Following Elias

Last Post...

...I think.

I think its time for Following Elias to come to a close, considering I haven't been writing, and especially considering my former micro-preemie just graduated from high school.

Elias walked across the stage to receive his diploma amidst the cheers of our hometown and a few tears from the solid row of family who attended this milestone event. 

Elias, the boy that could, not only survived his birth at 24 weeks, and hundreds of other hurdles in his way, but despite the odds, and some last minute mud pits to cross, earned a high school degree.

Elias chose to walk without his cane, and was the last name called in his class, before the final cap throwing celebration.

The question, "What's next Elias?" still receives the same over-played answer: "I don't know." 

None of us know. 

What's next?

Elias's younger sister, Olive, is off in DC and NY for a middle school trip, followed by a trip to London with her Fairy Godmother, our independent child who let go of our hands as a toddler and started running towards her next adventure.

Elias sits next to me on the couch as I write.

I write less and less these days, and feel less compelled to chronicle our lives on the internet, which is also why I think its time to end this blog.

And yet I will miss all the connections I've made over the years. I will miss reaching out on dark days and feeling the touch of others who understand.

I know I still need to write, just perhaps in a different format. Maybe I'll return to working on a book or storytelling or poems...

If you are on FB please like my Following Elias Page, as I will still post there from time to time, especially when we experience significant challenges or triumphs, as we so often do.

If you are not on FB and want me to reach out to you if I end up creating a new way to share my writing, please email me at [email protected].

As always there is so much more to say...

Please know that coming to this place to write and share over all these years has held me up in more ways than even I know. Thank you for following our family, for cheering on my children, for letting me know I'm not alone.

From my home on the hill to yours, may we always keep searching for the light.

With love always,

Christy

Most Likely, Hopefully, Maybe, Eventually

Somewhere beneath the plow piles, my perennials sleep. Or perhaps their green limbs stretch towards the light, as they wake from their winter slumber. A four-foot blanket of snow still sits atop my gardens, holding the green hues of Spring at bay.

As much as I love snow, I'm ready for a shift of seasons-- but winter doesn't want to let go. Last week, it snowed two feet in a day, sending us all home from school early. And though the sun stays out longer each evening, the persistence of snow and ice prevails.

Somewhere in the distance, summer calls, with all her verdant warmth and endless light. Flowers and grass don't seem possible, but they await.

We will get there....

This has been a hard school year for Elias. A new teacher who is a far cry from his beloved Ms. Gal. A new schedule. My boy who doesn't like change.

He is technically no longer a boy, but a young man. He graduates this Spring, and yet he is not a typical 18-19-year-old ready to take on the world.

When asked what he wants to do next, he replies, "I don't know."

(And yes, I get that "I don't know" is a typical teen mantra to just about everything, and so this response makes him more normal than not, but he's not just saying it, he--and we-- really don't know.)

The upcoming graduation ceremony feels bitter sweet. For me, at least, Elias wants to invite everyone he knows to watch him walk across the stage.

And maybe the bitterness comes from knowing he is not truly a graduate into the independent realm, and will most likely, hopefully, return to school till he's twenty-one, and then continue to live at home with us, or maybe, eventually, in a group supported living situation, indefinitely....

Most likely, hopefully, maybe, eventually.

So many unknowns.

This transition to adulthood brings a whole new crop of questions, uncertainties, and paperwork.

As Elias's legal guardians, we now have to submit yearly reports to the court documenting all his appointments and expenses. He is my child; I am not in the habit of parcelling out and documenting what I pay for his food, clothes, and extra-curricular activities.

Can't I just love him?

Even love feels complicated these days, as he lashes out un-expectantly, or sits on the couch ignoring every request. No longer my adorable, sweet, impish boy but a hairy, stinky, pimply young man who still needs assistance with basic self-care.

Parenthood is no joke.

Or maybe its one big practical joke on those who imagined nothing but teddybears and lullabies. Parenthood is more like an epic novel, filled with tragedy, heroism, and the occasional appearance of an angry god.

But we must persevere, keep turning the pages, stay in the story, even when we don't know what comes next. Especially then.

Even Olive has crossed a threshold, from kid to teenager, from a girl who didn't brush her hair to a young woman aware of her reflection, from a staple on our living room couch to a transient spending more time in her room with the door closed.

Where will this story lead? What adventures await? Where will the setting take us? Will the gods and goddesses spare us? Will there be a happy ending?

Most likely, hopefully, maybe, eventually.

So many unknowns.

Change is inevitable, this I know.

Those snow piles atop my gardens will melt. Green shoots will break through the frozen soil. The impossible will emerge in the shape of a bloom ready to open.

Colors will abound where once we only saw black and white. Somehow, someday, we will get there...

Until the seasons change, yet again.

Sitting Next To Strangers

I'm sleep deprived and delirious on a plane to Seattle and the older man next to me says, "What book are you reading?"

Talking about books leads to talking about death, we make eye contact, and seem to know each other instantly, even though we don't yet know each other's names.

We return to our books for an hour until he says, "Do you mind me interrupting you again?" 

I don't.

He tells me how Louise Endrich, the author of the book The Sentence, inserts herself into the fiction story he's reading in a subtle side door and how he's never known a book with this particular writing technique. Our discussion moves from an author's decision, to his eight grandchildren, to my work as an elementary school counselor, to his marriage to a man.

When our flight lands, I wish we had more time together as we say our goodbyes.

On a chairlift at Alyeska, I sit next to three ski racers who appear to be about ten or eleven years old.

"Racing is so tiring, physically and mentally, even though we don't do a lot of runs," one of the boys says.

"I know. You wanna know my favorite part of race day? When its all over."

"Me too."

"Yeah!"

"Then we just get to relax and hang out with our friends."

"Yeah, and its not like when we go to each other's houses because then we just end up playing video games."

"Yeah, there's no screens here."

"Yeah, we just get to throw a football around and just kinda hang out."

It takes all my restraint not to lean over, high five these boys, and slather them with praise. Instead I stare straight ahead, with a giant smile beneath my goggles and face mask.

(Old picture but I'm smiling and wearing my goggles and I didn't take a picture on the shuttle bus...)

On a shuttle bus in Sacramento to our rental car, for a work training on suicide intervention, the bus driver makes a reference to the movie Weekend at Bernies. Next thing I know a full blown discussion of "classic " movies evolves around us, with more than one middle-aged Mom saying she regularly rewatches older movies with her kids. A man across from me pulls out a line from the movie Weird Science.

We all laugh. "We are dating ourselves," someone says.

When we reach our destination, I smile at my fellow passengers and thank the driver before grabbing my bag from the rack.

(View from my room)

During my training at the Embassy Suites Hotel, I get a difficult phone call from home. When I return to the conference room, a woman sitting diagonally across from me looks over and mouths, "Are you Ok?"

I shake my head: No.

She nods her head towards the door and raises her eyebrows. We exit the room together and end up hugging, though I only know her name because she wears it on a lanyard around her neck.

Megan.

In her introduction, she shared she had an Irish Catholic father and an English Protestant mother and was almost born on Saint Patrick's Day, if so she would have been named Patricia but her Mother held out to thwart her father.

I liked her instantly.

Just like I liked Mike, my fellow passenger on the plane, who showed me pictures of a house lined with books.

And I loved the boys on the chairlift, who reveled in connecting with their peers in real time.

I love humanity, with all our flawed messiness, especially when we take time to connect.

When we sit next to a stranger and listen.  Or look them in the eye and say, "What's your name?"

When we laugh together despite our various backgrounds. Or offer our outstretched arms for a much needed hug.

This is Fifty

As we get older we sometimes forget what a privilege it is to celebrate a birthday. Another full year of life on this precarious planet of ours.

We rally against our age, lamenting our youth, instead of relishing the fact that we made it through another 365 days of potential pitfalls.

We didn't die this year. 

We all will pass eventually (or tomorrow)--so let's blow out our candles with relief, not regret.

We made it.

On January 16th, I celebrate fifty years on earth.

Fifty?!?

Fifty winters, fifty Easters, fifty first days of summer, fifty Thanksgivings. 

Fifty Valentines days, fifty spring thaws, fifty 4th of Julys and fifty leaf-turning falls.

What a delight.

What a privilege. 

And sure, I begrudge the number, as if the half-century mark tattoos the word "old" across my soul-- and yet what truths do the symbols 5 and 0 truly hold?

50.

Fifty new years, fifty birth days, fifty revolutions around the sun.

I think my biggest struggle with the number is that I don't even feel like a real adult yet, just a kid winging it in my big girl shoes hoping none of the the "real" grownups catch me playing this game called life.

Underneath my Mother/ School Counselor facade is a skinned-kneed, messy-haired, questioning adolescent waiting for someone to give her the answers to the test.

I keep waiting to be as responsible as my Mom. To be organized and efficient and to easily corral my ducks in a row.

I don't even have ducks. Or a place to put them. I hear their wings as they fly past or spot one floating out at sea but the mystery of control and symmetry evades me.

How do true adults do it?

How do folks manage to organize their mail, remember their passwords, keep their fridges stocked, and put the clean laundry away, matching socks and all?

How do real grownups meet the needs of their kids, their employers, their partners, and their own? Let alone try to make a difference in the world.

I'm exhausted thinking about it.

But if I ignore my preconceived notions of adulthood, and just tap into my core, the truth is, I feel pretty damn good.

I love my family, my friends, my community, my work. I love coming home at the end of the day and look forward to going to school in the morning.

When my heart hurts, or overflows, I can count on friends to show up for me, whether they live nearby or thousands of miles away.

I continue to meet people in this small town of mine that I hope to get to know better.  And the beauty of Seward never ceases to amaze me, especially when the sun comes out after too many days of cold dark rain.

I live with my best friend and still get butterflies when he looks in my eyes. We laugh easily, trust completely, and give abundantly.

I never planned to make a life in Alaska, but when I drove here for an adventure I fell in love twice in one week. First with this immense wild land and days later with this kind athletic man whom I followed into the woods.

When we made it to the river bed we walked side by side.

And we never stopped.

The children we created (but do not control) keep surprising me as they grow into young humans with unique spirits, so different, and yet entwined, in this funky family of ours.

Our particular road remains rutted, with rocks often falling in our way; sometimes Elias's challenges make so much seem impossible-- even something as simple as inviting new friends over for a meal- and sometimes his disabilities open doors and lead us places we never knew.

Parenthood never stops teaching me about acceptance, humility, and letting go. For these lessons I am forever thankful, despite not asking for this particular script.

And Nick and I keep walking, around the ruts and over the rocks, side by side.

When I take stock of my life as I approach this half century mark, I feel happy and loved, what more could I want?

So instead of resisting this next decade, instead of clinging to my 40's like a tree in a storm, let the wind carry me forward, with turbulence and grace.

Happy (almost) 50th birthday to me.

Not in Alaska Anymore

We wake early to the call of roosters in the yard.

The abundant Kauai chickens flock to the Woodrose Plantation, the place we are lucky to call home for two weeks.

A winter reprieve from snow and sleet, replacing skis with boogie boards, trading ice for sand. A long awaited break from our lives, something we first planned last winter when I lay in bed with a bum knee and long Covid.

Next Christmas lets see if our parents want to meet up in Hawaii, Nick and I dreamed.

And they did.

We almost missed our flight.

Delayed in Anchorage for four hours due to a mechanical issue with our plane, we all boarded, and then we waited, and then we un-boarded, and waited some more, before boarding a different plane.

As we landed in Seattle, from the back of the plane Nick and I looked at each other with sad eyes. We definitely missed our connecting flight, we thought. We landed at 9:00 a.m., the same time our Seattle flight took off for Lihue. There's no way we can make it.

When I turned my phone off airplane mode, I saw that our next flight was delayed and that they were just now boarding. "There's hope," I said to Nick.

We made a plan for Olive and I to run ahead of Nick, Elias and Nick's parents, Bruce and Kathy. The flight attendants asked people to stay seated to let those of us with tight connecting flights get off first. Of course this request didn't apply to those in the front of the plane who took their time stretching and slowing getting their luggage as Olive and I waited behind them trying not to scream.

And of course we didn't land in the same terminal, and had to weave around travelers to the train.

Olive and I arrived at the gate with the plane already boarded and the door closed. The Gate Attendant was on the phone with the pilot and said we could board but I told them we had more family behind us. According to the pilot he could hold the plane for five minutes: We had until 9:33, no later.

Bruce and Kathy arrived, but Nick and Elias missed the train. We waited and paced.

They're coming, " I said.

"The pilots can't wait indefinitely," the Gate Attendant said.

"I know, our son has cerebral palsy and is moving as fast as he can."

Sometimes I feel no shame pulling the disability card. You really aren't going to wait an extra few minutes for the crippled kid to catch the plane?!

Really?

I paced some more.

"I see Nick's hat," Kathy said. Thank God.

Nick and Elias made it up the elevator and to the gate at 9:32. We all boarded the plane, amazed that we actually made it and didn't have to hang out in Seattle for nine hours, with the only silver lining being able to catch the France Morocco World Cup game and hopefully board the same flight as my parents who were joining us from New England.

Despite the delays, and because of them, all eight of us eventually made it to the Garden Isle, exhausted but intact, luggage and all.

So here we are, over a week later, sun-kissed and relaxed, hanging out a quarter-mile from Moloa'a Bay, a neighborhood beach that stays pretty private even on a warm sunny winter holiday break. 

The house we rented, aptly called Woodrose plantation, comes with all kinds of fruit trees-- we've gathered papaya, limes, star fruit, mangoes, avocados, tangerines, lemons...

Every morning we drink fresh squeezed orange juice and yesterday we ate our first ripe avocado, one that Nick climbed up on our roof to pluck the day we arrived.

Olive turned thirteen here in Hawaii, a day that started at 5:00 am to watch the World Cup Finals, Olive in her Argentina shirt cheering for the winning team, followed by Holy Grail Doughnuts, recommended to us by a friend who visited recently.

Nana and Papa gave Olive surf lessons for her birthday. She's a natural. Nick and I joined the lesson as well, and our older knees don't rise and balance as easily, but we both caught waves. I love floating in the warm salt water with the sun on my back and the thrill of a possible wave to ride.

The whole crew did a mountain tubing adventure; we floated through irrigation tunnels with hard hats and headlights as we spun in circles and bounced into each other; all my pre-game worry about Elias on the tube float proved un-necessary, as he kept repeating: "This is so much fun! Are you having fun? This is so much fun!" No anxiety after the initial settling into the tube. No meltdowns. No accidents. Just pure fun.

Our guide, who told us he has a daughter who is also not quite typical, said Elias's excitement made his day.

Today Olive said: "It would be fun to live in Hawaii." Nick told her the University of Hawaii has a soccer team. We'd come visit a lot!

This is our first ever family vacation that isn't to visit family, and yet we brought our family with us. We're just missing our siblings and all the cousins, the only addition that could make this family vacation even better.

I'm not sure why we waited so long...

...well I know why--life can be unexpectedly complicated--but we won't wait this long again.

Happy Hollidays to all, may you find light and warmth, especially in all the cold dark places we call home.

Surprise Multiplied

What would you say if your dear friend's husband asked if you'd be willing to fly thousands of miles to surprise her for her 50th birthday?

Yes, right?

Last Thursday night, I took a red-eye to Boston, so I could hide in the corner of a private room at the City Table restaurant when my friend Jess walked in to meet one of her family members for a drink. Little did she know she had a whole crew there to celebrate with her, friends from all different times of her life, who flew or drove to Boston to honor the birthday girl.

I scored points for traveling the farthest, a trip that was almost cut far too short, that could have ended on Turnagain Arm on my way to the airport.

Thursday night:  Blowing snow, darkness, no visibility. The icy road weaves between water and rock. The truck in front of me fishtails and then overcorrects...

Time slows and speeds up all at once.

...The truck does a full 360, smashes head-on into the mountain, flips on its side, as I break and swerve into oncoming traffic, as the tall vehicle behind me goes around us both in the breakdown lane and drives away. I creep around the corner without a safe place to stop. I check the rearview and see another pair of headlights approach the flipped truck. I call 911 and report the accident. I want to check on the driver. I don't want to pull over and cause a bigger accident. I can't see. I keep driving. I have a plane to catch. I feel like shit. I grip the steering wheel. I give my name to the dispatcher. I tell them I think the third vehicle back had time to stop behind the truck. I hope that car stopped. I didn't stop. I want to rewind and react faster. Pull over right after I swerved around the flipped truck. Run to the drivers rescue. I want to be the type of person who acts instead of freezes. Someone who embraces calm in medical situations instead of panic.

I hang up with 911 and head into Anchorage. I pass an ambulance and police car, sirens and lights ablaze. I pull into my friends' neighborhood, park in their driveway, and let out loud heaving sobs. I arrive at their door unable to speak.

My friend Pili hugs me until I find words.

At the airport, I scan the Seward Highway Traffic Report and learn the driver did not sustain life threatening injuries. The emergency crew closed the highway for a few hours. Truck possibly totaled, driver banged up, but the person will survive.

Relief mixes with shame, as I wait to board my flight.

A flight I would have missed if I stayed for the last quarter of Olive's basketball game instead of leaving after the third period. A flight I would have missed if I'd reacted faster and figured out how to pull over to help. A flight I would have missed if I'd reacted slower and hit the truck as it flipped. A flight I would have missed if a car had been driving towards me in the other lane.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink on my redeye flight and arrived in Boston to a 70 degree and sunny day.

I met up with my other dear friend, Hannah, who also flew through the night from Idaho. We planned to nap at my friend Margaret's apartment but, considering we hadn't seen each other for fifteen years, we spent the afternoon reminiscing and sharing stories.

Two other friends met us at the apartment to get ready and we all rode together to the Lennox Hotel, arriving an hour before the guest of honor. As friends and family spilled into the City Table, we moved to the private room reserved for the occasion, anticipation mounting as Jess's arrival neared. Her husband, Brian, pulled off this feat of surprise with Jess believing she was meeting her parents for dinner at a nearby restaurant but stopping at the City Table first to meet a family member, who manages the restaurant, for a drink.

Jess walked into the room and saw her extended family first. Then she looked to the right where women from all walks of her life--from elementary school to high school to college to teaching in Ecuador--stood waiting to embrace her.

Jess cried, which meant we cried, and later, when she gave a toast, Jess declared the evening one of the best nights of her life.

How could I miss it?

And since I knew I'd be flying back to New England, when Brian first proposed the trip back in September, I thought, "What if I can surprise my parents too?"

I called my brother Andrew and asked if he could plan on being on Cape Cod the weekend of November 4th, to guarantee Mom and Dad would be home, and so I could see him too.

Well....

Turns out that would be the weekend of the state finals for field hockey, and his daughter, Tess, is Captain of the team, and he was hoping that not only would she be playing in the finals but my parents would be in Vermont watching the game.

This meant I couldn't quite plan whether I'd surprise them on the Cape or in Vermont because it all depended on Tess's team. I didn't want to rent a car, because after twenty-two years in Alaska, I'm not much of a city driver. If on the Cape, I could take a bus or coax a friend into making the trip, as its only an hour and a half from the city. Burlington was a different story. No direct flights from Boston. The bus takes six hours and would not get me there in time for a 10:00 am Championship game. I couldn't quite figure out how to make it all work.

About a week or so before the big surprise dinner, Brian sent out a group text to those of us who planned on attending and that's when I saw that my good friend from college, Ebeth, a New-Yorker, would be in Boston too. I texted her separately to let her know how excited I was to see her. She asked what I was doing for the rest of the weekend and I told her I was trying to figure out how to surprise my parents.

"Where in Vermont," She asked.

"Burlington"

"That's where Adam (her son) is in school! Road trip?"

 Ebeth, it turned out, was the perfect missing puzzle piece to make my plan work.

My parents drove to Vermont for Tess's semi-final game on Tuesday. If Tess lost they planned on returning to the Cape on Wednesday. Since I now had an adventure buddy for Vermont, I decided if she lost I would tell my parents on the phone I was coming. It wouldn't be quite the same level of surprise but would have to do.

While I skated on Second Lake on Tuesday night, my first time on ice in almost two years after blowing out my knee, I received the text: Tess's team won!

I did a little happy dance on ice. We were on for our Saturday surprise.

Well, after staying up till 1:30 am for Friday night's festivities that included a group of 50-year-old Moms cutting a rug at a gay bar, we woke up at 5:30 am to get on the road to Vermont.

You know that rung-out shaky feeling you get from sleep deprivation, mix that with a big dose of anticipation, add two amazing friends, and well, the three-and-a-half-hour trip whizzed by--before I knew it, we were parking by the field, right as the announcer introduced the players for each team.

When I pictured surprising my parents at the game, I imagined them standing on the sidelines and me tapping them on the shoulders to ask the score, assuming we'd arrive late. I didn't realize hundreds of folks would be in attendance, packed onto bleachers, and I'd have to pick out my family from below and walk up towards them.

Ebeth and I stood at the bottom for the National Anthem and as the audience sat back down I saw my brother in the crowd. His wife Elise noticed us and I saw her elbow Andrew. Next to Elise sat my parents. As I started to walk up the steps, my Mom looked right at me. No smile. Concentrated stare.

She told me later that she saw me and thought, "That woman looks just like Christy but it can't be because she's in Alaska. Christy must have a twin. But..."

I smiled at her and waved.

"That is Christy! Jol, Jol, it's your daughter!"

The look on my Dad's face was priceless.

And to make the day even better, my niece Tess got the tying assist in the last quarter to put the game into overtime. And for the first time in her four-year career on Varsity field hockey--a month after learning her beloved coach has breast cancer-- her team won the state championship on a beautiful Saturday in November, as we all hugged and high-fived from the stands.

Later that same day, I watched my eleven-year-old nephew Heath play ice hockey for the first time and he too assisted the goal that tied the game.

I slept oh so soundly that night and enjoyed a slow Sunday with my family, taking walks and watching sports on tv.

I flew back home on Monday, drove from Anchorage to Seward in the dark, the snow, the wind, going a bit slower than normal, hands gripping the steering wheel, wide awake despite the late hour and thousands of miles travelled. 

As I coasted down the hill towards the junction where the Sterling Highway meets the Seward Highway, the place we call "the Y", a car coming towards the stop sign didn't seem to be slowing down--He's going too fast, I thought, He's not going to stop,-- so I slowed way down and at the last minute the driver slammed on his breaks and swerved into a snow bank instead of hitting me.

In my rearview mirror I saw him pull out and head the opposite way, and I found myself screaming all kinds of cuss words, a rant that ended with: I just want to make it home!!!

And yes, I made it to my cozy red house up on the hill, and crawled into bed with Nick, where I cried tears of release, before closing my eyes to much-needed sleep, with a full day of work only a few hours away.

Would I do it all again?

Yes, every time, yes.

For the look on their faces when they saw me, for the time with friends and family, for the constant surprise within these fleeting lives.

For the crazy beautiful love of it.

In Search of Rainbows

Life isn't fair.

I know this.

And still, I find myself railing against injustice, howling into the salty depth, longing for a fair shake.

Yet on other days, I feel as though I'm the lucky one, born with a silver lining, an ace in each pocket, sunshine lighting up the path ahead.

When our cat Spruce-tip walked back into our yard this month, after disappearing for three weeks, Nick and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes and shook our heads, amazed by our good fortune.

Convinced an eagle, bear or coyote ate him for lunch, or a tourist scooped him up from the neighboring trail, we had started to inquire about other rescue cats at the shelter. But we didn't want a new cat, we wanted Spruce-tip, our fiesty, cuddly, dog-friendly feline who doesn't use a kitty litter box because he prefers to shit in the woods.

And unlike last fall, when we found ourselves sobbing after we found our dog Lola on the side of the road, killed by a car, we cried tears of relief as Spruce-tip purred in our arms, home after an extended adventure.

A rare win after a challenging year.

After living on edge for months, Elias wakes up more easily these days, and he generally returns home from school in good spirits.

The bear in my boy seems to have settled; so Nick, Olive and I can settle too, let out our breath, stand down.

(For now.)

Nick and I even left the kids alone for over three house last Sunday, to hike up in the tundra behind our house. A rare date of our favorite kind, outside, off-trail, just us.

Above tree-line, we saw not one but two bears, both at a safe distance, and luckily both acted appropriately at our sighting, by turning and running the other way.

I hope Elias remembers to walk away next time fight or flight kicks into his injured brain.

I'm tired of fight.

Fight leaves me frayed on the inside, my seams slowly pulling apart, as I pretend to be all put together on the outside; but the cracks show, the uncombed hair, the red eyes, the misplaced coffee cup or water bottle.

Fight breaks my heart; but it keeps beating, because dishes fill the sink and someone needs reminding to brush his teeth.

"Mom," he says, "Mom, Mom..."

And it doesn't matter how I feel--if I want to run, hide, mute, sleep, drink, scream, kick--I respond.

I am Mom.

A Forever Mom, a legal guardian, with an 18-year-old child who will never fully leave the nest.

Sure, he might sleep under a different roof someday, but not in the same way I once imagined, or rather, expected.  

I didn't really imagine adult children.

The track just unfurled before me--baby, kindergarten, elementary, middle, high, graduation, college, work--and I assumed we all followed along.

Until a sinkhole swallowed my expectations, and I learned, what we all learn eventually-- and over and over again-- that life is anything but predictable.

There is no set route from childhood to adulthood.

No track.

Just a myriad of possibilities-- a giant hand holding straws, and no matter which one you pick, it will always be shorter than some and longer than others, and never exactly what you expected.

For most of August and September, we've woken to grey skies here in Seward, with more wet days than dry. It's as if grief has permeated the atmosphere, surrounding us in a fog of despair.

It's not just the weather, friends' lives feel heavy, the world too hard to hold.

I know we can't all live forever but far too many good people die far too young. Disease, shootings, accidents, wars, disasters, countless relentless storms of human unrest, happenstance, and natural phenomena.

It's all too much. 

Until a hole of blue spreads amidst the grey, a ray of light within the showers, a rainbow appears--and you stop fighting the darkness to notice something beautiful.

Maybe the rainbow is a phone call from a friend, a child's laugh, homemade cookies delivered to your door. Maybe the rainbow is the opening of a long awaited bloom, a new song on the radio, a hug when you need it most.

It may rain for months but colors still emerge when a rare light shines through. And even if you understand the science behind the kaleidoscope, it still feels like magic.

Some days you bury your dog, years too soon. Some days your missing cat comes home.

And no matter how bone-tired, when you hear the word Mom, you respond, we all respond, regardless of the trail we follow.

Mom, mom, mom...

Yes.

For even when ashes cover the earth for miles, and the smell of smoke fills the air, green shoots appear, long buried seeds burst forth, bringing the hope of something new, something beautiful, just like you.

On Edge

Transitions take our feet out from under us, make our knees weak, our hearts hurt, especially ones we don't plan. The loss of a beloved teacher, the disappearance of a pet, grandparents saying goodbye before a flight home.

Our boy, Elias, comes without filters, without the ability to express his feelings in words, and grief too often arrives as rage.

After a few somewhat peaceful years, with months between violent outbursts, this spring, the bear in our boy awoke from hibernation, claws raised.

I call him my boy, but technically, at 18, the world views Elias as a man, with deeper repercussions for inappropriate unexpected behavior.

If he swings at his Mom in the parking lot of the State Fair, because he wants to go home with Grandma and Pop, will someone walking by call the police?

If the police respond when he is stuck in his amygdala, fighting anyone who stands in his way, will we always get there in time to tell them: "He is on the autism spectrum."

Will they always know what this means and how to de-escalate the situation?

Will new teachers know his warning signs and how to distract, reframe, or use humor to re-set his brain?

Most folks only see the social, curious, always-interrupting-and-standing-too-close side of Elias, and find it hard to believe that sometimes an injured Grizzly emerges from within, willing to die fighting.

Most of the time he seems harmless.

Until he's not.

There is nothing easy about living with a son who sometimes tries to hurt the very people he loves--not because he wants to, but because he's trapped back in his brain, injured at birth, when he had no words to cry for help.

At 24 weeks, Elias left the quiet darkness of my womb, only to get stuck in my birth canal long enough for his heart to stop, his brain to shut down.

When the medical staff resuscitated him, Elias found himself under electric lights, alarms buzzing, with all the NICU babies crowded into one room, abuzz with machines and maternal angst.

His undeveloped nervous system matured not in warm waters, with the sound of his Mama's heartbeat, but in the frenetic chaotic environment that one of my visitors referred to as a "baby factory".

That "baby factory" saved Elias's life, and the dedicated, loving staff repaired my heart multiple times as they physically repaired his, they held me up, they helped Nick and me communicate with each other, as a new husband and wife, who had just had our expectations of parenthood blown to smithereens.

He's alive but I can't tell you he's going to survive: the first words I heard about Elias.

As hard as that statement is to hear, truth lives in those words for all of us. 

No manuscripts for motherhood, no protocols for parenthood, no guarantees for this life of ours that can change directions in a heartbeat, whack us in the knees right when we foresee smooth walking ahead.

Our expectations of parenthood blown to smithereens.

We live on edge these days. Waiting for the next explosion. Wondering if the bear lurks in the shadows, around the next bend.

And yet I know we aren't the only ones who often feel like we hold more than we can carry. I know parents everywhere worry about the next day, about yesterday, about the things we can not see.

Whether we are ready or not, the leaves will change from green to gold and then they will no longer cling to the tree.

Life is not easy.

In my intro lessons about my role as an Elementary School Counselor, I bring in a backpack and a tool box. I pull out school supplies from the backpack and have the students raise their hand if they brought them too--gym shoes, water bottle, snacks, pencils...  

Then I say, "There's something else we all bring to school every day, whether we realize it or not..."

Out of my pack, I retrieve a heart made out of paper. "Sometimes our heart is light like this paper heart, on these days we feel peaceful, loved, happy...but some days our heart feels heavy..."

I take out a large stone heart and let them know we all have days when we feel sad, angry, scared, which makes it harder to learn, and that my job as a School Counselor is to be another safe adult in the building to support students with big feelings. 

I show them the tools I use from my tool box, books, crayons, games, shells, pretend ears for listening, Mr Potato Head arms for hugs or a helping hand, a mirror to reflect back to them what they are feeling and to help them find the answers within.

The last tools I pull out are a Harry Potter wand that Olive made and a big red easy button that when pressed says: "That was easy."

I end by saying:  "I wish I could wave this magic wand over all of you and you would never feel sad or scared. Never have any problems, never hurt your heart. Never get into an argument or feel left out.

And yet first, I don't have that much power, and second, its is through our challenges that we grow to become stronger, kinder, braver people.

Noone has an easy button. Everyone has difficulties, even those who seem perfect on the outside carry hard things.

And yet what I've learned over the years, is that when we share our problems with others, they do become easier."

Thank you, dear readers, for giving me this place to unload and share. Life may never be easy, but it's easier with all of you.

This Wild Place We Call Home

I hiked Foundry the other day, the mountain in our backyard, and reached one of the false peaks just as a mama goat stepped to the rise, soon followed by the dad, and a moment later, their baby.

We stood on opposite ridges, staring at each other, before the male hoofed it down over the edge, followed by his kid. The female goat stayed a minute longer to watch me and my dog Hemlock, before deciding to follow her family.

Nice to meet the neighbors, I thought.

We live two miles from town, but on the edge of the Lowell Point State Recreation Site and DNR land, so our backyard feels endless.

(Our house is the dot on the hill above the beach.)

Wild.

Especially if we avoid the well-traveled trail and make our own. A much-needed respite from the human world of square angles, concrete, and artificial light.

I cried when I reached the wildflower meadows, up in the alpine, before the jagged peaks.

The beauty, the slight wind that spared me from the worst of the flies that attacked me during the climb up through the steep alders causing me to swear like a prisoner, the happy look on my dogs' faces as they leaped through the Lupine and Chocolate Lillies, the fact that my body, ravaged from long-Covid, recovering from knee surgery, regained enough strength to ascend this high.

And with tears in my eyes, despite during the climb saying I'd stop in the meadows, I hiked even higher, just in time to meet the goat family, and stand in awe of this wild place we call home.

Yesterday, after hiking across Resurrection Bay with friends on Mt Alice, Olive and I returned home with the dogs, who quickly jumped out of the car with their deep don't-mess-with-us barks in overdrive.

"What is it?" I asked, as I followed them into the bushes, my arms full with a bottle of wine, garlic bread, and the day's mail. Nick came out of the basement to investigate as well. I clambered up on a stump and Nick climbed a ladder propped on the snag tree we plan to build a viewing platform on some day. 

"Bear!" Nick said, just as I saw the black head pop up from behind a felled Spruce.

Caine and Hemlock stood feet from the black bear but retreated with us when we called their names. That garlic bread and wine would have done me a lot of good if the bear chose to charge.

After the bear "disappeared", as I walked through the garden, I found a fresh pile of bear scat and we realized the bear had been in our side yard while Nick sanded in the basement with the door open and Pop and Elias worked on the front porch.

Good dogs!

Caine and Hemlock chased the bear away a second time when it circled back around--this time Nick followed with bear spray in hand-- and we all remained on alert as we worked on garden and house projects throughout the day.

A little while later, as I walked toward one of my compost piles, I saw something white fall through the trees.

"What was that?" I asked the Poppies, who swayed silently but revealed little.

In my rock garden, next to a piece of heart-shaped shale, lay a long scrap of Halibut, still warm to the touch from the eagle's mouth who circled above.

"You trying to attract more bears?" I asked the eagle, who rose above the Hemlock, out of sight.

I made Olive come outside to see and touch the fish too, amazed by the heat of the flesh, before I dug a home next to my rhubarb and buried it.

"You should have cooked it,"  A friend said when I told him what happened, "Just for the sake of the story.

His comment almost made me want to dig it back up: And then we ate it!

We did eat halibut and salmon for dinner last night, but not dropped from an eagle's mouth, caught by friends as we shared a potluck around our neighbor Mary's table.

In this life of ours, we need our human interactions, our family, friends, community, but we also need wilderness to sustain us.

We need wildflowers, bald eagles, and the rustle of a bear moving through the brush.

We need a family of goats to stare at us through the fog, as tears trace the storied lines on our humbled face.

 

We need mountains, oceans, rivers, forests to put us in our place.

It's Ok If You Come In Last

Its known as "the toughest 5k on the planet".  Seward's own Mt. Marathon race, straight up cliffs and ridges, straight down scree and waterfalls, thousands of spectators waiting in town to watch the dirty scraped-up runners finish on the road, right across from the Yukon Bar.

A party in town awaits the brave participants as they careen down hill. Alaska's summer Super Bowl, that now attracts competitive mountain runners from all over the world.

The Junior racers may turn around at the halfway mark, but the bottom half remains the most technical. As parents, you watch your children gather in one mass start of 7-17 year-old boys and girls and then just hope they survive the crush of the mountain.

Last year, Olive surprised us all by finishing in 5th place for girls at age eleven. Because two of the top finishers graduated to the Senior race this year, Olive sported bib number three. This year arrived with expectations. Pressure on a local 12-year-old girl to reach the podium again.

"Its ok if you come in last," I told Olive during the weeks leading up the race.

"Mom, I won't come in last."

"Just saying."

Motivated to practice if other kids were involved, but not so much if it was just me taking her to the mountain. With my knee recovering from surgery and my body tired from Long-Covid, I would hobble up a quarter of the race trail while Olive climbed to halfway. She'd pass me on the way down.

A few weeks before the start, when Olive didn't want to go to the mountain and I said, "What about tomorrow?"

She replied: "Mom you said you weren't going to pressure me."

Touche.

"You're right."

So after that, if Olive didn't want to practice the road portion, 4th and Jefferson, all uphill, we started at the gate. If she decided at the gate that it felt too hot, then she turned around at Squirrels Den, the quarter way mark or halfway for kids.

I let her choose when/if she wanted to train.

No pressure.

Two days before the race Olive wanted to do a full practice, road and all, by herself, without invited friends to join her. She timed herself and said she ran a similar time to her race time last year.

I must admit, her speed surprised me, especially because this summer Olive has discovered the mindless joy of YouTube and I often find her sitting in her favorite chair eating Goldfish and watching talent competitions.

Nick and I talked about how maybe she wouldn't do as well this year and would either decide she wanted to try harder or that mountain running wasn't really her thing. (Just as long as eating snack food and watching America's Got Talent didn't become her next thing.) 

We also talked about her kicking ass again, picking off the boys in front of her, one by one. Despite the expectations, we really had no idea what to expect.

In the week leading up to race day, Olive put post-it notes all over the house reminding her to drink water.

"Why is Olive putting paper everywhere?" Elias asked.

Expecting him to clap his hands in anger and start pulling down the small pink slips that "didn't belong" by the sink, the mirror, the ceiling, the wall, I said, "Those are just for Olive, reminders for her to drink water to prepare for the race."

"Oh, that's a good idea," he responded, shocking me with his acceptance of things out of place.

"I don't think I should do the race," Elias inserted into almost every conversation about his sister. His smile big: "Should I?"

Or when community members asked if Olive was running again this year, he'd reply: "Do you know I help with recycling at the Sealife Center?"

Or: "Did you know I'm going to be in the parade. I'm riding in the firetruck again!"

Or when in line with tourists, he'd turn to an overdressed stranger and say: "Did you know my sister is doing the Mt. Marathon Race?"

One of the best parts about the Junior race is not all the visitors wake up to come out to the 9:00 am start, so us locals are able to find each other in the crowd. Parents of racers share nerves, discuss whether to watch from the base of the mountain or stay on 4th Avenue for the finish. We hug our kids one last time before they join the crowd of kids-- from wide-eyed seven-year-olds to almost-men seventeen-year-olds-- to wait for the starting gun.

When the gun pierced the cool but humid morning air, I barely caught a glimpse of Olive in the mass of bodies that ran past and then part of our crew--uncles, cousins, friends, Elias--walked to the base of the mountain to watch her come down Glory Rock and transition to the road, while Nick and I decided to stay closer to the finish line, too nervous we wouldn't make it back down in time.

(Glory rock, seen here behind Olive, is where the crowd finally gets a good view of the runners descending. Some jump off it, Olive slides down it, when I race, I typically run around it--except last year after falling down the much larger cliffs I ran/jumped/slid right down Glory Rock.)

The first male racers finished in under 30 minutes, clocking the second and third fastest performances but not breaking Bill Spencer's record that has stood for 49 years.

A few minutes later the first girl came speeding past.

Second, third, fourth...

"There she is!" Nick said, spotting Olive's lucky pink tank top at the top of the street.

In my excitement, I tried to take a few pictures and only caught her in one, instead capturing the people watching from the other side of the road-- luckily friends with more focus sent me photos from along the route.

Nick and I ran down the sidewalk after Olive to the finish line, the clock showing 36:50, she shaved over a minute off her time, earning her personal best and fifth place on the podium two years in a row.

Our girl, proving us wrong.

And right.

Showing such grit and strength, proving her fierce determination to the world.

Making our small community of Seward proud on  the 4th of July.

Independence Day.

It's still ok if she comes in last next year. Or chooses not to to run at all.

It's Olive's choice.

It's always her choice.