Sick Days

Growing up, I was taught that as much, or more, can be learned outside the classroom as in. My dad, being the outdoorsman that he is, believed that nature, the woods and the mountains and the vast emptiness of the skies, were an environment ripe for learning. And so we learned. I learned that it’s better muster the strength to go to class when ill, in order to save your sick days for when you are best equipped to take advantage of their gift. The best “sick days” are the ones in which you are most healthy, lively, adventurous, and exuberant. The best sick days are the ones in which school and work are hours away and the only thing you need to be taught is whatever the world chooses to show you. The best sick days are when you wake up at 3am and drive through fading city lights to reach the thick and impenetrable darkness of the desert night, or when you find yourself in the salty playground of the ocean before the sun begins to peek over the cliff tops, and the waves reflect no light but the moon’s and the stars’. The best sick days are, indeed, the ones in which you are not sick, not even close.


It was with this in mind that Sarah and I boarded a train in yesterday’s morning light. We had a backpack and a camera, and school was right where it should be, miles away. Sarah had taken the GRE the day before, and we both felt that a mental health day was in order. We boarded the train and watched the lazy coast slip by, and I secretly hoped an animated Tom Hanks would take us by the hand and lead us to the roof for an even better view.

When the wheels screeched and slowed an hour later, we stepped onto the platform and into a new city. We wandered in search of a hearty brunch. Our feet took us up past the red-domed mission that loomed overhead, and eventually across to the river road where our noses told us we had found what we were looking for.

At a quaint home-turned-restaurant there was a wooden sign reading, “Ramos House Café.” We sat and let the morning breeze waft scents of fresh biscuits and eggs and apple-butter and bacon around us. A small card on the table told us the proprietor lived in the very house we were eating at, and we felt like long-awaited guests at the table of a most welcoming host. The food arrived in an elegant pile, if ever there was such a thing, and we savored the hot meal and sipped crisp melon-water from mason jars. And when we were done we walked off, satisfied and grateful for the small and timeless pleasures of life, like the lingering taste of a perfect breakfast on your tongue.

We passed the rest of the day in slow movements. From the café our feet carried us to a park where we stared at the sky ‘til our eyes watered, and we laughed with our bellies.

We pretended to be architects and built a house of paper and ink, while drinking coffee from cups covered in snowflakes and carolers that reminded us our favorite holiday was on the horizon. And as the sun blinked its goodbye, and we grew hungry again, we stepped into a restaurant where time slowed almost to a standstill.

By the time we left the restaurant the earth had twisted us 2000 miles further from the sun, and its light was merely a fading memory. In the dark we wandered to a bench and read to pass the time until our train would take us homeward once more. We opened Traveling Mercies and random chapter by random chapter learned about the beauty of our imperfections and a woman’s struggle to live with God.

We moved to the platform where we first stepped into the city and continued to read. A freight train thundered by, and we huddled together to escape the reach of its grasping, windy fingers. Eventually, the headlights of a more amiable machine bent around the corner to us, and we climbed aboard. And with the sleepy mission town falling rapidly into our past, we gracefully slid over greased rails all the way home, basking in the quiet contentedness.

Beauty From Above

Earth | Time Lapse View from Space, Fly Over | NASA, ISS from Michael König on Vimeo.

Portraits of the Intangible

I've always had an obsession with the idea of childhood. In my head exists a grand notion of all its beauty, purity, wonder, and whimsy. Even during my own childhood I could sense that I was in a time to be treasured, even through its patches of bitter cold and sharp pains I could see how brightly it gleamed when the light hit it just right, when childhood was what it was meant to be. Even then, I grasped at my own youth like a buoy of joy in a sea of serious faces, and I dreaded growing up. I dreamt of Neverland, of Hook and the Lost Boys. I dreamt. 

A decade later, with all the scars to prove it, I still dream of childhood. Though I see it more clearly now for what it is. I understand that no one has ever experienced childhood as we all believe it should be, but I still cherish the idea of the thing.  I still hold deeply esteemed in my heart the essence of childhood as I wish it were. And I appreciate people who use their talents to bring that essence to life.

I recently found the blog of an Australian photographer who specializes in child portraits and goes by the name Jinky Art. Her images capture the spirit of what I believe childhood should be. Though her subjects may not possess the dreamy youth they seem to. They hurt, and they cry. They hear the bitter words between their parents, and their bed sheets have been tissues to dry tear-streaked cheeks and wounded eyes. They are beautiful babies with blossoming insecurities who will one day write Shakespearean tragedies with their lives. No, her subjects may not be as untouched by the woes of the world as they look, but their portraits nevertheless contain those qualities we long for in childhood: an air of whimsy and a whisper of the divine.

Somewhere Strange and New

I believe an update is in order. I don’t normally like to write blogs that simply relay the events of my life. Usually I’d rather use clever photos and carefully crafted vague words to give life to the things I’m feeling or to hintingly illustrate events in such a way that necessitates imagination on the part of the reader. I like whispering pieces of my story and leaving you to fill in the parts you couldn’t quite hear.  I like to believe in the lie of my own mystery. Normally, that is. However, as I’ve been absent for so long, and there’s much too much to catch up on for obscurity, I’ll be direct.

The biggest recent change in life is that I now have a girlfriend. She’s beautiful and fun and lovely and strong and compassionate and I could make this run-on last for pages and her name is Sarah and this is a picture of us recently.

Two weeks ago we traveled together for the first time. We turned a three-day weekend into five and flew to Mexico. Sarah studied abroad in Guanajuato, and was elated to return a place of such significance in her life. We spent our days winding through vibrant alleyways, and over rough and ancient cobblestone. The brilliant patchwork of the brightly colored homes formed something like a Kandinsky canvas on the hillsides, and the smells of food freshly prepared on the streets sizzled in our noses. We heard the sounds of Finnish voices singing in Mexico about love in English, and watched from a windy hillside a grim and fantastical performance elevated on stilts telling the story of a fisherman lost at sea, and the crowd through and in which they performed was a sea of flesh. We spent playful afternoon hours with young girls whose greatest desire was to be spun above our heads and to ride on our shoulders and to giggle uncontrollably and to force us to sing the Titanic song. And we ate, oh how we ate. With grease streaming over fingers and satisfied smiles we ate. 

And then we returned, to school and to family and to responsibilities...

and to dreams of absconding once more.