Dear Addison

On your birthday, I am woken by a nightmare. Your dad and you and I are walking along a rocky logging road, and you are a toddler of maybe three, all giggles and wispy hair. I sense motion in the trees high above, and that’s when I see movement and glimpse the cougar. She is big, and sleek, and powerful, and she breaks through the trees as she starts loping, then running down the hill at us. Your dad scoops you up in his arms, and I pick up a rock and wave my arms to look big. I can see her gorgeous golden eyes as she is bounding closer and inevitably towards us. I wake Matt up with incoherent muffled yelling. 

This morning, we head to Corvallis for the “Out of the Darkness” suicide prevention walk. We have been given the task of presenting the “white beads”, the beads worn by a parent who has lost a child to suicide. Mercifully, there is only one other parent, a stout man with deep crags of sadness in his face, an army veteran hat. He looks at Matt and I with tears, and instinctively, we all put our fist to our chests as our faces scrunch with shared grief. A dad with the white beads. White beads are what have become of our children. I see your brothers off to the side, not looking at us, looking anywhere but at our faces. My brief anger rises sharp and hot at the risk you have put them at. Did you know the statistics, of how they are now at exponentially higher risk of death by their own hand, and would you have done it, knowing this? Probably not. But you did. I am wearing your favorite yellow sweater like a hug. Your mom let me have it, and when you are the stepmom, something like this is everything. It is the baby blanket I never held, it is fragments of you I clutch to me. I am reluctant to wear it at all because I am so afraid that when it is gone, another piece of you is, too. 

Tonight, we walk to the village. We eat a small meal, we toast a drink to you, to us, we vow to not let this break us. The night sky is a serenade of pinks and blues and oranges and then a deeper indigo, as we walk back in silence through the forest. I am straining hard to hear an owl, because I have come to believe that is how you visit me. There is nothing but soft rustling of branches and an occasional creak of limbs. But the forest floor is alive, and even in the hard dry spots of ground, I witness the darting earthworms in the headlamp. How had I not noticed these before? I notice everything now.

Almost home, we walk across the field at the abandoned Smith school. This is the place in the neighborhood where I come closest to being able to touch the sky. Tonight you were there, I felt you, and as I held your dad’s hand in my left, oh how I can feel the heat of your palm pressed to mine in my right hand. Just to the top of the stairs, you say. I feel this, I feel you there so real I can almost see your face in the shadows. And at the top of the stairs, you are gone. I have not said a word to your father but we both turn back to the field and just stare.

Walking back on the side street, there is the shimmer of glass and shine ground into the pavement under the streetlight. The hard line of your dad’s jaw, and the wet streaks on his face. This is how we mark time now, the glint of our tears embedded in the tarry path, frozen and forever. Everything a moment in time, nothing the same. Hands entwined, we keep walking.

Everything We Cherish May Burn

 Everything we cherish may burn: love, cancer, and the Notre Dame

Almost four years ago, if you told me I would be watching the Notre Dame burn on live TV from a hospital room, I would have perhaps felt a shiver of trepidation, but laughed. Even 26 days ago, I’d shrug it off. The Notre Dame is unmovable, impermeable, the survivor of crusades, two world wars, and the sands of time. My life is busy, often stressful, but blessed beyond all belief. My husband is healthy, unbreakable, so full of life he overflows with contagious enthusiasm and touches everyone in his spheres.

 I’d pull up this picture; I’ve just turned forty, and Matt and I are on the trip of a lifetime, kicking it off in Paris. Getting up with the sunrise over the Sacre Coeur, and reveling in the sunset splashed on the fortress of the Notre Dame. Living a bliss suspended in time, the kind so rare and breathy and beautiful that you take the picture thinking, “this, this moment, this perfect, beautiful moment.” Our hearts so full and expansive we feel it echo through our cells for the lifetime to come. And we both laugh, because I feel French and beautiful and light and classic, and my husband, he of the holey Costco t-shirts and perpetually torn Carhartts, is wearing—what’s this?—a button down shirt under a v-neck sweater. We will walk to a cobblestone framed café and not care that we are eating crème brulee for dinner, and drink champagne, because we are alive and in love and basking in Paris. The last rays of the sun will dip behind the Notre Dame’s towers, and late that night, we will laugh at the beautiful and almost comic absurdity of that picture, and then stare in silent reverie, because that moment in time—it is ours. Forever.

It’s been less than four years. I finally click off the TV and the footage, over and over, of that iconic spire plummeting towards the flaming wreckage of a bastion of history. I sit here, thankful for the lit keyboard in the darkness, kept company by the rhythmic schew-schew-schew of my husband’s feeding tube, giving him an excruciatingly specialized cocktail of calories that will allow nutrition to flow through his veins without blowing his thoracic lymph duct wide open and creating an urgent rush to surgery. I listen to his breathing, sometimes ragged, sometimes with a gurgle, but constant, comforting in the jagged edges that seem almost defiant against the quiet whir of suction and the rhythmic prayer of the pump. More than anything, every time he chokes a little on the saliva that he can not yet swallow, I hold my breath and pray that the wave of nausea will not hit, that I will not be rushing to grab the emesis bag and get him upright enough for the heaving discharge of the calories he has fought so hard for, 250 CC’s at a time.

This is a dance we have been performing for days—too many days now, no matter how short the time—and I am ready to stop spinning. I am ready for the room to stop spinning for him, for the drugs to leave his body, the tube protruding from his nose to be removed, ready for the simple, small, and somehow most important sip he will ever take in his life, the first time he can swallow a cool sip of water. I am ready for a sleep that lasts more than 45 minutes, that’s not haunted by the worry of my husband choking on his own blood from a ruptured surgical site, or the sudden overhead light of this blood draw, or that vital sign check. And mostly, even though I know we’re just starting this journey with a giant surgical step, I’m ready to say goodbye forever to cancer.

This is the thing I cannot have. Like the spire that has crumbled in the abyss of the nave, we now carry this scar forever. We fight fearlessly knowing that the pinnacle of what was before is gone, and the damage at the site will remain. We fight for what still stands, and for what we will build in the future. This is not said in defeat, but rather in defiance. We two have stood in awe of the scar of the glacier that crumbled, revealing the perfection of the ice wall beneath. We have seen the landslide, after it rakes and scours the hillside, bloom with the impossible heaping troves of foxglove, fireweed, arnica and phlox, each tenuous new root claiming a spot in the cycle of rebirth.

The details have been said, and I am tired of reliving the impossible. A swollen gland on his neck in the space of 5 hours becomes Stage III throat cancer with metastasis to the lymph system. He goes back to finish his last shift for a while despite the diagnosis, and I carry this terrible secret through a night with the children. We do not tell them until we know more, until we have the plan and the roadmap that we feign comfort in, knowing we will redraw it at every turn.

Between the two of us, we have nearly 45 years in the fire service, and at night, I wrestle with this. I love my job, my service, and in hot angry tears, all of a sudden I hate it, because it threatens to take that which I love more than anything. I waited 35 years for you, and 9 is not enough. He pleads with me—don’t hate the job, because the job is what I am. I know this, because this is in my blood, too. But which fire was it that woke the angry cells in his body? Did he decon enough? What about the diesel fumes that bathe our gear, our skin? That picture of him on a conflagration, white teeth flashing brilliantly on the biggest of smiles, his face slightly sooty and sweaty from a job well done- could it be that one? Will the job he loves more than anyone I’ve ever met take him from me? Do I have those same cells threatening a deadly unfurling in my own body, waiting to smother from the inside? All these questions, they tear and cloy for the few short weeks leading to surgery.

Our insurance will tell us that they no longer cover this; it’s an on-the-job injury. We are told by a labor attorney that our worker’s comp likely will not cover this either, and we find out despite throat cancer being presumptive, only one—ONE—case has been covered without question. We will gasp and rage and wrack our every last nerve reading that so many of these cancers, supposedly presumptive, go uncovered.

 We will be floored when the surgeon gives a preliminary figure of $130,000 if all goes as planned. Our labor attorney tells us not to worry, it will be covered one way or another, but I still check the balance of the mortgage and the current valuation of our home. We are now in the hospital 2 more days than planned, and there’s no telling when we will go home. That figure has grown like the cancer cells that threatened to occlude my husband’s airway. We have wrapped our minds around surgery, radiation, possible chemo; no one could adequately warn us of the side effects of bureaucracy.

The day of the surgery will come, and I will unsuccessfully try to hide the tears threatening to spill as they wheel the love of my life away. In a moment of unwitting comedy, shortly after they push the first medication and wheel him down the hallway, he will see a flashing light above the door, exclaim, “firetruck!” and start making siren noises. This is the last thing I will see and hear of my beloved for 7 hours. A robot, a brilliant young surgeon, several surgical residents, and a team of literally a dozen or more people will take up the mantle of this fight for him.

The days that follow are a blur, leading to this moment by computer glare in the dark. There have been setbacks, and my heart cracks a little deeper seeing the perpetually joyous face of my warrior husband absorb the updates and realize that everything from here will be different. Not necessarily worse, but… different. There will be news of a surgical complication, a rare potential that he has unfortunately encountered. The morning his drain runs milky we will silently sit in fear, and I will lie about what I have read, about morbidity and immunosuppression. He will know I am lying, and squeeze my hand and smile, regardless. We’ve got this, he’ll say, before the pain becomes stifling.

Fevers will come and go, and I will learn how to override the nurse’s monitored regimen to check his temperature, just to reassure myself. When the wave of ever present nausea crests to the first terrifying vomiting, I will hold my breath the entire time, until I see it’s just formula, and no blood. A surgeon will tell us that the back of his airway looks “like someone took a blowtorch to it.” I will be haunted by the eschar I have witnessed on the bodies of the dead in fires, and yet, I will continually think of it, praying for it to hold with every retching. I will hold the nurses in near biblical esteem, for they hold the key to his comfort and the ear of the doctors. I will have to accept that I am utterly and completely not in control.

It’s late, the air is dry, and my eyes burn with the effort of trying to see in only the glow of the computer screen and the blinking lights of the monitors and pumps. I look down at my phone to check for messages from the kids, and see this “All is Not Lost: Firefighters Able to Save Notre Dame’s Main Bell Towers.” I dig in my phone for this photo, taken the prior to the sunset on that day nearly four years ago:

Here’s the thing. This fortress, this bastion of history, she is forever changed today. This is what remains, and it will be smoke-stained, smoldering, and scarred. For weeks firefighters will be monitoring her, watching for hot spots to smolder and flare, and for months, perhaps years, investigators, architects, and planners will pour over her every inch. Her spire has fallen, crashing into the abyss, and taking with it some sense of innocence. People around the world will mourn in pictures, songs, and prayers for what has been lost-- the same sense of  safety and surety before planes flew into towers, and the same perfection of moments you find yourself taking for granted before you hear the words, “I’m sorry, this is cancer.”

I look on my phone for news, willing the words I know are there: “President Macron: We Will Rebuild.” Of course. The bell towers hold strong, fierce in their defiance of destruction, and determined to ring into history. At least, this is the story we give them, because it is all our story.

My husband breathes rhythmically, the whirring of the pump a gentle reminder. Sustenance. Tenacity. Resolve. I take his hand in mine, even as he sleeps, and feel the gentle squeeze in return.

Where will you be?

To begin: You have to know who you are, to understand where you are going. In many ways, I have walked my life in a gauzy haze of undefined history, a scattered and broken family tree that blew away like tumbleweeds. It is only recently (after a stilted attempt years ago with my beloved Nana, her mind already starting to fold into the dementia that would be her death) that I have managed to make the connections and reach out to the few distant relatives that I have heard of to put the pieces together. My mom's side of the family is for another blog post, an exploration of outcasts on the Isle of Man, and horse thieves of unknown origin in the early settlements. Of my father's side, I knew just a few things: there weren't many of us left, and we were Jewish. Jewish wasn't so much an identity for me, as a reason for having dual holidays in December (my Jewish father married my Episcopalian mother), as well as something I occasionally got teased for growing up in a rural, white, Christian upstate New York community. My big Jewish nose. My frizzy Jewish hair. My ample Jewish backside. "Jewish" became something that I subtly learned to hide, and certainly not a cultural identity. 

Enter Friday night. I am in the D.C. area for two weeks on the FEMA campus, learning the balancing act of being an emergency manager, contemplating a career direction I never expected and yet find deeply satisfying. On Friday night, I had a chance to leave campus and meet up with my father's cousin, a man who had friended me on Facebook last year in an attempt to put his own pieces of the puzzle together.  Suffice it to say, that from the minute I sat down across from a man who channeled the image of my grandfather (who passed away when I was 14), I was handed the thread to start weaving the story together. Along with his wonderful partner Marcie, over sushi we pored through pictures of relatives, the women strong-boned and powerful and eyes deeply set, women who looked like me. Great aunts, great-great grandmothers, distant cousins, a small but distinct tribe. Words I had never heard like "Sephardic", "Shtetl"; place names like "Janow"... all pieces of a nebulous mystery I had yearned for years to begin understanding. Our visit was all too short, but I left with a new sense of belonging, and a mission to seek answers to a question at the Holocaust Museum the next day: Why are there only a small handful of descendants?

The next day, I met up with a few classmates from EMI, and we walked for hours around the national mall, taking in the monuments and memorials with reverence and awe. We chose as a group to visit the Holocaust Museum a few days before, made all the more interesting by our mixed political views. What follows is a visual tour, a personal discovery, and call to awareness. The "story" to each photo is below the photo. Please read the photos of captions from the museum.

This is the banner that was hanging above the entrance to the Holocaust Museum. "Some Were Neighbors". 

Several in line were sporting red "Make America Great Again" hats, and I even spotted a small pin of a confederate flag. We were all in line for the same experience. Something had brought each of us there, whether it be answers, validations, curiosity, or challenges. The words "collaboration and complicity" echoed in my head. At the same time we waited patiently in line, the current president was signing anti-immigration laws into measure and demoting the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as well as the Director of National Intelligence. He then appointed White House Chief Strategist  and admitted white nationalist Steve Bannon to the National Security Council.  Please read the next photo very carefully, especially the smaller print.

Let me repeat: the president placed Steve Bannon at the top of the National Security Council. I'll quote the Washing Post to give you a better idea of what the NSC does:

 "The idea of the National Security Council (NSC), established in 1947, is to ensure that the president has the best possible advice from his Cabinet, the military and the intelligence community before making consequential decisions, and to ensure that, once those decisions are made, a centralized mechanism exists to guarantee their effective implementation. The NSC is effectively the central nervous system of the U.S. foreign policy and national security apparatus." 

Make America Great Again. 

America First.

We will have so much winning, you will get bored with winning.

Believe me. 

National Day of Patriotic Devotion.

Needless to say, my hair did not fit into the acceptable hair color swatches. Those were actual swatches of hair that were used to determine whether a person was of a superior race. I had kept my hair tucked up under a hat, but I chose that moment to let it down. 

The day before, I had never heard of Janow and Janow Lubelski. Here, I see in writing on glass the towns that my ancestry were pushed in to, before they were subjected to "the final answer". This is a glass wall of place names, the length of a hallway. Villages, Shtetls, ghettos that were systematically exterminated while much of the world lay silent. These were the places of my people. The Grabers (the "y" was added in "Grayber" after coming stateside, to sound less Jewish) were primarily in Janow and the surrounding areas of Lublin Voidodship.

Until this point, I had mostly felt numb. Numb observation, and sense of heaviness. A weight I couldn't fathom, and a sense of aching aging. And then, I saw the words of David. David Graber, 19-years old, fighting to carry the message of the atrocity beyond what he knew would most certainly be the end of his life. I can't quite describe the moment of finding my family name emblazoned in a Holocaust memorial. 

I found a corner and leaned into it, and at last, felt the heat of tears. I tried to keep my face to the glass, and feel the grief of this moment privately. An elderly woman came up gently next to me, and placed her hand on my back. "Is this your first time here?" I didn't make eye contact with her, for fear of sobbing. I just nodded. "We are all family. Shalom." 

Shoes. These are not replicas, these are a small sampling of the millions of shoes that remained, long after the bodies had been gassed, or shot, charred, and dumped in mass graves. These are the shoes of the men, women, children, elderly who became the receiving end of rhetoric of fear, and the face of blame and evil. These are the shoes that they wore as they were herded like cattle into train cars, and the shoes that they wore into the undressing rooms, to feel the bare earth under their feet one last time. These are the shoes that covered the feet of my family. All these years later, and in a sterile museum, you can still smell the leather.

I was compelled to take this picture. Behind me is a collection-- a massive pile-- of hair. Hair that looked like mine, dark and wavy and unruly; hair that had been cut off the heads of the naked women and children just before they entered the gas chambers. Hair that was then bundled into 40 lb bales. Jewish hair was considered unfit for wigs, so it was used as fill for mattresses and blankets.

This woman came from the Lublin region. It was jarring to see her picture, and feel almost as if I was looking into a mirror. Her eyes. Her hair. Her cheekbones and lips. Was she a Graber? There was no identification; she was one of a large settlement that was shot to death in a mass grave. The rail cars were full, and there was rumor of rebellion. 

Who will you choose to be?

406. In the holocaust registry, that is the number of individuals who share my name who were murdered. Most of those 406 died in the lesser-know secretive extermination camp of Belzec, although it appears some were sent to Auschwitz, Dachau, and Treblinka. Between 450,000 and 500,000 Jews were slaughtered at Belzec. There are only 7 known survivors of that camp.

43. That is the number of Gra(y)bers who survived the Holocaust era in entirety.

You have to know who you are, to understand where you are going. 

It was less than a hundred years ago that over 6 million human beings were brutally rounded up, branded, tattooed, tortured, and murdered simply for being a race that evoked fear and suspicion in a small segment of a nationalistic population. A brashly spoken and rather disregarded non-politician who wasn't taken as a serious political force took power, manipulated and silenced the media, and created a cabal of loyal henchmen (known as "the Reichstag") who would take control and power of an entire nation within 6 months. The world would mostly remain silent until the horrors were delivered to them in the form of war threatening their own liberties. By the time the camps were liberated and the war ended, 2 out of every 3 European Jews had been murdered. By 1945, most of my ancestors abroad had been exterminated.

You have to know who you are, to understand where you are going. My path forward from here is as clear and distinct as the eternal flame that burns in genocide memorials across the planet. Where will you stand? Will you remain silent? Will you look the other way from the fear and anger and brewing hate, regardless of origin? Or will you take my hand and stand with me and say, "never again"?

Post-election thoughts

I haven't posted anything since the election, and I've had a few people ask me why, given my usual very vocal opinions. The truth is that I still don't have the right words, because honestly, people like me were part of the problem. Sure, I worked my butt off for my candidate, and I passionately told everyone and anyone who would listed why I supported her. But how many times did I passively turn the other way when someone said something hurtful, untrue, or just plain ignorant, and I "let it go" in the name of peace and friendship?

A very brief story: The day after the election, we ran into one of Zane's best friends and his mom at school conferences, both of whom I adore. Zane's BFF was withdrawn and sullen, totally unlike him. His mom, a very strong and proud woman, had tears brimming in her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. I asked what was wrong. They had simply gone shopping, like they do every week, at Fred Meyer, right here in SW Portland. They were immediately threatened and harassed, and fled for home, fearing their safety. IN PORTLAND. You see, they are a Muslim family, and she wears full hijab. The worst part-- when I conveyed my horror and intention to accompany them the next time they go, she said "we've gotten used to the stares and muttered obscenities, but...". STOP THERE. What? This beautiful family of proud American citizens has endured harassment and micro-aggressions this whole time? In liberal Portland? Where have I been?

The answer is, right here this whole time. Yes, I choose love, yes, I choose light-- but I have let people near and dear to me down, in the name of keeping the peace, and not wanting to be offensive. I also believe that the conversation is greater than the political polarization; this is more than Trump vs. Clinton, Liberal vs. Conservative. This. Is. Us.

So here's this cartoon. It's definitely not the same one that keeps popping up on many of my friends' feeds, the whole "all lives matter, can't we just get along"? (Literally, dozens of postings). This cartoonist put into words what I have been feeling for the past week. This doesn't mean that I can't have a conversation or be friends with someone who's views are different. To me, this means that it's time to take a deep, honest, and maybe painful look at how my life and actions have served others, and how I can do better. I am a very privileged white woman living on my little urban farm in Portland, with my white husband, our white kids, our chickens, cats, dog. That is not to say I haven't had hardships-- I have endured terrible things only the closest friends and family to me know-- but I always have this place of relative safety and privilege to return to. When I walk into Fred Meyer, no one is going to call me a terrorist, call my son a n*gger, or threaten me physical harm for the hat or scarf I may be wearing. I am willing to look in the mirror, take stock and appreciation for what I have, and then shatter the mirror to see beyond, because right now, it's about so much more. It's not a sweet little meme of a Trump and Clinton person holding hands, it's messy, sticky, and really, really scary, and every single one of us is accountable.

If you are ready to join me in the conversation, look deeper, work harder, and find the true humanity and love that connect all of us, you know where to find me.

Fire

Weight of an air pack, axe in my hand.
Just before I clip into air--
            the stench of fear-sweat, acrid, alarmed, excited.
Wood splinters as we crash through a door.
The engines whine and rev high behind us, water spraying, blinding, people shouting.
            Something in my back splinters, too.

Keep going, press on, the ghosts say.

The man, he is there, just out of reach. Just up those stairs. Just through that door?
There is too much fire. The furnace blast of flashover
pushes us back out the door.
I will find him later, still almost standing.
A toppled redwood in a blackened forest.

Skin melts at 500 degrees, stretched gaunt over tight bones.
There is a model airplane-- fire engine red-- on the other side of the door.
             Intact. Unscathed.

Fifteen bullet holes in the skinny buddha's body, his blood
drenched onto scorched California earth, nurturing nothing, nothing.
His hand, still clutching the leash of a whimpering soft-muzzled doberman.
Three drifters, they will say. Senseless.
           Thoughts and prayers, they will say.
A wake of grief rippling an entire coast, like a funeral pyre.

Did he notice in that frozen moment the flash from the gun, before
flesh ripped, before gasping dreams spilled forth, uncontained?

The blonde head of my son, hair thick and smelling of campfire.
If the shooter comes to the classroom, mom, you just
drop off the ledge and out the window.
You'll only break an ankle, maybe a leg, but probably not the whole thing.
Other wise, you have to charge him, throw a chair.
His large blue 12-year-old eyes contemplate the physics
of facing death.

A car backfires outside
I lurch my body over him.
            Geez, mom, it's just a car
            and anyway, I have homework to finish.

My anger and grief are steam rising off the back of a hard run horse
galloping, frantic and seeking familiar pasture.

Where is the safety, who will be the rescuer
in this hot, sticky, salty viscera?
Sirens light through the dark sky in the distance
Familiar, comforting, haunting.

These ghosts and I, sitting outside the fire, gazing in.
Our reflections dance, entwine, ensnarl
Eyes glittering, rapt in the distant shimmering heat.



©2016 Dacia Grayber

The light of his broken teeth

Two days ago, my son broke another one of his permanent teeth, this time while throwing himself with wild abandon into a backflip on the neighbor's trampoline. While reportedly almost a perfect execution, Zane went into the tuck a bit over-vigorously, and threw his knee into his face. There was a moment of confusion on what had happened, until he said he "felt a painful hole in his mouth" and noticed blood seeping through his pants. Apparently, the force of his patella was great enough to break his left lateral incisor about 1/3 of the way down, leaving the tooth temporarily lodged in his knee. The tooth came out, and with the intrepid scrutiny that is unique to a 9-year-old sibling, little brother quickly came up with the missing chunk. Boys, tooth shard, and bloody pants came home.

It is no accident that our pediatric dentist knows Zane by name and athletic incident, and I think perhaps might regard our family with a small grain of incredulity. The forthcoming emergency trip to the dentist for a broken tooth was Zane's second.

Only a year and a half ago my supernaturally strong bean-pole child was demonstrating his parkour ability to a rapt 3-year-old out at dinner. Zane jumped onto a street sign to show him a horizontal "flagpole"move, and either in a dramatic miscalculation of the pole's location, or a failed missive at flying, fell straight down, tooth first, 2-3ft onto the concrete. The horrific cracking "smack" that followed was enough to make the other firefighter/ paramedic friends I was with scream. My golden-haired child lay motionless on the ground, only long enough for me to envision the bloody broken horror I would find when I abandoned 20 years of medical training and leapt to him, quickly scooping him up in my arms, any principle of spinal immobilization gone. There was very little blood, his eyes welled with tears and refocused, and he gently spat a perfect triangular shard of his first adult tooth out into my hand. We were both shaken, but he had the words. "Mom, how did I miss?"

Which brings us to Tuesday morning, seated in the world's friendliest pediatric dentist office. While two visits is by far not "routine", the dentist did explain to Zane that one only has so many permanent teeth, and at the rate he was going, he'd be in dentures by college. This time the damage was more severe, the pulp nearly exposed, and a crown in his near future. Zane, true to his nature, did not miss a beat to ask if this was his opportunity for a gold crown with "just a small diamond, nothing too showy". (He was only half joking). He smiled at me, and then it hit me.

Both times, both broken teeth, his face has been nearly unscathed. No teeth gnashing at angles through lips, no bloody torn mouth. Just cleanly broken teeth. This is because in most everything physical Zane does, he does with a giant, wide, beaming smile. I was overcome with gratitude and amazement.

What a marvel, to be an almost 13-year-old boy, at the pit and precipice of teenage angst and turmoil, and plunge into the world without caution, with near-blind abandon. To dive at a flagpole, believing in your heart and soul that you would fly horizontally, that your sheer will and the assured love of gravity would hold you. To hurl yourself high into the air backwards, all fibers of your slight sinewy back and gangly legs contracting, gathering speed and force, eyes and mouth wide and sucking in the damp spring air. No disgrace, no embarrassment, no shame…. and no fear. Believing in your place in the world, penultimately present in the moment, even in the blazing pain of an unexpected trauma. And most of all, hours later, to beam that same, unfettered grin, albeit a little broken and crooked, and say, "Well mom, I almost got it. Next time."

What a marvel indeed.

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.

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.

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

Location:My home

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'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.

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.

http://www.dansunphotos.com/Emergency-Response-Portraits/i-SwxxJdc

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.