The Process

In May, I wrote this for Prodigal Magazine. I have decided this next season of my life to story. And learning how to live a good one. 

Enjoy. 

--------------

Words wait to jump off my fingers, antsy to unfold little strings of quips, rhymes, images, and observations; all unique yet woven together to create a sentence, a paragraph—a story.

Yet the words that comprise a biographical tale can only be the result of experience.

And experience, living a good story, begins with decisions.

Decisions to eat strange food, to buy a plane ticket, to apologize, to forgive, to commit to another person; decisions that change the course of our life or simply our weekend.

Example: I decided to go camping.

The Cossatot River valley is a secret pocket of unmolested land in the heart of Arkansas. Twenty or so miles of riparian riverbanks woven between slanted rock walls that ominously remind campers flooding is immanent. Despite various hazards of flash floods, ticks, poison Ivy, and rodents of unusual size, five of us drove right into the heart of the state park and set up camp.

Arriving just as the sun began to dip behind pine-cluttered hills, an evening storm sprinkled rain on our heads. We huddled under a rain fly as we scarfed down stir-fry and buttered bread.

The sun punched through the clouds with its last minutes before heading west and painted our corner of river with deep purple and red reflections. Lounging on lichen carpeted rocks, we watched its final descent and chattered about nothing and everything.

“It’s all about the process.”

This was the motto I kept repeating as we waiting an hour for coffee to boil the next morning. And again when my friends eyed me skeptically as I boiled omelets in sandwich bags.

We filled the day with river exploration, fishing, hiking, and an early evening swim in the luke-warm water; an attempt to rid our bodies of nasty little ticks.

Muscle poses of us perched on boulders filled our camera and memory, with a rather cliché backdrop of river and forest that one might find on a bottled water billboard.

Despite the beauty and laughter around me, I found time to imagine myself in an even better landscape.

I am unashamedly obsessed with Colorado; any chance to imagine myself frolicking at the base of the Rockies will be grasped eagerly. I kept pretending Arkansas, home to Tyson Chicken and Wal-mart was actually Colorado, land of microbreweries and rock climbers.

The little state park in my daydream was actually the Rocky Mountain National Park, and the mountains were tucked just beyond the lodge poles, waiting for my eyes to feast on their luminous peaks.

At one point my friend Andrew looked at me and said “Why do you keep imaging yourself away from here, isn’t this enough?”

Nope. Arkansas was not enough.

I thrive in the romance of what could be, and see reality as quite dreary. This is true of camping in Cassatot State Park and working in Fort Worth, Texas.

In many ways, I would rather live in the mystery of the unknown, instead of the present reality of my daily life.

But living a good story requires risk.

Whether that is moving to a new city, getting married, having kids, battling cancer, or committing to the place you are—these are all great risks because they require us to sacrifice our comfort and stability.

I took a risk and quit my job for an internship in Oregon.

I have been ready to move to Oregon since I decided Texas would not provide enough of an adventure—totally unromantic for a mountain loving foodie. Occasionally I will allow myself to pretend I am cycling along the river in Portland, rather than Fort Worth.

However, I am learning that story is not so much about where, but how you live.

I have accepted the tiny biting lies, the whispers that personal validation is found in good story, and good story is only found in exotic travel and adventure. These little lies have burrowed deep, assuring me that satisfaction can only be gained as long as I am running.

But I cannot allow the identity of my life to be defined by a choice to quit my job, or consider it failure when I choose to stay.

Paul, Christ’s poised pen, claims that we must be the story, the letter “written not with ink but the spirit of the living God…on tablets of human hearts.”

The truth is, camping in Arkansas and moving to Portland will not be the cornerstone of my story.

The cornerstone will come from the process.

Living a good story is about allowing the spirit of the living God to weave little strings of quips, rhymes, images, and observations onto this human heart; permitting life to unfold and accepting, even embracing the processes of struggle, pain and joy.

Roots.

http://www.prodigalmagazine.com/deep-roots/

My impatient hands twisted the faux leather steering wheel; helpless anger and pity were souring my mouth as I watched my fathers soft hands grapple for the car door. Each tick of the clock is magnified and expanded as his muscles boot up like a 97 Macintosh. Gripping the door, my dad boosts his thinning body out onto the cement and shuffles towards the neon sign above the body shop to retrieve his car.

I jammed my right foot onto the gas pedal and pounded the dash, garbled yelps and sobs escaped my throat as a shook my fist at God, wanting to know why my Dad had to suffer.

These moments of exhausted self-pity always end in a flashback to a particular conversation a few years ago.

My family was at Texas A&M for my brothers graduation and my dad thought this was a perfect time to take me on a walk and tell me God had spoken to him.

He began our walk with these fourteen words:

“I was sure when I left for India last fall, I would never see you again.”

Read more here. 

True

Oh tasty, succulent truth

I cannot hold you on my tongue

yet I cannot remove you from my heart

A blabbering strand of articulation

does nothing to rid you from 

the deepest cavity of my soul. 

I loathe the stain you have left

No rubbing, no washing will remove

your tiresome mark

As my body marches to the left 

truth-imprisoned within me 

screeches and fights to move right

Truth

Friday Photo

When you hear about a doughnut shop on the travel channel,

you know it's important. 

This was delicious as it was creepy. 

Extended Vacation

I love the farmers market, almost as much as french cheese or a hike in the Rocky Mountains. 

Going solo is not quite as bad as sitting alone at a drive-in movie. I approach the market like one might an art museum, each booth is a new display, complete with built in artist eager to explain their masterpiece. 

There is nothing more energizing than for a conversationist (strength finder: woo) like myself to approach each booth with gusto and animately engage the bee keeper/farmer/wino etc in how-they-do-it tête-à-tête.   

But here is the truth, the Farmers Market is a unique situation, its very purpose being to share food, conversation and hopefully a monetary exchange. I feel well loved because I am eating delicious bread, spread with a cream cheese salmon dip, and they feel well loved because of the new green bills on the table. 

So what do you do when reality is not as inviting as the farmers market? 

Last summer I wallowed in self-pity. No friends, no community, just me and my childhood bedroom. 

Enjoying the place I seemed to be planted was not an option, I just did not want to get comfortable...

...in Saginaw. 

And this May, I moved to the city I had dreamed about last year. Starting all over, living in my Aunt and Uncles house, basking in the radiance of a cloudy afternoon in Portland. 

And yet still, I catch my sneaky little thoughts painting a picture of the next adventure. 

So what do I do about it? 

I have decided to start treating my time in Oregon as an extended vacation.

 (Not in the sense of being lazy and sipping Sonic drinks by the pools my rain water in the backyard) But..

...reminding myself to enjoy today.

To eat lots of summer berries.

To praise my uncle for his smoothie making skills.

To take pictures of every delicious meal we eat together, aunt, uncle, cousins, friends, new friends, or maybe just by myself. 

Vacation, much like the farmers market, develops an expectancy that every minute will have a purpose, to rest, to explore, to eat, to laugh. 

Both venues engulf you in new and exciting sounds and experiences. Set up to please and entertain--

It is not the event or the location which draws me in, but the expectation. 

I want my life to be lived with eagerness for every new food, each hour of work, anticipation in the relationships I build on daily.  

How about you? 

What am I doing here?

Recently, I invited over a friend and was introduced to hernew boyfriend who had apparently heard so much about me. I listened to him goon about his Kansas farm, and then interrupt himself with…

 “…of course, I’venever traveled to Europe or anything…”

I was caught off guard by his apologies and humbledownplaying of farm life. But I said nothing,

Because I knew my travels involved more tears and swearwords than photographs.

June 20^th, 2011

“@*%$  *&%$,  What am I doing here?”

I think that was the basic sentiment.

I can still picture myself slumped in an orange, plasticbooth at MacDonald’s, fresh off the plane –clutching a damaged pen with inkspilling onto my skin, I had scribbled curses onto pages of my fresh journal.

Six months previously I had decided to buy a plane ticketand travel through Europe after college graduation. This is almost a cliché,but one with which I was proud to be labeled.

Excitement flooded me in the months leading up to my trip.

I filmed myself packing items into the large blue backpack,one month before I left. (Just to practice you know… )

I created a cash envelope budget,

got a fresh hair cut,

informed anyone who would listen and some who wouldn’t,

And even doodled sketches of planes flying over the Atlanticonto my final exams.

I played out the adventure in my head long before I crossedthe ocean, and then suddenly, the day had arrived. I rode the sky tram thoughDFW airport, thinking it’s not to late to go home, to be safe and comfortable.

Swollen butterflies, beating light wings in my stomach as mypassport was stamped, attempted to guide me back to the safety of the terminal,but I grabbed a metaphorical fly swatter and beat them back.

Nothing would keep me from this experience, especiallymyself.

I think the best moments of the whole month were when I knewfood and friends would be denominators and not unknowns.

If the darkest moments could pile up like books, stackedwith spines facing out, each would read:

UNKNOWN

It’s always easier to recount the good parts of my travels,to talk about French cheese and how friendly the Dutch are, but what I rarelytalk about is the fear,

the insecurity which seemed to be an Eeyore style cloud,hovering wherever I went.  

A fact that made it very difficult to even approach the farmhouse selling hand crafted cheese, or the plague of anxiety which coerced meinto corners with books, rather than introduce myself to others in a bar.

No matter how many years separate me from June 5^th,2011—the worst travel day in history—I will never forget the lumpy blob caughtin my throat, ready to send a stream of blubbering tears with any sidewaysglance or missing of train.

But

of all of the fear and apprehension solo-Europe gifted tome, I would not hand it back.

There is no regret.

The insecurities in my life, the vanity, the masks I wear,would not have been so clear had I traveled with a friend.

Not to say I wouldn’t have learned lessons aboutrelationships etc.

But a month with myself and my thoughts, my decisions atevery corner, brought me to the conclusion that

story has much lessto do with the location than it does with the experience.

People make experience,

when I met up with an old friend in Prague, secret stores ofenergy exploded into my countenance and confidence with something as simple asasking for directions.

Standing on a bus for two hours became a mishap to laughabout, rather than cry.

If I had not traveled alone, I would never have realized howmuch I love to travel with people.

Even if traveling simply means the retelling of a story.

So sitting on a couch in Fort Worth Texas, listening to anew acquaintance recount tales of cow tipping and bad crops, as he gushed warmlyover my old friend is an experience I would never trade.

This is the adventure.

Check out more stories at Prodigal Magazine HERE. 

Nackt : Naked.

"May your jaded hearts be healed."

A few years ago, I sat in Rosa's Cafe with one of the girls I mentored.
We sat tearing apart tortillas and dipping then in honey.
She passionately told me a story about her step-mom giving away all of her clothes.
She continually repeated the phrase "they were mine, my clothes."
I didn't have much to say.
Why was she so upset?
Is there great injustice in losing our possessions?
To her, the clothes were an identity, a wrapping of self-worth.
She was left with little. Not literally naked.

But it got me thinking...


There is a scene in the movie Babble where the daughter is standing naked on the balcony and her father steps out and wraps his protective, loving arms around her as she sobs.

Vulnerable.

Becoming naked.


We have to shed everything, all of our selves, our worldview and preexisting reservations if Christ will come and give us something new.

Shed them like rags and run.

naked.

into the arms of God.

Friday's Photo: Commuter

My morning commute involves

Cycling

Max (The Train) 

more Cycling

bike locking up

sweat

and this terrible, hideous, impossible to admire

view.

Jackpot-ish

Yesterday I went to a coffee shop and quickly introduced myself to the attractive male barista working the counter. "Jackpot" was my initial thought, I had finally zeroed in on a place that could make a london fog, provide adequate seating, and ample flirting opportunities.

It took about five minutes to have the life story out of coffee guy--and as he answered the well poised questions...

...my thoughts whirred happily, and from a millisecond of conversation, I began to consider the possibilities of dates and conversation for which I seemed to be starving.

After all, I mused, finding a guy who shares my relative age, my unmarried/unattached-ness, my proximity, AND my faith?


Anything but possible.

The next thought in my head: "Maybe he doesn't believe in God, does it matter?"  << (gasp) >>

Seeing as I am quite unaware of my own identity, compromising who the church tells me I am shouldn't be to difficult.

No one likes to be told who they are, especially when they don't know themselves.

This string of quick firing assessments led me to conclude I would not base any summer romance on spiritual status. Let whatever happens be-- no guilt, no conviction.

Funny thing, I know how this story goes. I know the warnings and comments to pair with such 'rebellious' conclusions.

But maybe knowing is not enough.

I'm just not sure what is.

Siri Says...

I was driving home from church on Sunday and Siri sent me to a dead end; It's much easier to blame her than my terrible sense of direction.

I was driving down random country roads, surrounded by sheep and vineyards-- really a terrible place to be lost. There was no way to continue on the road I had committed to, so I cautiously turned my Aunts car around and mosied back to my starting point.

As I passed emerald carpeted farms, I had a sudden thought nugget which needed to be preserved. So being a responsible driver, I told Siri to make a note:

"Loneliness forces us to face ourselves." 

 She heard "Loneliness forces us to Facebook."

I suppose Siri knows what's best, or at least what is most likely the truth.

My first week in Portland, I attended Door of Hope, and the pastor Josh White stated "the only thing which consoles us in our misery is distraction."

Deep thought about the reality of our lives is heavily avoided.

Distraction comes in many forms: turning up the volume, watching thirty hours of Mad Men, maybe seeking the comfort of male affection --or perhaps scrolling through the scrapbook of friends lives via Facebook.

"For my soul has wandered so long seeking me-- give me grace to rise and follow thee."

What distracts you? 

Speak

The keyboard and my eyes are locked in a stern staring match. I can feel heat opening the sweat pores in the pit of each arm and skin on my forehead is tightening. 

It is quite easy for me to tell the truth about a situation, accept to the person who the ‘truth’ most directly effects. 

When it comes times to speak confronting words, my stomach drops to the earth’s core and my brain begins to swell and pound. 

Truth makes me much more vulnerable than I ever want to be. It forces me to face the reality of what is, rather than living in the hope of what could be. 

The American mobster John Gotti said "I never lie to any man because I don't fear anyone. The only time you lie is when you are afraid."


I don't wan't to be afraid.

A new article.

I participated in Prodigal Magazines "Why Church" series, you should check it out!

The Mask

Note: I wrote the following last spring during my backpacking trip in Europe. Read more HERE. Funny how the same anxieties follow me to Fort Worth. 

I will tell you more about Prague, 

But yesterday I was sitting in a YWAM prayer time with Laken and Treg. We were all praying for the ministry of Pick-A-Pocket. As I was praying I began to think about my time in Prague vs. Taize.

Such contrasting experiences 

I saw the reverent, prayerful side of Krisi. And the cowering, cautious version of myself.

I was hit with a Derek Zoolander-esk state of "who am I?"

I have donned so many masks that I cannot even tell you what lies beneath them all. 

To my Christian brothers and sisters I will appear authentic and outgoing. 

To the world of young travelers I am a fellow pursuer of pleasure, constantly reserved. 

In my home I will skirt around my interests to protect the convictions of others.

In the business world I will pursue networking and self-advancement.

In NGO's I will be a pioneer against injustice.

Where ever you are, who ever you are, I will find a way to belong; to connect; to be well liked.

At the end of it all:

I am a little girl who cries in train stations when there are no seats.

I am a passionate lover of french cheese.

I am an often naive, seeker of male affection.

I am afraid of rejection and cower at displeasing others.

I have not yet learned to love my sister as I should.

I enjoy beauty, conversation and connection.

I become frustrated when I cannot break down the walls others hide behind.

I am a Christian who is distastefully crippled and struggling to create agenda-less friendships

with those who do not share my faith.

And I am tired. 

Ready to tear off the mask.

 

What do Lindsay Lohan and Mother Theresa have in common?

Romania seems so very far away when I am sitting in an office in Euless, TX. Picking plums from worm invested trees and filling dozens of grocery sacks is imprinted on my mind; "How can they possibly do this everyday?" was the predominate thought streaming in my head as I plucked ripe purple fruit.

Hard work is funny, almost romantic when it is simply an idea. Anytime I have painted houses, pruned gardens or picked plums, I reach a point when romance washes away and all that's left is sweat and well...hard work.

There is a volunteering phenomenon when individuals begin to slink away after a few strokes of paint, taking bathroom breaks or attending to prior engagements which cannot be postponed. Here is where the 'Lindsay Lohan's' begin to separate from the 'Mother Theresa's'-- you lose the community-service-required persons and see who is really serving with a determined and compassionate heart.

 More often than not, I am a Lohan. Coerced or guilt-ed into charity work, I can handle it as long someone is around to be impressed. But when the crowd dies down, will I stay around to finish the job?

The funny thing is, most of the Theresa's will never be known because the Good Samaritan Times got their event highlights at the service project kick-off and then headed off to watch New Girl.

I want to learn how to work like the old women in Romania who spend every breath picking plums. I want to climb mountains like my father. I want to hold the sick and the dying in my arms and be the hands of Jesus and not walk away because of prior engagements.

I want to live like Mother Theresa, who said "If I am ever to become a saint, I shall be a saint of darkness. For I shall not be found in heaven, but I shall be found outside as a light guiding the way."

Ordinary.

I read Shauna's blog today. 

Slipping into self-pity is much easier than embracing daily beauties.  The ordinaries. 

Hummus. I moved out of my parents house this week and have eaten this simple dip for at least two meals every day since. Smooth, thick and good as a main dish, spread, snackie-snack, etc. 

Andrew Belle. Andrew Bird. Sleeping at Last. Alabama Shakes. First Aid Kit. Simple, methodical and introspective. Soul quenching lyrics and sounds.

A roommate. I forgot how much fun living with a friend can be...late night talks are so good.  

A Nest Egg. Somehow my savings account has exploded with funds, preparing me for some big faithful step. 

Choices.

Choices continually swarm me--paralyzing each step forward. I am living in the marrow of life daily and somehow convince myself I am missing out on a grander adventure. 

I am heavily weighted down with decisions. Decisions about jobs, roommates, faith, adventure etc. 

My worth should never be defined by what people think of me, or by what grand adventures I take. But often, I let those two ideas swindle me of obedience to God. 

I am making myself sick with the cost of going and the weight of staying.   

The Ladder. By Andrew Belle 

Woe is meFaithless you and selfish meI will leave a key for you outside my doorway
Woe is meOne if by the land or two by seaSo won't you leave for me a light outside your doorway
On a ladder from there to here I'll climbAll this clatter between my ears I findDoes it matter if I can't clear my mindThere's a right and a wrong time
....
On a ladder from there to here I'll climbAll this clatter between my ears I findDoes it matter if I can't clear my mindThere's a right and a wrong time

Click here to Hear. 

Big Secret.

Most people are bothered by those passages of Scripture they do not understand, but the passages that bother me are those I do understand. --Mark Twain

Big secret time...I don't read the bible much. Are you shocked? Outraged? Not that surprised?

Chunks of high school, college, Sunday school, and summer camps were carved out to study and understand the 'words of God'. But graduation, Europe and transitional life have brought on a new weariness and skepticism; not for the words of scripture exactly, but the heavy bent interpretations of the Church.

The way I read the bible will always by influenced by my upbringing, political beliefs, friends, mentors, pastors, western world religion, etc.  

Each time the pages fall open in my lap, I am afraid of what i'll read. Afraid to get it wrong, afraid my issues with God will be gouged further and not healed.


Truth: "It is Christ Himself, not the Bible, who is the true Word of God. The Bible, read in the right spirit and with the guidance of good teachers will bring us to Him. When it becomes really necessary (i.e. for our spiritual life, not for controversy or curiosity) to know whether a particular passage is rightly translated or is Myth (but of course Myth specially chosen by God from among countless Myths to carry a spiritual truth) or history, we shall no doubt be guided to the right answer. But we must not use the Bible (our ancestors too often did) as a sort of Encyclopedia out of which texts (isolated from their context and read without attention to the whole nature and purport of the books in which they occur) can be taken for use as weapons." -C.S. Lewis 

Read more: http://theconnexion.net/wp/?p=6064#ixzz1p17Oq2V3 
Under Creative Commons License: Attribution Share Alike

Moving day.

This weekend I moved into a new house, with a roommate and an empty fridge. I have been so whiny and ashamed of living off of my parents charity--with this new found independence I am feeling the weight self-sufficiency. 

Truth: I am afraid moving will make me lose life and staying will make me miss it. 

Quarter Life Crisis.

Have you heard of Prodigal Magazine?

I wrote an article for them today, you should read it, comment, tweet it.

Twenty Three and Counting.

I am driving up 85 in the kind of morning

That lasts all afternoon, I'm just stuck inside the gloom

Four more exits to my apartment

But I am tempted to keep the car in drive and leave it all behind

'Cause I wonder sometimes about the outcome of a still verdict less life

Am I living it right, am I living it right?

Am I living it right

Why, why Georgia, why?

I rent a room and I fill the spaces with wood in places

To make it feel like home but all I feel's alone

It might be a quarter life crisis, just a stirrin' in my soul

Either way I wonder sometimes about the outcome of a still verdict less life

[ From: http://www.elyrics.net/read/j/john-mayer-lyrics/why-georgia-lyrics.html ]

Am I living it right, am I living it right?

Am I living it right?

Why, why Georgia, why?

So what, so I've got a smile on

But it's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head

Don't believe me, don't believe me when I say I've got it down

Everybody's just a stranger but that's the danger in going my own way

I guess it's a price I have to pay, still everything happens for a reason

Is no reason not to ask myself if I'm living it right

Am I living it right, am I living it right?

Why tell me, why

Why, why Georgia, why?

Let it Shine

When I was in eighth grade, my Biology teacher began a lecture on the "Big Bang" which I had been taught by my bible believing parents was a great fabrication. I wanted everyone else in the class to be aware of this fact as well, so I unceremoniously thrust my arm in the air and screeched out "Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!"

I still blush crimson when I think about the incident.

It was uncalled for and childish--yet part of me wishes all of my decisions and beliefs could be so indubitable.

The artists All Sons & Daughters write "There are a million truths to every lie, so speak it out loud and let it lift high..." -- I am confronted daily with life's little beauties, but choose instead to grasp to one grimy anxiety.

It's high time I thrust my arm in the air and bellowed out truth.




"Let is Shine" by Sons and Daughters.

There are a million truths for every lie 
So speak it out loud and let it lift high 
There are a million reasons to cover your eyes 
But the light is shining through the darkness we hide 
But the light is shining through the darkness we hide 

So come let it 
Come let it 
Come let it 
Come let it shine x2

There's only one way to wash yourself clean 
So let the dirt fall and get on your knees 
There are a million scars for every mistake 
Oh but we are not chained to the secrets that we've made 
Oh but we are not chained to the secrets that we've mad
     

Day 30. The Last!

THIRTY. My evolving, growing, quirky, dynamic family.








As long as they are in Texas, I will most definitely feel at home is this sweaty, flat humid state.
I love them.

Day 29.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5.


TWENTY-NINE. My bestie-frands. 

Natalie. Brooke. Alexa. Angela.


What do you love about Texas?

Day 28.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5.  


TWENTY-EIGHT. My Grandmother lives two miles from me. 




She lives close, which means I get to hear her stories, eat Sunday dinners with her and see out-of-state family on a regular basis because to see her they have to come to Texas!

Day 26 and 27.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5. 


TWENTY-SIX. Despite the odds...life finds a way to grow. 

Seriously think about it, Texas is hot, humid and a breeding ground for brown lifeless plants. And yet somehow, weeds work their way out of the cement.
Hmmmm.
















TWENTY-SEVEN. Fortworthology the Blog.

Because it reminds me how I am not the only one who loves biking, food trucks and organic chocolate. The blog helps me enjoy living in Texas and be excited about Fort Worth's progressive culture.

Days 23, 24 and 25

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5. 

TWENTY-THREE Minimal hills which makes outdoor recreational activity much easier to manage.



TWENTY-FOUR The great and ever so cultured Austin, TX.




TWENTY-FIVE Cheap Gas.




What do you love about Texas? 

Day 22...and 21

So I skipped yesterday. It's easier to be lazy and watch four episodes of How I Met Your Mother.
I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5.


TWENTY-ONE & TWENTY-TWO. The Freakin' Weiss sisters.




So one of them now goes to graduate school in Colorado...the other lives in Abilene. But both are my Texas frands who totally 'get it' about Colorado. They share my love for nature, mountains, beer, John Mayer, camping, Chacos, Longs Peak, and introduced me to bird watching.
I always wanted an older sister/mentor and Saundie stepped into that role graciously. Julie is both generous and relaxed, she totally accepts me for all my crazy.

Day 20.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5. 


TWENTY. The spectacular group of frands I made at Hardin-Simmons University. 


Without Texas I never would have gone to good ole' HSU and met some the most influential group of crazy hilarious people. Good times, good food, good choreographed dances, good out of control games, good snow days, good drinks, good porch talks, good offensive costumes ect... ect...

Day 19.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5. 

NINETEEN. Bike Fort Worth is happening.

http://fortworthology.com/2010/02/08/a-look-at-bike-fort-worth/
         

         

Day 16. 17. 18.

I am practicing a thirty day fast from hating Texas. I  post one thing I love about Tejas everyday until February 5.

SIXTEEN. The Food Cart park I never new existed in the Fort Worth Cultural district.

Could there be anything better than a couple hundred people sandwiched between half a dozen food carts? Maybe if one of the food carts was veggie and another offered cake pops. Oh--and that we can all sit outside on a balmy Friday in mid-January. That's kind of nice.

SEVENTEEN. The "Out Spokin' Bicycle Club of Fort Worth."

Yeah that's what it's called. I knew I loved to bike but would never have classified myself as a hardcore extremist bike rider, but these guys have fun and kick -27 miles- in the butt.

EIGHTEEN. Holla, I lovsa that Summa gurl.


Summer has been my friend since 9th grade, I wanted her to be my friend sooner, but she thought I was a little weird. Things change I guess, I got cooler or she got weirder...
Either way, without Texas, I would never have known my dear friend.


What do you love about Texas?