From the Mountaintop Archives

Today's wish

Nana and Papa are here and I've decided that this whole nuclear family thing is just plain WRONG.  I'd elaborate on all the reasons why but I think it can be summed up this: As I type this short little post my Mom is teaching Elias (trying) to put his books back on the shelf and my Dad is in the kitchen doing the dishes.

Now I just need to figure out how to convince the whole Everett Jordan clan to move to Alaska.

This is what happens when…

...you post blog entries about your son’s penis: You disappoint Google searchers looking for porn.

When you discover this by scrolling through the referring addresses for your blog you are both disgusted and curious, like when you watch violent movies through the slits of your fingers that cover your eyes. You don’t want to see but you do. You don’t want to know but you do. Like when you were seven and your friend led you to the bathroom to show you the Playboy magazines her father hid in the cabinet. And you knew that next time you played together you would peek at the magazines again even if they made you feel funny.

So here you are a grown woman with due dates approaching and To Do lists with no foreseeable end but you sit at your computer and snoop on the Google searchers who find your site. And you wonder if they took a moment to read about your son’s penis surgery or your two wombs or did they close the page and keep searching for: “his penis my vagina” “photos of big penises” “parenting big penis” or the answer to the question: “Is my vagina too big?” And though you should be doing something else you keep peeping: “Tell him he has a big penis” “Girls playing with penises” “Girls watching boys get foreskin exam” (What?)

And you read some search words that you don’t have the stomach to jot down, you start to feel a little queasy and you think you will never write about your son’s penis again. So when you read “cabin on the water in me” you think its some quirky sexual position until you realize someone is searching for a waterfront cabin in Maine. So you keep reading: “Pictures of kids playing floor hockey” “that girl is my son” “three year old pees on floor” “birth on the floor pictures” “had bears” (huh?????)

And when you find: “two vaginas medical term” “two cervixes” and “pictures, two vaginas” you realize someone is searching for someone like you, that a young woman sitting at her computer in
London or Houston or Barrow just learned she too has reproductive organs times two and is looking for information. And so you click on some of the links she found and discover parts of yourself in the stories.

And you realize how similar we all are-- even if what we search for is different.

And then you know you need to stop but you follow one last Google searcher and find that someone sitting at their computer somewhere—Lois Street, 4th Avenue, Strawberry Lane--typed in: “Christy Everett blog.” And you smile because it feels good to be the meaning behind someone’s search and to know that this individual clicked on your page to find you.

The Grandparents Cometh

The boys left for a bike ride so that I can write. This is rare, this midmorning chance to reflect. Usually I write late at night when the world as a whole is more raw. More vulnerable. I don’t know what it is about writing past midnight that leads to secret caverns and hidden dens. Perhaps it’s the fact that the respectable folks are sleeping or that this was once my time for late night partying and chance encounters.

Yet here I am a mother and wife sneaking up past bedtime to write. Whatever the reason there is something delicious about writing across the boundary of night and day.

And something grounding about writing in the morning, with a cup of coffee sitting next to me and the whole day in front of me. A day of cleaning and shopping and preparing for the arrival of my parents tomorrow night.

Yes, The Grandparents Cometh.

Which means two more sets of arms to scoop Elias up and smother him in kisses. Two more sets of legs to follow him around the yard and keep him safe. It means more sleep, three square meals a day—planning dinner over breakfast-- and seeing Alaska again through visitors’ eyes.

It means remembering why I live in this state even though it is so far from people I love. Because it is endlessly light before it returns to darkness. Because where else is a bald eagle release chosen as the opening entertainment for a medical conference. An event I attended last week only to have the release delayed by the arrival of a black bear, who just happened to wander out of the woods at the moment the conference attendees from all over the West Coast trained their eyes in that direction. Bear!  Bear! Bear! A chorus of excited voices yelled, as the crowd pushed for a better look, feeling protected by the water that stretched between them and the approaching intruder.

(Actually we are the approaching intruders to the bear’s habitat but that is a whole other post.)

The large black bear didn’t stay for long but as it rambled along the pond’s shore, I thought: What perfect timing. Now all the tourists will feel like they got a taste of wild Alaska and not just the quirky comfort of Girdwood, a small ski town 45 minutes south of Anchorage.

It was also perfect timing for me. Days after Elias’s surgery, the bear reminded me of the importance of hibernation, of returning to the dark to find answers. That even when I feel depleted of life’s honey, there are still stores of energy within, waiting to be tapped. That by revisiting the deep darkness of the den, I can meet my decisions with a firm handshake. With strength and conviction.

And there is nothing wrong with climbing trees to gain a clear perspective.

By the way

Elias is once again tube free. And almost pain free.

Whew.

And this is what is left of the Himalayan Blue Poppy:

The petals lasted only as long as Elias's recovery.

A reminder of the transiency of both beauty and pain.

Surrounded by the Love of Elders:

This morning’s ten minute exercise from my Living History writing group using sounds:

This pen rolls across the lined paper making soft scratching sounds as it chases words, trying to harness thoughts into sentences and letters into something meaningful. Something solid like the Atlantic. With waves that churn and boil and CRASH to the shore or simply simmer and sprinkle and lap the beach like a yellow dog licking my face with kisses.

Writing is like a sandstorm and a country road at dusk. It is as wild and deafening with its roaring winds and snapped trees as it is calm and tranquil with only the song of crickets and light of fireflies.

Writing acts like a sergeant calling the troops to the page, stocking up images, reloading metaphors. Writing is the peaceful protester humming: We shall overcome. Writing is the lover’s soft moans, the child’s whimpers before nightfall, and the mother’s deep breath when the wee eyes close.

Writing is the earth revolving around the sun. And the heartbeat of a culture as we rustle our way through the world.

I'm thankful for every opportunity to write. And I thank you for reading.

Zoom In

 

Have you ever seen a flower this beautiful? This particular shade of blue? It's called a Himalayan Poppy.

And it is one of the characters that made me smile this week.

And him:

 

And my husband Nick who surprised me with my first Peony plant today. Who yesterday, when I stole the climax to his sentence for the 2022004^th time since we met, said to me in a kind voice: I want to go put fence posts in-- they don’t interrupt me. God I love him.

May the wind take your troubles away…

…Son Volt sings as I sit down at the computer to write. I don’t just want to write tonight but I need to write. There are too many carnival rides in my head. My feet can’t find the dirt. So I sit here listening to the song Windfall and the rumble of the southbound train, waiting to unload.

I’ve been on the brink of a meltdown all day, the kind where I just lay in bed sobbing, not lady’s tears but the full on wails of a child. Why? Because the all of this world is just too much for me at times. Because no matter how you package it, life is hard and unfair.

A two year old boy lives two houses down in a light blue apartment building. A beautiful Samoan boy with eight siblings. I don’t know his parents but I have heard his Mom call him an asshole. I have seen him out in the street at eleven at night with no parents in sight just siblings busy fighting over their newly borrowed bike.

This boy is the same age as my son. And though their lives are very different, they both entered the world with mountains to overcome. Both situations aren’t fair. They just are. Life just is. But some days living it is harder than others.

Tonight I feel like I’m tied to the railroad tracks, with a train approaching, and no hero in sight.

I’m overwhelmed by my life. Struggling with how to balance my job at the hospital, graduate school, and a child with complex medical needs. I don’t want to give anything up but my legs are heavy and my mind is full.

You could say we live on the wrong side of those railroad tracks and this limits my choices. But even if I had economic freedom, I would still be tormented by the balancing act of the modern woman. On days that I devote to my son, I crave the intellectual stimulation of creative projects with adults. On days I leave Elias behind in the living room, I long to hold him and play droppy, as we throw shoes down stairs. It seems that the grass isn't only greener but there is a rare clarity and restfullness on the other side. If I could only untie the rope, I'd no longer be wondering what if...

Yeah, right.

When this elective surgery and Elias’s painful recovery--he still has a plastic tube in his penis-- plunges into this mess, right into my simmering soup, well, the pot just overflows. And I stand here trying to scoop up the onions and potatoes. Trying desperately to contain my life before it seeps through the cracks.

So if you had any questions about why this blog is titled From the Mountain Top To The Valley Floor it is not just because I live in Anchorage surrounded by mountains that rises straight from sea level but because I need to write from the thick of the Alder and Devil’s Club at the base of the mountains-- from the shadows. As well as when I stand on the summit with a clear view.

As the wind takes my troubles away.

Pssst: While I sat writing this post the cops came to our street to investigate an incident between our neighbor and one of the older siblings from the blue apartments.

Pssst, Pssst: Thanks for helping me catch the onions.

We're doing OK, really, but...

I caught the end of the England verse Portugal World Cup game this morning. Saw the last ten minutes of overtime and the penalty shots that led to Portugal’s victory. I hate penalty shots. I hate that over ninety minutes of team play ends with one shooter facing one goalie, with the ball lined up in front of the goal, and all eyes on the kicker. Instead of a team winning or losing by the way they played together it becomes about an individual either making a great play or making a mistake.

When the game ended, the screen alternated between shots of the English players laying in the grass with their hands over their faces or consoling each other with hugs and the Portuguese team dancing for the crowd or holding hands as they ran and slid on their stomachs towards their ecstatic fans. I sat on our futon in the basement with Elias whimpering on my lap thinking about how one kick marked the difference between joy and sorrow, between preparing for the semifinals and packing bags to return home. Between winners and losers.

One kick. One action. One choice.

And if you are the unfortunate shooter who fails to score you relive your shot again and again. If only I’d leaned farther to the left. If I kept my knee over the ball. If I threw a fake first. If I….

I’d like to cut the word if out of the English language. It sets us all up. This week, with Elias recovering from an elective surgery, a choice he didn’t get to make, I find that little word laying in wait, ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down.

If: I hate you even more then penalty shots, more than that fine line between victory and defeat. More than the fact that a decision made in one fleeting moment can change everything. And there is no going back. Only the rest of our time to wonder: What if…