On the notion of home

On Friday night, we at dumplings and ice cream. We took the ferry across the harbour, and I saw Luna Park up close for the first time, and we talked about how we'll spend summer nights there.

We drove home and it was late and the car was quiet, and Stephen said that soon we can go to the drive-in theatre. The back of our new-to-us car will be weighed down with blankets and the front filled with food.

On Saturday we registered for our wedding. I was discouraged by the prices, and Stephen pulled me close and reminded me that this should be fun, that people want to bless us, that it's okay to receive. We tried our first ever cronuts and shared an umbrella and laughed about how Stephen loves the rain and I am aching for some sunshine.

I think often about the notion of home, of what makes one. I used to think home was just a place or a time, but now I see that even though those things are important, home is more about the people in that place and the people with whom the time is spent.

There's something to be said for the homes we make that thrive off of spontaneity and John Hughes-esque romance. But right now, I'm happy to speak on behalf of my in-progress home, in all its glorious reality. There's something to be said for that, too. That's the home I'm choosing.

My neighborhood is the family I'm gaining, the community we're building, and all the adventures we're having. And if home is a person, mine is certainly Stephen.

Australia + all the things that matter more

Stephen and I arrived in Sydney early Sunday morning. We were exhausted from the flights and eager for a good night's sleep and I was surprised at how difficult I found it to adjust.

When I came here last year, I was immediately home. I knew I'd found my place and that no matter what happened, there would be joy and provision, and Australia did not disappoint. I was sad to leave when my visa expired, and I was counting down the days to return.

But then I spent an overwhelmingly precious few months in Georgia and I realized that I have two places my heart calls home. One in the States, with my family and friends, and one here in Australia with the community I've been building over the past 12 months. And the home that transcends both of these is with Stephen, my person.

And so I thought it would be simple, coming back here. I knew we'd be tired and the next few months would be those of transition, but it seemed easy. Until the plane landed. I was struck by the reality that for the next little bit, even though this is undoubtedly where I want to be, things are unsettled.

It's hard to move to a different country. It's hard even when you have plans and preparations and people supporting you. It's hard for countless reasons, and it's hard to admit that it's hard.

And then you wake up to the news of Robin Williams' death and Mike Brown's death and updates on the crisis in Iraq and you start to feel really insignificant and selfish.

I believe it's just as important to admit our weaknesses as it is to rejoice in our successes. I believe in times of worldwide tragedy and confusion, it's important to remember that we all suffer and we all flourish, and even when my place of trial seems like a molehill in a world of mountains, it's still okay for me to feel its weight. I believe it's important to find the balance between being intentional in your own life and being aware of the lives outside of yours.

Today, it's winter where I am. I get to dress warmly, spend time with my almost in-laws, and cook dinner with my almost husband. Today, my life is dreamy even in its unexpectedness and today, I get to matter even when other things matter more.

A change of pace

This weekend marked my last in Australia until August, and it was the perfect opportunity to venture into Sydney city for one last jaunt. Luckily, the famous light festival, Vivid was well underway and Stephen, Grace, and I were able to see what all the hype is about.

Vivid is an annual festival that takes over Sydney's central business district (CBD), Darling Harbour, Circular Quay (home of the famous Opera House), and an area called "the rocks." Each year, the festival draws hundreds of thousands of tourists to the heart of the city and features everything from light displays across buildings to light sculptures placed throughout the streets. There are also food trucks and featured bands, which makes wandering around an already extravagant city all the more delightful.

The three of us met in Sydney Friday night, and even the rain couldn't dampen our spirits. We spent a good few hours strolling down George St, stopping to look at each display in between heartfelt conversation and delicious ice cream. We finished the night looking across the harbor at the Opera House, which simultaneously allowed for an amazing view of a skyline decorated with intricate light designs dancing across a few of the skyscrapers.

Although I only got a handful of phone quality pictures, Vivid was the perfect reminder that Sydney has become my home, that its beauty is quite inexplicable, and there is so much here for me. The past week was one of rest and preparation, stepping aside from work and organizing for my trip to the States. Somehow my heart is not quite ready to leave this place, and yet it is bursting with excitement for all that's waiting for me stateside. Soon I'll be reveling in the dog days of summer, but for now, I'm living vivid[ly].

(Read more about Vivid here)

Remembering

I think we’re all born with a song. There's this thing in all of us, right from the start, that's an intensely important part of our existence. It shapes us, helps us experience the world, sets us apart. It flavors our passions and choices, from the literature we choose to the places we make our homes.

Somewhere along the way, though, our songs get lost in the industrialization of life. We start thinking we have to sing for somebody or something else. Our songs become career-focused or finance-focused or relationship-focused and the idea of having the ability to sing inwards, just for yourself, feels wrong.

But one day, after you've stopped singing and can barely remember what it even sounds like, finally, finally, finally, someone builds an alley and puts up a birdcage and reminds you to hear your song. And you find yourself thinking, How ridiculous, to think this song wasn't enough.

Resting and rising

Over a long weekend, I enjoyed some Easter festivities. For me, Easter has always been a time of year marked by weather warming, swapping sweaters for t-shirts and jeans for shorts; this year, though, it was different in the best of ways. There was lamb roasting on a spit, eating lunch outside while the sun warmed the patio enough to keep the goosebumps at bay, and curling up underneath a blanket with a cup of hot tea as the sky darkened before dinnertime.

It was a grand five-day weekend. Lazy mornings with no wake-up calls before 9 o'clock, mugs of coffee in bed, old Fred Astaire and Judy Garland flicks. As Australia nears wintertime, I long for all things comforting and cozy, and as I discover and create and am given those things, this place becomes more and more my home.

Sipping coffee in Stephen's ute on our drive to Glenbrook, bright and early Easter morning, I was reminded of the greatness of this time. Of all that has come before to prepare this path for me, and of all that is working to prepare even greater things to come.

It's time to rise.

On being in transition

The past year and a half has been one of the least predictable. It has seen me both stumbling and steady, and it has seen me both wandering and unwavering. And now, everything is about to change again.

I think it’s altogether natural, and not necessarily conducive to a specific age, to be in a place of not knowing. Of knowing what’s come before, but not being confident of what’s coming next. There are the days that are thunderous and gloomy, days that need both coffee and naps (and for some reason, they seem to be in short supply), days that remind you of what’s lying underneath the familiar. But then there are the days that are startlingly encouraging, days that need neither coffee nor naps (although you’ll take both anyway), days that remind you that the whole of life is uncertainty wrapped in comfort. 

And every season, every circumstance, holds both.

I’m not sure of what’s next, what exists beyond au pairing and interning and Australia-ing. But I know that it will be more than okay, that life is not actually a map of what is supposed to happen, but rather simply what is. My perspective has changed, and I think more often than not, that’s the biggest change we face. 

I will find a job. I will find a place to live. I will find that more things are familiar than I’d anticipated, and I will grieve the things lost in between. I will find that the change itself wasn’t the scary part; I just couldn’t see it clearly. And then, before I know it, everything will change again.

Ready?

Weekly things

 

On Mondays,  I change sheets. On Tuesdays, I iron three school uniforms. On Wednesdays, I work in the city. On Thursdays, I iron four school uniforms. On Friday, I sleep until the sun gently coaxes me awake. And once a week, on whatever night it happens to fall, I go on a date.

Every week, I do a lot of the same things. Don't we all? So much of life seems to be a steady stream of have-to's that have a way of running us ragged, no matter what our schedules are like. In the midst of this kind of urgent lifestyle, it's important to slow down.

When Stephen and I started dating, we talked about what sort of time we'd spend together. Since we live nearly an hour apart and we both work, it was a priority to both of us to make the other a priority. I'm glad he saw it that way. Now, we've gotten into a comfortable groove in our relationship. We see each other, normally, four or five days out of the week (I'm so grateful we get so much time together, believe me), but we work at dedicating one of those nights to something special. Whether it's going to the Opera House for a show, walking along the harbour with ice cream, or going out to dinner at a new spot, that night out is always a treat. It's a time to get a little dressed up, let him treat me, and wrap ourselves in romance. 

I told him the other day how glad I was that even though we've become so at ease with each other, we've managed to keep things fresh. And I know it's still early, and if we're lucky enough to make it together for years and years to come, these past few months will feel like nothing. But the thing is, they won't have been. Whether we're young or old, new or regular, date nights are teaching me to neither take any part of our relationship for granted nor discount any part of it.

It's a good season.

On being an explorer

One of the things I embraced when I moved to Australia was a spirit of adventurousness. I was ready to learn more about the world than I already knew, to step into things that frightened me, to become more than I had been. I was ready to see every sight, from the tourist attractions to the hidden treasures, and I felt limitless. As I've settled in here, though, that spirit has waned just a little bit, making way for a more at-home sort of adventure.

I find that I become more adventurous when I meet new people. We go to see things I've not yet seen and I'm reminded all over again of why I love the adventure. Sometimes we go to see things they've not but I have and I discover newness in the familiar and I feel that spirit well up inside of me.

There's something to be said for going somewhere totally different, for immersing yourself in a brand new journey and discovering everything you can. But there's something to be said, also, for learning how to explore what you think you already know.

 

What I know

I go back to America in 98 days.

98 days until I see my parents, until I eat Chick-fil-a, until I can drive the familiar roads around my town and my college. 98 days until I can sit in Blackbird Coffee and drink deeply, not just of my drink itself but the atmosphere. 98 days until I can hang my hammock by the river and spend the day drowning in a book and being interrupted every so often by the casual "Hello" of someone I know passing by.

98 days until I leave behind my for-now family. 98 days until I leave behind these kids that sometimes drive me crazy but whom I love dearly and deeply. 98 days until I'm done interning at International Justice Mission Australia. 98 days until I'm apart from my gentleman for awhile. 98 days until I leave in the hopes of returning, but only 98 more days of being here, certainly.

It is a strange thing, to be ready to be home but not ready to leave.

The more I learn the more aware I become of how many uncertainties are left. But what I know is this: Australia is home. Georgia is home. And it's kind of amazing that I have the privilege of loving both of these places, their sights and smells and sounds and people, equally. So in 98 days I'll say see you soon to Oz and hello for now to Georgia.

And wherever I am and whatever I do, I will be home, so long as my heart is lifted and my feet are planted.

On celebrating myself

Today, I turn 24. It's an occasion about which I am wholeheartedly excited, one that I think deserves recognition. Maybe it's selfish and childish, but I'm a firm believer that birthdays are always cause for celebration, great and glorious, no matter the milestone.

Recently, a friend of mine turned 25, and I overheard her complaining about her age. I said she was lucky she was to be turning 25, to which she responded, You're right. I could be turning 30!

What?

I think birthdays are a source of unnecessary stress, particularly for women. We live in a culture that's obsessed with keeping us young, not only in our looks but in our hearts as well. But to be honest, I don't think there's anything wrong with growing up and getting old. To be honest, I think it's a privilege and an honor.

Being a kid was fun. Sometimes I miss being carefree. Sometimes the thought of adult life, of paying bills and loans and having a career are incredibly daunting and I want them to stop. But I wouldn't trade them in for anything, least of all adolescence. I like growing up. I like the added responsibilities and the new freedoms that come with them. I think that it's necessary for kids to enjoy their youth, to celebrate their childishness.

But I think it's good to grow up, too. It's good to become something more.

There are a lot of parents who wish their children had made the milestone I'm about to make. There are a lot of young people who know they likely won't ever turn 24, and they wish they could. 24 is young. Sure, it's the first year of my mid-twenties, but it is oh-so-young! I may sometimes find grey hairs (in my eyebrows, of all places) or notice that my face and body don't look quite like they did ten years ago, but I don't think for one second that I'm old yet. I'm nowhere near it.

And I seriously hope I get to be. Covered in wrinkles, grey from my roots to my tips, and fully old, I hope I get there. I hope by the time I do, old won't sound like an insult anymore. I hope the women around me won't be perpetually celebrating their 21st birthdays. I hope I will be happy and healthy and delighting in my old-ness.

So here's to 24. The celebrations have been good and the gifts have been nice, but even without either, I would be happy. My life has been an great adventure, especially recently, and I'm ready for whatever 24 will bring my way.

Endeavors

Sometimes exciting things happen when you least expect them.

Like your boyfriend breaking ground (virtually, for the moment) on his own company. Like getting to write e-mails and Facebook statuses for him and feeling like part of the coolest club. Like being given the opportunity to work for a non-profit launching in Sydney in a few months, doing work that directly relates to what you studied in university and is for a cause so worthy it overwhelms.

Like being able to do these things and still be an au pair.

Sometimes when you come into a season, you think it's too good to be true. Like there's no way you could be the person chosen for such great heights, entrusted with such great people. But sometimes, too good to be true is just good enough and just true enough and the taste of coffee in the morning is the gentle pinch you need to remind yourself that this is real life.

Check out Lankie on Facebook or here to find out what Stephen's doing and check out International Justice Mission Australia here to learn more about the non-profit for whom I'm serving as Communications Intern.

Holiday weekends and saying no

This weekend was a long one. I celebrated Australia Day (complete with a lamb on a spit and pavlova), said goodbye to a dear friend who has returned to America, drank coffee in a new-to-me cafe', and enjoyed some much needed time in my hammock. It's strange to me that so many people see the month of January as a time to start fresh, but by the middle of it, we've run ourselves ragged and are already seeking something else.

I talked to Stephen this weekend about time; how we use it to dictate not only our daily experiences, but also how it dictates our emotions. Whether we're tired or angry or calm so often has to do with how we're organizing our time. Regardless of where we live (country, city, house, apartment) or what we do or how big our families are, we become aware of time in a spacial way. If there's not enough time, we feel small and cramped. But the thing is, no matter what we try, there will never be more or less time between when the day begins and ends. We have what we've been given.

Learn to say no.

There's an importance in being more than just a "yes man." We have the privilege of choosing how we spend the majority of our time. And there's always enough time in the day for the things that are absolute necessary for you life. Consequently, it's not so much a matter of finding more time in the day as it is a matter of deciding to which things are we going to devote our time. The things we say "no" to create space in our lives for a more abundant "yes." A yes that is more than just a word, but a resounding heartfelt pleasure in the adventure or the dinner or the coffee or the book or the early bedtime.

This new year marks for a me a time of learning to turn opportunities down. When the right ones come along, I'll have time and space and zeal for them, but that means making choices now. Choices that sometimes make me feel like a stick in the mud, but that I know will benefit me later. Holiday weekends are perfect for this lesson; time to step back and soak in the perfect amount of laziness and to remind yourself of the deep rest you'll need every so often.

A gem of a candy store.

In Australia, an Americano is called The USA.

As I finish up this blog, I've been sitting in my bed with the lights off for nearly three hours, because it's technically my day off and sometimes that means doing absolutely nothing for the afternoon.

On taking a break

Last week, I went to Melbourne. It's about as far South as you can go in Australia, in the state of Victoria. It was a dream, and while I didn't write or read much, I drank excellent coffee and saw excellent sights in excellent company and I got to wear scarves, which was excellent. I even saw the smallest penguins in the world (This is not a hyperbole. It's fact), and while we weren't allowed to take photographs, it is something that will be etched into my memory for the rest of my life. There is so much beauty in the world, and sometimes it takes the ridiculous waddling of a tiny animal to remind you of this truth.

As we got closer and closer to Sydney, though, I found myself restless. Not in the wanderlust sense. More in the I've so enjoyed this holiday and now I'm back and having to face the daily grind again and what if I can't handle it, and I was oh-so worried that coming back would be stressful.

It wasn't. I stepped into the doorway of my host family's house and it was like coming home, all over again. Like July 1st, 2013 when I stepped out of the airport into the crisp, Australian air for the first time and in spite of everything swirling around me, I just knew that I was in the right place.

There's something to be said for taking breaks. For sleeping much later than necessary and eating breakfast at lunchtime. For walking along beaches and perusing in new bookstores and taking breaths that are so long and sweet you're not exactly sure how your lungs are managing it. I don't know much about this year, but I do know this: It will be great. One for the record books.

I'm not one for resolutions or yearly "reflections" (which I think it a poor word choice, but that's a different story altogether). I think that the last day in May is as good a day as the first day in January to turn over a new leaf or start a new project or talk about how your life is shaping up. But I get it. I get that we live in a time frame dictated by a calendar that says this month is the beginning. I'll take it.

Give me everything you've got, new year. I can take anything you throw at me. I know how to breathe deeply between punches.

Bathhouses down by the seaside

We stopped in Ballarat to watch part of a cycling race. This is the peloton.

This is Stephen. He is a gentleman and makes a stellar travel companion.

Finding the perfect fit

This week I enjoyed some much needed dolce far niete, the sweetness of doing nothing. Carefree, easy. I slept past 7:00 and allowed myself to spend my mornings cozy, in bed with coffee and a new book. I made waffles for lunch with my gentleman and we watched movies and read some more, side by side. I explored familiar parts of my city with my friends and found new treasures in places I least expected. I cried heavily over how exhausted I found myself and then ate handfuls of peanut m&ms to make up for the sadness.

I was glad for the company and I was glad for the solitude.

And in the mix of it all, over more waffles and bacon and fruit, I found myself recognizing a youthfulness in myself that seemed almost unfamiliar. Because, you see, this tender gentleman is bringing out the best in me in the best of ways. We ride in the ute listening to bands that I haven't heard in three years, at least, and I still know every lyric. And I am reminded of frisbee after band practice, of swinging at the park after my first college classes, of midnight trips to waffle house and moving out of my parents' house for the first time, of summer and fall and their respective sounds. We cook dinner and eat ice cream and I am reminded of the first time I cooked dinner. We read together and I remember every word I have ever read. We spend time apart and I am reminded of every person I have ever missed. I am reminded of all the things I've left behind.

He teaches me that bringing out the best in someone means realizing that the best parts of you are not always necessarily caught up in who you are right now. The best in you hides in realizations you had at 17 and decisions you made at 19 and adventures you had at 21. The best of you rests not only in who you have become and where you are going, but the deepest, most soulful places you've come from. Instead of always moving forward, bringing out the best in someone allows the sweetest of backward glances, not to compare or wonder or wallow, but to recognize that even though some of the best is yet to come, some of it has already been.

What a wonderful discovery.

PB&J Picnic before the NYE fireworks over the Harbour Bridge. I was reminded of every new year celebrated thus far, traditions built and buried, and why this new year holds promises far surpassing any I have ever imagined. And I have a great imagination.

On Christmas

A few days after the big celebration and even longer since I've last written here, I've settled back home in Sydney after Christmas in Cootamundra. This Christmas was unlike any I've had previously, and not just because it was beer in the pool rather than hot cider by the fire.

Lots of things were the same. Too much food, lots of laughter, excitement for presents and impatience from excitement. Family was celebrated and conversation was, mostly, light. But instead of being with my own family, I was with a new one. One that has taken me in and made me feel perfectly at home and perfectly welcome, but with the traditions abounding, I was reminded that they are not, in fact, mine. Christmas was disconnected.

I spent the morning opening gifts from both my families, host and biological. I slipped away quietly during tea and spent an hour Skyping with my family back in Georgia, for whom it was still Christmas Eve, before rejoining the Australia Christmas. I went to bed exhausted and content, but also sad in a profoundly new way. Celebrating Christmas this year was a stunning reminder that for me, this season is not nearly as much about the traditions or the locations or even the people with whom it's spent as it is about the One I am celebrating. But even with this knowledge in hand, the insignificant things still matter. And the holiday season half a world away from one's family can be a discombobulating thing.

Moving to Australia is a marvelous thing. It carries opportunities and adventures unmatched by any other I've had in my soon-to-be 24 years. But it also carries a heaviness, a bittersweet acknowledgement that new hello's do not exist without gravitational goodbye's. As the 12 days of Christmas count down and a monumental year approaches, I am joyful beyond compare, but I miss my family. And I am learning that the two things are strange puzzles pieces. They might not fit together easily, but they are both essential corners. Unless I have both, I won't see my big picture clearly. And it's a picture I desperately want to see.

A very Merry Christmas, from Australia to wherever you are. May your 2014 ring in with a resounding yes for whatever path you are choosing. The things that matter, the people that matter, the places that matter, you will carry with you.

 

On taking ownership

There's a lot to be learned. We spend years in school, being trained not only in specific disciplines but also in the discipline of learning. We grow up being taught to know. And while there are seasons where we'd rather not do homework or get up early for school, I would venture that for most of us, there comes a time when we see the benefits of gleaning. Learning becomes a treasure, whether it's in the classroom, from our parents or peers or employers, or a by-product of being a person. And while there are countless lessons that I consider invaluable (use cash instead of your card, give without expectation, see your own worth, etc) one of the best lessons I've learned is how to take ownership.

There are plenty of things of which I enjoy taking ownership. Plenty of things of which I excel at taking ownership. But the more I do life with people, the more I begin to see shortcomings in this areas as well. I can take ownership of my job and its responsibilities and my attitude and my growing friendships and my time here and the effort it takes to make my time here more permanent. But I realize more and more that I rarely take ownership of my feelings. I don't talk about them. I shy away from them at all costs. I avoid them.

But what's the fun in that? I'm learning this week, by the grace of God and His hand on my life, to take ownership of the way I feel about certain things and certain people, and to believe that this ownership will do nothing but cultivate more health for my heart. And this means finding a balance between not caring what anyone else thinks while still being considerate. Not always an easy task, but if I can move to Oz, I think I can do pretty much anything.

When the seasons change, things happen. For most of my friends and family, that change is bringing autumn; a coolness that's felt not just in the air but also the soul. Comfort, found in warm food and cozy sweaters. Everything starts to smell a little different. But here, it's spring. So instead, everything is waking up. Everything is blooming and discovering and the warmth stays in your cheeks a little too long. It's a season for something new.

When one change isn't enough

It's been a little while since I've come to Australia, and while in some ways it feels as if I've been here for ages, I am frequently reminded that I'm still new. This is all still new. I'm wholeheartedly enjoying getting to know my surroundings and family and friends, and I'm constantly excited by what's happening and about to happen.

Being an au pair is a challenge. But it is one worth the effort and time and energy. I seriously love my job. It's easily the best job I've had, and I consider myself incredibly lucky to have been given this opportunity. In some conversations over the past week or so with a few of my friends here, we've come to the conclusion that the only thing left to do here is make the most of it.

It sounds so simple. Be grateful each day for the wonder it holds for us, for the things we'll learn from how we're being challenged, and the freedom we've been given to adventure and explore and gallivant. But sometimes, it's tricky. In the midst of missing family and friends back in the States and the craziness of our schedules and the everything else we'd like to try, the thought of just sitting back and drinking it all in seems a little daunting. Which makes us sound so spoiled. Which we probably are.

But today, I am grateful. I am beyond blessed by this experience, by the church I've become a part of, but the people I've met, by the family that has let me be part of their life, by the scenery and the freshness, by the challenge. And I am not taking it for granted. I think people in my relative age group have this general idea, whether we realize it or not, that we're entitled to a lot of things. We're not. So maybe the issue isn't that we don't have enough or what we have isn't good enough. Maybe the issue is that we don't realize we could have nothing at all, but instead, we have everything. The possibilities are endless.

On living high

Yesterday, I went for the first time to the Blue Mountains with my friends Courtney and Stephen. The Blue Mountains are both well-known and popular, subsequently hosting countless tourists a day, particularly now that spring has sprung. Lucky for us, Stephen happens to live close to the mountains, so Courtney and I got to see a different view. Not only did we enjoy a hike that finished with the most spectacular view I'd ever seen, but we were also able to explore some gardens where parts of the new film "The Great Gatsby" was shot. Undeniably cool.

Then today, Courtney and I sprawled out on the beach, soaking in the sun and talking about the beauty of that hike and boys and Australia and life in general. Our conversation eventually turned towards where we're headed after this year and I remember saying that this season has taught me the priceless lesson of true contentment. That in realizing what I want to do with my life, I've come to realize that I don't care where I live, as long as I'm doing what I love with people whom I love, and there is an unmistakable joy in that revelation. In this season. Later, over dinner with an old friend of hers, the same sort of question arose. But it was more along the lines of understanding why it's necessary to move on from each part of your life to another. In reminiscing about high school and college days, someone mentioned that there are always those people who make you feel like you're still in college or still in high school, and I pointed out that college is sort of where you find yourself. But then you've got to go and be yourself.

Australia has given me the gift of myself. Each day, each adventure, spurs me on to the next and in spite of the constant motion, I am not growing weary. I am learning to run with endurance, to have more perseverance. I am enjoying not only my successes but also the things that are being made clear to me through my shortcomings. Standing on the edge of that cliff brought to my attention the reality of my smallness, and I felt the presence of the Lord and I felt like a giant. We were high and we were mighty and it was righteous.

Hiking this weekend brought an ache to my legs that brought a wave to my heart, crashing over my soul in a strength and tenderness that made me light. I love to be outside, to feel the heat of the sun mixing with the chill of a wind that could knock you off your feet. It's a cicada summer here, and it reminds me of home in the sweetest of ways, and I find that all I want is to keep walking. To keep living high.

Childlike

Knowing this girl has brought me so much.

He's really really tall

Joy.

A Portrait of Australia

Recently, I made a new friend. Her name is Courtney, and she looks after two kids in a suburb called St. Ives, about 15 minutes from where I am. We have a lot in common. We're both graduates of universities in the United States, we're both 23, we both have tattoos and nose piercings. We both enjoy bad jokes and late nights and good deals. We're both artists.

She, in the more traditional sense. Courtney studied art at Oregon State University, and while she has a shockingly wide range of talent, she has a preference for portraits. I student Rhetoric, and I while I can barely draw a stick figure, I write for my life. One of the first times Courtney and I spent time together, we discussed our lack of inspiration since being in Australia and the subsequent disappointment that we aren't as saturated in our respective creativities as we would like to be. I suggested we keep each other accountable to either write or draw every day, no matter what.

We decided, after talking it over and squealing (as girls often do over lattes), to collaborate. The project is called A Portrait of Australia, and it's a partnership of our talents. As often as possible, we pick a coffee shop, we sit, we people watch, and we pick someone. She sketches and I describe, in separate journals that we'll later combine. When we're finished, we trade and check out what the other is accomplishing. Guys, it's awesome. We got so excited that we immediately went out and bought new journals/sketch books specifically for this. So far we've only had opportunities to try our hand at it twice, but it's pretty cool. To see the difference in our talents, the ways in which our minds see the world and translate it onto paper, how we are somehow so alike and still so different, is astonishing.

I am really thankful for this friendship. This girl, who reminded me that being a free-spirit isn't so much what other people see in you but what you know exists in you. Alongside the gift I recently got from Shelbie, a second new journal, and an app that tracks my sleep schedule, I've become alive in my words again. I got up at 5:30 this morning specifically so I'd have time to write, and I am so excited to do it again tomorrow.

Sometimes, when you have a gift, it seems heavy. But all it takes is one moment, one person, one idea, to release that gift into lightness, and your entire perspective changes. In spite of the every day stress of life, of being a nanny, of being far from my family, there is a definite lightness of being. Praise the One in Existence for the gifts He has given me, and for the provisions He has made for me to flourish within them.

This is Courtney.

This is how she sees me.

Writers are typically neither as photogenic nor pretty as portrait-ers.