"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." -A. A. Milne

Endless miles speed by, cracked blacktop under cheap tires. Corn fields sway in the wind, still inching up from the earth, and the farmers lay quiet, praying for rain.  A country crooner hums the last few notes of his ballad as the radio pops and clicks, the frequency fading into the distance behind.  A couple of 5-hour-energy bottles rattle around the floorboards, a coke nestled into the cup holder, and drive through containers pile up on the passenger seat. One flip-top of a crisp cardboard box, silver paper pulled from the sheath, and a singular white cylinder slips free, seeking its flame and inevitable end. 

Where are you going?

The voice echoes through my head. I sit, contemplating the reply.

“Away,” I say aloud.

Away from what?

“I’m not entirely sure.”

Are you running?

“Yes, I think I am.”

From what?

This question lingers in the air, written in the exhaled smoke, dancing around the windshield.

“Not away. Toward.”

No questions follow immediately.  A semi-truck rolls by, the sound rumbling through my bones, rattling me and I watch as the driver nods my direction, chews on a toothpick, and hangs his left arm out the window. His face is tired, skin leathered, and eyes darting around like a frightened animal. I wonder if others see me in the same manner as their little subcompacts blow by me, on the way to exciting destinations. I think of the vacations being had, the last minute road trips, the long drives to far off places, and all the trappings of family life.

Only days earlier, not even a hundred hours, I’d said my goodbye and buried the love of my life. Those dreams, they were all her. Those thoughts of the future, the trips, the laughter and the anticipation, they were her, too. We had marvelous dreams, fantastic ideas of places we would go, things we would see, and nights we would spend entwined in distant lands. Her crimson hair, flowing in the breeze on an isolated beach, freckles multiplying across her ivory skin, as I watch her dance along the shore, chasing the waves and playing tag with them.

She laughed at my long unkempt hair, my linen pants, worn leather sandals. Called me her vagabond. The unlikely pair, she and I, had somehow found one another among the masses, and built our little world. A simple life, but a fulfilling one, we lived in harmony with one another; give and take requires patience, understanding, and compassion, which we learned with time. Our existence relied entirely on the happiness we created together. Perfection still a long way off, but we were right.

My heart shattered the day she told me the end was coming. She knew her time limited, and she dreamed for my peace. I smiled at her that day, no tears, no anger. “You’re prefect, and everything will be fine.” I knew my words hollow, and the promise empty, but none of that mattered. I would hold her hand and laugh with her until the last breath. She knew I needed more. As the time grew short, and she became so very thin, she begged me to live the life we’d spoken of so many times. She helped me plan the beginning, organize the world into a perfect little puzzle, pack the pieces into a truck and set off for the next adventure. She described the things I would see in vivid detail, the places in which she could envision me. Her final dreams were of me, and my life. Without her. Somehow they made her smile and brought her peace, even as each one tore daggers through me. I listened, played along, and planned with her. She contained enough excitement for the both of us, so I floated on hers and pretended to plan, too. 

She described the woman I would meet and marry. She counted each of my new bride’s lovely features and her flaws. She reminded me of all of the ways I was when we’d first met, and of all of the ways I could love more.  Her eyes danced as she spoke of the same trips, the ones we were supposed to take together, and she giggled about the ways in which I would fumble through so many things once again – the first kiss, the proposal, the surprises. Her love poured from her body in those last days, in ways one only hears about in song. I nodded along, hid my agony, and held her while she dreamed.

As she drifted away, for the last time, she took my face in her fragile little hands. Her emerald eyes pierced mine, “Promise me, Thomas. Promise me you’ll find her, you’ll love her with everything you ever had for me and so much more. Promise me you’ll see the world, dance along the canyons, dive into the seas, and not waste one more moment. Promise me you’ll live enough for both of us. Promise me.” Her words came at me with such urgency, such fervor. My throat closed, I choked on my words, and my eyes filled with tears. I only nodded my head at her and managed a small whisper. “I promise, Hope. I promise.”

Cruising down the interstate, watching the fields, towns, cities, and then fields again, I wipe tears from my ashen cheeks. I’d promised her I would live enough for her. That was the last promise I made to the love of my life, the last words she heard me speak. I owed her that. If nothing else, if I didn’t get a single other thing right in my life, I owed her that promise. Toward that life I head. I don’t know what will happen next, or who I will meet. I simply know that one person, the only one who matters, asked me to live and I intend to try.

Running toward what?

“Toward hope.”

"Fullness of knowledge always means some understanding of the depths of our ingnorance; and that is always conducive to humility and reverence." - Robert Millikan

It’s funny how often we misinterpret things.

I’ve been going through a bit of effort, trying to better understand some basic tenants of Christianity. Not because I’m a believer who wants to delve deeper into my faith, but because I’m not a believer and I want to better understand the intended thought processes, as opposed to the oft preached and rarely practiced versions of so-called Christians.

For example, Mary being a virgin and Jesus being the product of immaculate conception. This has caused great debate, even among Christians.  Catholic dogma insists that Mary was a virgin for her entire life, but then the New Testament discusses Jesus’ siblings (four brothers and at least one sister?) Another discussion revolves around whether Mary was even a virgin in our current sense of the word;  the gospel of Matthew refers to the prophecy in book of Isaiah, which speaks of the birth of the messiah and Isaiah’s prophecy uses the Hebrew word almah in reference to the mother, which means a woman of marrying age who has not yet birthed a child. Yet, Matthew’s gospel then changes and uses the word parthenos, which alters the meaning of the word to someone who has never has sex, and thus changes the story. Even this version wasn’t universally accepted until the Apostles’ Creed, established by the Roman Catholic church in the 2^nd Century.  Interesting how differently we often interpret things, or simply listen to a few basic words and run with them, no?  I’m in no way discounting the belief that Mary was a virgin, but simply calling into question the foundation for such beliefs.

Such foundations also led me to wonder about Jesus’ words (as we know them to be) and the intent behind them.  In Matthew, we read the story of the Sermon on the Mount, and Jesus telling the people "You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.” (Matthew 5:38-39) The common acceptance of this is that we should allow someone who has hurt us to hurt us again, showing forgiveness and mercy.  But, given a little more research (see Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination by Walter Wink, or, for you net junkies: www.reenactingtheway.com/blog/turning-the-other-cheek-jesus-peaceful-plan-to-challenge-injustice) it’s not difficult to see that there may be far more this this story – in the time which Jesus lived, it was commonplace for a Roman soldier to backhand someone of a lesser class. As most soldiers were right handed, this means the blow would have landed on the right cheek. So, to turn and offer the left cheek would require a square punch from the right hand, something reserved for equals only. This wasn’t just about forgiveness and keeping retaliation at bay, but also about demanding the respect of being human and an equal.  Jesus didn’t preach of allowing someone to abuse you, or to hurt you repeatedly, but of offering pardon for the offense, while still being strong about your own personal rights. His eloquent speech is that of acting in such a manner that doesn’t incite more problems, but quietly levels the battlefield.

For me, it’s been a journey of so many of my own beliefs and feelings. I tend to live in the world of forgiving those who hurt me. BUT, for so long I’ve simply done so and allowed the mistreatment to continue. This was true for nearly every relationship in my teen years and into my adult life. It wasn’t until my 30s that I truly established a place of requiring that I be treated with respect, while still offering the forgiveness.  I work hard at not being retaliatory and not further fueling the fire when I feel hurt.  I’m far from perfect, and I stumble; it’s often easy to allow myself to let venom drip from my tongue when I’m feeling attacked. ( le Sigh.) But, I still believe in the good. I still feel the urge to let bygones be bygones and move forward. I love fiercely. I love without pretense. I love without reciprocation. And I’m okay with that. However, I’m learning to quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) demand to be treated as the person delivering the blows would choose to be treated. Which doesn’t always go over well.

So, where does this leave me?  More often than not, in disappointment. Because I work so hard to be better, to love harder, to offer greater respect, I have expectations that the actions will be returned.  Is it often said that we will receive back what we put out into the world.  Many of these proverbs even promise our charity will come back tenfold.  So, how am I to take it when my life isn’t an example of this, but rather an exception?

I guess, in the long run, I forgive. It’s what I know. But, does that have to mean submersing myself in the situation again and allowing myself to be vulnerable to being hurt over and over? Where is the limitation? To what end?  If I continue to condone the behavior by being a part of the scenario, am I perpetuating it? And what good does that do either party?

I’m still navigating these waters and I don’t yet have an answer. I’m loyal to a fault, and I know it. Perhaps acknowledging it is enough?

"Living in the modern age, death for virtue is the wage. So it seems in darker hours. Evil wins, kindness cowers." - The Book of Counted Sorrows

In Plato's Phaedo, Socrates defines the misanthrope in relation to his fellow man: "Misanthropy develops when without art one puts complete trust in somebody thinking the man absolutely true and sound and reliable and then a little later discovers him to be bad and unreliable ... and when it happens to someone often ... he ends up ... hating everyone."

I spent a lot of years being rather misanthropic.  And yet, still put myself out there, over and over again. I guess because I’ve never believed that most people are bad at their core. Good people make bad decisions. Good people hurt you. Good people let you down, shatter you, make you question yourself. It’s a sad fact, but human nature is so self-absorbed that this commonality is, well, common. That doesn’t make the people bad, just selfish.

In the vein of being selfish, we tend to wrap ourselves up in this idea of getting to our goal, to reaching the next level, to find happiness around the next corner. I live in suburban hell. I’m surrounded by people who make their goal in life to have the perfect yard, the right car, being super involved in the PTA, competing with the neighbors in nearly everything… And all I see is a group of people working really hard to build this façade of a life while forgetting to live.  I work for my weekends. I am not ashamed of it. I like my job, I enjoy being there, and I’m good at it. But, I love that I do it for a few days, then turn it all off and go play. I refuse to waste that precious time trying to perfect my lawn, making polite conversation with neighbors who don’t actually matter to me, or running from one thing to the next. Today is the only one I get, and I’m not going to miss it while preparing for the next one.

Something compelled me to watch a movie recently. Just a random flick in my Netflix queue, but for an unknown reason, I felt the urge to watch. Stuck In Love is a lovely film very much in the same sort of a vein as Crazy Stupid Love, but is so much better written and acted.  This is a beautiful film which had me hooked from the opening line.  Moments in, one of the lead characters spouts this lovely little monologue, and I felt like I should be taking notes.

“I never enjoy anything. I’m always waiting for whatever’s next. I think everyone’s like that. Living life in fast forward. Never stopping to enjoy the moment. Too busy trying to rush through everything so we can get on with what we are really supposed to be doing with our lives. I get these flashes of brilliant clarity where for a second I stop and I think “Wait, this is it, this is my life. I better slow down and enjoy it because one day we’re all going to end up in the ground and that’ll be it, we’ll be gone”
― Samantha Borgens, Stuck In Love

I’ve done just that. I’ve slowed down and learned to enjoy it. I’m learning to let go of my misanthropic ways and try to believe in the good in people. Sure, I get let down. Sure, people hurt me, make foolish decisions and remind me how I started being that way in the first place. It happens all the time. But, I choose to make a conscious effort at not letting that change me. I choose to live my days in the manner which best suits me, and try not to worry about how to get to the next part.

Stuck In Love is a misanthropist's romance film, encapsulating the world of we bibliophiles. It's lovely and poignant. Poetic. This is, for me, the best love story since Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This is perfection wrapped up in film.

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.” ― Dr. Seuss, I Can Read With My Eyes Shut!

I research.

The internet is both a blessing and a curse for someone who can’t help but want to know more, want to understand. I love that anything I could possibly want to know is at the tip of my fingertips through a myriad of devices, every single day.  I love that I have the ability to answer questions, define things I don’t yet know, understand intricacies of concepts just outside my knowledge base.

I also hate that I have the ability to always know. Sometimes I hate it because things like bar bets have gone aside, as all anyone has to do is pick up the device in their pocket and get the answer to a simple question which has become the product of wild debate. It’s so much less interesting and fun. I’m also a trivia nerd, so I love simply knowing the answer, and not having that instant gratification of being the person who could Google it fastest.

Even worse, I hate my ability to research the bleak. WebMD is a terrible site. Have the slightest ailment? You’ve got cancer. Every. Single. Time.

But, I digress…

I get lost in rabbit holes of research and my time just disappears. I want to know about a book someone mentioned, so I look it up. Which leads me to researching the author, which leads me to look at other writings, and inevitably another book looks interesting. Which starts a new topic search. Following that, I end up on an endless trail of the idea behind the book, news articles relating, reviews (both public and critic), options for purchase, and counter ideals.

I crave knowledge. I crave understanding. I yearn for answers. So… I research.

Now, this only applies to things which interest me. Something I know nothing about, say, for example, car engines? I don’t one iota about them. I don’t care to know anything about them. You can tell me all about the horsepower, the CC, and spout off numbers, and it’s all Greek to me. You could be completely accurate or totally making numbers up and I’d have no discernment between the two. Not only that, people have attempted to teach me when they’ve been passionate about it. And I don’t listen, nor do I care. So, while I could know about those things, the desire to look them up eludes me.

So, as you can imagine, as medical tests come up, as small tidbits of information flutter to my desk in my daily life in the world of medicine, I can’t help but research. I read, and then read more. I find myself in the depths of medical journals and yet another language that is as foreign to me as Farsi. But, the people around me are all medical professionals. I have a wealth of knowledge at my disposal every day. Which is fabulous. I know more about medicine now than I ever thought I would. I never imagined I’d want to work in this industry, never dreamed that I would find it remotely appealing. Today, I count myself blessed to have, yet again, stumbled into a professional world which is so gratifying.

I get to learn. I get to surround myself with people so much more learned than myself. I get to laugh, and share, and grow with them. I walk into a room of intelligence daily. It’s refreshing.  I count myself blessed.

Do I have the most exciting job? No. The most challenging? No. How about fulfilling? Not even close. I don’t really enjoy my work. It’s… well, it’s beneath me, most days. I’m so much more than I what I do every day. Which can be a bit disheartening. But, why dwell on that?

Instead, as I see it, I get to go to a job I enjoy, surrounded by wonderful, caring people. I get to learn. I get paid to spend time with people I genuinely like, who teach me, who share with me, and who look after me. I get to travel into an amazing city, to do a job for which I’m well paid, and, quite frankly, I’m really very good at.  So, I’m very blessed.

When I first found out I was being considered for a position in the medical field, it was daunting. The learning curve is huge and my knowledge base was nil. BUT, I also loved the challenge. So, I looked into the people I’d be working for, researched the company, read articles on the principles in the organization, learned about the investors, and tried (feebly) to wrap my brain around what, precisely, the business did. Yes, I spent three days in this particular rabbit hole. At the end, I realized one thing – I know NOTHING about this world. So, that told me exactly what I needed to know – I needed to accept the job.

I research. I have to. Stagnancy is as bad for me as for water – it’s toxic. Maybe this is why I feel the overwhelming urge to move every few years? Just a thought.

"Not all who wander are lost." -J. R. R. Tolkien

There is no greater feeling than that of a homecoming. The smell, the sounds, the air… You know you’re at peace when the feeling sinks through your skin and into your bones. The problem, for most of us, is that we don’t reside at “home.” 

For some, home is where they were born. For others, it’s the place they grew up. For me, it’s the place where I finally felt like I belonged. I do not live there now. I do not have family there. I rarely escape for a visit. But, when the wheels of the plane touch down, my whole body rejoices. When the air hits my face, and the stifling humidity washes over me like a warm blanket, I know I’m finally home again. And, if I hadn’t ventured outside my little world, expanded my horizons and took a huge risk, I’d never have come to understand that home is not where your roots are, it’s not what your familiar with, nor is it where you live. 

A few years ago I lived in a tiny little farm town, an hour outside of Seattle. It was, for me, awful. Eight thousand people, the stench of cows, and an hour to civilization aside, this town was the polar opposite of my version of home.  The people were narrow/closed minded, the lack of ambition enveloped the landscape like whitewash on a picket fence.  Culture, opportunity and diversity nonexistent. A sad little corner of the world, in my opinion.

Listening to the radio one day, I heard one of the most depressing statements of my life; a caller announced that she lived in a town barely more than an hour from Seattle, she’d been a resident there all 33 years of her life, and she’d never been to the city. Never. Not once. My jaw dropped. She said this with pride. As far as she was concerned, there was no need to venture outside her tiny little hamlet; the world outside had nothing to offer she couldn’t find in her immediate area. 

I. Was. DUMBFOUNDED.

According to a 2012 Forbes article (a touch outdated, but you know how things with statistics go), approximately 35% of all Americans have a passport. Only one-third of our nation finds a reason to travel outside our borders. That, to me, is appalling.  The entire lack of pursuit of travel to the countries which comprise our great nation is disheartening. We are not a nation with a rich history more than a millennium old, but rather one built on the backbones of so many others. So, why is it that so many find traveling to the rest of the world lacks appeal?

Mark Twain once wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”  As a nation, we’re so narrow minded about our way of life being the right one. We believe, on the whole, that we’re the greatest nation on earth and spout our ideals as if they’re paramount. Yet, our focus is solely on ourselves, our way of life and even our food choices. How sad, how unfortunate.

So it happened that in 2008 I was given the opportunity to uproot my little family and move 3000 miles away to a city and culture (not to mention climate) completely foreign to my own. It was terrifying. I knew that for the first time in my life I’d have no support system, no family to reach out to for a random BBQ, no places to be on any given holiday. With much trepidation, I chose to embark on this journey, knowing that I’d have no social circle, and no outside stimulus. Just my husband, my children and myself.  And it was the best decision I’ve ever made. When the novelty of living where so many go to vacation wore off, I settled into the feeling of “home.” I was born in the wrong place. I was raised in the wrong place.  Not to say there is anything wrong with the cities in which I spent my more tender years (although, I could go on rants about any of them…) but more to the point, my soul belongs in Florida. This is my home, and will always be the singular place I feel perfectly at peace. But, my stay there was short lived, and although I hope to someday live there again, I understand that life has a way of showing me where I belong. I don't make that decision; it is made for me.

From the move to Florida on, the travel bug was in my blood. I need to travel. I need to know. I need to see the rest of the world, experience the cultures, taste the foods and wander down the sidewalks in places I’ve never dreamed. 

I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower, ridden the London Eye, walked along the beach in the Mediterranean, gotten lost on cobblestone streets in Mexico. 

I’ve hiked Arlington National Cemetery, sat on the edge of the Forsyth fountain in Savannah, wandered Bourbon Street, placed my hands in the cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, shopped Rodeo Drive, looked down over Manhattan from the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and ridden a fan boat through the Everglades. 

I’ve wandered through Fisherman’s Wharf, gazed into the amazing lakes amid Glacier National Park, danced under the bright lights of Las Vegas, rubbed elbows with celebrities in Toronto, skied the mountains of British Columbia, and walked along the Hoover Dam. 

I had the pleasure of exploring old plantations in Alabama, floating on a sandbar in Indiana, watching an air show over the Chicago skyline from Lake Michigan and wandering aimlessly through thousand-year-old churches in Oxford. 

And yet, I’ve seen nothing. I’ve experienced nothing.

I'll never tire of the trips, never grow weary of the new adventures. I prefer travel to any other form of entertainment. Yes, I have lovely things, a nice home, late model cars and Tiffany sunglasses. Yes, I spend money on eating at restaurants, going for a drink and a snappy new pair of sandals. Yet, given the option, I'd rather make memories than buy "stuff." For me, life is not a game of dying with the most toys, but rather living with the most experience. My home is decorated with photos of places I've been and moments I've experienced. I do not wish for posed portraits, for famous paintings or fantastic decor. The photos of my kids which adorn my walls are of moments, not perfectly assembled and balanced images, but of running and laughing and living. I refuse to get so caught up in life that I forget to live it. And I will never again settle for my current locale - this is temporary, as will be each and every stop from here on out.

When I die, scatter my ashes to the wind, as I do not want to be in one place for eternity. I am a vagabond, and I love it.