A note: this here blackbird blog is a symbol of my individuality and belief in personal freedom. Wait, that's my snakeskin jacket…

In all seriousness, on several levels as a family we've been through some very trying events lately, and as part of that, this blog was brought under review and close scrutiny. I have felt stalked, personally attacked, and censored, while at the same time having a monumental learning moment and realizing that the internet really is open source and that I don't want to cause anyone-- ANYONE-- distress or harm. Apparently, that's what one of my posts did. I apologize, as that was never my intent. This blog is my sounding board, my writing practice, and my open-to-the-world (in more ways that I had previously realized) forum where I try putting some of the small stuff, which is really the big stuff, into words and phrases that are relatable and occasionally entertaining-- all with admittedly varied success. I'm not going to stop writing, in fact, I hope to be writing more in the near future (read: AFTER kid soccer season). Writing is my creative passion and a source of meditation and expression, and I hope I can share things with the world that make people feel better, or at the very least not alone. If these words have meaning and affect anyone, I hope it's to change the world for the better, to access the humanity, compassion, and empathy that I firmly believe runs deep in most everyone.

To that end, I will be more careful. I write MY experience, what is true and perceived by me, and I'd be a fool to expect that my purview of the world is anyone else's. If anyone actually still reads this dusty old thing, please take it as such. This isn't fiction, it's not a legal document, it's not absolute fact-- it's my life, my perceptions, my dreams, my struggles, and my observations. No one else's. I tried to get Anne Lamott to help out, but she was busy.

So, to the 5 or 6 people that actually read this (hi, mom and dad!), I want to do better. I won't stop writing about my journey, but I will more carefully consider how I bring others into my compulsive over-sharing. I'll close with a quote from Ms. Lamott. Welcome to my sandcastle.

“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible. So part of us believes that when the tide starts coming in, we won't really have lost anything, because actually only a symbol of it was there in the sand. Another part of us thinks we'll figure out a way to divert the ocean. This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.” 

Here it is, the cusp of summer. Brimming with hope, promise, change, release. There is a fullness to this time of year akin to the heavy sweetness of the ripest peach, or of a hot summer night with the cleansing of thunder brewing in the distance.

As school ends, we prepare to say good bye to the kids for the summer. This is always such a difficult, bittersweet time for Matt and I. For 10 months, we are a whirlwind, a gentle chaos, a frenzy of life, activity, love, family. Sometimes it's a sweet sail on calm waters, other times, it's surfing and just trying to ride the wave. It all builds every year to a peak, to celebrations, transition, feeling our solid groove as a family.

And then, a goodbye. We send our children off into the arms and homes of their other parents, and we do so with love, grace, and blessings for a bright and wonderful summer. There will be tears after-- there always are when we return to the profound, radical silence that descends for summer break-- but we send them off with big smiles, grateful hearts, and genuine appreciation for the variety of life and experiences that their lives hold. I am grateful to the fierce love and dedication of our exes-- our co-parents-- and their partners, and all the beautify and joy they share in their lives as well. Our resilient, big-hearted, wonderful kids- they are a special breed in this world, these children of divorce. They have challenges I never even dreamed of (or were my nightmares) as a child, but opportunities for growth and empathy, compassion and strength, that are borne out of their circumstances. I'm in awe of our kids.

Summer, I love you! I look forward to that time reconnecting with my husband. I look forward to the incredible changes we're about to make as we embark on moving to a home we buy together. I look forward to the radical wild freedom of Northwest summer adventures, dusty trails, river breezes, and the smell of glaciers and thick cedar forests. To sun, thunder, rain, waves. I look forward to nights spent exploring Portland by bike, music in new places, found tastes and sensory travels in our back yard.

But already, I look forward to knowing that at the end of summer, once again, the din returns. The chaos flows back in sweet like honey, abrupt, wild, wonderful. I can't wait to see who my children have become over the summer, and revel in their adventures and growth. I am excited to watch us come back together, knit the next chapter, and hold the space for each other as we grow and learn.

I cherish the beautiful balance of my life, ever continually learning, appreciating, becoming,

For Keri, Part II

(I started writing this the day Keri died, but it took me a few days to find the right words to express my feelings. I'm still struggling with the emotions.)

The brave, brilliant, beautiful, incomparable Keri Rose died this morning.

Her body is gone, but she has left us a gift. 

I knew her death was imminent. When I spent time with her on Friday, it seemed incomprehensible that her body was able to sustain life, but as we all know, life came from a wellspring that was so much more than cells and molecules with Keri. Still, after hearing the news, I was wracked with sobs. You can't imagine that such a light as hers could be extinguished, but there was the irrefutable truth. 

The verdant forest of Tryon Creek was a place Keri loved, and so it only seemed fitting to move my grief through my limbs, breathe hard, and run through the park. As many times as I have run the trails there, something is different when you are looking at the world through the eyes of change. The arcing span on the trees was almost dizzying, the array of greens and moss and lichen near neon in their brilliance. I could feel the birds singing as acutely as the ache of my legs spoke to heaviness and grief, and I let their song bring lightness and speed to my body. After a hard mile or so, my kind and wonderful husband trailing behind me to lend his strong silent presence, I stopped by a creek. There is nothing like moving water to bring into light the miracle of time. The rivers and creeks flow, carving and changing the earth they kiss, all making their way home. I let the sun filter through the trees on my face, and the voices and soft breeze of the forest sooth me, and I meditated in that perfect chorus on Keri's journey home. 

I am not a religious woman. I don't know what I believe, but I do feel a connection to source, to God, if you will, and in that arboreal cathedral of cedar and alder, fir and spruce, I gave thanks and prayer to the gift of Keri. 

Keri Rose, our Warrior Queen. Our brave and feisty soul, our lady of the wide smile, the 5" heels, the sharp-tongued wit, the window she might throw you out of if you didn't get your shit together and show some respect and honor. So many lives touched by her radiance and spirit, so many encouraged by her bravery and radical sense of being truly, deeply alive. 

This is a magnet from Keri's fridge. True, true. 

On the Friday before she died, I was sitting with her, on the floor, as she lay on her couch. The time for many words had passed, and most of our communication was a look, maybe a word or two, and in an act of defiance and grit, an occasional smile from her. At one point, she took my hand, and wordlessly put it on her abdomen.

At first, I was shocked. It took me a minute, but I realized that I could actually feel the tumors. It was hard not to draw my hand back, but she had put it there, so I wasn't budging. With every one of her labored breaths, I felt like I could almost feel the tumors growing, the cancer feeding on my friend. It was like a monster of some sort, and I felt fear, and anger at how it was ravaging her. 

Then, a most amazing thing happened. I'm not overly prone to mysticism-- as I mentioned, I have a tentative relationship with spirituality-- but I do believe in energy, in vibration. The feeling that next came over me can only be described as boundless, wild, radiant light. In proportion to every one of those cancer cells multiplying, there was a force 10,000x of each that was bursting forth. I had to wiggle my hand, to be sure it was real, and to try and grasp what it was that was literally flooding my body. As far as I'm concerned, in that moment Keri gave me a glimpse into some radical secret of the universe. In that moment, I was as sure as I've ever been, and maybe ever will be, that far beyond the corporeal body, there is something so vast and expansive that not cancer, not tragedy, not death will stop it. Keri has always been a radiant presence in my life, but I'm telling you, this was something more.   Pure, boundless, shining love. The only time I've ever felt something similar was the moment my newborn son was placed in my arms. In all that grief and sadness, in the smells and sights of death creeping over my dear friend, she was sharing a radical freedom, she was teaching even in that moment. 

Her voiced rasped quietly, "feel that?" ..and she smiled. 

That was the last time I saw her smile. 

To all my friends and family, to all those brave and beautiful people that loved Keri fiercely, now is the time to carry that light and energy forward, time to be the caretakers of that love and passion.  Now is the time to remind ourselves to walk through this world with eyes, minds, and hearts wide open, and take each breath with gratitude and reverence for the love that courses through our bodies. Keri will live on in every act of peace, of kindness, of standing up for what is right and good and true. Now is the time to take even one second out of our busy lives and tell the people who are important to us that  they matter, that we love them, that the world is a better place because they are in it. 

For Keri

I'm tired, my eyes sting, and my words feel simple and awkward and not quite right, but I'm doing this.  There is no right thing to write, to say, as a friend is dying. There is no protocol for this.

So often, we wait. We wait until it's too late, until the light is gone, to celebrate and uphold our loved ones. It's the 11th hour now. I regret waiting this long, but as the light flickers and fade, I want to share the beauty of my friend Keri Rose.

I heard of Keri long before I met her, as a new resident of Orcas Island. In my own way, I was terrified of meeting her. She was an ex-girlfriend of my soon-to-be then husband. Beautiful. Stunning. Brilliant. Feisty. Outspoken. The island isn't big enough for the two of you, they said. When I met Keri, it was one of those moments where you know a true soul sister. We were kindred spirits, and from the first time I was in her presence, the same words would always come to mind- shining and bright.

Our lives wound in circuitous paths I'm sure we never dreamed of. My big detour at the time was a divorce. Hers was a brain tumor, non-cancerous, but insidious and cruel. Keri approached dealing with her tumor with humor, grace, and perseverance. She named the tumor Mathilda. It may have physically slowed her down, but mentally, spiritually, it gave her flight. Keri's resolve for chasing her dreams, for boldness and action, became exponential. She inspired everyone around her.

Eventually, both our paths reconnected us in Portland, and shortly after Keri had just finished a round of "poison", as she called it. A car accident and abdominal pain set her to the ER for scans, to make sure she wasn't bleeding in her belly. What they found wasn't trauma, it was a voracious mass of cancer cells in multiple organs. They told her she was Stage IV+-- if there was Stage V, she would be it-- and told her to get her affairs in order. Chemo was a disaster and landed her in the hospital with a heart attack, and the more doctors grasped at throwing chemicals at her cancer, the more Keri became determined to beat this horrible thing, in her own way. She told the doctors to get behind her, or get out of her way. Of course she used much more colorful words than that-- they were on notice.

That was almost 2 years ago.

There are a few images of the last few years that stick in my mind. Keri and her team of naturopaths and other doctors helped devise a new diet, free of crap. I admired her shakes, her clean meals, her discipline in fueling her body with life… but I will never again drink a gin and tonic without a smile on my face. I can see her in the summer sun, broad grin, yard full of flowers.. and a gin and tonic in her hand. Her one vice at that point. She made it very clear she wasn't giving it up. I can picture her during the Brain tumor walk, tired, but as always, smiling. Deliberate and rationed in her steps, but absolutely unstoppable. Ms. Rose of the 5" heels, challenging her students to a race. Unstoppable, fierce, brilliantly, gloriously free despite the constraints her body kept trying to give her.

For the last few months, I have caught myself saying "I need to go hang with Keri". It's been a while, but life was happening. Children, soccer games, homework, work, getting a house ready to sell, the frantic scramble as we look for a new house, juggling the balancing act of work, wife, mom. No time, and besides, my beautiful friend Keri was unstoppable.

Tomorrow, I will go be with her again. Time has paused, told me to wake up, and to cherish that which is right in front of you. I know that's totally cliche… until it slaps you in the face with truth and clarity. I will read some poetry to her, and I will read her this. I know she won't be able to respond, but she'll hear me. Keri, there are some things I want to tell you.

When I say you're beautiful, I speak to the truth of beauty that you have taught me. When the symmetry  of your smile was taken by Mathilda, you grew a bigger smile. It isn't just a face and teeth, you smile with your whole body. You radiate, and you have given so many of us strength just by your presence. You are love and determination in a body that has been slowly ravaged by cancer. Speaking of which, fuck cancer. I hope you'll forgive me my anger, but I promise to use it righteously.

When I think of the lives you've touched-- especially of your beloved students-- I'm humbled. One woman, hundreds of lives. Maybe thousands. The children of those students will know tales of you, of this I can assure you. You have given them vision and inspiration, and shown them dignity, humility, impossible grace. You are a woman of your word, of action, and a consummate role model.

My sweet friend, I love you. We love you, your family, your friends. This world loves you, and we celebrate you. There is beauty in the darkest places of night, and there is beauty in the slow rising of the dawn. You, Keri, will always and forever be the brilliant radiant sun, rising.

Shine on, shine on, shine on.

Love always.

Feats of Bravery

Every third day, I race off into the early morning to my job. There, I will hopefully find the engine, still and silent in the bay, the crew sleeping, the coffee pot primed and ready for the flip of a switch. These are moments of peace and quiet that are rare birds in the fire house, and in these dark mornings, I slide into my blue uniform, my badge, pull my hair back, and place my turnouts on the rig, smelling faintly of smoke, of sweat, of work I love. I place my mask on the harness, and check my air pack, making sure that should I need it, my lifeline to clean, cool air is ready and waiting. I comb through the medical kits-- IV set-ups, meds, intubation equipment, trauma gear, oxygen, cardiac monitor-- knowing that any second I could be called to the worst day of someone's life. This is my routine as I face the unknown of what the next 24 hours will bring. My shift will not look like an episode of "Chicago Fire".  If I end up storming out of a burning building with a limp child in my arms that we heroically resuscitate in 30 seconds in front of a news crew, well, that would be time to retire. Nonetheless, I am constantly asked the same thing about my work-- am I afraid? Does it take a special kind of bravery to act in a selfless manner for another human? What does it feel like to sacrifice your sleep, your peace of mind, and sometimes even your health for another person? 

This got me thinking. There's another musing about this to be written at a later date, about what it means to don the gear, what the weight of my turnouts on my back signify. I intend this post with no disrespect to my fellow brother and sister firefighters, for what we do with humility and grace under the most awful circumstances at times is tremendous. However, it's not every third day that I have to consciously steel myself, brace myself for what is to come, face the fire and not know if it's a warm crackle, or a fury about to flashover. 

You want to know what bravery is? Ask a stepmom. Ask anyone in a blended family, for that matter. 

It takes courage and tenacity to walk into an unknown battlefield, even though you might not have a clue that you should be wearing a flak jacket at the time. I can recall a wonderful lunch conversation with my future mother-in-law. I proclaimed adamant declarations of love and optimism for my future husband, his kids, and all the unknowns of combining 2 families, 2 careers, 2 households in different states. I eagerly recounted how I knew his divorce was difficult at best, how despite the conflict and anger that so often boiled into our lives, that I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that with love, positivity and kind intent, it would get better. It had to. No one could keep up that level of conflict and drama. In a few year's time, we'd all be friends, exchanging Christmas cards, laughing as we recounted stories of "our" children and all their beautiful wonders and idiosyncracies. In fact, I'd be a great peace-maker. I'd be a healing salve to the children, a rock-solid advocate and supporter to my husband, a ballast to all the rocky changes of their past few years. His ex and I would become allies and sounding boards for each other as the children grew into teenagers. My son would rejoice with his new siblings. Starting my career over would be scary at my age, but doable. Moving us all into his classic craftsman bungalow would be tight, but cozy; intimate. If you could dream it, by damn, you could be it! I can recall being more than a little shocked when my mother-in-law gave a hearty laugh, but with grave seriousness, looked me straight in the eye and said "Dacia. Oh, dear Dacia. You are a wonderful woman, and Matt is very lucky. It's obvious how much you love him... but do you have any idea what you're getting into?"

Spoiler alert: No. No, I did not. I had no idea.

I am not a graceful woman, by standard definition. I am not refined, gentle in manner, or subtly mysterious. I talk too much. I wear my heart on my sleeve, laugh without reserve, love big and fearlessly, and all too often, throw myself against walls of inequity and judgement without enough foresight to think, "this might just hurt a little." For me, moments of grace are revealed through every day acts. I hang onto the hopes that my step-children will ever again fling themselves into my arms, bury their face in my neck, and declare their love for me. This is bittersweet, because they used to. At night when I tucked them into bed and tell them I love them, I no longer hear it in return. They are caught in a loyalty bind. Their embraces are tighter, but without making eye contact they'll say "thank you." If someone accidentally lets an "I love you"slip out, they immediately become sheepish and appear guilty. It's heartbreaking.

Turns out, I'm not alone. This battle field, scattered with hopes and unrealistic ideals, is marked with an army of some of the strongest souls I know. Not just our children, step-children, and husbands/ wives, but a veritable tidal wave of strong step-parents, unknowingly joined through our shared experiences, each choosing bravely every day to never give up. Each day, choosing love, where love is not always a right granted and waved in your face like a victory flag. In fact, there's no such thing as victory in this theater, just small, sometimes imperceptible moments of grace and resilience.

Today was my kids' first day back at school after a long and beautiful weekend with their other parents. I know these are fragile times, this transition between families-- daydreams of how things used to be, dealing with the stark truth that the love is all there, but the physical reality is fragmented into pieces and divisions that the children did not choose. It's fact that no matter how bad a marriage and divorce was, all children deep down want their parents to be back together. I have friends in their 40's, whose parents divorced in their teens, that when asked, still say they would prefer their mom and dad to be married, no matter how beloved the step-parents and blended families are. There was a very uncomfortable recent period where my youngest would say at my return after every 24 hour shift, "so I guess you didn't die in a fire last night." It stung me, it angered my son, and it gave me real pause and concern about the deeper psychological ramifications-- and then I realized-- it's not that he wants me to die in a fire, but if I had to go, to do so in such a dramatic fashion would be a very guilt-free way in his mind for me to simply disappear, and his mom and dad to get back together. He's made similar statements about the untimely demise of his step-dad, whom I know he loves as well. The pain of enduring another divorce would be too great to bear, but our deaths might clear the air for a reunion.

My heart breaks for my children, all of them. I grew up in an intact nuclear family. I remember my mom and dad briefly discussing a divorce during a rough patch, and I can still feel the searing fear and grief in my belly when I thought it was a possibility. (They didn't, and to this day, have one of the most incredible marriages I've ever witnessed). I can only imagine what it is my children carry with them. They grow and heal with every passing day, but my husband and I never lose sight for a second that they are survivors of something that as children we never had to experience. I never lose sight of the fact that although I didn't even know of the existence of their father during my divorce and his, that my very presence in their life represents in some way the physical absence of their mother.

Which leads me to this afternoon. I walked to pick them up at school full of excitement to see them, feel their hugs and hear the bubbling chatter fill the house again, but also aware that today, more so than usual, the wounds are a little raw. In my step-kids' case, their mom moved after the divorce across the country, so comfort is not just a matter of swinging by for a hug, or changing a night up here or there.

As my youngest stepson rounded the corner and saw me, his face fell. We were both so acutely aware in that moment that my presence meant the absence of someone else. He gave me a limp hug, and when he stepped back, I saw the tears in his eyes. We took a minute to duck into a corner of the building, and I knelt down. I took his hand, and met his gaze, which was filled with hurt, anger, and confusion. "You miss mommy, don't you, buddy." Lips pursed, he nodded, and a few tears spilled over. We didn't speak, I just held him tight, this tender sweet child of my heart, but not my body. After a minute, he stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and grabbed my hand. It's a unique comfort to feel that end-of-school-day stickiness of a 7 year-old's hand in your own. We exited into the unseasonably bright day, to his waiting siblings.

All four of us, hand in hand, walked down the hill for home. After a few moments of silence as we took our bearings and settled into the rhythm, chatter erupted-- who saw what this weekend, who got the sandiest at the beach, the tragic story of leaving a beloved stuffed animal at a hotel. My son regaled us enthusiastically with tales of visiting a reptile show with his dad and holding a "giant" snake, and eating a pile of gummi sodas so sweet you could feel your teeth rot. We were a noisy, bouncing family phalanx. As we reached the house, the after-school conversation turned as it always does to the most critical moment of the afternoon--snack--and they ran in ahead. My youngest, as he reached the threshold, stopped and turned to me, his eyes still a little glassy, the hard resentment in his face replaced by a burgeoning softness and peace, and the hint of a smile. "Dacia, will you make me special toast?"

There are many ways to say I love you. My little big family, we're creating that language every day as we go along. I stood there for a moment in the waning sun, feeling my place on the muddy lawn, in this swirling, messy, glorious life. Grateful, strong, tender.

Brave.