Kaleidoscope: Tribute to Guam

Irony and camera lenses tend to grip me these days. I am learning that sometimes the clearest way to see something is when that something is no longer in focus. See the blur. The haze draws us in and tells us to squint and look closely. It is clarity that has a way of blinding, a way of filling your mind with bright color, but your thoughts with nothing. You do not see it because it has become a part of your eyes, a part of you. We rarely see ourselves. And we rarely see the current season of our lives as a treasure, as a beautiful kaleidoscope image, constantly changing.

About six months ago my husband and I flew across the great Pacific to the US of A–to one of its oldest cities: Charleston, South Carolina. I couldn’t pack very much, but I did pack that kaleidoscope of memories, of images, of the way my body felt against the air of heat and slow, slow down. I have unpacked almost everything we brought. But that kaleidoscope. Even typing these words brings tears. There is so much I miss that weighs down my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Guam has a color. It is brown like the sand, yellow like the sun, and white like the innards of a coconut. It is the ribboning of all the colors in the rainbow glazed over the sky. And I became that color, a kaleidoscope of a color. Here, I have trouble knowing my place. I do not know my color. Here I am just white, they think. They don’t know about the other colors in me. “You had a great experience.” I am a different person. “You’re waxing lyrical.” Possibly.

Memories flash: my toes plunge into the wet sand, and I feel that connectedness. My heels sink in and the surface massages my arches. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, hoping never to forget. People think that island life must be very isolated and insulated. While that is true in some ways, I always felt that there, on the shore looking out at the blue Pacific water, that there was vastness to my life, a lack of control that I never grasped anywhere else. Grandeur alters perspective.

The locals’ accents run over me, a wave of warmth, a familiar cadence. I will never look like one of them–my skin will tan, but not brown. I will always love anything vintage and English. But their ways, their mannerisms were the hand that offered the awkward girl a dance, a bend, a sway. Barriers crossed and cheeks kissed. Openness.

Many of my images no one else can see. Can you ever take enough photos of everyday, beautifully boring life? Those images are mine, but I did capture a few towards the end to share. I hope these pictures remind us to live and love in large ways wherever we are, because we won’t always be here. We won’t always be here. Love Jesus, love people all around you, and love where you are. Keep your kaleidoscope close and your chin up, sweetheart.