3 months ago, I was sitting outside a hidden cafe on a small side canal in Venice, drinking an Aperol Spritz with my love, ruminating on how absolutely enchanting our lives are. We were reflecting on the most spectacular 19 days of travel (that I shamefully did not blog one iota about), planning our last night in Venice and then Paris. They say you either love or hate Venice, that there is no grey area, and I definitely fell in love. Her stained and ornate, decaying facades, brackish canals, aroma of briny decay… she enchanted me. A city slowly sinking, but an absolute aura rising of lavish history, drama, decadence, unbridled sexiness, and glorious flavor. We both fantasized about the little apartment we'll rent there some day, maybe off in the Jewish ghetto (my favorite area of the city), with a small rooftop patio full of pigeons and sound. We'll write every morning after waking up, making love and drinking tiny espressos with whipped heavy cream and sambuca, followed by leisurely strolls in the back canals. An afternoon Aperol Spritz (this may have been one of my favorite traditions in Italy), and walks under ripe, heavy moons through the endless narrow passages will lead way to more wine, love, and collapsing on delicious high-thread count sheets in a haze of decadent, silky bliss.
And there's this past Sunday morning. I managed to half-crawl/ half-hobble to the bath my husband had drawn for me, melting into a warm mix of wintergreen and mustards, hoping for some kind of absolution from back spasms. The morning sunlight filtered in through the window, and the beautiful, sweet sounds of our 5 chicken ladies trickled in, just over the soft cello music I had put on. However, like any good symphony, we must have a crescendo. I was surprised that the elephant feet of whomever was crashing up and down the stairs, at top speed, over and over, did not actually drop plaster on my head. I quickly realized it was youngest, punctuated by the slamming of his sister's door and her indignant shouts that he had… looked at her funny. She emphasized her point with a repeated staccato slamming of the door. Over the smell of wintergreen crept the distinct odor of burned smoking pan… which eldest was perfecting with his version of petrified fried egg. He had very literally taken my advice that the pan must be very hot. The door cracked open, and my wide-eyed, disheveled, grinning-like-mad husband assured me "it's all under control", just as the Mildred the gender-bending chicken (she's a rooster that lays eggs) started squawking bloody murder (the cat was in the coop). He stepped in and leaned down to kiss me just as the bleat of "MOM! I feel like…." gave way to the unmistakeable sound of someone vomiting.
Some days are just like that. I wouldn't give up my symphony of chaos for anything, and besides, Venice will still be there.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
In praise of the pre-teen: an open love letter to my son
Zane,
It occurred to me this morning, as you surreptitiously waved and blew me a kiss from the bus window, that this time, too, is fleeting. Maybe you will defy the odds and be the world's most affectionate and expressive male teenager, but just in case, let me memorialize these days. This sweet, tender eddy resting between the innocence of childhood, and the meteorical rise of your teens. These moments of seemingly improbably grace, ragged frustration, and deep connection. Adolescence is one of the great scary voids that all parents read about, and indeed, at times I walk cautiously, but more often than not, I'm just simply amazed. Amazed at the human being you are, and the man you're becoming.
Let me walk you through our day, and see yourself through my eyes.
You are my sunshine. No matter what kind of mood the rest of the house is in, odds are that as my alarm goes off, I will hear the gentle clink of a cereal bowl-- you try your best to be quiet, and I suspect you may be developing an appreciation for the stillness and solitude of early morning-- as you pour your first bowl of cereal. In all likelihood, this will be one giant bowl of at least two that morning, and you will undoubtedly take the last bit of the cereal that another sibling wants, and feign ignorance as the squawking begins. You'll be in your blue camo robe, which really is too small, and your mop of blonde hair will be randomly taking flight in every direction. You will be bright eyed and smiling. You always are, and even from the time you were a tiny, lanky baby, you will greet the first moments of waking with wide, alert eyes. I will most likely say "don't hunch over like a vulture" while you gulp your second bowl down, but you'll just grin at me, probably with your mouth full.
The house is awake, so you no longer slink around with tiny squirrel steps. No, you have the subtlety of a baby elephant, and you'll come flying down the stairs dressed for school. You might not believe this, but you are a carbon copy of how I was built at your age. Lanky, skinny as rebar, all sinew and muscle. None of your pants fit, but we try and make it work. You wear a size 8-10 waist, and a size 14 inseam. Most of the time it'll look like you're getting ready to go out and dig for clams, but the beauty of it all is that you just don't care. If you have any self-awareness of the mismatched socks showing with your jeans 2" above your ankles, you don't show it. Your favorite colors are garish neon, capped off by the neon pink sneakers that you were given at track. I'm so fiercely protective of you and your pride in those sneakers, it chokes me up. You love pink, and you don't give even a glancing thought to the occasional comments and sideways glances from some of the other boys. If you do, you never show it. In fact, you have helped make wearing pink for boys cool, and I love how several boys on your track team rock it. You didn't hear the asshole at the sporting goods store make a nasty comment about them the other day, but I can assure you, I almost ripped his throat out. With my bare hands. I'm not even joking in the slightest. You are brave, beautiful, and your pink feet make me beam with pride.
Our morning rite when I'm not working is for me to walk you and your older brother out to the bus. This delights you, in ways that I can't understand. As impulsive and creative and free as you are, you are a boy of rituals, and this one you hold dearly. Your older brother pretends not to care, but you make it okay for him to let his guard down, too. As the bus pulls up, you never, ever fail to turn to me and say "bye mom, I love you". I hear from so many parents how their kids, especially their adolescent boys, stop saying this in public, so I bank every one of those like buried treasure. And then… as the bus door opens, you say in a robust voice, "good morning Richard!" to your bus driver. The smile he gives me as he closes the door, well, it speaks volumes. We are raising a good man. A kind young man, and a boy who doesn't just get carried along by the world, who greets it eagerly and openly. What really buoys me, though, is the wave and the kiss. Every morning, no matter what, you press your face to the window, grin and give me a small wave, and mouth "I love you". Morbid as this sounds, on my death bed, I will see that same face, that wave and smile, and I will die content and happy. This much I know.
This is not all to say you are perfect and without fault. I can guarantee you, when I walk back towards the house, I will see the light on in you and your brother's bedroom. When I go upstairs to turn it off, I will be greeted by the dichotomy of your older brother's almost military tidy sense of order-- his neatly made bed, his clothes folded and put away-- and the hazardous waste disaster that is your half. All your drawers will be half open, and if I look closer, your clothes aren't folded, they're haphazardly crushed into any available space. Your bed is almost never made (I am always a little bit suspicious when it is), there are probably bits of tissue and paper and god knows what else floating around, and I will be able to smell your dirty socks reeking, stuffed under the bed, still wet and sweaty from a soccer game two days ago. You are an unrepentant slob, and we battle constantly over this. No amount of threats and cajoling make a permanent change, but I won't stop trying. I hope you'll eventually follow your older brother's example, and in the meantime, I try to cultivate gratitude for the fact that you brush your teeth on a regular basis. I mean, that's something, right?
School is fun for you. I worry too much, about whether you have good friends, if you ever get bullied for your huge, caring heart, your wide-eyed wonder, and especially your big, chatty, unfiltered mouth (the apple didn't fall far..), but you are an easy-A student when you try, and your teachers have always appreciated and even adored you. You dad and stepdad and I marvel at how smart you are, and frankly, how rarely you actually apply yourself. We've tossed the word brilliant around, and we're all so curious and eager to see what you do with that incredible expansive mind some day.
Getting to coach your track team is one of the most unexpected delights in recent years for me. You and your peers, so diverse and scattered over a wide swath of development, all out there giving it everything in your pre-and-early teen glory. Being called "coach" is an absolute privilege. The fact that you choose to train in the event I coach-- the hurdles-- both amazes and frightens me. Amazing in that I am still blown away that you have so much pride in your mom, and frightened because I witness in you the same driven intensity and determination that I had. I, too, would run until my face was mottled with patchy white blotches, until I broke and tore things. I honor and recognize your fierce competitive spirit, but above all, I want you to just relax and have fun. Winning isn't everything, and really, it's not even important, but I admire your relentless efforts. Maybe I should say that very thing to a mirror.. Truth be told, despite your shorter stature and wobbly colt legs, you are one hell of a runner. And kid, you can hurdle. I love how single-minded you can be when you are obsessed with something (snakes, cooking, trying to grow up to be Usain Bolt), and track is no exception. I see a grit and dedication in you that is rare in an 11-year old. Take care of your body, though; this I will remind you of. Exhibit A: your mom has no good cartilage to speak of in her knees. Respect, honor, and love your body, and you'll be coaching your kid when you're 40. (You'll probably also be icing your knees, too). About your body-- never fear that you will stay small. Your dad and I were both late bloomers. Odds are, you will go through puberty at the same time as your 3-year younger brother, but that's perfectly okay. It will happen, and you will be a giant. Genetics don't lie, kiddo. Until then, you can even run cross-country.
Nights in our house are wild and wooly, no doubt about it. We are a well-oiled machine, and you have rightly taken your place as a sibling. Even though for 7 years you were an only child, I am constantly amazed and delighted at what an incredible brother you are. No one's perfect, obviously, and I will undoubtedly remind you of this as you antagonize someone or demonstrate your specialty-- unwanted and vociferous commentary on everyone and everything. I love your help in the kitchen, and secretly, I really do hope you pursue your love of cooking, if not as a vocation, then as a hobby. To this day, you make the best creme brûlée I've ever had, kid. I have no doubt that if you want to train to be a chef, you will be great. In the meantime, don't talk back to me when I ask you to unload the dishwasher. Your step-dad and I absolutely delight in watching the four of you pitch in together and clean up a meal. There's a sense of pride that I don't think you'll understand until you're a parent, if you choose to be.
Finally, the tuck-in. You view your tuck in and those few hushed moments before the light goes off as sacred and holy. It's a good lesson for us all-- stop, slow down, and connect. Too often, I carry the guilt of being rushed, overwhelmed, spread too thin. You have a way of locking eyes with me that's far beyond your 11 years-- it's ancient, and the eyes of an old soul-- and even though it may be fleeting, I will carry this, too, for all my years. You are often spastic and wiggly. You've nearly broken my nose and bloodied your step-dads with your erratic crashing head as we lean in-- and you (and your brother) will chatter away all night if given the chance, but ultimately, even if I seem frustrated, I recognize it as the wild mind of someone afraid of missing something. You once said that to me when you were a toddler-- that you didn't want to sleep because you might miss something-- and it still runs true. I suspect as the teenage years descend, you may become a creature of morning lethargy and sleeping in (oh please?), but I can't wait to remind you of this.
We hug. Not the quick cursory hug of a teenager (and I'm so grateful for those from your brother), but a hold-me-close, never-let-me-go, hug. I smell your hair, just like I did when you were a baby, only now you hold the scent of sweat, lingering shampoo (yay, hygiene!), and whatever creation you may have been mastering in the kitchen. We hold that space for a few seconds, maybe even sometimes a minute. I'm so acutely aware of the sharp bird-bones of your arms, and the surprising strength in them as well. My child, my pre-teen, my blooming man. You are precious, beautiful, amazing, and as expansive as the world around you. You are light, music, warmth, radiance, and boundless, bubbling energy. You are the embodiment of enthusiasm and stoke, of bright and bouncing.
"I love you, mom", you whisper in my ear. "One more hug". This is part of the routine, too. "I love you too, Zane. Good night". I turn the light off, and close the door. I start to walk away, and hear your voice, one more time. A little louder, insistent. "I love you".
I hear you. I always have, and I always will.
It occurred to me this morning, as you surreptitiously waved and blew me a kiss from the bus window, that this time, too, is fleeting. Maybe you will defy the odds and be the world's most affectionate and expressive male teenager, but just in case, let me memorialize these days. This sweet, tender eddy resting between the innocence of childhood, and the meteorical rise of your teens. These moments of seemingly improbably grace, ragged frustration, and deep connection. Adolescence is one of the great scary voids that all parents read about, and indeed, at times I walk cautiously, but more often than not, I'm just simply amazed. Amazed at the human being you are, and the man you're becoming.
Let me walk you through our day, and see yourself through my eyes.
You are my sunshine. No matter what kind of mood the rest of the house is in, odds are that as my alarm goes off, I will hear the gentle clink of a cereal bowl-- you try your best to be quiet, and I suspect you may be developing an appreciation for the stillness and solitude of early morning-- as you pour your first bowl of cereal. In all likelihood, this will be one giant bowl of at least two that morning, and you will undoubtedly take the last bit of the cereal that another sibling wants, and feign ignorance as the squawking begins. You'll be in your blue camo robe, which really is too small, and your mop of blonde hair will be randomly taking flight in every direction. You will be bright eyed and smiling. You always are, and even from the time you were a tiny, lanky baby, you will greet the first moments of waking with wide, alert eyes. I will most likely say "don't hunch over like a vulture" while you gulp your second bowl down, but you'll just grin at me, probably with your mouth full.
The house is awake, so you no longer slink around with tiny squirrel steps. No, you have the subtlety of a baby elephant, and you'll come flying down the stairs dressed for school. You might not believe this, but you are a carbon copy of how I was built at your age. Lanky, skinny as rebar, all sinew and muscle. None of your pants fit, but we try and make it work. You wear a size 8-10 waist, and a size 14 inseam. Most of the time it'll look like you're getting ready to go out and dig for clams, but the beauty of it all is that you just don't care. If you have any self-awareness of the mismatched socks showing with your jeans 2" above your ankles, you don't show it. Your favorite colors are garish neon, capped off by the neon pink sneakers that you were given at track. I'm so fiercely protective of you and your pride in those sneakers, it chokes me up. You love pink, and you don't give even a glancing thought to the occasional comments and sideways glances from some of the other boys. If you do, you never show it. In fact, you have helped make wearing pink for boys cool, and I love how several boys on your track team rock it. You didn't hear the asshole at the sporting goods store make a nasty comment about them the other day, but I can assure you, I almost ripped his throat out. With my bare hands. I'm not even joking in the slightest. You are brave, beautiful, and your pink feet make me beam with pride.
Our morning rite when I'm not working is for me to walk you and your older brother out to the bus. This delights you, in ways that I can't understand. As impulsive and creative and free as you are, you are a boy of rituals, and this one you hold dearly. Your older brother pretends not to care, but you make it okay for him to let his guard down, too. As the bus pulls up, you never, ever fail to turn to me and say "bye mom, I love you". I hear from so many parents how their kids, especially their adolescent boys, stop saying this in public, so I bank every one of those like buried treasure. And then… as the bus door opens, you say in a robust voice, "good morning Richard!" to your bus driver. The smile he gives me as he closes the door, well, it speaks volumes. We are raising a good man. A kind young man, and a boy who doesn't just get carried along by the world, who greets it eagerly and openly. What really buoys me, though, is the wave and the kiss. Every morning, no matter what, you press your face to the window, grin and give me a small wave, and mouth "I love you". Morbid as this sounds, on my death bed, I will see that same face, that wave and smile, and I will die content and happy. This much I know.
This is not all to say you are perfect and without fault. I can guarantee you, when I walk back towards the house, I will see the light on in you and your brother's bedroom. When I go upstairs to turn it off, I will be greeted by the dichotomy of your older brother's almost military tidy sense of order-- his neatly made bed, his clothes folded and put away-- and the hazardous waste disaster that is your half. All your drawers will be half open, and if I look closer, your clothes aren't folded, they're haphazardly crushed into any available space. Your bed is almost never made (I am always a little bit suspicious when it is), there are probably bits of tissue and paper and god knows what else floating around, and I will be able to smell your dirty socks reeking, stuffed under the bed, still wet and sweaty from a soccer game two days ago. You are an unrepentant slob, and we battle constantly over this. No amount of threats and cajoling make a permanent change, but I won't stop trying. I hope you'll eventually follow your older brother's example, and in the meantime, I try to cultivate gratitude for the fact that you brush your teeth on a regular basis. I mean, that's something, right?
School is fun for you. I worry too much, about whether you have good friends, if you ever get bullied for your huge, caring heart, your wide-eyed wonder, and especially your big, chatty, unfiltered mouth (the apple didn't fall far..), but you are an easy-A student when you try, and your teachers have always appreciated and even adored you. You dad and stepdad and I marvel at how smart you are, and frankly, how rarely you actually apply yourself. We've tossed the word brilliant around, and we're all so curious and eager to see what you do with that incredible expansive mind some day.
Getting to coach your track team is one of the most unexpected delights in recent years for me. You and your peers, so diverse and scattered over a wide swath of development, all out there giving it everything in your pre-and-early teen glory. Being called "coach" is an absolute privilege. The fact that you choose to train in the event I coach-- the hurdles-- both amazes and frightens me. Amazing in that I am still blown away that you have so much pride in your mom, and frightened because I witness in you the same driven intensity and determination that I had. I, too, would run until my face was mottled with patchy white blotches, until I broke and tore things. I honor and recognize your fierce competitive spirit, but above all, I want you to just relax and have fun. Winning isn't everything, and really, it's not even important, but I admire your relentless efforts. Maybe I should say that very thing to a mirror.. Truth be told, despite your shorter stature and wobbly colt legs, you are one hell of a runner. And kid, you can hurdle. I love how single-minded you can be when you are obsessed with something (snakes, cooking, trying to grow up to be Usain Bolt), and track is no exception. I see a grit and dedication in you that is rare in an 11-year old. Take care of your body, though; this I will remind you of. Exhibit A: your mom has no good cartilage to speak of in her knees. Respect, honor, and love your body, and you'll be coaching your kid when you're 40. (You'll probably also be icing your knees, too). About your body-- never fear that you will stay small. Your dad and I were both late bloomers. Odds are, you will go through puberty at the same time as your 3-year younger brother, but that's perfectly okay. It will happen, and you will be a giant. Genetics don't lie, kiddo. Until then, you can even run cross-country.
Nights in our house are wild and wooly, no doubt about it. We are a well-oiled machine, and you have rightly taken your place as a sibling. Even though for 7 years you were an only child, I am constantly amazed and delighted at what an incredible brother you are. No one's perfect, obviously, and I will undoubtedly remind you of this as you antagonize someone or demonstrate your specialty-- unwanted and vociferous commentary on everyone and everything. I love your help in the kitchen, and secretly, I really do hope you pursue your love of cooking, if not as a vocation, then as a hobby. To this day, you make the best creme brûlée I've ever had, kid. I have no doubt that if you want to train to be a chef, you will be great. In the meantime, don't talk back to me when I ask you to unload the dishwasher. Your step-dad and I absolutely delight in watching the four of you pitch in together and clean up a meal. There's a sense of pride that I don't think you'll understand until you're a parent, if you choose to be.
Finally, the tuck-in. You view your tuck in and those few hushed moments before the light goes off as sacred and holy. It's a good lesson for us all-- stop, slow down, and connect. Too often, I carry the guilt of being rushed, overwhelmed, spread too thin. You have a way of locking eyes with me that's far beyond your 11 years-- it's ancient, and the eyes of an old soul-- and even though it may be fleeting, I will carry this, too, for all my years. You are often spastic and wiggly. You've nearly broken my nose and bloodied your step-dads with your erratic crashing head as we lean in-- and you (and your brother) will chatter away all night if given the chance, but ultimately, even if I seem frustrated, I recognize it as the wild mind of someone afraid of missing something. You once said that to me when you were a toddler-- that you didn't want to sleep because you might miss something-- and it still runs true. I suspect as the teenage years descend, you may become a creature of morning lethargy and sleeping in (oh please?), but I can't wait to remind you of this.
We hug. Not the quick cursory hug of a teenager (and I'm so grateful for those from your brother), but a hold-me-close, never-let-me-go, hug. I smell your hair, just like I did when you were a baby, only now you hold the scent of sweat, lingering shampoo (yay, hygiene!), and whatever creation you may have been mastering in the kitchen. We hold that space for a few seconds, maybe even sometimes a minute. I'm so acutely aware of the sharp bird-bones of your arms, and the surprising strength in them as well. My child, my pre-teen, my blooming man. You are precious, beautiful, amazing, and as expansive as the world around you. You are light, music, warmth, radiance, and boundless, bubbling energy. You are the embodiment of enthusiasm and stoke, of bright and bouncing.
"I love you, mom", you whisper in my ear. "One more hug". This is part of the routine, too. "I love you too, Zane. Good night". I turn the light off, and close the door. I start to walk away, and hear your voice, one more time. A little louder, insistent. "I love you".
I hear you. I always have, and I always will.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
I learned of the passing of someone I knew this morning-- the half sister of an ex-boyfriend, killed in a head-on car crash. Mother of 3. My age. A bright, sparkling, beautiful soul that kept up a casual friendship with me long after the relationship had dissolved. Gone in a terrible, fiery instant.
There was a lot on my to-do list today. Instead, I watched a video she had posted only yesterday on Facebook about the faces of true love, cried hard, and fell asleep for an hour. My to do list didn't happen. Instead, I stuck my hands in dirt, dug in mulch. I wandered our yard, the spring awakening in this sweet old home new to us, and just marveled at the audacity of life to keep defiantly throwing up sheer brilliance and beauty in the face of time. 3 children will wake up tomorrow morning without the earthly presence of their mom. Hearts are broken, lives shattered, and a spectacular woman is gone.
And yet, these flowers. The crows in a raucous among the giant oak, the songbirds heralding the return of sun, and warmth. Breathing in all of it, all the pain, the hope, grief, and the rebirth that spring so relentlessly insists. It's just a moment, and yet, it's everything.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
There was a lot on my to-do list today. Instead, I watched a video she had posted only yesterday on Facebook about the faces of true love, cried hard, and fell asleep for an hour. My to do list didn't happen. Instead, I stuck my hands in dirt, dug in mulch. I wandered our yard, the spring awakening in this sweet old home new to us, and just marveled at the audacity of life to keep defiantly throwing up sheer brilliance and beauty in the face of time. 3 children will wake up tomorrow morning without the earthly presence of their mom. Hearts are broken, lives shattered, and a spectacular woman is gone.
And yet, these flowers. The crows in a raucous among the giant oak, the songbirds heralding the return of sun, and warmth. Breathing in all of it, all the pain, the hope, grief, and the rebirth that spring so relentlessly insists. It's just a moment, and yet, it's everything.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:My home
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Climbing Cho Oyu
I was 25 years old, standing atop the Nangpa La, straddling an epic gleaming swath of glacier, one foot ostensibly in Nepal, the other in Tibet. My soon-to-be-husband (and later to be ex-husband) had just proposed, standing on the roof of the world. We laughed and kissed and tried to catch our breath in the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, and attempted to force down just enough Snickers bar for the climb down to 17,000ft and temporary respite. Our Sherpa friend Sonam snapped a picture, his gold tooth glinting fiercely in the sun. To our backs, the massive hulking bulk of Cho Oyo reigned over, an immense and grand dame, queen of the Himalaya, standing witness. For days I had been fascinated by her broad flanks, the lenticular clouds draping her summit, and the thundering crumbling of seracs serenading our lower trek. I took a moment to myself in those precious minutes before starting the descent, and stared up at her with a certainty that was unfamiliar to me in my twenties, when I couldn't even imagine what my life would look like in a year. I'd be back. I'd meet her again, carefully and cautiously, determined, and I would at least attempt to stand on her summit. This much I knew to be true, as true as anything I'd ever visioned. I'd climb Cho Oyu, the 8th highest mountain in the world, by the age of 40.
In roughly 120 days, I will be 40. I have not climbed Cho Oyu. I can tell you that although nothing is certain, I will not return to climb her. I have climbed the equivalent of her height many times over clambering up one flight of stairs to tuck my kids in, and equally down to the basement with endless, overflowing loads of laundry. Most of the time when I eke out moments to write, I am able to conjure some small moment of grace in the mundane, some epiphany that feels warm and whole. There's a part of me that's completely terrified by the visceral, sticky reality of what this feels like, this looking at 40.
I have promised, perhaps as honoring this right of passage, but mostly as a pledge to myself, to honor the creative voice as I take this journey. I'm not sure how it's possible that nothing is as I imagined it, and yet everything is whole and alive in the matrix of growth. What is it about 40 that holds our collective conscience (especially if you're female) so hostage?
So here I am. A lot less tan, just a tiny bit more wrinkled, and definitely more warm. Somewhere in the landscape of another country I consider a "soul" home, sits my beautiful, massive mountain. There's a beauty in just knowing she's out there, and so much gratitude in having stood at her flanks, and appreciation for the clarity and dream she gave me at a time when I couldn't envision beyond my next airplane flight. Climbing a mountain was easy, even glorious in it's simplicity. Now, there is no massive span of glacial ice, no tattered prayer flag to carry my devotions, no 20,000ft shockingly clear blue sky.The real courage now comes from the sneaking suspicion that the climb right in front of me-- of family, self, job, home-- this is where we must dig deep to find the fortitude to keep ascending. In the mundane, in the quiet sublime of this everyday life, lay the challenges and the beauty of growing older.
I was 25 years old, standing atop the Nangpa La, straddling an epic gleaming swath of glacier, one foot ostensibly in Nepal, the other in Tibet. My soon-to-be-husband (and later to be ex-husband) had just proposed, standing on the roof of the world. We laughed and kissed and tried to catch our breath in the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, and attempted to force down just enough Snickers bar for the climb down to 17,000ft and temporary respite. Our Sherpa friend Sonam snapped a picture, his gold tooth glinting fiercely in the sun. To our backs, the massive hulking bulk of Cho Oyo reigned over, an immense and grand dame, queen of the Himalaya, standing witness. For days I had been fascinated by her broad flanks, the lenticular clouds draping her summit, and the thundering crumbling of seracs serenading our lower trek. I took a moment to myself in those precious minutes before starting the descent, and stared up at her with a certainty that was unfamiliar to me in my twenties, when I couldn't even imagine what my life would look like in a year. I'd be back. I'd meet her again, carefully and cautiously, determined, and I would at least attempt to stand on her summit. This much I knew to be true, as true as anything I'd ever visioned. I'd climb Cho Oyu, the 8th highest mountain in the world, by the age of 40.
In roughly 120 days, I will be 40. I have not climbed Cho Oyu. I can tell you that although nothing is certain, I will not return to climb her. I have climbed the equivalent of her height many times over clambering up one flight of stairs to tuck my kids in, and equally down to the basement with endless, overflowing loads of laundry. Most of the time when I eke out moments to write, I am able to conjure some small moment of grace in the mundane, some epiphany that feels warm and whole. There's a part of me that's completely terrified by the visceral, sticky reality of what this feels like, this looking at 40.
I have promised, perhaps as honoring this right of passage, but mostly as a pledge to myself, to honor the creative voice as I take this journey. I'm not sure how it's possible that nothing is as I imagined it, and yet everything is whole and alive in the matrix of growth. What is it about 40 that holds our collective conscience (especially if you're female) so hostage?
So here I am. A lot less tan, just a tiny bit more wrinkled, and definitely more warm. Somewhere in the landscape of another country I consider a "soul" home, sits my beautiful, massive mountain. There's a beauty in just knowing she's out there, and so much gratitude in having stood at her flanks, and appreciation for the clarity and dream she gave me at a time when I couldn't envision beyond my next airplane flight. Climbing a mountain was easy, even glorious in it's simplicity. Now, there is no massive span of glacial ice, no tattered prayer flag to carry my devotions, no 20,000ft shockingly clear blue sky.The real courage now comes from the sneaking suspicion that the climb right in front of me-- of family, self, job, home-- this is where we must dig deep to find the fortitude to keep ascending. In the mundane, in the quiet sublime of this everyday life, lay the challenges and the beauty of growing older.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
I'm sitting in my wonderful local public library, alternating between trying to write, watching the incredible, visionary groundbreaking work of Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson as they top out of the Dawn Wall in Yosemite, and appreciation the screams of delight from the toddler set hearing "If You Give a Moose a Muffin" for the first time.
There are times to write, and then there are times to sit at the table, feel the precious January sunlight stream across the honey wood table and splash on your face, and just marvel at a what a wonderful thing it is to be alive. To find joy and glee in the ordinary, and to be inspired and awed by feats of daring and endurance, all in the same millisecond.
There are times to write, and then there are times to sit at the table, feel the precious January sunlight stream across the honey wood table and splash on your face, and just marvel at a what a wonderful thing it is to be alive. To find joy and glee in the ordinary, and to be inspired and awed by feats of daring and endurance, all in the same millisecond.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
A friend shared these with me today. As firefighters and medics, we don't talk much about the incredible emotional burden some of our calls take, or the PTSD that haunts some of our brothers and sisters. This photographer/ artist so beautifully captures a moment in time, albeit some very difficult ones. This brought me tears. Purging, cathartic, healthy tears.
Warning: Some of these are very graphic and may be disturbing.
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