New, Improved.

I am a daredevil. I will try anything once. I am fearless. I'm reasonably good at most things that I try. Above all else, I am not afraid of failure.

At least that's what I'd like you to believe. And unless you get to know me very, very well, I'll probably convince you quite thoroughly. After all, I'll gladly jump out of an airplane, or climb a very tall structure, or spelunk lava tubes. To drive the point home, I'll smile while I'm doing it.

On the surface, those things look very brave. They are not.

My Knievel-eqsue antics are merely a thinly-veiled, smoke-and-mirrors, over-hyphenated attempt to convince you that I am a woman of great valor. I am not.

Here is a list of things that scare me tremendously:

1. Snapping Turtles
2. Cottage Cheese
3. Commitment
4. Failure
5. Office Jobs
6. Misogyny 
7. Clowns (I know it's a trendy phobia. No, they don't make me scream or sweat. But if I'm walking down a sidewalk and I see a clown, I'll cross the street so I don't have to pass close by the painted freak.)
8. People who Yell
9. Waking up one morning and realizing I'm past my peak
10. June Bugs 
11. Judgment of Any Kind

There are at least 10,000 other things that render me petrified, but you get the point. I am a great big scaredy-cat and an even bigger hypocrite. I am the opposite of plucky. I just go through the motions.

I see courage everywhere, and I strive to emulate it. In one project with which I'm involved, I routinely talk to women who've survived breast cancer. Talk about ferocity. These women have been to hell and back, and they almost universally shrug off their experiences as if they were no big deal. "It was just my cross to bear," said one survivor. "Everyone has to deal with something." 

I don't know if I would be so brave.

My own daughter just finished her first triathlon at the ripe old age of nine. I sobbed as she crossed the finish line, overcome by the nerve it took for her to undertake her mission. Though she is a shy child, she worked really hard to raise nearly $500 for the Miracles of Mitch Foundation. And then she swam and biked and ran her heart out, despite the fact that the whole ordeal terrified her. If a child can have such determination, I wondered, why do I crumple so readily in the face of day-to-day life?

I've always been a little bit fragile, a little too sensitive. And so I do things that you will think are brave, like skydiving or bungee jumping or wearing a costume in public on a random Tuesday. The problem is that those things don't scare me. Not one iota. And so they're not really brave, are they?

I'll tell you what does scare me. New.

"New" is terrifying, because I am a control freak. That is why I say no to nearly everything that I can't predict. 

Sure, I'll slap on a parachute, because I can tell you exactly how it will end: Statistically speaking, I'll return to the ground. Not very scary.

But to get up in front of a group of people and sing? What if they don't like me? What if a mighty wind blows my skirt off and everyone laughs? What if I die of a heart attack caused by the anxiety induced by puking from nervousness on the stage?

I'm trying to challenge myself to break the shackles of perceived security, and so over the past few months I've made an effort to give up control and Just Say Yes.

That's why I said yes to a friend who asked me to paddle on his corporate Dragon Boat Team. I mean, it was highly possible that I'd cause the team to fail (Fear #4), thereby inciting the judgment of potentially misogynistic teammates from his office, causing them to yell at me sternly as they threw me into the waters of Lake Phalen, where my toes would be chomped off by snapping turtles (Fears # 11, 6, 5, 8 and 1). It could have been really ugly.  

Instead, it proved to be an unexpected highlight of my summer. I learned a new, somewhat useless rowing technique and obtained some righteous bruises. Best of all, on the shore my beautiful daughters watched us lose heat after heat, and they loved me anyway. Clearly worth the risk. So why did it cause me such tremendous fear? 

Or try this one on for size: Waffle Guy's youngest has an unbelievable voice. It's the sort of talent that most people never get to have. So when she asked my Guy and I if we'd sing backup vocals for an audition she wanted to go on, the logical answer was yes. But then it became clear that she wanted us to dress up in early '70s garb a la The Pips, and do Motown choreography, and do it in front of an audience with judges (Fears #11 and possibly 9), and I wanted to die every time I thought about it. 

We did it, though. And Waffle Guy and I TOTALLY blew the choreography, and we don't know yet whether we made it with her or ruined it for her. But it was absolutely hilarious in a way I never could have predicted. If I'm really honest, I'm strangely glad we did it. 

A childhood friend and fellow blogger recently drew my attention to a Huffington Post article talking about perceived happiness, specifically referring to parenthood. The article set every little synapse in my brain to life. Parents, the piece contends, are simply too busy to recognize what makes them happy until they stop to think about it later on. Is it possible, I wondered, that this is not limited to parenting? Is it possible that we truly don't realize what makes us happy until after we understand the events in context of The Big Picture?

And if this is the case, is it possible that we are also somehow programmed to fear the wrong things? Perhaps Fear #2 is something I should drop, opting instead to fear a flavorless, dull and utterly predictable life?

Maybe it's time to start ignoring the things that scare me, and welcoming the sweet, unexpected outcomes of just letting go.

(I'm standing by the fear of june bugs, though. Those little bastards are mortifying.)

Independence

The Middle Child made a proud declaration this morning, as she plated up her Sunday waffle. "We got blackberries and strawberries and whipped cream, Mama," she said. "For Independence Day."

July 4th has always been among her favorite days. I remember holding a baby, five weeks old, who stared in rapt attention to the bursts of colored stars. When she got older, she'd rest her head on my shoulder as we stretched out on a blanket and watched the sky. "Those ones are my favorite," she'd whisper, her hands on my cheeks. "No. Those are my favorite."

It's interesting that she enjoys the festivities so much. Any other day, crowds and noise and explosions  incite irascibility from this child. But not on Independence Day. Perhaps she understands that to find the meaning of freedom, one must embrace that which is unpredictable.

Waffle Guy assumed the role of executive chef this morning, with The Middle Child acting as prep cook, leaving me free to observe. Under his direction, she mixed a batter that yielded the most delicious waffles we've created in the year since this journey began.

Sweetest of all was watching her, nine years old and thriving, at the dawn of her own independence.

She's developed a fascinating new habit, as of late. "I'm going to save up $200," she'll tell me. And then she'll do it.

Last month, she informed me that she'd be participating in her first triathlon  on July 17th. This wasn't the same child who confidently stated she was going to be an Astronaut Cowgirl when she grew up. There was no childish ignorance, no irrational logic. This time, she knew what it took and intended to succeed. Day after day she swims and runs and bikes, completely driven to accomplish her mission. The force that drives her confounds me, rising from the mystery that is her soul, entirely independent of my influence. Suddenly, she is her own woman. It is both victory and defeat, that she needs less and less of me, and it speeds my pulse to think of it.

She didn't macerate the strawberries this morning, although macerating strawberries is one of her very favorite things to do. Today she decided to leave them whole; to pile them atop whipping cream along with tangy, firm blackberries; to add her very own, sweet spin to a tradition that we've come to love.

I scraped the last crumbs onto my fork, lost in all of the things I wanted to tell her. It's your life, too, Little One. 

But there was no need to say it. She already knows.

Back to the Beginning

Enough with the random sappiness. There are three incredible waffle-related developments that must be addressed.

1. A little over a year ago, I mentioned in this post that the Aster Cafe in Minneapolis desperately needed waffles. It was a beautiful, quaint space that just needed something more, and waffles, I contended, would save it. Through a bizarre series of coincidences, my friends Matty O'Reilly and Tom Peterson, owners of the amazing 318 Cafe in Excelsior, Minnesota, have acquired the Aster Cafe, and I'm happy to report waffles on their delightful breakfast menu. You can order them topped with either fresh berries and creme fraiche, or with bananas and Nutella (omg). While there's still nowhere in Minneapolis to find a delicious sugar waffle, I'm happy to report that these will sustain me when I'm too lazy to make my own. I'm also very happy to report that when I say a place should get waffles, sometimes it happens. Behold, the power of blogging...and serendipity.
2. We're running out of Hagel Zucker, and I was trembling in my bones at the thought that I'd have to return to waffle making without it. But if there's a god, it loves waffles, and so it's all going to work out fine. Our friend Nikki, who was instrumental in our decision to go to Bruges in the first place, has been living in Belgium for the past year, and will be visiting next week. She very kindly offered to bring home a stash of Belgian pearl sugar for us. Waffle Guy and I laughed a bit as she said, "I picked up two kilos for you, so you should be set for a long time." Little does she know how much sugar we put in those amazing waffles.
3. Waffle Guy is THE BEST. I mean, we already knew that, but he's really, really, really THE BEST. See, I'm celebrating a milestone birthday in the fall, and Mr. Incredible decided that for my birthday, he would offer me the opportunity to share the magic of Waffle World with those who mean the most to me. And so, come October, we'll be taking my three amazing daughters and my highly cool mother to Europe. The plan at this point is to start in Amsterdam, then go eat waffles and ride in horse-drawn carriages and drink lots of beer in Bruges, and then venture into Germany.  I'm so excited that I'm not sure I can stand it.

Lest you think I'd forgotten the original purpose of my blog, I'm going to leave you with this: It's a good year for waffles.

I'm-a go eat one right now... 

Lessons From A Tourist's Photos: Erosion

image_3, originally uploaded by katherine.kunkel.

I saw the tiny canyon in the sand, carved of a tidal stream and surrounded by miniature cliffs, a perfect scale-model representation of the forces to which we all fall victim in our own time.

We are shaped by waters, blown by winds; leveled and smoothed and carved and designed until we reach our final form; intricate and weathered and true, if only we let those forces move us.

(Zeeland, The Netherlands, Spring 2009)

Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: Just Cross The Flippin' Bridge Already

Every now and again, I feel like I suffer from Late-Onset Adulthood. You know those days when you were learning your lessons and sewing your oats and stuff? I was AWOL then, somehow, locked up in my completely oblivious little mind, and so I never really grew up. Now I'm figuring out the things that the rest of the world learned at fifteen. It's a little bit awkward, although I'm proud to report that I've experienced virtually no acne in this bizarre and belated launch period.

For a very wide variety of reasons, I missed the years when most people are concerned about fashion trends or dating or the antics of the characters in the latest trendy television serial. I was too busy surviving. And then all of a sudden, everything changed. For the first time in my life, I'm beginning to understand what it means to thrive, and it feels amazing.

Except when it doesn't. 

Because sometimes, moving forward feels like a traffic jam. 

For example, four months ago, I quit smoking. Not like I quit smoking last year, or the year before that, or the year before that. This time, I really quit smoking. To prove it, I gained 15 pounds immediately. I'm not as young as I used to be, and the weight is proving to be incredibly hard to take off. I've never been overweight, and truth be told, I'm hardly overweight now. But looking in the mirror is so bloody frustrating that I forget that my new appearance is proof of a healthier me. I curse the hours I now have to spend at the gym, instead of celebrating the newer, healthier lifestyle I'm creating. I forget that just a few short months ago, I was a slave to an addiction that I wasn't sure I'd be strong enough to escape. I beat it, and it was easier than I thought. Victory, right? Except for those pounds. 

And so the cycle continues. I get so caught up in beating myself up about my newest challenge that I forget to look at the challenges as the beautiful, educational, important journeys that they are. I look at the present, and convince myself myself I'm stuck here. I look at the future, and find it a bit frightening.

But I forget to look at the past, and see how far I've progressed. I forget that it doesn't matter how long it took me to get here. The point is, I arrived.

Organization is another weak spot for me, and tonight I found myself once again working much harder to clean my house than I should have had to work. If only I'd emptied the dishwasher when it was finished, I thought, then dirty dishes would never have piled up in the sink and I could have spent that time mopping instead. In a fit of frustration, I finished the dishes and went to bed for some cathartic time spent looking at photos of happy things.

That's when I found the picture of the bridge. This bridge over Germany's Mosul river was so striking to me, in part because it was ominous and cold and threatening against the springtime sky. From down below, it felt like it must be scary to cross it.

And that's the thing about bridges: you just have to cross them, whether they're welcoming and quaint or easy and current or big and cold and frightening. It doesn't matter what the bridge looks like, really. The point is to find out what's on the other side. 

Here's hoping the gym is fun, over there.

Abundance, or The Place Where Nothing is Wasted

Above the alley at the home we share, Waffle Guy and I embarked on a grand experiment: a rooftop patio garden. 

For him, the garden appealed to his practical side. "It'll pay for itself in one basil plant," he mused as I tallied up the cost of the seeds I'd purchased. 

For me, the garden represented catharsis. To keep a plant alive represented proof that the struggles of the last several years of my life had given way to the sort of gentle day-to-day rhythm that allowed a person to remember things like sunshine and water. 

And so one day I tenderly planted seeds in tiny peat pots and waited eagerly for my efforts to bear fruit. 

It took awhile. And I made lots of mistakes along the way. For example, I left my little seedlings out on the porch while I went on vacation, subjecting them to the fierceness of May in Minnesota. Despite a hard frost, nobody died.

I left my extremely promising lettuce sprouts on the lawn in my backyard, where a newly adopted dog was altogether thrilled to poop on them. Grossed out, I returned the lettuces to the earth. It all worked out, though, as my tomato plants took up much more room than I'd alloted them, and the loss of the lettuces allowed four massive tomato varietals to take residence on my patio.

And then there's the Hanging Pepper Planter Saga. Turns out, those thriving plants I planted in it were not, in fact, the peppers I thought I was planting. The good news is that green and yellow beans grow extremely well from hanging planters. Who knew?

I've over-watered. I've under-watered. I've over-fertilized and forgotten plant food entirely. And somehow, my garden decides again and again to forgive me. 

I spend altogether too much time thinking about the fact that my patio is alive, now. When the Deepwater Horizon story broke, my stomach tied itself in knots every time I saw a picture of an oil-covered animal. One day, while sitting near my little urban garden, I realized that growing my own herbs and vegetables means that no one has to truck them to the store for me. It was comforting, somehow, that those plants reduce my use of fossil fuels. Even if the change was a small one, it was real. 

And that's the thing about planting anything, isn't it? You scatter the seeds of all of your new ideas, and somehow, against all odds, some of them grow. And they change things. And they're real. 

Just like that. 

I can't take credit for the metaphor, but I feel like using it puts me in good company. Jesus and Emerson and Thoreau and perhaps thousands of other great minds have noticed how tending a garden reflects tending to our own lives. 

The other day, upon locking ourselves out of the house, the kids and I lounged in the hammock in my little rooftop Eden and snacked on the beans that had grown where we'd expected peppers. I recalled a period of my life when being stuck in such a situation would have been a highly stressful thing. Instead, I was actually having fun. 

Today I picked cilantro, and looked forward to grinding its seeds to make homemade curry powder, and I was overwhelmed at the perfect efficiency of my garden. A few pots, some soil and some seeds have reminded me that I belong here, on this Earth, in this place, and that nothing that's led me here has been wasted. 

On Fires and Forecasts

Sitting by a fire at the cabin on Big Butternut, Waffle Guy fell uncharacteristically silent as he gazed into the flames.

"Where'd you go?" I asked.

"Nowhere," he said. "Just thinking about fire."

"What about it?" I prodded, concerned that he was about to reveal a dormant pyromania within.

"It's fascinating. You can't predict it, really," he said. "I mean, you can predict that if you light something flammable, it will burn. And you can predict how wind direction might affect it. But you can never even begin to imagine what shapes the flames will make while the fire is burning."

He moved a bag of marshmallows to make room for me at his side.

"It's so complicated," he said. "It's like, we can sort of predict the weather. We can predict a storm, and know where it will hit, and we can tell whether it will be hot or cold. But no one can tell you what shapes you'll see in the clouds. Except with a fire, it's right there in that fire pit. It's so small, and it's so complicated."

Evening sun set the scarlet tops of distant cumulus clouds ablaze while sparks popped from burning oak logs, and I knew that we, too, were beautiful and random and complex and unscripted. I thought about predictions: We will never know what shapes we might take, but we know that there will be love.