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.