on the road to beaufort.

48 weeks.

Today marks my 11th month at Camp E-Tik-Etu. It seems like a decade ago that I packed up Blanca with everything I owned and headed east toward the craziest adventure of my life to date.

I think I've become disillusioned with the program I am expected to implement each day with my kids. Over the last 11 months, I've seen more campers leave the program unsuccessfully than successfully, and I've seen more counselors leave unexpectedly than with proper notice. I have over 5,760 hours of memories that make me laugh, cringe, cry, steam, and ache. Every three months or so, I have looked for an escape route only to be pulled back into camp by the very thing that brought me here 11 months ago: campers who say (in their own way, of course) that they recognize the sacrifice I'm making and are grateful for my time and energy.

I've done the exact thing my mom told me not to do when I moved to the woods--I've fallen in love with a beach bum, and every week, I make the 3 hour trek to spend time with him in what I've come to consider paradise. Beaufort, North Carolina. Beaufort, a quaint waterfront town, is the third oldest in North Carolina. Complete with a fudge factory, historic homes, and various boats as small as a paddle-only dingy and as big as Michael Jordan's crewed yacht, Beaufort has stolen my heart.

As I approach my year mark in the woods, it's nice to know there's a place to go to escape from the madness in the woods. And as I grow fonder of Beaufort each time I visit, doors are opening that let me know that Beaufort is growing fonder of me, too.

heavyweights and turkeys.

45 weeks.

Thank God for 300 pound teenagers.

It's time for the Turkey in the Hole at camp this week, and for the past two weeks, we've been sending our campers off property to collect wood for our Thanksgiving celebration. On Monday night, we will be lighting a bonfire that rivals the great Aggie tradition, but the only differences are that the fire is in the ground, and that there will be 12 turkeys in it rather than the 12th Man. (I'm glad I could slide in that reference for all my Aggie buddies.)

I've never driven with a trailer in tow. As much as I have learned from my dad by watching him all my life, my skills in trailer-hauling are pretty lacking to say the least. A couple of days ago, I loaded all 12 of my campers into a 15-passenger van, hooked up the 10-foot trailer, and carried them a few miles down the road to a dirt path that I impressively navigated without a snazoo.

When we came back to camp to drop off the wood, things got tricky. My mind apparently only operates in Drive because Reverse had its way with me. To the tune of my kids yelling that a) I'm a sucky driver (I mean if a 12 year old can do it, why can't I?) and b) "you're going the wrong way, chief!" and c) gangster rap, I successfully sank my van into a foot of sand.

No worries, though. I have a 300 pound camper who saved the day. Not only does the kid know how to unhook a trailer, he can move the trailer on his own, and then hop on the back of the van and provide enough weight to easily allow the van to back on out of the huge hole I sunk it in.

He seriously made up for last week when he took off his shirt in a fit of anger, and I had to hold him back. Nightmares, I tell you. Two nights of them, at least.

my keepsake.

Friday was my 24th birthday, and yesterday was my great-grandmother's 99th birthday. Our birthdays are one day apart with 75 years to separate us.

I called Granny today, and we had the same conversation we had in June when I last saw her:

Granny, do you know who I am?
- No, honey, I don't.
I'm Lydia. I'm Vicky's daughter.
- Lydia? Oh. That was my mother's name.
I know. I'm named after your mother.
- Oh. That's right. You're my keepsake.
Yes, that's me, Granny. Your keepsake.
- From beginning to end...

It kills me that my Granny doesn't remember me. I grew up around my grandma and great-grandma, but since moving off to college, I haven't seen them as much as I did when I was home. Out of the 13 of us that call them Mammaw and Granny, my brother and I are the only ones who were lucky enough to be raised near them. Mammaw, Granny, my mom, and my aunts Celine and Phoebe used to spend hours playing Canasta and laughing harder than I have ever laughed with any other person or group of people.

I'm finding myself becoming super nostalgic these days as I think about home. It might be that the holidays are coming up, and for the first time EVER, I'm not going to be home for Thanksgiving, and I'm stressing a little about what Christmas will look like. I'm also spending a lot of time with other people's families and the special bond they share and are so willing to share with me makes me miss the first set of people who gave me the unconditional love I've experienced from so many others in my life.

I've got quite a few funny stories from this week, but I can't find it within me to be funny right now. Ask me later about how my kids can't tie their tennis shoes in 2 minutes, but can find the time to concoct a full-fledged drama about segregated cisterns in the time it takes for them to brush their teeth.

For now, though, if you're reading this, and you're from Texas, and I love you, and you love me, know that I miss you....

i chose the wine.

"I'm going to introduce you as my granddaughter today."

I heard this as I climbed into Ann's Oldsmobile this morning as we headed to her water aerobics class. My heart melted.

"Yes," I responded, "It's only right. It's too complicated to explain that I'm your grandson's best friend's girlfriend who has snuck into your life without permission and mooches off your home and food two days a week. Plus, I already claimed you as my grandma."

Today is Ann's 79th birthday. Ann is a woman with a heart of gold as big as the ocean. In her lifetime, she has taken care of 7 children and has taken in probably a dozen others into her home, including me over the past few months. As she says, "she loves young people," and you can tell when her face lights up everytime I walk in the door. For some reason, God has allowed me the opportunity to stumble into her life by way of my sailing/squatting boyfriend, and (although this is not the case) if the only reason he is in my life is so that I could know her, I count myself blessed.

As I looked around the pool this morning, I found myself surrounded by matriarchs (a royal description my mom uses to describe my real grandma and great-grandma). I was the youngest in the pool by several decades, and it was an honor.

I have always been mentored by some incredible women. I was raised by a strong and dedicated mother who has always been and will always be my foundation. I grew up around a sisterhood (my mother's sisters) of outgoing and passionate women who I know I can depend on if I ever needed anything. I am the luckiest because I grew up with my grandmother and great-grandmother intricately apart of my childhood and teenage years. At the end of this month, I will be celebrating my 24th birthday as my great-grandmother (Granny) celebrates her 99th birthday. In high school, I had a mentor (Julie) who inspired me to live and love passionately and think globally. When I lived in Dallas, I was blessed by two women (Rebecca and Terri) who invested in and cared about who I was and where I was going.

And now, I have Ann. It makes me miss the time I'm not sharing with my own grandmothers, but I am grateful for this North Carolina blessing because I can see myself in Ann's shoes 55 years from now. She and I share stories of the crazy kids we've loved, and she's giving me tips for healthy relationships and a healthy life.

My favorite tip thus far: "When you get old, you can either take a Valium every night, or have a glass of wine every night. I chose the wine."

from the woods to the water

I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love since I moved to North Carolina this past January. It usually doesn't take me much time to read through a book, especially an easy read like this one. Living in the woods makes it hard to read, though. Usually I'm dealing with problems or writing progress notes...or trying to sit still in the darkness, hoping the bugs won't notice my existence and attack.

As I look back on the last 8 months, I feel like in some kind of way, my time in North Carolina has mirrored the story told by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book. She takes a year to find herself, first in Italy for 4 months, eating her way through paradise. She learns to love herself, to enjoy the adventure life provides and to soak in new experiences.

My first four months in North Carolina were just that: traveling as much as possible, eating new foods (like shrimp & grits and pork barbecue, despite my disgust for all things pork), and soaking in the adventure of it all.

Gilbert then travels to India for 4 months. She lives in an ashram, dying of heat, covered in bugs, but simultaneously experiencing freedom and experiencing God. She makes lifelong friends and sees the adventure not just as a pleasurable experience, but one where she can learn commitment, devotion, and selflessness.

My last four months at camp have been just that. The heat and bugs have robbed me of not only my energy and blood, but my patience. In the midst of it all, though, I've learned what it means to survive under immense pressure and difficulty. I've come to better understand the reasons why I struggle to reconcile what I know of God and what I've been told of God. I've connected with people that I know will be a part of my life for a long time, and I've really learned to love my kids regardless of the problems they throw. I am a stronger woman because of this summer.

Liz and I have ate together, we've prayed together, and it looks as if we will love together for these last four months. I'm beginning to read about her travels to Indonesia for the last leg of her journey. I haven't read much into it yet, but some spoilers have told me she falls in love. I'm excited to see what she learns of love because true to our connected journeys, my heart has found a home away from the woods. My heart is with a man who lives on a sailboat, and as I begin this last leg of my first year in North Carolina, I'm spending my time either in the woods or on the water.

chief lydia vs. the box

33 weeks.

I've been a Taskigi for somewhere around 3 months now, and nearly every single day of those 3 months, I've been fighting an uphill battle of wastefulness.

My kids have no sense of conservation or maximizing resources. I find entire rolls of paper towels sitting in puddles of mud. Nearly three times an hour, I will pick up a bottle of hand soap, put the cap back on, and return it to its home by the cistern. Toilet paper goes down the box by the roll.

It turns out that toilet paper wasn't the only thing going down the box, though.

"Chief, can you huddle up your group on morning logs, please?" says my supervisor in the wee hours of Tuesday morning.

I'm dreading what his message might be. Clean up your tents. Pick up this trash. Sweep this out better. I hate when someone else comes into my campsite and picks up on something left behind that I passed up and didn't get my kids to take care of.

"Because you guys continue to throw things down the box that shouldn't be there, we are unable to pump out your bodily waste which is causing the box to pile up and will eventually overflow if you don't clean it out immediately. We are putting in a phone call today to have someone pump it out which means you have until dinner to clear out everything that is not toilet paper or human waste."

All of our faces dropped, mine included as I remembered the time Tutelos had to clean out their box. Rumors of sick, nasty, smelly treasure came to mind, treasure I wasn't quite ready or willing to scavenge for. Alas, part of my job is to joyfully follow leadership and role model a positive mind frame. Not to mention my fascination for all thing feces. There was a mission to accomplish, and I was ready and willing to do my part.

After breakfast, we all marched solemnly back to campsite--everyone very aware of what monster we were about to challenge. I worried about who would step up, who would be the brave and fearless souls to conquer the box. I worried I would be the only one. My twelve boys, my co-counselor, a visiting counselor, and I sat down near the box, each of us gazing around, all avoiding eye contact with Chief Lydia, knowing that meeting my gaze would mean meeting their fate. Finally, I broke the deafening silence, "Okay, fellas, who's up for it?"

Surprisingly, three of my boys stood up and accepted the poor excuse for protection I offered their trembling hands. We all put on the thin, plastic gloves and turned to face our nemesis. I looked back once more and realized that I was the lone chief stepping up to this challenge. Neither my co-counselor nor the counselor visit, both men (surprised anyone?), were standing up. Both avoided my hateful glare.

The battle commenced. I entered the box first, the fearless leader looking out for her little ducklings. If I can do it, they can do it. I took a shovel and began to blindly search the intestines of the dark abyss of the box hole. I brought up the first item: an empty plastic bottle of cleaning fluid. Its removal from the box unleashed the stench I was waiting for, but a stench I wasn't prepared for. Instantly, my stomach convulsed, not ready to accept the fowl intruder that invaded my nasal passages. I ran out of the box dry heaving followed by all three of my campers. "Oh no, no no no no no, Chief! We ain't doin this! F*** that!"

"No, guys, we can do it. We'll get used to it. Let's cover our faces." Now armed with t-shirt masks, plastic gloves, and shovels, we went to work.

2 plastic kitchen gloves, a winter glove, a hat, 4 plastic bottles, hundreds of plastic gloves similar to the ones we were wearing, and thousands of maggots (yes, maggots) later, I encountered a larger, much more complicated roadblock to our victory over the box.

The four of us stepped out to reset our approach. The object wouldn't come up with the shovel, but we knew it was big. Big enough to prevent the box from being cleaned out. Big enough that it needed to come out of there one way or another. After 3 minutes of counsel, I made a decision. I was going in...as far and for as long as I needed to get whatever that beast was out of the box. For the sake of the children and their freedom to poop without fear of a maggot crawling on them or being grazed by a floating plastic bottle, I was going in.

I put one hand in and grabbed on to the beast by the horns. It felt stringy, and at first, I thought it was an entire roll of binding twine, the material we use to tie lashings when building tents. I couldn't maneuver it with just one hand though, so in went my second hand while I tried to avoid any unnecessary skin contact with the toilet. By this time, any barrier provided by my gloves went to crap (pun intended) as the putrid liquid seeped into my gloves. It was too late now. I had to get it out.

It breached the surface, and I saw that it looked more like pine straw. Could it be the lump of pine straw I tried to burn months previous? Did my kids really throw it in the box? Why would they do that? Wait. No. Not pine straw. It's sewed together. That's strange.

I kept pulling, and it kept fighting back. I was no longer fighting a monster, but a broom. An entire freaking broom. I wrestled the broom head out then maneuvered it sideways to get the handle out. Filled with disgust, anger, shock, and poopy water, I threw the broom in the direction of my lazy campers and stomped off to disinfect my body amidst howls of laughter and fake vomiting.

Everyone refused to touch the broom of the trash bags filled with the contents of the box. Our campsite smelled for nearly 2 days until I finally gave in and took the broom and bags to the dumpster unable to handle the smell any longer.

At night, I still think I can smell the box coming to get me. I'll never forget that smell or that broom...or these kids and this camp.

so now, go...

31 weeks.

I'm itchy.

My elbows, my fingers, my ankles, my neck, my back, the palms of my hands. All itchy. Unbearably itchy. The yellow flies have had their way with me. The mosquitoes have sucked me dry, and I'm itchy. Unbearably itchy.

But more than that, I'm itching.

I'm itching to create. I've been doing a little research here and there, and one thing continues to ring true in my heart. I want to start something...create something. I want to bring life back into a program. I want to create something brand new; however, I keep finding myself in situations where I get caught under the weight of what someone else wants for a program.

Right now, I'm drowning in a program I don't really believe in--a program that is swimming in potential, but a program that just won't...or maybe can't...take off its floaties.

I want to start over--I want to go into a program where the expectations are for me to revive, strengthen, and create.

But now we wait...for that still small voice that has always been with me, guiding me like the wind in a sail. A wind that never ceases nor leaves me.

Just as it sent Moses into Egypt, it leads me:

"So now, go. I am sending you."