This blog is not a personal diary for me. My journal, however, is. I use my journal as a place to rant, to document events, and to help me sort through my thoughts. The entries aren’t always well written and sometimes don’t even make much sense to me when I read them later. Some of the entries are deeply personal and I hope no one will ever read them. And some of them, like the one posted here, I think are worth sharing.
I was reading an old journal the other day, looking for ideas and inspiration and this entry made me smile. It made me think about who I was then and where I was at that point in my life. I wrote it after my first visit to Colorado before I decided to move to Vail.
February 9, 2005
I feel a bit like I’m cheating by writing in this at the moment. See I have another journal going right now that still has blank pages. One entry left of bank pages to be exact. When I fill those pages it will be the last entry in a book that has chronicled the past few years of my life. It’s a book full of rambling notes, stories and thoughts about life. Not much of a page-turner, but it’s my life nonetheless and it deserves a good ending.
It doesn’t feel right to start the next book without finishing the last. It’s tough, though, because my life is in limbo right now. I can see where I’m going and where I’ve been but I’m finding myself somewhere in the middle of it all. I’ve yet to close that last chapter, to experience the ending there, or perhaps I have but I haven’t realized it. In any case I’m not ready to write it.
As for the beginning of this next chapter, I suppose I’m writing it right now. I’m not quite sure why the beginning is easier to write than the ending. Perhaps it’s because the beginning is more exciting than the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’m scared of the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’ve already experienced this chapter’s first adventure. Because I’ve already learned from it, already grown from it and already changed from it. This volume begins after a six-day trip to Colorado with stops in Vail, Glenwood Springs, and Aspen.
I learned on that trip that people who vacation in Vail or Aspen have considerably more money than people who vacation in Florida (most of my vacations until recently were family road trips to Florida). The people I observed vacationing in high-end Colorado resort towns do not seem the type to pack up the minivan, throw on some Bermuda shorts and join the caravan of families trekking down to Orlando or Tampa for spring break. They wear fur coats, shop in stores like Prada, drink expensive wine, and spend vacation days skiing. People who vacation in Florida wear tacky floral shirts, shop in discount souvenir shops, sip brightly colored drinks, and spend vacation days getting sunburned at Sea World. This is not to say that those who spend time in Vail or Aspen do not like to spend a day at Sea World, shop for souvenirs, or wear Bermuda shorts. They just seem to go about it in a more expensive, classier way.
That observation is one of many from my recent trip, more stories to come later. Colorado was definitely different, though. Good different. The trip has left me thinking a lot about that place as a potential new home. We will see what happens in the months to come.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
RE: Life With Boys, DATE: June 27, 2005
The following is another email I wrote to my dad during my first summer in Vail. I am, and always have been, a girly girl. I was living with three guys at the time and, after growing up in a female-dominated household, it was a bit of a challenge.
Dad:
I’m sitting in an apartment that looks like a college pad inhabited by guys. Why? Because it is an apartment inhabited by guys, three of them to be exact. This is a rare moment when I'm sitting in the living room enjoying (if that's what you call it) the company of both Joe and Dave, two of the guys I'm lucky enough to call my roommates at the moment. Both are currently sloppily enjoying pasta and, in case Aaron (my little brother) hasn't eaten any lately, let me remind you of how guys tend to eat pasta. It's not pretty. Guys don't eat pasta. Nope, they slurp it then belch it, which adds to the foul boy smell that has dug its talons into the furniture and carpet in this place. I spend a good majority of the time holding my breath. The other part of the time I'm passed out from holding my breath for too long in the altitude. I enjoy my living arrangement much more when I'm passed out.
Let me give you a visual. First there's the kitchen. It's sort of a toss up which room grosses me out more: the bathroom or the kitchen. If I clean either they remain in that state only until one of the guys enters the room. The kitchen isn't a large area. The floors are stained and the stove must have a birth date circa 1980. This can all easily be overlooked when the space is clean as, in general, I tend not to spend a great deal of time in any kitchen. On a good day there is only one pasta-crusted pot left on the stove, only two cupboard doors left open and I only have to brush the crumbs from the floor off my feet a couple times. On a bad day I put flip-flops and a face mask on before entering the room.
The living room has two tattered brownish couches and a chair to match. Guy-type magazines are strewn across the coffee table (if ever I leave one of mine there it is quickly re-distributed elsewhere). The room's highlight is the entertainment system, a large TV complete with a DVD player, a VHS player, and a multi-disc CD player. They've got it rigged so the sound for the TV comes through the CD player’s speakers resulting in offensively loud movie watching. Did I mention it smells in here? The walls in the living room are relatively bare, which the guys see as a problem. Their solution, go online and buy a giant Michigan flag, as we all hail from the state. The flag will arrive in the mail at a later date and they plan to hang it dead center above one of the couches. They were pretty proud of themselves on that one.
Should I touch on the bathroom or just leave that one to your imagination? Let's just say that I finally broke down and cleaned it a week ago. I had to buy rubber gloves and Lysol with bleach. It wasn't pretty. It's already dirty again.
I'm allowed to decorate my room to my taste (I say allowed because I put three magnets on the refrigerator at one point and was ridiculed for them so much that I removed them). I'm tempted to put up pink ruffled curtains just to balance out the rest of the apartment, or maybe a vanity in one corner with a pink satin chair and lots of perfume and makeup. I'll sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" at the top of my lungs while putting curlers in my hair. I have an overwhelming urge to fully embrace every girly part of me right now and not hold back. We're talking singing along to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack while staring dreamily at a poster of Patrick Swayze. We're talking fuchsia nail polish and lots of lace. I'm being pushed over the edge here. I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions from this point forward.
Things aren't all that bad I suppose. After all I’m in Rocky Mountain paradise and it's beautiful. Things have been a little rough, though. I miss my friends and I've had it with being around guys all the time. But I don't want to go home. When things get really tough, which they have, I tell myself I can go home, and ask myself if that's what I really want to do. I don't. I'm not overwhelmingly happy yet, which bothers me sometimes, but I still feel like this is the right move and I trust that in time this place will become home.
Well, Dad, I'm off for now. Write to you later.
Love, Tracey
Dad:
I’m sitting in an apartment that looks like a college pad inhabited by guys. Why? Because it is an apartment inhabited by guys, three of them to be exact. This is a rare moment when I'm sitting in the living room enjoying (if that's what you call it) the company of both Joe and Dave, two of the guys I'm lucky enough to call my roommates at the moment. Both are currently sloppily enjoying pasta and, in case Aaron (my little brother) hasn't eaten any lately, let me remind you of how guys tend to eat pasta. It's not pretty. Guys don't eat pasta. Nope, they slurp it then belch it, which adds to the foul boy smell that has dug its talons into the furniture and carpet in this place. I spend a good majority of the time holding my breath. The other part of the time I'm passed out from holding my breath for too long in the altitude. I enjoy my living arrangement much more when I'm passed out.
Let me give you a visual. First there's the kitchen. It's sort of a toss up which room grosses me out more: the bathroom or the kitchen. If I clean either they remain in that state only until one of the guys enters the room. The kitchen isn't a large area. The floors are stained and the stove must have a birth date circa 1980. This can all easily be overlooked when the space is clean as, in general, I tend not to spend a great deal of time in any kitchen. On a good day there is only one pasta-crusted pot left on the stove, only two cupboard doors left open and I only have to brush the crumbs from the floor off my feet a couple times. On a bad day I put flip-flops and a face mask on before entering the room.
The living room has two tattered brownish couches and a chair to match. Guy-type magazines are strewn across the coffee table (if ever I leave one of mine there it is quickly re-distributed elsewhere). The room's highlight is the entertainment system, a large TV complete with a DVD player, a VHS player, and a multi-disc CD player. They've got it rigged so the sound for the TV comes through the CD player’s speakers resulting in offensively loud movie watching. Did I mention it smells in here? The walls in the living room are relatively bare, which the guys see as a problem. Their solution, go online and buy a giant Michigan flag, as we all hail from the state. The flag will arrive in the mail at a later date and they plan to hang it dead center above one of the couches. They were pretty proud of themselves on that one.
Should I touch on the bathroom or just leave that one to your imagination? Let's just say that I finally broke down and cleaned it a week ago. I had to buy rubber gloves and Lysol with bleach. It wasn't pretty. It's already dirty again.
I'm allowed to decorate my room to my taste (I say allowed because I put three magnets on the refrigerator at one point and was ridiculed for them so much that I removed them). I'm tempted to put up pink ruffled curtains just to balance out the rest of the apartment, or maybe a vanity in one corner with a pink satin chair and lots of perfume and makeup. I'll sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" at the top of my lungs while putting curlers in my hair. I have an overwhelming urge to fully embrace every girly part of me right now and not hold back. We're talking singing along to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack while staring dreamily at a poster of Patrick Swayze. We're talking fuchsia nail polish and lots of lace. I'm being pushed over the edge here. I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions from this point forward.
Things aren't all that bad I suppose. After all I’m in Rocky Mountain paradise and it's beautiful. Things have been a little rough, though. I miss my friends and I've had it with being around guys all the time. But I don't want to go home. When things get really tough, which they have, I tell myself I can go home, and ask myself if that's what I really want to do. I don't. I'm not overwhelmingly happy yet, which bothers me sometimes, but I still feel like this is the right move and I trust that in time this place will become home.
Well, Dad, I'm off for now. Write to you later.
Love, Tracey
Monday, July 27, 2009
Jump
It was during my first summer in Colorado, on one of my first camping trips, that I found myself standing on the edge of a fifty-foot cliff that hovered over the Colorado River prepared to jump. When we first arrived at the spot I feigned excitement when my male companions realized this was the ideal spot for cliff jumping, encouraged them to go for it, and settled into a nearby hot spring.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
RE: Lions and Tigers and Bears, DATE: June 25, 2005
My dad has taught me more about writing than any book, class, or professor. We email frequently and I’ve saved many of our messages. The following is an email I wrote him during my first summer in Vail and is one of my favorites.
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Christmas in June
I recently came across this Christmas letter I wrote to friends a family a couple years ago. It made me smile and I keep thinking about it so I thought I’d share it.
Christmas 2006
Greetings:
I’ve recently come to grips with the fact that I had a truly happy childhood. It’s true, aside from Susan (sister) needing to keep the closet light on at night in our shared bedroom, Aaron (brother) getting to stay up late and watch “Dinosaurs” on TV with Dad, and that whole American Girl doll thing (don’t ask), I survived my childhood with relatively few scars and many warm memories.
I’ve also recently had to come to grips with the fact that my childhood is over. This one has been a bit harder to cope with.
I was outside of Wal-Mart in Avon, Colorado waiting for a bus when I got the news; Mischief, Flower family cat of 14 years, had been put to sleep. I struggled not to cry and felt a bit silly for being so sad over the death of an ornery old cat. I tried to rationalize my tears, telling myself that he had been a family member for 14 years, our first family pet. Then it hit me, our first family pet; Lauren (sister) was 4 and I was 11 when I brought home the small puff of fur and begged “Daddy, please can we keep him?” Now Lauren’s 17 and I’m 24, Susan’s 22 and Aaron’s 19. Our ages have proved we’re no longer children for several years now and yet I can’t help but feel as if the ending of this year, and the passing of our first pet, officially ends our childhood.
While it was hard to accept at first, this realization got me thinking about and reflecting on the past year. I took a trip to Key West with my boyfriend, took a trip to New York City with my girlfriends, and I went snowboarding with my little brother in Crested Butte, CO. I hiked to the top of the tallest mountain in Colorado, Mt. Elbert, and four other 14,000 ft. mountains. I helped my grandmother celebrate her 80th birthday and realized that family only becomes more important as you get older.
Recently, I joined a writing group, started working again at the coffee shop on Vail Mountain, and decided to keep a few hours a week at my summer job to start saving money to go to Australia. So, I suppose, if this is adulthood, it isn’t so bad. And, if I’ve learned anything from my father, it’s that you never really have to grow up completely (or, in his case, at all).
While I know adulthood won’t be all walks in Central Park and breathtaking mountain vistas, it doesn’t look so bad. And I take comfort in knowing there will always be moments where the joys of childhood can still be found, especially this time of year. Even though I’m far away from my family and the holidays mean extra work rather than time off, I still find myself mesmerized by twinkling lights and anxious to see what Santa has left for me this year. There’s something magical and deeply spiritual about this time of year, something true and real that will always find a way to shine through holiday anxieties and commercial hype, something that will always bring out the child in me, and perhaps in you as well. So Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. God bless.
Love,
Tracey
Christmas 2006
Greetings:
I’ve recently come to grips with the fact that I had a truly happy childhood. It’s true, aside from Susan (sister) needing to keep the closet light on at night in our shared bedroom, Aaron (brother) getting to stay up late and watch “Dinosaurs” on TV with Dad, and that whole American Girl doll thing (don’t ask), I survived my childhood with relatively few scars and many warm memories.
I’ve also recently had to come to grips with the fact that my childhood is over. This one has been a bit harder to cope with.
I was outside of Wal-Mart in Avon, Colorado waiting for a bus when I got the news; Mischief, Flower family cat of 14 years, had been put to sleep. I struggled not to cry and felt a bit silly for being so sad over the death of an ornery old cat. I tried to rationalize my tears, telling myself that he had been a family member for 14 years, our first family pet. Then it hit me, our first family pet; Lauren (sister) was 4 and I was 11 when I brought home the small puff of fur and begged “Daddy, please can we keep him?” Now Lauren’s 17 and I’m 24, Susan’s 22 and Aaron’s 19. Our ages have proved we’re no longer children for several years now and yet I can’t help but feel as if the ending of this year, and the passing of our first pet, officially ends our childhood.
While it was hard to accept at first, this realization got me thinking about and reflecting on the past year. I took a trip to Key West with my boyfriend, took a trip to New York City with my girlfriends, and I went snowboarding with my little brother in Crested Butte, CO. I hiked to the top of the tallest mountain in Colorado, Mt. Elbert, and four other 14,000 ft. mountains. I helped my grandmother celebrate her 80th birthday and realized that family only becomes more important as you get older.
Recently, I joined a writing group, started working again at the coffee shop on Vail Mountain, and decided to keep a few hours a week at my summer job to start saving money to go to Australia. So, I suppose, if this is adulthood, it isn’t so bad. And, if I’ve learned anything from my father, it’s that you never really have to grow up completely (or, in his case, at all).
While I know adulthood won’t be all walks in Central Park and breathtaking mountain vistas, it doesn’t look so bad. And I take comfort in knowing there will always be moments where the joys of childhood can still be found, especially this time of year. Even though I’m far away from my family and the holidays mean extra work rather than time off, I still find myself mesmerized by twinkling lights and anxious to see what Santa has left for me this year. There’s something magical and deeply spiritual about this time of year, something true and real that will always find a way to shine through holiday anxieties and commercial hype, something that will always bring out the child in me, and perhaps in you as well. So Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. God bless.
Love,
Tracey
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
One-Way Ticket to Denver
I worked at Starbucks the first summer I lived in Vail. It wasn’t much fun and it didn’t pay well and that’s why I don’t work there anymore. It was, however, a good introduction to the kind of people who visit Vail. I’d always worked food and beverage jobs but until that summer every position had been in South Haven, Michigan. South Haven is a small town on the southeast coast of Lake Michigan and is to Chicago what the Hamptons are to New York City. I felt pretty confident in my ability to handle loud, impatient, ornery, rich tourists when I moved to Vail. I discovered while working at Starbucks, though, that Vail attracts a different breed of ornery rich tourists than my hometown and spent that summer learning how to handle them.
During my time working in Vail coffee shops I’ve seen grown men nearly cry over too much whip cream, been yelled at repeatedly for not offering Splenda, and dealt with 13-year-olds with credit cards and iPhones. My co-worker at Bailey’s Coffee House, which is located in a pavilion on the top of Vail Mountain, was once told she should do something about the poor cell service in the building. The man was very serious and held her personally responsible for the situation.
These people blend together in my head and it takes a unique individual to make an impression, to shine through a crowd of crying children, antsy fanny-pack wearing parents, and frantic foreign nannies. One fellow, a customer who came into Starbucks one day, was the type to make such an impression. He was so fascinating that I still think about him from time to time. He was a giant man, almost too tall to fit through the door. The overstuffed backpack he carried, his tattered clothing, wild dreaded hair, and offensive body odor immediately set him apart from the standard upper class Blackberry-toting Vail Starbucks customer.
He came into Starbucks three times that day. The first time he asked for a taster cup of coffee and he ordered it as if it was just that, a beverage rather than a shot-glass worth of coffee. He accepted the free sample and carefully added a calculated amount of cream and sugar to the small amount of brew. "Peace and love dudes," he said before he exited.
The man returned later with a Starbucks card, a gift a stranger had bestowed on him. He ordered a Venti Italian Roast and told a story about Ethiopians and Italians mixing bloodlines. He said something about there being Italian Ethiopians out there due to a promiscuous Caesar. His eyes were wild as he spoke, wandering in different directions, pausing on me for a moment then flying off in another direction. It was a bit confusing but he held the attention of most of the Starbucks staff and patrons for quite awhile.
I was a bit nervous the third time he came back because I found him to be both intriguing and intimidating. This time he got a slice of carrot cake on my recommendation. He talked about the places he'd been, from Africa to Denmark to Los Angeles. He talked about music and said he'd heard Coldplay once in Denmark and thought Chris Martin was a great guy. He said it as if he knew him and I thought for a split second that perhaps he did. He talked a lot about Starbucks too and said this location was one of the best he'd been too, although he'd been to some nice ones back in LA.
When he was on his way out a woman stopped him and gave him some money. He tried to refuse it, telling her that she had helped him. She said that he had helped her too and that people are just supposed to help each other out like that. He took the money, but it seemed like he really didn't want to, like he just took it as a way to thank the woman.
I saw him later sleeping on a bench in the Vail Transportation Center. As I sat there waiting for my bus I wondered about him. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was going. I wondered where he'd been and how he'd gotten here. I wondered where he'd grown up and how old he was.
A month or so later one of my coworkers and a customer were talking about homeless people and their place, or lack of place, in Vail. My coworker told the customer that a few weeks ago the Greyhound deposited a homeless fellow in Vail. The guy wandered around for a few weeks, came in and out of Starbucks, and slept in the transportation center. One day he came into the shop and said, "The police here are so nice, they just gave me a free one-way ticket to Denver."
During my time working in Vail coffee shops I’ve seen grown men nearly cry over too much whip cream, been yelled at repeatedly for not offering Splenda, and dealt with 13-year-olds with credit cards and iPhones. My co-worker at Bailey’s Coffee House, which is located in a pavilion on the top of Vail Mountain, was once told she should do something about the poor cell service in the building. The man was very serious and held her personally responsible for the situation.
These people blend together in my head and it takes a unique individual to make an impression, to shine through a crowd of crying children, antsy fanny-pack wearing parents, and frantic foreign nannies. One fellow, a customer who came into Starbucks one day, was the type to make such an impression. He was so fascinating that I still think about him from time to time. He was a giant man, almost too tall to fit through the door. The overstuffed backpack he carried, his tattered clothing, wild dreaded hair, and offensive body odor immediately set him apart from the standard upper class Blackberry-toting Vail Starbucks customer.
He came into Starbucks three times that day. The first time he asked for a taster cup of coffee and he ordered it as if it was just that, a beverage rather than a shot-glass worth of coffee. He accepted the free sample and carefully added a calculated amount of cream and sugar to the small amount of brew. "Peace and love dudes," he said before he exited.
The man returned later with a Starbucks card, a gift a stranger had bestowed on him. He ordered a Venti Italian Roast and told a story about Ethiopians and Italians mixing bloodlines. He said something about there being Italian Ethiopians out there due to a promiscuous Caesar. His eyes were wild as he spoke, wandering in different directions, pausing on me for a moment then flying off in another direction. It was a bit confusing but he held the attention of most of the Starbucks staff and patrons for quite awhile.
I was a bit nervous the third time he came back because I found him to be both intriguing and intimidating. This time he got a slice of carrot cake on my recommendation. He talked about the places he'd been, from Africa to Denmark to Los Angeles. He talked about music and said he'd heard Coldplay once in Denmark and thought Chris Martin was a great guy. He said it as if he knew him and I thought for a split second that perhaps he did. He talked a lot about Starbucks too and said this location was one of the best he'd been too, although he'd been to some nice ones back in LA.
When he was on his way out a woman stopped him and gave him some money. He tried to refuse it, telling her that she had helped him. She said that he had helped her too and that people are just supposed to help each other out like that. He took the money, but it seemed like he really didn't want to, like he just took it as a way to thank the woman.
I saw him later sleeping on a bench in the Vail Transportation Center. As I sat there waiting for my bus I wondered about him. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was going. I wondered where he'd been and how he'd gotten here. I wondered where he'd grown up and how old he was.
A month or so later one of my coworkers and a customer were talking about homeless people and their place, or lack of place, in Vail. My coworker told the customer that a few weeks ago the Greyhound deposited a homeless fellow in Vail. The guy wandered around for a few weeks, came in and out of Starbucks, and slept in the transportation center. One day he came into the shop and said, "The police here are so nice, they just gave me a free one-way ticket to Denver."
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Breathe
I was in Australia floating in the Pacific Ocean over the Great Barrier Reef with an oxygen tank strapped to my back, preparing to scuba dive for the first time and I was panicking. While the rest of the group practiced emptying water from their masks and other tasks I was hyperventilating. My mask was filling with water from tears and I was ready to jump back on the boat.
I should have expected the panic. A couple years earlier I had attempted snorkeling for the first time in Key West and it didn’t go well. I can swim and I’m comfortable in and around water; I grew up a few blocks away from Lake Michigan. But I have issues with swimming in the ocean, the vastness of it overwhelms me and the uncertainty of what is swimming around in it terrifies me. I couldn’t seem to master breathing through the snorkel on that trip, particularly while having a panic attack over being in the big scary sea. Every time I put my face in the water I lost control of my breathing and swallowed about a gallon of salt water. I had to refuse a rescue mission from the boat crew and was out of the water after only about five minutes.
This time, though, I was in Australia off the coast of Cairns, Queensland. The water was warm, still, and shockingly clear. After days of rainstorms the weather had cleared and finally presented us with a chance to see the Great Barrier Reef. I was panicking but I also didn’t want to chicken out this time.
I felt claustrophobic in the water and couldn’t train myself to breathe through the mouthpiece when I went under. The group was ready to move away from the boat and I had decided to give up when the guide grabbed my hand, told me to plug my nose with my fingers, and follow him. He didn’t give me a chance to protest and suddenly we were swimming deeper and farther away from the boat. I went through the entire dive holding my nose with one hand and maintaining a death grip on the guide’s hand with the other. Plugging my nose, though (despite the fact that I had a mask on and couldn’t breathe through my nose anyway), forced me to focus on breathing through my mouth, and taking slow deep breaths through my mouth forced me to calm down and focus on the moment. The experience was spectacular in a once-in-a-lifetime kind of way. I wrote in my journal that day, “I feel like I’ve faced and overcome a fear, the ocean still freaks me out but it was so well worth it. I truly hope we can preserve this place for future visitors…it has exceeded my expectations.”
People travel for many reasons—to sight-see, to relax, to teach, to learn—I went to Australia for all of the above, but mostly I went there to make a decision about the direction of my life at that moment. I had been living in Vail, Colorado for about two and a half years and been in my relationship for nearly three. I wasn’t particularly happy and I felt my life coming to a crossroads or, possibly, a dead end. I found myself in Australia with the intention of finding clarity and making a decision about a relationship I had been unsure about for awhile. I wrote in my journal while there, “I truly hope to be changed by this experience and that it has an impact on my life, I don’t think it’s possible for it not to.”
I gained strength and confidence in Australia. I returned from the trip and made the decision to end my relationship and move forward. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and the aftermath of it was chaotic and challenging. More than once I considered un-doing that decision. I didn’t though. I waded through the chaos and focused on calming myself by breathing like I was under water and the peace I felt when the chaos subsided was spectacular.
I should have expected the panic. A couple years earlier I had attempted snorkeling for the first time in Key West and it didn’t go well. I can swim and I’m comfortable in and around water; I grew up a few blocks away from Lake Michigan. But I have issues with swimming in the ocean, the vastness of it overwhelms me and the uncertainty of what is swimming around in it terrifies me. I couldn’t seem to master breathing through the snorkel on that trip, particularly while having a panic attack over being in the big scary sea. Every time I put my face in the water I lost control of my breathing and swallowed about a gallon of salt water. I had to refuse a rescue mission from the boat crew and was out of the water after only about five minutes.
This time, though, I was in Australia off the coast of Cairns, Queensland. The water was warm, still, and shockingly clear. After days of rainstorms the weather had cleared and finally presented us with a chance to see the Great Barrier Reef. I was panicking but I also didn’t want to chicken out this time.
I felt claustrophobic in the water and couldn’t train myself to breathe through the mouthpiece when I went under. The group was ready to move away from the boat and I had decided to give up when the guide grabbed my hand, told me to plug my nose with my fingers, and follow him. He didn’t give me a chance to protest and suddenly we were swimming deeper and farther away from the boat. I went through the entire dive holding my nose with one hand and maintaining a death grip on the guide’s hand with the other. Plugging my nose, though (despite the fact that I had a mask on and couldn’t breathe through my nose anyway), forced me to focus on breathing through my mouth, and taking slow deep breaths through my mouth forced me to calm down and focus on the moment. The experience was spectacular in a once-in-a-lifetime kind of way. I wrote in my journal that day, “I feel like I’ve faced and overcome a fear, the ocean still freaks me out but it was so well worth it. I truly hope we can preserve this place for future visitors…it has exceeded my expectations.”
People travel for many reasons—to sight-see, to relax, to teach, to learn—I went to Australia for all of the above, but mostly I went there to make a decision about the direction of my life at that moment. I had been living in Vail, Colorado for about two and a half years and been in my relationship for nearly three. I wasn’t particularly happy and I felt my life coming to a crossroads or, possibly, a dead end. I found myself in Australia with the intention of finding clarity and making a decision about a relationship I had been unsure about for awhile. I wrote in my journal while there, “I truly hope to be changed by this experience and that it has an impact on my life, I don’t think it’s possible for it not to.”
I gained strength and confidence in Australia. I returned from the trip and made the decision to end my relationship and move forward. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and the aftermath of it was chaotic and challenging. More than once I considered un-doing that decision. I didn’t though. I waded through the chaos and focused on calming myself by breathing like I was under water and the peace I felt when the chaos subsided was spectacular.
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