By Steph!

This blog was written by Steph, my first-ever guest blogger!  More than a mommy and wife, Steph is an avid bike polo player, an expert of public displays of nonsense, and an exceptional friend.  Thanks for sharing, Steph!!

The last eight months I have been lucky enough to add “mommy” to the list of titles I hold.  No one really gives you any direction how to keep your own identity while you try to selflessly become someone else’s everything.  There are days that go by when you realize you didn’t do a single thing that wasn’t centered around your baby.  I am honored to be in this position, yet I know myself well enough to know that in order for me to be my best self, I need a few things: adventure, laughing, friendship.  Enter Katie!  

Kalk Bay, Cape Town Peninsula

I had been following my old buddy’s travel blog for 6 months when I started to have this underlying feeling that she could really use a familiar face.  But this was a crazy thought.  I’m a new mom with, like, responsibilities.  And I hadn’t been in close contact with Katie since high school.  That’s sixteen years!  So, what do you do when you are tight financially, have a 7-month old baby, and are in the middle of taking classes to get your real estate license?  With full support and encouragement from your amazing spouse, you buy a plane ticket to Cape Town South Africa to see about your friend.      

Almost instantly we were “peas and carrots” again.  Our cab driver from the airport actually raised his hand en route, telling us he didn’t want to interrupt two people who were clearly so happy talking.  That about sums it up.  Over the course of the next six days, Katie gave me the gift of an adventure that has helped remind me of who I am at my very core.  We’d walk out the door in the morning with a backpack and somewhat of a plan, and come back at night after a full day of exploring, laughing, learning: we were Iiving.  How special it was to visit the museums, climb Table Mountain, tour the prison where Nelson Mandela spent eighteen years of his 27-year sentence, all while catching up with such a dear old friend.  

I can’t even put into words what this trip meant to me.  Travel is so very powerful for my soul.  It gets me out of my bubble.  It expands my awareness.  It resets everything about me that is able to be reset, in the most magical way.  Whether it was aimlessly walking around the city of Cape Town, interacting with the locals trying to decipher which of the eighteen buses was the one we wanted, trying to not get killed crossing the street since they drive on the other side of the road, or declining the offer to pay an arm and a leg for a cider beer to be personally delivered to us on the beach, it was ALL done with such joy in our hearts and smiles on our faces.  Sure, we covered the hard stuff from our pasts too, but even those conversations were interrupted by shrieks of laughter and looks of, I wish I had been there for you during that time.

I have to admit, it had crossed my mind whether Katie would still be the same Katie I remembered.  Mind you, she has been traveling the world for 8+ months.  She’s seen some difficult things and has had to come to grips with the realities of some very small children in heart-breaking situations, among other things.  I knew by day 1 of my trip that Katie was still Katie.  I knew it watching her ask someone for directions with that big smile and irresistible positive energy.  I knew it hearing her nervous-yet-endearing giggle when she contemplated talking to “that guy”.  I am so happy to know that Katie’s travels haven’t hardened her: her heart is bigger and juicier than ever.  Thank you, mon amie, for being you, and allowing me to be me.  Thank you for allowing me to be a girl with a backpack and an adventurous spirit. 

With Some Badass Ink

Can you see it??

I’ve wanted this tattoo for years.  A gnarly, wild, tangled tree at first, for the million reasons that trees represent life and seasons and looking dead but being secretly alive, for drawing water from parched land, for bearing fruit and leaves and beauty, for being a home to some and a safe place to land and seek shade and solitude and peace for others.  I needed her to be feminine, gloriously, powerfully, wondrously feminine.  Because I love being gloriously, powerfully, wondrously feminine.  And I needed her posture to reflect the kind of life I want, the kind of woman I want to be.  Deeply rooted, and expectant, and grateful.  And I wanted my babies, my niece and nephews and godsons to be in there somewhere, the ones I’m committed to giving life to as long as I have life to offer.  Because one day they’ll be brave enough to take flight, and I will be a home to which they can return, no matter what.  

She was a little nut of an idea, and for years and years, she’s grown and stretched, and become fully herself.  But only in my imagination: I’m not immodest, but am decidedly not a drawer.  So for years I imagined her and nurtured her, this emerging vision, and fed her hopes and meaning and symbolism and the little birds.  After work, regular stops at my favorite tattoo shop, researching different types of trees, and different styles, and international tattoo standards.  And suddenly, somehow, South Africa became the right time and place to give her life, to birth her how other things are birthed, through pain and blood and the help of others.

I contacted friends far and wide, my favorite artists from home, and my first South African crush Duwayne, covered in ink and full of local contacts.  I talked it through with my favorite couple from Portland, and a princely vagabond from all over, a man named Michel.  I piteously tried to sketch my ideas and made appointments with different artists here in Cape Town.  And then I found her.  A woman with a style I love, a style laced with ferocity and detail and femininity.  And it was game on.

Bring it, 35

I’d like to say I was a baller, that I wasn’t phased by the length of time, or the proximity to my spine.  But the truth is, I remembered too late how much it hurts to be on the receiving end of a tattoo needle, and instead of visualizing the sea or puppies or my fatty fat face nephews, I found myself cursing my visual memory as I pictured my neurology textbooks and their diagrams of nerve receptors, and trying to inhale enough oxygen to prevent passing out.  Which I am a little proud and a lot relieved to report, I never did.

And then it was done; she was here, in the world, indelibly stitched onto my soft, strong, burning back, owning her space and commanding attention: I can’t stop looking at her, and only wish I could walk around topless, for the world to know.  And she didn’t cover my boring old tramp stamp that means even more to me now than when my best friend and I got it all those years ago, but she curls around it a bit, keeping it safe.  Which is appropriate I think, and as important as bringing life to others, that the me of 35 will respect and protect the Katies of the past as much as I will welcome and honor the Katies to come.  So bring it on, 35; our roots are planted, our hearts are wide open; we’re ready for you.

With a Hometown Favorite

Penguin in a Tree

There are fewer things I miss more than my girlfriends.  Sharing history that spans decades and distance and marriage.  Discussing our aging physiology and body functions, including how easily we now wet our pants.  Gracing one another with the space to be fully authentic, even if it means being angry, or sad, or straight up bitchy.  I have girlfriends related by genetics, and college, and hometown, and Chicago.  I don’t have material possessions waiting for me at home, but I am a rich, rich woman in relationships, and I miss them every day, all the time.

Mandela's Original Cell

When Steph started poking around to figure out my schedule, I became suspicious, but dared not get my hopes up; could it possibly be that someone was coming to visit??  I understand and respect that everyone is busy leading full lives at home, and traveling around the world costs time and money and energy; it’s no Sunday brunch.  So I could hardly believe it, could hardly contain my excitement when she confirmed my suspicions and told me she was on her way here to South Africa.  There was no better medicine for my travel-weary spirits as I anticipated her approaching arrival, and I was nearly bursting out of myself with excitement as I rode the bus to meet her; we hadn’t planned on it, but I wanted to surprise her at the airport, knowing how lonely it can be to arrive to a whole lot of nobody in a foreign country.  Our reunion was sweet as I pounced on her from the tree behind which I was hiding, stealthy girl that I am.  Thus began our whirlwind week of the century.

We tore up Cape Town.  We devoured historical museums, collected sightings of wild animals, and met ghosts on Robben Island.  We experienced Cape Town’s renown nightlife, wondering at the inexpensive cost of cider and the audacity of the local men.  We hiked Table Mountain with our favorite South African family, and bemoaned the state of our quads the morning after.  Wearing our dirty t-shirts and hiking shoes, we emulated the sexy photo shoots that surrounded us on the beach, simply because we are that mature and it made us laugh.  Because even now, 20 years into our friendship, laughing is what we do best.  Whether over coffee in the morning, or in completely inappropriate situations, whether when we were half asleep or in the company of people who had no idea what was funny, our marathon giggling epitomized not only the beauty of true friendship, but the beauty of Steph.  So here's to another 20 years of hilarious adventures, old buddy...  WHALE!!

Off A Bridge

I never had any desire to bungee jump.  Not once in my life.  Apart from the illogicality of jumping into midair suspended by what amounts to a bunch of hairbands, it looked painful, a hellish chiropractic adjustment of sorts.  Not for me, nope.  As I edged my way down the coast of South Africa though, I landed in Natures Valley, home of the world’s highest bungee bridge and mecca for daredevils from all over the world.  I heard their chatter, saw their photos, even watched their videos.  But still, huh-uh.  Didn’t even occur to me that it may be something I’d enjoy.  Until that is, I met a young Austrian named Selena.

Selena and I got to know one other when we did a day hike through Tsitsikamma National Park.  I came to know her a little and respect her a lot.  She is creative and intuitive, and was refreshing company.  She was also a big fan of bungee, and was the first to crack my armor against such risky shenanigans.  It was when I woke up wide-eyed in the middle of the night that I realized for the first time I was actually beginning to consider this ridiculous prospect.  We agreed not to make a plan or even talk about it, but to decide spontaneously when and if the time felt right.

Then suddenly the time felt right.  Terrifying, but right.  The weather was perfectly sunny and hot, and I could hardly eat.  It was as if my body knew before the rest of me that I was going to do this, despite my better judgment.  I think on some level I wanted a reset, to rattle my perspective, to see what I was capable of.  Over coffee with another friend Nienke, it was somehow understood that today was the day, and I suddenly found myself arranging transportation and booking our jumps.  This was happening.

The drive there was blessedly brief and super beautiful: I couldn’t have chosen a more picturesque place to leap to my destiny.  We brought snacks and some water, subtle assurance that we’d live to eat again.  After signing the waiver releasing the company of any responsibility for our lives, our weights were tattooed on our hands in big fat permanent marker.  In the company of my cellulite-less European friends, I felt emboldened: if I could flaunt that I could do anything.  We donned our safety harnesses and headed towards our fates. 

When we arrived to the platform, I was as astonished as my friends when my excitement suddenly trumped my nerves; prior to arriving, I was the least certain among us, the most wound up.  A DJ blasted bust-a-move music while the staff danced, a delightful choreography of ropes and pulleys and carabiners.  I found myself dancing along, cheering for those who went before me, encouraging my brave girls who first encouraged me to be there in the first place.  Before I knew it, I was up.

It’s a strange feeling to have your ankles tied together by strangers hundreds of meters above the earth as Rhianna blasts your eardrums and your self respect.  I kept my frontal lobe and her perfectly sound reasoning skills in a tight vice: this was not the time for logic.  I’d like to say I spent a few moments taking it all in, considering eternity, saying prayers, or anything even a little profound.  But the truth is, I spent a hot second dangling my American toes over the edge, chirped some expletives, and then put these big ol’ legs to use and took a flying leap.  

I soared.  For a few of those last seconds of free fall I felt abject terror: my poor brain didn’t know what hit her when she came back online, and I can see it in my video: my arms suddenly flail, desperate for something to hold onto.  I recovered as soon as I hit the bounce, basking in my unusually inverted view and the sheer joy of being fully alive.  It was elation, and relief, and an endorphin high unlike any I’ve ever felt.  I was hauled up by a cheeky fellow called Superman, equally endowed with moxy, rope skills, and shiny gold teeth.  Our reunion was sweet as the girls and I celebrated our courage and our survival.  Feeling quite full of myself, my ears perked up a few minutes later when someone mentioned a naked bungee in New Zealand.  I may just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.