"Life, if you keep chasing it so hard, will drive you to death.  Time--when pursued like a bandit--will behave like one; always remaining one country or room ahead of you, changing its name and hair color to elude you, slipping out the back door of the motel just as you're banging through the lobby with your newest search warrant, leaving you a burning cigarette in the ashtray to taunt you.  At some point you have to stop because it won't.  You have to admit that you can't catch it.  That you're not supposed to catch it.  At some point. . . you gotta let go and sit still and allow contentment to come to you." — from Eat Pray Love by ELIZABETH GILBERT

(Photo taken of Carleigh in Costa Rica. Right before her camera was sacrificed to the Pacific.  RIP Canon Powershot.)

The Simple Life

I lie here.  Melting into the ground.  Glowing with sweat and exhaustion.  An energy sweeps over me, into me, like a sunny wind carrying all the colors of spring and life and light.  Everything is here in it's place.  In this moment, I am no more or less or different than the person next to me, or the room we all lie in, or the building on this street, in this city, on this planet.  I am everything around me and they are me and nothing matters but the energy pulsating within all of us in this very moment.

And as I roll up my mat, pausing to silently thank the earth, my fellow students, my teacher and myself, I take that feeling with me, holding it close and letting it wrap itself around me again like an old quilt if it so chooses. 

A week ago, I took my first CorePower Yoga class in seven months.  Yes, my yoga mat and fairly regular practice traveled with me across the Atlantic, but I'll be honest.  I usually lost interest in my own self-taught classes (ironic indeed) and would get bored around the twenty minute mark.  So needless to say, I was a little nervous about my first C2 class in Portland.  Sixty minutes of power vinyasa in a 100 degree room?  Um, yeah.  I thought I was going to die about halfway through.  Sweat was pouring down my face into my eyes and up my nose when I went upside down.  My legs were shaking.  My arms were trembling.  And my face was almost if not completely the color of a red delicious apple.  But so not delicious.

I only found out later that Nattika's classes (Nattika being our instructor that day) are infamously hard.  And the class wasn't sixty minutes like I was used to at the Pacific Beach studio but seventy-five.  Granted, that's only a difference of fifteen minutes, but fifteen extra minutes of balancing poses and core strengtheners and inversions will make you want to curl up in a ball and cry if you don't pass out before you have the chance.  

But shockingly, I survived the class and reestablished that sense of patience you must have with yourself on the mat.  For the past however many months, all I've done is rush from one thing to the next, even if it's just tracking the thoughts racing through my mind.  And for the first time in a long time, I quieted my brain and let myself dissolve into the rhythm of breath and movement.  That divine energy found its way back to me in no time and I was dancing along to the music with the rest of the class.  And after seven days of yoga, yoga, and more yoga, I've rediscovered a part of myself that I had misplaced back in San Diego.  I trust myself again.  And not only my body but my ability to make decisions, to know when to take a break and when to push forward.  I trust myself to be true to that person I know I am because I have no reason not to be.

That's the magical thing about yoga.  It can transform you in a matter of breaths even when you don't think you need any sort of transformation at all.  It's about learning to be mindful in your practice on and off the mat, allowing that to guide you in this world that is distracting, consuming, and overwhelmingly stressful in every which way.  And despite what you may think, yoga doesn't have to be some physically demanding "sport" that you hear so often about on TV or in trendy magazines.  It can be as simple as sitting and taking a quiet moment for yourself, reconnecting to the "beginningless potential of all things," and remembering that a single moment holds the world.  Maybe that sounds crazy to some, but I think we all need a little crazy in our lives sometimes.  Especially if it ironically brings us peace. 

In his book "Siddhartha" (a must read if you haven't already), Hermann Hesse writes,

"Above all, he learned to listen with a still heart, with a waiting open soul, without passion, without desire, without judgements, without opinions." 

If only life was that simple, right?  Well, maybe it can be.  Sprinkling a little mindfulness into all of our days, in whichever way works best for you, can only serve to make us calmer people, better listeners, and wiser souls.  Add a dash of contentment to the equation and I think you just might have something extraordinary.  

Portland: the city of roses, coffee, and hipsters

Who loves Portland?

Oooo!  Pick me!  Pick me!!

It's been five, glorious days in Portland, and I'm already starting to settle into my nook here.  And by "nook" I mean a nearly empty apartment with a lush air mattress (if that even makes sense), an upside-down storage container for a chair and just enough kitchen supplies to make myself a decent meal.  But with lights, heating and internet, I'd say that this place is pretty rockin'!

My first couple days were exhausting to say the least. . . Running errands around town with mom, getting acquainted with the city and browsing Powell's (only the greatest bookstore on earth if you haven't already heard) for one measly hour--trust me, you could spend weeks in this place and not get bored.  Or maybe that's just me.  "Irregardless" (it seems just too appropriate not to say), Portland has proved to be just as friendly as I remembered it.  I'm falling in love with West Coast culture all over again, and this city definitely seems to have perfected many aspects of that.  Clean, eclectic, laid back, outdoorsy and friendly.  And no, I'm not describing my dream guy, though I'll admit, the qualities are undeniably similar.

For example, the nice lady at the post office was more than willing to tell me all about her latest life drama: strange phone calls coming to her at-home business line from Jamaica.  Go figure.  You're probably thinking, now why would you even care to know such things about a person you've never met before?  Am I right?  Well, yes, the same thing crossed my mind, but I listened patiently and just reveled in the ease of the entire interaction.  In a place where everyone is so friendly and open and welcoming, it's hard not to fall right into being yourself--something that I've always found extremely difficult when moving to a new city.  But talking to this random stranger, I didn't feel myself instinctively put up that barrier that I always seem to find comfort (and simultaneous frustration) behind.  And it wasn't just this one person, but several other people I've met and chatted with, whether at a coffee shop on 23rd or in the Lululemon store downtown.  There's so little judgement in this place--although I'm sure you could find it if you looked--that the city and its people seem that much more welcoming.  It's as if everyone's signed the same agreement upon entering: you be you, I'll be me and we'll make it work.  Now if the job situation could only improve. . . But eh, who cares.  If these people can be happy and friendly even in the midst of such economically frustrating times, I've got to hand it to them and maybe learn a thing or two as well.  

So far then, Portland, you earn five stars in my book.  Now if you could do me a small favor and keep the rain out and the sun shining (most of the time, that is), I would greatly appreciate it.  Although that could put me on dangerous ground. . . I may just fall head over heals for you.  

Destination Portland: 384 miles and counting

One of my all time favorite American traditions is the classic road trip.  What's there not to love?  Windows down, wind blowing through your fingers and hair, music blaring and a wide, open road that invites you to day dream the day away.

Every now and then, a road trip is just good for the soul, inspiring freedom and excitement and fun.  I should know; I've had my fair share of road trips up and down the west coast, down south in Costa Rica and out west in Switzerland (Jude and Skoda, you're still in our hearts...).  And even though each one has been different, that thrill and feeling of possibility is always present, which perhaps adds to the reasons why I find them so addicting.  That and the fact that they always seem to take place at important, even pivotal (if you prefer the drama), times in my life.  Coincidence, you ask?  I highly doubt that.

It's no surprise then that this trip comes at a significant time for both my mom and I--my recent return to American soil (and everything that goes along with that) and, more importantly, my mom's big move to Portland.  So then tomorrow morning, we'll be heading out west pumped up with caffeine, nerves, and excitement.  Oregon, here we come!  The current winter weather conditions may not allow for the windows down part of my road trip fantasy, but we'll make do.  Besides, Alexi, Nick, Chris, and José have promised to serenade us the whole way there via the ultimate road trip playlist.  A little music, some good coffee, and even better company and this trip has happiness written all over it.

(Driving on PCH in northern California, May 2007)

Flipping pages

This week has been a strange one to say the least.  I'm back in Coeur d'Alene, the city that holds nearly all of my childhood memories, but it feels different this time.  None of my girls are here, no snow is on the ground, and there is little if any activity to speak of.  Cold, brown, and just ugh.  Sorry, February.  You're not my favorite.  Granted, I am only here for a week and a half, but it feels longer than that, maybe because I don't have much else to occupy my time that doesn't involve packing or repacking or looking for jobs/future apartments online.  And although the idea of packing up my life here--or whatever is left--should be emotional and overwhelming and exhausting, it's not.  It all feels so impersonal to me, but only because I picked up and left a long time ago--both physically and figuratively.


For the past five years, this city has been a stopping place.  A place to catch my breath and prepare for the next looming change.  And while it still carries remnants of home because my mom and dad both live here (for now), it has changed.  A lot.  And I have as well.  I no longer come home to the house I grew up in.  Most of the people I associate with home don't live here anymore.  And every so often, I look around and see new buildings or businesses that weren't there the last time I was.  I guess you could say that we're outgrowing each other, this city and I.  I know I can always come back here and find the familiarity in places and people, but it's not the same and strangely, I'm okay with that.


After all the changes and moves, I've come to realize that the word "home" is more like a state of being, and one that we like to associate with a place that then gives it permanence and more meaning.  A sense of home is more than just a familiar house or city.  It's where you find a balance of comfort in your surroundings, love in the people you spend time with, and contentment in who you are within all of that.


And as I sit here, in my mom's office surrounded my a mountain range of brown cardboard boxes, I can't help but let the excitement and prospect of a new home distract me from what I really should be doing: packing.  Nope.  Instead I sit here going through old books that tell the story of my life.  Books my mom used to read to me when I couldn't even say the alphabet.  Books I read in middle school for reading points.  Books on the high school summer reading lists that I absolutely despised and "read" the week before school started in an emotional end-of-summer frenzy.  And then there are the books I fell in love with, those that transformed my college experience and made me want to be an English major, and those that I've read multiple times because they themselves hold a piece of home in their pages.  They're all here, telling my story as they tell their's.


I pack thousands of pages into boxes and try to imagine the shelves of the room they will be replaced upon.  Home.  It's someplace close, I can sense it, feel it, and almost touch it.  The walls may be a different color and the city a little rainier, but the hominess?  No problem there, cause I'm bringing it with me anywhere I go.

In case you were wondering...

This blog isn't going anywhere and neither am I, well, theoretically that is.  The location of these posts may change, but the motivation behind them will remain the same: finding the adventure and excitement in seemingly ordinary tasks and places to keep you momentarily entertained and to keep me writing and thinking and living.  Besides, living an adventure isn't about where you are.  It's about how you choose to live, what you do with your time, and the way in which you take it all in.  As stated by Stiv Wilson, Wend Magazine's founder and editor, "Adventure is a state of mind, and a way of life." Just remember to sprinkle a little adventure into every day, and nothing can ever be boring or mundane or ordinary.  Okay, so maybe it's easier said than done, but trying has to account for something right?  

Holy Culture Shock

"Welcome to the United States of America" the sign above me reads in oversized, silver letters.  The concrete floor feels the same beneath my Converse, but somehow, I know it's different.  It's America.  It's my country.  It's home.

Along with the crowd of international passengers, I wait in line for customs, then the recheck baggage line, until we can finally re-enter the boarding area again which means more security lines and nearly de-robing in order to walk through the metal detector without setting off all alarms.  I make it through unscathed and still operating in this semi-confused yet oddly comfortable state of awareness.  I thought it would feel a lot stranger to be back, to be thrown into a major American airport, which I find to be an accurate though perhaps exaggerated representation of American culture.  People yelling into their cellphones at unreasonably high volumes.  Every fast food chain you could think off in addition to "Healthy Snack Stands" selling chocolate covered protein bars, soy chips, and reduced-fat, preservative packed blueberry muffins in vacuum packed bags.  And then there's the vending machines selling iPhones, iPods, and digital cameras just in case the spare electronics in your carry-on don't quite cut it.  I cannot imagine how overwhelmed a first time visitor to the States would feel arriving in a crowded and chaotic American airport.  A mix of fear, shock, and anxiety for sure.  Welcome to the United States of America indeed.

But, surprisingly, I find that everything feels remarkably normal.  I can handle this readjustment no problem!  I blend in so much it's like I never left.

"So, you going anywhere exciting?"

Huh?  I look up from repacking my things after going through security and the young officer is looking at me with a kind smile, waiting for an answer.  I look around me for a moment.  Is he talking to me?

"You have a fun trip ahead of you then?"  Okay, now I know that he's talking to me.

"Well, I'm actually on my way home.  But I guess that can be the best destination sometimes," I respond with a smile.  "Alright, well have a great day!"

"Thanks, you too.  Safe travels."

And with that, I shuffle away trying to pull myself and my bags together.  I honestly don't think I've been asked a "so how are you?" type of question by a stranger in over six months.  I think back to when I first arrived in Montreux.  I walked to the small grocery story on the corner to pick up some essentials and when I went to the cash register to ring up my things, I naturally made some small talk with the Coop employee.  When I asked her how her day was going, she gave me a look as if to say, "Who the hell are you to ask me how I am doing?"  Okay, never mind. . . I quickly learned that such friendly questions come off as invasive or intruding to others, so I kept my mouth shut from that point on.  But here, in our grand country, that kind of small talk is normal, even sometimes expected.  And although many people find those exchanges menial or even unnecessary, my short interaction with the nice airport employee reminded me of how friendly this country is, even in a place like Newark.

Oh America.  I've missed you.  You and your disorder, your rowdiness, and your enthusiasm.  Walking by some man yelling into his cellphone while pausing to tear off the corner of his burrito in a wild-animal-like fashion, I smile to myself.  It feels damn good to be back.  

Chère la Suisse,

Dear Switzerland,

You have been exceptionally kind to me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing and showing your many faces. French, Italian, German or Romansh, you are brilliant and beautiful, eclectic and charming. And your mountains. . . Oh your mountains. I have no words for those because I've used them all up.

So for now I say farewell. And again, thank you. You've taught me more than I've yet to understand and you've helped me see part of myself I didn't know existed. And in return, I leave you a piece of my heart. It may not be much, but it's something to me.

Bisous et à bientôt,

Mel

Undercover Art

A not-so-everyday art collection found amidst everyday life. It's amazing what you see if you just open your eyes and take a look around.

Vevey, Old Town

Fribourg

Translation: "Always keep in your hand, the hand of the child you once were."

Chamonix

Chamonix

Bâle

Lavaux

Rivaz

New beginnings

If the weather gods and airport angels cooperate and function as they should (triple cross your fingers for me!), I will be on a plane home in less than 36 hours. Home as in the United States. Of A-m-e-r-i-c-a. O.M.G. is right.

After much deliberation and discussion, I have decided to take a leave from the land of cows and mountains, chocolate and cheese, and begin the next leg of this adventure. I had elaborate plans to work in Prague for a few months, to travel to Spain and to Corsica, and to see where all of this would lead to, but thanks to some very important documents that are at the mercy of stubborn, slow, and bureaucratically challenged Germans, I have no choice but to pack up my suitcases and make the trek back stateside. But honestly, my return could not come at a better time.

There are so many things that I've missed from the States and no matter how much time I spend talking to friends and family on Skype or reading the American newspaper online or looking at photos from my crazy college days at the beach, the nostalgia remains. Granted, some may consider me to be an overly nostalgic person, but that's only because--as I see it--I have so many memories that are worth reliving. Of course I am going to miss the Swiss traditions that I've established for myself. . . Walking through the vineyards, coffee and reading at Tea Room à la Baye, and jumping on a train to explore yet another charming village with my camera . . . But I know these things will still be here when I come back. And although I can't yet comprehend how much I will miss hearing the sweet sounds of my favorite language while walking down the street or waiting in line at the grocery store, I cannot tell you how excited I am to actually understand every single word someone says to me. To speak at the level of a college graduate? It's going to feel like a foreign country!

And in order for me to keep this adventure rolling, to keep my eyes and ears and all senses engaged, it's time to take on something new, even if that means, ironically, returning to my roots. To take this adventure in a direction that maintains just that--a sense of adventure and excitement and uncertainty. After all, that's how I kicked this off and that's how I plan to continue it.

So then. . . What's next? I can tell you this: I fly back to Idaho on the 3rd. Then it's off to Portland with a moving truck, a serious rain jacket, and a revived sense of curiosity. On February 17th, Yoga Teacher Training at CorePower begins, where I plan to unearth and cultivate the yogi that's dying to break out, especially after months of cold weather and chocolate--not the healthiest of combinations. Anything beyond that remains a mystery. Hopefully Portland life includes a job if I can find one, maybe even an internship, and perhaps a photography class to continue shaping my craft. Trust me, I have plenty of ideas--too many for my own good--but all leading toward something great, I just know it. And the best part? I will be closer to all of you! (I bet you saw that one coming.)

Mind. Body. And spirit. It's all there. A recipe for greatness. What that recipe calls for? I'm not yet entirely sure. But if I've learned anything since I got here six months ago, it's that the "figuring-it-out-process" is what I'm good at. Maybe I am hopelessly optimistic and wretchedly stubborn. But these things keep me dreaming, keep me working, and keep me living. The details? I'm not worried. They'll work themselves out eventually.

Now then, let's get on with it, shall we?