wild ice

Sunday was a perfect day for skating.  25 degrees and sunny, with the wild ice looking like a Zamboni had been there overnight.  We could skate along the rock outcroppings for a good half mile, maybe longer.  We had friends visiting for the weekend and the kids couldn’t get enough ice time despite bruised knees and elbows. Their cheeks glowed from all the exercise and beauty.  Me, I watched in awe as Andy skated circles around everyone.  His body still remembering the years and years of hockey moves.  Here he is feeling strong, lungs pumping fresh air, legs and arms swinging as he races across the ice.  The kids stop to watch and yell, “come back Papa and skate with me”.

Next Monday we go to Mayo to talk with the Sarcoma team there about the latest scan results.  The tumors in his lungs are still growing, though not as aggressively as they could be.  The scan didn’t detect cancer in any other organs.  We’ll take it.  Funny how good news can become so relative.  

We aren’t sure where this path will lead next.  For now we revel in the beauty of miles of ice and the sound of children’s laughter bouncing down the valley.

remembering Molly

Last weekend found us back in the north.  First a night in Duluth where we enjoyed dinner out, holiday lights, swimming at the hotel and knitting in bed.  We tried to spend a little bit of time next to our beloved big lake the next morning, but that north wind was frigid, and we didn’t last long!  So it was on to:

This is the place where Andy and I met almost 18 years ago.  It is the place that has inspired so many paths in our lives.  It is a place of sweet memories and long friendships.  It is the place where our friend Dale (the director of Deep Portage) still lives and works.  This trip was to visit him, to finally show the girls this place that means so much to us.  And it was also a trip to honor our friend Molly, Dale’s amazing partner (both in life and work), and our mentor in so many ways, who passed away this fall.  

The girls LOVED Deep Portage.  They were in awe of its size, its beauty, the joy of running loose in a gigantic lodge that we had all to ourselves for the weekend. They enjoyed the hike to the outlook tower, the tour of DP’s wood heating system (it heats over 50,000 square feet–and hot water for all the showers and such–with wood!), they couldn’t get enough of Dale’s dog Lily, and enjoyed staying up and playing card games with Dale at night.  They loved the interpretive center and the climbing wall that was so graciously staffed for us.  They didn’t want to leave.

It was good to be in Dale’s presence, to feel his sadness and strength.  In ways it was also hard to be in a place that is so full of Molly.  Everywhere I looked there were memories of Molly.  For two autumns in a row I was part of the staff that gathered round her for training, to soak up her positive example, to find motivation in her enthusiasm.  How it was she, all those years ago, who insisted Andy and I take on some projects as a twosome (with her perceptiveness that the two of us had a life to lead together).  It was she that inspired the work we do today as we learned by her side the joy and art of engaging kids and adults in nature.  It was she who we looked up to as a caring, clever, lively, well-read, articulate, creative, and masterful naturalist. She was our friend, and our role model.  

It was good to talk to the girls about Molly, about all the things we so admire about her.  It was good to see and feel that Molly lives on.  She lives on in our lives as we continue to teach kids in nature, she lives on in our daughters who are growing to be strong and articulate and clever like her.  She lives on in the staff at Deep Portage who continue to honor her legacy with Molly’s 12 Rules to Live By and The Book of Molly. She lives on in her partner Dale who carries her light forward.  She lives on in the whisper of Aspen, the lap of the lake on the shore, and the sprinkling of stars in the northern sky.

  We are so honored to know and love her.

ten

A weekend full of celebration.  Grandparents and good friends from near and far, plenty of cake and a “baby” party.

Another journey around the sun.  Ten.  It’s hard to believe.  Full of grace and love, her nurturing spirit takes her weekly, to the humane society to care for homeless pets, to watch over young friends, to make clothes for her sweet baby dolls.

She’s no longer a little kid. We see clearly the young girl, the young women she will become.  Of course is seem like yesterday she was a tiny thing nestled in our arms.

We know how fast the time goes and we will soak up every moment as we have done til now.  We are so lucky to stand by the side of this sweet friend and sister, this caring soul who loves and nurtures the world so deeply.

Happy 10th Birthday, Iris.  We love you.

fifteen

This old girl turned fifteen last week.  I will always remember the day Andy and I brought her home and gave her a bath in the sink.  She was 5 months old.  She’s been through it all with us.  Marriage, house building, babies/toddlers/kids, and of course the hardship of the last year and a half.

All along she has taught us so much.  But it seems now, more than ever, she gives to us the message of presence and joy.  There she is trundling up the stairs every morning on weakened legs nosing the door to go out, as she has done for 15 years.  There she is laying on her bed with one eye cracked open ready to spring at the cat.  There she is watching the girls out the window and wagging her tail.  There she is letting loose her hound dog howl at the laundry basket tipped over in the yard.  There she is laying her head in my lap as tears fall or laughter rolls.  There she is.  Always loving, always so totally interested in whatever is happening at that exact moment. 

Today we took her for a swim across the road at the creek.  She was frisky and wild in the water for about 5 minutes. Then she got a bath and shook water all over us like usual.  When we got home she rolled and rolled in the yard and even chased and ripped up the towel just like old times. 

She is slowing down noticeably these days.  She often sleeps through the arrival of the UPS truck, she needs help getting in the car, and she doesn’t hear us call from across the yard anymore.  But her ears still smell like heaven, she loves her morning belly rubs and she’s gonna get that cat if it’s the last thing she does.

We have loved and loved and loved her and we’ll keep on doing it as long as we can.  This old girl never fails to make us smile and laugh and feel better in the hardest times.  We are so lucky to have her in our lives.  We love you Lily Louise. 

retreat

retreat:  the act of moving back or withdrawing
retreat:  a quiet or secluded place in which one can rest and relax

Sometimes you need a respite.  Some time to step back, withdraw and not be present in the moments of your crazy life. Of course, you can’t really escape, but you can find a quiet and secluded place in which to rest.  I did that this weekend.  48 hours of alone.  I haven’t had anything like that in these years since our children were born.

Once I booked the reservation, I never looked back.  I craved that space even though I feared being alone for so long with my own thoughts and fears.  Still, I needed these stretched out quiet moments as a way to feel it, face it, sit with it, write it and really see it.  I needed to be with it alone, not amid the clutter of dinner and laundry and “mom, can you come here a second?”  Let’s be real.  Sometimes in that mix I feel like I can’t think straight and the panic rises.

And so I went, and I read and wrote and walked and wrote some more.  I know that’s how I process. I watch it appear on the page and it somehow makes more sense.  It becomes clearer even when the ink is smudged with tears.

It’s always been hard for me to buy that line that my friends and therapist tell me:  “you have to take care of yourself in order to take care of your family”.  It’s something I too would tell a friend in my situation, but the reality is often not so easy.  I need nothing more than for Andy to get well and my children to be at ease.  I feel like I’ll do whatever it takes.  I think what it takes now is some space. I’m spent and I know it.  I booked this retreat not as a gift to myself, but out of desperate need for change, even the tiniest, little scrap of a change.

Did I get somewhere?  Do I feel better?  It’s not really like that.  This retreat wasn’t a fix of any kind. It was just space. Space to cry without hiding it from the kids, space to write for crazy long hours, space to sleep a fitful sleep while missing Andy, disoriented in a single bed.  But maybe space gave me a little strength, maybe my depleted tank filled up a little. Maybe space lets my breath expand and my chest soften a bit.  Maybe space gives me renewal and hope.

On the last morning I sat for a moment in the chapel, even though I don’t usually relate to human-made sacred spaces.  But I knew that so many voices have lifted up in prayer in that space, and I wanted to connect to that, to add my prayer as well.  Please let me open to each moment of hardship and pain with love.  May my actions sow a path of grace and compassion for the girls.  Let me celebrate their love and joy.  Let my great love for Andy, which he reflects back daily, show us also how to love ourselves.  Please let us be well.

still more

How do you find a way to write a post that accurately sketches the deep sadness, the fear, the anger, the worry, the grief?  How to write it in a way that helps you understand, while still showing you the light on the water and the fire in our hearts?

So there is more.  More cancer and more healing.  I know you “can’t imagine” and I understand that.  You don’t have to tell me.  There was a time when I couldn’t imagine either.  Instead stay nearby.  Just be there so I’ll know you can help hold us, if we should need it.  This is our path, it is long.  I guess I share it with you now because it’s my habit, because this blog was meant to mark our days, our happiness, and, though I couldn’t have imagined it then, our sadness too.  Because writing helps me heal.

What do we do with news like this?  First of all we bumble.  We pack the kids in the car and head out for the day, to a state park, to the river, to anywhere that is not stagnant.  We move in a fog and the memories of those first few days are like a dream, muddled, fuzzy and with an edge that reminds you of something bad.  We plop the kids in places where they can entertain themselves, a beach, the river… and then long silences stretch between us as our exhausted minds just chew and chew and chew.

And then a few days later we cry.  A lot. 

And then we arrive at now.  Kids get driven to camp and lessons, I go to work.  We start answering the phone again.  I walk with a friend.  We emerge from sadness even though it felt like we wouldn’t. We get back to working on gratitude and meditation and watching the blessings filter into each day. Hope and resilience returns, still mixed with sadness, but also with relief.  We’ve found our inner strength, again.

And we hold them, and each other with more awareness and more love then ever before.  Still more.

road trip part one: gift

When we turned the calendar to April is said GIFT.  And that’s exactly what our trip west was, a present, an offering, a gift.  So many gifts, in fact, it’s hard to find words.  So, maybe I won’t.  Maybe (for part one!) the pictures are enough.

 mesa verde national park, co

hike to fisher tower: moab, utah

fisher towers hike: moab, ut

 kane creek canyon: moab, utah

 delicate arch: arches national park, moab, ut

 colorado river: blm land camping at onion creek, moab, ut

 hike in negro bill canyon: moab, ut

 coral pink sand dunes state park:  kenab, ut

 blm land camping: hurricane, ut

   blm camping: hurricane, ut

 zion national park, ut

 

zion national park, ut 

zion national park, ut

zion national park, ut 

home

postcard from the road: moab

There is something about this redrock country.  Something that feels totally worn down to the simplicity of light, rock, wind and water.  It’s easy to find your center here.  It’s easy to lose it too.

Each day we adventure, we find new beauty, new awe, new spaces inside ourselves.  We sit in quiet wonder and in raucous movement.  We all stretch our bodies with eagerness.  Motion feels good. Sleep comes easy.

Again, this moment right now.  Perfect.

seventeen

Seventeen years ago this month Andy and I crossed paths in the Northwoods of Minnesota, he was just returned from two years in Africa, I was on my way to Valdez, Alaska.  I was 26, he was 24.  We weren’t looking for love, we were still immersed in our solo adventures.  Dedicated to discovering our independence.  Maybe even fiercely protective of it.

Because of that, it wasn’t love at first sight, but there was a spark, something neither of us could ignore.  As I traveled to Alaska, back to Minnesota, back to Alaska, to Mexico, I couldn’t get this gentle man out of my mind (or heart).  He put his travelling shoes away for awhile to dedicate himself to teaching, but he liked me enough to come visit me in some of these far flung places.  We wrote letters, looked forward to the once/month short-but-sweet satellite phone calls, and continued to tend this relationship while forging our own way. And finally after a couple of years of that, we settled down together for a season to see, just see.

Soon it was clear that as we dreamed our future dreams, of travel, of gardens, of adventure, they included one another. We’d become best friends, our love had grown strong, our solo paths had merged, we would stay by one another’s side from here on out.

Tonight we celebrated 17 sweet years together with some good food, quiet conversation, some hardy laughs.  As I looked across the table at this constant friend I celebrated every moment we’ve ever had. Every hard one, every beautiful one.  Every one.

where to begin

In honesty, it’s been silent here on the blog for the last couple of weeks because I couldn’t pull myself together. I know you get it.  Andy’s upcoming post-treatment scans had me all tied up in fear, and grief and worry.  I was making my way through days in a fog of mental and emotional paralysis. Trying to breathe, trying to stay focused on positive intention. Mostly just feeling the tightness in my chest closing in.  Trying to find a way to be ok with the uncertainty, the possibility of more hardship to come.  It’s a tough place to be when you feel like you are “almost there”.  On this path there has been great strength and there has been plenty of falling to pieces.  

And then there was Andy.  I can only write of his experience from my intimate but outside perspective.  He has his own set of really hard things to deal with (understatement).  But you should know this:  he is strong of mind and body and dang, that meditation practice is something huge.  

So, yesterday.  Yesterday the scans came back clean.  Clean and clear.  How to take it all in?  How to begin?   It’s everything we’ve wanted and worked for.  We are there now on this path in the place we envisioned, and the path goes on and on and on.  But this moment now, we are there. And we are quietly rejoicing.

But here is hard and honest part.  I feel like if I meet you on the street or at the library or in the grocery I want you to know this: it’s difficult for us to feel total relief and celebration right now. We know we’ve accomplished a lot, truly we have, but we have been in this place before where all is well and we are “watching and waiting”, and then the bottom falls out. That feeling sticks with you.  It’s hard to shake.  The stats on Andy’s cancer are scary. They will be for a long time.  Unlike some other cancers, for sarcoma there is no time frame after which it is less likely to reoccur. It’s the truth. We all need to know it.  And the uncertainly of it all is maybe the hardest part to live with.  Scans every three months unless some symptom “pops up” in between. We’ve got no choice and we’ll find a way to move through our days bearing the uneasiness as gracefully as we can.  We’ve got some good ideas about how to do that.  And your understanding of where we are will just help.

And of course, we are still so surrounded by support, good medical care, our own love, and the amazing good fortune of living in this community of loving friends and family. Andy plans to work harder than ever at all he is doing to heal his body.  We know, from talking with other cancer survivors, that it’s easy to feel lost when you walk out of that docs office (the one who has been offering you TREATMENT for your cancer for so long) and they say to you…”good luck”.  It’s easy to feel like there is nothing more to do but wait.  But we know it’s not true.  There is so much to do.  So much to love, so much joy to notice in each day.  So much growing and becoming.  So much gratitude and discovery.  Nothing will ever be the same.

Where to begin?  Here.