How do we love Adventuress?

Love comes through in meticulous care and attention to detail. Stewardship to every nook and cranny with every hand carefully, and with purpose, tending to wood, line, and sail

How do we love Adventuress?

Sole by sole swept, washed and squiggied  away from the cracks.  Walking the dog and scrubbing the deck, against the grain, and a bright, fresh water rinse. By coiling lines on deck over and over, working, ballentine, in and out and the dog bone, with precision.  Setting the sails one by one. Making fast each line to a peg or cleat and striking each sail and furling them in at night.

How do we love Adventuress?

With constant maintenence, engineer at hand and tools at the ready, filling tanks and pumping the bilge, With constant watch, around the clock, all eyes involved, checklists and chores. With vegetarian delights  from the galley, stirred and served with love. With constant leadership, deep wells of knowledge captain and mate, bosin and coordinator all working behind the helm and behind the scenes. We love in community with and as passionate and fun wielding deck hands. With adventure seeking participants. And with music and laughter.

How do we love Advenuress?

All hands on deck, nine knots of wind, tacking and pirouettes, broach reach and running. And heeling over with wind in our hair and our souls running wild.  

How do we love Adventuress?

We love in awe of her capability, in awe of her natural connection, in awe of her self contained beauty and power.

How do we love Adventuress?

With reverence to the wind, honor to the tradition, and high on the sail.

How do we love Adventuress?

We just do.

I fall in love, under the shrouds,
Staring up at a clear and star filled sky
Shrouds and lines pointing the way
Joining atop the mast

Stars exploding beyond
Milky way pouring over the side
And Perseids throwing stars down upon me

My heart expands in the silence of this
Star gathered solitude

This ship
My lover

Speaks in hushed tones, her cabins and creaks and hull against the sea
The sway of the waves
Held in the curve of her deck

She whispers
As waves lap on the shore and the breeze gentlly touches my face

Her lines lead me to dreams of wind filled sails and heeled over action
My mind races to the jib and the tack and the movement and the speed
Caught in her rush

But
Now

Water  grounding me to this floating vessel

I am staring up through her shrouds
To a blanket of stars
Waiting for the next one to fall
In silence, waiting

She is mine

For this moment, not another soul is alive

Just her and me

Someone walked off with my water bottle. Granted, I walked off first, forgot it and left, but it was an establishment, an easy lost and found situation.

And instead of turning it in, someone just walked off with it.

If it was just a sunshine orange and yellow top nalgene, that would be one thing. But it was a talisman, a magical good luck charm. It was years old, and treasured. Covered with history and love.

My "Where There Be Dragons " sticker clung boldly to its side reminding me of this awesome organization and the two trips I took with them: deep and long treks into Nepal and ancient ruins of Cambodia.  A reminder of the places, the journey, and the people that influenced my life.

And the Northwest Native block carving of an Orca to remind me of kayaking with my sister and the whales in the San Juan Islands. A beyond words experience captured by a sticker.

I had a "Fat Tire Tours" bicycle sticker to mark my time in Paris, pedaling around, eating french baggets, laying on the lawn at the foot of the Eiffle tower, listening to musicians on the bridges and sliding solo through a town.

And my most recent additions may be the hardest to lose, my "sailor badass" "you are kind" and " you are brave" homemade and gifted stickers from a captain of a tall ship on which I crewed. Reminding me that I am a seaworthy woman, that I am brave in this transition and discovery period in my life.

Not only did this water bottle make hydration possible, not only is it a piece of equipment that I now need to replace, but it was a witness to my life, a memory holder. It was a totem, a sacred object, a reminder of my journeys.

And someone saw that bottle with all those stickers and thought it should be theirs instead of giving me the chance to claim it.

I am disappointed
I am saddened
I am put out

I am now marking those memories with these words.

The memories are mine.

I am a blessed adventurer, a kick ass sailor, a brave explorer and kind enough to myself to let it go

Now

I am closing the chapter of that water bottle and will open up a new.

Perhaps I will find a sea blue bottle with an evergreen top.

A blank page
An empty canvas
Just waiting to be filled

The moon drops sparkles onto the glass surfaced sea

Like stars flickering
Or light bugs flashing

Dancing before me
In an ancient, choreographed, blessing of water, moon and stillness

The depths are not seen,  
     but they hold me
A world filled life below
And mine on deck

Admiring this dance
That happens
With or without my eyes

He is my home she said
And her face softened into a peaceful smile

Known beyond compare
She felt that statement to her core

A warm glow floating up from her heart

He is my home she said
And she tenderly touched his arm
Encompassing their souls

No pressure
No expectation
But a give and take of love
silently spoken between them

Gentle spirits merging in wind passions
and heart pursuits

He is my home she said
and she unpacked her heart for good

It is amazing how fast you can learn when you are doing, when the stakes are real and you have solid mentoring, when you are hearing the language over and over and committing the actions to muscle memory. To be full, rich and alive in experience is what good education is all about be it in the classroom or on the Adventuress.

I don't learn because it's a theory, I learn because that is what needs to happen. And then when I do learn theory, it makes sense, and I can apply it to my schema and experience for even deeper learning.

I am sailing on a tall ship surrounded by experts and learners, asking questions when I'm ready or curious and listening when I am not. Everything is authentic and happening around me. Surround sound information, tag team circles of teaching and learning. And then me turning and teaching another learner what I just mastered.

We are crew. All hands on deck. We sink or sail together, and in the safety of expertise and experience, I know we won't sink. A safe place to learn.

I gain energy from the passion of others around me for the ship, the manuevers, the history,  the nature, the biology, and for the experience of sailing this 103 year old wooden schooner through the San Juan Islands. Just by being here I want to learn more, invest in the ship, the crew, and myself. I am a part of something big.

This is what learning is all about. Hands on and authentic, real stakes and real mentoring. mistakes and successes held in a safe space. Everyone grows and the ship flourishes.

I lay down at night exhausted, satisfied, empowered  and a little bit more of a mariner.

I want to do things that make me cry.

Things that rip my soul open and fill it with uncomprehendible beauty and passion and experience. Things that peel open my spirit in awe inspiring moments that cannot be contained.

Those moments so mesmerizing and beautiful that all mundane concerns, imperfections, and expectations are liberated, unknown, and non existent.

Those moments that make me small and giant.

Vulnerable and unbeatable.

Standing on the deck of the Adventuress
wind uncontained across my face and in the sails.

Spirit uncontained by possibility and impossibility.

Water, islands, movement, sun, evergreen trees, snow peaked mountains, shadowed hills, sun spots sparkling on the water

And a team of passionate experts and loving, joy filled people

All giving way to the magic,  together
Making it happen, together

Crew
Me and you
And something far greater than all of us

I am standing on the deck of the Adventuress Schooner, sails full of wind, and the tears hit my cheeks

I bought a van. A green, soccer mom deluxe GMC, and I turned it into a travel van. Buckley. It is still incognito, I travel in stealth mode, but it is set up with everything I need to live.

I don't know if I will need everything I need to live, and I am not driving off indefinitely,  but I could, and that is an interesting feeling.

I have a bed, my bike and guitar,  yoga mat and clothes, running gear, blankets, and a sleeping bag. Helmet for the bike, bike bag and gear, tire pump, curtains,  camp chair, cooler, heater, fan, and an extra battery. Stove, stamps, cards, and my address book, computer, tools, art supplies, miscellaneous things, water and three books.

Three books given to me by friends for the journey: Blue Highway, Wanderer, and A Woman Alone, all very road worthy titles.

Everything I need to live is in the van, and I am headed west once again. My first time was at age twenty, fresh out of my first college experience, I called a friend and said, do you want to go out west? We strapped our  luggage on the roof of my Chevy Monza, and rolled on, my mom rolling her eyes.

I didn't tell everyone (or anyone) immediately about the van. I wondered if I was being excessive, impulsive, extravagant or crazy. And when I did tell, people reacted differently.

My favorite reactions were the spontaneous stories that lit up people's faces about the time they traveled in a van. For a summer, a month, a year. Instant connection made over the road. They had automatic excitement for me even without any details.

There were those who thought it was perfect for me. Their joy uncontained. Those with sadness in their eyes or voice, You're going alone? They asked, still  alone? Those that claim they wish they could do what I am doing and those that say they would rather stay home.

Society would have me believe that I am avoiding life. How dare I not stay in the grind, buy more stuff, find a partner, and settle down into the big house American dream.

Mom and John are somewhere in the heavens. With a vodka and tonic in hand, my mom finally able to smoke her cigarettes once again, they are looking down and rolling their eyes at me. What do you mean you're not looking for a job? You can't live in a van. How do you not know what you are doing next?  

I am confident as well, my mom is secretly proud of me for being as stubborn, frugal, and independent as she. For living with integrity on this journey.

My sabbatical ends July 31st, and I will not be going back to the classroom. I cannot teach in a place that would rather persecute me than value me. That would mandate grammar worksheets over a student driven, community based, language arts infused project like a 5K or Veteran's Day Celebration.

Integrity. I know what is best for kids and I know what I bring to the table. What I don't know yet is what to do with that and where the next collaborative, passionate project will be.

So I am living out this sabbatical large. I am driving my van surrounded by the things I love, in the spirit of the people I love to Anacortes Dock in the Pacific Northwest where I will board a 133 ft 1800's schooner and sail the San Juan Islands teaching groups of young people about the Puget Sound, marine life, conservation issues, and open their hearts to action. Full on, placed based, experiential learning. I will be a learner and a teacher and part of the crew. I am bubbling with excitement and those good energy producing nerves.

I sail until August 5th when I will step off the tall ship and back into my van, sabbatical over,

self contained, self sufficient, open and driven,

to let life unfold in front of me. It does not feel lonely and I do not feel alone, and while I may be breaking societal norms, I wonder who made those damn rules in the first place. Certainly not someone who has sailed the high sea, traveled America in a van, or allowed life to breathe it's magic and wonder slowly into their soul.

I give up the grind for movement
Mandates for passion
Work for life.

That everyday I may wake grateful, see beauty, love myself, and make this world a better place.

Daisy

Daisy was not there the day I arrived, but she came shortly after. I walked through the gate after being gone for the day and instantly, I saw the new girl. Large, blocky ball cap, jean jacket, and rosary beads around her neck. She greeted me like an old friend, “Heeeyy…” she said as she lifted her hand into the air and clasped mine in an intimate high five.

She fit in instantly, teaching the girls dance moves and singing songs. I could pick her laugh out from across the compound, and I heard it often.

Slowly, I learned her story. Slowly it sank into my reality, and I began to recognize hers. In 2004, at nine years old, her mother kicked her out of the house because she had epilepsy and her mother couldn’t deal with “the corruption.” Forced to the streets she was in and out of shelters and hospitals for years. On the streets, during a seizure, she was raped and nine months later, at twelve years of age, she had her first child, who was promptly taken away from her and left in a shelter. Soon after, she was tortured and raped by a police officer and nine months later, in her thirteenth year, she had her second child, who was also taken away.

On and off the streets
In and out of shelters
In and out of hospitals

She contracted HIV/AIDS
No one wants a girl with HIV and epilepsy

I hold her hand and watch her eyes roll to the back of her head as her whole body shakes and convulses and then lies still. Rolls, shakes, convulses, and lies still again.

In the short time she has been here, she has made true friends, she has proven to be a joyful leader, and she makes everybody smile and feel special. Priscillah, who was “hard as a rock” has melted and tears well in her eyes as the ambulance comes to take Daisy away, alone.

“Will she be okay?” She asks, “Will she come back to us?”

I do not know.

Two days later, Daisy does come back to us. The ambulance pulls up and girls go running to greet her. She steps out with her infectious smile and says, “Heeeyy…” And gives everyone high fives and hugs.

Her medicine doubles, she is dizzy, unfocused and continues to have seizures. I think they have actually increased. The other girls are afraid. They think it is contagious. They think she is possessed. They need education, and slowly they are getting it. Everyone is afraid, except for Priscilla who loves her with her impenetrable strength.

Days pass, hands held, eyes roll back, body convulses, body lays still. As well, we dance and sing and laugh and sit on the stoop doing hair.

Until the day she begins to cough up blood. The “fit” is long but she comes out of it, and we sit in the shade on the veranda. Priscillah on one side, and me on the other. There are no words for the burden she has to bear, so I rub her back and listen.

She begins to speak, slowly and deliberately, taking long pauses between thoughts. “The doctor says I need snacks and milk with the additional medication, but I can’t ask Aunty; I know we don’t have enough.” “Will I ever see my kids again?” “Will I live long enough to be their mom?” “How will I ever care for them?”

And then silence for a long still moment.

She looks blankly into space. “The streets,” she says slowly and to no one in particular, “are hard.”

And what is left of my fragile heart breaks. I sit a little longer, wiping my tears as they leak through my eye lids, watching Priscillah’s eyes glisten. I excuse myself for a warmer layer, and go up to my room and cry. A desperate, life is not fair, I am helpless wail.

I am crying today as I recall this remarkable girl.  Despite everything, she is filled with joy, faith, friends, and hope – though sometimes that is fleeting – she is filled with hope in a way that condemns and inspires me.

Our long talks about strength and anger and forgiveness. Her dream of running a dance troupe to keep kids off the streets and away from drugs. Her memory of her children. She is trapped in a reality she cannot change.

Daisy is eighteen years old and she is afraid. Afraid of being rejected again, afraid of never seeing her children again, afraid of being back on the streets again, afraid of the unknown. But despite her fear, Daisy has taught me more about faith, joy, perseverance, hope, and love than I have learned in all my years.

I say your name out loud Daisy, and I dance with your spirit in my heart. May you stay strong my friend, and know, that someone in America loves you.

I recently traveled to Peru with a team of 15 students. We had the honor of spending two days in the Ocutuan Community.  Two days was enough for one life changing experience.

We roll in on our bus. The men, women, and children of the village are dressed in traditional clothes and come to greet us. The women holding their skirts with something tucked inside, and we exit the bus and make our processional through them.  The women throw flower petals on our heads and everyone speaks kindness and welcome.

One snare drum and two flutes play festive music, and we make our way through the gathering of warm hearts and broad smiles.

We gather in a circle on the open grass and the band plays again.  American youth and Peruvian elders stand in a circle, hand in hand. They welcome us with speeches of love and gratitude. One speaks and Deanna translates, and we all applaud. And another speaks and another.  Welcomed with open arms.

The band plays once more and we dance. Hand in hand, paired across cultures, we step our feet back and forth and lift our arms in celebration.

And then, the work begins. We work side by side with the community members.

Working in three groups electricy, concrete, and paint, we work on the final stages of building their first community center. Students work hard. They are focused and engaged and accomplish small but mighty things.

The women cook all morning and then invite us to eat lunch with the community, served first as their guests, we "break bread" together.

After lunch we watch a weaving demonstration. All the women participating at different stages of washing, dying, spinning and weaving. At six years of age the girls start making bracelets, by ten they are making belts. Ancient years of tradition transfer to a skill, a way of life. Women can spin while walking, talking, or kissing their husbands they say. Second nature, rhythm of life in these mountains.

We work again all afternoon until a dark cloud makes an appearance and eventually takes over the sky. We get to the bus just as the sky opens up and rains down in buckets. We leave tired and satisfied.

The next morning we rise and return to the same open arms and smiling faces. New jobs are assigned, and we begin to work. Completion is near and excitement is high.

The women lay out hand woven blankets and lay out their hand made wares. Colors literally from the land and patterns designed from the region. Students talk to the women through broken Spanish and hand gestures and buy treasures.

The band plays.  The little dancing girl dances, twirling and jumping and throwing her arms into the air. She lures everyone in, first Jo, then the girls, then the boys. Everyone in the community laughs and loves and dances with the little dancing girl.

A tradition is shared: a tree is chopped down from the forest and brought to the yard. Students help hold it up and tie on a plethora of plastic housewares. Without a clue of what is happening, their curiousity builds as bright pink, yellow, and green dust pans, buckets and strainers are tied throughout the tree along with ribbons, balloons, and flowers. With a mighty effort, it is pushed up and replanted into a freshly dug hole. Packed with rocks and dirt, it solidly stands.

We gather around the tree with wonder now, the tradition about to unfold, once again hand in hand, young and old, Peruvian and American. We  dance to the flutes and drum in one large circle around the tree, moving left then right, community together. Tradition strong.

The first man grabs the axe and dances to the middle of the circle with Deanna. He hands the axe to her to take the first chops. He steps to the side and is given a local beverage by the women, and he drinks it down. He takes his turn with the axe and then chooses a new couple.  Me. The man I danced next to and I dance to the middle and take turns chopping, he drinks his beverage and this pattern continues student after student, they choose us to share in this tradition.

The tree is getting weaker, the crowd getting more excited.  Anticipation and curiosity fill the air.
Finally the tree falls. We Americans take a step back while the Peruvians dive in and around the tree. A rush unexpected and unseen in my life. They grab and hold the plasticware and retreat from the tree arms full and victorious!

The day comes towards a close as we move to the entryway for the inauguration of the new community center. All of the work is done, our students finished the final painting of the floor.

Another hand in hand circle dance, more speeches of gratitude and recognition of this great accomplishment. The community had a dream, and worked towards it for one year with many partners, hard work and us, made it a reality. With this center they can meet, teach, have classes, have community shelter.

Deanna, Jo and I are asked to do the honors. We are handed a hammer adorned with flowers, and we stand in front of a clay pot filled with flowers and chicha (beer) hanging in the doorway.

We three hold the hammer together and swing. We hit once and create a hole, the chicha pours out. Cheers of laughter, and we swing again. The pot shatters pouring the drink onto the newly painted floor. The community center is now ready and open.

Tears are shed and gratitude is given. Gifts are placed into our hands and memories into our hearts.

The community once again lines up and sends us off with with a fond farewell. Hugging and kissing us individually and wishing us well, gracias, be blessed. And we are. The whole experience beyond words but perminately embedded into our spirits.

So openly welcomed.
So gratefully accepted.
So completely embraced.

Ocutuan Community. Thank you!