like tomato soup on a rainy day.

There are days when I MISS THIS.

the big two five

It's my birthday tomorrow. Twenty-five years. Last year on my birthday I listened to Switchfoot's song "Twenty Four" over and over again. I'd been waiting to do that for a long time so I had to make it count. If you know of a song for twenty-five, you just let me know, it would be a shame to miss it.

A lot has happened in a year. I've graduated from college, lived with my parents for 2 months (parents are patient), gotten a full time job, moved to Seattle, learned to budget, and learned to run meetings. I've evaluated, pushed, prodded, and agonized over my faith and who God is to me, who God is at all, really. I've put Adventism, alcohol, Sabbath, friendships, expectations, and priorities under the microscope, trying to figure out what I think. It turns out I think a lot of things, but nothing really solid to report--yet.

I'm figuring it out though, I think. It's actually been quite the year, this year of twenty-fourdom. Letting go of a community you love and trying to introduce yourself into a new one is tough stuff. But you know, it's working out okay. I'm flexing and molding and recognizing that this process of growing up and figuring things out is exactly that--a process. And when I write my introspective, over-sharing blog on my 26th birthday I'll probably have wrapped a few thoughts up tight, and unravelled a whole new set of things to digest. I'll be wiser, hopefully, solider, hopefully, and skinnier, hopefully.

So here's to you, 25 years. Way to mix my life with just enough total crap and inexplicable joy to make me excited about the future, and yet wise enough to know it will never turn out the way I think.

I've been missing it today.

India, that is. Well, it's not India per se, it's the people. I miss the people and the feeling I had when I was with the people. You don't feel like that in the states. Not even close.

photo taken by: John Bohemsky

foreign and familiar

When I was in highschool I had this thing I would say. I'd say that, someday, I was going to move to Seattle and get season tickets to the Seahawks. I remember coming to Seattle on our annual "Seattle trips" and just staring out the window as we drove down the city streets in our huge blue bus, head cranked upwards, trying to see the tops of the buildings. I thought this city was magical--but never a place I would actually live.

Right now I'm sitting in a cute little coffee shop at the top of the hill in Queen Anne. This is my neighborhood now. My home. I live in the city and it's kind of strange--still. Everyone around me looks like they belong here, like it ain't no thang that they just rode public transportation to get to dinner, or that their dog just pooped and...look at that... they have a baggie. I still find myself staring a lot, wondering about their stories and if that piercing hurt. Yikes, I bet it did. Basically, I think I'm still in awe of it all. I think I didn't ever really believe that I would live in Seattle, and I almost don't believe it now. Not because it's some lovely, magical place, but because I pictured my life being a lot different than this. I'm not really sure what the picture looked like--but I think there was a husband, and maybe a dog, and I think I was in Walla Walla. Yuck. If I lived in Walla Walla right now I think my insides might be exploding, and I would probably be longing for a life like this.

So, here I am six years later, still smashing my forehead up against the window to look at the tops of buildings in a city where I live. I wonder if I'll lose this sense of awe someday. I wonder if my breath will always catch every time I come around that one bend where the skyline fills my windshield, or if I'll ever be one of those people running across that busy bridge, undaunted by the huge tons of metal flying past them. I guess I hope it's a mix. I hope I don't lose my wonder, but I also hope I feel more like this is my home someday. Southern's still got me...but Seattle is in it to win it.

ruuushed.

Friends, I have internet for about 15 minutes, which is just enough time to write a quick update on the life of Tara.

Lots of things have happened recently. Well, maybe not lots, but enough to feel like my life is significantly different than it was a month ago. I'd say the main thing that's happened that has trickled down into other changes is the fact that I moved a couple weeks ago. I'm now actually living IN Seattle, instead of the "Seattle area". This means lots of things... it means a new roommate and a new apartment. It means being close to friends I want to invest in and a community I want to be a part of. It means I'll go to church more and it means I'll start moving forward. It means that I live in Seattle, and I'm starting to accept that.

I joined a community group that's put on by the church I've been going to. We met tonight for the first time and I just feel really excited about it. I feel excited because I met new people who have depth and...well actually, I think I'm most excited that they're new. I mean, they're cool and I think I'll be friends with some of them--but for now I just like that they're new.

My commute to work is about an hour now--as opposed to the 17 minutes it took me before. This means I'm waking up at 6am. This means I am tired. But you know what this does not mean? It doesn't mean that I'm grumpy in the morning. I know you don't believe me, doubters, but I speak the truth. Just ask Katie...this morning I was singing Little Mermaid whilst putting on my makeup. That's right friends, I'm a new woman.

Oh darn. They're closing so I gotsta bounce. Someday Katie and I will get internet in our apartment and I'll write more on this thing. Until then... I guess there will be nothing on here, imagine that.

when the soles meet the sidewalk

[Two of the little ones at the blind school.

If you want to learn about love and joy, hang out with these kids.]

I went running tonight for the first time in months. Sheeew, that was some rough goin'. There were points where my body just did not want to move forward.

In response to a disheartened email, a wise friend once wrote that when he gets tired on long runs, it's usually just a matter of looking around him--of noticing the beauty of the things he's passing. "I notice the sore spots and the pinging spots and then I shake out my arms and keep running. I've always made it home."

We go through a lot of crap here on this earth, at least in my friend group we do. We lose people we love, we get our hearts busted, we lose jobs, or can't find them in the first place. Our parents are alcoholics, divorced, indifferent, or in loveless marriages. Our siblings can't get it together and, unfortunately, neither can we. We're insecure about our bodies, our intelligence, our future, and our faith. We can't find God in churches, in our parents religion, or in ourselves, so we read books and we discuss and we sift and we sort, until we land somewhere close to Him--we hope.

Tonight on my run I saw pink and orange clouds, a child picking flowers with his grandma, and the cutest little asian boy trying to hit a tennis ball like his daddy. I thought about my dear friends who listen to all my junk, and continue to ask about it because they know I'm a verbal processor. I thought about my parents and how they never get off the phone without telling me they love me--sometimes two or three times. And suddenly I was so grateful--in the midst of my lungs heaving and my legs aching--I was grateful for the ability to run at all.

landed...but not here yet.

[Smiley and Nikkita: faculty kids. fast friends.]

I'm back and sitting here on my bed--bag still packed, legs still unshaved, India still coating my heart.

My watch says it's 1:25am there. All the kids are tucked in their beds, the bugs and bullfrogs are making strange noises, and the earth is breathing a sigh of relief for the few short hours of rest the sun is giving it. In about four hours the alarm will clang and they'll start to get ready for the new week of school--a new week without their American friends.

The goodbye was hard--oh it was hard. I don't know how it's possible to connect and attach to people so deeply in just two weeks, but somehow I manage to do it. There were hugs all over, teary faces, and promises of seeing each other again--soon. Sally told me that I was taking some of their hearts with me, and she was keeping some of mine here, so I have to come back, because then we'll all have whole hearts again.

I uploaded all the pictures from the trip and have been looking through them with a dull ache in my little heart. I know that Sally's right. I know that some of my heart is still there. It's with Nikkita and Smiley playing the hand slap game. It's at the Blind School, holding three hands on my right and four on my left and running down the sidewalk with giggling little girls. It's playing with the Sunrise Orphanage children at the river--heart so full and amazed at their beauty, but also so heavy because the word "orphan" just got really real. It's laughing with Sally about Jessi and I putting our Sari shirts on backwards. It's in our little guest house, with our humble team of six, laughing over meals and always, always, taking it one step too far. It's doing highs and lows in the evening and praying with hearts so wide open that God can't help but pour in. It's sitting at the evening program, with Angelee "seeing" me by playing with my hair and bracelet, listening to 160 children sing at the tops of their lungs, so out of tune that I feel like I can sing too. It's in the morning mist that hugs the awesomely shaped mountains, in the car with Varma trying to teach me Telugu, and in those last heartfelt goodbyes to my friends--who just two weeks ago were strangers.

Yes, India got me, just like I think we knew it would. I'm just not sure I was prepared for how hard it was going to hold on.