To every thing turn turn turn....

The first thing I thought was, Why didn't I read this when she was dying? After i was halfway through the book I wished I had read it even earlier, before my mom was even sick. That way i would have known how to grieve. I would have had directions, a map to follow so that I could see which way to go.
There were questions that should have been asked. Answers and explanations were missing. There was so much that went unsaid. Even after she died words that went unspoken got backed up and stuck someplace. I'm still bewildered by these piles of things left unsaid. Like log jams stuck high up in a slot canyon, the words all tangled and stuck together,confused. She would look at me and say 'I love you Beck', and I would say ' I love you too Mom". Then there were all these other things that went unsaid.
Are you ready to die? Do you want to go to the hospital and get a tube put in your nose to feed you? Do you want to be poisoned with chemotherapy that may prolong your life for years, or may not? Do you want to go anywhere? Is there something you want to tell me? Oh, so much stuff unsaid.
The day she died my Aunt Jeanie and I had been trying to amuse her and keep her comfortable. After painting toes bright pink, and putting on Vivaldi, Mom relaxed and was snoozing a little bit. all of a sudden she called out my sisters name. "Julie... Julie where are you?" My sister was far away in Florida. She couldn't come out because she had life to live, daughters to take care of.
She had spent a week with us after Mom's first surgery and couldn't come out again. When mom had died, breathed her last quiet breath, I called my sister to tell her that she had died. her response to me was, are you sure? Did you listen to her? I am a nurse and my sister a PA, so often we were able to hide behind clinical verbage and diagnosis and prognosis. Again, so much stuff left unsaid. My sister is my strongest ally now. One huge gift that came about from the death of our Mother.

The book is 'Refuge', by Terry Tempest Williams. I'm learning how to grieve from this book. I'm asking my mom the things I should have, and I'm getting the answers from the mountains and the desert and the moon, and the changing seasons.

Autumn

Waiting for a change. The first chilly morning that smells of dusty warmth as the furnace burns for the first time in months. The October light slants, and casts long shadows in the afternoon. Shivering in the sunshine. I want to wake up to cold cloudy skys and weather. I want to eat hot soup and bundle up in blankets. I want to go for a walk at night and smell woodsmoke and feel chilled. I know that soon enough I will be complaining of cold feet. I will be longing for the deep, dry heat of the Utah desert. For now though, I'm waiting for winter, waiting for change.

I'm going on my first road trip in years next week. No husband, no dog...just me. So much time has passed since I've spent time by myself. In a sense getting married ruined being alone for me because now I have someone that I miss when I don't get regular doses of him. Before marriage I used to spent huge chunks of time alone. Days could by without speaking because there was no one else there. I was seldom actually lonely. The Hubba's been out of town all this week, and although I've worked most of the days, the few that I had off made me connect with that part of me that loves solitude. I won't be spending my whole trip alone, just the 'getting there' part. Once I arrive an old friend and I, and perhaps one or more of her kids, will go to the coast and look at tide pools and swim in the ocean and hike. When that trip is over and I return, the Hubba will go away again for another climbing trip. For some reason I like being away from him long enough to miss him. I like thinking about him and thinking about missing him, rather then being annoyed at him, for one reason or another, which has been happening a lot lately. I like the anticipation of seeing him again.
Ed Abbey writes, '....in these hours of solitude I hope to discover something, to renew my affection for myself, and the human kind in general by a temporary, legal separation from the mass.' ( Desert Solitaire, pg. 155)
Thats how I feel. For some reason solitude is a necessary thing for me. I need it to remember who i am and where I am going. I need it in order to know myself and to remember myself.

Chaos

Chaos (derived from the Ancient Greek Χάος, Chaos) typically refers to unpredictability, and is the antithetical concept of cosmos. The word χάος did not mean "disorder" in classical-period ancient Greece. It meant "the primal emptiness, space" (see Chaos (mythology)). Chaos is derived from the Proto-Indo-European root ghn or ghen meaning "gape, be wide open": compare "chasm" (from Ancient Greek χάσμα, a cleft, slit or gap), and Anglo-Saxon gānian ("yawn"), geanian, ginian ("gape wide"); see also Old Norse Ginnungagap. Due to people misunderstanding early Christian uses of the word, the meaning of the word changed to "disorder". (The Ancient Greek for "disorder" is ταραχή.).


Chaos is the complexity of causality or the relationship between events. This means that any 'seemingly' insignificant event in the universe has the potential to trigger a chain reaction that will change the whole system. A well known saying in connection with this issue is "A butterfly flapping its wings in one part of the world can cause a hurricane on the other side of the earth." This is also known as the "butterfly effect".[1]
*Both definitions obtained from that reliable, ever present entity of Wikipedia*

For the last few days our peaceful world has been shattered each morning by the rumbling of trucks, pounding of hammers, rapid fire speech in spanish......
Finally it feels as if things are getting done. I hope the butterflys are all OK in China!

Scary Snowman, Winter Lassitude

Scary Snowman
Originally uploaded by Emma. x

Oh! Is there no cure for the middle-of-the-winter blues? I can't run far enough to get away from it. I can't ski enough to leave it behind. I can't seem to out sleep it, or out work it. Why won't this month go away!! i am struck down by the lassitude, the failure of my imagination. I can't see beyond the next skim milk, cold watered down sunrise. I try to dream about the dry heat of the dead of summer. I can smell the sage and sandstone baking in the sun...but, I can't feel the warmth. And then in my dream, when I turn around, there is a giant evil snowguy, running towards me, threatening to avalanche on me. Fucker...

One Fine Day

I breathe in and my nose hairs freeze. I snort in surprise and they melt. I knew it was cold out, but frozen nose hairs? Brrrr…. The silence is broken only by;. swish, squeeeak, swish, squeeak… A magpie monitors our passage. He calls out just as we pass around a bend, he’s trying tell us something. I don’t speak magpie, so I don’t understand him. We ski out into a clearing. A pristine white hill stretches out in front of us. Tele-vators go up and we begin to climb. My toes had started to go numb, but now they warm up and start to burn a little. My heart starts to tick along. My nose hairs unfreeze and stay thawed. We continue up and up. I plod along behind the Hubba. There is a false summit in front of us. Even though I know it’s not the top, I still get that feeling of anticipation. There will be a VIEW ahead, a chance to stop and catch the breath. Maybe have a drink or a snack. Ten more swish/squeaks, and we reach a small saddle and there is a VIEW. We stop and look across the clear, cold valley to the peaks on the other side. We can see people waiting to get on the lift at the resort. We have no company, other then a magpie.
Drinks are slurped, snacks are scarfed, and we head up again, just a little bit further. Just as we are about to the top, a small airplane zips into view. He’s not so far above us. He does a fancy little roll as I wave cheerfully and as the Hubba yells his disgust and flips them the bird, two handed even. My Hubba is a back country purist, ( that’s read, SNOB!). He won’t ski at a resort these days. A motorized noise in the backcountry is like a fart at a tea party as far as he is concerned. I’m thrilled by the acrobatics. Looks like fun!
We attain the top of the ridge and carefully peer over the edge. Just to the right of us a huge cornice bends over dripping icicles. To the left another cornice looms over the slope below. Today is not a good day to temp the fates. Instead, we stomp the cornices. At my hubba’s insistent stomps, a cornice lets go and silently slides, collecting more snow as it goes, gaining momentum until it spills onto the flattened ground at the end of the slope. Some friends have joined us and the cornice stomping begins in earnest. A rope comes out of a pack and soon a make- shift saw is made, and we create an even bigger slide. Such grace and power in that snow rushing down the hill. After all the big cornices are down, we stand at the edge making our plans for the exit out. To the right of us is a void where the steep hill goes down, down. We chat about which hill we will ski down and then there is a small poof, and a breath of icy air. The ground beneath my right foot gives, and I instinctively shift my weight to the left, falling into the frozen fluff. I scramble even further towards the trees. My Hubba and our friends are in pretty much the same position. We all laugh, a little bit nervously. We peer over the edge and see that most of the previous edge has let go. All present are wearing beacons and all have shovels and probes in our packs. We are lucky though, so none of those things need to be used. I know that I certainly feel humbled and more respectful then I did five minutes ago. My Hubba and his friends still laugh. They are all veterans of this backcountry. They all know what it is that I am still learning.
With one last glance over, the Hubba and I head south just a bit, still on top of the ridge. We strip the skins off our skis and tuck them into our packs. Then we get to head down at last. The slope that will lead us out has evidence of early risers but there is still plenty of untracked snow for us to ski. The Hubba lets me go first. I genuflect and can barely feel the resistance of the snow against my legs. I find my own rythmn and feel like I’m dancing down the slope. My quads start to burn, and I realize I’m not really breathing. I suck in the fresh cold air and I’m pretty sure I know what it’s like to be in heaven.
Later that night, pleasantly tired, on the edge of sleep and snugged into mounds of down blankets and pillows I hear my Hubba breathing funny. His hand, which is resting on my hip, squeezes and then relaxes and then squeezes. Chasing rabbits in his dream I guess. I think back to the edge of that ridge, the silence, the cold. I remember the suddenness of the edge falling away. One minute the earth is frozen and solid under me. The next I’m off balance, and there is air beneath my foot. I am reminded of the fact of my insignificance. I am reminded that wild things need respect and consideration. They don’t demand it, it is just something that is. That is one reason why I love it so, why I need it. I drift off to dream land. Tomorrow is another day. I will wake up early and head to the hospital. Patients there don’t know what it is like to taste wild freedom. I know. I hold that knowledge close and it makes me smile in the middle of the day.

Lucky Girl

One of the things I love about running is when I fall into an almost meditative state of mind. Thoughts free associate and from that stream comes a coherent river of thoughts. I've figured out thousands of my life's problems while I've been out running. Luckily today I had no problems to muddle through. I was out on a sunday afternoon, with no plans, obligations, or worries. Well. ok....a small worry. We are starting on a house remodel and yesterday we spent the day demo'ing a little porch portico. The house looks soo different without it. Next step will be an excavation crew, and a huge hole in the ground and in the house....Yikes! As i trot along through the neighborhood, I am struck by the notion of how lucky I am to even have that worry. The amount of money that is going in to our remodel could feed families of people in another country. I am so lucky to have a good solid job and to have a husband that has one too. I am so lucky that on a cold, cloudy Sunday, I have the free time to move my body and to think, and to know that I am safe, and that I have a safe home to come home to.
My husband pats the dog, who is curled up on her bed. He tells her that the economy is in serious trouble. He tells her it's all Bush's fault, and that we are headed for a recession. She gazes at him soulfully, unconcerned with the economy. She can't make the connection between recession and no more dog cookies. Just like me, she is a lucky girl.

Home Improvement

The little white house is only the second real house I have lived in. The first was a tiny brown house on Huckleberry Lane in Hampton, New Hampshire where I was born. That house is no longer there. A larger grey house sits there now although I can still see that house in my head there, even though I was only three when we moved out of it. My husband bought the little white house a year before we met each other. He had lived in it for another year by himself before I started visiting regularly, finally moving in after a year of courtship and a year of being engaged. We have been married for five years now and I have lived in the house for six. My name is on the mortgage note, all my stuff is here, but there are still times that it doesn’t feel like it is my house.
The house is small, especially the kitchen, but then two people, a fat cat and a lazy ridgeback don’t need that much room. After two years of planning we are just about to embarque on a journey of destruction and construction. We are going to build on a mudroom, for skis and boots and coats and such. We will move the stairwell, stretch out the kitchen some, rebuild our roof/portico area, reside, and finally, put on a new roof….Wheww!
My hubba has been running around with measuring tape in hand, measuring everything. Once, twice, three times a meeassurre…. Hubba is demolitioning, wiring the electricity, plumbing water and gas pipes, and in general trying hard not freak out. Doing a fair job of that mostly. I try to help with what I can, but I hate being ordered around. The things I want to help with are probably things he doesn’t need help with. For instance he was scraping the old roof tile off the portico roof yesterday. That roof part is pretty small, of maybe 25 feet across and 10 feet back. The roof tiles are old so they came off easily, so he didn’t really need help. But I wanted to climb up the ladder and be on the roof that cold, clear morning. I wanted to see the city under a foggy little cloud, and then turn on the roof and see the mountains poking up through that cloud.
After a five minute tutorial on sweeping and aiming tiles at the garbage can below, ( I never realized that I sweep wrong….) I got to move the old tile across the roof and push them over the edge to the bin with the big push broom. I loved being up there in the frosty air with the juxtaposition of smelling roof tiles, which have the smell of summer rain. Was I of much help? I don’t really know, probably not. But for some reason in the destruction of the roof tiles, the disposal of them, the white house seemed as if it were mine. I am investing my self in the rebuilding of it, and it is becoming mine.

The FunnyRunner (01.10.08)

As I drive off to work in the early morning light I often see a runner who has a very distinctive running style. He has the skinny frame and quick pace of a chronic runner, but what makes him stand out is that he holds his arms lower then most people do. His arms have almost no bend in them at all. They move stiffley at his sides as he makes his way down the street. The first time I saw him I dubbed him the FunnyRunner. Over the years of living in this same neighborhood and driving into the hospital on early mornings I see him moving briskly down the street. For some reason he connects me to a part of myself that hasn’t been around for a while, a part of myself that I miss. Before I was married I used to run all the time. That was what I did for fun. I ran daily, and organized my weekends around which trail I wanted to run and how long I was going to be out for. My best friend at the time, Tracy, and her little brown dog, would sometimes go with me, but often times I was just out by myself, for hours, just running. I don’t remember my back ever hurting or my knees crunching either. I weighed about 110 lbs, and felt so at ease in my skin that I never really thought about any particular part of body, other then that it was a strong body. Now there is a struggle sometimes between me-now and me-then. There are times when the very last thing I want to do is go out for a run. If I manage to get beyond that moment, and I make it out the door, I’m good. I can run, and I enjoy it, and even if it doesn’t exactly feel good, I know I’m better then I was before I went. I wonder what it is that makes it so hard sometimes?
As I grow older, I slowly approach a place of invisibility, middle age hood. In this American society few things are more invisible then a middle aged woman. I'm ok with that, actually. Sort of takes the pressure off. What has become profoundly apparent though, is that for the first time in my life, my decisions about which choices I make have become more and more permanent. Every decision I make to go in one direction leaves a path not taken. Time for humans is not infinite. I only want to live the fullest most authentic life that I am able to. I want to respect my body and keep it strong. I want to continue to find my edges, and to try and go beyond what is familiar and comfortable to me. For some reason seeing the FunnyRunner in the wee hours of a chilly morning reminds me of these things.

Old Old Things

In Ghent, Belgium, a cold but bright skyline view of some great art.
Belgium is a land of amazing beer and delightfully rich chocolate. We spent most of our time here walking around looking at architecture and towers and castles, and then mostly frozen we would stumble into a warm, smoky pub and tip a few, and eat a snack before venturing back out to see what things look like in the night light. ( Wow, thats a really long running sentence).

New Year

Last year we were in Honduras for New Years. We had spent the day diving, and as the sun started slipping to the west we made our way to a place called the Teutonic Tree House. We then had quite a few pink frothy coconutty concoctions called ' Pink Panthers'. This tree house/bar was owned by a crazy artist who had made the place a wonderland of sorts. Seashell caves, wine bottle sculpture, sea glass. Lots of decks and stairs. Absolutley amazing. This year I worked worked worked. There was no sense of holiday, or renewal. Nothing to look forward to. No big meals or parties. Very different from our last year.
I love the idea of starting a whole new year. The sense of clean slatedness. The feeling of something good just around the corner. What will this year bring?