AfricanKelli

Apparently the only thing consistent with the weather in Colorado this time of year is the inconsistency. This week has included snow, frigid evening temperatures, and the balmy 60+ degree day.

This swing in temperatures, however, can make an otherwise lovely hike through El Dorado Canyon become a rather monstruous battle between ice, snow, and Nelson’s love of chasing “the deers.” An otherwise lovely afternoon was interrupted by my foolish decision to let Mr. Willie Nelson Mandela off leash. He’s done fine before, normally running ahead and immediatley treking back at the first whistle. Rarely does he get out of my sight.

This week, however, he spotted some giant white tailed snacks and took off like a maniac for the hills. I spent no fewer than 15 minutes hyperventalating, calling his name, and cursing my stupid decision to let him roam free. Eventually, thankfully, he came back — but not after I’d gone 1/4 a mile off trail, through knee high snow in some spots, slippery mud in others, and up a steep mountain covered in tiny cactus.

I know. Snow. Cactus. Mud. Boulder County. What can I say? It’s a gloriously beautiful and weird place — those Flat Iron Mountains.

Thankfully, the little muddy beast came back fine, if not a bit shaken by the rare scolding. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he needed a bath afterward. (He’s currently sulking on the couch, curly and smelling of strawberry shampoo.)

Lessons learned: don’t let WNM off leash, bring a second pair of shoes this time of year, take more hikes. Even with the cleaning required after, it was so luxurious to be out in the sunshine, listening to the wind pour through the pines and watching that sweet little creature of mine adventure like he’d never before been let outside.

~K

I flew to Phoenix this week for work. It was a turn-around trip in one day – some 19 hours door-to-door.

This is the new bar for exhaustion. The standard used to be post-marathon. Or at least post-time zone/hemisphere/continent jump. Alas, with a plantar still fasciating and a passport gathering dust – the occasional back and forth commuting adventure drains me dry.

I plopped into my airplane seat home, already 15 hours after I’d left Nelson, ready to catch up with podcasts and review notes for the next day. Instead, I quickly found myself in a lengthy conversation with the man in the middle seat, who’d arrived in a cloud equal parts nicotine and sorrow. His eyes prematurely creased, teeth stained, hands and face spotted by his age-old habit.

And then, just as I was about to roll my tired eyes back in my head, turn up the iPod and try to ignore the smell of stale cigarettes permeating our area, I noticed he was crying. Gentle tears flowed down his cheeks as he studied the ticket in his lap.

“Where are you from, sir?” I said quietly, reaching out for the calloused hand of a laborer.

“Cuba.”

“Ay, si? Cuba? Cubano! Que parte?”

We continued for an hour while, coincidentally, stalled at the gate — the plane’s fuel cells were being repaired. He left Cuba 30 years ago after serving as a merchant marine. He’d sailed around the world. But today, his journey was from Tucson, via Phoenix, Denver, Charlotte and Miami to attend the funeral of his mother.

She’d lived a good life. A long life. She’d escaped Cuba too. He’d see his siblings and several of his adult children when he finally arrived. He was certain she would be proud of him for making the trip. But…

I waited. He reddened with embarrassment, coughing up so much of his life to a stranger. Yet, he rattled on like a boiling pot.

The trip was such a luxury. He felt guilty for the money he’d had to borrow to get the flights. And here he was without any money for food or any way to buy flowers for her service. But his heart truly ached because the one person he wanted sitting next to him was instead in Sonora, Mexico. Deported. His mujer had been swooped up in an immigration raid. She’d left behind her 16 year old American-born daughter, who he was now caring for.

“I drive her to school every day. She’s not mine, but she is mine.”

Now somewhere over northern Arizona at 30,000 feet, I simply nodded. I gave him what I could – my full attention.

And in a moment of grace, the woman sitting next to him on the aisle spoke up – hours after the confessional began.

“Señor,” she began with an accent I recognized as Mexican. “Señor.” I wondered if she was calling him, or God? She took his hand, looked him in the eye, and began to pray for his family and comfort him. A business owner in Denver, her grandparents were from Chihuahua. She knew the sorrow of having family spread across the world and not always being able to put the pieces of life together the way one wished.

The next hour involved the three of us discussing life, love, sorrow and faith. By the time the landing gear dropped, she’d opened her wallet and given him money for those meals and flowers. I passed off a bit of food I’d been given for the flight. His tears dried and slowly, a smile revealing missing teeth emerged.

Looking at a sea of amber lights shining from the city floor below, I found comfort. Refueled. Full of grace.

~K

You know those women you have in your life who are always put together? Not in a sense of perfect makeup or blown out hair, or even looking like a catalog. Truly stylish. Women who carry themselves with a sense of personal flare that is different from anyone else you know, but who pull it off?

Not the best photo to showcase Min’s fashion side, but I couldn’t find a good one. Trust me.

I’ve two women like this who I’ve regularly admired: Mini and Kara. Mini is a childhood friend who can wear a sequin mini-skirt, sky high boots and a tunic and somehow make it look like she’s ahead of both Gaga and Vogue. Kara is just the same. The girl has the most interesting collection of handbags, jewelry and shoes. She mixes and matches with a sense of fashion I truly envy.

Yep. Kara’s gorgeous. 

So, I nudged Kara last year into sharing her sense of style with me. She regularly blogs about her fashion choices and I thought it would be fun if we each shared something out of our wardrobes, monthly, that make us smile. (With, you know, the inherent selfish motive of hoping she helps me look at what I already own with new, fashionista eyes.) This month, she’s rocking turquoise. (My love of the stone is long documented. Several of my most cherished pieces of jewelry are chunky turquoise gifted by my grandmother Maxine.)

I also love chunky jewelry. I have a rule – I only ever wear two pieces of jewelry at one time. Earrings and a ring. Necklace and bracelets. Never all four at once. As a result, I often lean on big pieces of bright color that make me happy. Like this necklace I picked up in Johannesburg.

Or this one I bought in Cameroon from a street vendor.

I also love this ring my parents gave me for my 31^st birthday.

My sense of style is much simpler. I wear mostly solid colors. I love the Gap – as boring and mundane as it may be. And I fully believe a great handbag can tie together an entire outfit. I often wear thrift store finds paired with brightly colored clogs and a handbag that cost half a paycheck. Thrifty-chic? I wouldn’t go so far. But I would say I’ve got a lot to learn from Mini and Kara about putting together an outfit and rocking it with a sense of confidence.

Now, the challenge is to do so without the shopping. Anyone else working on this?

~K

I like having journals around — to collect prayers, notes, and odd observations. Sometimes they are filled with grocery lists. Pretty much all of them end up unfinished because I get distracted with the bright and shiny of a new journal!

New year, new paper, new start. A few I created this week as gifts for friends:

For Bruce, who is traveling regularly to Africa, doing amazing work. I used an old almanac to include geography text on the back:

A birthday gift with a bit of Heather Bailey flare.

For Dana, a PhD student in Forestry and birthday girl. I finally had a chance to use this patch, which I’d been holding on to for years in my sewing box:

It scratched a creative spot in my brain to use different materials — sewing cardstock, vintage trim, fabric, paint, stamps, hot glue. I’m trying to make more time to for this type of play; doing so simply makes me happier and more patient.

~K

I am taking a new course at my church on poetry and theology. The church has a resident theologian, thanks to a nearby seminary. I expected very little and was a touch overwhelmed by the 25 folks who came together for this first class, much of which was far over my head. Needless to say, I know little about either topic, but am always hungry to learn.

A few of the ideas we discussed included having an internal theology. What do you believe and why? The leader said he thinks poetry is one of the most abstract forms of art, and yet huge world views can be contained within a 10 line stanza. We are studying three poets who were Christians and included their religious views and doubts in their work: T. S Elliot, W. H. Auden and Wallace Stevens.

The leader also mentioned Rudolf Otto, author of  “Idea of the Holy.” Having never studied religion or poetry formally, Otto’s writings on the beauty and repulsiveness included in man’s relationship with God are fascinating and new to me. We discussed several stories in the Bible where the concept is showcased. Think of Noah being saved while the rest of humanity drowns. Or Abraham taking the son he so cherished up the mountain at God’s command to be sacrificed. Or, you know. The idea of setting up your only Son to be crucified at the hands of the rest of those you also created. Repulsive. And yet, as a Christian, there is nothing more beautiful than the sacrifice of the Savior.

We had a fairly involved discussion about symbolitry and how it can quickly become idolotry, as well. I shared my confusion on the topic; living in Mexico at age 14, I was exposed to the Catholic tradition of stations of the cross for the first time. I also spent a good bit of time with a Muslim family that shunned any symbolotry in their home. My Methodist roots couldn’t make sense of the two extremes, which both seemed like the right fit for either family. As do my own beliefs — that praying to items rather than to God is missing the point.

I’ll be sharing a bit of the class here and there as we continue. I know it freaks a lot of my friends out that I talk about my faith, but the older I’ve gotten, the less I care. It is important to me, as is the continued study. My beliefs have changed and matured with time, as has my comfort level in discussing these matters. That said, I hope to never offend. My faith is an all-loving challenge and journey.

Cheers,

Kelli