitual sin.

The contracts showed up again when I moved to Alaska, to Seattle, to Costa Rica, to Montana, and beyond. And here I was, January 13th of 2009 doing it  again. I saw all of these proverbial new beginnings as a chance to reinvent and recapture this person that I never was to begin with.

Yet again, my January 13th resolutions lasted just days. Epic fail. Within the month, I had once again made stupid, destructive choices, I was unbelievably lonely, I had sworn several times, I had accidentally kissed my ex-boyfriend … twice, and in addition to all this, my mom, one of my inspirations in life, had been re-diagnosed with cancer. Looked like faking the Proverbs 31 woman wasn’t in the cards for this year. Screw transformation.

Enter MaryAnn McGowan, the best mom in the Rattlesnake and the woman who saved 2009. She was my mentor, my best friend, and the person most likely to peel my swollen, tear-stained face off the bathroom floor. She walked with me, worked out with me, laughed with me, drank wine with me, advised me, shopped with me, and by letting me simply be in her sometimes crazy, out-spoken, funny, painfully honest, loving, and borderline amazing presence she taught me that maybe I wasn’t all bad, that just maybe my personality and God’s work in this world, could meet in the middle. Together, we took over Missoula one day at a time, local celebrities, out to prove, we had nothing to prove.

“Be transformed …” Maybe the real work of transformation wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. So much of my time and energy had been focused on what I was to become … Something new … Something I wasn’t. What if the reality was, that my task in life, the job of transformation, was to become what I already was, to grow more into the person I was born to be, the person I was created to be. Whoever she is … maybe I won’t look for wool and flax in the wilderness … maybe I won’t arise while it is still night to feed my family … But I’m beginning to think that this perfect, quiet, subservient, designer homemaker is simply not in my blueprints. And that in spite my more obvious shortcomings, I am beloved by God, and useful to Him.

As I attempt to become more comfortable in my own skin, I’m slowly arriving at the conclusion that there is no cookie cutter design for faith, for personality, or for perfection. Instead, as I try to become more myself, let go of my insecurities, and attempt to walk a life in the light of Christ and who he created Lindsay Schuette to be, I become more appreciative of who others were created to be, rather than feeling threatened by personal inadequacy. As Nelson Mandela reminded us, “As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

As I thought about my little Mexican casita in the wake of a turbulent 2009, I realized my life was a lot like that little house. When I sat on its porch and dreamt of living my life within its walls, I never pictured it becoming anything other than what it already was. I had no desire to bulldoze it down to make room for another McMexicanMansion or create another commercial beachside resort. Instead, I simply desired to restore it to its original brilliance. To gently clean the graffiti off its walls, paint its interior, replace windows and reinstate it as a little, quirky, sunny, laughter-filled home for me and my friends on Sayulita’s beach.

So there it is. Could it be that the cosmic and seemingly eternal question of “What am I to become?” isn’t really the question at all? Could it be that genuine transformation actually results in becoming a more complete and less jaded version of who we already are? Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m a little crazy, a little funny, a little honest, a lot imperfect, and there is a one hundred percent chance that I’ll say something tonight that I’ll regret by morning. But I’m learning to believe that if I’m willing to let God restore the masterpiece he created, to peel off the layers of filth the world and my selfishness has added to my being, to gently wash that graffiti, the judgment and pride, the arrogance, the fear, the vanity, and the pain, off the walls of my heart, maybe someday I’ll be lucky enough to experience true transformation …  and become who I already am.

Gracias por leer.

L

Obrigado …

Better late than never, right? Right. I watched “Julie and Julia” this week and figure that if Julie can cook for an entire year, I can be thankful for one … So it is with renewed passion, and wearing an apron and pearls, (I figure that might help)  that I continue on my quest of a year of gratefulness for this brilliant life I live.

8.  Ultimately thankful for friends who make me laugh until I can no longer breathe. Also, for friends who know, by heart, the dance moves Soulja Boy’s “Superman”, therefore requesting it at dive bars so all the uninterested patrons can share in their joy. (*See Above: “laugh until I can no longer breathe”)
9.   Fleece sheets and a space heater.
10. Good Old Fashioned Chivalry: Today, my car ran out of gas. Indeed, it was bound to happen someday, considering grocery stores and gas stations are the bane of my existence and I, therefore, avoid then with my life … But when my car and I slowly came to a stop in the middle of the busy intersection of Brooklyn and 50th, I was incredibly thankful for the homeless man who, with no regard for his own safety, ran out into the street, pushed the Subaru and my body to a secure location, and then, asking nothing in return, tipped his beanie and walked away.
11.    Thankful for Pat Schuette. Thankful that in the midst of a tumultuous childhood and in an existence where there wasn’t a good option for a stable lifestyle, my inexperienced father was willing to, at times, take on the task of raising me alone. Thankful that today we’re still together to laugh about how all of my less desirable qualities, according to my darling mother, are the result of the years I was left alone with the quarterback.
12. Hospitality. Thankful for Heather Valencia, and people like her, who are willing to open up their homes, so we can throw parties in them. I don’t know that I’ve ever laughed so hard during a game of Scattergories … “No, Blake … that one doesn’t count … NO! You can’t “count it anyways,” it doesn’t count … Blake! It’s just a fact … Someone find the rules … Oh my gah …”
13.     Annalise, Elisa, Hailey, Holly, Mikayla, and Erika. So grateful for their spirits, for their questions, for their perspectives. Thankful that I have somehow been given the ultimate gift of getting to spend time with them as they power their way through Saved by the Bell, the College Years. (Disclaimer: They’re not actually on Saved By the Bell … But I like to imagine that I’m the “Mr. Belding” to their “Zach Morris” … It makes me feel incredibly influential … and therefore, incredibly thankful … which is, after all, the point)
14.    The Audacity of Hope. (No, not Obama’s book) Thankful that even in the darkest moments of our existence, there is a still, small voice gently encouraging our hearts to not give up, that there is indeed, despite not being able to see, feel, or smell it, hope. And while we’re allowed to be discouraged, downcast, and sometimes unbelievably disappointed, we are never to give up on hope since hope never gives up on us.
15.    Resilience: Despite occasionally cursing my own “resilience,” I am thankful that not all stories of childhood cancer end with a funeral. Thankful that Havianna is safe at home and that I have the grand opportunity of being a spectator of her success story.
16.    Inspiration: Thankful for friends who believe in something bigger than themselves. Thankful to be surrounded by people who inspire me to be something better than I am and be a part of something much grander. People that grasp the reality that true legacy can’t be measured by a dollar amount, a title, or how much you own. People who believe in hope and transformation.
17.    Community: During this season of many ugly sweater parties, (BTW: We need to get more creative, peeps) I love watching my friends love my friends. Thankful that while I can’t always comprehend the brilliance of the mosaic that is being brought together through our lives, I know enough to understand something beautiful is in the works.
18.    Inga: Thankful for my beautiful roommate. For her soul and the ways I know she touches my life and the lives of others. I’m thankful for her faith, her honesty, and her commitment to our friendship. Also thankful for restaurants that understand that sometimes enjoying a meal with friends, takes several hours and don’t hint you out with the bill after 45 minutes, but rather play music and serve wine to encourage community.
19.    Today I wished I could be thankful for snow … since it was, in fact, snowing, everywhere else in the world (if you’re feeling that ache in your soul right now to argue with my “facts,” those who know me well would inform you that there is no point in doing so when I’m being jealous and irrational, so simmer down. Your best option is to change the subject to something like Teddy or sea otters and hope I forget) … That said, instead, I’m thankful for imaginations that reach beyond weather. Thankful that JB will indulge me by pretending for an entire evening that there is in fact, a blizzard going on, right outside my door, that we cannot drive to U Village because of the ice, and our best option for survival is an indie movie and wine.
20.    Sweet bald heads … and thankful for the daily opportunity to kiss one.
21.   Greg Mortenson (author: Three Cups of Tea): Thankful for brilliant people that remind me that despite what we see in the newspapers and on television, beautiful and true things are happening in the world. Schools are being built, children are being fed, pure and perfect religion is being practiced with orphans and widows being taken care of in their distress.

And that’s it for now.

Cheers.

L