Red Pointe Shoe
The waste of time you're looking for. | Instagram


July 2, 2017

It’s Sunday. I just rode my bike across the city to a favorite coffee spot, which I’ve taken to calling “Lizy Daycare.” I don’t have any pressing work today and I’ve been awfully neglectful of the blog the past few, well, years, so here I type.

The Reader’s Digest version of my life at present:

Upon completion of my work at the resettlement agency on May 1st, I flew out to the Republic of Georgia for a highly anticipated excursion to see Daniel, who is now halfway through his service as a Peace Corps volunteer. Upon my return in early June it became clear that my brother’s family needed to start preparing the house for the newest addition to their ever-growing family, who is due to arrive this August.

Grace was found in the form of temporary lodging where it all began: Camp Stevens in Julian, California. My adolescence soaked up summers at Camp Stevens and it was there I got my first whiff of chasing personal challenge as a young adult.

I made my way to Camp without a concrete game plan. I knew I was trading photography and web work for room and board, but few details had been ironed out. Which is fine; I just wanted to give my family in Glendora the space they needed.

Within days of being in those soul-rejuvenating San Diego mountains I was able to relax, crank out some web design (always a happy thing!), play my guitar with the community, work on Juruw designs, learn about the changes made to camp in the six (!) years since I last worked there, and learn that I did not, in fact, want to be there.

Life has changed since I was 19. Which is good, on account of me being 25-and-eleven-twelfths now, and if life hadn’t changed things would be awfully boring. The 19-year-old version of me was the last version to know Camp Stevens. At 19 I intentionally sought out bohemian living and vegetarianism. My soul craved absolutely everything a soul could possibly crave; tattoos and piercings being just the beginning. The tattoo is still on my right wrist and the piercings are still on the left side of my face, but my bones are leaning into a different sort of yearning now. They already know what it’s like to do something radical and see what happens when Mom is told. Mom’s so used to it now that she even volunteered to help me when I couldn’t reach the underside of my hair to dye it pink. The shock value of yet another (potentially) dumb decision has worn off now.

It’s big leap from 19 to 25-and-eleven-twelfths. The trees and trails at Camp didn’t know I had aged. My gargantuan appreciation for Camp rests deep within those manzanitas, but it’s awfully tough to relearn how to exist in a place that knows you all-to-well for your antics of another lifetime.

I learned I craved a different sort of existence. In the short term I want to be surrounded regularly by my doofus nephews and soon-to-exist niece. In the long term I want to resume my life back in Montgomery, surrounded by friends and living back in my own apartment.

And so, after my family figured out a space back in Glendora where I could temporarily live without being in the way, I thanked Camp Stevens for holding onto me while I figured out my life and headed back to the San Gabriel Valley.

I have about six weeks here until I hoist everything I own into Mrs. Potts and we make our way, yet again, across the country to rejoin the land of sweet tea and people all-too-embarrassed for having provided the country with Jeff Sessions. And it will be good.