Communication. Upwards, please.

I hesitate to admit it– here, amidst the mountains, in the thick, mossy forest of the Olympic Peninsula, forty-two miles from the nearest grocery store and almost as far from any cell phone reception: I have internet access. After I type this from my perch high on my bunk in the small room I share with five other college girls, I will bring my laptop to the lounge, plug in the ethernet cable, and put this on the internet.

Why don't I want to have internet? Because I just want to be here. I want to focus on my tasks here: my job (busser), my friendships (still to be formed), and my ministry (not only leading the Sunday morning worship services in the ampitheater between this dorm and the campground, but being a light in this group of seasonal workers).

I don't want to have internet just because last summer we didn't have internet. I am pathetic.

And I don't know if I'll blog as much. Don't expect it. This summer will be defined by the people here, their standards, what they do… and how I react. My written reactions will be in my journal, not on the internet.

Please pray a lot for me.

Today and Tuesday

When I was in Lisboa, Portugal, I had no idea what would all happen between Northwest Illinois and the Pacific Northwest. I've been doing a lot of packing this week. Today I am here. Tuesday I'll be there.

Already

I can't believe it is already the end of the semester. Today is my last day of class. I don't want to go. I hate saying goodbyes.

I looked up 'goodbye' in my journal, hoping to learn from things I learned before. A song that doesn't have a tune yet, from March 9:

I hoped and I prayed
for you to be
there with me.
I couldn't do it without you.
While at the moment
of each prayer
you were there
and everywhere else, too.
Because there's nowhere to run,
nowhere to go,
nowhere under the sun
where you aren't already.

You were already here
when I landed.
Before I planned it
you knew I'd be coming.
You were ready and willing
to let me know
wherever I go
I won't be running.
Because there's nowhere to run,
nowhere to come,
nowhere under the sun
where you aren't already.

You are back at my house
with my sister.
How I miss her,
But I know she understands
that you're still with the ones
I hugged goodbye.
Don't have to cry.
You will be there when I can't.
Because there's nowhere to stand,
nowhere to stay,
nowhere in any land
where you aren't already.

You are there where I'll go.
All my plans
are in your hands.
You will never be surprised.
What peace and amazement
that you know
where I'll go.
I couldn't hide if I tried.
Because there's nowhere to run,
nowhere to travel,
nowhere under the sun
where you aren't already.

You'll be there when I leave.
On the plane
you will sustain.
And you'll prepare my heart
to be as ready as can be
to go home.
I'll always roam,
But from my home in you I'll never depart.
Because there's nowhere to run,
nowhere to go back,
nowhere under the sun
where you aren't already.

And that's for all the things I can't control.

When we went back out into the waves, they were crashing harder, as if there was something bothering them. They were the kind of waves that don't mind if you smack them right back. The punching commenced: the first few punches just because it felt good to throw all my strength into one thing, and then a punch with the shout, "And that's for making me leave Spain!" That brought up anger further down: "And that's for making me leave Mount Rainier!" Then a punch for not knowing Spanish yet. Then more personal punches: "And that's for making me leave…" There were tens of names I wanted to enter, and as the waves kept coming no matter how hard I hit them, I kept naming friends. I hurled at least five punches for having to leave Rachel, then dove beneath the waves, hoping the Atlantic ocean would make up for the tears I can't seem to cry.

six liters and some autostop later

On April 25 we went to Ronda with our school. When the official field trip came to an end, our adventures had only begun. Rachel, Stephen, and I had made plans to go hiking in the sierra de Grazalema. We had even booked a hostel there. A hotel, actually. We decided we could afford such luxury if Rachel and I would share a twin size bed. Twins are smaller in Spain. But by the time we got to our little room, we had already had enough adventures to sleep well on.

The fun started when the bus schedule, which we had walked all over Sevilla to find, turned out to be wrong. The last bus of the day from Ronda to Grazalema doesn't run anymore. There was a bus going to Montecorto, which was slightly closer to our destination, so we hopped on. When we hopped off again, we had nothing to do but walk.

So we started walking, knowing we'd have to end the walk in the dark. We discussed the possibility of maybe doing a little autostop. Look that one up in your Spanish-English dictionaries. It's one of my favorite words, now that we've done it.

The next day, the day of senderismo between Grazalema and Algodonales, was incredible. It was a about 34 degrees celsius and sunburn sunny from the sunrise we saw over Grazalema to the sunset we saw as we rode the bus back from Algodonales to Sevilla. The road travels 26 km from Grazalema to Algodonales. We took such shortcuts that I think of it as at least a 35 km hike. These shortcuts were through hills with bajillions of bushes covered with intense thorns and down ridiculously sloped almond groves that ended in fences.

On our perch in Zahara, we ate tuna and tentacles on tortillas, then waded in the lake below to cool down our torn-up legs. Back on the road to Algodonales, we were honked at by our housing coordinator, who just happened to be driving that road that day.

In Algodonales, a friendly local explained the cause of all the music and firecrackers as he walked us to the bus stop. We sat down on the pavement and ate more galletas, peanut butter (thanks Mom!) and tuna until the bus came and took us back to Sevilla.

When I got back to the house that night, my Señora didn't say anything about my body odor, the scratches on my legs, or the six-inch rip in my shorts. She just lovingly brought me a pear, a banana, and a glass of water.

I drank over six liters of water that day, and only peed three times.

But everything else…

Things I won't miss about Spain:

Those days in Don Quijote class when the professor asks me a question and I have no idea how to answer.

The smell of Spanish ham.

Yup, that's about it.

You don't need opium in spring in Spain.

I'm passing through a place
where poppies grow like weeds
and better-tasting mountains grow
from mustard-sized black seeds.
It's not that I'm on opium–
it's really like a dream.
This place is much more beautiful
than words can make it seem.

¡Feria!

This was the weekend of April 10-13. Imagine your county fair, except the fairgrounds are surrounded by residential highrises, the livestock exhibits are replaced with tents full of dancing people, the jeans are replaced with flamenco dresses, and the Bud Light is replaced with Cruzcampo and sherry.

The song is about a beautiful Andalucian woman with black eyes, black hair, a tense body, and a lingering look. It sounds sweeter in Spanish.

You have to say it sometime(s).

Goodbye to the garden, the orchard, the grapetree, the trickling septic tank overflow, the trees we planted, the nests we watched, the chicken coop, the shed roof, the oil pit, the pile of rocks, the mulberry trees, the spots on the yard we used for bases and goals, the cement slab where I put a dent in my forehead, the river rock and gravel where I scraped up my knees falling off the bikes that we stored in a row next to the long work table.

Goodbye to the bumpy bottomed basement with the spiders and the pole with the square notches in it, the spaces behind the filing cabinets and under the steps and on the other side of the furnace. Goodbye to the shinier cement that I remember Dad pouring, the mountain of craft supplies, and the pottery wheel I requested but hardly ever used, except to pile laundry.

Goodbye to the orange-carpeted bedroom that I always had the smaller half of, the blue-carpeted bedroom that used to have fluky gray and red carpet, and mom's bedroom with the carpet that is really more like felt. Goodbye to the attic, and hello to deciding what to do with the stuff in my boxes. Is anything worth keeping?

Goodbye to the steps. I will never forget the sound of Nathan descending them, and the little string that used to run up and down the eastern side, next to the slide we used to try to ride. Goodbye to the bathroom, and the unique smell of sitting there, looking through the screen at corn growing, the trash burning, the apple trees blossoming, and the laundry drying in the breeze. Goodbye to the sink where I gagged on the horrible tastes of toothpaste and listerine. Goodbye to the spot on the floor where I cried.

Goodbye to the big window in the living room, and the beam where mom would command me to dance.

Goodbye to that curved line dividing carpet and linoleum, the corner where so many shoes gathered, and the ladybugs gathered in the tracks of the sliding door.

Goodbye to my kitchen. Oh, kitchen. You know how hard it is to cook in someone else's kitchen, compared to your own. That kitchen is my kitchen. First cupboard: jars, bowls, folders, and medicine spinner. Second cupboard: mugs, glasses, bowls, and plates. Then there's the window, where you can see the two oak trees, which are finally producing enough acorns to support a squirrel, and the pasture, and whatever cars might go bye on that gravel road. Third cupboard: glass casseroles, hot and cold cereal, a box of metamucil that probably felt unappreciated. Fourth cupboard: everything. Lot's of baking stuff. Fifth and sixth cupboard: spices and cans and boxes of rice-a-roni and hamburger helper. Seventh cupboard: snacks and cookbooks. Well, the cookbooks are now below the microwave, because nothing ever stays the same.

Goodbye to hours experimenting in a kitchen I know like the backside of my front teeth, getting everything to feel and taste just right. Goodbye to that new stove that is so much better than the old stove. Goodbye to the countertop I recently realized was made to look like butcher block. Goodbye to the place I learned to make yeast bread and white sauce and spritz cookies and pancakes and aloo gobi. Goodbye to shoving that leg of the chair back into place and pulling off pieces of the table and the Bible we read at the end of each supper.

Goodbye to having Anita over on a Sunday afternoon, blasting Fiddler on the Roof from the speakers on top of the hutch, and cooking supper while dancing around the table. Could we do that one more time while I am 'home' between Sevilla and Sol Duc? Could we do it without crying when it came to the song 'Anatevka?'

"A pot… a pan… a broom… a hat. Someone should have set a match to this place long ago. A bench… a tree… So what's a stone, or a house?"

Eh. It's just a place. Goodbye.