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as i sit here in silence

He tells her that the Earth is flat—
He knows the facts, and that is that.
In altercations fierce and long
She tries her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
He calls her arguments unsound
And often asks her not to yell.
She cannot win. He stands his ground.

The planet goes on being round.

Wendy Cope


Dear Roommates,

They’re not kidding when they say that spending significant amount of time around children is the best form of birth control.

My roommates, who for the sake of their privacy I’ll refer to as Mike and Lisa, have a spunky ginger two-year-old. I could leave the rest to your imagination, but that’s hardly the point of a blog.

The munchkin, Timmy, very easily accepted me into his world when I moved in five months ago. His language is developing, but I think that he will refer to me as his “Ka” long after he graduates high school. (Eliska is a hard name for adults to say and remember, too.)

This last week has been a special kind of ridiculousness. Mike and Lisa decided to try potty-training their son. I smiled and quickly made plans to escape the state… unfortunately the process took longer than the three days I was in Kansas. Little Timmy wanders around without pants, occasionally having accidents on dad’s socks, mom’s skirt, or the blankets and towels laid all around the living room specifically for that purpose. He’s getting better, but it’s still a work in progress.

I genuinely never thought I’d live with a family after I moved away from my own, but Mike and Lisa have been a pure gift: friends from the moment I moved alone halfway across the country.


Did you know? Anytime I come home after dark, they turn on the stoop light for me, and leave the stair light on as well so I can get down to my room without tripping over anything. For folks only a few years older than me, in some ways they really are like my parents. I find it absolutely adorable and am touched every time I pull in.

Mike and Lisa are also, well, pseudo-hippies. Shortly after I moved in, they started composting with worms in the laundry room right across from my bedroom. Lisa apologized profusely about once a week for the smell. Once she finally got the ratios figured out, the smell disappeared. Within the month, though, they approached me sheepishly. “So, we want to do aquaponics so we can grow our own fish and vegetables. How would you feel about having fish for roommates?”

I didn’t have a problem with it, so as Mike wrapped up his final certification from grad school, this slowly took over the laundry room:


Lisa and I have the same spirit. Some days I come home and word-vomit everything that happened that day, the good and bad. Some days she’ll be having a rough time, and ten minutes into her tale she’ll take a deep breath, “I didn’t mean to tell you all that, but it actually feels really good. Thanks for asking.” Occasionally we even make similar senseless comments, such as the standing joke, “It’s free! Like the cheap kind!” Add into that her side business is running painting parties, and she is always happy to have my second cup of weekend coffee, and we hit it off great at our first Skype conversation.

Mike is an engineer and Rubik’s Cube wizard. The aquaponics has mostly been his project, and watching all the math and building that has gone into it has been slightly mind boggling. His work has a 3D printer as well, so I’ve seen a few toys from there, and I’m crossing my fingers that he’ll design a CAD door handle to replace the broken one from the refrigerator. How cool would that be?

I love watching these two interact with their son, as well. This is the first time that I’ve been close with first-time parents, and as they raise Timmy to the best of their ability it’s bringing an awareness of the struggles of that. The day after I moved to Denver, both Lisa and Mike’s parents came to the house, and after the party had ended, I talked to Lisa. It had never dawned on me just how difficult it must be to try to discipline and react to your child with your own parents there to watch every move. Since that time, we’ve talked about other struggles – what is the right way to respond to different situations, how do you react to unwanted advice, when there’s conflicting opinions how do you move forward? Unsurprisingly, these conversations are far beyond parenting and moved into living life, budgeting, making friends, moving, questioning the status quo, working. (Yeah, I like these guys 🙂 )

And the long and short of it? I’ll happily be “Auntie Ka”, but the idea of being “mama” is getting further and further and further from my priority list. You handle potty training, I’ll go find a different sort of tornado!

Upon the finale of a happy surprise

I love travel. I love finding myself in a new city and struggling to learn its heartbeat. I love plopping down next to a complete stranger and walking away with a new number in my phone. Starting over in a different environment is easy for me, a challenge I thrive on.


That being said, there’s also a feeling that is sweet and precious and very, very rare for a nomad. The Opposite of Loneliness is this experience… a single moment of protection. We can be busy, we can be happy, but to know the opposite of loneliness is the ability to simply be. To laugh with someone who we don’t have to get to know, because they’ve already been through that fire. To cry with someone who we don’t have to impress, because they can see right through you. To speak with no introduction because the story has already begun, this is merely the next chapter.

I’ve been living in Denver for almost five months. I’ve met many people, gone on many adventures. I love living in this city, love sharing life with my roommates and their two-year-old.


Last weekend, though, I was given that precious gift.

I stepped on a plane and flew to a city of the old and the new. A city I’d been to as a child, but not as an adult. A city where someone I’ve known for a decade and someone I’ve traveled with intensely since the latter half of college came together at a house in the desert.

It was easy. It was safe. In that moment, I experienced the opposite of loneliness.

We all knew half stories. What’s happening in your life? How did that situation pan out? Wait, I hadn’t heard that part, tell me more. But none of it was from the beginning. It was the comfortable continuation of a conversation. It was home, thousands of miles away from what my driver’s license claims is mine.


It was comments and questions, shuffling shoes and comparing tattoos. It was holding on to a secret, simply because we knew the others would love the reveal. There was beauty and magic and peace.

I’m a nomad by nature. I plead my friends to come live with me, knowing that even this home is temporary, and if they were to come we wouldn’t be together long.

But that’s okay. These seasons of life are just that, seasons. I’ll flit in and out of your life just as you wander through mine.
Sometimes the beginning is the middle. Sometimes the end is just a part of a chapter. Sometimes, we can look around and find ourselves feeling something strange, without definition. All we know is that this emotion, confusing and beautiful and safe, is the opposite of loneliness.

They stopped telling me “No”

You know what’s crazy?

Leaving home at 2:00 in the morning after a 15.5 hour work day, simply because you realized Arches National Park was only a five hour drive away.


You know what’s crazy?

Understanding the reason Colorado has the lowest percentage of obesity in the US is because you look outside at the mountains and say, gee, I wonder what it looks like from the peak of that… and then just go.


You know what’s crazy?

Moving in with a family you met on Craigslist because you and the wife hit it off via a Skype conversation.


You know what’s crazy?

Transplanting yourself on the hopes that someone you met three months earlier who said, “Yeah, I could get you a job.” was actually serious.


You know what’s crazy?

Moving to another state where you don’t know anyone, for little reason more than, “I want to see mountains.”


You know what’s crazy?

Watching the numbers in your bank account slowly creep upwards, and realizing your next international trip will be paid for in full before you even book the flight.


You know what’s crazy?

Realizing folks from your hometown are utterly expecting you to move to another place before the year is up, when for the first time your game plan is longer.


You know what’s crazy?

Realizing you’re not.

Hello, Denver. It is so very, very nice to meet you.

On The Road Again

I am in the midst of a version of the American Dream – taking to the open road with only a vague plan of our next destination.


I count myself fortunate to be tagging along with seasoned hikers, particularly since my companions are startlingly observant. There is a constant refrain “Did you see that? What’s that smell? Here, feel this!” And usually followed by an explanation of what my senses are experiencing… Or admitting that they have no idea what it is either (“But isn’t it cool?!”) I don’t think I’ve been this excited about nature since Mr. O’Brien’s eighth grade science class. The scents of unfamiliar plants, the smooth deep red bark, the solidified lava flow forming the rocks we clambered over, dust devils, sun dogs, an owl’s call, deer scat, bobcat prints. I see. I feel.


We’re driving through the desert now, pondering which crops surround us. A few days ago my feet were drenched in the salt water of the Pacific, and hours later shaded by the redwoods in John Muir woods (San Francisco has a lot of micro climates).  

I hiked in Pinnacles National Park and saw the rare Condor bird fly within twenty feet of me. I stood on mountains and crawled through caves. I feel my body adjusting, stretching muscles and learning to survive on road food. It’s not easy. I broke down in tears at the top of a mountain, my stomach revolting and head aching. T once more was a hero as tears fell unbidden and I expressed my fears of not being able to keep up for the rest of the trip, telling me I had done a great job and we’d made great time – and then picking up my pack and carrying it for me as we continued the loop, making sure I was going at a slow enough pace for my quesy stomach, offering his hand to help me through tricky parts of the path.


I’m grateful to be watching the world pass by from the back seat of A’s car, listening to the conversation flow easily and watching the world pass me by. 

May’s feels like part of the abstract. I was standing on the lawn at the benefit concert when the email came that I’d passed my practical exam – over halfway done to being a level 1 certified barista. 

I’m fighting a level of fear. The fear of not being able to keep up on these hikes and ruining the experience for T and A. Yet the idea of leaving this? Hopping a flight in Las Vegas and going back to Iowa? That scares me too. 

Iowa isn’t home any more. I’ve always had a reason to go home. After high school I hadn’t seen my family in a year. During college I had to finish my degree. After graduation I had May’s. But now? I have a smattering of friends, but it’s a transient town.

No roots. So yes, I’m wandering like a tumbleweed on someone else’s itinerary. The place I once loved now repels me. 

So I fight onward. Lost, confused, determined, and free.

After all, I’m 23. Isn’t this what we’re supposed to do now?