She Walks.

She walks up and down the grassy hills.

Up at a slant.

Down at a lean.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Slow.

Steady.

Calm.

The smell of a newly manicured golf course.

The smell of summer.

Lawnmowers.

Lemonade.

Chlorine.

Dirty knees.

Messy hair.

Bare feet.

The summit of each hill feels more like a smooth bump instead of a sharp, needle-like point.

And each hill meets her feet like loud music hits the chest.

Vibrating the body.

Intruding the senses.

But ever so kind.

She never stops to ask why or how or where she is going.

She just knows what it feels like when she stops- her muscles sob, her blisters plead for attention, and layers of skin start peeling away like pages in a calendar.

Each step presses into the earth, resembling a heartbeat pounding away during a long run.

Up.

Down.

Slowly, gracefully, she walks.

A Silent Shoreline.

This summer I cried in front of an 11 year old. 

A boy with blonde, wavy hair and a good heart. 

A heart that was being pulled in ten thousand different directions. 

Blame it on the hormones that are beginning to flood his body and confuse the hell out of him. 

Blame it on the kids that give him attention when he is the “boss”, the bully with the coolest clothes and the strongest free throw shot. 

Blame it on his parents who are constantly fighting at home, his puppies screaming at nearly every sound in earshot, or his chores piling up at home by the minute.

Whatever the cause, I knew this wasn’t really him who got me to the point of tears. It wasn't really him who was yelling at me at the drop of a pen, talking back to me every chance he got, and saying all kinds of hurtful, unimaginable things to the other kids. 

But I simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

So I asked him what was wrong.

“You’ve been talking back a LOT lately.”

Tears fall.

Head drops.

He apologized.

His voice, soft.

His eyes wide.

He said he had a "lot of stuff going on at home".

And I believed him.

I can’t imagine what it’s like for an 11 year old boy to see a 20-something babysitter at the steering wheel, crying. I would guess it's probably confusing and scary to a degree. 

A loss of control. 

A loss of stability.

It throws you off, changes your tone, your body language, your confidence level.

This was my honest expression, the raw and rigid overflow of stress coming out of the corners of my eyes. This was me taking off my mask for a minute, and not really by choice.

It was real.

It was… me.

As adults, we want so badly to be “in control”, to have it all together, no matter who is watching or what is being said. But I was reminded this summer that I simply cannot do that. I don’t know how to hold it together sometimes when kids are yelling at me, parents aren't answering texts, and I am not getting enough sleep.

At some point, I just break.

The mask is put aside and I stand face to face with the harder things in life.

The kinds of things that throw you off-step, kick you in the stomach and knock you down.

But here is the gift that was placed in my open palms during this difficult conversation in the car.

We are all human.

Whether we choose to accept that or not.

We are sand on the beach.

Tiny, gritty specks of sand.

Swept away by the wind.

Dampened by chairs, towels, and creatures of all kinds.

We are stepped on.

We are thrown around.

We are shaken off of towels and out of hair.

But together, we form a beach, a silent shoreline, a calm resting place for the healing salt water to return after a long, hard journey. 

Sand is a beautiful thing, really.

Tears and all.

Pairing Up and Holding Hands.

I feel the gravel rustle beneath my feet and my mind wanders back to the long, noisy road that was the entrance to summer camp in Northern Alabama. My stomach was always relieved when we finally made that infamous right turn after the lone 7-Eleven on the corner. 

I have never been one for windy roads in the car, even as a child. One too many "mishaps" in a friend of a friend's parent's expensive, leather-seat car made me more than aware of this fact. And ANY time when we reached our final destination after more than an hour in the car and I walked away with clean pants was a major victory.

When my mother and I got out to unload, claim a bed, and take a walk around camp, I would remain fairly quiet at first. Observing from my secret hideaway in the woods, just waiting for the lion to move on and find his new prey.

Rest Hour was always my favorite part of camp. 

Designed to be a quiet time to reenergize before the second half of the exhaustingly hot, give-me-a-popsicle-or-I-will-die kind of day, rest hour was nothing but quiet. Beds squeaked, feet shuffled, giggles contagiously spread across the cabin. Our counselor would begin the hour with loads of “Sshhing”, but halfway through, she would undoubtedly surrender to the madness of the Jonathan Taylor Thomas obsessed preteens.

I remember two girls who refused to go by anything but “Bubble Gum” and “Tic-Tac”. And I remember thinking that was weird at the time, but now I only wish I would have been as brave as them to go by Tic-Tac as a 12 year old.

I remember when a girl whose bunk was across from mine told my friend Amy she was pretty. 

The look on Amy's face revealed she had never believed that to be true.

I remember the summer the girls in my cabin changed outfits every hour and spent increasing minutes in front of the mirror trying to make their eyelashes curl so that their eyes would "pop".

But I didn’t pack enough clothes for this, I thought to myself.

I don’t know how to make my eyelashes curl like that.

I like my eyelashes as they are.

That was the same summer the girls and the boys started pairing up and holding hands as they walked down the hill back to the cabin. And then my friends started getting "dates" to the dance. That seemed odd to me. Why can’t we all just go together, I wondered? Why so many couples?

That was the summer camp felt foreign to me.

Up and Down Like Mountains.

The colors emerge from the ground.

They spiral up like steam out of a teapot, winding their way UP and UP and UP, deliberately piercing the breath of the earth.

A silent bolt of energy.

A loud display of hope.

No more blank skies, blank screens.

No more blank minds, blank conversations, blank stares.

Colors of all shapes and sizes now fill our space, tell us time, share their stories.

Browns, so rich and gritty.

Blues of depth and joy.

Yellows reminding us to play.

And then Red.

Purple.

Green.

Orange.

They move up and down like mountains.

And then they set into place, almost on cue.

Red splashes on the backs of birds.

Blue pours on to the ocean, diving deep.

Brown layers the tree bark, the soil.

Next they enter the heart, the body, the mind, and the spirit of our world.

The most perfect blend, most perfect swirl.

They speak in whispers, adding to their divine mystery.

We all agree that the colors have arrived in style.

RIght Here in the Middle.

Don’t we just love for life to come out evenly for everyone?

That’s what we are taught in America.

Equality.

Fairness.

Balance.

…Right?

Everyone gets an equal share of the pie.

Our heads bob around the babysitter’s elbows like a bird’s tiny body bouncing from branch to sky to ground, never deciding its final resting place.

We watch with our hearts racing as she cuts up all the pieces.

“I want the square piece.”

“I call middle.”

“Wait, do we all get one or two?!”

Everyone gets an equal shot at success.

… And then ACT scores become a thing.

(Cue the horrified student who hates math).

Everyone gets a perfectly equal square inch-square-foot,“Talk of the Town” room in the house.

But wait… Who gets the window?

We fight for our share of the land, our share of the money, our share of beauty and fame, and that never-ending stardust we all fall prey to.

hmm.. What are we fighting for exactly?

And then... Behold.

Our eyes peel open after days, months, years of being locked away, like the forgotten, rusty castle door that holds all the treasure inside its barren walls.

The sun hovers over us and she sings.

She lets us know we are okay.

We are safe.

Right here in the middle.

The middle of life.

The middle of growth.

The middle of the road.

There is always a road and we are always in the middle of it.

On the way to somewhere.

With someone, without someone.

With shoes, barefoot.

With heavy heads, a clear mind.

Our berry-spilling, crust-crumbling pie.

Our own version of school and the classroom- with barefoot hippies who talk about farming and a deep compassion for the earth.

Our perfect, cozy little room with inviting pillows and a book shelf the size of the Appalachian Mountains.

We shall meet right here in the middle.

Where life happens.

The Place of Play.

The Place of Play, in a faraway land.

An old treehouse with tattered wood that creaks.

Piles of pine cones, sticks, and leaves.

Shiny red bikes with bells.

Coffee-colored dirt under our fingernails.

And a wisp of fresh air that makes our eyelashes curl and our thoughts slow down.

Clothes getting stained, wet, torn.

But we don't care.

Laughter is our song today.

We are free.

We are light.

We are running.

Chasing pretend wolves through the forest.

Feet stomping, breath quickening.

We speak to mermaids, dogs, cats.

And that beautiful whirl of green keeps circling around us, never leaving our side.

Scrapes and scratches collecting on our knees, but we don't notice.

We are here.

Happy, Alive, and Well.

… Is this Place of Play really that faraway, or does it live within us?

Tiny Hands, Big Heart.

Her walk is like a dance as she bounces with each step across the polished wooden floor.

Her curly blonde pony tail rocks back and forth like a grandfather clock that never stops ticking.

She smiles all day, her cheeks round and soft like cotton balls.

The harder she laughs, the more her eyes squint.

And then she follows up with a slight head tilt to the side as if to say, 

Can you believe how silly this is?

Her talking is more like singing, words rolling off her tongue with ease and ambition.

So many words. 

So many songs.

So many giggles.

She plays telephone and runs her fingers across every single object in the house.

She picks things up and slams them down on the floor with a loud BANG! eruption, making every adult’s heart stop just for a moment. 

Eyes turn, fingers point, heads nod slowly left and right. “No, Eva! Don’t touch that.”

She giggles mischievously and floats to the next room.

A cloud of noise is this child’s constant companion.

Lots and lots of joyful noise.

Eva could probably be her own traveling band with the amount of noise her little hands and feet produce.

She slows us down.

She keeps us curious.

She reminds us to play and love and be brave.

This is Eva.

This is hope.