Hurricanes, Earthquakes and Homesickness, Oh My!

It has been two weeks since I (and my many oversized suitcases) have arrived on the Big Island of Hawaii.  As a person who resists change with every fiber of my being, this drastic relocation has brought its fair share of painful moments.  However, the beautiful times have far outweighed the uncomfortable ones and I have been finding so much joy and opportunities of learning in the midst of a few small trials.

The first of these trials was finding myself in a strange new condo.  For as long as I can remember, I have had a tendency to become irrationally attached to inanimate objects.  Which is not really a problem until something happens and you lose said inanimate object.  My attachments are particularly strong towards wherever my current home happens to be, so moving tends to be a pretty traumatic experience.  Fortunately, I am aware of my condition and was able to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable moments of crying to go “home”.  The reminder that this IS my home is not always comforting, but the reality of the situation somehow is and I manage to pull through those emotional moments.  The upside of my “inanimate-attachment-commitment-disorder” is that after two weeks of living here I have completely fallen in love with my new, cozy little dwelling.  It’s small, but cute.  Easy to clean, simple and sweet.  On a clear day, I can sit on the patio while drinking my coffee and have a spectacular view of Mt. Mauna Kea.  I already know that I will cry when I have to leave it.  It is what I do.

The second of these trials is the shockingly fickle weather we have here in Hawaii.  As a California girl, any weather other than severe drought is exciting.  The drizzly rain, fog and humid days in my new town were initially a delightful change from Sacramento’s horrid August summer.  Enter the hurricanes.  I was privileged enough to be greeted in Hawaii by not one, but TWO hurricanes passing through the area.  Fortunately, they never actually came TOO near my town (or so I have been told), but the winds and rain from Madeline terrified two of my evenings and had me convinced that my bedroom windows were going to shatter in the night, impaling me and leaving me either dead or maimed.  Neither of those things happened…although I’m still convinced that it came close.  I was even prepared to hide in the closet by the water heater just in case the windows did start cracking.  Preparedness!!!  I stocked up on water and canned goods, made sure I had flashlights and candles and listened to all the weather updates.  Night two of Madeline I fell asleep feeling proud and confident in myself that I was used to this tropical storm weather.  I listened to the wind howling, the rain slashing against my windows, and the walls creaking ominously; I felt smug and very “local” since I wasn’t (very) scared.  But then…alas, my confidence came to a shuddering halt when I woke in the middle of the night to the bed and walls violently shaking. In the midst of the crazy hurricane weather, we also were graced with the presence of an earthquake.  I lost all my local confidence, freaked out and was thankful to be alive when morning came.

Finally…my refrigerator quit on me the day after I bought a boat load of food from Costco and I was fairly convinced I would have to throw it all out but then everything worked out in the end and I don’t even want to talk about it because the it was a horribly stressful experience that I handled VERY well and I am just thankful that it is all over with and none of my food went bad. PHEW.

So here I sit…two weeks in: survivor of hurricanes, earthquakes, homesickness and faulty refrigerators.  In love with my home.  Not even close to being local.  Excited about the future and the adventures I am sure I will experience.  

(But still occasionally a little homesick)

Never Enough

I tend to live with idealistic views of how my life should look and the things I should accomplish on a daily basis.  These ideals are often lofty and therefore, hard to achieve which leaves me feeling like nothing I do is ever enough.  If I have 25 things on my to-do list for the day but only finish 20 of them, I see myself as a failure rather than celebrating those things I did accomplish.  I know what I am capable of, which is why I set my expectations so high.  The detail I tend to forget is that I am a fallible human and cannot perform at 110% during each and every moment of my life. 

These feelings of “nothing I do is ever enough” spill over into almost every area of my life.  My house is never clean enough.  I don’t spend enough time training Bentley.  I don’t exercise enough.  I don’t read enough.  The list goes on and on.  Nothing I ever do is perfect and therefore, is never enough.  My feelings of inadequacy culminated tonight and resulted in a soggy pile of emotional Kelsey.  Always a fun situation.

After pouring out my feelings of “never doing enough” I was reminded that the goals I set are not there to make me feel like a failure.  The goal of striving each day to be a better version of who I am there to do just that: continually strengthen my weaknesses, but not create a perfect person (because…impossible).  At some point, setting expectations at unattainable heights does more harm than good.  For example...exercise is supposed to relieve stress and bring balance.  However, in Kelsey’s world, we stress so much about the number of days we skipped this week that it completely degrades the wonderful days I did get my sweat on.  I expect so much of myself every single day, and the smallest “failure” sets me back further than is logically reasonable.

With this brilliant revelation, I realized I needed to do one of two things.  I could either lower what I expect of myself OR handle the inevitable shortcomings with more grace and poise than I have previously demonstrated.  I have chosen the latter option mainly because it seems like the easiest solution, and also because I need to be a more gracious person throughout every area of my life.  Two birds and such.  Another reason is that I do not think that the issue stems from expecting much of myself but rather my reaction to the perceived failures. 

I will continue to write freakishly detailed to-do lists, but I will focus on what I cross off each day, not on what is left over.  I will strive to make it to the gym as much as possible, but remind myself that dem gainz don’t disappear in a day.  I will train Bentley, but not expect him to join search and rescue.  I will read my books because I love them, not because it’s a requirement.  I will celebrate the victories.  I will accept my shortcomings.  I will not stop pushing myself to be the best version  of Kelsey that I can be. 

I will remind myself that I AM enough.

"We should not judge people [or ourselves] by their peak of excellence; but by the distance they have traveled from the point where they started." -Henry Ward Beecher

The Art of Writing

There is such beauty in the written word.  For writers, their art is in the letters they piece together rather than brush strokes.  It is the means by which people can express their innermost souls.  Entire worlds can be created, shared and explored, and the only limitations are the minds of those that create them. There is a heavy sense of responsibility to accurately portray these thoughts because if not done correctly, the entire essence of a story or opinion can be lost. The exact capturing and portrayal is the challenge writers must face.  Their story is living, yet disembodied, dwelling in the misty moor of the mind, and it is their privilege to guide them in and over the threshold.  To lure them to safety, capture them delicately and accurately express them in order to give them body for others to read, enjoy and learn from. It is a fine and delicate process, for if these thoughts are grasped too tightly or forced too roughly to give up their tale, that fine mist will dissipate, seeping through the cracks to wander untold throughout the lonely world once more.        

For me, writing has always been an incredibly intimate process as it is how I share my deepest feelings, emotions and opinions.  Because it is so much of who I am, I have always struggled with sharing this side of me with others and exposing myself to critique or negativity.  As humans, we don’t like to show our most vulnerable side to those we don’t know and sometimes even to those who are close to us.  However, skills gradually fade if we do not practice them, and if I lost my writing I would lose a very big part of who I am.  This is a major reason why I started my blog in the first place.  I could not allow my fear of other’s opinions to become a limitation of my self-expression; I have too few mediums at hand to allow for that (we all know just how much creativity I do not possess).  Art, dance, music, miming…none of these are within my repertoire so I cling tightly to the written word.

 Some of the times that I feel like I understand myself the most is when I am reading back old journal entries or writing assignments.  It is like having a map of the path that I took to become who I am today and seeing each phase I went through to build the character I have now.  I surprise myself with things I once knew or insights I had but have since forgotten.  I shake my head at the stupid decisions I made and the lame justifications I gave for making them.  I laugh at the things I thought were so important throughout my teens and early twenties but now see as trifling.  I am reminded of some of the hardest times of my life that I have overcome and survived through.  My personal writing is especially impactful because it is when I am free to be brutally honest with and about myself.  It is hard to ignore my flaws, faulty thinking or mistakes when it is right there on the page in front of me in my sloppy, misspelled handwriting. 

Looking back is not always easy and it can be painful to see the mistakes I have made but was not aware of in the moment.  Reading how I felt and knowing that I was wrong can be frustrating, but I am thankful for the documentation of those choices and that they have led me to where I am today.

My writing does not have to be brilliant, perfect or profound.  It can simply be the organization of my often scattered mind and the tool I use to understand more about myself and this glorious world around me. 

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”

— Anne Frank

Sandy Toes, Happy Heart

Hawaii has been a small part of my life for a long as I can remember.  Starting when I was five, my family would vacation on Oahu on a fairly frequent basis.  While this may sound glamorous…it was not...which made it even more perfect.  One of the many, many, many perks of having a parent in the Air Force is the ability to fly from base to base on one of the military planes.  I doubt my parents found this to be quite as charming as I did because these planes are not intended for passengers in any way.  The bucket seats are far from comfortable and the noise was deafening.  For a kid though (and honestly maybe even now) it was the most exciting experience I had ever had.  I have flown in a C-5, C-141 and KC-10 (which was the plane my Dad piloted most of his career).  I wish I could remember this better, but I only have vague recollections of sliding around the bed of the cargo deck with my brother and how loud it was during flight.  The most memorable part of flying with the Air Force was watching the Blue Angels refuel over the Pacific.  I thought the glass panel on the floor of the plane was actually a gaping hole and was naturally afraid I would plunge to my death if I got near it.  My Dad loving solved this problem by tossing me onto the glass.  Once I got past my heart attack, I was able to sit and watch the boom operator refuel one of the most iconic aviation teams. 

On Oahu we would stay at Bellows AFS, which was an active air field during WWII but is now only used for training and a vacation spot for military personnel.  The bungalows have been renovated but…it’s still base housing and might be considered cringe worthy to some.  Staying 50 feet from the best private beach on the island made up for this in every way. 

Looking back over the years, I can see the changes in myself reflected in the ways I spent my time on these trips.  As a child it was all about adventure; catching crabs at night, golfing with my dad, swimming all day, getting stung by jelly fish numerous times…fun stuff.  In my early teens I just wanted to sit on the beach and read all day long, so my family left me to go hiking and exploring while I was a beach bum.  Now, I wish I had gone with them more often.  In my late teens, I did not want to stay on Bellows…I wanted to be in Waikiki where there was action and nightlife, restaurants and shopping.  I would beg for a few days at the Hale Koa-a military hotel and still one of my favorite hotels to this day.  I wanted to spend the days surfing on Waikiki beach and my nights wandering the international market place. 

Now, being the ancient woman that I am, the crowds, tourists and traffic on Oahu bother me.  I do not want to go anywhere near Honolulu; I want to explore and experience things other people cannot.  This is when I discovered the joys of the Big Island.  One of my best friends in all the world moved to the Big Island of Hawaii in the Spring of 2015.  I made my first trip out to see her in July and fell in love with this island mostly due to her influence.  Together, Jessica and I have the wildest adventures, greatest accidents and most laughable catastrophes.  This is my third trip to Hawaii since she has moved here and each time we have spent every moment of our days exploring and adventuring; we hike all morning, swim all afternoon, fall into countless mishaps and end each day exhausted and happy.  Jessica is the one who taught me that the best way to experience a beautiful place is to immerse yourself completely, not sit on the beach with a book and observe from a distance. 

Tonight, Jessica and I took a walk through the neighborhood I am staying in.  It was the kind of night that I wish I could bottle up, save and savor for many years to come.  There are times in life where I can look back and feel the moment rather than just remember it…I hope that this is one of those times. I don’t want to forget the sweet, delicate smell of Plumaria that surrounded me.  The dense atmosphere that cradled me.  Most of all, I don’t want to forget the soft, warm caress of the wind as it called me to adventure, yet soothed my soul at the same time. I stood and just let the wind wash over me, trying to feel each wisp against my skin and it truly made the evening magical.  Perhaps it is the warmth and humidity, but the breeze felt thick; it made me feel alive and optimistic but also grounded and reminded me to savor each moment I have.  I have such a bad habit of constantly thinking about what I need to be doing in the future that I miss the beauty of what I am doing in the present.  Taking in those deep breaths of heavily scented air, I was able to focus on the exquisiteness that surrounded me and appreciate everything I had right then and not worry about what needed to happen for the rest of the night, week, month or my life. 

I love that this island brings out my sense of adventure and exploration.  I love spending time with my friend.  I love this phase of life I am in that allows for such experiences. 

"I don't Do Nature"

These words have been my mantra for many, many years and a sentiment I have clung to tightly.  This surprises many people since I come from a family of outdoorsy adventurers and grew up hiking, camping and fishing.  I could bait my own hook, gut my own fish and catch my own snakes by the time I was 5.  I believe that my current mentality developed over time with the help of all the mishaps I found myself falling in to ever time I stepped into the great outdoors. It started when my Dad took me on my first backpacking trip at the tender age of 6.  Operation Viper.  I was the mission commander, leading a team of six men and one dog across 8 miles of rugged wilderness... and yet, the part that stands out to me the most from this experience was the tick that burrowed in to my back and the hours of sitting by the river while my Dad tried unsuccessfully to get the head out.  In the end, the head of the tick remained in my body, and twenty years later I still carry the emotional and physical scar from this encounter. 

Skip forward 8 years to the time my brother and I got the brilliant idea to clear an entire ravine “so that the coyotes could travel easier” and spent the entire day hacking through what turned out to be the thickest mess of poison oak ever experienced by man.  Medications were needed, the ability to breath was compromised, neighbor children came just to stare in horror at our mutilated faces and bodies. 

These, along with a myriad of other experiences, have led to the bitterness that I have towards Mother Nature.  Until, once again, the love I have towards my precious hound dog has forced me to push through barriers and experience things that I thought were forever out of my life.  When I was invited to go hiking this weekend with a few friends and their dogs my natural reaction was to decline with the oft used “I don’t do nature” excuse.  However, along with the goal of trying new things, I also have a puppy with boundless energy who absolutely adores running free and socializing with other dogs.  And so, after an intense warring of my heart and mind, I found myself in…The Nature.

It was glorious.  As with pictures, I know my words cannot do it justice, but I had the happiest dog and the happiest heart.  There were no catastrophes, no ticks, no poison oak.  There were rocks (which I love), snacks (love) and peace. There was also such a sense of pride and accomplishment for facing a situation that was outside my comfort zone.  Will I suddenly become a rugged outdoors woman? No.  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I had a good time, not a brain injury.   But, I can no longer say that I don’t do nature, and for this I am thankful.

““I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, “This is what it is to be happy.”
”

— Sylvia Plath

My Floors are Covered in Drool...and I Love It

I came downstairs this morning, walked into the kitchen and stepped directly into a puddle of watery drool.  I swear, Bentley takes a drink from his water dish, holds it in his mouth and then just wanders the house letting the water leak out as he goes.  Maybe not, but how else can he get THAT much water on the floor!!!  Other than being a little miffed that my pajama pants were soaking, this didn’t bother me at all, and I had to pause and appreciate the progress my heart and mind has made over the last few years.

For as long as I can remember, I have battled varying degrees of OCD.  It seems to have come and gone in phases ever since I was twelve.  At times, I feel so “normal”, I have no fears and breeze through life without so much as a thought towards germs.  I see these as happy, light periods of time.  And then there are the dark times.  When my fear was so severe that I became agoraphobic, hiding from the world because I could not face whatever horrors my deluded brain had convinced itself existed.  A psychologist once diagnosed me with having Obsessive Compulsive Contamination Disorder-I just say I don’t like germs.  Habitual and ritualistic behaviors consumed my life, dictated what I could do and when I could do it.  This has been such a huge part of who I am, and yet, if you weren’t one of the very few people who I confided in, you might not even know how deep into this mire I had sunk.  Sure, everyone knows I won’t eat or drink off of anyone except my husband, or that I carry copious amounts of hand sanitizer…but these were things we joked and laughed about.  What people did not know were the times I would cry on the floor, forcing myself to resist the compulsion to wash my hands again, fighting panic and fear that I KNEW was irrational; smelling my hands for hints of soap, trying to convince myself that I HAD washed them already.  Rationalizing, resisting, and trapped in a mental prison that I had created for myself.  Fighting so hard to be free.

It has been years since I have been in a dark slump, and I look back and shudder at how I let myself live.  If you can even call it living to be so consumed by fears.  I rarely, if ever, share my struggle with OCD; I feel so ashamed and embarrassed by it. It isn’t something funny like on Monk, where I have little quirks that are amusing and adorable-it is life-altering, crippling and depressing.  I am so thankful and appreciative that I am currently in such a happy, light time of my life and I certainly do not plan on ever going back.  It has been a hard and painful battle clawing my way out of the pit of OCD and I owe so much of my success to people around me (there are some who may never know how much their presence in my life has impacted this area) and also my little puppy dog.

When we first got Bentley, I was already doing well and living free-but he helped push it just a little further and also made me want to share this part of who I am.  If you have a dog or especially a puppy, you know that it is impossible to keep your house spotless around the clock.  The first few weeks we had him were like a war-zone and I felt lucky to just get the dishes done between potty training, playing, and recovering from sleepless nights.  Now, things are not as chaotic with him being 7 months old, but he is still a dog, and he is messy….but I love him so much that I am able to let go of the things that would have bothered me so much a few years ago.  I look past the paw prints, smile when I step in drool, and give thanks for the progress that I can see in my life.

I also mop the floors a LOT. 

My Solution to Breakfast Hatred

I love food.  I have always loved food.  I love pretty much all the components of food; menu planning, grocery shopping, cooking it, eating it…photographing it.  The only part I don’t like is the dishes, but I don’t consider them to be food related, it's just the inevitable carnage that comes with cooking. 

Considering all this, you may be quite surprised to learn that I absolutely detest breakfast.  It repulses me in every way: the socially acceptable elements, the timing, the effort.

The elements of breakfast are my first complaint-literally everything involves eggs in some way.  As we all know, eggs are direct decedents from the devil.  Odorous, slimy, runny, yolky….I shudder just thinking of them.  The smell alone makes me want to vomit.  I never cook them for myself and can find other options at home, but it makes things mighty tricky when we go out to breakfast.  Next time you go out to breakfast, try ordering something off the menu that does NOT include eggs-it's a challenge.  (I don’t like pancakes either, but let’s save that for another time). Side note: am I a picky eater??  I say no.

Second is the timing.  Who in their right mind wakes up and is hungry first thing in the morning!?  This ties in with the effort because I also don’t generally want to wake up and put in all the energy preparing myself something to eat.  By prepare, I mean peeling the lid off my Greek yogurt.  All I want to do is sip my coffee, read my books and remind myself that mornings are opportunities to accomplish new things, not a means of torture.

Regardless of my excuses, I laced up my grownup shoes and committed to eating breakfast on a regular basis.  Intellectually, I know that there are numerous health benefits of starting the day with a healthy meal.  Not only does it help boost over-all metabolism, but I notice a huge difference in my workouts when I have been properly fueling my body throughout the day, starting in the morning. 

After some research, I found a solution to my problem.  I realized I was being high maintenance and decided to just get over myself and eat the stupid breakfast!  Just kidding, but that would have been very cool of me.  Instead, I found…baked oatmeal!!!!  What makes me the most excited about baked oatmeal are the innumerable variations and possibilities that it offers.  If you look up “baked oatmeal’ on Pinterest you will find enough recipes to eat a different oatmeal every morning for a year!

Below is a link to my favorite one so far.  I will cut down on the sugar in the future because it tastes more like a dessert than breakfast.  I have also used this as an opportunity to slip myself the things I generally don’t remember to eat; flaxseeds, chia seeds, collagen powder…

What I do NOT like in baked oatmeal is protein powder.  Like most Crossfitters and exercise freaks, I am obsessed with getting my daily protein and will look for any way to add more protein to whatever I am eating.  Protein powder has a delightful place in many areas of life, but I cannot handle it in oatmeal because the dish becomes so incredibly dense that I feel like I am eating a glue stick.  Which, for those of you who have never actually eaten a glue stick, is quite unpleasant.

Thus, I go forth; adulting so hard with my breakfasts…an aura of maturity surrounding me. 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/113997434295907228/

My 2016 Inspiration

The New Year is a time of beginnings and fresh starts.  Perhaps it is a bit of a cliché, but even if you don’t have New Years resolutions you probably still see it as a clean slate and the opportunity to “carpe diem!!” for real this time.  I can’t lie; I am this way, too.  Since November I have been deep in the mire of Holiday Sugar, and I am viewing January as a time to cut down on my junk food consumption.  I guess I could cut down on my wine consumption, too…

However, this year is a bit different for me.  Not only is it the start to twelve brand new months (which I will write incorrectly for the first quarter of the year), it also falls shortly after an event that led to some very introspective moments for me.

The week before Christmas, my mom called to tell me that my Grandpa wasn’t doing well.  So, I packed my suitcase, downloaded an audio book, and drove my trusty Mazda up to Eugene, Oregon to visit my grandparents.  This alone was an adventure because…Mt. Shasta and the Siskiyous in December?

Along with figuring out how to handle my vehicle in snow, I was taught so many lessons in the time that I was there; not because my Grandparents sat me down and lectured me about what they thought I needed to know, but because they lead by example.   

Spending time with them showed me the importance of fully embracing each phase of life that I am in.  I will never be twenty-six again, and rather than wasting time looking back and missing “the good old days” or wondering what is next, I need to seize each opportunity that I have and make the most of them.

My Grandparents truly live their lives, and do not put off doing things until tomorrow (unless it’s the dinner dishes).  Each day they do the things they love, because they have a deep understanding that the time they are given each day is a gift and one that cannot be squandered or wasted.  As a twenty-six year old, I keep thinking that I will do things in the future.  Tomorrow.  When I am older.  I think that I have an infinite amount of time to eventually get around to doing all the things I dream of.  At eighty-seven, my Grandfather marvels at how fast the time has gone by and recalls with joy all the things he has accomplished in his life.  This is just one of the many ways I want to be like him; to look back at my life with pride and contentment, not waiting until the next year to start working towards my goals, but using the one I have right in front of me.

This is what inspires me at the start of 2016. 

Quinoa Basil Soup

Creativity…is not one of my many, many gifts in life.  I am a good, nay, excellent instruction follower.  I prefer activities that provide structure and direction, such as: cooking (from a recipe), cross-stitching, exercise CLASSES, coloring etc.  I will read the entire manual when putting together a bookshelf from IKEA.  This is where I thrive.

Because of this, I am so proud of the fact that I do, indeed, have an original soup recipe to share.  Not only is it original; it is healthy AND delicious.

This recipe started out as a tortellini soup, but thanks to my Mother and her insanely strict healthy eating habits, 80% of the ingredients in the original soup were things she would never, ever consume.  One substitute at a time (and a horrible onion incident) the tortellini soup morphed in to what it is today: Quinoa Basil Soup.  Yes, I know the name is not creative, what did you expect from me?

Ingredients:

2 tbs butter

2-3 cloves garlic

8 cups chicken broth

1 lb ground turkey

Parmesan cheese

28oz can stewed tomatoes

1 bag baby spinach

1 box of Trader Joe’s basil

1 cups cooked quinoa

4 zucchini

2 tbs poultry seasoning

Salt

Pepper

A few caveats:  This is how the recipe is written, but I don’t always follow it exactly.

• Garlic-I probably use 6 cloves of garlic because I lurv garlic.  Use at your own discretion.
• Butter-I use a LOT of butter.  See above.  I also lurrrrv butter.
• Chicken broth-you are entitled to whatever chicken broth you want, but Trader Joes range free is the best.  Your choice.
• Basil-if you don’t want to or cannot go to Trader Joe’s then use about 2 cups of basil, don’t cut up the leave, just keep ‘em whole.
• Onions-do not EVER, upon pain of death, use onions in this soup.  I am a huge fan of onions, the hugest…but once upon a time my dear, dear mother added onions and we literally threw the soup away because it was so horrible.  So DON’T.
• Spinach-I pack in as much as I can fit because the spinach cooks down.

Now you are ready.

1. Melt butter and in a large sauce pan.  Add garlic, sauté until golden; about two minutes.  Add ground turkey, half of the poultry seasoning, salt and pepper to taste-cook until turkey is browned. 
2. Stir in chicken broth, remaining poultry seasoning and bring to boil.
3. While the broth is heating, blend tomatoes to desired consistency.  Personally, I cannot stand chunks of canned tomato.  No, just…no.  I blend the tomatoes to a frothy liquid.  Once your tomatoes are blended, add to the turkey and broth mixture and once again bring to a boil. 
4. Add sliced zucchini and simmer on low until tender.
5. Stir in cooked quinoa, spinach and basil.  Simmer until the basil and spinach is cooked to desired consistency (I like my spinach to be a bit wilted).
6. Serve and garish with Parmesan cheese, salt and pepper as needed.

I usually eat so much of this soup that I think I am going to die.  Just a warning.