When I was 11 years old, my house was one of over 300 hundred that burned in blazing forest fires. Mine, though, was an accident. An unmaintained trailer, wheels flat from neglect, scraped across the highway, parachuting sparks into the dry and brittle grasses at the side of the highway. The flames roared up, and within two hours ten homes had burned, pets had died, and I had lost a part of myself I didn’t know I was capable of losing. I had always perceived the homeless faction to be a far off idea, something that I would see in the streets but never encounter myself. It takes loss, sometimes, to recognize what you have and who you are. I lost over 200 hand written stories, I lost my two cats, and a hoard of chickens and rabbits. I lost much of the identity I had acquired through  my belongings. It forced me to realize that stuff is just stuff, and it does not need to define who you are. It forced me to reconsider my passions, and to realize that, of all of my physical belongings, it was the stories I missed the most. I became even more of an avid writer after that, finishing two and a half “novels” in one year, pouring my creations into digital page after digital page. I took all of my emotions and used the stories as therapy, creating three dimensional characters with background trauma and experiences that I myself had never experienced, but could somehow relate to.

In October of 2019, I went up for my first promotion of black belt. I wasn't nervous, I has practiced an impossible amount, and I knew I could do it. In fact, I could not envision a scenario in which Mr. Bailey, or head instructor, was not handing me that new belt. I could see it in my mind’s eye, a black belt with gold letters scrawled in perfect cursive across both ends, cinching my waist comfortingly, marking my superiority and achievement. None of that happened. I performed my patterns proficiently, but not the best I had ever performed them. I was saving myself for the break. I sparred well, but not perfectly, I was still saving myself for the break. Finally, it came. Four boards were stacked, one on top of the other, into the board holder. They were ominous, staring at me and whispering at me, and I suddenly knew something was wrong. Something felt wrong. I didn’t break them. I failed, but somehow it was okay. I did not let the devastation and disappointment fall over me like a hovering storm cloud. Instead, I set my shoulders, smiled, and was determined to do better next time. I knew exactly what the test would be like. It was such a profound learning experience that I was not sad that I had not passed, but rather glad that I would get to try again. Those boards, now my mortal enemies, would hold no problem. I mean, I was testing for black belt for heaven’s sake, that was a success in and ofitself! 

In any good adventure book or movie, there is an abnormal amount of walking. Just look at the poor Hobbits in Lord of the Rings, the squad in the Wizard of Oz, or the doomed climbers in Everest. Funnily enough, I quite enjoy walking myself. Often I will lace up my shoes, plug in my earphones and listen to hours upon hours of books as I wander the countryside and steep mountain slopes of the Methow Valley. At the edge of the epic cascade mountains, there is no shortage of abandoned terrain, where days of walking without seeing another soul is a high possibility. Often, though, I will settle for a trek behind my house in the dry lower valley hills and gentle rolls of the toes of the Cascades. I can lose myself wandering these slopes, trapped within the next exciting murder mystery, epicly dark magic tale, witty and insecure comedy about teenagers without ears, or relatably serious nonfiction story about whales. When I am lost in these stories, I find a part of myself. I discover emotions, feelings, ideas and opinions I never thought I owned. Listening to someone else's story, and making them my own, has been an essential part of my life these last couple of years. I have discovered who I am through endless listening and wandering right out my back door.