Adventure is out there.

I was on the phone tonight, and I began explaining how I am considering a new tattoo. I want to get the house from Up with the balloons, with text that says "Adventure is out there!" Immediately, he asked why would I get that as a tattoo.

After cracking a few jokes, I explained that it's because of how important the movie and the story are to me.

Then I started to think about it.

The story of Up reduces everyone to tears. Whether it's the story of adventure, the miscarriage, love, or the loss of a loved one, it's a story that resonates deeply.

The part I love most (obviously, other than my desire to be Russell), is none other than that of Carl Frederickson. An old man, cynical and jaded, at his wits end with devastation after the loss of someone he holds so dear to him. The person who gave him the ambition for the adventure is no longer with him.

But then what Carl does is not like many others. Carl continues on his adventure despite his loss.

Loss isn't a foreign concept. It happens daily, dominating our life with various measures of grandeur.

But I wonder what would happen if loss became a motivator instead of an inhibitor. If it wasn't for Ellie, Carl wouldn't have had the idea to go to Paradise Falls. If it wasn't for the construction workers, Carl wouldn't have had the idea for the balloons. But at the root of this is his promise to Ellie.

I think we all have an Ellie. A person we've planned an adventure with and who has motivated us. Often someone from our youth, we often lose our Ellie.

And the loss of Ellie becomes the loss of the adventure.

But I tend to wonder what the world would be like if we were all Carl. If our sense of adventure dominated. If our devastation from loss withered away to be less of an inhibitor.

But maybe better yet, what if we didn't promise an Ellie? What if we promised adventure just for Carl? Just for adventure's sake?

I think adventures are scary. And as I embark on my senior year of college, and as I plan my next adventure, I would be lying if I said I was calm, cool, and collected about the thought of something new. I think my adventure would be fun if my Ellie could go with me, and if I could just stay Carl.

Don't get me wrong. I have my own dreams and aspirations, but I'm a bit petrified at the thought of wandering alone and aimlessly.

But at the end of the day, I promised myself that with or without Ellie, I would go on the adventure. With Ellie as my motivator or my inhibitor, I, Carl, would continue on to the place I promised I would go. To defy all odds and learn new things. To explore the vast unknown.

But to my Ellie, and all the Ellies to all the Carls, I hope you'll watch closely. I hope you'll stay in touch and watch from afar. I know I can't ask you to go with, but I hope you'll be proud of my adventure.

And at the end of the day, I can only hope I'll meet you at Paradise Falls.

About One Year.

It's that time of year.

At this same time every year, I ponder my life. As I pack all my belongings in boxes and move them from one place to the next, I question if life is more than a series of boxes moved from place to place. Things get packed away like jigsaw puzzles, unpacked and temporarily put on display, repacked, and moved again, all in a yearly pattern. Yet the boxes symbolize the ability to compartmentalize and rearrange for whatever reason it may be.

This year, I find the packing different.

On one hand, it's because I have to pack everything I own, move it to my boyfriend's basement, crash on my best friend's air mattress for a week, and then move everything I own into my new studio.

But I'll leave that for another day, cause homelessness and the stupidity of Iowa City apartment companies deserves its own blog post.

Anyways.

For the past two years, I've made this same move at this same time. First, into my dorm for my first year of college. Then home. Then to my second dorm. Then to an apartment three months later. Then to a new apartment for the summer. Next is bumming for a week, and then my studio for my last year at the University of Iowa (In case you're counting, when you add my move in two weeks, it's 7 times in three years).

This is my last move. I am, in fact, graduating college in one year.

At this time next year when I pack away all the boxes, it won't be for a move down the street. It won't be for a move in the same city. It won't involve boxes being moved close by and being homeless for a week in between summer and school year apartments.

It will be a long journey. Everything I own will leave Iowa City once and for all. I won't come back for the following year. I'll be on to a new journey (that has yet to be decided). Next year, I won't be three hours away from mom and dad. I won't be in college where I'm babysat by deans and cops in bars.

And I can't really say where I'll be, because as much as I want to, I don't know.

But I know one thing for sure.

All the boxes can't go. All the things I hold so dear to me as objects of comfort will become nothing but frills and excess. Instead of three boxes of books, it's five or six.

I can't even take all the bags and all the things I want to fit in them. Not everything can be folded like a jigsaw puzzle and dragged from place to place. There are limits.

In a year, I start all over. I start a new life in a new place.

And in a year, when I pack everything I own, I wonder where it will land. I wonder what I will leave behind. I wonder what I will find immaterial and inessential. I wonder how I'll feel when I wander back to my things before yet another journey.

More importantly, I wonder where I'll land and what I'll take with me.

But I'm ready to let go of the bags and the boxes and wander aimlessly and happily onto my next adventure.

Excuse me, I have a case of wanderlust.

On Distance

Lately, I've been considering the concepts of long distance relationships. They have quite the stigma attached to them that they are all things horrible. So I began thinking.

In a way, I agree that they can be quite difficult. On one hand, there is this new found distance you don't know what to do with. The person you spend every day with is now no where close to you. The physical proximity of the relationship is left out. Communication can be sporadic, depending on the distance. But the worst part is the thoughts that you're left alone with. The thought that after the extended period of time apart is over that what you thought you had could be changed. The thought that this time apart could end in two people calling it quits, because what you thought you had, you don't.

Yet this thing remains in between. Trust. Both near and far, silent and loud. Trust.

And with that, I start to wonder if long distance relationships are a good thing. Sure, it's a new adjustment knowing your person isn't there to hold your hand. But then what you learned is anything physical is not the center of the relationship. What you learn from being alone is who you are apart from that person.

What you learn is what you really want. Not having something can just make you want it more, or whether you even wanted it in the first place. Not having something can make you realize that it's the thing you've wanted all along.

It's a scary thing to be apart. It's also a scary thing to learn what you've always wanted. But then again, being scared means you'll take a leap. The leap is always worth it. For a smile, for a new opportunity, for happiness.

"Relationships remind me I'm not afraid of heights or falling. I'm scared to death of everything that's going to happen in between." - Rudy Francisco