it holds its ground.

Alas, I cannot post as many photos as I'd like, so I must ask you to imagine pictures of a sojourn: from Indonesia to France, Switzerland, Italy, and Spain. Use your most innovative and provocative visceral reasonings because it's all currently too much (technologically speaking) and when I feel like throwing my Ipad into the abyss, I have to let go of what doesn't work and focus on what does.

There is much to be said about this journey: namely, that being in Europe is not as cush or familiar as my naiveté expected. It's been eventful, to say the least; with experiences including but not limited to climbing through a window at 2 am and scaring/waking new friends half to death; an idyllic picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower where one local told us that he just LOVED the food in the US when he studied as a student– McDonalds, Wendy's, KFC, etc etc; sleeping one evening on a sidewalk in Nice due to unfortunate timing accompanied only by the homeless and my bright idea to soothe our malaise by finishing a crime show we'd been watching for a few weeks as we tried to fall asleep on the streets; sneaking a wine and dine in St. Mark's Basilica in Venice; and finally arriving in Spain to the most heavenly shower and bed my eyes did ever see.

I was speaking with my most excitable and prophet-esque friend the other day, telling her about our travels thus far. Logistics had their moment, we then talked relationship dynamics between Austin and I, I explained certain photos and their contexts (the beach in Lembongan! the church in Venice!), and then I was knee-deep in something I didn't really plan on sharing, something I didn't really think belonged in our conversation. She wanted to know about the trip, and I started telling her about how it is to be feeding myself here (and there and there); about food and body and struggle.

"I'm really coming face to face with my habits, but very up-close," I explained. "I tend to eat, or want to eat when I'm bored or when I'm anxious, which happens a fair amount nowadays, and has been happening for a while. But I don't want to, I want to become more mindful—like entirely mindful about my appetite, instead of influenced by so much that's outside of myself. And I also want to be healthy but not too restricted, or not restricted at all. But the desire sort of feels like it's all-consuming sometimes."

In hindsight, it was a watered down and very culturally appropriate way of explaining that since the onset of my anorexia 5 years ago, I have known many a weight fluctuation and have cycled through what feels like thousands of seasons of thought and habit when it comes to how I feed myself and view my body. And now, while on this trip, it feels like I'm facing the largest mirror I've encountered yet; I am looking outwards as well as looking in, and there is brutality & ruin and also beauty in both.

The mirror reminds me that 23-year-old me would have never wanted to go on a trip like this. And as Anne (Lamott) so brilliantly articulates, we are truly all of the ages we've ever been, and often, some feel closer than others. My 23-year-old has been feeling close lately, and I know she would have thrashed against the notion of not having control over her choices or having to be so flexible. She would have bought a fully refundable ticket and been home within the week.

But you see, there was this morning sitting in a cafe in a town outside of Paris, nursing a cappuchino and tartine, perfect with butter and salt. And without a lot of forewarning, something in me changed.

Ornamentally speaking, this meal was nothing worth writing home about, but my experience of it holds its ground among many a monument, temple, view, and mountain top. This meal was when, for whatever reason and with whatever grace, I really tasted the food that I was eating. I wasn't reading or talking across the table, as is a perfectly acceptable custom; I was noticing the chew and crumb of my toast, the groundedness of my espresso. And just like that, I wanted to shout from the rooftops that perhaps, after many a therapy session and breakdown, this may just be progress. I HAVE EXPERIENCED JOY AND PLEASURE IN THIS MEAL AND THERE IS NOTHING MORE EXCITING RIGHT NOW! I NEED TO BRUSH UP BIG TIME ON MY FRENCH SO THE SURROUNDING PATRONS CAN SHARE IN THIS WITH ME!!!!

And, well you know, this topic of eating and body and life as we know it, it's been written about so, so, soooo often. There's plenty of dialogue (though there could always be more) that borders on self-help and anger around our infuriating culture regarding women and how we should look. There's plenty. But not yet by me.

I'm not sure that eating has ever been a non-emotional experience for me. For a while, the everyday experience was laced with restriction and fear. When people would compliment me on how much weight I'd lost or how 'great' I looked, I felt like a fraud. 'Can I really keep this up?' I'd silently ask myself with each snack or meal as I calculated how much I was taking in. And now, though that old mindset wafts in like a fine dust often enough, I'm realizing that my appetite for food is directly linked to much else: am I stressed about something at work? Am I bored? Am I worried that I'll never eat again and have to stash away as much as possible right at this very moment? Am I so tied up in this conversation that I don't notice what I'm choosing and what I'm not?

I really thought that my eating disorder ended around the time when I stopped having to be monitored by a doctor weekly (I even wrote about it here: http://lindseyvz.wordpress.com/2011/04/02/only-the-boney/), or when my nutritionist and I parted ways, or when I was able to occasionally break my daily eating habits (like oatmeal for dinner every night) without falling apart. But alas, it is a daily choice to not fall back into those patterns because that is what it has to be. Unlike some other addictions of the habitual bent, I can't just give up eating altogether, nor, might I add, would I want to. But, as I'm seeing on this trip with its ups and its downs, with its wins and its losses, that old mindset and addiction are my default and healing looks a lot like failing a lot of the time.

This is not a fast fix, clearly. And the process therein still begs for absorption and insight– all in due time. But I will say that the end goal, or rather my ultimate hope for myself is far too expansive to be defined by any one weight or shape, as it once was. My desire is to be able to mindfully and joyfully eat in a way that is bursting with attention and therefore, with gratitude. It looks and sounds like that morning outside of Paris, eating a piece of toast and drinking a coffee and feeling lost in the glory that was its simplicity and satiety. Perhaps it was the ambiance or the view or the way the word croissant sounds when it rolls off the tongue or the pure perfection that is European bread, but I'm not sure it even matters at this point.

Because the thing of it is that this trip is acting as a catalyst for much that has been present but hiding in myself below deadlines, to-do lists, workouts, and social engagements– my desire to be the type of person who knows the ins and outs of finding a bathroom wherever, whenever and can consider the world her toilet; the ultimate rural dream of working a farm in a southwest-desert-y landscape; many a book and paragraph read and written; and exploring how to enjoy and prepare food with a lighthearted and watchful attention– as we would prepare a meal for someone we love, as we would when dealing with a gift such as this.

and then here.

I wrote this post a few weeks ago in a cafe near the Monkey Sanctuary in Ubud, Bali. Due to entirely predictable and entirely silly technical difficulties, it has been postponed until now. And although my surroundings have moved continents and contexts, it feels good to come back to these words.

---

It's a season of taking in these days. I've read more books in the past six weeks than I have in the past two years and am taking pictures all over the place, all of the time. This morning I went to a yoga class that had 8 whole minutes of passionate chanting to connect us with the divine. I mean. It's as lovely and spirited as it sounds, as lovely as perhaps one might expect Bali to be.

I find it so comforting when my outsides match my insides– that is, when my habitat can act as a mirror and an anchor in one, providing a space for reflection and a tangible portrait of what I cannot often express at length, at what still eludes. In New Mexico, with its raw, undeveloped, and acutely lonely terrain; slow mornings in Seattle marked by grey skies, a slight drizzle, only peaks of sunlight.

And then here. Impossibly beautiful, isolated beaches and the narrow streets of inland villages, colorful and decadent Ubud, rice paddies that have Eat, Pray, Love written all over them. It's hard not to get caught up in all of the yoga and raw, organic fun, but you won't find me fighting it either.

The past few weeks and the destinations therein have been a lot of stillness, mostly. Stillness while cruising through markets on a bike, as I awoke with waves, walked an hour and a half home when the last car left without me, sat in the sand with my best friend watching a rain storm sunset. Stillness as I, for the first time in a long time, found myself bored and then proceeded to panic. Who has the right to be bored on a Balinese island? Who I ask?! We all do, it turns out.

As with any situation, it's hard to remember what I already know, which is: that I am loved exactly as is, that this too shall pass, that we are on holy ground always, that when in doubt- pay attention. I'm starting to see that good traveling, which is so many ways is a microcosm for good living, is not lived in guidebooks or famous monuments, but rather in the way the air smells at sunrise on the coast (like seaweed and bark), or in how good beer tastes when it costs 60 cents, or in being squished on a couch watching an outdoor movie with my two favorites.

It's laughably good, this life on this day, which I think is just as important in sharing as the hard. It's both of course, good mixed with difficult because this is life and that's how it is, but right now it's a cool breeze (without any air conditioning needed!) and yes, yes, yes.

i had hoped.

Telling people in my life about this trip typically illicted one of two responses: 'How wonderful! Now's the time to do it–no kids or mortgage?! Post pictures because I'll be living vicariously through you.' or 'hmm, alright. That's neat. Don't drink the water!'

This juxtaposition is appropriate, as I feel like a pendulum swinging one way or another all of the time. I know that this experience is not one to take for granted (not unlike my very spoiled west coast living-humidity WHAT). We worked hard for it, but the ability to work in the first place or have something like a parent's home to return to afterward is no small blessing. It's almost #blessing status (for shame).

And yet the truth still rings that of course, traveling or not, working or not, in a relationship or not– real life is still real life. We are flying by the seat of our pants like it's our job (because it is), never knowing what's on the other side of the flight, bus ride, street, meal, or hostel booking; the possibility of inopportune bowel movements, being stranded without a dollar or lick of the native language, coming back to our hostel in the middle of a rainstorm only to find water cascading down the interior walls (to name a few) are always imminent.

Wherever you go, there you are.

There I was in Seattle with a stressful job and good friends. Here I am in Malaysia, eating the most decadent meats and vegetables from hawker stalls, encountering such humbling generosity from strangers, and cursing humidity and my human sweat glands after about 30 seconds of being outside. Wherever I go, here I am.

It is staggering to me how quickly things can change lately: namely, moods, circumstances, and general beliefs about the world. All are negatively correlated with the heat, certainly, but I think it cuts deeper than that. I think that this trip is trying because of the lacking of all of the things that kept me afloat when I looked in the mirror and felt unkind to myself, or when Austin and I would fight and feel stuck, or when I felt rejected by friends or family. There's not a lot by way of comfort these days–we're budget bunnies with a few backpacks– and this raw, stripped identity without makeup, a wardrobe, television, an office, a smartphone, or community is one that deep down, I had hoped I would find. Without the ability to work out or shop to feel beautiful, or distract myself with endless notifications, newsfeeds, or sitcoms to feel disconnected, here I am: human and okay. Human and in one moment, taking picture after picture of cute monkeys eating grapes from a comfortable 20 feet away, and in the next having a panic attack because one is walking toward me. Human and amazed at all of the things and places and people we've gotten to know and see so far, while also needing frequent breaks punctuated by folk music and banana consumption.

I am so grateful for the space that this journey has created, even three weeks in. I am glad (typically in hindsight, mind you) for the invitation to not be able to plan or foresee more than a few hours into the future, to never quite know where I'll land. Be it a leaking hostel, or the back of a pickup truck driving through the most beautiful terrain, or at the helm of a motorbike, or crying from exhaustion on a mountain top, or a Malaysian host's scented bedroom, or on a bed of plywood and undeserved grace–I am taken care of. We are taken care of. There is abundance and generosity that feels so unexpected, and in this rythm of the world's give and take, there is rest. Glory be.

Perhaps the real traveling mercies may be what I can show myself: what I can let myself off the hook for, what I can let be difficult, what ideal I can let go of. I am not alone in the fact that I have always been my worst critic; the beliefs in my heart that I am a project to be molded and perfected are loud and pervasive. Glimpses of the debunking of those voices feel like a cold shower (in the best possible way), they feel like relief that's been a long time coming. Glimpses of a self that's more free than before, that's kinder to myself than before– what a gift.

---

Some logistics and pictures for those (my parents) who are interested: The past 3ish weeks have been spent in Bangkok, Myanmar (mostly in Yangon), Chiang Mai, Pai, and Mae Hong Son. Right now we're in Kuala Lumpur for a few days before heading to Bali until the end of the month. Hooray!

And because I don't have access to a computer to put pictures in the 'travel' section, here are a few.

The quintessential Thai elephant experience. A story for another time.

Chiang Mai

Waterfall in Pai.

Breakfast with Htoo Lweah and family in Nai Soi.

Swedagon Pagoda in Yangon, Burma.

on the move.

I've heard the term 'traveling mercies' before in a variety of contexts– in literature, in church, at goodbye parties. My understanding of the term and the sentiment was fairly instinctual. When we travel, when we are on the move, we ask for protection and safety from whomever one tends to appeal to with our most human desires. Every time I get on an airplane, I put my right hand on the side of the door before I take my seat, and then during take off, I pray for safety and for things to not explode. That typically suffices my angst until there's turbulence or I can feel anything whatsoever that's not perfect fluidity, and I grab the sides of my seat and panic silently while tuning to my designated 'panic' playlist on my iPod.

Like most adventures, I had a lot of feelings about this trip. I was excited for the disruption of necessary minimalism and the freedom that it creates in my routine and in my mind. I was excited to meet and learn about walks of life that would otherwise rarely intersect with my own, to get to know Austin in this new and playful context, to know myself within that as well. What I was not looking forward to, however, was, put plainly, the transportation of it all.

Ohhh how I loathe transportation. A projectile vomiter since before my first formed memory, having to be in a moving vehicle without any control, familiarity, or dramamine has produced an anxiety that, for the most part, feels entirely normal. Have to get into the backseat of a car? Roll down the window and think happy thoughts. Going on a cross-country bus? Sit near the front and militantly watch the road and the driver for signs of sleepiness or oncoming heart attack in case I need to take over. Going on an airplane? Resign myself to believing that I have no control over an aircraft whatsoever–cue the panic playlist. Going on an overnight bus? Never.

We all have our fears, and some speak louder than others. To be a human is to have anxieties, logical or otherwise, and for good reason– leaving the house is a real threat most days. We are fragile and events are unpredictable, and this path that my mind wanders into when I'm left to my own devices is a path that we could all go down, just walking out of our front door. This is why it is always best that I'm not left to my own devices, that I have a sweet husband and good friends and inspiring artists all around who remind me that not everything that exists in my mind serves me well.

A fear of clogged arteries due to a daily diet of fast food is one that is helpful– my life can be as colorful and vibrant as beets, papayas, and spinach. A fear of taking a long bus ride through unknown terrain is not supported by anything real, and by succumbing to the authority of my mind versus the authority of faith (in the driver, in the bus manufacturer, in the fact that I'm not the end-all-be-all of driving, in God), I miss out not only on the journey, but in the opportunity to become that much more brave.

I'm beginning to see (mostly through the rose colored lenses of retrospection) that I am invited to take the right action before I ever feel like it is the right thing to do. I can choose a little more surrender when I feel terrified. I can say yes when I mostly feel like saying no. I can trust the workings of the world and breathe through my stubborn belief that I am an integral part of what keeps it working. I can, in a sense, recognize that familiar tinge of tightness and struggle within my gut and parse through what is keeping me tense. I can decide to only keep what is helpful and choose, with mostly grace and eyes half closed and lots of help, to throw away that which is keeping me small, which is not helping me to come that much more alive.

Koh Samet, Thailand

Koh Samet, Thailand

Bangkok streets

what it's like.

'I know what it's like. I know what it means to leave a family.' She said, as I was opening the refridgerator. She was talking, of course, about this passage that Austin and I were making– the leaving of a life and our people to embark on an adventure, and then to settle into a place that holds so much.

We are embarking on our travels in less than one week, and in the meantime, we've driven ourselves and our worldly possessions in a u-haul from Seattle to San Francisco. Movement isn't so much conducive to reflection, which is partly why I've been so grateful for it lately. It's nice to have breaks of emotions, it's nice to just feel the migration sometimes.

[greenlake, seattle]

The truth is that it's entirely daunting to write about moving homes, even in the midst of doing it. My mind has sifted through it weaving through Oregon pines and California golden hills– how to communicate the sinuous river of feelings inside with humor and grace, let alone fluency?!– and has rendered itself silent. Or, perhaps, just calm. I think that the process of leaving, in so many ways, always has to mirror the process of becoming and belonging. It takes a while, doesn't it? It takes time to make and find a new tribe, and like all good things, there is a continuous and creeping ebb that begins to gain momentum. Suddenly you can't breathe because you're laughing so hard in the dairy aisle of Safeway, or you're crying in your living room with your roomates over the fact that people hurt you and life can be hard sometimes. Without knowing it was happening, you are known for better or worse and if that's not family, then I don't know what is.

It will take time. It will always take time.

and yet.

I know, I know: a blog. Another blog! In a world where we have daily access into best friends and long lost acquaintances alike, transparency is the new normal and to join now almost feels late in the game. To not have an online presence that showcases only our best selves is considered alternative and shadowy; and if anything describes my (albeit, forever private) music collection, it is alternative and shadowy of the most embarrassing kind. And yet.

I see the world mostly through words, people, pictures and food. Eating, celebrating, cooking, even grocery shopping- don't even get my started on the joy that is grocery shopping. And I'm also a woman who's struggl(ing/ed) with at eating disorder- manifesting most physically in anorexia a few years ago, but seeping its way into my heart and mind throughout most of my days. Part of me doesn't want to write about that because it feels raw still, and the culture tells me all sorts of lies like I should be over it by now, or that full health looks like incorporating certain nutrients and exercise routines together so as to look and feel like a normal person- no longer feeling dark or sad inside, no longer in need of 'help' in any casual or professional form. But you know what? I think that body, food, and humanity are inexplicably and expansively connected, and that we all have our wounds and fractures that are just as fun to talk about as, say, vacuuming after a glitter explosion or undergoing minor dental surgery in the pre-novacaine era.

This I know: if I am saved, it is only in moments of sacred 'me too's' and with that connection comes bravery, and with it comes courage. But it also means showing up. 

In the coming weeks, you'll also see big changes here- moves, flights, goodbyes that feel so heartbreaking and beginnings that feel so hopeful. My life is on the cusp of many a transition, in both physical space and otherwise-- things to be seen and talked about. And I need a space for all of it that forces me to slow down and write– both life saving in their own rights.

So, welcome. I'm happy you're here.