Scene 1: Lunch on Main Street U.S.A., Disneyland

The waiter carried a bowl overflowing with whip cream, a candle burning on top. “Happy Birthday, Rachel!” My aunt cheerfully says. This year will be the 6th birthday I’ve spent in Brazil, away from home. Good bye ”Happy Birthday” and hello “Feliz Aniversario.” It might not be the right day, but now is when I get to celebrate with my family. And with Disneyland. Along with my dessert, I received a birthday button with my name on it. I think everyone should wear name tags. It just makes life more friendly. And when you wear a birthday button in Disneyland, everyone says “Happy Birthday.” I wore my button two days in a row. And got many more well-wishers than I deserved.

Scene 2: Middle of the night at the hotel

John and I shared a bed, letting my mom have her own. I am fine with this arrangement because John is gumby-like as soon as he is sleeping, and I can shove him back to his corner of the bed if he crosses the line. He was already asleep when I crawled in bed, and I was drifting out when he bolted up, looked at something very intently and stated, clear as day, “I think I won,” before returning to his curled up gumbyness. I think he did.

Scene 3: California Screamer in California Adventure

If you didn’t know, Disneyland is two parks: the Magic Kingdom (with the castle and all) and California Adventure. The second day there we crossed over and visited the newer addition, California Adventure. The perfect roller coaster is like hot sauce. Hot and spicy, but not so spicy as to override the flavor. If all you are thinking is “burn!” it is overkill. If you don’t have your sinuses opened, you haven’t got enough. Roller coasters kill it by being shaky, rattling your brains until you don’t want any other rides either. Going upside down seven times is also overdoing it. Disney, as always, has found perfection in California Screamer. Smooth, 0-60, one loop, and two airborne drops. Ahh, the flavor. The best hot sauce, by the way, is found in the plastic bottle with the rooster on it.

Scene 4: Talking to strangers in the Emporium

My mother talks to strangers. I’ve tried to tell people that this is genetic, but they still don’t understand this habit I have. My mom couldn’t find the door at the Emporium. She kept trying different things that looked like doors, but were decorations. This happens sometimes at Disneyland. Hopefully less at other places. Lori, who is an inventory specialist, helped her find the door. Thus began the conversation. Between “Let me help you” and “Thank you,” my mother was talking about Brazil and her daughter and her 160 street children who would love something with Mickey Mouse on it. Lori said she would love to help out. Come back tomorrow and see.

We never saw Lori again. She was off work by the time we returned to the Emporium, but she left a big bag of goodies: Enough buttons, temporary tattoos, book marks, and door hangers for every one of my kids and more. Straight from Disneyland. I rather love that place.

At the end of my first trip to California, including Disneyland, Sea World, and the San Diego Zoo, I was asked which my favorite was. “The potato bug.” I replied. I had found my creepy crawly little friend on the front porch. I was six. My parents were embarrassed.

Besides the potato bug, I also remember Dumbo. I had to ride Dumbo. We waited for a LONG time. Even longer for a little kid. But flying was worth it. I was 13 on my next visit to California, and Dumbo wasn’t my priority: finding the perfect hat was. I found it next to the tea cups at the “Mad Hatter.” I proudly wore it to Tijuana, where we hit a dog and mom decided we should never go there again.

California was an open door to me and my family because of some wonderful people living there: my aunt and uncle who wanted an active part in our lives. Talk about genetic jackpot. My Aunt had us back when I was 15, learning proper etiquette and seeing the Romanov Russian jewels. My sister and I pretended to be the lost princess Anastasia. What girl has not fallen in love with that story? My Uncle took us sailing, which didn’t blow any fairytale thoughts out of our heads. We had found our magic place: California.

Stepping into California has always been like going into another world. Palm trees greet you from the airport, and my Uncle jokingly complains of “another day in paradise.” A world of culture, of refinement. Seeing my first live play. Meeting the children from Narnia after opening night of the “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” held at a gala no less beautiful than a world you could enter through a closet.

After a couple weeks of minding manners and learning the finer things of life, my uncle offered to take us out to eat anywhere. Unlimited finances and transportation. We voted for the Taco Bell at the bottom of the hill. For someone who has never eaten a burrito with his hands, my uncle unflinchingly tasted this fast food delicacy with a spork.

 After surviving my sister and me, it was time for my little brother to come to California. No one will ever forget the elaborate train set that my uncle set up, and the six-year-old boy who managed not to break it, save a few heart stopping moments my mother had.

California holds my first glimpse of the ocean: magic I hope never to lose. I cannot wrap my mind around it. The idea is too big. Never ending water until up comes a piece of land covered with life meeting the crisp sky. Try marching inside the ocean: some people call it a cruise. I call it where you dress up for dinner, get ice cream 24 hours a day, and have a chocolate statue of Liberty at the midnight buffet. Standing at the bow of the ship, the wind fighting me back, watching the sun dance on the waves, up and down, and up and down…forget seasickness; it was hypnotic magic.

If there was anything else that California could offer, it could only be a road trip, along the coast from San Diego to San Francisco. That happened in 2008. I didn’t lose my heart there, only a purse. And it wasn’t my purse, it was my aunt’s. 20 minutes after leaving it on a street car, we discovered it missing. My uncle called the bus systems while hauling a cab. Our disoriented cab driver drove us around the night lights of San Fran, while my uncle flagged down three number 30 buses, the third one telling us that it had been turned in–the purse was at the bus station.

The bus station lost and found was closed, but when we turned the corner, the guy unlocked the door, and a sweet voice called out “oh, she’s here?” They had stayed open long enough for us to arrive. The purse was there, intact. Of all the stories you hear of big cities and dark nights—honest people remain. Maybe we met them all that night, or maybe it is just the wrong stories that get told.

Tomorrow I am going back to the Magic Kingdom, the happiest place on earth. But in reality, I am already there.  “There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved: it is God’s finger on man’s shoulder.” –Charles Morgan

40 things I realized during 21 days that I still need to write about:

1.       My house, special memories, how it was built…the haunted bathroom tale, limburger cheese, plumbing problems, roller skating round the basement

2.       A cookbook/ recipes for Brazilian foods that also explain their lives, values, customs, and realities, and all the weird stuff that came up when I tried to cook

3.       My favorite foods and why, experiences they held: “I want real milk for my 8^th birthday,” breadfruit, “my first favorite is Mac and cheese and hot dogs, second is shrimp, and the third is? –well, only your first favorite from me!—Tim” Exotic food—turtle, beaver, liver, pancreas, ant…

4.       Being a vegetarian—and having no morals

5.       What mom and dad cooked, and how this portrayed their personalities

6.       Animals I had growing up. And how they all died. And I wrote about them, staining the pages with my tears

7.       Growing up in the last 80s and 90s: high bangs, the shirt tied off, and three layers of socks

8.       The first boy who liked me: Jimmy. He left a frog in our yard. I was so mad I stomped all the way to his house and told him to remove it and I never wanted to see it again. I never did.

9.       The process of learning Portuguese—I could make this academic—sharing funny stories of saying the wrong thing while going through the phases of learning a language

10.   Favorite movies—like I did songs, with the story of why I like them. I should do favorite books as well

11.   Being on the basketball team at Baptist temple

12.   Racism at Golden Coral

13.   Each one of my 14 forever people, a special story…or write about each: my father loves…why? My father hates…why? My father wants…why? My father always…why?

14.   Connect colors with feelings/emotions and SHOW why through stories. Or emotions connected with objects…love=roses…why? Fear/happiness/loneliness/pain/anger/death/danger/safety

15.   “Grandma is my Santa clause” so I never believed in another

16.   My first best friend and how she told me “you’re not my best friend.”

17.   “Bobby got ugly,” The horrid song I wrote about that one crush

18.   My three classroom rules and tell stories about them for a piece on teaching

19.   The people who have made me the maddest. The lady on the bus—speaking in English so I wouldn’t make her madder in Portuguese

20.   My last will and testament—of all the things I don’t have to give…or parts of my personality…write what is truly important to me, what is priceless, what I want to pass on, what I want to say to my grandkids of good advice

21.   What I am most afraid of, and when it came true

22.   List ten things I will never write about, writing about them in the process

23.   A family memory that everyone in the family remembers differently. Tell each person’s version

24.   A regret or something that haunts me

25.   The opposite of what people think: the benefits of being fired, sick, broke, stood up…

26.   Use this paragraph, because I cut it out of a different paper: In the Indiana Art Museum there is a picture different from all the rest. That is why it is in the contemporary art exhibit. It is empty. An empty room with an empty hole. You think it is a gray canvas. You, being like me, then try to touch it. And reach nothing. You can reach as far as possible in every direction without getting caught by the art police, and still not feel anything. I love it. It freaks my sister out. Because it reminds us both of eternity. Of reaching and not touching the end. It tells you something of our personalities and beliefs.

27.   My bucket list and the story behind each one

28.   A fairy tale. My very own.

29.   Continue this on why I write: I write to remember. I write to concentrate. I write to forget. I write to feel release. I write to understand. I write to sort things through. I write to explain. I write to calm down. I write to share with others. I write to connect people. I write to feel connected.

30.   The life and writings of Paulo Freire. My word, I have said I would do this for YEARS.

31.   It is not anti-poverty, it is pro-abundance. What makes it such a difference, and how changing our mindsets can start the ball rolling

32.   Finally put together something about how I fasted Ramadan

33.   A story made up entirely out of quotes

34.   Lies I believed

35.   100 things to do with…paperclips, Redhots, and other things

36.   How to fall in love/out of love

37.   How to ruin your life

38.   How to survive another country—go through my old journals and find the funny stories/misunderstandings I had

39.   Nightmares and dreams: my most reaccuring nightmare is about my contacts. Sleepwalking/talking issues, remembering Anna’s dreams as my own, the ones I wrote out, something about Freud and dreams—I could analyze them, and awake vs. asleep dreams—first dreaming in Brazil

40.   A list of holidays throughout the year. Have something special for each day. And make sure the dates are right because the last time I copied something off the internet, half the dates were wrong. Make sure to have things like dates special food (Coke) was invented, Birthdays of important people, food celebrated days, holidays from other countries, and so on

Someone told me about three types of fear: the fear of punishment, of loss of reward, and of broken relationship. That sums up the motivations that drive most of what I do. If I don’t drop these books off at the library, I will have to pay the fine. If I don’t study for this test I won’t get an “A.” If I am not a good friend my friends won’t like me. Now I am on to bigger things. Things like Hell.

1.       Fear of Punishment: “Dear God, don’t let me go there. Amen.”

Fire insurance. That is what being a Christian was for me at age 8. I liked Jesus, God, and all of the stories, but the push over the edge was hell. I will be honest: I laid in bed, scared out of my wits that I didn’t do it right. I re-prayed the sinner’s prayer every night, just in case I didn’t wake up. Because it didn’t hurt to make sure. And it would hurt if I’d messed up.

“No one likes the idea of hell.” My pastor said, “I mean, who sits around going ‘hell—yeah, that is my kind of idea!’ Maybe some sickos, but that is something else. If it were about picking and choosing what we wanted from the Bible, we wouldn’t throw out “God loves you” and keep the idea of hell. I wouldn’t.”

C.S. Lewis is amazing. My theological discussions involve references to the Narnia book series or something he wrote, like “The Great Divorce.” He doesn’t say it is truth, he just says it is a story of how it might be. Of how he is trying to wrap his head around things. And I want it. I want it to be right so badly.

“I don’t think it is true.” My sister told me, “They are beautiful ideas and it made me, for the first time, stop and really think that maybe everything could be ok. But I don’t think that is what the Bible is talking about.”

To which I politely thought “Shit.” And I don’t think dirty words often. I don’t like them.  Out loud I said “That is really honest. I don’t think I am ready to be that honest yet.” And then I got even more scared to read the new Rob Bell book. I didn’t want to travel my thoughts down the rabbit hole because it is dark down there. I like forgetting how much I don’t know about everything.

I didn’t want to sit and write about it. Because then I would have to think about it, and come to some conclusion and DEAR GOD, don’t let it be hard. Don’t let it be ugly. Don’t let it be something no one gets and everyone looks at me weird.  I want to sound cool and insightful and interesting and open. At least logical.  

We’ve all been asking the questions, but Rob Bell decided to lug them all out into the open in his book “Love Wins.” We have to yell at him for that. I don’t think Rob Bell got everything right. I don’t think C. S. Lewis did either. And I know I don’t have it all right. But we were/are looking.  I can’t explain away all the references to Hell the way he did, just like I couldn’t with homosexuality. Trust me, I tried. And while I think very differently about homosexuality today than I did in the past, I still know that it is wrong. I just don’t have all the answers. And it doesn’t make me happy.

I think you should read the book. Because if you are not asking the questions it brings up, someone you love is. And telling them to go read the Bible isn’t enough unless you are doing it with them. Read it, even if you’re whole point is to disagree. Rob brings up some good points. Don’t just accept the whole thing either: test it, just as the Bereans tested the Bible.

2.       Fear of Loss of Reward: Is it worth it?

Growing up, I realized if Christianity was just about heaven it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t feeling suicidal, so I still had this life to deal with. If Christianity didn’t work now, I wasn’t ready to step out and believe it would work after death. On the garage, A friend and I graffiti pasted the question “Is there life before death?”

I am a child of my generation with this uncanny ability to piece together what makes sense into a web of semi-solid information that I feel comfortable living with: I won’t read the instruction booklet for the DVD player, but I will look at the pictures and experiment until it works. But is that enough when it comes to eternity?

 “Our eschatology shapes our ethics. Eschatology is about last things. Ethics are about how you live. What you believe about the future shapes, informs, and determines how you live now…so when people ask: “What will we do in heaven?” one possible answer is to simply ask: “What do you love to do now that will go on in the world to come?” What makes you think “I could do this forever?” what is it that makes you think, “I was made for this?” (Quotes are from “Love Wins” unless otherwise noted)

“Imagine being a racist in heaven-on-earth, sitting down at the great feast and realizing that you’re sitting next to THEM. THOSE people. The ones you’ve despised for years. Your racist attitude would simply not survive…Paul makes it very clear that we will have our true selves revealed and that once the sins and habits and bigotry and pride and petty jealousies are prohibited and removed, for some there simply won’t be much left. “As one escaping through the flames” is how he put it. Jesus is interested in our hearts being transformed, so that we can actually handle heaven.”

Some people use hell to scare people. They think if they let that go they will have nothing convincing enough to get people to come to church. Well, those people never did have anything convincing to make people come to church. And I hope they never will. Some people use the idea of no hell to think they can do whatever they want. That is no better. Trying to evade responsibility isn’t going to help you in this life or the next. Whether you add the label “Christian” or not.

 “Often the people most concerned about others going to hell when they die seem less concerned with the hells on earth right now, while the people most concerned with the hells on earth right now seem the least concerned about hell after death…There is hell now, there is hell later, and Jesus teaches us to take both seriously.”

I have to be honest with you. I have had less and less of a desire to pass out tracts. To go out and witness on a street corner. And I feel horrible about it. I have had more of a desire to love those around me. To cultivate intimate relationships that are open to saying “How is your heart? How are you and God?” My excuse was that some people are given the gift of evangelism, and some of other things. I was other things. Like discipleship.

I know life is better with Jesus. Because of my own life. So I want everyone I love to know Jesus. Because I want them to have a better life. A hope. A future. I want that for strangers, I just find it hard to explain to people I don’t do life with. Presenting the gospel is inviting someone to join your family. Family is a huge deal. And tracts don’t really…do that. But they might start the ball rolling, so I’ll end that discussion there.

3.       Fear of Breaking Relationship: “Your love is better than life.” Psalm 63:3

At a funeral the first question is “were they saved?” The response determines if your heart thuds down to the floor and stays there, or if it flutters with hope. How do you know if they were saved? You have those one people…you know them…where everyone is like “they will go to heaven for sure.” Most of the rest of us are more iffy—a good day or a bad day. Answers are based on judgment, or on words that have been spoken. What if they said the wrong words? What if we didn’t hear right?

Rob Bell discusses when someone commented that Gandhi was in hell. “Somebody knows this? Without a doubt? And that somebody decided to take on the responsibility of letting the rest of us know?” Were his questions. Is Gandhi in hell? I don’t know. I don’t know Gandhi. I haven’t even read the one book I have about him. All I know is his quote that hangs on my refrigerator “Be the change you want to see.” What sends someone to hell? When do you cross the line and deserve to be tormented forever? Forever. Based on 113 years, tops. Hopefully less.

What about a chance to accept Jesus after people die? Like in The Last Battle and they enter through the door and look Aslan in the face? Great idea, I think. True? I don’t know. It doesn’t say it in the Bible. If God wants to work it that way, yea. What about more than one chance? Like in The Great Divorce where they could go at any time to heaven from hell, riding a bus? Great idea, I think. True? I don’t know. It doesn’t say it in the Bible.

Once I asked God why he wouldn’t show me more than six months of my life at a time. He said because then I wouldn’t have to trust him.  He is right. I wouldn’t. I would get started on my life like a “To do” post it list. Maybe all of these things about the afterlife aren’t written in the Bible because God knew that then we wouldn’t find how great He was while we were here on earth. I don’t know. For some reason, He left out A LOT of stuff. Stuff that worries me. Stuff that makes me trust Him instead of being able to write out my beliefs in bullet point form.

“Religions should not surprise us. We crave meaning and order and explanation. We’re desperate for connection with something or somebody greater than ourselves. This has not caught Jesus off guard. Jesus insisted in the midst of this massive array of belief and practice that God was doing something new in human history, something through him, something that involved everybody (John 14:6).”  

If I can get “Jesus” differently than he really is, can someone who calls him some other name really be serving the same “Jesus?” I remember the story in The Last Battle of the boy who served Tash (representing another god) and found himself in Aslan’s country. When he saw Aslan, he realized that was who he had been serving the whole time. I never fully figured out what I thought about that.

Christendom has given me a vague but general outline of what it means to be saved. Believing in Jesus, accepting Christ, giving God your life…those are some of the words I try to describe it as. But really—most of it I have never found words for. In the end I mostly shrug my shoulders and say it is a personal relationship with Jesus.

Which, when you think about it, sounds absolutely ridiculous. You know Jesus? God? Creator? HIM? How? When did you talk to Him? What did he sound like? What did He say? Do you laugh together? Argue? I give another shrug, and a “yes.”

Boil down the issue of hell and you come face to face with God. Who is He? Do I have the right God? Have I warped my image of Him with the same manipulation that I do in other areas of my life? Is my Jesus just an idol hodge-podge of what is convenient to me? Of what sounds right? Of what feels right?
Just from dating I’ve learned that my emotions are screwy things not to be trusted. What about the bigger question of GOD? Darn it, I am in trouble.

God will show me. God is big enough not to let me screw it all up. I’ll keep learning. And probably rewrite this in ten years. When I finally got up the courage to question God, I hurled all my questions to a big black starless sky. I yelled really loudly. I scared the neighbors. He didn’t answer a single one. But at the end of the night, I knew He loved me.

I sat inside my bedroom, curled up behind the door with tears falling. A close friend had just committed suicide. Why? I asked God. No answer, but I knew He was crying too. He loved her more than I did. And from those and other experiences, I figured I didn’t know the answers, but if God loved me, and if He loved everyone else as much as he loved me, then the rest could be figured out later.

I believe there is a hell. I wish I didn’t. I believe there is a lot about hell I don’t know. In that not knowing is probably wiggle room—more than most are comfortable with—and less than what Rob Bell suggests. But I also know that God is just. And each person will be judged, punished, and rewarded. Justly. Perfectly. The exact right amount. The exact right amount of time. Yeah, that is scary. And not just for people who don’t call themselves Christians. For all of us.

I want the people I love—and that should be everyone—to be happy. It is my default position. And I know the way they can be happiest is with Jesus. So I tell them about Jesus. Because it works. Now. Later. In between. Whew. That was easier than I thought. Slightly.

I didn’t write anything. No 500 words. I ‘fessed up. But for Day 19 I wrote over 2500 words, so somewhere in my head I think that makes up for it. Happy Father’s day, Fathers. Too bad you are not as good as mine:).

I present the good me on xanga.

Darn it.

Because there is a LINK from the World Renewal page to it.

Because my parents read it

Relatives

Older, wiser people.

Who look at me and say “you know Rachel, that might not be appropriate.”

I go and hide somewhere familiar when this happens.

Like when I taught the girls “moda folka” which means a model seal in Portuguese.

I shouldn’t have done that.

Like when I complain about having to do things or

Sink into impressing people or

Write egotistical “please look at me” things

Or worse.

When people really think I have it all together.

My God, I know nothing.
Must I experience every little thing
Before I understand anything?
And then
Is it just waiting to be proved wrong again?

I feel bad about liking songs that are not called Christian or

Enjoying books by Anne Lamott who enjoys putting bad words into her books

I feel bad about wanting things I know I shouldn’t have

Or spending $20 on a journal when there are so many starving kids. 

I feel bad about liking Fight Club and being bewildered at the great big world

About liking people who are bad more than people who are good

Or thinking they make more sense.

I don’t want to be stuck here

In a set of rules

But I am scared.

I don’t want to fall into the other side of the ditch either

Tattooing is so permanent

I don’t want to do something just because I have the opportunity.

I want to see what is there before me
Make a choice and

Go after it with no regrets.

I want to make the opportunity

To hear the voice of God and never falter until I have reached it.

I read the story of the Widow’s mite

Holding in her hand all the money she had

Watching it slide down into the box

Locked away forever
And then walking away
Empty.
I want to be a person who lives

Not one who writes about those who live.

I write the best after I’ve messed up

Done something wrong

Wasted time or money or energy or something that isn’t mine to waste.

The moments around repentance hold brilliance.

I like other people’s problems so much

Because it makes me forget

I have so many of my own

Nothing more original to write.

Are there even combinations of words that have never been used?

Maybe I don’t have to be brilliant—I just need an audience.

Will you slip away if I am silent?

Please stay

Until I have learned to stop pretending I can entertain you

I don’t want to be found out

Because then people ask questions.

When people ask questions they have no time for answers and

You have to sit there listening.

Or do you?

Your brain is free

Free to fly to all the places the person in front of you is telling you not to go.

I used to think secrets were for sinners

For those who were too scared to live in the truth.

Then I got blasted by secrets, full in the face

They hurt so badly

I couldn’t understand them

They weren’t even mine

But they hurt

Now I hold secrets in many relationships

Most of it is simply not mine to tell

But I still want it simple

Say what pops in your head. Whatever moment it pops in there.

Share what you want, what you don’t want

What bothers you

What makes you happy.

Unfiltered.

They are not ready

Neither am I

Not on xanga

My 500 words today were put into a power point presentation about Brazil. And it was too nice a day outside to write anything more.

“Backdoor Guide to Short-Term Adventure.” Looked like a good book, so I checked it out of the library. I marked and re-marked pages, visited websites, signed up, and filled out 10 applications. Wilderness adventure tours, cruses, bike teams, camps…

Supercamp called me back. But the day they called was a bad day for me. I didn’t want anything to do with kids. Ever. Someone else from Supercamp called and thought I wanted to be a camper. No, I didn’t want that either. Somehow, I was referred to be a facilitator. One day before the deadline, I received an invitation for tryouts. I e-mailed back a polite “thank you, but no thanks.”

As soon as the e-mail was sent, I thought again. And told them to forget the previous e-mail. Tryouts were in Chicago, during the worst blizzard all year. Sliding off the road twice, I pulled the car out of the snow bank with one hand on the gas pedal, and two frozen feet hanging out the door.

The interview, from 8am-5pm, was intense. My 3 minute bio flopped. It was like a day at camp, and I was in another world. These were professional people: 35 twentysomethings from all over the US came. These were good, successful people…the kind of people I wanted to work with. I came to the interview just to give it a shot. I left, really wanting to be hired. Only ten were chosen.

Training was in Oceanside, CA—flight paid for. These people know their stuff. They really care about the kids and making a difference. They are what I want to be. It was better than any college teacher class: I learned how important the teacher is, and how I can be the difference.  They have everything organized, because everything speaks. Everything is on purpose, because they have a goal and will reach it. They let the student experience things before labeling, so they are a part of the learning process and they acknowledge every effort because if it is worth learning, it is worth celebrating.

Supercamp made me step up. Work hard, play hard. The first night of training they had us stand and tell why we came. I said because there are kids that only I will reach—and I want to make it count. I want to be the most effective possible, with whatever tools I have. I was also there for me—because when I am the best for me, I am the best for you.

I nailed it. There were moments where everything clicked and I walked away from a piece knowing I had done an amazing job—couldn’t have done better. I ran with the big dogs. Supercamp has harnessed efficient ways to use and connect learning strategies in ways that are engaging and memorable. Feedback was constantly given:  we would present short pieces, and then immediately be coached and given chances to step it up to the next level.

One intense piece is called barrier breaking: the kids write a goal on a thick wood board, and then what is a barrier to obtaining that goal on the other side. They put the board on two cement blocks and break it with their hand—through the barrier to the goal. It is a deeply emotional and empowering time as the whole team gathers around, jumping and shouting “yes, yes, yes!”

Supercamp opens your eyes to see how things CAN be. You are challenged, given the tools, and then pushed out. You are supported and not forced, but looked in the eyes and told what you both know:  “You will regret it if you don’t go for it.” Supercamp celebrates your efforts and successes, but more than that, it celebrates the real you, and who you are.

From this place, I can face my questions openly: “Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? Can I do this?” They surround me with the most powerful word in the English language, “Yes.” With the vision of what I want fresh in my face, I make a list of progress yet to be made. I go to bed tired, muscles sore–but tomorrow I will wake up to greatness, standing inside and outside of my door.

“My name is “no no no,” but daddy calls me princess.”

I didn’t want to be a princess, I wanted to be an inventor. Someone told me that girls who liked pink were sissies, so at age seven, my favorite color was blue. Twirling wasn’t on the list when I was growing up. I was going places, I was doing things. I have a picture with pigtails and bangs, wearing a tutu over my pants: that is because I wanted to be a famous ballerina, not a princess.

“What part of princess don’t you understand?”

I found it at Salvation Army. The dress. It looked perfect on me. A simple sundress, I could slip it on and feel fresh and beautiful. At 13, my parents always loved and encouraged me in all that I did, but they were just my parents. It didn’t matter how much they told me I was special—I needed to hear it from the general populous. I needed to hear it enough to drown out the doubts that were in my own head. When I was wearing that dress, I did. But when I took it off, the magic ended, and I was still sitting by the cinders.

“Being a princess isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” –Princess Diana

Self-esteem and confidence are not easily learned. I still remember the one time I was called “four-eyes,” instead of the many times I have been complemented on my glasses. I threw away the shirt I wore when I was called chubby, but I could not erase the affects. Princesses don’t always feel beautiful. I focused my energy on things that didn’t require pretty dresses and dainty manners. All that princess stuff was for sissies.  But I knew better.

“We can’t all be a princess…someone has to sit on the curb and clap as I go by.”

The bride wore white, and I wore purple. The thick luscious cloth with silver beads that rained down to my waist. It was her day, but she made me feel special and loved. I walked like a princess because I felt like one. My body and I called a truce and agreed to shake hands: maybe we could learn to like each other. Maybe it was important to invest in myself and take the time to pretty myself up. Somewhere along the way of growing up, I gathered the wrong information that spending time on how you look was selfish and frivolous. While I still want to glow from the inside out, sometimes shimmer lotion helps.

“It clearly states princess on my birth certificate.”

Before I left, my mother told me I looked beautiful and I twirled for her in agreement. I danced over the wood floors and never lacked for partners. I smiled and laughed, even when I wasn’t sure of what I was doing. Especially when I wasn’t sure. Because I find out soon enough. Tuesdays and contra dancing emphasize the princess in me, when I wear soft shoes and a skirt that twirls. But princessness is also in simple smiles and dirty jeans, creating beauty in moments and words, rather than just special clothes and complements.

“I prefer Princess. I would love to be known as a diva later on in life when I’ve had far more experiences.” –Deborah Cox

Another drop from my waffle cone falls onto the cast iron table, the sun melting it faster than I can eat it. I glare at the gates closing off Monument circle, across from the Chocolate café, which (lucky for me) sells more than just chocolate ice cream. The big crane hasn’t moved in weeks, hovering over where Lady Liberty used to watch over the center of Indianapolis.

I would rather be next to the fountain, watching the traffic circle around, clicking and clacking over the loose bricks. That was my favorite place to eat lunch when I worked in Circle center, folding and re-folding table displays and selling clothes to women I knew already had too many at home in their closet. I have always thought Indianapolis beautiful, but the circle is the climax.

After reaching the chocolate malt ball at the bottom of the cone, I unchain my bike and head home. I am a mountain bike kinda girl, but a flat tire has me using a friend’s Schwinn. It makes me feel elegant, as I try to correct my posture and imagine myself wearing a hoop skirt. But in that picture it was a bicycle built for two.

Road construction everywhere. I pass a tattooed and pierced poster boy, thinking “When did Naptown get so hip?” I remember that construction workers don’t think about bike riders as I enter and exit a huge gap between the street and the sidewalk. Under the tunnel I sing out the song playing in my ears and enjoy my echoes.

The grass really is greener, if you compare it to what is in front of the Anthem building. They have a patch so carefully manicured that I have promised to roll around in it one of these days. Across the street is the Consulado Do Mexico. I wonder how much easier it would be to get a visa to go there instead of Brazil. Walking my bike across the street, not from carefulness but because they forgot to put in a ramp, I make a mental note to learn how to make a Schwinn jump up five inches while I am riding it.

Virginia street has new cafes. I have not eaten in any of them. Shame. As I pass the Thai place, a friend calls out of his car: “Make sure to stay safe!” I laugh, but don’t slow down—the day is too beautiful. The picnic table outside of Peppy’s grill is full of smokers, talking about good times. I remember grilled cheese, listening to Garth Brooks on the jukebox. I was 17.

Fountain square has become an example of positive change, transforming from white trash central to hipster eco-artsy friendly. I made that up. From Maria’s pizza and perfect breadsticks to First Fridays, I love it. The bike shop sells the best homemade ice cream in town, and they will put freshly ground espresso on top for extra melted goodness. Every corner has surprises, and I still haven’t stopped to buy a seed bomb from the vending machine. But I have lain down in the parking lot and admired the Mother Teresa quote.  

Some guy is riding his bike behind me. If I ignore him he isn’t there. Under the bridges and past my church, I am proud of the old school that we have been able to use for so many good things besides Sunday morning. Like boxing and floor hockey. Does your church have boxing and floor hockey? On the left is the gas station where I lost my phone last week—as it fell out of my pocket while riding. I remember the nice man named Alex who returned it. There are many good people in the world.

Speeding up for the downhill/uphill, I am forced to stop and go around the car that creped out into the intersection to turn. Cars don’t understand bikes. White Castle smells make my tummy rumble. I might not eat meat, but I still like to smell it. Down Shelby I pass the open doors of a pizza place. It smells like a bowling alley. Bowling alley?

I stop at the drinking fountain next to the library. In August, they are redoing the library, but it will still be my library. There are whole sections of that place where I have read every book. I grew up there. The ladies who work there know me. Perhaps because I know how many books you can put on hold at one time. I know because I tried to get 76 and they wouldn’t let me. Over the creek, I call out “passing to your left!” but still have to slow down and go on the grass as the two men in conversation refuse to take notice of me.

Church’s Chicken reminds me to Kayla, when I used to drive her home from the youth center. No matter what day of the week it was, she would talk about how many days it would be until Tuesday. Because Tuesday was $.99 day at Church’s, and that was worth talking about.  There is a homeless looking man sitting on the yellow curb, enjoying his chicken. Just beyond is my sister’s house. Turning down her street I see her sweeping the porch, a little blond head just peeking over the screen windows.

I am trying to make a point of stopping in randomly to see Rowan. He is almost 15 months, and the only nephew I have. I want him to get used to the idea of having me as an Aunt. Before I leave again. Passing Laurel Wood apartments, I can hear little Terry at the youth center claiming “Lar-Wood! Lar-Wood!” over any other street.

To the left is the creek that John always wants to stop at, examining whatever river life might dare to reveal itself to an eleven year old boy. By then I am at the University of Indianapolis, rolling past the football field and track where I used to sneak in to practice my cartwheels. Two more turns and I am in the alley behind my house, so full of holes that I get off and walk my bike the rest of the way. There are three raspberries pink enough to eat, and I do so, before closing my bike in the garage, shushing the dogs, and walking in the back door. It is more than a bike ride home.