Tired, cold, mad: bad combination

Just plain mad. I exited my apartment in a flurry with all kinds of bad French words in my head ready to hit the first person that gave me a bad look. Still the heat problem here, and today I was given a gas heater which when turned off, smokes. Lovely. It is ten thirty in the evening here, I wanted to go to bed, but the adrenaline from the conversation and the fumes that still linger even with the windows open are keeping me awake. So I fume, the wind whips through my apartment and well Merry Christmas to all of you.
It has been a little while since I have written I have been in kind of a funk lately. I am tired, frustrated not to be able to climb, so I am running. I didn’t realize how much I really don’t like it, but I have a race coming up in a few months so I have to put in the time. Laura is coming soon, followed by the Loya’s so all that will be really nice.
And in two days I leave for Barcelona to be with the Spanish assistant, her family and boyfriend and little baby, Martina. Just turned one. I promise that I will post pictures of this trip and write a little something as well.
Merry Christmas. Some I will see sooner than others…

Done

Well that is about it. One week in the life of an American in France. It was such a great exercise and it really made me think about every day and highlight one thing that was meaningful or stuck out to me. The literary part was fun as well, I would end up with two hundred words, and then have to shave them down to half sentences. I will definitely do more of it in the future, but for the moment, I think I am tired. Not tired of writing, just tired. Tuesdays are the long days, up at six thirty, and I am just now getting home, it is eleven. I ate at Jean Baptiste's apartment after climbing, well I taught them ultimate instead. He is coming to my place Thursday to have soup. Well here goes my first French soup called Pot-au-feu, it is considered a classic French dish. And yes, this is one hundred and sixty words.

2.12.07

The lights are up. Waves of yellow hang over the walking streets of Castres, signaling the Christmas season merriment. Maybe once or twice a week I go on a night walk. Nowhere in particuar, just to be out at night and see the city. Kids yelling outside McDonalds, a couple enjoying an after dinner stroll, the Domino’s delivery guy on a scooter. I happily talk to my parents for a bit, they don’t know it but they have called during church. I don’t have one here. Tonight I decide that the streets will be my sanctuary, a conversation with the Father the sermon. Reassurance is the message. Almost immediately as I pass the train station, there is a presence. Nothing said, just a calm and I am thankful. Thankful mostly for the people I know, the opportunity to be here; the fact that I am alone. It has taken almost ten weeks to be thankful for that, but I am.

1.12.07

I don’t like Paris much. Too big, dirty, impersonal, daunting, expensive. Toulouse however is another matter. I pulled myself out of bed at eight thirty, wanting to visit the Saturday market. I make the tour first to see what is there. Old men selling eggs and honey. Women selling pumpkins and clumps of garlic. All is sufficiently surveyed, I go back once more, hands out of my pea coat, ready to harvest for the week. Eggs, carrots, cabbage, a pre-made soup mélange, cheese. I ask for two I like, then ask him to propose something, highly recommended. An old cantal. Strong, breaks like parmesan. Running home with my treasures, Nico, David and Cecil are on the street. I am late. Today is a trip to Toulouse for wandering and presents. The city has rain. I can’t remember any of the sounds, only the feeling of contentment. Buying doesn’t entice, I go in on a Frisbee. Dinner for one at nine.

30.11.07

I taught my first official, sweaty underarm, dry throat, all in French class today. In front of thirty-two kids and one economics teacher I talked about my ‘financial testimony in America’. It felt fairly natural. Class started at eight, one student. We talked about video games. The two afternoon classes were equally inspiring, but after I did get to encourage one of the guys who was trying, despite the two girls around him making fart noises. Apparently, the headmaster made a few decisions that have rendered the Lycee Soult less than tranquil. The profs are uniting next week to form their response. I am part of the French Alpine Club here. The one hundred ninety participants got together to look at the pictures from the year, eat and drink; talk. I starred in three pictures. Nico’s mom came to get us at 11. Good thing, I used up all my good French for the day. It was going downhill quick.

29.11.07

Not a usual Thursday, but welcomed. I slip easily into habit. Trying to be disciplined to work on lessons at night makes it tough to touch the floor four hours before the bus the next day. Heaving myself out of bed, donning spandex and a shirt I ran my hill course. I only have two routes, this is my favorite. The space heater warmed the bathroom so upon returning the shave and shower were delicious. Ninety minutes until departure. I drink coffee and read. Grab the bus at eleven twenty-five, the slightly grumpy pony-tailed blond woman chauffeuring. A quick prep for class; perfect; the class I dread is next week. Three classes, ending at five, debates raised more emotion than I thought. Substituted soccer for watching climbing. Tendonitis equals no climbing. Nico and his mom took me home while recounting Sarkosy’s speech on TV. Note to self, ‘Friends’ does not inspire. Wrote, ate the last bit of food, bed.

28.11.07

Rotten apples spoil the bunch; a rotten kid can ruin your day. I try. Try to make the topics interesting, but today one kid would not shut up. Tried to ignore him, nothing. He was interrupting with useless English words. The third straight hour of teaching and thankfully the last, I was a little tired and edgy. Raphael, who took me home, gave me ammunition I can use to discipline them. Made it home before one and don’t have class for twenty-four hours, so I take the afternoon off. Looking for a pot to cook soup in, hesitated, to big? Left empty-handed. Right to the lovely library. I like it there, the clientele is interesting. Came home, napped, spent time being quiet in front of Jesus, and made crepes while talking to Laura on Skype. Looking for class ideas so watched some episodes of Friends. Yannick called. Quickly crawled into sub-zero bed, the first five seconds are the worst.

27.11.07

Tuesday starts with the game of see-how-long-I-can-stay-in-bed-until-I-HAVE-to-brave-the-freezing-air. It lasts till 6:45. I happily walk past the busses I have missed twenty minutes ago. Meet Angelina at the municipal electric building to drive to school. Thirty-minute small talk session. She shushes me to hear about the riots that happened south of Paris. First class doesn’t show because they have to make up another class. I wander to the teacher’s lounge to fill five hours between classes. The university kids here are on strike; so to be ‘one’ all the high school kids decide to follow suit. However, one of my friends is an organizer and decides to call it off because most just want a day off. I eat lunch with the teachers; teach two classes that average out to be below bearable, and meet my ‘new’ Peugeot mountain bike. Dragging it over to the climbing wall, I freeze for four hours before Jean Baptist takes me home.

One week, onethousandonehundredandtwentywords

Brandon encouraged me to write everyday, and not just for me.
I saw this challenge in action as a friend had to write a story in 160 words exactly for a contest. On my run today I decided to do the same. This is one week. Seven days where I will write 160 words exactly about each day. It is so that a week will be documented, so that all of you will be in the know, and for me, I am trying to be a better writer so this is good practice.
Welp, here it goes.

26.11.07
My week doesn’t really begin until Tuesday, I will have to have a less than stellar intro day. Monday, there is not a whole lot open with, I don’t do much really. Recoup from the weekend, I slept in this morning till 10:30. And plan for the week. I spent a little over a half an hour under the table reading and journaling. Why under the table? No heat save a small space heater so I put it under the table, put a blanket over and called it good. I did yoga in my freezing kitchen, and then sat on the computer for a few hours, looking at pants, dietary changes to help tendonitis, and ideas for lessons. A run along a city path. Flat and oddly crossing streets. Passed by old women on a walk, slowly moving, but moving none the less, they smiled at me, ‘bonjour’s all around. Made a rice, lentil, quinoa salad. Worked some more. Bed.

Regional food

One of the many interesting things about France and most of Europe for that matter is that back in the day, people didn’t travel a whole heap. However mundane and sleepy this statement may be to start out a blog entry, stay with me, the crescendo is coming.

So since Frenchies didn’t go many places, and had to make a living with what they had, they started taking those things that grew well in their area and making France the culinary mecca it is. For instance, in the north of France, cows liked the open areas and helped to make some of the best Brie and Camembert in the world, if not the only. Apples also grew surprisingly well in the climate and tended to like the rain and wind and soil, much like in Washington. They take these apples and make the best lightly fermented cider you have tasted, and for those, like me, who like it a little stronger, there is Calvados. Beautiful amber color, sweeter than most like it, but strong and delicious. And with the French when two things are good, sugar and cream, meat and cheese, butter and chocolate, why not mix them? You got it, mix whatever parts cider and Calvados in a tall glass and you have a Pommeau [ pronounced pom-o, French for apple is pomme]. Usually served before dinner, or as a sedative if drank alone.

Near Chamonix up in the mountains it is cold and a little tough in the winter, but les dames, (the ladies) the cows, as they are called, like the sweet alpine grass and the cool mountain streams so this is where we get fondu (bread dipped in melted cheese) and a delicious dish known as raclette. Raclette is cheese melted in a small open oven in the middle of the table, and then scraped onto a plate full of potatoes, thinly sliced meat, onions and pickles. Well really you could have half a sock on your plate if you wanted, and once you put that melted cheese over it, you’d probably like it just as well. Although neither one of these plates are particularly light, they are good when it is negative 10 outside and there isn’t much to do but try and stay warm.

In the West there are delicious wines in Burgundy area, Seafood galore in the south, sauerkraut and sausage in Strasbourg near Germany, and as for me…well I got to try the specialty of the my region last night at a local restaurant.
Here in the region of Tarn the specialty is fois gras, which is goose liver, as well as a main dish called Cassoulet.

The next entry will be about my experience tasting these treats, but while we are on the subject of regional food.

My father is a gardner, by hobby, not profession, but he darn well should be. I have never in my life tasted a better tomato than the ones from dad’s garden. Not even a heirloom tomato sold in Bellingham for $6 a pound at the farmer’s market compares to the taste and texture my dad produced in his tomatoes this year. Organic has nothing on these fruits. Blood meal is about the harshest thing he puts down for them, that and a truckload of carefully chosen ripe manure from the local stalls.

So the challenge to myself is to get out to the public library here and learn all I can about growing stuff. Who knows, when my folks retire, and if this takes off, maybe dad will be the community farmer. Or maybe I will learn enough to take care of my household and maybe create a local delicacy of my own?

The Meal

A friend, David, from the climbing club picked me up with his girlfriend, Cecil, at about three in the afternoon because he wanted to take me to this place and treat me to a real Cassoulet. I talked about this with them last night, but in America if I were to take you out to dinner, I would pick you up, we would go straight to the restaurant, eat, then leave and I would take you home. That is the short, of it, but that is usually how it goes. Here, no no no no. That doesn’t work. We walked around Castres, my city, for a little while, bought some good beers for the before dinner snack, he choose a Belgiun, I chose one from Corsica. We got a little fois gras, went to get some bread in Mazamet, then up in the hills to walk a little in a midevial town called Hautpoul. Braving the wind and cold we made our way down to a wooden toy shop, then hiked back up to the warmth of the car. It was really enjoyable. He is a sweet guy. Loves to climb, lives in a cool little house with his girlfriend, and their cat. Anyway, while his girlfriend went out to get groceries because they didn’t want to do it on Sunday, we sat and chatted and he showed me all his favorite books, and favorite comic book artists, the chair he was going to buy for his birthday to start what would be his library, and talked climbing. I will say, I have noticed that French as a whole read much more than Americans. Just a side note. Once his girlfriend returned we sat down with our beers and fois gras, pate, and bread and had a delicious pre dinner meal. We were all super hungry, and had to stop ourselves from eating to much. Off to the restaurant!

It is this little place outside of town where you have to make a reservation before coming, but it isn’t all that expensive and the food is about as authentic as you will find. The two servers rush around putting things on the open grill, taking orders, busing tables, and laying down plates of traditional French fare. For us, there was no choice, Cassoulet. It is made with white beans, duck legs, a few different kinds of sausage from the region and some pork for flavor. Heavy, yes, but not as heavy as you are thinking. The trick is the beans. Just to cook them you have to make a stock out of all kinds of vegetables and pork bones, which in itself is a delicious soup. And the trick is you can’t over cook them. There is a fine line, and these beans cannot fall apart and become a puree when you serve them. I tend to do this when I make black beans, but I like the texture better a little more mushy. In any case, when this maneuver is done, you layer some pork, cooked beans, sausages, beans, sausage, beans, then the duck legs, and more beans. Cover it all with the stock from the beans, and it goes into the oven for another hour or so. It simmers until the top beans just start to turn brown. You have a little bit of crust on top that is super flavorful plus all these fun treats inside that have been baked in the broth. Fatty duck, sausage, pork. Fat city right? Nope. I don’t know how they pulled it off, but there was NO floating oil or anything in the sauce, it really did seem light. You better believe all the sauce that was left on the plate gets wiped up quickly with the table bread. Mmmmmmm.

Interestingly enough, Cecil’s dad is a winemaker in the south, but Cecil doesn’t like alcohol at all. I am the American of the group and David, tries, but admittedly, he is no wine expert. So David asks our server for a wine that would go well with the cassoulet, half bottle of course. The woman brings us the bottle and opens it so that it can breath. This was the first time in my life that I tasted a wine, didn’t like it all that much, but the taste totally changed with the meal. It complemented the beans and the duck meat perfectly.

We sat for another forty-five minutes digesting, while the servers were rushing about. We talked about life in France, and some of the differences for me I have noticed. I tried to tell stories about being in Bellingham and Nashville and the organic movement there. Family, friends, telling funny stories isn’t all that easy in another language I have found. I have been trying to make soup lately, it has been going well, but Cecil is apparently an expert so she was giving me tips, but it all stopped when dessert came.

Think of the richest plain yogurt you can think of, solid, almost like ricotta cheese, but light and in about a six ounce container. It comes raw, no pasteurizing or anything from a little village about seven miles away. You empty it out onto your tiny plate and then with the little dish of honey they have brought you, drizzle ever so lightly, or generously, as you want and then be carried away into dairy heaven for the next ten bites. It was heavenly. When we finally pushed back from the table it was ten thirty, a slow two hour dinner is always healthy.

Upon returning to my apartment, I went straight to bed, got up this morning and without even the slightest need to eat set out for a long, long walk along the river under gray skies, and glowing trees of tangerine, yellow, and deep blood red all around. Back to the apartment to make some more soup.

Alps, days, and keys…

This is going to be a longer entry so grab your favorite hot beverage, sit down to laugh, cry and get a peek into the last two weeks of French life.

We are in the holiday’s of Toussaints, which is All Saints Day. High schoolers get almost two weeks off for this holiday to be with family and put flowers at graves of relatives. For me, it was a little sad when the bell rung on that last Friday. I missed a little more than I would like to admit being with my family and such, but the saving thought was the trip coming up with the climbing group from Mazamet.

Four days in the Alps. A place called Le Verdone. It is considered the Grand Canyon of France. It is a different sort of climbing, not like Indian Creek or anything, but it is calcite rock which is super sticky until you have a few years of grease and food scum on it, then it gets a little ‘skatey’ as they say here. And to get to the base of the cliffs you either have to go thirty minutes out of your way and walk another half hour to get to the base, or you rappel down as many pitches as you want to do and then climb up. First day was pretty easy for everyone, about 6 pitches and we got in before dark. I was super stoked to do this one climb called La Demande, a 13 pitch, 5c-6a (5.10-5.10c) route that was dubbed one of the most beautiful climbs in Europe. Had to be done.

Well this day, day two, we decided to rappel down, and after some route finding and all that climbing stuff, we got on the wall at 1:30. I was optimistic, my partner for the day Dave was as well, but I was going to have to lead all the pitches if we were going to be out by dark. So we headed out, but before we left they gave me a headlamp “just in case”. I reluctantly put it in my pack and started up the next pitch. It really was beautiful. There were some hard pitches in there, and it was marked in the guide book that it was bolted, but thirty feet between each bolt is a little sketchy at points. Pitch seven and we were more than half way there. David came up over the lip to the belay station, smiling as he does, and said, “Et alors?” (and so?) it means more than this usually and in this case it meant, “So what do you think, it is 4:30 we have about three more hours of climbing and about an hour and a half of sunlight, do we go for it or head back down?” He was tired I knew, I was to really. A little more mentally than physically, but what I am learning about climbing is that there is a goal that is to be reached, and it is good to go for that will all you have, but the fun is in the process, and you have to know when it is time to say done. I said done.

We were at the last rappel, pulling the rope throught, using headlamps that I was happy to have, and i was in the process of telling David to be careful because there was a knot in the end of the rope, and just as i said it, the rope came out of his hand and there it was, a knot at the end of the rope dangling in the void, 15 feet or so from us. At the end of thirty minutes it came back to David’s hand and we continued the decent. Once on the ground though, we had another 6 miles to walk. We started in the wrong direction. But in about the third mile in the right direction, and no one stopping to give us a ride, one of the guys from our group came to get us. We had a little run in with a wild boar as well, but only some snorting and russling in the bushes, enough to give me a little fright at least.
We thought that we were going to get it from the rest of the group, but come to find out that there was still another group on the wall and by this time it was close to ten in the evening. We helped fish the other two off the wall while huddling near each other and jumping around to fight the cold North wind that was coming down on us. We all made it back, no problem, but I was still aching for that send of La Demande.

It was just going to be two of us again the next morning. A younger climber Nico and myself. After waking early and getting all our stuff together we had upped out numbers to three because Jeremy, who is one of the stronger climbers there, 5.12d, decided to come along. It was a relief to have someone else take the lead every other pitch, because if not I would have been out of gas for the last pitches which were the hardest. At nine in the morning we set off from flat ground to spend the next seven hours jamming our fingers in cracks, stemming up slippery chimenies and looking behind us every little while at the floor that was getting further and further away. The leaves were changing and the temps were perfect, it was a great day to send a good route.

I found out I love chiminies. We had just punched through our first real chimney and Jeremy said how he didn’t really want to lead the next one, so I took the lead. I was on some bad holds, pulling a little to hard when my feet slipped and my right pointer finger caught onto a good corner...ooo that hurt. When I looked down blood was pouring out of a dime sized peeler in my finger and Jeremy in polite French told me that it was dripping on him. “Oh sorry” I said and taped it up as best I could after flinging some of the blood on the wall just for good measure. I finished out the last beautiful pitch and then it was an easy exit to the rest of our party waiting for us all to cheer us and congratualte us. Beer and conversation followed that evening, and all but I was to climb the next day.

But the story is not over. After 5 more hours in the car to get to Mazamet. I was in the car with a friend and his mom to give me a lift to my house when I thought I should get out my keys. Good idea, except that I couldn ‘t find them. I all but emptied my entire sack out in the back seat there to look for them, and I found nothing. Welp... what now. Luckily I live in a place where there is a common door and then seperate appartment, I knocked on the door and happily there was someone just in the hallway there. He let me in, told me it was stupid that I lost my key, as if i was happy about it, and proceeded to the back garden to see if I could get into my bathroom where I knew that the window was broken.

After a hop up onto an about-to-fall-shack, hold onto the side of the house and switch feet in a small vent hole I was just able to reach my window, climb in and go to the front door. GREAT! Not only do I have no keys, but the only way to lock and unlock my door is with a key. Downclimb to my stuff, link up all the quickdraws I had and haul all my stuff up one bag at a time. After two bags, I had to climb down once more to call Laura an hour later than scheduled. Upon the return I only wanted a shower and a bed, I turned on the water and there was only cold. Well, no shower. To bed. I still didn’t get my key, which was in the car i drove to Verdone in, until a day later, and there were plentyt more stories of being locked out of the outer door for hours, pleading with the neighbor to let me in later, and then finally getting my key at seven in the morning the next day.

Well as for adventures and stories, I hope that there are more to share with you, I know that there will be.
Cheers

Milemarker

I am officially a French functionaire (which means governmental employee). Today I looked at my account to see where I was at in euros, and there it was triple digits and all. What did I feel there? Proud. I sort of wanted to turn to the middle age woman behind me in line and say, “um, excuse me, but I am an American being paid by your government, how bout it?” I think this constitutes my first real job out of college, yep put it on the resume I’m doin’ it. So what did I do with my newfound resolve and excitement? I went to the closest grocery and bought some Gruyere cheese, a huge beer made in Alsace, which is near the German border, and went home to eat a good meal, drink this lovely beer and write a few letters.
Cheers

Wedding all done.

The wedding is over, I am once again back in an airport. Waiting again to get on a plane and wait again.

Congratulations to Stuart and Erin who have started their lives together yesterday. It was a perfect wedding in many ways, the weather, the fun, the food, the lighting, the location, all the family chipping in to help and make it special. I was only in my home town for 48 hours almost exactly, but every minute was worth it. Breakfast at Crackle Barrell, rehersal dinner with us all around the same table, last minute thoughts and bird seed to buy, cakes that taste more like fudge, wedding felt more like it should.
Thanks to all of you who were there, and I say to you two Stu and Erin, enjoy the journey, you have embarked on a new road together. Enjoy it. Pictures will come soon I promise.

And so the first week is over.

It took a little more out of me than I thought it was going to, but I am happy where I am. It feels different to not be physically exhausted after a day of work. It is different to use your mind instead of your back to make a living. The kids were great I have seniors (Terminals) through sophomores (Premieres) who have proved to be a little difficult, but it will be good. I was prepared, but not near enough. The teaching was easy, it was the prep that caught me off guard.

I am sitting in my kitchen, as I do here in Castres most evenings, going over some new lesson ideas for next week and packing for a climbing trip up into the Pyrenees. I got hooked up with the local climbing club here and in less than two sessions at the local wall, they invited me to come and spend the weekend craiging and then some class IV alpine up somewhere. Didn’t so much pack for this one. However Ryan you will be pleased to know that I did bring my spandex along, so those will prove helpful and for the top all I have is my down green Patagonia and a few more light tops that I will layer like hell to keep warm, dirtbag alpine? Does that exist Josh?

I will post photos soon ya’ll I am having to do it all from the school and there is all kinds of malfunction problems. I am going to be getting internet here in the apartment soon, so take heed all y’all skypers, I will be online maybe next week.

And about next week the Verner clan has yet again pulled together to buy their son and brother a flight back to the states for Stuart and Erin’s wedding that will be next weekend, the 20th. So I will leave Toulouse, France at 12:45 on Thursday, get to Nashville that night at 9 stay until Sunday afternoon about 4 and head back to France to be at work on Tuesday.

The way it all went down

I put my phone in the mailbox at the airport just about an hour before I was planning on leaving for Paris. I was on a companion pass for the way there, and had done all the necessary tricks I could think of to get on the plane. I hung out at the gate all day just so that they would know who I was and that I had paid to play so to speak.
Strike number one, the guards change every flight. Well no matter, the attendants had told me that the flight was tight, but “you never know”. Right.
Twenty minutes before the flight was supposed to take off a mass crowd of what looked like to be geriatric tourists. They all filed in and I was the only one left. No space…NO SPACE!
I was to start school that Monday, this was Wednesday. I still didn’t have a place to stay nor much of anything else planned out. I needed to get on that flight and the next wasn’t until the next afternoon.
“London or Frankfurt”, the lady said in a distinctive French accent. Looked at the board to see which one was leaving when…London in 5 min, Frankfurt later that evening.
I took the London. 6 hours later after hardly eating and sitting next to an extremely talkative English 20 year old wanting nothing more than to be ‘proper drunk’ as soon as he touched down in England.
When I landed and then went through customs, no bags. ‘Hmm’, I thought, ‘that is strange.’ I did remember that I had two bags that I checked on to the plane. Well at least my stuff made the plane to Paris. Half a day, the tube, EuroStar, another train to Paris Airport, totaling about $250, I was reunited with my bags. Not end of story sadly.
Bought a overnight train ticket to Toulouse and then to Castres. Nice enough, thought I would sleep, but it was to hot and I couldn’t get my head to turn off or feel even somewhat comfortable in three day old dress clothes. Arrived in Toulouse because I had to change trains, lost the transfer ticket. Perfect. Bought another one, but being so tired I said Mazamet the city I am working in, not the city I live in. Ran with 100lbs of baggage to get the wrong train, had to get off and buy yet another ticket finally to Castres by bus.
Eight hours later I was shown the apartment and took it without a question.
Having only my liner for covers I took the curtains down and for the first time in 84 hours, I slept.

Breathing Deeply

The first and most stressful part of the trip is over. I am in the Oakland airport at 8:05 pm after getting up at 4:10 am in Tacoma, flying to California leaving my 90lbs of baggage to the airline hoping that they would be there twelve hours later, going into the city, getting this visa, which was almost enough to make me throw up anyway, meet a friend for dinner, and then get back to the airport to make a 10:05 flight to Atlanta then onto Chicago.

The visa!
This is now my third trip to San Francisco for a visa. The first time wasn’t pretty but it got done, the second was a failure all together, and this time it went off without a hiccup.
If you have had the distinct privilege of getting a visa, you know that it is bureaucratic and has more to do with the mood of the person giving you the visa than the actually requirements. Thank God I got one of the good humored ones. Again thank you all who have been supportive.

'Quiet time' redeemed

Due to life taking some turns within the last few weeks, graduating, accepting an opportunity to go teach in France, seeing friends move further away, feeling the pull of home, breaking up with a great girl, I had to just get quiet. The feeling was disconnect. There is a line in a worship song that goes, "too many voices vying for attention"... and this was and is me. I have been so bombarded with outside voices I have lost touch with the one that is most important... the one inside me. The voice that I do believe is governed by Jesus, and what makes us come alive when we follow it.
I have been anything but alive for the past few weeks. Stress galore, trying to 'figure out' this relationship...it just doesn't work like that.

so i left

I went up to Winchester Mountain in the cascades. I took some food and a book, Prince Caspian, my journal and my bible. I didn't open my bible, I wrote about four lines in my journal and I finished the book. I walked around a little, but I made myself sit mostly, for 36 hours. On the way up I had to lay down all the pressure I had been feeling, all the pressure I was putting on this trip to be the fix all. I freaked out the first night, just about packed up and went home... I am so glad I didn't.

In a society where we are battered by noise, suggestions, and marketing tactics...what better way to listen than be in silence.

a talk in the upper room

Earl and I found ourselves in a conversation one night a little while ago. It was February 26th actually and there was a little rethinking that needed to be hashed out. In addition to other topics such as counseling and friends, and the need to just talk thinks out, i just started talking about what has been going on and Earl became what I needed. He listened. He let me talk and he said things back to me that needed to be said and in general just listened.


I have used the phrase over and over again, "I just don't feel myself." I use this to describe France, I use this to describe the last few months of being home, I have used this everywhere. I was trying to get back for so long to a place I was to the person I was before I left for France, last summer... "But Hunter," I felt like the Lord said " that isn't the point". So what is? Yet another quote from the journal, "The point is that you are becoming someone new. There is no turning back, there is no going back to the old Hunter, he won't/doesn't exist anymore." At that point in the upper room with Earl there was a little bit of hope that came into my heart. Hope that I hadn't experienced in a while. So I am not scared anymore, in fact I am pretty excited. I still don't know what any of this is going to be like, I see some of the person Jesus is making me to be, come through, it is a little scary. But I do feel less scared, less of a need to be in control. It is going to be different. I feel lighter, more free, and I think that this is more Jesus than I have experienced in a while.

to have worked

I looked down at my arms this evening as I sit to start homework that is due tomorrow. Dirty, a little beat up, tired, I have done battle with my truck this entire day. Trying to change the timing chain and gears, although I spent all day just trying to get to them, I am far from done.
But I do have a small sense of accomplishment. I like that I gave it a try, I like that I am dirty. It was an entire day outside, some of it under a tarp to try and stay dry as I took apart my engine part by messy part.
The life application... this is what is happening to me, I feel like my truck at this point. Sort of spread out over the ground, messy, covered in coolant and grease, dirty. A little chaotic. As I looked at all the nuts and bolts and parts, I was trying to remember where everything went and which parts went where, I should have written it all out. Like I said it was a perfect metaphor for what I am going through. The hope though, and I am trying to look at this more and more, is that there is a better and a bettering that is happening here. That is all.

the defining moments

In this story of restoration the significant points are worth mentioning because, well, they are significant. I can remember specifically four of them. The first came almost immediately when I got back to Tennessee around my brother Brandon and his wife Pace. It took all of about a day I think, I remember riding in the car with Brandon going somewhere, can't remember where, but instead of a happy and fun ride I felt like I was the black hole. Sucking in all life and happiness and fun and killing it. Not at all on purpose, but because of the hurt I was trying to figure out on my own. Forced laughs, trying to be in the moment with my brother there in the car, but all I could think about was myself, France, and what the hell happened there?
Brandon and Pace are relentless and as I have described them in the past, my cheerleaders. They are for me in ways I haven't expected, none of it I don't think is out of the ordinary, but I have been encouraged by them so consistently to not settle for hum drum. This time was no different. Through awkward silences in the car and forced laughs from me, it finally came down to them inviting me over to see Afton, hang with them and just talk. They let me spill, they listened for over a half an hour, for me just to get the cobwebs out. They sat, listened, asked questions, made me be present there with them in that room and then just prayed for me. Both of them listening to the Lord, calmly, for me, nobody else.
Out of that time of them praying and me just sitting, the picture that came was a wall, a huge big foreboding wall that was starting to have the first signs of cracks in it. This was a good thing.
I had killed something in Sweden and this crack in this wall, this fracture in this unconquerable force was going to eventually lift off. I was feeling lighter though.
I would love to say that it lifted immediately, but I am glad it didn't, it is still coming off to this day.
From there I will describe three other events that were huge in this process. The second was hanging with an old roommate and good friend Ryan Wapnowski in Bellingham. He has always been a source of good conversation and just one of those people who carry peace, and life and love with them as naturally as water falls. He made me a few presents, as he is in the habit of doing and one of them happened to be a remarkable quote that he had written out and then read aloud to me. It was superb. One of the lines was about standing on the banks of a silvery lake illuminated by the moon and screaming "yes" to living and loving. I had to do this. After Ryan walked home with me, I got on my Softride bike and under a beautiful full moon I biked to the lake not five miles away. When I got there, standing at the banks in the freezing clear night I declared that I would not be controlled, I wouldn't lose one more day to this funk I was in and then yelled "NO" with all my might and an entire lung full of air, leaving in one huge noise in less than a second. I rode home lighter still.
Then five days later, February 6th 2007 I was to be in class, but I intentionally missed class, I think that makes 5 in my college career, to sit and write out what was going on in my heart and head. It took about an hour, but a part of what came out was this:
"For me to change has always meant that you [God] will sit there waiting with arms crossed for me to "fucking get it right. Hunter, this is as far from the truth as you can get., Jesus in you means I am with you always, I am changing you from in here. And thank you for that, but I want more, always. I want to be better for the people around me, I want to be better for this world, I want to bring life. My life life is being hidden by this dark cloud of self-importance. Does my desire need to change? No, my desire is to share with people hope and love and life, but only because I know that I was made for people, I was not made for myself. I was never made to isolate myself..."

A fear realised...

In 2005 I participated in a ministry training school on the island of Cyprus. I was there for six months doing everything from outreach to scrubbing bathrooms and from learning how to live in community to severe personal change. In any case we had each week to answer a few questions creatively in this journal. One week we were to write out our most daunting fear, either spiritual or physical I can't remember exactly, my greatest fear is this: to be emotionally and spiritual dead. To spend the days, weeks, months of my life in front of the TV or doing something that my heart is not in. To not be effected by an event, to not feel passionately about anything, to not feel at all. To not see Jesus in people, to not be able to hear His voice, to not love. I never want to be in that place.

Well in fact I got as close to that fear as I ever want me to be, I got right up next to it and was just about to throw my hands up when i got back from France to Tennessee on December the 20th, 2006. I was around the family that I loved, a new nephew that I hadn't even seen before and I could hardly experience any of it. I couldn't feel. I had killed something inside of me while I was overseas and it was in danger of being lost forever. As the story goes and as God would have it, there is restoration. It is slow and like in movies, hell, like in real life things heal slower than we would like. This thing called my heart, this thing that died in me as I was in Sweden and France is slowly, painfully slowly, coming back to life again.

The messy times

So I am starting this as I do many a thing in my life, to battle something else. Running to combat laziness, college to make sure my head doesn't turn to mush, biking to reduce waste, but this time it is a blog to war against my tendency to isolate myself. I've got this problem, well these problems, but one of them is that when I am not the upbeat person I want to be, I hide and try to hunker down until the dark cloud of Hunter's moodiness and self-improvement rolls over.

This time, the cloud has stayed for a little longer than usual and so me isolating myself has turned into not knowing how to interact with people. I am constantly wanting friends and people to ask the right questions, to say the right things and in general know exactly what I need as I go through this time, rather unrealistic to be honest. Five months of this mentality and isolation has left me a little worse than when I started, but it isn't over and I am not ready just yet to give up.

At the risk of being hoest, at the risk of bearing all the raw emotion and frustration I have had, at the risk of being known for who I really am, this blog is going to happen. Like a friend in France said to me, " Tu dois oser." (You have to dare)