When the best adventure is the settling

People have a habit of telling us to never, never, never settle. As if to settle is to fail. Sometimes, I think this is really good advice, but, as is such the case with almost all advice, it's not exactly a one-size-fits-all diagnosis for life.

Sometimes, settling is good. Sometimes, it's necessary.

The past few years of my life have been the epitome of adventure. I graduated university. I moved. I got a job. I quit my job. I moved again. I met a man. I traveled around a country so grand it sometimes didn't feel real. I moved and traveled more and more and then, I got married and moved yet again. And finally (finally) things started to settle.

But then something strange happened: I started to feel like I was doing something wrong. Like I was somehow wasting my opportunity to live as a full-fledged adventurer. And the more I looked at the perfect highlight reels of Instagram and Facebook and the blogosphere and the more people I met who had just come to Australia, still fresh in the tourist state of mind, the more inadequate my own life felt.

How absurd!
 
How absurd that I would think this life of mine, that was so carefully and generously crafted for me, that allowed me to live and work in Australia, that allowed me to marry a man far beyond my wildest dreams, that allowed me to feel deeply, in-my-bones, at home, could somehow be not adventurous enough. And that was when I realized that the collective they, who keep demanding I never, never, never settle, were wrong.

Sometimes, settling is good. Sometimes, it's the best kind of adventure.

For nearly two years, my life felt like one giant transition. Nothing felt steady or substantial, and very few things felt like real life, whatever that means. But over the past few weeks, with visas being approved and jobs being provided and business ventures moving forward, life has felt more regular. More normal. I'd be lying if I said I never envy the vagabond lifestyle. But I'd be lying even more if I said this settlement isn't the adventure for which my heart has been aching.

Hopefully with the coming of cooler weather and the more regular schedules, we'll be able to venture out a bit more. No matter how often or how far out of our suburb of cafes and sights we venture, though, I'm glad to be here. I'm glad to have settled, even if it means my weekend trips are fewer, my social media feeds less extravagant, and my day-to-day grind more typical. To have the opportunity to settle, after all this time? What an adventure.

What's your adventure looking like these days?

Sharing my America

Over the weekend, Stephen and I took a (very) mini-roadtrip to the Atlanta area. We spent time visiting old friends and exploring Midtown, Buford, and Kennesaw before driving back to Milledgeville last night.

One of my favorite things about Stephen is his ability to do nothing with me. Which is to say, adventures are fun but I'm so excited to marry someone who can sit on the porch with me and read. When he got to Georgia, I was a little bit nervous about having enough to do, but after spending four days out of town, we both admitted that we would rather spend this season of engagement enjoying simple things as opposed to trying to impress one another. And one of the many bright spots of a transcontinental family is that we'll have ample opportunity to travel and explore.

So we spent a few days in Atlanta.

Our first stop was an Avett Brother's concert with our friends Shelbie and Tim, followed by a Sunday lunch date with Heather and Kevin. We went to a great place in Little 5 Points called The Vortex. Monday was Stephen's 25th birthday, and we celebrated at a Braves game. Not only was it a gorgeous day complete with great seats and delicious food, but the Braves won! We also got to go to a couple other great restaurants that highlight Southern food, and my dear friend Samantha took us for some of the most delicious ice cream I've ever tasted.

Atlanta is different than Sydney, and even growing up in Georgia, I never spent a lot of time there. It was so fun to experience it after living in another big city, and even moreso with my future husband.

The slow and steady

This past month and a half has been one of waiting. It's been the rumble of thunderstorms, the quiet of novels, the basking in always having enough time for one more episode of Law and Order. It's been the working towards new career paths and the pursuit of healthy friendships and the reunion of family.

But it's also been the teen angst of a long-distance relationship, Stephen staying behind in Australia while I flew to Georgia. I have become more thankful than ever for technology and mail, but I am also certain that I will never again take for granted the luxury of being together. There have been days of overwhelming frustration, of impatience that will not cease. And there have been days of gratefulness, of eagerness for our upcoming reunion, of seeing how beneficial separation can be for the heart.

I've been ready to see Stephen since I glanced back from the departure gate in Australia, and while some might say my expectations are too high, I know they're just right.

Tonight, I will see him, face-to-face, at baggage claim. And the waiting will be over and the next adventure will begin.

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?

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.

 

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.

 

These last 10 days

...have been a whirlwind of frustration and satisfaction, stress and relaxation, holiday bustle and slow summer heat. Between the end-of-school rush, Christmas shopping and celebrating, and making the transition to sundresses and shorts (in December no less), I have to remind myself to breathe. I have to remind myself that this is real life; I came to Australia almost six months ago and I'm still here. Happy, content, joy overdosing.

This is a season of acceptance. Of knowing both where I am and where I'm headed, and realizing the perfection in both. With the new year approaching quickly, there rarely seems to be enough time to accomplish the daily routines, let alone leave time for a complicated thought process about resolutions or reflections or whatever. There is only this place, this day, and the promise that it is all getting better and better, up and up.

 

 

On family and the holiday season

Today, I dropped my mom off at the airport and we said a tearful till next time. She arrived in Sydney last weekend and we spent this week exploring and catching up. I was glad to have some good, old-fashioned Mama advice (not that it's been lacking, but there's just something about face-to-face that's better, you know?). She came loaded with Christmas presents and some of my favorite treats from home; I sent her home with gifts for my family and for her. To name a few adventures, we strolled on the beaches, fed and petted kangaroos and koalas, and wandered through gardens designed to imitate other countries. We drank over-priced lattes while she listened to my heart about work, relationships, and where I want to go from here. She helped me draw up a new budget for my finances, and I was so grateful to have a mother who is still willing to help me and build me up. My host family cooked us a beautiful dinner for her birthday, which is in two days, and also let us cook them an American Thanksgiving. I had the whole week off, thanks to a wonderful host family and grandparents, and really, it couldn't have come at a better time.

The holidays are right around the corner. So getting to spend some time with my mom was fantastic. There's a space in my life, no matter how dreamy Oz is, that's family shaped, and there are so often moments or experiences that I wish I could share with my parents and brother. Having Mom here was amazing, and I know that as great as the holidays will be, it'll be a little tough being apart this year. But I think what's hardest is coming to terms with all the things I've left behind for the time being. I've been putting a lot of thought and effort into what a temporary or permanent relocation to Australia would look like, and it's sort of daunting to look back home and see, truly, what it means to leave.

Moving on means everyone else moves on as well. And as you grow up, so does everyone else. And as much as you want that hometown to always be the same as when you left, it won't be. So this holiday season, as much as it is exploration and new opportunities, is bittersweet. Bittersweet because it's summer, not winter. Because it's a new family and new friends and new traditions, which are all lovely, but are not mine. Because it's the start of a new year and a new country, and I have close to no idea where I'll be living in the next 12 months. But I also know who I am and where I want to be headed, and I'm blessed enough to have family that will support me and love me through it, no matter the cost or the distance.

So to my mom, happy almost birthday and thank you so very much for coming to see me. It was a joy showing you my life here, and now more than ever, I am certain that being your daughter is an honor, to say the least. You are the most incredible woman and have given me everything I need to find joy wherever I am, and I cannot thank you enough for being my mama. And to my dad, thanks for sharing her with me. I'm not sure what this next year will hold for me, but I know I will carry you both with me, and that is a comfort like no other.

Here's to seasons that bring comfort and joy, in the new and the old, alike. To family, biological and otherwise. To life, whatever season you're in.

In other news, Olivia just turned 8 and Lachlan has a new set of words to learn, so things are quite exciting in the nanny world.

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.

The myth of fresh-starts

At the beginning of this year, it became clear that I needed a fresh start. It brought me into a season of singleness, into a new job, into a new country. It brought me countless new friendships and adventures and the sort of self-discoveries and awareness about which people dream. This fresh start for which I fought so valiantly and steadfastly brought me more than I ever imagined, but beyond those things, it brought me a nugget of truth that I wasn't sure I wanted. There's no such thing as a fresh start.

Sure, we can move to a new country and take a new job and completely rebuild our community, but the fact remains that all those things we want a fresh start from will still be with us. Those things shape us, they change us radically, and we can't escape them. Our pasts are part of us, even as we move beyond them, and in carrying the weight of all the places we've been and people we've met, it's almost laughable to believe we'll somehow be able to throw them off and have a fresh start.

I came here needing a change, needing something more. But I also came trying to outrun something that had become part of me. Not just something that had happened, but something that had built a new part of me. Something that had become part of my story and my journey and any destination I find. So why did I think I'd be able to get rid of it?

This weekend, I went to see Romeo and Juliet at the Sydney Opera House with a friend of mine. The show was spellbinding and the company quite nice, and we spent the afternoon talking about life - where we've been and where we're going. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, he said something to me, and the gist of it was that this past part of me that I try to avoid has had an impact on how some people see me. And it wrecked my heart in the best kind of way. The I-really-need-to-deal-with-this kind of way, mixed with who-cares-what-anyone-else-says kind of way and I saw in myself a strength I didn't know I had. A strength to say my fresh start isn't just around the corner. It just isn't, and the sooner I stop chasing it, the sooner I'll be able to revel in the glory of where I am and how I got here. The sooner I stop chasing it, the sooner I'll be able to claim every nitty gritty part of my baggage and stop wondering if it will change things. Of course it will change things. But that's absolutely okay.

So here's to admitting that fresh starts are usually nowhere to be found, and maybe it's better that way. Maybe instead of trying to release the hurts and struggles of our who-we-weres, we should cling to them a little more tightly, allowing them to create in us glorious, tender hearts that are strong enough to come out of the storm better than we were before.

Who we were doesn't have to define who we are or who we will be. But that doesn't mean it's a bad thing for who we were to have a little say in the matter.

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 getting out of the boat

One of the best lessons I've learned since coming to Australia is that if you're called to something, you can't expect it to be easy or comfortable or a walk in the park. It'll be the hardest thing you'll ever attempt, and you probably won't always get it right. There will be days when you feel absolutely inadequate and terrified by the thought that this is it. You won't want to get out of the boat. But you will.

You will step over the edge of safety, onto the waves of your uncertainties and shortcomings, and you will walk towards promises far greater than anything you could have ever dreamed. And when you lose focus and look down (and you will), the water will seem too rough and you'll lose your footing. But you'll be steadied, by grace and Truth and freedom, and you'll press on. You'll endure. You'll succeed. You'll be excellent. Because you're called to be.

But first, you have to get out of the boat.

 

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.