(Graffiti) Grandview, MO July 2012

Part 1


     Nights like that, I don't remember how they started. I found myself in a car with Joy and Sabrina.  I was restless and wild, wishing for trouble, looking for some way to prove I was young and reckless. I brought my spraypaint, and jammed all seven cans into Sabrina's ragged backpack. Frederick was grounded or something. 
     "Let's go. We're getting him out." I announced. I texted him and told him we're coming to spring him out. He wrote back saying it was impossible: if he even tiptoed too loudly in the living room the dog would bark and wake his parents. But we had to. 
    We drove to his neighborhood, circling like vultures, only a little bit lost. Sabrina sped by his house and parked three doors down. 
"Hmmm. I'll think of something. We HAVE to get him out." I said. "That's my goal for tonight." I hatched a plan and texted Frederick again. 
    If he tried to leave through the front door, his Dad, who was sleeping on the couch, would wake up. If he left through the back door, the dog would bark and wake Mr. Schneider either way. I had the perfect plan. I told Frederick I would ring the doorbell, drawing attention to the front of the house, while he would escape out the back. Not stealthy, but pretty clever.
     I told Sabrina to be ready to drive as I hopped out of the car. I ran in the dark, up two cement steps, and rang the doorbell six times as fast as I could. Cole barked loudly, and I could see movement in the living room immediately. I sprinted to the car, grinning and barely breathing. The dog was going berserk while Frederick busted out the back door, and ran into the street. 
     The silhouette of a boy with skinny jeans, wearing his hood up, sprinting in the dark, was wild and youth. I had that feeling you get when you're young, like everyone is crazy and adults are after you and all you can do is run. 
     He jumped in the back seat and slammed the door and we were all laughing. The windows were down, and I heard a yell from down the street. "Hey kid!" and all of the sudden his dad was in the van, chasing after us, and adults really WERE after us. We ducked our heads and Sabrina sped like the devil and it was glorious. 
     "Why me!" Sabrina yelled. "Why am I always driving!" I laughed at her and said it's a good thing I wasn't driving, because I would probably kill everybody. Joy was doubled over with laughter, we were sliding across the backseat squishing each other while Frederick shook his head. 
   "What on earth!" Freddy laughed, "Does he know it's me?"
   After a couple of quick turns, we shook him off our tail. We followed the curves of Blue River road, and drove to main street, to the bat shack. Some nights (most nights) we did not care and didn't hide very well. We parked on the side of the road a couple streets over, grabbed the backpack, and frolicked in the dark. 
     "I'm dead!" said Frederick, "I'm so dead. But I'm about to be 18, so I mean I have to sneak out one last time, while it still matters."
     "True." Joy said. "What's the point of rebelling without parents to rebel against?"
      I was 19, living on my own, with no rules, no curfew, no nothing. I lived in the same house as Carol, but she never tried to parent me or give me rules. Carol is 60 years old, wise and young all at the same time. She was like my weird aunt. Carol has a burning curiosity that lives in her bones, fueling her questions and conversations. But she was my friend, and she respected me in a time where I felt that no adult respected me. She didn't question why I came home at 3:00 or 4:00 am most nights or who slept in my bed. She didn't ask why I walked on eggshells in her house, but sometimes I wished she did. And that night, it was funny to think about the fact that no one knew where I was. No one cared if I was safe. It wasn't as fun because I didn't have parents to rebel to. It was ironic to think that I kind of wished for the thinks I hated. I didn't have any structure, which is exactly what I wanted, right? No rules, no cage to be kept in. No parents (sort of) to worry about me. But for a minute, I wished I did.
      The Bat Shack was a tiny building, use for literally we had no idea what. Maybe something electrical. It was just a small spot we chose to tag and to use the roof for stargazing. I grabbed my can of black paint, which was continually running out, and went over the bat sign. It had been there for ages. I remember seeing it when I was 6 or 7, and as soon as I was old enough to drive, I made it my job to retrace it. The sound of paint spraying was like music to me. I put the cap back on, climbed up a pipe, and onto the roof. After helping Joy, Sab, and Frederick up, we laid on our backs on the roof and looked at the few stars we could see. 
   "Sab, you know that wall we painted at the baseball diamond? They literally covered it the next day. Who has time to make sure the ghetto park bathrooms look good?" I scoffed.
   "Damn, they move fast." she laughed. "We need to find some more spots."
     "Hey." I suddenly had an idea. "I know a good spot down main street, behind the Haas' apartment. It's not very lit. And I don't think there are cameras, we just need to watch for the landlord dude. He's pretty nice actually." 
     We climbed down, speeding down the swooping dips in the road that led to Grandview. 
    Main Street, Blue River Road; these roads felt like home more than houses did. I spent two years longboarding, walking, and biking those roads, day and night. Miles and miles of music, thought, prayers, and conversation. 
    We found a spot to park close to the cafe, and walked to the apartment. The building was some sort of small art center, used for dance classes and local art projects. Sabrina had brought our stencils, which I was stoked to use, and Joy was excited and panicking because she had never tagged before. I gave Joy a short rundown on what to do and told her she couldn't mess up. She painted some gold anchors and some free hand stuff, while Sab tagged the traditional "Sauerkraut." 
     I held up the stencil I made. It was an outline of Austin and his friend Josiah, and it was the cover of their album.
     I painted the boys in black, and wrote free hand in bright red beneath it: "The Siren" which was the name of their music project. I hardly spoke to Austin. I thought the cover was cool.
     Oh the thrill of tagging. Nothing is more fun than paint, and when you add "illegal" to it, it's the greatest thing in the world. I love art. My only point was to paint beautiful things, or poetry, or make a statement. I've never painted something ugly, or profane. 
    "Ahhhh. Guys. We're going to die." Joy was freaking out. 
     "Joy!" I laughed, "Isn't it the best? Come on. Why is it different than trespassing at a pool, or you using conditioner at the store?" 
   "It's not the saaaame, I need conditioner after we swim or my hair will die." she smirked.
    "Omigosh, nice Joy." I breathed. "I love the anchor in gold like that."
   Frederick paced nervously. "Okay dudes. For real we gotta go. I am NOT getting arrested." He glanced at his cell phone. "Whaaaat?" he started laughing and shaking his head. "My mom just texted. She said I have to pay a fine because I broke curfew and broke my grounding." 
I laughed. "What the hell?  There's nooo way." 
"A big fat fine." Joy laughed, "Frederick has to pay a fine just for living." 



Part 2

      In the middle of a hot July day,  I was inside, taking a nap. Hours of working in the sun really was draining, but it was rare for me. I only nap once or twice a year when it sneaks up behind me and pounces like a cat. I was drained because I was dehydrated, and probably because I hugged Luke goodbye a few nights before, when I left the Castle. He moved to  New York this morning, to live there. To live there. Not stay there. "How is that real? "  I was thinking, imagining how spread out our family would be someday. Emotion has a way of tiring you out. It's not work, it's not challenging, but it drains you. From that deep sleep, I heard my phone ring and was surprised to see the screen read, "Aut." I'm not sure if he had ever called me. But I knew why Austin was  calling. There was only one thing it could be about, unless it was some sort of emergency. But I knew it wasn't because I didn't get that terrible vibe I get when bad news is coming.

      "Hey." I answered. "Hey Hope, how are ya?" he asked a few things to be kind, rambling and sounding a bit nervous. I rolled my eyes and waited for him to cut to the chase. "Well, I was contacted by IHOP security, and some 'art was found on their property, the building across from Cafe Main.  It matches the cover art of my album. So I wanted to ask you if you did it. I understand, I've done a lot of crazy stuff." he said. "Yeah, I did." I answered quickly. I felt like laughing but didn't want to have a smile in my voice. I don't lie very much, and I am pretty unashamed of my scoundrelly ways, no matter the trouble it gets me in. "Okay." he said. "Thanks for telling the truth." Austin explained that unless the person who did it came forward, he would be charged for it. He was on staff and part of the ministry, so it would definitely be bad for him. He told me he would set up a meeting with the head of security.

     The next day, I drove to The Base, which is the term for the IHOP missions base in Grandview. I parked in the back, in the gravel parking lot and found the door to the security office. Austin had told me he would meet me there, for moral support or something, but I hated the idea so I came early. 

     I kindly introduced myself to Laurie, who had a british accent and a concerned look in his eyes. He asked a few questions, and I shrugged as I answered them. "I know it was stupid. We were just having fun. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone." 

    Adults always love when you say that. Admit you're stupid, say sorry, and sound innocent while doing it. He was stern, and warned me about how serious the crime was. "We could get the police involved," he said matter of factly, "We rent that building, and the owners could choose to press charges. I told him all about how innocent I was and how pure my intentions were. 

     Laurie could see I was just a young troublemaker, that I was nothing serious really. "I'll tell you what. I'll make a deal with you." 

    We agreed upon the terms: I had three days. I would buy the paint and supplies, and paint over the wall. He wouldn't press charges or get the cops involved. 

"You will not just patch it, with ugly squares. You need to paint the whole side of the building, a solid white." He looked into my eyes and sneered with that sarcastic accent, "Never, ever do graffiti again. Or we WILL find you, and you will be punished." 

    I let the words slide right off my back and felt like such a teenager,  a hot mess looking for trouble. I saluted him and turned to walk out of the door.

   "But," he added, "It was beautiful art. Not bad at all." He smiled,  a small glimpse of mischief in his eyes, and went back to his paperwork. 

"Thanks Laurie." I said. It was easier to smile. 

     I walked out with that infinite, middle of summer feeling. 

Part 3

     I called the others and gave them the run down. 

"Let's plan on tomorrow after work. Meet at Cafe Main. Is that cool?" I asked. 

"Yep that works," Joy said, "I'll pick you up." 

I texted Live, to see if she wanted to join the fun. Obviously she did. 

   After I got off work, me, Joy, and Live went to walmart to buy a couple gallons of paint, and some brushes. 

   Back at Main, we met up with the boys, and I ordered an iced americano. We sat for a while and talked. Frederick had roped Eli into helping. Sabrina was working. 

    "Okay peeps let's get it." I said. We gathered up the supplies and walked across the street. 

   We laughed and goofed around, getting white flecks on our arms and faces and clothes. 

    "So, how do we paint the whole wall?" Frederick asked. We painted most of the brick, but that strip along the top was a story high. Looking around, I spotted two trashcans in the nearby alley, and rolled them over to the wall. 

    "What the heck." Frederick said, "Watch us get in trouble for that."

     Frederick and Eli climbed on the cans, and struggled their way to the roof. They hung over the ledge like monkeys, and covered the unreachable top. 

   A random woman appeared, coming out of the building and around to the back where we were. She was a mom, I guessed, because she had her hands on her hips and an annoyed look on her face. 

   "Ignore her." I told the others.

   She went inside, and appeared again a few minutes later, with a second woman, who had an amused look on her face. She seemed nice.

   "Um, hi. What are you doing?" she asked. 

     "Hey, we're volunteers! Gosh I heard about what happened here,"  I said, motioning towards the wall. "But we're fixing it." I smiled. 

   "Ooooh," she sighed, "Thaaank you. Oh my goodness you guys are sweet. I know, it's a shame that kids do this kind of stuff. Um, wait. I know they were supposed to take pictures for evidence."

   "Yeeeeah, that's taken care of," I said quickly. "I talked to Laurie. You know, head of security dude. We're all good." 

   "Oh good. Well, thanks again!" she said, smiling at Joy and Olivia. She looked up at the boys, a little amused, "Be careful up there!" she looked down at our feet. "Gosh. Sorry you have to do it barefoot!" 

   Then she turned and went back inside.

      Me and the girls died laughing. 

   "Yep, volunteers." I said proudly. 

   "Poor things, we've been forced to do it barefoot!" Live said. "What a ditz. Did the cops really get pictures yet?"

   I shrugged. Hopefully not.

   "What the hell." a mans voice said behind us. I turned to see the Haas' grumpy neighbor. "Um, are those my trash cans?" 

   "Yeah, we're just painting this wall and don't have a ladder. I'll put them right back when we're done." I kept painting. He scratched his head and went back inside. 

     The sun was setting, bright orange, lighting up all the rooftops on that summer evening. I felt like Tom Sawyer. The troublemaker, painting with all my friends, absolutely loving it. We laughed at irony. 

"Dude." I said. "We painted, and we got caught, so they're punishing us by making us paint?"

"The fooools." Joy laughed. "What is life."

    

     

The Rebellion of 2012- Part One

     KCMO
    
      After sneaking into a pool for a night swim, me and Joy came back to Carols house, where I was living at the time. The dregs of the night felt cool, and in the dark I discovered that my one and only dangling key was lost. I didn't have a car or any other home, I just had one singular key to Carols door which was attached to a watch chain that lived in my backpack. We stood on the porch, wide eyed and dripping clothes. I checked and rechecked my backpack and decided it really couldn't be there. In fact, I  probably had left it on top of my dresser, forgetting to grab it when I left before, I saw Joy take a deep breath and choose not to be mad at me for losing track of the damn key. All the doors were locked.
     Luckily we had dry clothes in our bags. We tiptoed to the backyard to change behind the pine trees, and laid out on the grass. Carol had just cut it for the 4th of July party, so it was short. It was a little itchy, but comfortable and I laughed at our life and how typical it was. The moon was out, and it lit up the yard so brightly I knew we wouldn't sleep any time soon. "You doing okay?" I asked Joy. Her allergies were always terrible. "I'm all right." she whispered, "Let's try to get some rest."
     I swear it must have been a full moon, because it was like trying to fall asleep with the light turned on. After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, we had enough. 
     "Hope," Joy whispered, "We're supposed to be leaving in like four hours. I can barely breathe...we HAVE to get inside."
      So back we went to the front porch. "Wait here." I told her. "I'll try something." I walked to the sideyard, and saw my blue bike, Crusoe, glistening in the moonlight. It was chained to the fence. Quietly I swung open the gate, and dropped down to crawl behind bushes. I slide past the sharp zebra grass, angling my way through the dog door, and found my feet on the cool garage floor. It was pitch black, and the light switch was inside, so I walked slowly with my arms stretched out in front of me, til I found the steps. Two wooden steps lead to the kitchen door, which also has a dog door. The only problem is Carol kept a tight plastic cover on it at night, so the animals can't get out. It coiud only be taken off from the inside, technically, but my goal was to take it off from the outside. I had done it before, but it was daytime and no one was home to hear it clatter loudly onto the floor. I pulled up the flap, and held it up with my head, while I worked my fingers around the edges to to try to pry it off. "Oh my gosh this isn't real." I whispered to myself. I wanted to kill it. I resisted the urge to kick through it. I could just envision it: the dogs flipping out and barking, and a traumatized, wide eyed Carol, yelling at me in her robe and slippers. 
     After a solid twenty minutes of tedious frustration, and worked it off and it landed on the kitchen floor with only a soft clatter. I winced and waited for movement. Nothing. Praise god. Turnimg sideways, I slid through the door and onto the linoleum. Popping the cover back on, I heard a quiet whine from behind me. I swung around. There was Toby, waiting expectantly. I could see his glimmering browm eyes in the dark. He was like my watchdog. Sometimes he would sleep outside my door at night, maybe protecting me. I never liked dogs that much, but I grew to like him. "Hi buddy. Go to bed." I patted his soft head and quietly made my way through the living room, and unlocked the door. Joy sighed with relief after waiting for eternity. 
At 3:00 am, we hurried into my room and into our sleeping bags in record time, hoping we would really wake up at 6:00 like we were supposed to.

Vina, CA April 2014

     The rows of trees run in straight lines, rows upon rows that are a mesmerizing blur. Cherry trees, orange trees, almonds trees. I wear my sunglasses because I don't want my eyes to be seen. Windows down, the Killers blasting, tears in my eyes. Sometimes I miss out, I know I do. It takes me a while to be friends with anyone. "I'm not very good at friends." Katniss said. And I know just how she feels. I've always had family around me, I've always had friends, no matter how awful I am at friendship. I don't make new friends, because I'm a brat. I decide pretty quickly that I don't like anyone in the room. Maybe I was born this way, just came out of the womb annoyed with the whole world. I love people, I really do. I didn't realize that I'm not very nice until I moved faraway from my beautiful sisters, with their sassy attitudes and bright smiles and ridiculous ideas. They never fail to make me laugh. I'm grateful for them, and don't really feel like I need friends. But I do get lonely, it just doesn't sink in for a while. And now here, in this moment, I am sad because I did not realize the friends I've had around me in LEC. It took me ten months. And today I am bummed because I will not be traveling with them to England. I won't be praying for people and ministering together. I look out the window again, and the words of Brandon Flowers make my stomach hurt:

"You gotta be stronger than the story, don't let it blind you, rivers of shadow, this feeling won't go."

     I can speak in confidence, in a strong voice, when I'm not talking about me. Amanda is nearly in tears about the leaders being ticked at her. A few nights before, we had pranked Shane, and apparently we went too far. Amanda got the flak for it, maybe because she is the responsible one. "Amanda, let it go. They'll be over it like tomorrow. And it could be much, much worse. I just pretend I'm invincible. And I expected to be in trouble." I grinned at her. She laughed and told me of course I didn't care. I feel like I've always been in trouble. Maybe because I look for it.
     After about an hour we reached Vina. The monastary is quiet, the most quiet and beautiful places I've been to, with rich green grasses and rows of vineyards and stone buildings. In the clusters are giant orange trees, branches heavy with the bright fruit, hanging over the fences. I had never seen orange trees til I moved to California. We gathered up and ate lunch on a large wooden trailer. Jill told us we were going to eat in silence, like the monks. I've never felt that way before. It was like having alone time but not being alone. I could feel the hearts all around me, I could feel my own emotion hurting my chest. I sat cross legged and ate a little, while I looked at each person around me. Luke reminds me of a dog, in the best possible way. Loyal eyes. Shane stared into the distance, his tattooed arms crossed, every once and a while pulling on one of his dreaded locks or stroking his beard, with that serious look on his face. Shane reminds me of me. Intimidating, direct, adventurous. Some people think he's always mad. But I never do. Justin sits by me, pulling on his red beard, and probably praying quietly. Abbey always has a furrowed brow, thinking deeply about something. 
     Jill told us we needed to stay silent, but take a long walk around the property. We walked quietly, scattered about, towards  a large stone structure that is still being built. The giant arched doorways stretch overhead, making Jills silhouette look small as she walks through. The ceilings are high, and each stone and bit of wood is designed beautifully. The roof looks easy to access, but I quickly shut down my own idea and roll my eyes at my childlike impulses. Jared walks inside and stands by a pillar, his browns eyes thoughtful, and begins to sing. 

"Oh, precious is the flow, that makes me white as snow. No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus."

    Our voices expand and rise, bouncing off the ceiling, this motley gang of peoples voices blending together in quiet worship. I feel the hearts. I do. I feel these hearts expressing worship. What do those words mean? I've never paid much attention to the hymn. White as snow. I thank my father for making me feel clean and young. I walk the property, striding along the dirt road that runs in perimeter around the vineyard. I roll the sleeves of my denim shirt up and think about the fact that I don't know who I am. I came here to find that out, and my one goal I didn't succeed. Instead my head is filled with memories of these people, their stories, laughter, tears and opinions. So much time spent together. My throat hurts. I do not recall this feeling of pain. It's a good pain, My heart hurts at the thought of not being near them. And my eyes fill with tears because I did not fulfill my goal but instead I discovered a thousand other small rivers, and they all run through me now. 

(Tiger)

     She was always smaller. Her curly red hair was so much a part of who she is inside. Fire and beauty. She would cry over the things she couldn't find words for. She would complain about a lot and wouldn't eat. For this she was teased and punished so she was never really heard or understood. When we lived at Raven, she grew into a headstrong, mouthy little whirlwind. We shared a room, which was miserable. We fought endlessly; physically, and verbally. 
     She was so much smaller than me, so I would never hit her and would try to be gentle no matter how angry I was. We fought over a game or something stupid, so she shoved me into my fish tank, which shattered and killed my fish and sent a waterfall onto our carpet. One day when I yelled at her in the kitchen, she threw two huge knives at me, which literally stabbed me in the back. She never wanted to adventure with me, and I never wanted to let her have her way. She knew how to insult me and what words hurt me. 
     Some nights, when we were supposed to be sleeping, we'd sneak outside to sit in the street. The warm concrete on summer nights was so comforting. Me and Tiger would sit and look at the stars and make fun of our parents and talk about our friends. 
     When we moved at Elm, everything got worse and the family had no space and the parents were stressed and everyone hated life. Live would complain and say the truth, which was that everything sucked and no one was happy. I would always yell at her and try to get her to stop. I knew it was true, but I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be happy wherever I was. But she was honest. 
     She finally grew taller and her eyes because so serious with pain. We only hung out if we were with other friends. My senior year, we were forced to go to catholic school, and we both joined a soccer team together. I'm so thankful for that year because it was the year we became friends.
      We would leave early in the morning, blasting music and dreading the day. Some days, when we couldn't use the car, dad had to drop us off at the coffee shop where we scraped our change together and bought coffee. We would laugh and talk about the people we didn't like at school. Then we would walk all the way down Main Street, over the highway, past the library to school. On Thursdays we had class at the Callows. If we had any money, we would go eat Chinese food, then we would go buy a coffee to deliver to Angels doorstep or Jim at his office. Practice was a few hours later, and somehow we never connected the dot that soccer after Chinese food was never always a regret. 
   Some days we would buy candy and sit on the Haas apartment roof, until we saw cops approaching in the distance, so we'd scramble down the ladder and run to our car. Some nights we would get my spray paint and go tag the tunnels down the road, or sit in the cemetery and look at the stars. And I can't tell you how many times and places we ran out of gas together. So many days we found ourselves on the side of the road, struggling to find a bottle to put $3.00 worth of gas in, walking to a friends house, or trying to find a ride. We shared a cell phone, which makes me laugh thinking about it. We would take turns using for the day so we could text different friends. 
     On the soccer field, me and Live were a powerhouse, but we rarely were put in close positions. The girls dubbed her Ferrari, and I was called Lamborghini; the fastest ones on the team. Several times, one of us would score and the other would assist, and it was the greatest thing in the world to know that we were truly on the same team. 
     The winter I turned 19, I moved out and we didn't see each other as often for a while. I was scared of being close to her. I was scared of being a bad influence, because most of my ideas are bad and I didn't want to lead her all the ways I tend to go. In the summer we started hanging out more, causing trouble and finding fun and ridiculous things to do. One day, I was laughing at something she said and I had the realization that she was the only one who made me laugh like that. "Olivia. You think I'm crazy. You think I laugh all the time, but you don't know that you're the only one who makes me smile." She brushed it off and kept driving and we talked about traveling, but I really hope she believed me. 
     We are both stubborn, and its always the hardest to have vulnerable conversations with her. We would fight so much. She was defensive anytime I wanted to talk, and I don't blame her one bit. I think all of us are afraid of discussing because that means fighting. I am not good at being gentle. I'm not good at expressing the way I love her and would die for her to know how amazing she is. 
     After her 18th birthday, I yelled at her because she barely enjoyed the breakfast me, Nat, and Rachel planned for her. I yelled at her because she couldn't receive the love and attention. But I understand why. If anyone understands I do.  When you are attacked and hurt, it's hard to trust and it's hard to receive. It's always hurt me to see her heart buried, to see her hidden behind defensive walls. 
     But in the recent years, that began to change. I think we both found grace for each other. She has a deep understanding, and her name means "peace," although that's been a foreign idea to both of us. After Quest, I saw the real Olivia, more clearly than I had seen in years. She was open. She was gentle. She told stories and explained the hard things and didn't try to be stubborn. And it wasn't weak, it was great. Her compassionate heart did not rob the strength that was built in her bones. 
     When I left to California, she was more gentle and beautiful then I'd ever seen her. I hugged her, and I kissed her head. But our eyes were dry because we couldn't cry in front of mom. 
     We had to learn how to talk on the phone with each other, which is weird but we just never did before that. Our relationship grew, actually, and I realized she was much better than I am when she told me I needed to forgive someone who had hurt her. "You don't need to protect me. You don't need to make her suffer because of me. I've forgiven her. And you should too." We talked for two hours about forgiveness, and over the 12 months in Redding we talked countless times, even if it was for ten minutes. 
     On May 1st, I arrived in KC after driving across the country over night. The next day I drove to Starbucks to surprise her when she got off. My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding. I'm never afraid, I'm never nervous, but I just about died waiting for her. 
     I've seen Olivia betrayed by her friends, I've seen her forgotten, bullied and made fun of, I've witnessed her heart being broken by a boy, I've seen the scars on her arm, and I've seen the hurt in her eyes when I left her behind. But I have seen her live, I've seen her forgive, I've seen her love her siblings and fight for her friends. I've seen her stand on a stage and sing about finding a peace that plows through the storm, and a joy that jumps over sadness. I believe in Olivia like I believe in the sunset, and the sunrise. She is a star; burning brightly in dark places. She is a beautiful and strong woman, a sister I'll always have and a friend I don't deserve. I hope she grows to know and understand her worth and her purpose and how much she has changed so many worlds. 

(Sunset)

     Sometimes at sunset, I feel like it's the end of my life. The fiery trees are a blur of color; oranges, reds, yellows and greens, mingled in transition. The bugs in the air are specks of dust, hovering over the brightened colors. As the light stretches out, it's reach just brushes the tops of the foothills. I am aware of the pain that comes with seasons. New growth, opening wide a clenched fist to realize you just want to hold my hand. I am aware of the pain of self preservation, and freshly aware of the ache of an open heart. The ache of a thousand muscles relaxing. The pain of a heart coming alive. With a living heart, each color has meaning. Each contrail etched against the blue reminds me of journeys and things behind me. Sunset is transition from day to night. Transition is where you come up for air and feel everything and just where you've been living and how much time has passed. It is hard but beautiful, and sunset means sunrise is next. 

(Katniss)

     My eyes do not quickly meet with yours. I'm not sure what it is,but it keeps me closed. I don't smile easily, on days like this. I don't mean to look down on everyone, but I do; maybe just to feel better. I'm angry. As soon as I'm alone, I feel it in my chest, this energy that makes me want to yell. I want to hit the wall so my hands bleed. I played to a song I always listened to "back then," when I was dead. "I don't feel it anymore." he sings. But now I feel it. I'm reminded of lying on the ground, fighting so hard to breathe, shutting down the anger but wanting so badly to cry. Did I really cut myself to that song? The song is beautiful and I connect with it so well. But those memories are terrible. Some parts of my story I want to erase. He says I'm safe. I won't go back; I can't. It's impossible. Why is it that I still want to drink? I want your presence, and I look for it in so many awful places. So today, here is me. Black jeans, brown boots, sailor shirt. Please meet me in the scribbled writing, as I sip my coffee, meet me as I feel both strong and hurt. I think about Katniss. I like her a lot and I think she knows the feeling. I feel like I belong to no one. 

(Real)

     I am fully aware and in this moment. But is it real? I remember the colors in your eyes, each speck and fleck of life, each thought that pauses and decides not to emerge and be seen. But I see everything, each piece of pain; it matters much, it's real and not pretend. I am in this present, in the light of every thought and dream and every step of this damned journey. Suddenly I remember every tear and each drop of sadness. If you opened up my eyes, I would be blinded by that light, that light I've seen through pine trees, softly dousing the morning in amber, bouncing off of green waves, the light at sunset and dawn. But sometimes it's far above me, and I swim beneath, moving in slow motion towards the hazy gold. I can't breathe yet and my lungs are burning and I'm not sure if I've ever breathed before.

(Surface)

     I would love my words to be right at the surface, ready to speak, clear and collected like a river. But sometimes they are tangled up or stuck behind walls, underneath broken bricks and rubble. All of my favorite curses and obscenities are faithful, they are the wild dogs that wait at the door and come flying out at any moment. They are not always bad intentions, but maybe a bit wild. The days I feel like an open wound, it's all I can do to look at you and not break. Some days I feel disconnected from myself. I sit here with a striped sailor shirt and my foot drums to a song stuck in my head. I want to tell you. I want to say all the things, but I can't. They stop on my lips. They tangle up and I try to explain my life and my family and how it is all tangled and tied up inside. But there isn't much I can say without exposing my heart. 

Redding, CA Sept. 2013

     On the cement I sit here and try hard not to think. The floor is cool beneath me. I wish I was wearing shorts. I wish I felt more alive. My thoughts are battles, conversations, storytelling; bearing witness to me and my rambling life always, retelling this story that is still developing. I sit between painted metal walls, an earthy brown color. The door on the left is blue, and the door on the right is green. The wind is engaged in this quiet moment, it is anticipating but peaceful. Breathe. I would rather do something. Relax, I tell myself. I recite and refocus and am frustrated because I am 'doing' not resting. The goal is to not do anything, but to just be. 
     In the rugged scene in front of me, I see movement. The gardener, bending over in the distance, pulling at the weeds. What the hell is motivating her? What is growing in that garden, that makes her want to come day after day, to work on it? Her curly haired grandson yells her name. His little figure is wild and so small against the sweeping scape, the backdrop of wrinkled hills and mountains, the tops meeting a light sky. It's beautiful. I live by the mountains, I remind myself. This detail is one that is always riveting. It shocks me every morning. I sigh and roll my eyes at life. I feel it again, the anger that gives me energy. I would rather punch the damn walls until my heart breaks open. I growl. My bible is flopped nearby, where I threw it. I hear footsteps nearby, softly echoing on metal walls. If someone comes around the corner, I don't know what I'd say, I realize. Oh, I am just sitting here. Angry. Did you hear me growl? Want to join me? I want someone to talk to. Sometimes I laugh at the state of me, at my frustrations and awkward prayers. But sometimes laughing is painful, like crying. 
     The footsteps fade away. I lay down and take a slow, deep breath. The pavement is cold and reminds me of Raven. Smooth and comforting, somehow. Staring upward, I see the roofs from the left and the right, stretching out to meet each other. They cover a lot of the sky. My eyes are wide. I see the chain linked fence, and the edges of the roof like puzzle pieces pulled apart, like some ground broken by earthquake, like I want my ribs to crack open and pull wide apart to let some grace in. The sky is blue and bits of white clouds are flawless. I wish I could paint like that. It would probably take forever to mix the white and blue, so it would be just right. Maybe I can only see a small piece of this great infinite painting. I bet there's so much more. I know it even as I lie on the cement with such a small view of the vast ocean. Either way, I believe in the blue that swallows the black. 

Montauk, NY Sept. 2012

     The wedding isn't for a week, and there are really no wedding preparations me and Nat could help with for a few days. Exploring the island with Luke, walking on the beaches and running down the sand dunes on the North shore, I see he is happy here. We're staying with Gramps and Gran Webb, where Luke has lived for six months now. After a cantaloupe and bagel breakfast, me and Natalie walk to Montauk, to the little shops. I buy an iced toddy and we head to the beach, where the sun is bright and hot. I start playing in the waves and Nat laughs at me when the riptide swallows my sunglasses forever. Great. I owned them a whole ten minutes. We lay like lizards on the warm sand, gratefully soaking up the rays after a long winter.
    After a few hours, we go back to help Luke start moving his stuff, packing it into his giant white Ford F-250 and Ashley's little blue Subaru. They are moving into a little cottage in Amagansett, by the church they'll be married in. The trees are tall and the grass is short and soft. It sits on the the corner, a quarter mile down the street from Indian Wells beach. He keeps texting me. He wants to talk. I kick my sandals off and shake them wildly so the sand falls out of the treads and from underneath the straps. My blue shorts are dry now. They are Patagonia, which means they're expensive, and cool, I guess. I bought them on sale so I don't really care. I put on my orange Camp Barnabas shirt Nat gave me, which now has been to both the West coast and East coast. It's a bright orange. Not hunters orange, but more of a neon peach. "Give me a few minutes, I gotta get out of the house first." I send. 
     I grabbed more coffee from the kitchen and went outside to walk. The driveway is painful and bumpy on my feet, which have been babied and smoothed by the white Long Island sand. I'm holding a little white mug of reheated coffee. If you asked, I would say no, I don't like him, and I don't care and he hardly knows me. But even then, I smile when my phone starts vibrating. It plays a drumming sound and I wait four rings before I answer it. I sit on the curb for a few minutes and we chat, then I make my way down the private street, where it dead ends and the tall, tangled bushes part into a doorway. The gap leads to the tennis court. 
     The court is pale green and faded brick red, warped and washed out by east coast weather, and the lines aren't very white. Gramps built it in the '70's. It's surrounded by the wall of bushes. I sit on the smooth ground for a moment, but I can never sit still while talking, so I pace like a tiger and throw an old tennis ball at the chained link fence. I ask him about his interview and we talk about coffee and the new job and his trip to Cambodia and how he might go to New York with Yvonne next year. 
     I try to describe how surreal and romantic it is here, the cottage with wooden shingled siding, the church with the tall ceiling and wooden pews, the family here, the white beaches and wild hurricane waves. How everything is a little back in time and in a bubble that is both sweet and priveleged, detached from the rest of the world. I throw the ball and it bounces back to me and I throw it again. I keep missing the fence, so I have to crawl through the thick, thorny bushes bushes to fetch the damn ball and he laughs at me and has such good responses to all the dumb things I say. He knows when I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "I wish I was there!" He said. And I realize- I wish he was here too. 

Orick, CA 2013

     We made our way on winding roads, north of Big Lagoon, to the redwoods. I drove again. I love driving. I would rather be in control, I guess, and I'm pretty sure I'm a better driver than anyone else. We started the morning in Trinidad, at Beach Combers Cafe, where me and Sabrina bought two coffees and shared an overpriced bagel. After deciding to drive north, we were restless and excited. The feeling of driving along the coast, mist rolling in, waves crashing below, is unbeatable. We passed by the little shops that sold everything made of redwood; earrings, furniture, giant wooden bears. Finding the trailhead took a few wrong turns, but we made it and I parked the car and we leapt out like dogs out of the cage. Skunk Cabbage Trail, the sign reads. The still air smells wild and woody. The sharp smell of spruce reminds me of Ben's guitar, and I can feel the wooden vibrations and hear the harmonics of bronze strings. That guitar was stolen along with my car, I remember. So many reasons to be mad at myself. 
     The trees tower like giants, tall things that barely breathe or move; just grew up thoughtful and watching. The spruce are light and the lines on the redwoods run up and down the trunks. There's a hushed feeling. Everything is huge and the forest is dense with lush, green ferns, and dripping stones and soft earth. There is this feeling, different from any other forest. A reverence. Reverence...maybe that's the wrong word. That makes me think of pastors and funerals and stuffy churches. But this reminds me of the cathedrals in England, and stained glass church in Wales, and the little church where Luke was married in East Hampton. The ancient woods worships in silence. 
     We ramble and stumble across roots, crashing through forestry to taste and touch and see. Our violent voices break the silence, to laugh and sing our own songs. My sandals stomp the ferns and I try to be gentle as I cut off the path. My pants are soaked from my knees down, the condensation is heavy on the green. I make my way to the monumental trunk of a once-giant tree. Climbing inside, my feet are cushioned by the thick rotten layers. It's earthy reds and browns smell strong and the rot and roots tangle in a complicated beauty. I think of my human heart and the heart if this giant. I run my fingers through. I love the feeling of dirt and decomposing wood. Roots. Deep, layered, messy roots. This rotting thing is hollow in the center, surrounded by a crumbling wooden wall, breaking apart by time and the tearing feet of wayward explorers. I tie a thin root around my wrist. The outside is strong and beautiful, and probably invincible. It hides the inner disaster well. "This is your heart," I hear. "You will learn to love it." These words make me cringe. Back to the path. 
     These words keep running through my head. We stumble along and count mushrooms and Frederick quotes eccentric movies and Sabrina laughs at me when I trip. I accidently crush a snail with a sickening crunch and yell, "Holy shit!" which shatters the silence and again and we all laugh. But I get tired of conversation and speed up. 
     When I'm far enough ahead, out of sight, I begin to run. I need this alone time. That burning anger begins to fuel me and makes my chest hurt. Like I am full of cracks and jagged edges after an earthquake. And what is my heart? A rotten tree trunk? A mess of roots, that are ageless and decaying, yet still growing? I run along the path and begin to hear the soft roar of the waves. Through the green I see glimpses of white sky. I take off my hoodie and hang it on the trail when it forks, marking the way. I reach the slope of skunk cabbage, which the trail is named for, and hurry down the tiny switchbacks, reaching the sand. I'm afraid I won't make it. I'm afraid I'll screw up again. I'm afraid I will break what little trust I have with people. Will I have anyone here? Will I be my usual independant self, or am I too needy now? If you asked me I would tell you I'm fearless. I don't normally feel afraid. I don't feel very much anyways. But I am full of fears, and most of them are probably irrational; worst case scenarios or fearing the past will repeat itself. "Do you trust me?" I hear that question, that horrible question god has asked me for a year and a half now. I'm not very good at trust. Trust is wild, I think. Trust expects the best. But fear expects the worst, no matter what has happened, no matter what trust has proven. These thoughts tumble in my head, this argument with myself is never ending.
      "Fear is unattractive." I hear it clearly. I've never heard that before. I've never thought of that before. 
     I take off my sandals and my feet touch the sand. There's not much on earth quite as wonderful and relieving as running towards the tide. "There you are, my friend." I sigh. What I love about the ocean is it swallows all your thoughts and words. Maybe that's how God is, a ferocious sea that covers all the terrible and smooths all the rocky pieces into small painted stones. "Fear is unattractive. It doesn't look good on you." I hear it again. I'm sick of it, I decide. I'll leave it here. 
   I take off my beach shirt, more of a rag, really, and tie it on a driftwood stick. I plant my flag in the sand. Sabrina and Frederick have caught up by now, and we take off our clothes and walk out into the swirling currents. I gaze out to sea, and I'm happy to be here with these two. My necklace feels cold on my chest, and the Pacific water is absolutely freezing. I read the necklace again: "The only thing stronger than fear is hope" it says. What on earth. I don't think I've read it more than once. It never really sunk in. Olivia gave it to me the day I left. 
     Wandering on the shore, we gather sticks and colorful stones and shells and some pairs of shoes to wear. I flew my flag and my fear into the crashing waves and we turned back. Up the dune, onto the trail, through the woods. We make up songs about bears, and when the sun comes out, it streams through the branches and still laughs at me when I say, "Holy shit!" I need better language for such beautiful, stunning things. And we keep stomping through, half clothed and half crazy. I feel better. Like it's easier to breathe. This band of scoundrels, it feels like we're still kids. And regardless of what people say, we're neither lost nor found.

Grandview, MO Oct. 2012

     I am thankful for Natalie because she cares about life, about all the little things that make up this adventure,;the flowers and the blackbirds and mason jars and slippers and long walks and short summers. I think she knows that life is a story, and looking back to point out all the beautiful things that made it grand, she'll know she did just what she wanted to. I see it when she gasps and begins to swerve and scream at the sunset, when we're on the freeway and I hang out the window and let my hair down, and all of the sudden she's crying because life is beautiful and I mock her because I love her. 
     We lived at The Castle, again, and I hated it because this was the second time I was forced to live in that birdhouse. But as time went on, I realized they may be birds, but I was the crazy one. I wanted to live anywhere else, but probably because I wanted to live on the west coast, so nothing would make me happy anyways. Eventually I loved it. Sometimes my love and hate run together. My adventures wash over some of the harder parts of life. We were moved in, but I never really moved in; I kept my stuff in boxes in the closet and I slept on the floor. 
     One night I was off work and bored and annoyed, and she said we should bike, so I went with her, and realized she was right. I rode my beautiful blue Crusoe, and she rode Molly's little green bike, which was a squatty little bike I referred to as the Toad. It was meant for a short person and had a perpetually low back tire. So we laughed and I laughed at her and she yelled at me and offered to trade bikes. The sun was setting, and we had a little light left. She suggested we get a movie, so we rode to Jackson then to Blue Ridge road, to the redbox up the street and there was nothing, and when I say there was nothing I mean there was nothing. The redbox was decapitated and lying in the grass. Grandview shit. So we kept biking. Heading down Grandview road, the sidewalk is cracked and sinks and is uneven. We sped past a little house, with an old woman out front. All of the sudden, I saw a sea of movement around her, and realized they were cats. She was ten feet away from the sidewalk, and I decided not to yell anything. Or maybe I was just speechless. Why the hell would you have thirty cats? Natalie rode twenty feet behind me, and I waited for her reaction. The gasp. "Hope!" she yelled, "To the left! To the left! Do you not see this?!" I was breathless with laughter. My legs hurt from pedaling and my ribs ached from laughing. I could barely speak. "Yes, I see the cats!" I yelled, still laughing. That poor lady, she must have been scarred. But that's her problem for being a cat lady. 
     We biked down main street and I was reminded of a night last spring, before Natalie left for camp. We had biked to the Baileys at sunset, on crumbling Blue River road, to drink out of the garden house and say hello. We found flowers on the way, lilies growing behind a fence in front of a little house, by the dog pound. I think sometimes in life the beautiful things need to be stolen and that's that. But this night on main street, we watched the sunset and circled through parking lots and I wanted to go and see Him so we crossed over the highway. Into the green village apartments, we walked through the back wooden gate. It's latch is black and shaped like a shark. I used to live there, but I don't like thinking about that month of my life. Those feelings always kept me from visiting. I had second thoughts, and wanted to wait and see him another day. Nat told me I was afraid, and need to get over the shame and go anyways, but I guess I couldn't yet. We walked our bikes along and argued. When the discussion turned into a fight I was angry, and almost cried which makes her cry so we left. 
     We went separate ways, she biked on one side and I on the other. We went to bed silent, Natalie in her bed with the white comforter and me on the floor with my orange sleeping bag. Sisters. 

(Story)

     Sometimes I wish all of my bright memories could play themselves out long enough for me to see each detail, to notice each shade of brown eyes, to see each color of freckles on each face, and to feel the wind and the temperature and the sun on my arms. Each word, each unspoken conversation; I want to relive and rebreathe it, to engrave them in my head, ready to be opened at any moment I want them. But they are not. The colors are blurred, and the pain and sadness have blended with the adventure over time, and I see the story bright and smeared with ink. Earthy colors; tree greens and ocean blues, and the kind of golden brown you find in the barley that sways at sunset. They became beautiful, as if the past is all right with the flaws and failure. The hues have swallowed the darkness so it is easy for me to call each day bliss and each year glory. The twisting plot, the suffering piece, the sharp words in the deep sea script. My story is perfect. I believe that. But our hearts take quite a beating as our sailing stories are written to perfection. Looking back, I find walls and chapters that are shut, and I don't remember shutting them. Maybe these stories will unfold, piece by piece, and my heart will open with each page written and word spoken.