Pit stop beauty queens

I was standing outside the port-o-potty at a gas station in Washington.  Another woman stood there too, freshening up while she waited for her friend to come out.  Her red lipstick was fresh, but she still had to have a glance at herself in her small compact mirror before applying some citrus-scented lotion to her hands and looking up at me.

“What cute shoes!” she exclaimed. I looked down at my feet.  One of my socks hung loosely over the side of one of my shoes. The other had awkwardly slipped under my feet.  “Thanks,” I muttered. “I got them at Payless.”  It was an embarrassing thing to say to the woman who was putting her shiny compact mirror back into her Louis Vuitton purse, who couldn’t possibly also be on a road trip at this road-trip only pit stop. I hadn’t anticipated people actually looking at me today. I make it a point to look grungy and sweaty and miserable on long drives like this one.

She looked up at me, then looked back down at my shoes as her friend was emerging from the port-o-potty.  “Phoebe, look at those shoes. Aren’t they cute? And she got them at Payless!”  Phoebe’s lipstick was pink. She nodded in the affirmative, handed me my port-o-potty key, and I escaped into the restroom.

Here I looked into the mirror and learned two things:

1.     I was still wearing the husband’s aviator sunglasses, which make me look uncannily like a man.
2.     There were White Cheddar Popcorn crumbs covering my entire person like chronic dandruff.
3.     There was bird poop on my shirt.  Rather, there was a giant glop of chocolate vanilla ice cream that had dripped upon me two hours earlier without my noticing that looked rather like I had been caught in the unfortunate path of a winged creature with indigestion.

I rinsed my shirt off in the sink and stood awkwardly beneath the hand dryer to make my chest look less soaking wet, grateful the entire time that the only key to this little space was in my possession.  It was only moments, however, before the next perfectly put together woman on a road trip was knocking on the door to see if it was occupied. So I had to hurry things along and walk out with a rather large wet spot on one side of my chest.  I handed the woman my key and hurried away before she commented on my shoes.

My Payless shoes on a non-road trip day.

And that, boys and girls, is why road trips do wonders on a person’s self-esteem. 

Serious road tripping/camping/summering details to COME!

For the LADIES

To my mother, who loves making after-school snacks and baby blankets and doesn’t realize she’s also a community activist and a spiritual beacon to everyone who’s ever met her: Who inspires me to move forward; who makes me laugh and lets me win at Scrabble. Who saw potential in me me even when I was a shy, awkward, crooked-toothed little girl;  who forced me to take piano lessons and go to school and fight to graduation, like she wishes she did; like I believe she will someday. And who has empowered me from childhood with the idea that I can make this world a better place.

To the mother who never saw my crooked teeth or fear of grown-ups: Who raised a little boy to become the man I love more than anything; whose strength and determination is the glue that binds her family together, who has an eye for beauty and beautiful eyes, who understands what it means to grieve but knows how to jump back up; whose phone calls I look forward to and whose friendship I treasure.

To my growing family of sisters:

To the one who I truly believe my brother would be a mess without, who always brightens the room with her smile and laughter, who can rough it like a mountain woman, but who makes éclairs and greeting cards like a pâtissière at a birthday party.

To the one who shares my shoe size and my love for vintage everything, whose singing voice and soul harmonize perfectly with my brother’s, whose unique life makes for the best dinner conversations, and who has endured and loved me even when I don’t necessarily deserve it. 

To my east coast sister, whose creative genius is irresistibly brag-worthy, who I’ve loved as a sister since before we met, who understands my worldviews even though the views outside our windows may never be the same, and who brightens my inbox with gifts of gifs or blogs of hedgehogs.

To my one and only sister-from-birth sister; who I truly believe is a perfect person; who would never think or hear or speak ill of one single member of God’s big imperfect family; whose genius and determination will one day help her cure cancer; and who I’ve had the privilege of watching grow from a chubby-cheeked chatterbox into a beautiful and talented 18-year-old…though her dimples haven’t changed in the least.

To my grandmothers:

To my Grandma I., who “said it like it was,” whose blunt honesty meant she loved you and whose faith never wavered; who told me stories and introduced me to raw milk and gave me memories that will make me smile forever.

To Granma T., who loves unconditionally; who is tough as nails after raising six sons; whose stories and wisdom entertained me as a child and made me a better adult; who makes the best rolls and stuffing and whose health and stamina make me confident that my children will get to know her as well as I do.

To Grandma B., whose charming demeanor matches her beautiful British accent; who has loved me like a granddaughter since the first day I stepped foot in her immaculate home, who has energy and resilience like no other woman her age, and who has shown me what true love and devotion really mean. 

To my friends – my sisters – of Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, the Pacific Islands, and down the street.  To all the sisters I haven’t met yet; who I may never meet, whose beauty is manifest in so many ways to the people who know you as auntie, sister, daughter, teacher, lover, friend, or "that kind stranger."

Today, ladies, I celebrate you all.

Happy Women's Day.

Beauty

I went running the other day and watched the sun set from a secluded hill in the mountains that overlooked the ocean. The pinks, oranges and purples bounced down from the sky and reflected in the still water. Birds sang overhead while the trees danced in unison.

Now I'm back home for the summer, in my native Utah. On a bikeride today I passed a bunny rabbit, sharing a green pasture with a small herd of cows and some sand cranes. All stood lazily in the sun, nibbling on grass and dandelions as the majestic snow-capped mountains towered above us all.

Nature is a wonder I can never wrap my head around. Everything works together to form something so complete -- from the tiniest bug to the tallest mountain -- that its majesty is impossible for any human language to do justice. I've seen some of the many wonders it has to offer. I hope to see many more. But one thing nature has taught me is this: I am only an insignificant speck.

I've learned that if I do nothing, the sun will still rise in the mornings and set in the evenings. The turtles, fish, whales and sharks will still form an entirely different, breathtaking world underwater. Lilacs and plumerias will still smell sweeter than anything else I know. Snow-capped mountains will stand their ground and giant trees will continue to sprout from seeds the size of a grain of sand. And I, the speck, can choose to sit it out in waves of self-pity or choose to be a part of it -- a contributor to the beauty that is everywhere. Because the other thing I've learned is that the most beautiful of nature's gifts are not found in the heart of a distant jungle. They are all around us. They are in a baby's innocent eyes; in a giant hug or shoulder to cry on, in a child's laugh, in a moment of inspiration, in a beautiful song or story. The beauty is in knowing that maybe you helped someone the way God would have. It's in improving a life, even if for a moment in the smallest way. It's in expressing gratitude when it's deserved, and in giving love even when it's not. It's in doing the things we do best in a way that will benefit another. It's in sharing a smile with someone even when we don't feel like it, because maybe that someone needed it more.

Being a part of the beauty isn't always easy. Sometimes in giving of ourselves we get disappointed, discouraged, disheartened. But stepping away from it and dwelling on pain and regret only makes a person more of an insignificant speck than he was before.

Nature is beckoning us to be part of its perfect flow and rhythm by giving of ourselves. Not doing so won't make the sunset less vivid, but making an effort could prove more beautiful than the most orange of evenings atop a tree-laden hill.

Running

I haven't been running in several days, so on Tuesday I pull on my shorts, slip on my brown running shoes (they used to be green) and a t-shirt, and step out into the hottest, muggiest day little Laie's seen in weeks.

Down the road, past the empty rugby field and the Laotian farms, there's a muddy trail that snakes up into the jungle. Other people can have their beach on sunny days. I like the ocean too, but up here... this is the paradise I will remember long after I've left Hawaii.

Jumpy creatures -- probably frogs -- get startled as I run by and create brown clouds in the giant puddles keeping them cool. I cross a few barbed wire fences and keep running: up, up, right, left, two steps breathe in, one step breathe out.

Eventually the trail goes over a dry stream bed that winds deeper into the jungle. It's too enticing to pass up. A run is not a run unless I've veered off the trail somewhere, attempted to catch some unsuspecting creature, or at least climbed a tree (banyans are my favorite). The rocks here are slippery, so I hoist myself out of the stream bed and wander into the jungle. Tall weeds and fallen branches immediately attack me, and my legs begin to look like that time at 13 when I realized I was allergic to penicillin. But I keep going. The jungle is peaceful but full of life, and it beckons me deeper and deeper. The trail, the jumpy mud puddles, and Laie feel like worlds away, and now comes my favorite part. I climb atop a boulder and listen.

I hardly notice the beads of sweat running down my shoulders and back or the mosquitoes savoring my wet, smelly ankles. I just stand there on my mossy boulder, inhaling the delicious smell of green and listening to the surrounding song of the jungle. An angry finch sits on a nearby branch and threatens me in the only way he knows how: his tiny orange beak squawks and bounces up and down while his throat and small body vibrate rapidly. Other birds, ignoring me, sing to no one as they fly overhead. There is no sky here; only the soft leaves of the jungle pine can be seen above me, getting teased by the gentle wind. I listen in wonder. The music of the jungle is a music no symphony could do justice. It's the most beautiful, quiet cacophony I know of. It reminds me that, even way up here, I'm not alone.

The jungle screams at me, sings to me in this manner until I let gravity carry me back down the trail and on to homework, neighbors and facebook pages. In the meantime I listen from my boulder... and rather enjoy the company.