Little Pleasures of Life

There are so many big things we take for granted in this life. The things we take most pleasure in, we often appreciate the least. One of my biggest pleasures of life are the incredible landscapes i see in the country side. And I've realized... my biggest pleasure in beholding a rolling green landscape with a big white farm house and an even bigger red barn is what most people just skip right over. However abstract and just plain weird, its this little detail I've come to appreciate and admire. It is the fence.

I don’t remember exactly when my love affair with fencing began. Perhaps it started while surveying our handiwork after an afternoon building fence on my parents’ property in rural Montana. Perhaps it was watching all those rotten cedar posts pulled out, not once but twice, to eventually make way for vinyl. Perhaps it started while watching scores of animals brush against, rub against, and lean against all types of fencing, noticing which ones withstood the wear and which ones caved. Whatever prompted my fascination, the fact remains: all it takes is the sight of a straight, good-looking white fence to make me swoon about a property . . . and for my husband to say with his wry grin, “Oh you and your fences.”

If eyes are the windows into one’s soul, then fences, for me, are the windows into one’s home. We are taught not to judge a book by its cover, but I routinely and with no remorse judge a property by its fence line. Although acres of white vinyl against a backdrop of green lush pastures make me an invariable goner, even a strong line of cedar planks or treated pine boards can be equally enticing.

As a young couple recently moved to the area, we have logged innumerable hours driving around the Sandhills in search of our own slice of heaven. Although both my husband and I appreciate the same kind of rustic beauty in the old farm houses sprinkled liberally around the area, for me it is always the fencing that prompts me to either crane my head for one lingering look or dismiss the property as “just ok.”

I’ve come to realize, it isn’t so much the fence’s purpose that intrigues me. Instead, it is the invitation a fence can offer. It is the invitation to imagine what lies beyond in all its mystery and its potential. Vinyl invites big dreams—dreams of Wonder, my bay quarter horse filly I sold in high school to finance my year studying abroad; dreams of galloping bareback through the thick pasture grass knowing the only thing to harness either of our abandoned elation would be the corner property line; dreams of big red barns and shadowed stalls filled with the aroma I once told my mother I wanted to use as perfume.

Although partial to the crisp lines and contrast of white vinyl, it isn’t the only fencing that makes my head spin with a slew of images and possibilities. Dark wood rail fencing invites dreams of a sprawling ranch home, of a John Deere tractor under the lean-to and a big chocolate lab on the front porch. Long stretches of hot wire or pipe fencing invites thoughts of vast acreage, of hidden ponds and wallows thick with brush and wildlife. Even barbed wire can be inviting in the right setting. I think calves and cowboys with wide-brimmed hats. I think of life 50 years ago and wonder—yet again—if perhaps I was mistakenly born in the wrong decade. But then again, vinyl wasn’t around 50 years ago.

Comments that make us cringe

The wife of a senior officer in the Pentagon recently shared with me a list of "14 things not to say to a military spouse" that was given to her. They are so brutally truthful that you can't help but laugh out loud and groan "yes!" at the same time to each one. Although a military wife for less than three years, I've heard almost every single one. Here is one of my favorites . . . (and by favorite, I mean one I hate the most)

"Oh, that's horrible . . . I'm so sorry!"

I want to hi-five the creator of this list for her response . . .

"He's doing his job and he's a badass. Don't be sorry. Be appreciative and please take a moment out of your comfortable American lives to realize that our soldiers fight the wars abroad so those wars stay abroad. If you want to say anything, say thank you."

Amen, sister. We know you are trying to be comforting and nice. But you aren't. Don't pity us. Respect the decision that we have made to sacrifice the "typical" life in order to fight for what we believe in. My husband is a warrior. He's the biggest bad-ass I know. He is doing what he loves, what he (and I) feel called to do, and playing an active role in making this country safer and more secure. I'm not sorry; why are you sorry?

And the time spent apart may be horrible, the danger that he is in may be horrible, dealing with all the crap of life and home and bills by yourself may be horrible. But obviously it is worth it or we wouldn't be doing it. Thanks for bringing all that up though.

If we are complaining to you, I guarantee "Oh, that's horrible . . . I'm so sorry," isn't going to make us feel better. Offer some appreciation for what he is out doing. On a really bad day being reminded of the incredible bad-ass-ness (it should be a word) of our husband will make us feel a whole lot better than looking down your nose at the decision we've made to protect your comfy little life.

Another on the list of what not to say to a military spouse ties right in with the previous, "I don't know how you manage. I don't think I could do it." We know you are trying to again be nice and maybe even complimentary. Once again, you're not. I doubt very many of us had military wife on the dream sheet as little girls. Like the creator of this insightful list points out, we're aren't made of some mysterious matter that makes us more capable - we just got asked to take on a challenging job. So we rise to the challenge and find the strength to make it work.

So please. Don't be sorry for the decision we've made to lead this life, and don't think we are invincible because of that choice. I may call (and believe) my husband is Superman, but I most definitely am not. Just be thankful we are taking this challenge so you don't have to.

Whew...ok, I'm off my soap box. (There are plenty of other humorous, tormenting, and utterly stupid comments left on the list, however, so I may get back on).

MSNBC news clip on Pararescuemen

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/38094526#38094526

Although not all-inclusive, this is a great little clip by MSNBC detailing what Pararescuemen are doing in Afghanistan, Iraq and other theaters around the world. Noted at the end is the accident that took the lives of three PJs and one aircrew member.

Facing the music

An HH-60 Blackhawk helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan early Wednesday morning. Three PJ's on board died, two of whom were our friends. The news came like a shock wave.

Although part of this war for the last 4 years with both a brother and a husband on the front lines, death has managed to elude my small sphere. Unlike many, we hadn't been yet slapped across the face with the cold reality of the "ultimate sacrifice" talked about so much. Not any more. Now it's real in a way I couldn't quite comprehend before. I ache for my friend, a young widow who was going through her husband's first deployment. My chest tightens and the lump in my throat gets so big i can't see straight. I want to just put my arms around her, all the while being forced to acknowledge that who i'm really trying to comfort is myself -- and ignore the biting whisper reminding me, "this could very well be you."

We talk about sacrifice a lot. Asked to live it -- in this way -- and i just want to run for the hills. When asked how I do "this military life" I've always said i can't and won't be ruled by fear. You have to give your life, your marriage, your spouse up to One who holds all things in His hands. I'm not sure anymore i know how to live that motto out. I pray for strength to let go of the things I hold most dear . . . strength to live "this military life" for however many more years we are called to . . . but its a prayer whispered through tight lips and a wildly beating heart.

I wish i was with you dear friend, in your emptiness, angst, confusion and despair. I wish I could comfort you. All I can say is I'm sorry. To my dear brothers in arms and my dear friend, I am so sorry.

Courage

I’ve heard courage defined as staring fear in the face and continuing on regardless. Courage isn’t the absence of fear then, but rather the determination to overcome it. I see this trait in both the military circles I’m surrounded with and the bright-eyed and determined young exchange students from all over the world I’m working to place with host families. Though the connection may not seem obvious, I can’t help but compare the patriotism that leads some to go abroad to fight for their freedoms and those whose patriotism lead them to live abroad that they may learn and appreciate not just that new culture, but indeed, more of their own.

Is it the appeal of adventure, the uncovering of the unknown, the love of homeland, or simply the unquenchable desire to be an active part of the moving force shaping and changing this ever shrinking world? I venture: a mixture of it all.

In the small biographies I have of each student I meet Faten, a Muslim girl from Yemen. Peering beneath her beautiful deep blue head covering is a wide smile and piercing brown eyes. I learn that she is a practicing Muslim and follows a Halal diet, but plays volleyball and is an avid swimmer. While in the US, she is excited to do community service and share the culture and history of her country. I am working with exchange students from the Czech Republic, Brazil, Switzerland, Thailand and Norway to name a few, and the desire and excitement to study in the United States is no less apparent. But it is Faten from Yemen that makes me believe even more deeply in the idea that exchanging our youth to study each other and return to teach others is quite possibly the most influential and important way to foster global understanding, tear down human rights abuses, and ultimately gain peace. It is an end result that, at least in theory, is what prompts the military to go abroad as well.

Situated in the volatile Arabian Peninsula and just over the Red Sea from Somalia and Djibouti, it’s no secret Yemen and the US relationship has been strained at best. The Department of State’s website warns travelers of the high security threat level due to terrorist activities in the country, and advises all travelers to defer non-essential trips. It was from this area that the Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) group claimed responsibility for the attempted bombing of the Northwest Airlines flight on Christmas Day last year, and who have repeatedly threatened Westerners working in Embassies and elsewhere in the country. In the last few years numerous kidnappings, car bombs, and suicide bombs have taken place all at the hands of suspected al-Quaeda operatives in Yemen killing tourists, government agents, embassy workers and Yemeni nationals. In short, Yemen is not exempt from the turmoil swirling in the Middle East, nor are they free from the Muslim radicals that would attempt to persuade any young person of self-sacrificing hatred toward the free world.

It is out of this atmosphere, that I find young Faten steadfastly determined to come to America. I see in her the hope and optimism of youth – the desire to understand, the desire to better both cultures, the desire to reach some sort of peace through realizing we are all more alike than we are different. And like our brave soldiers, I see courage: a courage to overcome the fear, a courage to make a difference.

Deterred but Undaunted . . . Kind of

So even the best laid plans fail. Well, they weren't the best laid, but they were planned with an incredible amount of optimism, hope, and anticipation. And yet they were no match for Murphy's Law and Mother Nature -- a lethal combination.

Although we've been married for 2 1/2 years, Bo and I have really never had a honeymoon, unless our two days in Breckenridge count before we once again parted ways. (He went back to his training in New Mexico, and I to my dorm room in Southern California). So in an effort to make up for some lost time we planned an 8-day cruise around Italy, Greece, and Turkey. I get starry-eyed just thinking about it. But Iceland's volcano apparently needed to blow its cap just before we were scheduled to go to Europe, thwarting our plans . . . and those of thousands of others.

As devastated as I was . . . and still am, it is humbling to think of the many stories that came out of that natural disaster that were true disappointments. Stories like organ transplants that were scheduled to happen, but the doctor couldn't get back to his OR; workers who lost their jobs because of strict time-frames; and schools that closed because so many teachers couldn't get back to their students. Although i can't help but wonder where my long lost cruise ship is or what i would have been doing right now on board, I guess this is the part of life where you lift your chin and say, "oh well, there will be a next time."

I want to start planning my "next time" right now...

How the other half lives

I met a girl the other day who had been with her boyfriend for six years and literally couldn't remember ever spending a night apart. "Oh, I'm sure there were a few nights," she said. The thought of having your partner at your side every night leaves me both starry eyed and baffled. Although I have tried, I literally have no concept of what that would be like. Even more - would I want that? . . . What would it be like to have two lives so completely intertwined so as to hardly differentiate where one starts and other stops? Would it be "us" or would there just stop being a "me?"

Bo is away and like most other times I am left feeling the sense of familiar liberation and worrisome loss of identity. I pride myself on my independence and my own, innate sense of who I am . . . as a wannabe writer, as an adventurer, as a woman . . . all the while reminding myself quite vocally, "I am NOT just a wife."

We are beginning a whole new chapter, and it is hard to not feel like I am just riding on the coattails of another. We are chasing his dreams and watching them come true. And while I couldn't be more proud or excited, its impossible to not be reminded every day that these dreams are his and not mine. I take them on as part of me, but at the same time hoping, praying, aching that in all the hulabaloo, I find myself as well.

Although the unconditional support and partnership of a wife to her husband is vital to any marriage, i am more and more convinced it is just as vital that each wife also have her own identity. Some might disagree, but i believe, without this independent and continually blossoming identity a military wife becomes just a shell. For every woman this identity is different and most definitely evolves throughout her life and her marriage. For some it is the joy of being a mother. For others, it is a homemaker. For still others it could be their office, classroom, boardroom or drawing easel.

I guess I'm still trying to decide what my identity is . . . what it will be. Is your identity something you get to decide? Or is it just handed out like hotdogs in Central Park? Do you really get to choose what goes on it and how it is made and how it looks? Or do you just take what is handed to you and be happy with it?

I want to choose it. I want to create my destiny and not just let it happen. I want excitement and variety. I want travel and adventure and newness every day. I want busyness coupled with the ability to escape. I want to explore not only places but people and things, events and histories. I want to uncover mysteries and awaken people's curiosities. I want to whet their appetite and therefore satisfy my own. I want a challenge, and I want fulfillment.

As a recent college graduate, disenchanted with the workplace i've experienced so far, I'm not sure how realistic my list of wants are. But that is the beauty of youth: huge goals with the naivety of undaunted optimism.

Maybe that is my identity right now: hopeful.

It is a good building block.