Hello again! 

May this find the last couple of weeks have flowed downstream for you and that you haven’t felt like you are being swept up in currents, paddling like crazy upstream.  

As we begin June.   And as I continue to remain playful in exploring what wants to find its way to paper to you.

This week the next character in the story intertwined with Edward, Linh, and Joshua, has decided she would like to remain hidden a little bit longer.   (As a sneak peak, it will be Patricia. {smile})

This week I offer to you the story of PCT. 

I will close with this quote for you.  May it inspire your days ahead.   Life is a song — sing it. Life is a game — play it. Life is a challenge — meet it. Life is a dream — realize it. Life is a sacrifice — offer it. Life is love — enjoy it — Sathya Sai Baba

In gratitude for YOU,

-Christine

PCT

I was conceived in 1932.

My birth certificate states I was officially born in 1968.

As you think, “How is that possible?”  “Impossible!”   “Preposterous!”

Truth, none-the-less.

My actual arrival into this world was shortly after conception. Well, if you consider three years later short.

Again, true story.

I was wanted. Very much. My father and mother – Clarke and Catherine – dreamed of the day I would arrive. Catherine imagined my existence several years before Clarke yearned for me. Six years, to be exact.

Once I came to life, I was surrounded by numerous people eager to help me develop into who I am today. If you know the African proverb it takes a village to raise a child, that was me. Raised by a village.

Exactly how many have influenced my upbringing is unknown. I’m an adult now, fifty-six years old if you count my birthday on record.  Or eighty-nine if you count when life was first breathed into me. Either way, I continue to have hundreds persuading my aging process.

There are those who come to take care of me. Additional people call on me simply wishing to visit. Apparently for them I hold the wisdom they wish to learn from. Some stop by for a few hours. Others are my guests for a few days. Several I have even hosted for a few months. I like it when house guests are so pleased, they come back again. And again.

Most people who stop by share stories. Stories that inspire, invoke laughter, and arouse tears. Some are there to tell me about their transition between college to a professional career, including their angst at what that may actually be once they leave my home. Others narrate to me about a significant life change. The loss of a parent. A partner. A job. Entry into a new age decade. Some even share stories with me through singing!

I listen to memories. Of childhood. Favorite foods, friends, toys. Of teenage years. A first kiss, prom, favorite teacher. The winning home run they made. I also hear least favorite moments.  A pet dying, parents extremely busy with their professional careers, verbal words they struggle to unhear as an adult. The sports they wished they played, but never felt good enough to. The crush they had on someone who didn’t reciprocate.

I listen to adulting stories, too. The celebrations, sorrows, anxiety, and sometimes, depression. Concerns for what the future will look like. People don’t think I hear after they lower their voices as they state their concerns about my prolonged existence.   I long to reassure them I will remain. Like the velveteen rabbit whose hair starts to be “loved off” and gets “loose in the joints and very shabby,” it is in my DNA. Longevity. More so than it is in theirs.

Some small groups enter my home seeking my advice on teamwork. I enjoy the small gatherings when I learn how they are not only new visitors to my home. They are also newly forming their friendships with each other. I like knowing my home is conducive to budding life-long relationships. I pride myself on creating that kind of welcoming environment.

In a world growing in disconnection, it is important to me that those who enter my dwelling experience belonging. Even if someone enters my home alone without others surrounding them, I want them to feel they have found a place in which they fit in.

Others enter my home and are silent. I can see the stories they are holding inside themselves, but I believe those are the ones that come to me because they know I hold space for them unconditionally, without judgment.  Without expectations. I provide acceptance in my stillness I offer.

All who enter are always smitten with everything displayed around my home. And I do have a lot set out. Everywhere. Don’t worry.  I keep things organized well. I don’t like things lying around either.   I strive to create a home that is inviting and keeps people wanting to come back for more. If there is a mess, people won’t want to sit or stay.    It is important to me that people do. Stay, that is.

When guests enter, I see the way they take in my colorful displays of greens, blues, purples, reds, and yellows. I can hear their intake of breath, too. The way they find a certain awe in how I have arranged the shapes and hues for multi-dimensional views.

I don’t usually get visitors during the winter months.  Pretty much all who visit me prefer to do so between Spring, through Summer, into late Fall. I’m not exactly located where “snowbirds” flock to for escaping frozen ice and sub-zero temperatures.  Quite the opposite. I’m in the heart of a snow belt.  And I love it! I relish sunshine and warmth, too, don’t get me wrong.  But I welcome piles and piles of accumulated snowflakes as much as I savor hot rays of sunlight that melt the piles away in the summer.

I remember one of the first villagers who took an interest in my growth. His name was Martin. I was seventeen years old, based on actual born date, not the certificate’s stamped time.   He showed me what it means to be independent, fearless, determined, willful, respectful, appreciative of silence, reverent in introspection, resourceful, and how to be humble. He taught me how to appreciate beauty, and how to be left speechless by just how beautiful things can be. I also learned suffering from him, while Martin also taught me resilience, hope, and joy are equally present and available. We spent about five months together.

I can’t help thinking many of my house guests must have met Martin after he and I went our separate ways.   Most who visit me exhibit his teachings.

All because Clarke and Katherine once dreamed of the Pacific-Crest Trail.