Sunday, January 12, 2014

Saturday, January 11, 2014

If your eyes could speak.

I heard a great line in a movie last night.
“If your eyes could speak, what would they say?”
We bear witness to the world around us whether we realize it or not; to the events of the day, to the scenery, to the culture, to the air. I bear witness to all I have seen and experienced, however big or small. And often I find the small things are the most important to witness; the colours of the sunset in the clouds, the dark grey lines of rain falling from clouds in an approaching storm, the way the water moves around and over rocks, the shapes of the moon, the taste of tea, the crispness of the air, the weight of humidity. The small things make the world come alive. They give context to events and import to a place and moment in time. I want to notice not only the events around me but the places themselves. Events come and pass but a place endures. It changes as well but never really disappears. How can you fully understand something if you don’t know what the eyes saw?

Thursday, September 26, 2013


The sun warms my back. I lean on my right foot. My dirty and chalk dusted right hand grasps its hold. Deep breaths. I slow my breathing and calm my frantic mind. I find a place on the rock for left hand to hold and place my left foot where I want it to be. My muscles tense and I shift my weight onto my left foot and stand up. Woo. Deep breaths again. My mind eases but is still active.

Climbing. Its therapy for the anxious mind. In small, controlled moments, I face anxiety producing situations and make small, slow movements. Every time I face uncomfortable moves and do them anyway, I become more comfortable with who I am, my abilities, what I'm capable of and the idea of uncomfortable situations.

And slowing I grow and become more confident and less afraid. Slowly.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013


We walked down the stone steps and turned left toward Bondi Beach. "Do you like living in foreign countries?" my sister asked me. "Yeah, I do. I like seeing other places and how other people live and do things. I like that living in a place really gives you the time to see that."

A few weeks ago my boss asked me what I thought I'd do after this year. I said I'd like to keep traveling. He asked if I was traveling or running. Maybe a bit of both.

Sometimes I feel crazy voicing whats in my head: that I'm looking for a new home. Ive never been satisfied where I was. Nothing was ever right. Too much rain, not the right people, scenery isn't good enough, no mountains, too hot. etc/ But how crazy am I to say I'm looking for a place where my gut feeling says its good. After all, that's how I've made a lot of decisions: my gut said it was okay. It was so hard to return to a place I've ruled out and spent enough time in. Walking down my street, returning from New Zealand, my chest tightens and distaste fills me mouth. Nothing is wrong about the place, but its still not right. I don't feel at ease. I feel trapped here and want to move on. After 6 months, I still do not feel at home in this place. There is nothing in the land or people to excite me. This is not my home.

But I still wonder, will I ever find a place where my psyche feels at rest? Where I will not be filled with the desire, the need to run away? Will I ever find a home? After all, I have no home to return to.

Friday, June 7, 2013

always tense.

Exhaustion fills me as the sun beats down. Last hill in the range. We must be close to camp. It has to be down this hill. My poor feet feebly stumble along. Ouch, ouch. Every step stings. I pass over the last mound of rocks and see my path. Oh, no. As the steep decent begins, my body seizes up and my breathing quickens. Along with pain, every step fills me with fear. I am tense with fear of slipping. Of sliding down the hill as the rocks I step on slide. Deep breaths. Slow steps. But always tense. No amount of reasoning can take away the anxiety. Only to keep trodding and make it to the bottom of the hill. To camp. To relief for my poor feet and my anxious heart.

Sunday, June 2, 2013


The wind has been shaking our tent all night. Such a broken up sleep for our aching bodies. So  much for going to bed at 7.30. And then we hear it. A cross between a howl and a moan. And then the echo of the pack. Dingos. Wild Dogs. Our token Australian, Amanda, yells from her tent: "They're not aggressive but don't get out of the tents". The four of us lay awake in our tents listening intensely. We'd heard stories of dingos ripping up packs and tents for food. I have a running scenario in my head of what I would do if one came to my tent for the food in my pack, laying next to me under my vestibule. Yell at it. Whitney's bear defense tips are running through my head, eyes and nose, they're the weakest parts. All i can think to do is punch it in the face if it gets close. But they never came. The wind just kept howling on it own.