La Bella Vita

I'm finally starting to slow down. I can't say that I have been rushing around aimlessly my entire life trying to accomplish tasks that seem unreachable. But I do have a natural tendency to want to please everyone, pushing myself aside. I'm done. I took a long walk along the beach with a friend the other day... and he said a quote that I will never forget. 1 + 1 = 1. You're probably thinking this doesn't make sense. And anyone with even the slightest mathematical knowledge could agree to this. But in regards to life, this is the answer. Whether you're flying solo, have a best friend, surrounded by a large family, or you are days away from tying the knot - you must always remain '1.' Often we find ourselves caught up in life and in the mindset that we are only 'half' or what we are meant to be without the other people in our life. We become so dependent on being needed, that we forget to need ourselves. We get lost in the mix of how ...

So every year I create a bucket list... I try to come up with absurd things that I think will never happen, and see how many I actually do. In all honesty, I have completed all but one thing on my bucket lists since I have started doing this... and it feels amazing. Here are a few of the things that I have done that have been on my bucket lists in the past: -visit a castle in England (I went to three!) -visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa -visit the Eiffel Tower (France) -learn to scuba dive -scuba dive at the Great Barrier Reef (QLD, Australia) -ski in Colorado -learn to snowboard -spend a summer driving boats -visit Italy -leave the country every year -run a half marathon -learn to surf (I'm not a pro, but when the odds are in my favor... I can get up!) -visit the Great Ocean Road (Australia) -go Whale Watching -climb Half Dome (Yosemite National Park) -study abroad (Avondale College) -graduate from college -make someone vegan -run from Lighthouse Beach to Lake ...

I write when I need to unpack my mind. I write when it's cloudy in my head and the moisture being contained in the white creamy clouds needs an escape. I write when my mind wants to move forward, but the weight from the heavy clouds keeps the movement minimal. I write when it's time to write. The sweat pours down my face and fuses with my tears before the drops of moisture fall gently from my chin. I don't notice the tears. I don't think the world does either. The salt that is created in both forms of excretion is too similar for me to decipher which is which as they together saturate my entire face. It's been six miles. I'll run six more. My knees shake, my blisters burn and the pavement is uneven as my joints smack it without forgiveness. With every inch I move I push past the pain that resides so deeply inside. But this pain is minimal as I place all my energy into beating this inner ache. Six miles or sixty miles, it's all the same. I have to r...

He sits in his chair, not muttering a word as he looks out of the window, tinted from the years of dirt and grease funneling throughout the front office. His chair squeaks slowly as he leans from side to side, but the sound gets lost and goes unheard amongst the rest of the noise in the shop. The drop of a wrench is loud and dominant, but Grandpa doesn’t turn a cheek. He continues to stare off into a place that only he knows. I ask him what he is thinking about. With the shrug of his shoulders he replies, “nothin’ kid.” Next to him sits Axel. Axel’s head sits as high as the arm of Grandpa’s chair and he too consumes the hours of the day by watching the events from this room. His paws are black from stepping in oil and gas, and his fur has an oily texture to it that leave the hands feeling slimy, almost buttery.   The two of them are posed as almost a hood ornament for the business. Together they have branded their seats and their faces through the ding...

The sun, it shone brighter. It’s as if it worked in time with the beat of my heart as it began to rush with even the slightest glance from you. The moon was bigger, to light up the night so I could still see your eyes. And the stars were its followers, providing companionship so the moon wasn’t up in the sky alone. The crisp air of the morning was dulled by the warmth of your breath against my neck. And when evenings grew near and the silence set in, I could hear your heartbeat from across the room. The moments of silence came often, but were welcomed. The silence spoke louder as our eyes met, then our hands, then our lips. And the unspoken passion suddenly screamed louder than a word has ever been spoken.  But the loud sound isn’t piercing. My ears want only more. I gave you all. The notes I play are a melody you know. I ignore it. The words I speak are recycled and overused. I say them only to myself. The pain ...

He sits back in his chair and sighs slowly, almost as if to say he’s satisfied with the feeling of the seated position after a long day’s work. He chooses a particular armed chair in the room, one that is bathed in sunshine in the mornings. He stares off to the right, past where I’m seated and looks out the window as a story unfolds of a life that has been only mildly uncovered. His placid expression and the valleys of aged skin reveal a story of their own before a word is even spoken. He is 675235. He is a descendent of Florence Nightingale. He is Athol James Briden, who says his “memory isn’t as bad after all”, as he pulls together pieces of his life on this warm summer morning in March. The softness of his words flows gently around me. The story of his youth began in Mastodon, New Zealand, where he decided he someday wanted to be a nurse. But a job at the local printers took precedence as becoming a male nurse was rare in his time.   “I was work...