the wild wild west

Aurora, Colorado to Las Vegas, New Mexico 305 miles

Las Vegas, New Mexico to Sanders, Arizona 287 miles

Sanders, Arizona to Flagstaff, Arizona 153.1 miles

Flagstaff, Arizona to Needles, California 306.5 miles

**Grand Canyon**

Needles, California to Barstow, California 138.5 miles

Barstow, California to Bonsall, California 294.2 miles

**San Diego**

Bonsall, California to Barstow, California 267.7 miles

**Las Vegas**

Barstow, California to Glendale, Nevada 496.4 miles

Glendale, Nevada to Junction I-70 (Utah) 237.6 miles

Junction I-70 (Utah) to Parachute, Colorado 305 miles

Parachute, Colorado to Aurora, Colorado 236 miles

TOTAL 2,722 MILES

I knew this trip was going to be good. Somewhere between awaking at 4 am to get on the road on Day 1, Dad's continous singing and ridiculous dancing to The Who and Bruce Springsteen (which, for the lack of our ingenuity by forgetting to bring any other CDs, we listened to the ENTIRE road trip), and the beautiful scenery on the endless roads in Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, and Utah, I became aware of just how cool this was. This was no ordinary road trip. I was getting the chance to explore. Explore the West, explore the frontier. Okay, maybe that's being a bit dramatic. After all, it is easy to develop some over sentimental and romanticized version of the West, the land of cowboys, horses, and ghost towns, remaining from the crazy days of the wild wild west. Nevertheless, as we rev'd up the F-150 (yes, we took a freaking TRUCK for our epic journey), I knew I would be seeing and experiencing things that were just...beautiful.

After I woke up just past Trinidad, Colorado (the sex change capital of the world, mind you) I began to immerse myself in a new book. It's called Leaving Microsoft to Change the World. It's one man's story of leaving behind the corporate world to help with illiteracy worldwide. It brought me back to Vietnam, and I spent some of the first moments on the road remembering. Remembering the incredible children, the village, and how I fell in love with Vietnam. An interesting thing to think about as we trekked out West.

As we pulled up for fuel in small town, Arizona, we were welcomed to a full service gas station. Window wiping, oil checks, the works. They even pump your own fuel. I had never seen a full service gas station before. Ever. To make matters even more interesting, the man helping us was a Navajo Indian, dad said. My dad can be ruthlessly shy at times, but for whatever reason, always makes friends pretty easily on trips, and talks to strangers for days. He talked with this guy about his life, him working at the station, and living on an Indian reservation. It got me thinking--because we passed reservation after reservation during our car ride in the Southwest. What is it like? How would it feel--are they happy having land and area to preserve the practices? Or are they pissed? Having to just, I don't know, stay secluded and stuck on a limited piece of land. I don't really understand it. But I want to learn more.

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The Grand Canyon

You can google image the Grand Canyon all you want. You can find pictures in books, pictures that you might think do it justice. But, when you walk slowly towards this magnificent creation and just stop. And look. The goosebumps are overwhelming, and it's clear no picture could do this place justice. The Grand Canyon is in a word, grand, and honestly, it didn't feel real to me. It was so surreal, it looked like God was painting on this earth and He just kept going. It's large. It's huge. And it didn't look real to me. Seriously. The colors of reds, browns, pinks, oranges, greys, and more unite together and just pop. The crevices are neverending, and the shape of the rocks and the canyon itself is remarkable. It was a moving experience to see the Grand Canyon, and even though tourists were everywhere, license plates from California, Pennsylvania, Florida, Arkansas (GLORY!), and even people from all over the world, I felt strangely alone. I closed my eyes and felt the wind, and smelled the rocks, and could not believe I was in the presence of something so...cool. This is just the begininng of the variety of American landscape we will get to see.

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San Diego

So, I feel dirty. There's sand under my nails, the scent of salt on the skin of my body, and sweat seeping through my bright orange Hendrix shirt. So, really, maybe I'm clean. Because I feel rejuvenated, relaxed, and joyful. I just got back from a run around San Diego, on Fashion Valley Boulevard, no less, and before that, soaked up all the California sun I could. You see, earlier today we drove through the Mojave Desert and it was HOT. Yet, even with the A/C running, I wanted that heat. So, I pushed the gas pedal harder, anxious for our rendevouz at the beach. I wanted to go fast like the red mustangs cruising passed us, to leave the Sierra Nevada in the dust, and to beat the sun. It was a race, a race I wanted to win. I guess the California sun has an interesting effect on people, or at least weirdos like me.

Yesterday was another sunny day in Southern California. We spent the first part of the day at Sea World. I loved seeing the animals. Especially the manatees and the orca whales!! But, as awesome as it was to see "Shamu" and company, I just found it unsettling to watch the animals perform tricks for thousands of people. Maybe it's all they know, but what if know about the world out there. About the expansive ocean, about the ocean floor--what if they know!? They should be free. I don't know the whole story though. And I did have fun at sea world, I really did. But I couldn't shake the vibe of consumerism and capitalism there. Later, at Mission Beach, we met up with Savannah and her and I had the chance to catch up. I love seeing Hendrix people outside of Hendrix. She took us to downtown San Diego, and her and my family just hit it off, despite our conflicting conversation about Obama and the pending health care reform situation. I guess you can't win them all. Wow, I'm so glad we came here.

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Las Vegas

Vegas is unlike anything I have ever seen: there are so many lights, people, and energy. But I suppose that doesn't separate it from any other big hoppin' city. Las Vegas is all this--and more. It's flashy and extravagent. Frankly, it's sinister. Billboards and cards are all over the place with nearly topless women. The place just screams money & sex. And for a little while, I didn't like it here. I just didn't get it. And then, slowly, I started to feel the fun vibe. People come here to relax and party. And I looked around, and saw people genuinely having a good time. Maybe I don't drink, maybe I don't even party that much, but hell, if I was 21, I could come here. I could come with my girlfriends, and we could have fun. I know it. After all, there was a show that featured HOT Australian men...enough said. I sneaked passed the casino frequently, with Lance riding my tail, to catch a glimpse of gambling. It's a strange world, and it was one of those things where you just can't look away. Vegas is kind of like that. You just can't look away. Now, would I get married there, as I saw some do? HELL NO. But, for a couple days of laying on the roof top pool, walking the Vegas strip, and riding intense rides on the top of our hotel (over 1000 feet in the air!) I had a great time. And as quickly as we came, we left. On our last night, after getting into bed right around midnight, my dad jokingly said we could leave then as opposed to getting up at 4 am. We laughed. And then decided, what the heck, let's just do it. Spontaneity at its finest. We jetted out of Vegas right around the time when most people's nights there had just begun. And we drove back to Colorado.

What a trip!

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It's an interesting thing, to begin a summer exploring the land of Vietnam and then ending the same summer roadtripping across the West. A perfect way to begin. A perfect way to end. And then theres everything in between. I saw beautiful things these past 3 months. Things that have changed my life. Things that have challenged me. As I pack up and hit the road, leaving home for my other home, I'll look out the window and smile.

But as the sun sets, it also rises.

A new day begins.

A new year at Hendrix.

A new year of adventures.

I'm ready.

redemptive love

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it. ~Clarence Budington Kelland











People talk about gifts that God gives them and blesses them with—strength, passion, love. Some of these are like flowing rivers, constants that shine through people all the time. I know people like this. When I think of determination I think of mommy, when I think of strength I think of Grandma Genevra, and when I think of courage I think of my dad. There is just something about associating beautiful characteristics to the people around you. What happens when these characteristics are not enough? What happens when words cannot evoke the perfect sense of feeling, the right description of qualities? More importantly, are these words just a figment of our imagination, a creation to attribute others with boxed in traits?

Regardless, God does equip us with abilities and with His love, so that in our lives we can exemplify His love. Lately, what I have witnessed is His power to give you feelings and abilities you may have never known existed.

When I first found our my dad had gotten in trouble, I didn’t know what it meant and to what extent he was in trouble. My parents were already divorced and when my mom told me that dad was coming over to dinner, I knew something was up. Dinner? Talk? What words were going to be exchanged? I feared more words would be splattered like a snowball thrown against a barren tree, in which the snow would fall and spill over, like our family. When he came it was weird. But it also felt okay—my parents were cordial, warm even. We ate and sat down in the living room and he spoke. It’s a blur now—the words from his mouth are beyond me, like a fuzzy dream that no matter how hard you push to remember, you just can’t. He came to tell use he got a DUI. Drinking Under the Influence. He got it a couple days prior to this. He had been driving in his beloved black ford truck, and drinking beforehand, when he slammed into the side of the road. Nobody got hurt. No other car was involved. He didn’t even get physically hurt. His car was totaled. And because of the offense he had to spend the night in jail.

He had to go to jail.

Jail. My father. My daddy. In jail.

My whole body went numb. How could he do this?

God it was so bad. But it was bad enough that is happened. I couldn’t concentrate for the next few days, I was completely lost and wanted nothing more than to escape. It was worse though, how I responded. I was angry, disappointed, sad, but mostly angry. I tried to tell him everything was okay and that I wasn’t mad at him. I tried so hard not to be. Everything started to return to some sense of normalcy, but I felt I was carrying a heavy burden. A burden that weighed heavily because I was still so angry. Everytime my dad and I would disagree or argue, I would throw everything back in his face. I would use my anger as a weapon and try to feel better from my dad’s guilt. It was awful, and I cringe when I think about how I used to be. I am not proud of that person, and I am disappointed. I think apart of it was how high I held my dad up; I put him on a pedestal, I wanted to be everything that he was. So, when this happened, it all came crumbling down. Yet, maybe I had to go through all of that to learn who I didn’t want to be. Maybe going through that opened my eyes, trust me, it opened my heart.

It took years for me to forgive. To truthfully release the anger in my heart, the burden on my back, and the regret in my soul. I don’t recall exactly when it happened, but I knew God had given me an attribute that I never knew I could have—the ability to forgive. It was a long road there. I went through emotional hell, and put my dad through it too. I blamed his mistake, and his alcoholism for the divorce. Granted, it was apart of it, but his issues were in no way the only reason my parents’ marriage fell apart. They fell out of love, they weren’t happy. The drinking was more of a result of the unhappiness, if anything. The words of bitterness leaving my tongue were not me—I knew that—but it kept happening anyway.

Yet, healing and forgiveness came along one day. It didn’t happen in an instant, it was a long time coming, but when it came everything changed. My world wasn’t a battle as much as it was a sincere effort to find love. The best part is that my heart transformed. You might say I woke up, and I smelled the coffee! I didn’t use my anger as a means to build a wall up from my dad, instead, it tore the wall down. God gave me the ability to forgive my dad. I thank God for that.

I needed that more than anything. It’s a funny thing to feel anger leaving your body. It’s like taking the first jump into the pool on a scorching hot summer day. It’s refreshing and nothing has ever felt so good. That was the beginning of my challenge. Forgiving my dad and investing new joy and love into that relationship became a priority that topped all other things. We went golfing, to Chipolte, and of course spent many lazy Sunday afternoons throwing the football around outside. With anger subsided I could tangibly see all the beauty that my dad’s heart entails—his witty sense of humor, his devotion to his family, and his strange personality that always embarrasses me, but I have grown to admire, and at times emulate. The challenge of forgiveness did not completely diminish though, because I could feel it in my heart. Not the forgiveness I found to give to my dad, but the forgiveness of myself. Forgiveness, you see, can at times be two-fold. It goes both ways.

I forgave daddy.
I did.
But me?
How could I put him through that?
What kind of daughter does that?

I would watch my friends with their dads and I would feel horrible. Like, something was eating at my insides. Because I felt terrible for not supporting him when he needed me most, and for letting him down.

This was something I had to reconcile. I prayed. Over and over.
But my heart wouldn’t budge.
I was holding myself in contempt and didn’t think I deserved to be forgiven.

To this day I feel a tinge of guilt for spewing anger at my dad when he made that mistake; that mistake that changed him, and made him better. I feel guilty for choosing anger instead of love.
But somehow along this journey I have found peace. I have found solace, and it brings tears to my eyes, because it has been the most redemptive and freeing emotion that I have experienced. This peace has set me free. God once again, has provided that which I though was impossible.

I have forgiven myself.

As the cans of beers have slowly dwindled away, due to my dad’s steadfast commitment to get his drinking under control, my heart has slowly, but surely come to find contentment. God is so good, and I am so blessed to have been through all of this. It’s taught me about myself, daddy, life, and God. As I relinquished my guilt, I can look back and literally see how God was working in my life. Right around the time I was able to forgive myself, was the time I really found Jesus. God works in funny ways like that.

I’m embracing my life fully knowing and at the same time, being utterly unaware of God’s magnificence and His abilities. I have experienced the beauty of His love and power, and I now know that anything is possible.

My dad is one of my best friends. He is quirky, funny, weird, hilarious, loving, and strong. That man, he is so strong. The things he has been through are unbelievable, and yet through it all he becomes a better person everyday. I am lucky, so lucky, to have him as my dad. I wouldn’t be me without him. I wouldn’t be loud. I wouldn’t be fearless. I wouldn’t be strong. My dad got me through not just this struggle, but just about every other struggle I have faced. My dad is my hero.

No regrets.
No bitterness.

It’s the only way to live. <3>

photograph

It’s hard to look through photographs and not smile. It could be the awkward middle school days, of weird clothing, glasses, and braces. Or maybe it’s that picture with your dad, his strong and comforting arms waiting for your arrival down the slide at the park. Pictures evoke emotion, memories, and nostalgia. Often times, I have found this emotion to be unprecedented, like a tidal wave has overcome me with feelings I didn’t know I had.

Over break I went through lots and lots of pictures. I have always been a “picture person”, keeping pictures of everything all over my room. I decided it was time to clear through the mess and find the pictures that I really loved. There was one picture in particular that I found that I had never seen before. I remember the park pretty clearly in my mind, or at least I used to. From the beginnings of my preschool days I would have sworn to you that the park was called “Heather’s Park.” This was not in labor to sound conceded or stuck up, literally my daddy told me the park was named for me, and as silly as it seems now, I believed him. I believed him because I believe everything he says. He is my dad, and in some ways I have always had this unyielding adoration for him. In this picture, we are at “Heather’s Park” and if I close my eyes I can almost take myself back there. The sweet scent of grass after it has just been perfectly manicured, the scratchy and itchy feeling of the sand against my small bare feet, the chirping of the birds, chirping as though they are singing about the beauty of cool Colorado summers. I remember it all. My dad has his typical shorts and tee and a baseball cap on, as for myself, I was wearing one of many colorful flowery outfits that I loved as a child. I am coming down the slide. I’m guessing I was going pretty fast—I was a pretty adventurous child, and I can’t imagine myself not wanting to go down the slide at a ridiculous speed for a tiny 40 lb. child. I have a grin on my face—one of those grins where you can see everything, even the tiny gaps from missing teeth that the tooth fairy has already come to fetch. I am truly happy, and when I look at that picture I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of love from my dad. I went and showed him the photo after I found it and he chuckled to himself. “Those were the days,” he slowly remarked with a sly grin, “the days where you were even crazier than you are now.” I laughed and we embraced, and I couldn’t remember when I had ever loved my father more than in that moment.

Everything changes. This is a good thing. Without change, we could not grow, and without change, God could not work in our lives. Complacency is appropriate at times, but I think when it comes to living you can only be complacent to a point. It’s important to be satisfied for what you have, because God puts everything in our lives for a reason. But I think there is also a point where you recognize that things will not be the same forever, and you have to enjoy that moment for what it is, cherish it, and embrace the future. Photographs, I think sometimes bring me back to the past and I long for what once was. Yet, things cannot be the exact same as they were before. I want photographs to be representative of beautiful times in my life, and allow me to realize the great blessings I have had, but I don’t want them to be tools for me to avoid living in the now. I think sometimes when you are brought back to the past, you can scrape off the edges. Your past and memories can be remembered in a better light because the days and days and years and years slowly wipe away at the emotions you don’t want to remember. I cant tell you this first hand. I vaguely remember the tough times, and when I think of them, I quickly put them out of sight. I take out a photograph of my family that was once together and I try and remember what that was like. Before we were broken. Reflection is a wonderful thing. A needed thing. But, when I think back on the past I want it to be because I am embracing the future, not because I am living a life of regret for what did or did not happen. Everyone says it. Live for today. But words are just words until they are put into action.

I love photographs, that much is clear. Come to my dorm room and look at the 6 x 6 wall of photos I have hanging up. Come to both of my homes in Colorado and you will find pictures all over the house. Heck, go to my facebook and you’ll see that I have well over a 1,000 pictures online. I love photographs because there is something beautiful about snapping a memory. I love photographs because you can reminisce about the crazy times you once had, or look back and remember when you get to a point that remembering isn’t as easy as it once was.

Because when I look at the picture of my dad and I, I remember. I remember his arms catching me as I came down the slide, enveloping me into a great big bear hug, and his words ringing softly into my tiny ear, “I love you.” That is the beauty of photographs. Being able to tell a story of emotions that will never be forgotten. I love you. I love you. I love you. That is unforgettable.