Meditation I

     "Own Who You Are".....

     In doing a 3-day workshop with Deepak Chopra 4 years ago, his way of settling us into ourselves was to ask us who we were and to clear our minds for what came into our heads for an answer. At first it was things like "mother", "sister", "daughter"  and then in progressed to "newly divorced", "nature lover", "want-to-be-writer" and finally "me and all that means".

     Words do matter. I've lived in the life of the mind since I was a child. I've been making a career with words, one way or another, for 30 years now. I plan to keep writing until I form a frame for something worthy of sharing. My practice, towards that goal is this blog. Which I abandoned for nearly a year, as I lost myself and my sense of movement.

    You see, I literally couldn't move under my own power, very well, for the first third of this year. Once I could, I found it difficult and I had to make many adjustments. I simultaneously had to put others before myself for a myriad of reasons and I was fine with that; but I lost my drive, vision and purpose.

     This summer was tough, as I recounted in the last post. However, I would be remiss in not stating here that another highlight of this summer, beside swimming again, was a retreat I took with my daughter. Again, just like my workshop with Chopra, the retreat was held at Kripalu; a mother-daughter yoga weekend.

     Over those three days we walked, ate (silently at breakfast, per the rules), wrote, drew, talked practiced yoga, saunaed & soaked, swam, slept in bunk beds, and played with Tarot Cards. We were each very present in every moment of those three days. We were fortunate that it was not too hot (as there was no AC) and not too cold (for early morning yoga). The mother-daughter group was large, with at least 50-70 people present. For imost it was a celebration of their relationship, for some it was a bridge to each other and for a few it was an awkward exercise in intimacy. I think we experienced all three.

     My favorite section of the weekend was when we did partnered yoga. My daughter and I each have had knee issues and both of us were gaining stamina this summer. We had to be both gentle and strong in our poses. We had to trust one another physically, like we hadn't since she was a toddler. I had to trust her as an equal partner, too. The paradox was not lost on me. It was symbolic of the point we find ourselves now in life. She as a young woman, coming of age, and me letting go for her grow completely independent. At the end of the weekend, I bought her a adult length and nicely padded mat for her to take to college. The one she's used at home, since middle school, was too short and hard. It no longer served her well, she'd outgrown it.

     So "owning" and "growing" are closely related in my mind these days. A valuable part of moving forward requires discarding things from the past that no longer serve you well. Whether it be an old yoga mat, a hairstyle or way of being. Middle age kicks mortality into the mirror. When we look at who we are , you start to see that we are a sandwich generation (if we're lucky enough to still have our parents). Our children are growing their flight feathers and our parents are saying a long goodbye. We are the matter in the middle, they are the staff of life that brought us into the world (on one side) and who will remain after we leave (on the other side).

     Occasionally, I wonder if I should be spending more time with my parents and children. Have I learned, listened and leaned-in enough? I feel both, in equal measure, slipping through my influence and it's a new way of being that I need to practice. Yet my daily life is so full right now, with work and mundane matters, that it's hard to slow down enough to answer these kinds of questions.

     Which brings me back to owning who I am. I am a full-time teacher. I am a nature lover. I am a traveler. I am a writer. I am an athlete. I am a lover, mother, sister, daughter, friend and woman. I want to be a life-partner. I want to be published. I want to travel to Africa, Asia and Croatia. I'd like to swim in all Seven Seas. I want to retire in a decade +- and do meaningful work while writing. I want my kids to grow strong and independent. I want my parents to know in their bones I treasure them.

     Right now, I have no future goals mapped out to which I can assign a check list. I'm thinking that writing may be the future to build a checklist around, as my immediate life  will have no dynamic changes in it. So I've circled back to where this blog always returns: words, words,  and how words give meaning to my life. I must no longer linger on sharing, practicing and shaping the perfect memoir or story, but just commit to writing each and every day. No matter what inelegant and unattractive shapes the words expose. It's time to get naked; learn how to be a strong, gentle, blunt and abstract writer in a style that resonates with others in a meaningful way. That is who I want to be now and forever, time to own it!

Thankful Tuesday (2017)

     My most read post is entitled Thankful Tuesday. It was written in November 2016, during Thanksgiving week. You can (re)read it in my archives. It gave a snapshot of my new romance, the election year and my family. Now, a year later, I have a great deal of recollecting and reflecting to do.

     Thankful Tuesday ended with Thanksgiving in the offing, an election requiring vigilance, and a family blending...

     December came with it's usual hectic school and holiday madness. My boyfriend bought me brand new downhill skis for Christmas at the local school ski & skate sale. It felt like a next step in our relationship, to be included in his winter passion, while sailing slept for the season.

     I'd skied my whole life; downhill and xc in New England as a child and young adult. Then later as adult I skied out West:  the Sierras, Cascades, Rockies, Sandias and Sangre de Cristo mountains that candy-assed me for life; dry powder, wide open trails and warm air. Both his boys skied on teams. My Dutch ex-husband hadn't skied with me or my children (although he had learned in the Alps and claimed to enjoy it) on either Coast. I couldn't get either of my children on xc or downhill skis, except once each when they were very young. After their favorite neighborhood babysitter died in a ski accident in Colorado, that was it. Skiing wasn't safe and wasn't for them. Since I moved back East,  I'd just xc-skied out my back door or on local conservation grounds.

     Christmas break was short, yet packed visiting family and friends. We celebrated Christmas in MA and ME with all four kids in tow. The two college age children dutifully tagged along and made the most of it with cousins and siblings. When we returned to MA, it was time for me to give my boyfriend his present: One night being the keepers of Rose Island Light in Newport, RI.

     We rode from Newport out to the Island in the once-a-day lobster boat at 10am. The wheelbarrow in the above picture is filled with driftwood and scraps that we found for the fire we had in the stove that night. We spent our last full night of 2016 alone, no other guests, in this wonderful house with only the wind, light and sea around us. I'd brought all the provisions (as apart of my gift), and the house has a cistern in the cellar for drinking water and a shower: a must for my man. The park ranger showed us how to manage all the necessities. It was like living on a boat, only on an island there is no rocking; just the rattling of the wind against the windows and the sound of the surf crashing on the rocks below. The ranger then bid us goodbye, saying he'd return with tomorrow's guests around 10:30 in the morning.

     The next 24hrs were spent circumnavigating the island by foot,  watching the day turn to night over the Narragansett Bay while the gulls, terns, and ospreys road the thermals at the level of the Fresnel lens, cooking three simple yet decadent meals in the small kitchen full of light, sitting in languor by the wood stove, watching the flickering lights of the bridge from our bed and exploring the light house from catwalk to the cistern cellar. We were relaxed, happy, engaged and carefree. Little did we know that would be the last time we could honestly say that....

     We lingered in Newport after disembarking from the lobster boat. Our New Year's Eve parties didn't start 'til after dark, and our kids were with the exes. Neither of us are big shoppers, but it was pleasant to walk the boutique lined wharfs, without the summer crowds, and be leisurely about it. We dragged our heels driving home; back roads as much as highways.

     For the second time in as many years, I had my man to kiss at Midnight. Can't tell you what a deeply satisfying hum that brings to my being. We all made it to midnight, with the same collection of characters I mentioned in the last Thankful Tuesday blog. I love the simple continuity of these rituals and rights of passage...

     A week later, I went on a ski trip with my boyfriend and his younger son at a crew member's house in NH. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, as her house was in Jackson and Black Mountain was her home run. Black Mountain and the Inn at it's base, Whitney's, is legendary in my family. My grandfather took my mother and uncles to ski there for their entire childhood, and he was an original investor in turning the Mt. into a ski resort. My mother and remaining uncle have "lifetime passes" as a result. Although I grew up skiing in New England, skiing was primarily done in MA and ME where we lived over the course of my youth. I'd never been to Black Mountain, although I'd seen pictures and home movies, complete with rope tows and shovel lifts (which were still standard fair in my childhood when I was learning to ski ).

     Saturday morning my boyfriend and his son, along with our hostess and her family, went skiing at Black Mountain. I was glad to see it was more of a hill and that I could learn to use my new "curved" skis somewhat quickly. I had to train my body to move differently, more subtly with the new design, which was fine with me, once I figured it out. My boyfriend's son, being on a ski team and getting weekly couching, was excellent at passing along what he had recently learned, and teaching it to me. I followed in his tracks and could feel the new movements and curving styles that were more efficient and responsive than my hopping turns. Over the course of the day I progressed from Green to Blue and felt like I could have stayed longer than we did, as my three season open-water swimming and four season running had trained me well for cold weather sports. At the end of the day, our hostess took a picture of me in the lodge to put in their history of Black Mountain scrapbook (my being a Harrison Grandchild). It felt nice to have been on that Mt.,  skied it well and with honor. We had a lovely dinner and lively discussions at her house that night.

     The next day we decided to go to Attitash Mountain in Bartlett, NH,  as we worked out way back home to MA. We again started with Green trails and I progressed to Blue. Now I can't remember if it was a Attitash or Black that we took a lift to the top and the Green trail was closed and we were forced to take a Black Diamond, but I believe it was Attitash. However, that morning went well, and I enjoyed myself immensely. It was bright and sunny as we ate lunch at the lodge. I remember overhearing a middle aged man say, "I don't ski after lunch, it's too icy", and tucking into my brain, but not taking it seriously. Since I'd gone a day and a half in tandem with my boyfriend and his son, and I could tell they were itching to challenge themselves while I had relearned to ski, we agreed to go up together and take different runs down.

     This course of action worked swimmingly for the first 3-4 runs. However, on the last  run, the sun was dipping behind the peak of the mountain, the snowboarders had skimmed the snow off the ice and laid in deeply cut tracks which the shadows made difficult to determine moving at high speeds. I was on the same Blue Trail, Upper Cathedral, I'd been running with the guys, going fast on the steepest section when it happened. My downhill leg (left), became stuck in a snowboard track and I couldn't release it before slamming into a wall made from groomed ice and snow shavings. I saw a large orange-red ball  of light burst before my eyes, felt my knee buckle backwards unnaturally and then collapsed onto my right side.

     I didn't hear anything, which was odd. As someone who has broken more than her fair share of bones, one usually hears the break internally; you know it's broken the second it happens. This was different. I hoped for a vain minute, that the hyper extension would just result in a pulled ligament or strained muscle. But as I attempted to stand up, with the help of a Frenchman who stopped immediately upon seeing my accident, my head (which had blinded me with the bouncing red ball of light) was now telling me that I had no leg under my knee; I simply couldn't feel it when I attempted to stand on it. The Frenchman, followed by at least two other concerned skiers, all went for help and asked if I had anyone to tell. I described my boyfriend's son, as he has a long mane of hair that's hard to miss, his name and what he was wearing. I was later told that they were both waiting for me at the bottom; when told, the son said he wanted to be the one to go to me first, and my boyfriend wanted to make sure medical/EMTs were on their way to me.

     The son did arrive first, then the EMTs and then my boyfriend (at least I think that is the order). The ski patrol wrapped me up like a burrito in a papoose sled and pulled me down the hill; looking up at the cloudless blue ski, shiny green pines and white snow-shower wake of the EMT flying above me, I felt a childlike happiness. My boyfriend and his son skied along side the whole ride down.

     At the bottom, they hooked the papoose sled to an ATV and dragged me across to the full length of the base of the Mountain to the Medical hut. I remember the woman who treated me was named Patty. She had connections to New Mexico. She looked like a healer. She had me try to stand. I couldn't. She had me try to bend my leg, which I could, as the swelling hadn't made that impossible yet. She said she, like me, hoped it was just a pulled or torn ligament, but she wanted me to have x-rays at a hospital. She made a splint out of cardboard boxes and padded it with forgotten gloves, mittens, and hats, and then wrapped electrical tape around it. She taught us (my boyfriend and I) how to get me in and out of the car.

     Now as I write this story, and as I've told it to others earlier, the question becomes, "Oh, you must have been in so much pain. How on earth did you manage 3 hours in a the back of a car like that." I say, "It's funny what shock and desire can do." On one hand, I was still in denial and shaken. I desperately desired for it to be a pulled, or at worst torn, ligament, so I battled with my mind to make it so. My body, on the other hand,  was screaming different outcomes to me every time my boyfriend hit a pothole. So how did I cope and not let on, stoic Yankee style: I sang! I sang along with as many songs as I knew and played solitaire on my phone when I didn't know the songs. Amazing how we can override our own circuitry, isn't it? It was my blatant attempt to keep the guys from the front seat in the dark, because if I let on to how much pain I was in that would mean this wasn't going to be a rest and recover accident, but something more substantial.

     We dropped his son at my boyfriend's house,  and then he took me to the ER at Emerson Hospital in Concord, MA. The nurses were impressed with Patty's cardboard splint. I don't remember it taking long to get an evaluation room. In keeping with my laconic evasion of the growing reality of my limb, I sent my boyfriend on his way to buy groceries and to make dinner for his son.  I was tested, x-rayed, and sampled. Then the look I was fearing arrived. It came with the words, "your x-ray is abnormal, you need surgery as soon as possible." My first tears.....they would flow on and off for months, and still come now when I least expect them. That was Sunday, the 8th of January.

     I called my boyfriend who was still in the grocery story. I repeated what the nurse said. I could hear the air escape his lips like a sliced canvas life raft; airy, watery and thick. It took him a few beats to believe it, but once he did, he was all there. He contacted my family and friends. Fortunately I have a wealth of medically trained friends and family members.  They all researched the surgeon on call for the am and found her to be a good sports medicine Doc. Only one friend, who had worked with the surgeon in the past, hesitated regarding her bedside manner, not her ability to perform the required procedure. Path of least resistance won out. I was now in full blown pain, as the shock dissipated and denial disappeared. By this point I had surrendered to the pain, medicines and diagnosis.

     Tibial plateau fracture. That was the breaks name. The surgery took 3 hours and required a plate and 7 screws. I don't remember much of Monday through Wednesday, except for the surgeon telling me I might never run again, that I wouldn't be allowed to walk for 2 months, and that it would take 6-12 months to heal.  I can still summon mental snapshots of my neighbor and her mom sitting with me, my family coming in and out, and my boyfriend bringing homemade chicken soup and a box filled with multiple kinds of macaroons for me and the nurses!


     Wednesday we went home. Not to my house, but to his, as there were too many levels and stairs to navigate at my house. My son and dog also moved into my boyfriend's house. Part of what we discussed with our four children at Thanksgiving and Christmas had been the possibility of blending our tribe and moving into a house of ours within a few years. So this was simultaneously welcome, unprecedented and an interesting experiment. Half the week we had both boys under the same roof, too.

     Thursday the first PT and OT came to the house to help me learn to navigate basic tasks. After just a short session of attempting to use a walker, learn how to properly stand and sit, and be told attempting stairs were still days away, I was exhausted. It was hard to believe that I'd run a half marathon two months earlier and swum a 5K a few months before that. Yet the surgeon told me, it was because I was so active that my femur hadn't shattered in the crash. Most people with tibial plateau fractures like mine end up with broken thighs, too! The muscles in my legs, absorbing the impact, had spared my upper leg. I fell sound asleep on the couch in the living room.

     I was shaken awake by my boyfriend. His eyes told me something was terribly wrong. He told me his older son had been in a horrible ski accident and he had to wait for another call to know more. His son was a Sophomore at CMU, a dual mechanical engineering and physics major, a stellar student athlete and on the ski team. The next phone call would result in my boyfriend collapsing to the ground, on the second floor, having me desperately attempting and succeeding to climb the stairs backwards on my butt and crawling to cradle him as he took in the news.

     His son had been racing with friends down an easy trail, which set his ski to chattering, under the speed,  that one released, having him lose control and flying into the trees. He punctured both of his lungs, fractured six ribs, his collarbone, and six vertebrae, damaging his spinal cord in the process. This was the afternoon of  Thursday, 12 January. 

     Now it was my turn to be all there for my boyfriend. While he arranged a flight to airport nearest the trauma center his son was being airlifted to, I arranged a car service to pick him and drive him to the hospital. My father who was visiting from ME, enroute to my niece's volleyball game in CT, took my boyfriend to the airport. My dad and stepmom cancelled their plans to go to CT and stayed on to take care of me and my boy. This is all a blur, as I was in much pain, medicated and out of sync with myself. Now I was texting his relatives, mine, both our exes and others on an as need to know basis. 


     For the next two months his son was in Hospitals: Mass General and Spaulding.  His son is now a paraplegic, paralyzed from the chest down. During those same months, I went to visit him in the hospital and even spent the night before his spinal surgery in a hotel around the corner to support my man and his family. I had to go in wheelchair. It gave me an immediate initiation to non-walking life. It was exhausting and required lots of advance planning for even the simplest of tasks. I injured my shoulder from "pacing" in the halls the hours of his surgery, it took six months for it to not hurt when I slept on it. 

     In February I lost two dearly beloveds and nearly a third. Jack Robb, the patriarch of the Robb family and a dear friend succumb to Parkinson's disease. Bingley Robb, my trusted canine companion of 12 yrs and a chosen brother of Cora, died after a heroic fight, as well. My massage therapist, Tony, had to have emergency open heart surgery and it was a delicate surgery. Three touchstones of mine; two taken, one receded from my life until this month.

     My boyfriend's son handled his surgeries and hospital stays with grit and grace.  My man and his ex-wife took turns being with him non-stop for 7 months. I moved back into my own house, with my son and dog, in mid-March. His son moved into an accessible apartment also in March. 

     On the Ides of March my daughter was hospitalized; first on Long Island, New York and then in MA. During March my son, daughter and I were reunited under our own roof. Neither my daughter nor my boyfriend's son would return to college until the fall semester. We all had a lot of healing to do. I went back to work, on crutches, in mid-March.

     April, May and June we all did various therapies to regain our strength and stamina. My boyfriend and his ex-wife decided to beginning renovations on their respective homes, while their oldest son lived in an accessible apartment for the Spring and Summer.

     I had my last physical therapy appointment in June. I'd asked if I could safely enter a race in July and was given the green light by my surgeon. I swam a 3 Mile Open Ocean Swim on my 55th birthday in July, the morning of the 15th. It stands as the personal highlight of this year. My number one super-fan, my mother, came with me. She watched the rowers and SUPs  race the 4 Mile loop around Misery, while we swimmers raced 3 Miles from in Manchester-by-the-Sea to the inside of island and back on that overcast morning. It was fitting that on the day she gave birth to me, I felt reborn by the sea; not being able to run and still hurting to walk, swimming has been my salvation this year; mentally and physically. 

   

     The next morning, 16 July,  my boyfriend and I departed the dock on his 37' sailboat for a week. A year earlier, we had sailed for two weeks; one with his youngest son and his son's friend, and the other week just the two of us. It had been wonderful and we hadn't wanted to end.  I'd been looking forward to this week to commune with nature and each other. Nature rose up to meet me, but my boyfriend did not. We spent a week sailing in a loop from the North Shore to Cuttyhunk and back. It was his first week away from his son in 7 months.

     He'd been telling me that he was looking forward to being alone with me. However, I now believe he was just looking forward to being alone and away from people and buildings. We had both experienced deep trauma during the winter.  I'd hoped that this week in the summer would renew us individually and as a couple. It nearly ended us instead. I was hurt and angry by his lack of engagement and felt rejected although he'd stated he was looking forward to being with me. I was realizing just how limited our relationship had become and it scared me. He apologized for his lack of engagement and said he hadn't planned to be that way...but after 7 days of making the same choice it broke my spirit.

     I'd vowed to myself to never again be in a relationship where I felt emotionally, spiritually and physically abandoned. By the end of this week I was feeling all three and was wondering how patient I should be with myself and with him. I'd been alone in my marriage for easily 5 years before I asked him to leave. I'd waited 6 months for him to ask me on a date, and when he didn't, I knew it was over. Now it'd been over 6 months, but both of our children, and my own leg, had been broken, which had resulted in a fracturing of our relationship. This week of sailing, I'd hoped to reconstruct a way forward, but we were stuck in neutral or worse, grinding gears. Fortunately, I take solace in the sea and pleasure in simple things.

     Mostly I love life. I love making plans and setting goals for the future. I try to keep moving forward and not to get too mucked down by the past. Yet all future language in our relationship had disappeared. Beyond the return to college of our two eldest kids and the deadline of finishing the renovations on his house prior to Thanksgiving, there remain no future discussions. He has been hanging on by his fingertips and going forward one detail or punch-list item at a time. I've felt sidelined.

     A year ago, I wrote the most read entry, about our relationship and taking it to the next level. Now here it is the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and I'm feeling Thankful, but not in the way I imagined.

     I'm thankful for modern medicine and modern healing arts. I'm thankful for a strong and supportive friend and family base. I'm thankful for being able to walk, and even jog, in the woods again. I'm thankful for both our oldest children resuming their lives with so much grace and grit. I'm thankful for the resilience of the two younger brothers. I'm thankful for my parents who want the best for me. I'm thankful that my kids talk to me, deeply and often. I'm thankful for being able to appreciate all of these things in the moment...........

     Yet, I'm wary. I know there is nothing constant except change...but there remains no talk of the future with my man; yet there is love. For that I am thankful and scared. Does one wait a year for trauma to stop obscuring reality and the ability to discuss the future? Has our reality permanently been altered so that future is too much to ask?  Is there ever a good time, or does one just go about her business with her future on hold, although that is not at all who she is or what she wants? Or do you just know when you know and decide then?

     I'm a Tigger by nature; an optimist, an idealist, and a romantic. But this year has found me down in Eeyore territory (I couldn't bring myself to write about politics or work) for far too long; having to tirelessly manufacture optimism and viable horizons. In two days, ten of us will sit at my boyfriend's table and share a Thanksgiving feast. I'm looking forward to preparing the food and atmosphere for this gathering.  I'm suggesting that love and hope will win out, and would be most Thankful if you, dear reader, sent some loving and hopeful vibes my way this season! Gobble, Gobble to all!!

   

   

So it begins...(cont. 2)

     Delphine smelled coffee and stirred under the covers. She'd fallen back asleep, watching the moon rise over the river, and now the sun was high over the fir trees; she hadn't slept this late in six months. Time to rise and shine.

     She put on yesterdays clothes and savored the wood smoke trapped in them. Downstairs dishes were being washed and music was playing, Patsy Cline's I Fall To Pieces. How appropriate, she thought. The screen door slammed and the dog came bounding up the stairs to find her. Violet, her sister, must have taken Darwin for a walk. Darwin was a Beagle mix and she knew right away if she shared a sense of humor with some one, because they'd get the joke when told his name. She often felt like she was born in the wrong century. Being born in the Romantic era of nature centered quests would have suited her better than the life of the mind where she lived spinning in one place most of the time.

     "Mornin', Sleepyhead," Violet said as she poured herself and her sister a coffee.

     "Mornin', yourself," Delphine yawned, "How far did you walk him?"

     "Only once around the loop road," she replied while adding milk to both our mugs, then added, "he started sniffing around hollowed out logs and storm drains. Didn't want Dar to come home with face full of quills or needing a tomato bath!"

     "Thanks, Sisafus."

     "You're welcome."

     An awkward silence then fell between them. Delphine knew Violet was wanting to ask something, something that she probably couldn't easily answer, and yet no one else would ask. They hadn't been alone together all weekend. The moment passed and Violet said she was going to town to buy provisions for the rest of the week.

     "Need anything special?" Violet asked simply enough.

     As Delphine looked up, she added, "Beside your usual list of chocolate, coffee, nuts and bread, I mean."

     "Nope, that'll cover it, thanks," nodded Delphine.

     Everyone else was doing other weekly runs; the dump, hardware store, gas station, farmer's and flea markets. Delphine had the whole house to herself. Looking at the tide chart, she realized the dock was hers alone, too. Water would be good for kayaking or swimming for the next two hours, enough time to go exploring with Darwin.

     The dog started to go berserk when she took off her clothes and put on a swimsuit and Chaco sandals. Darwin spun in circles, getting between her legs, trying to make her head to the door before she could collect the requisite sunscreen, shades and bottle of water.  Once on the path, she realized that she hadn't walked down it alone in decades. Perhaps not since she was little, sneaking off at sunrise to find the best shell or treasure that had washed up during the night.

     Delphine found herself softly singing...I fall to pieces...Each time someone speaks your name...I fall to pieces...Time only adds to the flame... until the last line stung. She stopped on the path and realized that she was standing by the tree. Their tree. The tree where they'd cut their initials the first summer they'd met in college. Darwin continued down the path, as Delphine circled the American Beech. It was fifteen years earlier that they had taken her Swiss Army Knife and cut each other's initials into a compass pattern on the tree. Instead of N(orth), E(ast), S(outh), and W(est), they'd carved, D(elphine), P(elletier), S(cott), and W(hite). It was their private totem; her first rose from him and him confiding she was his true North. The tree bark had scarred over the compass; it was bent up into triangular folds over the rose. Yet at each point the initials we still clearly discernible: D, P, S, W. For a moment Delphine felt like the Polaris of photographers tricks; holding stead in the center while all else spins around it.

     She abandoned the idea of a swim in favor of a circumnavigating the island in a kayak. Delphine urged Darwin into the boat, which was always are trick,  as he still held a grudge against the kayak for tipping him into the waves unexpectedly as a pup. Darwin sat between her legs, in front of the paddle as they headed out of the cove and into the river. Normally the green-black water would be too much for her to resist. She regularly swam a mile or more and was known for her love of open water. Yet the sight of the compass rose propelled her to revisit the trail she and Scott had first taken around the island fifteen years earlier. There was something along that route calling to her, like a clue to help her navigate her grief and anger. 



   



   

So it begins...

     The sand rolled out from under her toes, as the wave receded to the sea. The grains were the size of Israeli couscous and amber colored. Nature's foot massage and it's restorative powers were bringing her back to a centered place. That place where a deep belly breath can clear your head, while sending electric goosebumps to your appendages and resetting yourself.

     She didn't want to turn around. She let her feet sink into the ground. With each consecutive wave, her heels were dug in just a centimeter more, as the beach had a steep rake to it. All the people were gathered just beyond her peripheral vision, yet she could hear them laughing, talking and throwing logs on the fire. They had arrived for their annual lobster bake and this year almost all were in attendance. The hood of an old Chevy was the center piece of the cooking station. It would be covered in seaweed, foil wrapped corn and potatoes, steamers, occasionally mussels, and last, but not least, the lobsters. This would be encased under a damp canvas tarp and left to steam to perfection.

     It was low tide and the youngest children were splashing in the tide pools behind her near the high water mark. The adults were wrapping the veggies, collecting seaweed, unloading the trucks, sedans and bikes, then schlepping the various foods and serving items to a low make shift drift wood table by the fire. Teenagers were setting up a volleyball net and throwing frisbees. Dogs were chasing crabs, swimming and trying to steal a clam or two.

     A finger tapped her on the shoulder. It was a warm and calloused finger. She knew by the height of the "hello" who had come to fetch her.

     "Devin, who sent you?" she asked, knowing full well it  was Janette.

     "Jan, she's worried it's too soon for you to be here," he replied, "and I'm afraid she's right by the look of it."

     Turning around she said, "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure." Yet her voice had a catch in it that he'd never heard before, or least only once before, at the funeral.

     She looked up, her eyes smarting, as she hid her true feels to the best of her ability. "Go on ahead, I'll join you all in a second or two," she sighed, and with that Devin walked back up the beach to the fire.

     Maybe it is too soon. Familiar doesn't feel natural any more. More thoughts like these percolated around her brain as she found herself not returning up the beach, but rather choosing to wade into the waves. She finally stopped when the water was knee deep and she knew she'd regret having wet clothes after the sunset if she didn't stop there.

     The riotous splashing and exclaiming about how cold the water was could only mean one person. Again, she didn't have to turn.

     "Ronny, you've lived here half your life and you still find the summer water cold?",

     "Yup, Delphine, and you will be too if you don't come up by the fire right now," he laughed and added, "or if you want to stay cold, we have some of that Elephant beer you like to drink!"

     Delphine caved, turned around and they skipped out of the water, hand in hand, all the way back to the bonfire.

                                                                           ***

     The moon woke her up. It was shining through her childhood window, streaming into her eyes. She kept them closed to listen to the now high tide wash over the rocks below the house. Delphine was uncomfortably full. She'd eaten the deviled eggs with curry, the steamers, mussels, corn, potatoes, a whole lobster plus another tail, and had not one, but two slices of blueberry pie. Thank goodness she resisted the s'mores, or it would have been her stomach waking her, not the moon.

     Surf collided with snoring as her ears refined their range. She knew her father's and sister's snores. She was surprise to hear the dog, curled behind her knees snoring, but guessed she wasn't often that tired at home; run ragged by a day a the beach.

     Ragged. An island name. An island roughly two miles off the Coast of Harpswell, ME. An island where a dear poet lived, bought by her doting Dutch husband and the inspiration for the following poem. An island about six miles as the crow flies from the island where she's resting now.

Ragged Island, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

There, there where those black spruces crowd
To the edge of the precipitous cliff,
Above your boat, under the eastern wall of the island;
And no wave breaks; as if
All had been done, and long ago, that needed
Doing; and the cold tide, unimpeded
By shoal or shelving ledge, moves up and down,
Instead of in and out;
And there is no driftwood there, because there is no beach;
Clean cliff going down as deep as clear water can reach;

No driftwood, such as abounds on the roaring shingle,
To be hefted home, for fires in the kitchen stove;
Barrels, banged ashore about the boiling outer harbour;
Lobster-buoys, on the eel-grass of the sheltered cove:

There, thought unbraids itself, and the mind becomes single.
There you row with tranquil oars, and the ocean
Shows no scar from the cutting of your placid keel;
Care becomes senseless there; pride and promotion
Remote; you only look; you scarcely feel.

Even adventure, with its vital uses,
Is aimless ardour now; and thrift is waste.

Oh, to be there, under the silent spruces,
Where the wide, quiet evening darkens without haste
Over a sea with death acquainted, yet forever chaste.

     An island near this island, where Delphine has been coming for decades. An island on which she went from being a girl to a woman. Gone from chaste to knowing, from innocence to acquainted with loss and now desperately trying to braid herself back together. Tonight all saw her scars, they were too fresh to hide; not even seven months, let alone the seven years it takes to grow a new skin.

     Another season is coming to an end, the second of four without him. How long does it take to grow a new heart? It won't be made of the same material; her DNA had altered, immutable, she was now a new person. One she didn't yet know, but was obvious for all to see. She longed to be of one mind and spirit, and Nature, particularly the seacoast, usually delivered her that tranquility. But not this time...she was admitting to being adrift and needed to own it to move  forward.

   

Inheritance

     I listened as he spoke. The images he painted in words brought my mother to  mind, yet he was speaking of me. "I know you want to do grand things," he said carefully, "but you don't have to do them all in one heroic effort or not do them." He was succinctly describing a habit that I'd inherited from my mother. Only, like Nora Ephron advised the Wellesley graduates of 1996, I liked to believe myself to be own Heroine, and some how I'd managed to do so most of my adult life. Yet I knew he was right. I needed to break down my grand goals into small manageable boxes and as Nike so adeptly sells, "Just do it." Our family has been trying to get my Mother to Just Do things for years; first finish her degree and, second, downsize her home(s).

     My grand goals;  first, to edit out all of the wasband's and children's accumulated stuff so that I can sell my house and decant to a smaller home or cohabitate with another adult with children, and second, to write a memoir (although lately I've been flirting with fiction first, to tune my chops, and then produce a creative nonfiction memoir later).

      My mother has lived in the same house, with two different husbands, and 45 years of accumulated stuff. The only formal purging was after my stepfather left 29 years ago. I'm now at year 14 in my house and about to enter the fifth year since I kicked the wasband out. My mother and second stepfather have shared her/their house for nearly 25 years at present.

      I found my friends words to be a reckoning. I was following too closely in my mother's footsteps and knew action needed to be taken. Most of my adult life I was childless and moved often enough to edit my few material possessions. I'd reached a tipping point and needed to address it at home. In the life of the mind, I've fitfully (as my faithful readers here know) written snippets that I've hoped to string together into a book length work. Much like my mother's inability to move, due to conditions never being just right due to over-seeing 12 children between them, nor finishing her degree, although she's surely taken enough credits in college and through Harvard Extension to do so. They always put everyone first at the expense of themselves. So thoughtful and reflective that they spin in circles.

     My father on the other hand is an action-solution guy. We have a running joke that every 7-10 years my father and stepmother will move; and that is exactly what happens. It's always to the best  or  most perfect location, size and layout for their needs. In their 70's they've started to downsize. The huge house with lots of land became a townhouse in the city. Now the town house has turned to an efficient one bedroom apartment on the 4th floor. The second home went from being an Acorn house with three bedrooms on the sea; to a self designed one bedroom w/bunkhouse in a seaside town. They are spending half their time on the single floor house in the coastal town by my brother, and the other half in the city walk-up near my sister, as it suits them now. They decide as a equal unit what they want to do next, plan it and execute it. Then they tell the four adult children, sometimes in process and other times after the fact.

     I'm a goal setter and reflective person like my father. I've been good at doing that most of my life, when I was the only one I was responsible for in a given decision. But since being a married person and then a single mother of two, my decisiveness on the home front was weakened. Other than keeping the house for my kids to finish school and for me to keep the capitol intact for my self down the line. Yet I find the accumulation of stuff and the lack of an immediate plan for my next step to have been weighing me down psychologically. And it's taken away the energy required to face the fear of putting my thoughts into words every day, in any meaningful way. (Plus I was wanting to have my private thoughts be private for the first year of my relationship with my man friend. This has been a real exercise in holding on to a renewed confidence, not being impulsive, nor quick to judge (cut bait or go whole hog). So I've been in a reflective spin-cycle like my Mother for a few years now.

     But as we rode into Boston, on the way to what would become a wonderful evening of company and a concert, I found that his words could just as easily have been about my mother as myself. And when I said as much, he said, "I don't know her, I know you and I want to help." It's nice to become known. It's nice to trust asking for help, receiving it and realizing what a gift that can be if you can listen. I wish my Mom would listen and act; but I'm only her daughter, so now I will listen, reflect and act to break the chain for my son and daughter.



   
   

Thankful Tuesday

     A year ago this day I was filled with trepidation. I'd only known my boyfriend for a little over a month and he, with his two sons, were coming to my extended family's Thanksgiving dinner. Was I taking this too quickly, too casually, too seriously? What did my kids think, what did his kids think, what did my family think? I did minimal preparations for the potluck meal, yet I was now adding six people to my mother's table. We'd already have to add a second table that would technically place several of the dinner guests outside of the dining room!

     Thursday came, all convened, and hours passed as if we'd done this for a decade. We broke bread, ate heaping plates of delicious food; everyone having contributed and cooked (even allergy-free desserts for my boyfriend's son). I'm not sure if we sang or not, we often do. A simple Quaker hymn, although none of us are religious; it's just a tradition:
Simple Things: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYi9Vr8bHJY.

     After pies and ice cream and chocolate turkeys the clan scattered. The four children, teenagers all, played quietly and riotously in the back room with the door shut most of the time. The adults sat fireside and discussed politics, personal details of their daily lives, concerns and desires. None of us had any inkling that we'd have the President-Elect who now occupies the Twittersphere. We were mostly Bernie, and a few Clinton, folks. For two of the teenagers it was going to be their first time voting; so the heightened sense of civic responsibility was palpable. No trepidation, mostly history excavating of voting records and bills initiated. The mood was mostly light, with occasional fiery inquiries. But what it was grand to have the discussion span three generations and be respectful.

     In December, after not having a holiday party since my divorce and having hosted them most of my adult life, I felt like it was time to get back in the celebrating the season saddle. As a single woman I'd done cookie swaps. As a business owner it turned to thanking my clients and friends by baking dozens of kinds of cookies and calling it a tree trimming party. This resulted in my tree being magnificently dressed to point of dripping, with ornaments from around the world and made from a diverse array of materials. After I married a Dutchman, the way to halt the ornament onslaught was to change the theme to Oliebollen, "oil balls", or dutch donuts, which he would make and we'd serve to all who came to a holiday open house we'd host annually. He made plain, raisin and apple-rings. All covered with a heavy dusting of powdered sugar. The kids and I made dozens of gingerbread folks and at least one Gingerbread house as the center piece of the party. When they were younger we decorated sugar cookie and even made stained-glass window cookies.

     I realized that I was happy and wanted to thank the people who had carried me through the dark years in which my marriage ended, the change of course it took during the divorce and was then entering a new phase with meeting my boyfriend. I realized that it should be a Gratitude Party; and I invited all the people for whom I was grateful to have near and dear in my life. Some I don't see often, but with a phone call, text, or nudge, they just help me brighten up. Others I lean on as much as I allow myself to lean on anyone, and I wanted to give them a night of food, music, mulled cider and calm companionship in return.

     The Gratitude Party was a success. For many it was their first chance to meet my boyfriend and the first chance to be in the house post-divorce or for more than a summer night BBQ. Many remarked on how little the wasband took with him...which is true. If you didn't know he'd moved out, you wouldn't. Another girlfriend was just entering into a divorce and I was glad she came; to see that there is light beyond the darkness and doubts. I'd kept the house for my children and it was finally being used to be happy and joyful.........for this I was grateful. For my family, friends and health I was grateful. Also to feel seen and loved by all; grateful.

    New Years Eve. My kids, boyfriend and I attended our neighbor's annual party. Many other members of my family have joined it over the years, too: my sister, brother-in-law, and niece from ME, my Mom & Stepdad, and sometimes my nephew from OR. Last year they were all in attendance. We ate ourselves silly on my neighbors delicious bake goods, tasty dips and gourmet grilled meats. Again it was many generations under one roof and all contributed to the party. This year I had a man of my own to kiss, I was grateful and and startled at how my situation had change so dramatically for the better during the passing of a year.

     New Years Day. My boyfriend offered to drive my niece and nephew back to Maine with me. I kept telling him about how Portland was the city where I most like to retire to and he was intrigued to see it through my eyes. We delivered the kids my siblings and stayed with my Dad and Stepmom in Portland. My dog, had never been there. It is a newly built condo and it was my first overnight in it. While were out at a lovely sushi dinner, Cora played "barkerella" and is now banned from the condo. However the company, conversations and coziness of the condo was very welcoming. We looked around the city and it's outlying beaches the next day.....recounted memories from the past and hopes for my future. He took it all in and shared some of his, too.

    Valentines Day. Roses. Lots of roses. Felt adored and dreamy. Grad classes and grinding through March. Grateful for  family and my boyfriend who tried to help when there was an obvious way to do so...but I learned I'm not very good at delegating at home. Spring came. A death of a co-worker struck. My daughter got into college and my son was having trouble in high school. Hilary and Trump won their nominations. My work load was insane. Yet I was thankful for my boyfriend who always checked in and listened. He's a great listener. So are many of my closest friends and family members. In this year, of all years, the art of listening should be elevated in the matrix of social civility. He invited me to crew Thursday nights on his boat and it was a guilty pleasure, a real weekly escape to the sea.

     Summer and Sailing. Two of my favorite things. More racing and a two week cruise. One week with his one of his sons and a friend; one week just the two of us. Heaven. Didn't want it to end. I'm most myself on the sea and so is he......Time off the planet; away from news cycles, house maintenance and other tethers of responsibility; priceless.

     Fall; My daughter is off to college and his son is too. My son and I have the house to ourselves. We go to my boyfriends for meals sometimes; he and his son come over other times. My son, boyfriend and I attended our neighbor's daughter's wedding in NH in October, a year after we started dating. How we felt is captured in the picture posted here. Then the election cycle came to a close; as did much hope in the heart of my family, friends and students. I'm going to be an active Tigger in the pursuit of open, respectful and vigilant conversations for progress. We must talk to those outside of our self-designed bubbles. I have that opportunity each day where I teach and serve my chosen community. I know for others that isn't as easy to practice without making some sort of concerted effort or taking a perceived risk. But it must be done for the sake of the future...for there to be one.

     Thanksgiving is now upon us. My boyfriend and I are hosting at my house. We're going to be having 13 people over for our family potluck dinner. He's roasting the turkey and we're making gravy. I'm making braided cheese bread, stuffing, creamed onions, roasted brussel sprouts, and two pies. The other people will bring side dishes, desserts and appetizers. After I finish writing this I'm going to fetch some Golden Russet apple cider, "The Champagne of Ciders", from Bolton Orchards. I'm feeling thankful; deeply, sincerely and wholly thankful for all my friends and family. So I thought I'd say so here and now...before I get too busy creating some love, in the form of food, to give from my heart on Thursday!

   

"Normal is a setting on a dryer..."

That is what Alton used to say before it was a placard hanging in guidance counselor's offices. That phrase keeps ricocheting around my brain this week with the advent of "normalizing" entering the daily lexicon of what I'm reading.

Normal. Does that mean as set by a standard of normalcy? Of Tradition? Of a court of Law or Mother Nature? Americans were sick of "business as usual", or rather, the rusting of the political machinery that had come to a grinding halt in Washington.

Trump is already breaking the "norms" and 'Traditions" of a President-Elect; by going AWOL from the Press and changing transitions team members as soon as he entered the river of the White House reality. He did look "shook" after his 90 minutes with Obama, David Chappell was on the nose w/SNL. Normally, the President-Elect would put his holdings in a private trust and keep members of the campaign team close at hand assuming that had served up good advice during the proceeding years to the West Wing. Neither are happening, and the fringe are moving into the foreground.

Normally family members of the President-Elect are separated from the day to day operations concerning policy, trade and military. Trump wants them all in, up to the highest level of security clearance, while still running his global enterprises.

Normally a President-Elect doesn't have to face a trial for Fraud in first 77 days (now 69- but whose counting) between the election and inauguration:
 http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2016/11/trumps-legal-gambit-in-his-fraud-trial-is-also-a-fraud.html.

Normally, I don't hear people every where I go (store, restaurant, library, dog park, post office, gas station...) discussing the same topic for days! And folks who voted on different sides of the ticket are talking to each other about "why" and "what next". So some discourse is happening that stored in people's heads and not out in the air before November 8th, and that's a good thing.

Politics, like religion, are topics we are "normally" taught not to discuss in "mixed company", at dinner or at work. But now we all are starting to do so. I've heard more candid  thoughts from people who voted for Trump, Clinton, Johnson or didn't vote than I've every heard before, during or after an election. I've always felt that not discussing religion and politics was a fallacy of logic regarding knowing some one fully  or being a part of a community, as we'd never learn to accept and respect our differences. They were silent and hidden. This would result in atypical behavior when some one "unknowingly" said some thing offensive. Thus the rise of political correctness, and starting phrases with "I don't know your politics or religion, but....".

Normally we didn't group ourselves with "others who believed differently" that we did. Yet I thought we'd come farther than that. 9/11 made us take stock of our global voice and how "others" reacted to it. Now I feel that we have to take stock in our domestic voice and, I'll write it again, not react but actively listen to each other. Listen, listen, listen and then talk. It's like the British Miners and Gay Pride activist who joined forces to be heard and respected:

"In a decade when a degree of homophobia was the norm, LGSM drove a couple of minibuses from Hackney Community Transport and a clapped-out VW camper van to a bleak mining town in South Wales to present their donations, uncertain what sort of welcome to expect. The events that unfolded said a lot about what it means to be empathetic, to overcome dissent and face common enemies: Thatcher, the tabloids, the police. They told a story about solidarity. " https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/aug/31/pride-film-gay-activists-miners-strike-interview

1985 Reagan/Thatcher years in the UK...yet, against the "norm" people with different sets of problems who would "normally" have very little exposure to each other, let alone actively supporting each other, came together to do just that. "Prejudice can't survive proximity" was the take away line from that film!

Thirty years later the norms of prejudice continue domestically and abroad. Used to be the Haves and Have Nots, followed by the Know and Know Nots, and now we are entering the era of Learners and Stuck in Neutrals. This is why education, STEM and reading are so important. This is why class, race and gender identity need to fully understood, explored and owned by each of us; not to differentiate from one another or be prejudice or hateful, but the opposite; to transcend our "normal lot": and support each other to each of our abilities.

We all have to continue to not accept Normal as a state of being, but rather a starting place for discussions to build a common language, understanding and foundation on which to build a better country and global community for us all. We honor the national traditions that hurt no one and keep order, so we can progress. And try to look at each other as unique individuals who each have a place of respect in this country. I'd like to set our society to that "Normal" on a cultural dial and let peace warmly reign.