Puttana: I got called a bitch in Italian

He called me a puttana and told me never to write again. I promptly blocked him. I hadn’t answered his call the other day and was reaching out. We are on massively different timezones and I was at work. Being in with the cow when my phone started buzzing I needed to make it stop before it made the cow angry or startled. Anyways, I want to tell the back story on this guy because despite the harsh parting it’s magical.

I had a storybook meeting and date in Italy. Picture this, will you? I’m on a local bus in my beach wrap, hair plastered with salt, and face probably a bit too red from a day of independent snorkeling on the coast. I spot a very handsome man with a cast on his right arm. I’m sitting there thinking to myself, I wish I knew more Italian. And, damn, he must have a girlfriend. I’m bisexual and more attracted to women then men, but lordy was this guy HOT. He was playing with a fidget spinner in his left hand and somehow managing to look effortlessly perfect. I decide, like the brilliant person I am, to attempt and use my brand new Italian lessons to start a conversation. The first thing I say very loosely translates to: no good, I am sad (as I point at his cast.) He looks surprised, but happy and amused. He and his friends chat along happily in Italian to me while I mumble that I, in fact, speak only a tiny bit of Italian. I was learning. Somehow he tried to teach me to use the fidget spinner and the bus knocked me into him like a good romantic comedy. His friends thought we were hilarious, BUT he asked for my number. That night he texted me. He wanted to see me right away. When could we go on a date? Now my logical brain was like, okay chica you do not know even a fraction enough Italian to go on a date with a non English speaker. Thank goodness I can translate his texts on google. The other half of my brain says, why the heck not!? So, after some slight hesitation and telling him that he could not take me out the very next day because I had work…. we set a date.

We met at the train station. As a solo traveling woman I knew telling an almost stranger who’s suddenly obsessed with you where you live is not a fantastic idea. Somehow his sporty sweats and white shirt looked incredible. We navigate through the terminals and wait for the train- all the while learning just how incompetent my Italian is. Somehow though it’s really nice. He is looking at me like there’s no one else remotely as fascinating. His blue eyes, bleached European hair, sharp cheek bones, and perfect tan gazing at me with adoration. He is tall, athletic, and has beautifully muscular arms. I navigate asking him if he’s married. There was a ring and, despite the language barrier and me freaking out because I can’t understand his explanation for the ring, I eventually learn (google translate) that it’s from his dead family. His mom, dad, and sister died. Suddenly the poor guy is moody and sad. I learn that his hand is in a cast because he got in a motorcycle accident (ridiculously common in Italy.) He takes me to one of the smaller, beautiful, colorful beach towns. He buys me lunch at a beachfront cafe. We both laugh and coo at the baby next to us. We lay on the beach. He uses his very limited English and google translate to ask me about music, what I like, if I study, what I do for work, and about my family. I use every word of Italian I can muster. He says he knew from my eyes and not my words that I was a good person. Not very many people are like this, he says. He wants to visit America. He is beautiful in the sun without his shirt on. We play soccer in the sand and swim in the ocean like fools. We stop talking less and just look at each other. It’s mostly silent and it’s nice. We put sunscreen on each other and make little piles of sand on our bodies. After our very long full day, the longest first date I’ve ever had, I make up an excuse to go home. I’m exhausted. We walk along the cliffs back to the train station and he says something I don’t understand in Italian. I catch the drift though. However I play innocent and tease him. What? I don’t understand. Please explain. He turns bright red and eventually confesses he asked me to kiss him. Now we are in the tiny train station with the cables above the track and the colorful apartments rising above and I’m laughing hysterically. Mostly because I feel uncomfortable, but also because of the absurdity of the situation. Somehow we place my discomfort into me being very close to his body, we hug long and hard, and he starts to whisk me around the train station. We are dancing. We are dancing in a tiny town in Italy and suddenly there are a few more grown men gathered around for the train. We are dancing and he is twirling me and we are smiling like idiots and he dips me for a kiss and they cheer.

We ride back on the train. He is calling me beautiful and perfect, he is so happy, and he’s holding my hand with his uninjured one. It’s cute and precious. My Italian is expanding quickly out of requirement. He is asking why he can’t join my plan with friends and I am saying he simply can’t. (I made it up. Safety not to have him walk me home. Exhaustion.) We part ways. He tries several more times to see me again after seriously professing his love. I gently explain we probably want different things. I do not want to sleep with him. I only have so much time before I leave Italy.

I see him one more time. My friends from Italian lessons urge me on. It could be true love! How romantic and perfect. But, my logical brain wins out. Things aren’t adding up. I only have so much time in Italy and I don’t want to be swallowed into a bubble of love that may or may not be based on lies. I want to see art, beauty, plants, and the ocean. I want to make new friends and do whatever I want whenever I want to. Here’s the real reason I don’t see him again. He begins to scare me. When he asks me where I am one night at midnight I explain I’m with friends. He demands to come over. I say no. He argues why not. I explain, gently, it’s late and he hasn’t been invited. Eventually I’m upset with his pushing/anger and point out he should ask not demand. He doesn’t know I’m with two of my friends in a beautiful apartment overlooking the city with a giant ballroom. One is Canadian and the other Filipino. We have had a little too much wine and everyone is dancing around with themselves. We are stupid, and silly, and tipsy on the beauty of our lives. We decide it’s a perfect time to order Indian food. We sit on the floor of a mirrored ballroom eating with plastic utensils and talk about true love.

He isn’t so sweet anymore. It isn’t polite or gentle. I don’t know if it’s cultural or the language barrier, but he seems pissed I tell him no to anything. It seems I have broken his heart. He wanted to go to America with me. I am the love of his life. I wonder how that is so when we could barely hold a conversation. I was sad I hurt him. I wanted to have storybook love. I continued to try and help him with his English and dreams to come to America until he decided I was a bitch. Love can be complicated. I want something deep, trustworthy, and authentic. I am grateful for our fleeting storybook moment none the less.

Packing for the carry-on

Multiple trips and 11 countries later I’ve got my packing grind. Some people cringe when I say I prefer traveling with a carry-on. Here’s why I love it.

1. It’s not getting lost.

A giant benefit of carry-on baggage is you have full control of it getting on and off every flight. You have access to anything you might want inside it- as long as you aren’t that jerk dropping everything on other people’s heads.

2. You don’t have to wait at the baggage claim.

Major time and stress saver here. You can walk right off your plane, breeze through customs, and grab a bus or walk to your next destination. Sure you still have to wait to file off the plane, but then you’re free!

3. You aren’t tied down.

You can hitch hike or live in a car/tent/hostel/castle. You and your stuff are ready to roll with multiple scenarios. It’s convenient to bus and you don’t take up a massive amount of space while traveling between beds.

4. No excessive fluff.

Now I’ve still managed to fit: multiple books, snorkel mask and flippers, horseback riding gear, and soccer cleats on various trips. So don’t think there isn’t room for fun. However, having a limited amount of space helps you get clear on what STUFF is actually important to you and for you.

So when I sit down to actually pack there are a few things I want on every trip.

-socks (always more than I think.)

-reusable bag (heaven sent in more than one situation.)

-journal and pen (absolute requirement for me, although I’ve bought them during trips as well.)

-reusable water bottle (always helpful. Even in countries where the water is commonly potable.)

-travel lock (even when I’m not planning to hostel hop these come in handy.)

-multi use scarf (it’s a dress, it’s a head cover, it’s a scarf, it’s a towel. You name it.)

Otherwise it’s clothing that can be combined in any possible combination and layered for any situation. A light beanie can do wonders. Same with a light coat, under armor, and pants that unzip into shorts. Sometimes I feel the need to pack sunglasses and chapstick. A photocopy or important documents. Usually I never bother with soap, shampoo, towels and the lot until I’m actually someplace and I can get a normal size. I almost always pack a swimsuit. Usually I wear one pair of boots and pack one pair of tennis shoes. I’ve usually brought a photo or two of pets and family for sentimental value and sharing. I’ve brought along gopros and nice cameras- but I don’t end up using them a significant amount of time and have to make sure they’re secure. Happy packing!

Preparing for New Zealand

Trip prepping again! It’s been awhile. Some things feel natural and the flow is still there, others not so much.

Applying for a working holiday visa was trying. First: the application fee and form. Second: Realizing I needed a chest x-ray. Getting a chest X-ray done then figuring out I needed one done at an approved location, of which there are only about 25 in the entire USA. Third: getting an extension in order to get the X-ray done. Fourth: the chest X-ray is in Seattle, thank goodness, but time, gas, ferry ticket, and $180 x-ray later this hurdle is jumped. Fifth: I need a scanned copy of my passport while I’m away from home. I send it from the front desk of where we are staying. Sixth: it’s not clear enough so I go to the library for another scan of my passport. To clarify: this visa was touted as super easy. Most people get it within a a few days. I’ve been happily avoiding any formal visa applications in my travels so far. The upside of having this particular one is we can stay in NZ for up to 12 months and legally be paid to work.

Perhaps these seem like trivial bumps, but I needed an easy win. Anxious to leave my family. Worried about finances. Not completely convinced this is a fantastic idea in the first place. You get the picture.

Flight buying was as fun as usual. Haha, no honestly it’s always stressful. There’s the looking at multiple days, times, and airports. Considering if you want a longer layover. Wondering how much sleep you can lose without going insane. Deciding if you’ll check a bag. Watching the prices jump up $50 as you put in your credit card information. The WiFi going out. However, Piper and I managed to SCORE a flight to New Zealand. Now it may not be the cheapest of cheap, but $443.80 one way felt reasonable. I was pumped to see the easiest travel journey I’ve ever had aboard. Our plane leaves SeaTac mid-afternoon and arrives for a nice two hour cushioned layover in Vancouver at a decent time of day (don’t ask me why this is cheaper and why Vancouver to NZ directly was more expensive.) From Vancouver we have a direct flight with food and perks to Auckland, NZ where we also arrive at a decent time of day. No sleeping in airports. No ridiculous loss of sleep over a 48 hour period. Fingers crossed and knock on wood, but huzzah!

My to-do list and “want” list have been stressing me out. There’s always the impression of time and priorities crushing down on you. I returned from Colorado to a nasty bought of Bronchitis which has thrown a wrench in all of my non-plan plans. It’s been almost two weeks and I’m still wheezing and exhausted. Learning to balance preparation and the current moment without drowning is indeed a skill! Some days I feel excited and mildly worried, but great. Other days I feel so overwhelmed it feels like I’ll implode.

What Sarah is preparing in her head and going crazy over:

Her 23rd birthday

Seeing the at least 15 people she would ideally love to see

Healing from bronchitis

Doing a full inventory of stock for work

Finding odd ball jobs over two weeks

Ordering and logistics of prescription meds

Visiting my primary care doctor

Reviewing my latest bloodwork results

Getting a tetanus shot

Visiting my orthodontist

Get a wart frozen off my foot

Packing for NZ and visiting my dad (Kansas)

Sorting through what I own/donating/selling

Straightening out my finances

Settling travel insurance (required?)

Cleaning my car and taking it to mechanic

Repairing a rock chip in my windshield

Doing sheets and laundry at home

Protecting my laptop from virus software

Paperwork for 2019 taxes

Helping my mom apply for assistance

Sorting out my backpack situation

Memorizing important personal #’s

We have been scouring workaway and various job sites. Brainstorming hypothetical sailing, riding, work, camper van living etc. It’s important for me to stop and focus on what’s in front of me. Breathe. Remember why I am doing this. Realize it won’t all get done and that’s okay. Part of having post traumatic stress is struggling with things out of my control. On my flights to and from Colorado (despite a love of flying) I had to remind myself that I had in fact made a choice to be on that plane. The rush of the airplane, the noise, the pressure, the butterflies in my stomach- while previously would have thrilled and excited me- left me panicking and anxious. I was lucky to be able to grasp Pipers hand and repeat to myself over and over that I had chosen this. Why? Because I’ve felt a complete loss of control over my life. My New Zealand trip may be the hardest preparation I’ve ever had. Counseling has helped me prepare for the mental hurdles, but that doesn’t make certain steps any easier. Fear. Unknown. Sadness. The best way for me to move forward after I’ve sat with these emotions is connection, love, and excitement. Trauma is hugely physiological and for that reason often cannot be waved away with logic. While safety and community are huge factors to healing. Here’s to more travels!

Theatre, perfectionism, and the pursuit of being good enough

My relationship to art is tricky. I have a fear of not being good enough. Most of us do. Lately I’ve found myself talking to more and more people about it. Why does creating  matter? How does it effect me? Why do I do it?

The more I tried to become an actor the less I trusted myself. My self questioning personality spiraled. All I heard was negativity. It bogged me down. “You can’t do that” phrased in so many different ways. I fell out of touch with my instincts. My choices received constant questioning and scrutiny. Until I started to repair my relationship with acting I felt like the moral of the story was that: I couldn’t trust myself, my creative choices were terrible, I sucked, and it didn’t matter how hard I worked in the end. Dramatic. I know. It felt like my instincts were never right. Then I got into my head. Questioning everything. Taking every note and piece of feedback under careful consideration.  That didn’t help either. Let’s call that scenario constant frustration. Trying to give people what they wanted even if it wasn’t true to me. I was allowing other people to steal my peace of mind because I didn’t know how to deal with it in a proactive way.

Directing wasn’t something I aspired to-do, or even considered,  until I read a script that I had to see done. Enchanted April. I could go on for DAYS about that show/author/playwright(WE EMAILED BACK AND FORTH)/novel/script. I’ll spare you. I had a goal and I was going to reach it if it was the last thing I did. The focus and intensity was real. I landed my first full length directing gig (at a small college, but I still feel proud of it) without a DROP of directing experience. I can be convincing and passionate-that helps.  I sure as heck put together a killer PowerPoint.

There are many reasons why theatre is important to me. Depending on the day you’ll get a different answer, but I appreciate its ability to connect. Bring people together. For me, theatre is about seeing the beauty in the world. Sharing and discovering it. Perhaps, even most importantly,  seeing the beauty in the messiest and most painful moments. I’ll never forget when a performance touched me. Phenomenal theatre sticks around.  It helps me feel connected to something bigger….that maybe I’m not as alone as I make myself out to be.

Back to directing. For me, directing is trust. Something I give quite sparingly. When I direct I learn to honor my instincts. Appreciate them even. I trust myself. I trust my actors. My team. I fully dive into a vision. My own vision. Whether it’s right or wrong I can go as far as I want. The most powerful part of creating is the feeling of infinite possibly. I research everything. Find quotes on related themes. Pull pictures. Read source material. Create elaborate back stories. The list goes on, but none of it would be possible without ultimately trusting myself. I admit when I don’t the know the answer and I ask questions. It’s collaboration. The final product only carries more strength with everyone bringing themselves fully to the table.

My philosophy on monologues is it’s all about trust. A good director establishes a solid base of groundwork. Establishing boundaries, open communication, clear objectives, and script analysis. Success is when trust  is achieved between actor, material, and director. Give and take at its very best.When I know the actor and material shine brightly alone. No bells. No whistles. No drama. No embellishment. The actor trusting me to give honest and constructive feedback as well as provide a positive space for their confidence to grow in the material and myself. That’s what I shoot for.

Art allows me to live in a space of possibility and expression. There’s a childlike quality in feeling out a work. Trying to describe the rhythm of the scene. Knowing you hit the right note because you feel it and it feels right. It’s playful. It’s passionate. It’s frustrating. There are a lot of questions. I watch pieces being performed and read scripts and I find myself inspired. Expanded. It’s a challenge. A task to wrap my head around, but not just any task. Art allows me to reach the deep things. We all want our lives to MATTER. A lot of the time we don’t talk about it directly. I can’t count the number of times I haven’t told someone what I’m really dealing with. If you approach some emotions head on there’s  inaccessibility, but if you approach then with a catalyst they suddenly become beautifully open to being experienced. Theatre, and other types of art, allow us to do that. To look at the beauty and know we matter. Learning to trust ourselves and each other a little more. Life is messy and heightened and so is theatre.

 

A seat at the table

Not everyone has been in a minority community, and sometimes it’s hard to speak about when it hits close to home. Recently I had a tense conversation that ended with both of us in tears. If you’ve tried and felt misunderstood or ignored- it hurts. At the end of the day sometimes I just want someone to notice I’m missing from the table.

What does that mean?

Consideration

When I was in high school I went to a lot of birthdays, ASB meetings, and sports rallies where I didn’t eat the provided pizza or cake. Any host who took the time to consider a.) someone might have a gluten allergy and b.) provided an alternative bought my undying love. I felt noticed, considered, and cared for. I wasn’t treated as a burden or the odd duck. I think people want to feel loved and included. It can feel troublesome or tiring to continually advocate for yourself. Simply being unrepresented in an activity can feel like an uphill battle. Am I welcome? Is this safe? Do they want me here? These questions are consciously and unconsciously on your mind as a member of a minority community.

Conversation

Do they notice if you’re not present? If there’s only men at the board meeting. If their advertising is white washed. If they’ve never considered handicap accessibility. If there’s a restroom they can use. Is a less stimulating space available if needed. Has someone taken 5 minutes on the topic of your needs. The truth is a lot of the time they haven’t. If they haven’t- can you have a conversation about it. Does it feel like you’re being heard? Do they want to help. Dialogue is a powerful tool. We all have our focus and our blind spots. Who’s missing at the table?   

Visibility

I think a helpful tool for quickly engaging if people have had a conversation and considered what you need is if they make sure you know. Visibility is a public announcement that you are welcome at the table.  We see you. We value you. This is important. We would like you here. A person or a company has taken the time to invest in your seat at the table.

We can all do better, companies and individuals alike, to notice when others are missing from the table. Reach out a hand, start a conversation, post an encouraging word, and educate yourself.

Spoke(N)

Josh and I set out in the rain with our bikes. It wasn’t a particularly inspiring day, but it was important to me to show up in his life. He babbled happily about the trail he had chosen for us and proclaimed all the details of the rushing river and visiting neighborhood cats. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I ran the same path 3 hours earlier, there was no need. We giggled, started doing stunts, and pushed on. I taught him how to ride a bike with no hands. I didn’t realize how important I thought this skill was until I was teaching it. Finding your balance. Trust. Showing other people- proving to yourself- what’s possible. Daring. We finished our first route and he suggested we continue on another. I said yes. This time I took a moment, “Hey, I’m sorry if you needed me while I was gone.” He laughed and said, “Need you? Why would I need you? I mean. I missed you! I’m happy when you’re around, but I don’t need you.” We cruised around the skate park on our bikes. He cautioned me to be careful. This time I laughed and said, “There’s a difference between being adventurous and being stupid.”  To which he replied, “You can be adventurous and careful.” I thought about it for a bit and said, “I’m done living my life careful.” Wise little man said to me, “If you break your leg it’s a lot harder to do your traveling adventures.”

We wrestled around my bedroom floor giggling hysterically. I managed to pin him down while making silly noises. We laughed over my antics and I hollered down to my mom that he was laughing so he must be fine. “I’m a monster you swine! I yelled at Josh. “No, you’re not a scary monster. You’re a pig”. I swiftly said, “No! I’m a big and scary monster and I’ll prove it to you.” After this I got a bit quiet and serious. How many times have we wanted our monsters to be validated? Maybe they’re just 21 year old girls rolling around the floor with their younger brother trying to connect and love in this world.

Coming home

Customs agent: “How long have you lived in Washington?” Me: “My whole life except for when I’m traveling.”

I swear I could feel my throat close up and my heart put on 12 coats of armor.

I didn’t want to come home.

Everyone in Iceland wanted me to stay. The girl I am in love with in Seattle, the one person I wanted to come home for,  walked away. I had thought of calling her upon arrival 5 million times. I’d written up things I wanted and needed to say. I fantasized about her picking up the phone or not picking up the phone. I thought of showing up at her house with flowers. A sign that read “I’m sorry” on one side and “Forgive me” on the other. I imagined the smiling octopus I would draw on it in hopes of making her chuckle. I was walking back into a whole world of pain. How can one break up with a best friend? Someone they never got to kiss or hold close? I had my sick mother, doctors, dentists, orthodontist, banks, working full time, and moving out to look forward to. I knew it was going to be okay, probably great, but it wouldn’t be fun. It was going to be fine, but not what I wanted. I was back to the land of settled dreams.

When we drove past her exit something inside me broke. The piece of me that was too afraid and tired to select her contact and make the phone call I had rehearsed to death. I knew there was a very real possibility I would never see her again. Never get to hug her one last time. Never get to tie up all the loose strings. Never get to look her in the eyes after everything we confessed to each other. I feel as if I’m resigning the fight out of me. Letting life and things I don’t want take the helm as I sit back and watch. On the road I have the freedom to take action in my life. Sometimes that’s stressful and anxiety inducing, sure. But, I don’t feel as if I’m watching the train of life blow right past me as I sit in the station. Hands tied. Simply sad. Out of my control.

People expect me to be swarmed by friends upon arrival. The truth is there’s not too many people left in Washington to care. I had one of the few people who does pick me up from the airport. McKayla is a wonderful friend who goes out of her way to show me how much I mean to her, but I still felt the long distance between us. I felt the silence of not knowing what to talk about. I love my family- my mom, my dad, Nathan, Josh, and my cat Tia. I arrived home to find my mom had left the Christmas tree up with all my presents underneath… and it’s just after Easter. The house smelled the same. A few things looked different. I felt different and yet everything was the same. It’s as if 5 months of my life never happened. Was it all a dream? How do these two realities exist in one life? My “home” life that’s never felt like home and my travel life. My heart feels splintered into a million pieces. I’m strong. I’m steady. Keeping it together. Efficient. Ready to do the things I need to do. But the want? The wanting I’ve always been consumed with. Hoping. Dreaming. Aching. Feeling. Where does that go?

 

 

Vicarious traveling

Vicarious living! We’ve all done it in this age of social media. Gorgeous photos, exciting books and TV shows, instagram, you name it! This is who I travel for besides myself.

1. I travel for my family.

My grandma Cathy wanted to know every word about Argentina and the beautiful horses I’d get to work with. My grandma has health problems and loves horses as deeply as I do.  She grew up on a ranch. She is an incredible seamstress and a mother of (HOW DID SHE SURVIVE) four crazy boys. After giving her every detail I could think of, she pulled me into the tightest hug. When she pulled back she looked me dead in the eyes with tears on her face and told me, “Don’t ever stop chasing your dreams. I’m so proud of you.”  I got all choked up.  I was bewildered as to why it was so important to my grandmother. My mother, who has infinite wisdom, explained that I’m probably the only person in her life that dares to dream. She said, “Sarah for her you’re magic. You are incredibly different from the rest of your dad’s family.” They live mediocre unhappy lives- they’d probably tell you that themselves.My cousin got pregnant at 16 and I just about set a bomb off in the kitchen when I mentioned birth control. They work random, unfulfilling, low paid jobs. The family lives on gossip like an opera. All this to say substance isn’t high and dreams are practically crushed upon arrival.

My grandma Emily is a rightful badass. For the last 15 years she has had severe depression. Her health has been a struggle. We sit and I ask her about her life, as much as her memory allows her to remember. She was a writer and editor in New York at a time when it wasn’t common. She saw Broadway shows every weekend and was generally an incredible supporter of the arts. She drove all the way across the country with a BABY, a four year old, and a dog to follow my grandfather… not to mention gave up her career. She was a champion skier and she traveled, journaling all the while, later in life with my grandfather. When she found out I was leaving on another trip she called my cellphone twice. My grandma is not a technological user. She wanted to make sure she wished me a good trip. I called her back today and although she had anxiety over my missing Christmas she said it sounded wonderful, that I was very special to her, that she was sure they would love me, and that she was very, very proud of me.

My aunt Diane is a world traveler herself. She’s seen far more of the world than I have. She worked for the airlines and then married a man who seemed to have family EVERYWHERE. I love my aunt, but if you met her you’d think classic vanilla accountant. BUT, one day she locked eyes in traffic with a man in another car, he motioned for her to pull off the freeway, and as they say the rest is history. They got married for his citizenship and they had 3 children before a divorce. This man, whom she’s still friends with and who still maintains a relationship with the family, is from Iran. It’s one of the main reasons why Iran is at the top of my places to visit list. Persian food is my very favorite type of food and I absolutely adore the hugely giving and compassionate culture. She earned a full ride scholarship for being an INCREDIBLE swimmer. She told me many people, herself included, were living through me and that I must post many photos and share stories.

My uncle Jeff is a banker. He hasn’t done much  traveling and has the biggest heart I’ve ever known. He’s my cheerleader (well, they all are and I’m super lucky.) He is inspirational on reaching his goals. He achieved almost every single goal on his 10 year plan. He played in an international bridge tournament with my grandmother,purchased a house on a lake and owns a boat,got married and had children, worked his way up to the managing position he wanted, and many more. He gives and gives some more. It is incredible how sensitive and loving he is toward others and is the best at lending an ear.

My two little brothers Nathan and Josh. They’re amazing. I love them so much and I’d do most anything for them. They’re smart, cheeky, kind, and wonderful. Nathan’s studying game design and production at a college campus at 16 years old! He teaches himself coding languages for fun on his own time.He’s bested me at math for years and creates the most elaborate board games and clay creations I’ve ever seen. Josh plays soccer (We all do. Soccer family. I’m sure I’ll write about it.), loves taking things apart, is also engrossed in video game programming, dances, sings, acts, climbs all over everything, welds, and aspires to be a billionaire and has many plans on how to do it. He wants to travel with me one day and I can’t wait. As bright young aspiring…. teens?…. I want them to know their dreams are possible.

My mother. She hasn’t done much traveling outside of the United States. She is life coach, accountant, and head of household. She has the most wicked ability for soccer goals that aspire her to many tournaments. She was a swimmer and diver for many years. She’s written a book. She’s been through a lot and is one tough cookie. We have the best relationship when I’m traveling. Email and Facebook conversations are super good for us. We talk about our personal growth and the world at large. Perhaps I’m a coaching guinea pig, but I don’t mind. She pushes me to go after my dreams. I’ve invited her to visit me on several trips and one day I’ll succeed in getting her to come. She reads non-fiction like it’s going out of style and is probably more educated on alternative medicine, nutrition, psychology, and religion than anyone I know.

My dad. He hasn’t done much traveling and doesn’t quite understand what I do, but he loves me for it. One day we’ll take a trip together.  We had a very rocky relationship through my 12-18 years, but now he’s my rock. We win most improved. My father has been a: director of religious education, copy repairman, cook, restaurant manager, personal chef, and Chuck E. Cheese manager. He is an amazing and very aggressive soccer player.  He taught me how to throw a punch and boxes. My pops can draw really well, is AMAZING with small children and people in general, is an avid outdoorsmen and hiker, has a gift with animals, and studied drafting. We drafted inventions when I was growing up and built things from scratch.

2. I travel for my students.

This is still a funny one for me to say, but I’m a teacher. In a less than conventional sense, but let me explain.  In farm school I teach about: gardening, salmon, honey bees, goats, spiders, bunnies, soil, chickens, pigs, sheep, cows, horses, tractors, conservation, watersheds… you name it! The kiddos love asking me about exotic plants and animals. Stories are a great teaching tool! The more I expand the more I have to share.

I’m a horseback riding instructor (mainly 2-12 years old)and I work as a mentor in our Riding Club program for teens. My experiences through learning new languages, seeing the British mounted cavalry, watching the Spanish Riding School, seeing the treatment of horses in developing nations, and now training at a competitive Arabian endurance barn in Argentina (which is known throughout the world for their horsemanship.), help inspire the next generation. Teens in particular want to know more about the world and how they’ll fit into it. The more people and cultures I interact with the better,more compassionate, & aware teacher I become. They look up to me and with that comes a big responsibility. I want them to dream big and know anything is possible.

This includes my animal friends. I owe it to them to become the best person I can be. Educating myself and learning more about how they work and developing that mutual relationship of horse, rider, and trainer. One must be balanced and confident, listening and aware, kind and consistent, create and maintain trust, establish boundaries and expectations, and be the very best they can be in working with horses.

3. I travel for my friends.

Traveling is hard and requires many sacrifices of time, money, relationships, and career. If you’re creative and stubborn enough you can make it all work, but that requires a lot of trial and error as well as commitment. It’s not for everyone. For those of my friends that long to travel, but are held back by many obstacles this is for you. For those of my friends that have no desire to travel, but love seeing pictures and stories from a traveler this is for you.

 

In the end I hope my travels aren’t completely selfish, but if they only teach me more about myself and the world I’m okay with that as well. You never know how your actions may inspire others.

 

 

 

 

Leaving something good to chase your dreams

Leaving when life has fallen apart feels different. Trust me. It’s uncomfortable and scary to bring more unknown into an already unstable situation sure, but you’re not saying goodbye to something sacred.

The dream-

Argentina.  My wanderlust had kicked in. Every day I would come downstairs and announce a different location where I was bound and determined to go. My mom started to make fun of me. It obviously didn’t matter where I went so much as that I traveled. This past summer I flew to New York to support one of my best friends at the National Young Rider Championships. I saw some incredible horses and riders, but more importantly I was reminded this is what I want to do. I saw the path in front of me and the goals I wanted to achieve. This time around I would combine furthering my equestrian career with traveling. I began to search for barns abroad through Workaway.  I looked all around the world. In the end I contacted four barns. My first choice was Argentina. I’d never considered visiting, but I fell in love with the barn. Arabian endurance horses. Racing at the edge of the Andes mountains. The 5 year old girl in me who dreamt of being a jockey whispered, YES. Argentina is known through the world for having incredible horsemen. I’m going to go study under amazing trainers. Not to mention, they’re famous for equestrian polo and I can’t wait to try it. Bonus- it added a continent to my all 7 before 30 goal.

Leaving the something good-

Being home, in Washington, is challenging for me. What makes it tolerable is having the best job in the whole world. I love my job. Transitions have always been hard for me and choices difficult. I am sentimental and attached despite my strong sense of wanderlust. The barn where I grew up and into myself is my home- more so than many houses. I learned who I was and who I wanted to be. I was inspired to excellence and believed in. At a rough patch in my life they saw my potential and it changed me. At the barn I’m in my element. I’m a favorite custom lesson instructor. I “exceed” my employee evaluations. My reputations is of:”dependability, willingness to learn, amiable personality, adaptability, ability to handle disciplinary problems, and a self-starting initiator who’s experience and dedication shine through.” “She routinely delivers quality programs and has great customer service skills. She is respected and appreciated by staff. Sarah takes great care of our equestrian herd and farm animals. She knows the ponies well and they respect her calm demeanor and expertise. She is quick to recognize if an animal is not feeling well and is good at reporting concerns in a timely manner. She is a great role model for our Riding Club volunteers and younger staff members. She works hard and takes pride in providing excellent programs each shift. Her knowledge, professionalism, and continued dedication are an asset. A dedicated employee that comes ready to work with a smile. She’s fostered respectful relationships with all of our farm residents. She is reliable and always willing to help out as needed and available. She has a wealth of experience to share. Sarah remains calm under pressure and solves problems as they arise. ” Lots of big words. What really made me cry on my last shift before I left was the reaction of the kids.  They begged me not to go. They said they’d miss me. They made jokes about me teleporting back in time so I never had to leave them. They called me a legend and gave me sweet parting gifts. One girl pulled me in for a hug that never seemed to end. They thanked me and said they couldn’t imagine time without me. They showered me in things like you’re the best and an amazing instructor and made me promise to come back. My supervisors are AMAZING about my travels and support me with a big smile and a reminder that they want me back as soon as they can have me. They understand.  It’s never boring. I work with people aged 2 to adult. I never stop learning. I teach at the farm school, I work on maintenance, I get paid to ride… every day is different.  I train and care for a herd of 16 and a whole host of livestock- chickens, bunnies, sheep, goats, cow, turkey, and a pig. I have established relationships with 2 and four legged friends that mean the world to me. It’s my happy place even when everything else is falling apart.

What makes it hard-

My Argentina plans were up in the air. I requested work leave starting in November after my job in Argentina was confirmed. After 5 emails asking for logistical information I still didn’t know when my arrival date was and which airport I was to fly into. This left me without a goal to hang onto. I felt like a fool. Everyone wanted to know when I was leaving and I didn’t know if it had fallen through.

Expense. It’s going to be the priciest airplane ticket I have yet to buy.

Relationships. My mother isn’t well. Friends. My grandparents are getting older. Love life. The truth is that the world keeps on turning without you and you miss moments.

My job because I love it to pieces.

Why it’s worth it-

I’m going to come back with more experience to share. I won’t have regrets or what if for dreams I didn’t dare to chase. There are so many things I’ll get out of the experience I can’t dream-up. Friends I have yet to meet. Language I have yet to accomplish. Horse skills I’ve never grasped. I love my job and it makes me happy, but overall I’m not exceptionally happy in Washington. I’m exceptionally happy when I travel. Right now I have the time and freedom to travel. Who knows what the future holds. Waiting can turn into forever. I’m launching off into another chapter in my story.

 

 

Unhealthy Mother/Daughter Relationship

Life has not been easy for my mom. She has sacrificed a lot for her children. There are many ways in which I admire her and many in which I pray we are never alike. A few of the darker parts of myself come from her. My icy look of death and judgement- you have betrayed me or let me down and you will pay.  This look makes you feel terrible for hours. My scary I will not take no for an answer voice. She taught me to have a zest for life and is largely responsible for my wanderlust. She taught me to work hard and dream big, be different and creative, NEVER leave a ride waiting and NEVER be late.  Many mother/daughter relationships struggle, but ours is particularly messy.

She is type A personified. Growing up in a household that never did new things, or scary things, or challenging things creates a certain kind of person. Things were the same as they always were and they were good that way. My mother and her sister are accountants and their brother a banker.

My mother met my father at 15 years old. They were married at 20 and 21 years old. They had me just a few years later.  My mother didn’t realize she was a lesbian. She didn’t know until she fell in love with a woman- a marriage and 3 children later. Nothing happened, my mother’s sense of morals and guilt are far too high for that, but it began a chain of events that split our family apart.

The separation of my parents was not explained to me. I was very angry because it didn’t make sense. They still lived in the same house, they were civil toward each other, and they claimed they loved each other, but it couldn’t work. My mother came out to me at 12 years old.  The timing couldn’t have been better. I was just figuring out my sexuality and realizing I wasn’t straight. I wasn’t sure what this meant or if I was bisexual. Everything was confusing. My mother had a lot of internalized homophobia. I had to keep her sexuality a secret from the rest of the world, my family included, for several years. Was I living a lie… a double lie? I hate keeping secrets.  I didn’t want to become “that” kid who was gay because her mother was gay.  I was rather angry with my mother for putting me in that position which is made even more ironic by the fact that one of my younger brothers is also gay. What I did become was the girl who randomly popped up with a girlfriend one day. No statement given. The girl who without letting anyone know showed up to homeschool (conservative) prom and brought a girl…. who wore a suit. My mother still wasn’t out of the closet. Sometimes I was her beard and sometimes she mine. Why was I so vocal about LGBTQIA issue? Marching in parades? Phone banking? My mother. Why was my mother on the PFLAG board, marching, speaking out- why her daughter of course! We both led seperate, but related lives as we figured ourselves out.

My mom won’t let anyone forget that she never spoke back to her mother. She was quiet, respectful, and did everything that was asked or expected of her.For most of my young life she was seriously depressed. You walk on eggshells around my mother. She can be slamming the breaks on the car to cry hysterically on the side of the road,  screaming at you for some minor upset, or not speaking to you. To name just a few. Sometimes she’s happy, funny, clever, supportive, loving , and my best friend. Sometimes she’s anxious, manipulative, cruel, selfish, and my worst enemy. I’m never quite at ease with which version will show up. I crave emotional stability.  There have been many good pockets. These are sometimes worse because when she swings back it’s even more jarring. I was taught to be the good girl, the rock, the caretaker- and I didn’t have any other choice. I became a stand in parent and I became my mother’s second when my parents split.

My mother has a flair for the dramatic and a few other things. She threatened to kick me out of the house this week…. even though it as under her advice that I be there. Despite the fact that I had leaned heavily toward continuing to live away from home she talked me into it.  I was suddenly a selfish brat who took advantage. Like all things in my life, and particularly with my mother, I swallowed my anger and any sense of ego and proceeded to act like her actions were completely justified. Because I’m never good enough, my actions mean nothing, and I’m a piece of shit like she regularly reminds me. Of course I don’t love her as she also semi regularly informs me.  If this were true- which it’s absurd to even entertain-  it would have been one hell of a lot easier to go my own way a long time ago despite so much pain and sacrifice and sticking by her side when she was at her ugliest and defending her when people had nasty things to say.

My mother can never understand my anger for her. This continually drives her nuts and she insists I must try to explain it again even though it never ends well. Our relationship is so complicated I could never fully explain how or why I feel the things I do. From my perspective she tells me just how wrong all my feelings are and doesn’t listen. My anger toward my mother is both very simple and extremely complex. I am angry with her for asking so much of me time and time again. I am angry to have to be the “better person”. I am angry to be “another parent”. I am angry she doesn’t have anyone else. I am angry that she wasn’t always a safe person. I’m angry I have trust issues and that she once threw a plate at me. I’m angry that I had to hold her while she was sobbing at 12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20. I’m angry that I had to convince her it would be alright. I’m angry that I had to protect my brothers from screaming and crying and tantrums and reprimanding. I’m also angry that she throws it in my face that after everything I will never forgive her. After everything she thinks she calls the shots on when I need to forgive her or even if I’m capable of forgiveness. From my perspective I’m been one heck of generous with forgiveness. I’m angry that I’m never good enough for her. I’m angry that she contradicts herself.  I am angry that she resents me when I take care of myself.  I’m angry her health is terrible.  I am angry that when I watched Gilbert Grape for the first time I sobbed because that’s me. My family is in pain and broken.  They need me and I want to fly. I wish so badly I didn’t feel angry and resentful. I wish I could be perfectly happy with my mom treating me the way she does. But I’m not. I wish I could be the perfect daughter I used to be back when I never exploded, but said yes mommy and loved her unconditionally. It’s not okay with me. Despite the fact that I put my head down and I take it and I take. At a certain point I can’t take it anymore and the reaction is explosive. I know it isn’t pretty. I know it isn’t good either. As logical a person as my mom is her arguments have a lot of holes. When I point them out to her she doesn’t have a good answer OR she weaves her words in such a way that I end up feeling crazy and like my feelings can’t be valid. I stood up to my mother and told her no. I set a very clear and respectful boundary. I then broke it and she pushed again. My mother gets what she wants from me and if she doesn’t she throws a fit and gets it anyways.

I need to get out of the house and onto a plane. Seriously. I meant to be gone two months ago. I’ve let it slip. First it was my family and then it was work. These last two weeks have been a wake-up call. I don’t particularly relish being home and it’s been months. I’ve been bad about putting everyone, but myself first. So I get angry. I get bottled up. It isn’t pretty.

So why am I angry? Because I don’t feel like I’m living my own life. I’ve doing exactly what everyone else wants of me and being who THEY want me to be. It’s not making me happy. I don’t normally HATE it, but it doesn’t make me jump out of bed. I’m extremely motivated and can cram a million things into one day if I want to. DO is my motto. I can boil it down to obligated or responsibility if I want to make myself feel bad. Occasionally I ask myself if traveling is simply running away.

If I am running away it’s because I’m running away from a normal life. I don’t want to be mediocre. I don’t want to go to school, work an office job, have 2.5 kids, amount a mess of debt, and acquire a picket fence. Sometimes I really want to want those things and sometimes I almost believe it. I want to live every moment to the fullest,  meet new people, scare myself, learn about myself, study different languages, try new foods, help others, create, share, be a leader, collect stories, remember life is beautiful and kind, the list goes on.  I want to expand not stagnate. Maybe I am running away from a toxic home life, but if I’m going to leave the house I may as well chase my dreams while I’m doing it. I’m not going to move out 30 minutes away. If I’m moving I’m going far. Washington isn’t my forever home. Always known that. Maybe I am running away from being treated like shit. From everyone asking everything of me. Maybe I don’t want anyone to ask anything of me. Maybe I’m tired.

My mother is busy telling me she needs to get better completely better. She surprised the heck out of me the other day by suggesting she may need anxiety medication. When I’ve implied she needed meds she would flip at me or when I’ve yelled that she needs to get help, help that isn’t me. It’s the worst when she is calm and rational. It’s all about perspective and I’m no angel here. I know I’ve messed up many times. I know my mom has sacrified many things for me. I know I could have done better. I know I am one significant half in how this relationship functions. I wish I knew how to make it healthier. The healthiest it has ever been was when I was abroad. We sent emails back and forth and communicated in a way that felt completely different and exciting. Perhaps it was because we didn’t need anything from each other- because we couldn’t.

When will I not feel responsible for my mom and my family. When do I stop feeling guilty and get to live my own life? What will happen when I travel and come home again? I’ve already moved out, moved again, moved home, traveled, lived abroad, and then come home again.  In the end, I want to know why loving people hurts so badly.