I don't have time to blog today, but here are some flowers for you:

Aren't they pretty?? I picked them yesterday on a Wildflower Walk.

At least three more hours of homework to do (after working straight since literally 8am-- with just one very productive break when I wrote a new song. :) So-- back to the grind... Oh, don't you BET I'm learning how to be a good teacher!!

How To Attend Your Internet Classes on a Gloriously Sunny Day:

1.) Go outside with laptop, lunch, water bottle, and fleece blanket.
2.) Spread fleece blanket on ground.
3.) Sprawl.
4.) Open laptop. Find that the sun prevents you from being able to see the screen.
5.) Pick up laptop, lunch, water bottle, and fleece blanket, and move everything close to the shade.
6.) Put laptop in the shade. Arrange everything else so that it's still in the sun.
7.) Sprawl.
8.) Check internet connection. Find that you've only got one bar.
9.) Try it anyway.
10.) Wait.
11.) Consider other options.
12.) Pick up laptop, lunch, water bottle, and fleece blanket; go inside.
13.) Go upstairs.
14.) Go out on Grandpa's balcony.
15.) Set laptop on wide wooden railing; check connection.
16.) Find that you have a strong signal.
17.) Fist pump.
18.) Try to arrange fleece blanket in tent formation around screen to enable viewing.
19.) View floppy tent formation with skepticism. Consider other options.
20.) Go down to basement.
21.) Find large box.
22.) Bring upstairs and out onto Grandpa's balcony.
23.) Place box around laptop.
24.) View screen easily with brand new woman-made shade.
25.) Fist pump.
26.) Go get chair to complete outdoor desk set-up.
27.) Bask:

28.) Enjoy:

29.) Start on homework.
30.) But first, procrastinate by blogging.

Something New

This weekend I went to my friend Morgan's wedding. Got dressed; curled hair; assembled purse; applied lip gloss. Rolled eyes as I walked out the door. "Hopefully this won't be miserable."

That's a terrible thing to say-- but there are certain times and certain circumstances that can make a person very reluctant to go to such a happy celebration. I went to a wedding last weekend too. It was such a nice wedding. I bawled my way through the Dad's toast. And unfortunately they weren't happy tears. Later ran out to the gazebo and let loose a cell phone litany of wedding woes to a dear friend. Maybe it's like Christmas to people who don't have good family situations, you know? Christmas should be happy, but sometimes it's just not. I sort of felt like that last weekend.

I talked about perceptions in the last post. I've had blackened eyes lately. I drove to Morgan's wedding practicing a smile in the rear-view mirror, trying to make it reach my eyes. Morgs had asked me to read scripture, which had made me feel really privileged. I'd practiced at home. I wanted to do a good job, and help make her happy day HAPPY, I wanted to contribute to a feeling of hopefulness, even if I felt anything but.

Her fiance, Mike, was greeting people at the front of the church. He saw me, and called out, "Greta!" and gave me a big hug, and I remembered why I always liked him so much. Mike is tall, and strong, and he's got the biggest silly grin. The first time I ever met Mike, he'd just driven three hours to see Morgan and he couldn't make eye contact with me long enough to shake my hand because he kept grinning at Morgs. That's when I decided I liked him. Mike ushered me into the church and found the wedding planner who would tell me when to read the scripture-- he made sure I was squared away and then left me with his signature grin to go back out front.

The church was breath-taking. All of my sorority girls were there-- I'd felt very uncertain to see them because it's hard to be happy on the surface when there's a lot going on underneath. I smiled, and tried to make it reach my eyes.

The wedding started.

Morgan was laughing and crying all the way down the aisle-- she's normally very funny and sarcastic so it was sweet to see her be so appropriately basket-cased. The pastor did a great job, and he kept faith in God a large part of the ceremony. That was great for me-- Morgan and I have talked a lot about God and faith since we were college seniors, but we'd been friends for a long time before that. It's become a big part of her heart lately, and it felt right to hear the pastor talk about a nail-pierced hand covering hers and Mike's in blessing, in salute, in encouragement, in promise. The two of them deserve that.

Jess and I went up to read scripture. Jess has a soothing, calm voice. I read Ecclesiastes after she finished with Ephesians-- my passage was about how "two are better than one," and when I looked up Morgan's specified passage initially, I thought, "Oh wow. Well this is just ironic." But I read it in the church, and it wasn't ironic, and it didn't feel like an opportunity for sarcasm, and I didn't feel bad about it. It was just good:

9 Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their work:

10 If one falls down,
his friend can help him up.
But pity the man who falls
and has no one to help him up!

11 Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
But how can one keep warm alone?

12 Though one may be overpowered,
two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

I read it slowly, letting pictures form in my head as I spoke. I thought of lying down next to someone, and being bolstered by the presence of that dear, warm friend. I thought of Morgan and Mike standing back to back, ready to battle anyone that threatened them. I thought of falling, and of having that hand extended, ready. I thought, "Two IS a good thing-- it's meant to be a good thing, and it CAN be a good thing." I turned around and looked at Morgan and Mike behind me, and Mike grinned big, and Morgan winked.

The pastor read adjectives describing the two of them that their parents had contributed. He described Mike as so kind-hearted, and considerate, which I had seen to be abundantly true. He described him as "frisky" which made everyone laugh. Morgan, he described as spunky, funny, as exuding warmth which I think is probably the best way to describe her. There's a reason my entire sorority pledge class came out for Morgan-- she, more than anyone else, had made everyone in our class feel listened to, and respected, and enjoyed. The pastor read the words that had been used to describe them together. "Best friends. Team mates." And my eyes stung with happy-- happy-- tears because they ARE such a team. From day one, they've been each other equals, campadres, boosters-upper. I watched this big strong man, and this tall elegant confident woman cry their ways through their vows and sparkle at each other.

I thought, "This is it. This is the right thing. It exists, and it is so, so good. I can hope for this. I can believe in this."

Because you see, I haven't known what to hope for lately. I haven't been able to come up with a potential happy ending that could fix where we're at lately. "We" are sitting in the mud, these days. I've sort of thought, "This is it, this is really the end of life as I know it, things aren't ever going to be the same again." But that's not true. They'll be different-- things will be very different- but they're not OVER. And I'm only 24. I still have my whole life to live. I get to lay my own bricks, choose my own path, I can believe that love could WORK for me, I can believe in the Two. If I remain one, that's alright too-- there are passages affirming Ones as well. :) But I suddenly felt seized with the strength of Hope, for either outcome. I don't need to succumb to an ending yet.

I am beginning.

I am beginning still.

And looking at Morgan and Mike gave me some picture of hope. I felt bolstered, and encouraged, and SURE, and renewed. It wasn't a picture that I need to find myself, I don't need to replicate THEM-- I just needed to see that hopeful example of love, and commitment, and of a good man and a good woman.



Later that night, at the reception, I caught the bouquet. I didn't mean to-- I tried going to the back, and off to the side, but it still went right to me, I would have had to dodge to avoid it. I waved it at folks with a roll of my eyes, and made wry retorts when people said, "You're next! You're next!"

But I put it in a vase when I got home. I allowed myself to appreciate it, for all its aesthetic loveliness, for all its sentimental meaning. Why not enjoy a relic from such a happy day?

It was a happy day.

And I'm so grateful to Morgs and Mike for making it so, and for helping me take a crucial step forward. Congrats you guys-- I am so HAPPY for you. :)

Wednesday Philosophizing

One of the books we’re reading in grad school right now is called, Love and Logic: Teaching in the Classroom. We read a chapter last night that dealt with perceptions— addressing our perceptions as teachers and also examining the perceptions that students may be coming in with. The book made the statement that there are essentially as many “world views” as there are people in it—that we form our perceptions based off our own unique life experiences, and those perceptions influence literally everything we take in, think about, process, and respond to.

So: Being the loser in 5th grade makes me empathize with 5th grade losers.

Reading storybooks with my Grandma in a mountain cabin in front of a fire made me love storybooks.

Having my parents build me up and tell me that I could do anything made me confident as a student, and encouraged me to give school a banner effort.

Climbing trees in my backyard with my siblings as a kid makes climbing trees as a 24-year-old feel safe and reassuring.

Etcetera.

This is why “the first cut is the deepest,” as Cat Stevens first pointed out. When people fall in love for the first time, their frame of reference-- their “field of understanding”-- does not yet include the vocabulary to articulate heartbreak, so they give their hearts over unreservedly. At least, I did. If and when that relationship ends… A person’s field of understanding has suddenly, brutally, expanded. Their perception of relationships and the opposite sex is suddenly influenced by this new wrenching experience. Going forward, you find those with perceptions influenced by one too many heartbreaks… And perceptions get jaded. Maybe cynical.

This is why Israelis and Palestines continue to fight, maybe. They have only grown up on their own side, and have only experienced a life where persecution came from the other side. Their separate perceptions do not harbor objectivity in the same way that a child growing up in Nebraska cannot harbor an idea of what the ocean looks like.

When Heidi and I were in Cork, Ireland, we ate breakfast in our hostel common room one morning, and there was a cartoon playing on the TV. The sound was off, but I was able to follow the story. There was an Evil Dude and, for some reason, he was bent on spreading hatred and discord. Evil Dude brainwashed a middle-aged-dad-looking-Home-Dude and turned him into an Evil Cupid. Dad-Looking-Home-Dude/Evil Cupid then flew around and shot arrows at people. Once hit with an arrow, the victim vehemently hated the next person he or she set eyes on, and the world started erupting in fights and road rage and arguments. When a person was hit with an arrow, the hit person’s eyes turned black. Their hearts turned off. They became cruel.

In one case, a handsome guy that had been previously depicted as very vain got hit with an arrow, and the next thing he saw was his face in a mirror. His eyes turned black, and he was suddenly horrified with his own appearance. He remained just as handsome, but he hated himself—he cringed in humiliation and embarrassment, and wore a paper bag over his head. He tried shaving off his hair, and just descended further into cringing self-loathing.

It was a scary cartoon.

Heidi and I left the hostel common room just as things were starting to turn around, so I know there was some remedy, some happy ending to the story… But the familiarity of those blackened eyes remained with me. We view the world, sometimes, through these blackened eyes. And what’s concerning is that, if our perceptions are being filtered through those eyes, we’re never going to be able to see anything that could change the black to a gentler color. Our world becomes warped through marred perception.

If we indulge in self-loathing, it’s hard to imagine how we could ever find ourselves valuable.

If we are “blinded by love,” we can’t imagine the possibility of fault in the object of our affection.

If we become jaded, it’s hard to imagine hope.

Our perceptions become our world—even if our world is completely different from the objective truth. Like Plato’s cave, if we’ve only ever seen shadows on the wall, we will never understand the concept of dancing bodies behind us.

I don't want to live in a warped universe. I need friends who will call me out, and re-inform my perceptions. I need, as a teacher, to make sure I understand the shape of my students’ worlds before I try to influence it with my own. I need to talk with people that have different opinions than me, and read books that volunteer ideas clashing with my own. I need to travel, and encounter perceptions that have been informed by completely different life experiences and cultures. I need to pray for eyes that see clearly. I need to pray for protection for my heart.

And, I think I could maybe use a good tree climb too. See the world from just a bit higher up.

Someone Keyed My Car

Initial Shock: JOSIE! What happened to you??

Little Lost Lamb: What...? Who...? Why...? Where'd they go....?

See No Evil: Maybe it will come off. (Rub rub.) Maybe it will come off some other time.

Profane Fist-Shaker: A**-HOLE SHI*-WIPE MEANIE SCREW-UP FU**ER!

Mother Teresa: It was probably some lost depressed soul. They need help.

Weepy Hanky Clutcher: But I need help too! Do I really deserve to have another random crappy thing happen to me??

Apprentice Monk: What did I do? Is this karma or something? What cosmic being did I piss off?

Profane Buddha: Whatever, key-wielding twot. Karma will bite YOU in the a**.

WWJD: Okay, but really. I should probably pray for them.

Veruca Salt: BUT I DON'T WANT THIS TO BE THERE!

Zero Tolerance: I just feel so violated.

Poor Little Match Girl: Don't they see my car is in the school parking lot? Can't they tell I'm a student? Can't they figure out that probably means I don't have money to fix this stuff?

Yoga Master: This doesn't matter. This is just a car. It still runs. It will all be fine. I don't have to let this get to me.

3-Year-Old Hand Tugger: But why? Why would someone do this? I don't have any enemies. What was the point??

Practical Adult: I'll have to call insurance. I'll need to see if they could take care of it. I'll need to contact an auto-body shop. I'll have to look into getting a pot of paint. I'll need to call Honda about getting the right color.

Tired Worn Out Student: This is so lame.

Greta: Lather, rinse, repeat. All of the above.

Les Hommes

Pronounced: layz ohm
Means: The guys

A return to the traveling tales now. And humor. :) I actually hope these boys DO translate to blogging as well as they did in person... This may turn into a "you had to be there" blog, but we'll try. :)

Besides our blue-eyed Betsy, there were three particular people that had quite a bit to do with shaping our Paris experience. Specifically, these gentlemen:


From the left to the right, we have Mael, Sylvain, and then Max. Oh gosh, I'm laughing just looking at them.

I'll start with Sylvain, since he's where the connections start:

I met Sylvain about four years ago when I was studying abroad in London. He came to stay with my English host family because-- dontcha know?-- he's a world renowned art expert and had to do some research in London. Oh! Sure! He found out that I was planning to come to Paris later after school ended and asked me where I was staying. "Probably just a hostel," I offered, and without hesitating he responded, "Zat ees reediculous! You must stay weeth me and my familee!" ...OKAY! When staying with Sylvain and his family, I was impressed with his exquisite taste for all the finer things, and amused at his blatantly aristocratic leanings. At one point, he told me all about how the French Revolution was really not the best thing to have ever happened, and, in fact, King Louis actually contributed quite a lot in his day. I got the impression that, were Sylvain to have been around during the Revolution, he would have held his head high all the way to the Guillotine. :)

My description of him had Heidi initially a bit intimidated, even though I did my best to convince her of his darling demeanor and generous attitude. Our first meeting with him was enjoyable and very polite-- but I think Heidi might have continued to feel a bit intimidated by Sylvain's expertise and taste had we not thrown Max into the mix...

Max is Sylvain's brother and the most hilarious, lively, entertaining caricature I may have ever met. Within minutes of being in our company, he was poking fun of his big brother, pretending to fall asleep when Sylvain talked about anything, and Sylvain, in turn, threw it right back at him. When Max rhapsodized about food (he's a nutritionist and a CHEF!), Sylvain interrupted with jesting interjections. Like so:
MAX (to Heidi): So, you see-- we have dis cheese... And CHEESE--
SYLVAIN: Is made from MEELK...
MAX: Oui, of course, and it--
SYLVAIN: And it's WHIIITE...
MAX (giving up and playing along): And, you know, it comes from COWS...
SYLVAIN: Or GOATS...
MAX: And you gonna EAT it with BREAD...
SYLVAIN: Which comes from WHEAT...

They both made each other ridiculous, and in turn, made us ridiculous with laughing. And, whereas Sylvain's accent is proper and Parisian, Max has somehow been influenced with some John Wayne-- speaking all of his "i's" as a Southern "a." Like, "We gonna have two thangs."

Mael was the last to arrive-- the cousin of Max and Sylvain. Sylvain had told us girls that Mael was coming to visit as a distraction from some recent heart-break, and requested that we do our best to distract him. We whispered back that we thought we could certainly manage that. Before the end of the weekend, the initially reserved Mael was making face flaps with the rest of us, and taking over as the head of our group to teach us how to cha cha and mambo. He spoke English about the same way I spoke French (read: willingly, but with lots of clutching for words in the air) and we made each other laugh as we bumbled over teasing each other.

But see now... At this point-- this is where I can't even attempt to put them into blogging form. How could I?? It would take too long to describe the stories behind Sylvain attempting the seduction of a duck with a piece of strawberry tart... Or of Max leaning out the second-story window with a towel over his head, waving a scroll and yelling, "You weeel FIIIND your GEEFTS!!!" (You will find your gifts!) ... It would be too difficult to describe WHY exactly I was imitating a Velociraptor on the train platform, or why it took us about 15 different determined attempts to take a picture "Abbey Road" style in Chantilly. I can't do justice to the conversation around Max's decadent dinner table about dogs versus cats, because I could never replicate everyone's different accents and hand motions, and furthermore, I can't explain just how funny it was to be taught the Mambo and the Cha Cha by Mael at 2am on the Paris streets, on the night before Bastille day.

I can't do those stories justice. But I can say: these gentlemen made our last four days in Paris the best of the entire trip. And I can certainly provide the face flap pictures. Those are too good to keep in a drawer.
MAX:

SYLVAIN:

MAEL: (Mael's is especially horrific-- keep in mind that these are handsome boys!! Face flaps just CANNOT be rivaled for uglificating)

BETSY: (Nice touch with the cross eyes, dear!)

MISS HEIDI:

And, last but not least, Myself. In fine flapping form:


Nous aimons les hommes. Et nous allons toujours!

Down Deep

A disclaimer: to those of you who have become accustomed to Lavied’unefille providing breezy, chipper tales of far off yonders… Beware the blog below. It is not that. Promise: a return to the humorous after this one, as there are more traveling tales to tell, and some quite entertaining. But not tonight.


Last year, when I was studying for the exam that would supposedly prove my mettle as a potential English teacher, I pillaged online Sparks Notes for summaries of classic novels that I had yet to read. The title of one such novel was, “Things Fall Apart.” I don’t remember anything else about the novel except that it had something to do with Africa. The title, however, has remained in my memory.

Things fall apart. The phrase came to mind aplenty while traveling: We’re lost; we don’t know where we’re staying; we don’t know how to get there; we can’t find gelato. Things fall apart.

The phrase has come to mind, in greater fist-clenching resonance, since being home.

I think of Einstein’s theory of thermodynamics—isn’t that the one? Where he claims that everything progresses toward chaos? Not toward greater order and harmony—but rather toward discord. Toward pieces. I think of the Garden wilting into Desert, our once pristine ozone becoming cluttered and choked. I think of glittering empty space filling with debris, I think of a Pangea being ripped and torn into seven lonely parts. I think of Native American chiefs becoming casino owners, I think of faith disappointed and questioned, I think of glaciers breaking, of stars dying, of leaves separating from their maternal branches and falling to frosted ground.

Things fall apart.

I think of this. I think of the crushing situation that Heidi and I’ve returned to which I’ve yet to specify on this public blog. Is that irksome? It must be; I apologize for the cryptic scenery. But: I don’t want to specify it yet on this public blog. It looks like a severed smoking tree, split down the middle, lightening still buzzing on the ground. That’s about what we’re dealing with. Except with people.

Is this growing up? The dealing with the falling apart of things, important things, is this maturity? Today I pictured myself as a well, being carved with great cuts deeper into the earth--- more room for depth of sorrows, and simultaneous heights of joy. As a child, maybe I just had room for trinkets. Now, I’m afraid there’s room for dying stars to find a grave in, and it seems so devastatingly adult to consider what souls must expand for. It makes me feel alone.

---------

There’s a Psalm that’s been going through my head as I’ve been wading through this; it’s one that Annie happened to offer up independently to me too, for comfort. The first time I ever read Psalm 46, I pictured some apocalyptic movie with a young preacher dude as a hero. I pictured him rising up above the rubble, gripping the hands of those less steady even as the winds roared around him and fiery wreckage fell from the sky. This is the battle cry he yells in the midst of it all:

God is our refuge—an ever-present help in times of trouble! Therefore we will NOT fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea—though its waters roar and foam, and the mountains quake with their surging…! Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall—He lifts His voice—the earth MELTS…! Be still—be still— and KNOW that He is God!

I love that the “Be still” command comes within chaos. As these things are crumbling, as my soul’s well must deepen to accommodate further grief and surprise, I am told to rest, to be still, to trust, and to wait. My foremost prayer through all of this has been, simply “Oomph.” The image in my head is just the lifting up of a BIG big weight, and asking that it be taken from me. Be still. As things fall apart, be still, and be rescued.

Deep calls to deep 

In the roar of your waterfalls; 

all your waves and breakers 

have swept over me.
By day the LORD directs his love, 

at night his song is with me— 

a prayer to the God of my life.
Why are you downcast, O my soul? 

Why so disturbed within me? 

Put your hope in God, 

for I will yet praise him, 

Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him.
My Savior and my God.

Things fall apart.

I hope to be rescued.

Returning

I'm at this bustling, sunny, warm Queen Anne cafe right now-- achieving splendid success in my first grad school attempt at procrastinating. I was worried I might have lost the knack since being an under grad... But no. Still got it. Got it strong. Live strong. Like Lance.

Let me tell you something.

I have seen so many things over the past five weeks. You've seen them-- you've been looking at this blog. Heidi and I have clambered over mountain tops, we've slept on racing trains, we've roasted on Italian cliffs, we've gorged ourselves on the finest French delicacies, we've danced until dawn in small Irish towns, and we've guessed and soared and laughed and wondered and wept and sighed.

And now I am home... I am back to what is, supposedly, familiar. I honestly hadn't given "home"-- in the SEATTLE sense-- much thought. I thought of my family, I thought of grad school. I didn't picture what it would be like. I didn't consider whether or not returning would be good or bad or beautiful or new. I just thought, "HOME NOW, HERE WE GO." Better ramp up. Here we go.

This is what it is like:
I rode my bike to school yesterday, and I rode it home. I passed happy, fit Seattleites on the trail-- I was greeted by them and congratulated on the mutual enjoyment of the warm weather. I crossed the Fremont bridge and took in a big breath of water mountain view. I smelled the coming black-berries and remembered discovering that smell last year, and the huge host of sentiments attached to it. I realized that I've been BACK, in Seattle, for a year. I rode my bike, and I LIKED riding my bike, and I liked thinking of myself as a bicycle commuter, because that is what happy fit environmental Seattleites do, we ride bikes, and I was riding my bike, and I was in THIS culture, and I knew that I was a successful person in THIS culture, because I was Burke-Gilmaning.

This afternoon, I am in this sunny cafe, and there are "Adam" comic strips on the cafe wall because the comic that writes "Adam" comes here to drink coffee. I am drinking a macchiato, which is similar to the tiny espresso shots that Heidi and I drank in Europe, but it's stronger, because Seattlites have attitude about espresso and we like to be the toughest, most resilient coffee drinkers ever. This is MY culture-- these are MY people. There are people sitting outside in the adirondack chairs, because it's a sunny day, AND YOU DON'T WASTE THAT.

It's so heart-warmingly familiar.

I'm in school again, and I'm stressed again, and I have homework again. I have books to read, and skills to prove. This too, is familiar, and I love it. I love having my brain stuffed for six hours, and then leaving for some sweet Seattle spot to stuff in some more on my own. I love the intake-- I love returning to this. I haven't been a student for two years. I haven't been a Seattleite for five weeks. I'm back in both, and it's like returning to a hug.

It's such a surprise. I'd forgotten. I hadn't expected. I LOVE this. I do miss the traveling-- especially in the worst school moments when everything is crashing on my head-- but I'm blown away by how much I love what I've come back to. I didn't even do the reflection/analyzation that I usually do either! This warmth has totally snuck up on me-- like a friend holding a flower behind his back and then producing it with a grin and a flourish. See?? Like it?? And I do.

Circumstances are not easy-- I didn't return home to the lowest branch on the tree, I have a daunting climb ahead of me this year-- both in the personal and intellectual spheres. But there is warmth and familiarity and loveliness to cushion the difficulties. I'm so thankful for that.

This is MY culture. This is MY place. This is something new, and it's something I know so well. This is what's ahead of me. This is what I get to embrace.

Oh Yeah... Real Life

Things that are amazing:
My own bed.
Places to PUT things. (I love having places to PUT things!!!)
The shower at my Grandpa's house.
Reacquainting myself with my wardrobe.
Having a cell phone to CALL PEOPLE WITH.

Things that are not:
The millions of logistics that go in hand with starting grad school- oh that's right-- TODAY.
Not having Heidi right next to me.
No more Paris patisseries.
No more Paris.

More intelligent de-briefing/summing up later on... For now... I'm still jet-lagged. What?

Nous Allons Returner a Demain!!

Prounounced: nooz ah-lon reh-turn-ay ah deh-mahn
Means: We're coming home tomorrow!!

Strange but true... These five weeks are actually finished. Paris has been fantastic-- a beautiful, historical, legendary city that has been enhanced by some of the best company yet-- our Chamonix love, Betsy, and now we're staying with my French friend Sylvain, his hilarious brother Max, and elegant cousin Mael. Fantastic, hilarious men, all. :)... Also made dreamysodreamy by some of the best cuisine yet. No, I take it back: THE best cuisine yet. Which, you all understand by now, is SAYING something!!

Will post more pictures upon our return-- arguing with a slow internet connection at the moment-- but wanted to acknowledge the impending plane ride and departure from this most excellent continent. Coming home is something we've looked forward to with simultaneous excitement and reluctance... But that makes sense, right?? We have missed home, the familiarity, our friends, and especially our family... But we've had an amazing time. We have met amazing people. We've had a blast, and (miraculously) still love and enjoy each other after 35 days of non-stop proximity. We have been taken care of, and truly blessed. Expect us to come home happy and full of stories to tell.

And also, a teeny bit rounder. :)

See you soon!