Rain.

Its raining. She can hear it. Even though her eyes are still closed and her head under her blanket. She knows the smell of it. The slow, lazy, pitter-pattering deluge that she wakes up to every morning during rainy season. The ground would be a river of sticky, fragrant, red mud. All the trees shiny, emerald green from their daily polishing.
She begins a to-do list in her head. First thing being a cold shower. She really needs to get that hot water heater fixed. This is the third time it has broken. Its probably just given up the ghost this time.
Prepare some lessons for the kids. They are learning about soil and erosion this week. Should be an easy lesson with every sloshing footstep illustrating what water can do to earth. They will grin at her stumbling attempts at their musical language.She will learn some new phrases today. The velvet syllables easily dancing off their lips will sound like a skipping record coming from hers.
Sweep the cobwebs out of her hut. Found a golden orb spider yesterday. They are beautiful. Their lacy webs look like they have been touched by Midas. She had seen the effects of an orb bite. Better avoid it than admire it. A lot of things are like that in Africa.
 Patch the hole in the cinderblock wall behind her bed. The rats have been getting in and chewing her shoes. Feed the chickens. She is down to five chicks from the last hatch. Stupid snakes. Her neighbor says "Iwe (you) go' da chickens Mianda, iwe ge' da snakes". She hates snakes. Pull some weeds in the garden. Shes got to find a way to keep the baby tomatoes from rotting in all this wet. Pasteurize the milk that Michael will be bringing in by the bucketful....
She waits one more minute under the blanket. Still halfway between a dream and wakefulness. Her eyes still closed to the grey light... She bolts upright in a moment of awareness. Not in Africa. Seattle. The rain continues outside the window. Onto a roof that is decidedly not made of elephant grass. Her tiny room is cozy. No rats, no cobwebs, no broken hot water heater... with a heaviness in her heart, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor is cold. She pulls a sweater on against the damp. Its still three hours till she has to be at work. She pushes the button on her ipod and Radiohead reminds her " you do it to yourself, you do, that's what really hurts"  The scalding hot water of her shower is mocking her. Some kind of guilt puts pressure on her stomach. She can't put a finger on it.
Coffee. Coffee will help. To the coffee shop. She shoves her work clothes into a backpack and grabs the first book she sees off of her night stand. It's about two blocks to the bus stop. Her hair is still damp from the shower. There are  a few people waiting for the bus. Not the usual suspects since she is still two hours early for her normal commute. She wonders what it is like for them to wake up in the morning. Are they similarly haunted by pasts? Do their bodies wake up in another country from the one their heart wakes up in? The bus arrives and she shuffles into the crowded mass of commuters. Everyone is plugged in. The lady in front of her is dressed to the nines. High heels, headphones and a smartphone. She is standing next to a homeless man. Miss Smartphone looks decidedly uncomfortable. He looks like he spent the night under a bridge. He balances a big pack on one shoulder and pats the head of his dog with his other hand. The lady casts her a glance that says "What do you think you are looking at?" The homeless man grants her a loving smile and a friendly wink. She finds it strangely comforting that she identifies more with that scraggly man. Her heart smiles. "Next stop: Pike and Sixth street" squeaks from the bus intercom. She shuffles towards the door. The homeless man shuffles next to her.
"Can I help with your bag" She says.
"Shure" He smiles.
They hop off the bus.
"Where you headed?" She asks.
"Anywhere its not raining"
"You want some coffee?"
"Absolutely"
"Well, I know a good spot for coffee"
"Hank" he grins " this is Stetson" Pointing to the dog.
They head down the street. She thinks about that guilt feeling ... she realizes in that moment that it isn't guilt. Its a reminder to be human. A reminder that a broken heart is the one that feels the most. The heart that pours all out and loves whoever is in its wake. Especially the hungry ones.

On life. Generally.

I recently had coffee with a good friend of mine. We had a very encouraging conversation. It is often difficult for me to have meaningful conversations with people because a lot of my experiences go above and beyond what you would generally talk about with friends. Every once in a while I find a person that can resonate with my past and with whom I can share a bit of my heart.
This conversation, stimulated me to think about where I am. Most of the time I get caught up focusing only on events in the present time. Never looking back and only looking far enough ahead to see my next foot fall. I find that a lot of my past experiences are like band-aids over scabs. I know that in order for those things to truly heal I need to bring them out into the open. However, I know that removing that band-aid is going to hurt like the dickens.

During the course of my conversation with my friend I was reminded of an event in my life that shaped me as a human being. It is still the single most important moment of my life. I was a newby missions intern in Zambia. We were on our first medical mission out to the bush. We were providing a medical clinic for people who barely ever got to take an aspirin let alone see a doctor. There were probably about a hundred men, women and children lined up at the door. I was flitting in and out of the lines making friends with the people and playing games with the children. A young woman approached me and in broken English she told me her story. Her husband had died recently of aids and had left the young woman to take care of four children. She was obviously unwell. I became more and more concerned as she spoke to me. When she finished her story she looked at me with sorrowful eyes and she held out her infant child to me. She begged me to take the child because she was dying. There are not words enough in the dictionary to describe the pain that I felt at that moment. When your world shatters and everything that you knew to be true is just a wave on the ocean.

I can't explain to you what this experience did to me. BUT I can tell you that it completely changed the way that I view my life.

It's funny how we have this idea in our society that we have to be all put together and have everything figured out. I don't understand where this simplistic view of "what we should be" came from. How many of you can stand up and say that you are well adjusted emotionally, that you have the perfect body, that you are happy with your job, that you are glad you are in debt because school was worth it, you are good at saving money, your relationship is without flaw?

Nobody. But is this not what we pretend on a day to day basis? Are these not the things that we are supposed to have figured out? Well then I have a confession to make. I am not well adjusted emotionally. In fact I'm a bit of a hot mess. I am not satisfied with how my body looks, but I am me.  I don't like my job but I do it because I have to. I am angry that I am in debt for a stupid year of school that didn't mean anything. I am the WORST at saving money. When it comes to relationships... I am one big blob of spaghetti like emotions. All connected and mixed up together and topped off with a brokenhearted tomato sauce.

You know what? I am tired of these expectations of normal. I want to shout it from the Mountains that I am a mess. A beautiful mess. Poetry comes from broken hearts. Music is born out of passion. I won't apologize for my flaws. Only use them to make art and to live life in such a way that I cause others to stop and listen to the music. I will never have it figured out. because I know that everyday we must approach life like that young woman. Willing to give everything for someone else to experience the world. Willing to love so deeply that it will break you apart.


Cally Jane

Wanderlust

Home is a strange place for those of us who are perpetual wanderers.

I have always had a concept of home. Home is where your family is. Where you store all your childhood memories. Where you climbed the trees and built Lego forts. Where even the smells are familiar. Fresh baked bread and laundry soap.

I  think that there is a funny difference between home as a place and home as an entity. I don't miss my home because of the house or the town I miss it because of the people, the memories, the smells, the comfort of innocence.

As I grow up more and more, I realize the strangeness of "home". I have had more than one home in the past four years. From the dorms at MSU, to my hut in Africa,  to the U-haul in Seattle. Each of them has been a separate and unique experience. With each one however, I experienced "homesickness". I am sure you have experienced this as well. That feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you want to curl up in your mamma's  embrace and breathe deep.

What is it that makes us feel this way? When I was a teenager, I couldn't wait to get out of my house. Out of that silly one horse town , out of the country, out of the world! When I did though, I was surprised to feel a twinge of remorse that I didn't appreciate "home" as much as I should have.

I remember when I was tiny (probably eight or ten) my sisters, some neighborhood kids and I, planned to run away together. We packed our backpacks with all the essentials, beany babies, Ramona books, gram-crackers and peanut butter for survival. Most important were our baby dolls, whose souls and lives had been entrusted to us passionate young mothers. Our plan was flawless. We were going to sneak out at ten o'clock on a Tuesday and  head for the hills! (one of the neighborhood kids had a family cabin in the forest and we were sure no one would find us there) When the scheduled night came, I remember being so anxious. I stayed up all night long pretending that I was asleep when my parents would peek in. To my horror, I woke up in my bed the following morning! I had missed it! I had fallen asleep for real.

The neighborhood gang all met up that afternoon. We all sheepishly gathered around and made excuses as to why none of us had showed up. "Running away is for stupid teenagers" "I really don't want to leave my dog, he would miss me" and such. We then moved on to the next adventure of building a functional battleship in my back yard.( I say functional because we had running water thanks to the garden hose).

 The failed collaborative running away was never mentioned again. However from that point on there was always the possibility that my life could be an adventure. Home was a place that you left behind. In my mind all of the things that made me angry were part of this idea of "home". I was going to escape from there in a burst of adventure and romance.

My wanderlust is still not satiated. Even after stargazing in Texas, serving the unfortunate in Africa, visiting the pyramids in Mexico, traipsing through the Edinburgh castle..... For all the wanderings and homesickness, I still felt out of place when I came back to Montana.

 I recently fulfilled my childhood vision of running away in the middle of the night. It took me slightly longer to get ready. I was also a bit more prepared this time. I didn't bring my doll along. My friend and I spent the better part of a month road- tripping down Highway 101. I had nothing but what was in my backpack...I have never been so satisfied with life than I was knowing that I didn't have a plan. Camping on the beach. People watching in tourist towns. Enjoying a campfire with a new friend. Chilling on a horse boarding farm/campground. It was epic.

I ended up running out of money in Seattle...which is why I got a job and stayed. I was on an adventure high... until I began to feel that familiar twinge in my belly. Time to go home.

This time however, home had a new feeling. A feeling of appreciation for the love and memories that surrounded my childhood. I used to carry around this nebulous emotion of discontent when I had been home before. I know now that without that discontent I never would have pushed myself to become a wanderer.

I think I know now why that little girl (with all the romantic running away plans) inside me still speaks. She knows that the world is full of beauty and heartache all in one. She knows that there is an adventurer in everyone. I think the reason I continue to wander is that I always secretly listened to her. I never let her voice be drowned out by the expectations of the american dream.

To some of you this post will be like listening to a burned out hippy rattle on about world peace. I hope however that in some of you it strikes up a curiosity. Maybe even a motivation to start quieting the noise in your life. Take the time remember that radical kid you used to be. The one who wanted to be an astronaut. The one who wanted to be a noodle maker. The wanderer.


Peace.

Cally Jane

Thoughts about falling

I have been thinking about falling in love. What is it that causes a person to do so. Better yet at what point do you know that you are in love? Is it like a wave of energy that hits you? Like a LAZER beam straight to the heart?

I think I have been in love before. I remember the exact moment that it happened. It was like a switch was flipped in my brain. One moment I was fine and the next I had some kind of rare stomach illness whenever I looked at his face or heard his name spoken. However permanent that moment is in my memory, I don't recall the exact time that the feeling of being in love left me. Strangely enough it was not the moment that my heart was broken. No, love continued for a long while after. It finally dissipated into a barely noticeable feeling of choked admiration.

I think love might be like atomic matter. You can't create it or destroy it. It just shifts forms. 

I hate it when I have to identify myself as "single" because I know how many "single" people there are out there. I think instead I am going to say that I am a part of the "uncoupled multitude". It sounds less lonely.

Today I was sitting on a bus with my nose in a book. I was deeply involved in my thoughts about midwifery (such was the subject of my book) when onto the bus steps an old wrinkled couple. I caught my breath when I looked at them because there, bent and withered, holding hands, stood an incarnation of love. They shuffled to a seat. The man, winking and pretending to tip his hat to her, helped her into a seat by the window. She beamed up at him and gave him a blushing smile and an answering wink. I don't know why seeing those two hurt my heart whilst simultaneously filling it up with hope. 

What is it that causes us to search for love? Today in the newspaper I skimmed through the "missed connections" section and witnessed a hundred broken hearts trying to find somebody with some glue.

Last week after a particularly lonely night with only a movie, a glass of wine and a bowl of ice cream to keep me company... I woke up to a text message from my lovely big sister informing me of a free trial period for Match.com. We have dating websites and matchmaking websites, speed dating, mail order brides and arranged marriages. Everyone is looking for someone. All my siblings have found someone.

 I am scared. I'm not scared of being alone. I'm good at being alone. I am scared of being with someone who doesn't get it. Someone who doesn't understand how much I love tea. Someone who doesn't know that for me being absolutely covered in flour and pulling a creation out of the oven is probably right about when I am happiest. Someone who reads my poems. Knows that I'm self conscious about my feet, that my favorite candy is cinnamon bears and that my secret favorite song is by Pink of all people.

So I have resolved to find him. But I don't know where to start. I am NOT joining a dating website. I CAN live without him. I'm not broken up about being alone. I'm not completely and utterly lonely. I am merely curious to meet the person that will find it interesting rather than disturbing that all my paintings have skeletons in them. I want to find my missing puzzle piece. The mirror to my reflection. The obligatory laugh  to my cheesy one liner.

I'm going to look everywhere. Like in the grocery store. At the bus stop. In the pub drinking bourbon,talking about Isaac Asimov  Maybe you have wonky British teeth and a leather jacket. Maybe I make you coffee three times a day. He that maketh me to stumble over mine own words? Maybe I rode on the back of your motorcycle. I will find you. I would rather you found me first.

This is all very confusing. Looks to me like the only people who have love figured out are the lucky ones in relationships and filmmakers who create chick flicks. 

For now I am just Cally Jane. I am not in love. Not yet.

~Cally Jane