rice camp

For several years Andy has helped a friend harvest wild rice up north.  Usually the girls and I hang out back at camp with kids and whoever is not ricing at the moment.  Andy loves the labor, being on the water, knocking the rice in the boat and the satisfaction of seeing it all drying on tarps.  He loves the community of ricers and learning the skill.  We also love the sweet share of rice we get for the winter!

Last year we were in the depths of chemo and could not make the trip.  This year we went without hesitation.  Three days and nights of playing with friends, jumping in the water, sitting around the fire, catching leopard frogs by the tens, and falling asleep to the deep hooting of the barred owl, left us exhausted but ever so thankful.

Thankful for this community of caring friends, for the sweet clear waters of the north, for late night conversations around the fire and for the continual opportunity to celebrate being together.

northern love

Oh Big Lake. We can’t go a summer without you.  We even took the old pooch and she swam and dug in the sand and had a grand old time.

Before we hit Superior we joined friends to paddle the Brule (and that was extra lovely-so clear!) and the girls had a great time playing with their friends, eating loads of s’mores and building the classic mossy/ferny fairy forts.

Elsa caught her first fish and couldn’t stop begging for more.  They were all too little to keep but she was determined to catch one she could “roast”.  Maybe next time.

It was good to get away, to laugh, sit around the fire, snuggle in sleeping bags, and get every pair of socks and pants wet and grimy.  We soaked in every minute and literally dragged ourselves away at the end.  It’s hard to come back knowing we are closing in on fall.  In another month Andy will have a scan again and we’ll know something else.  I think we are both trying to stretch the moments long enough to forget about that right now.  Mostly it works.  The days are bright and beautiful and we watch them unfold with an understanding of time and love that still feels new. 

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 two: pushing our limits and courage in the desert

There has been a lot of fear this past year.  Enough living on the raw edge of emotion and plenty of shots of terror adrenaline to last our systems a lifetime.  So why push it?  Why ask for more?

Well, first off, let’s be totally honest:  it wasn’t my idea.  I was feeling quite comfortable with my feet on the ground.  But the whole thing wasn’t something we talked about or analyzed.  It went like this.  Andy:  “Should we do some climbing while we are out west?”  Me (from the comfort of the couch): “Sure”.  But know this, we don’t “climb”.  Our climbing experience consists of a time or two at the gym climbing wall (like 20 years ago) and the kids wouldn’t know a climbing harness from a horse halter.  

That’s me, almost to the top.  And yes, it’s wide, but the drop-offs are stunning.

And here’s the other thing.  I have a fear of heights.  It’s real.  It’s not a huge deal, unless I’m on a very tall ladder (see Mesa Verde), standing on a lookout platform (see Mesa Verde), or hiking along cliffs (see every hike in Utah). Normally this doesn’t happen often enough to impede my life.  You might not even know this about me.  But when I do have to be up, way up, I’m sick to my stomach, my legs are really, truly shaking and I don’t trust my next step.  Fear immobilizes me. I become totally clumsy and completely positive that I’ll bumble right off the edge.  I usually get stuck, unable to go up or down.  There was a time not long ago that our family was on a look-out platform high up over a marshy area. There were railings, of course, but the “floor” was steel mesh (read: see-through). The kids were running from railing to railing in excitement.  I had to sit down and scoot.  Seriously. Thankfully we were the only people up there and I didn’t have to pretend there was something wrong with my feet.

So, maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly when I agreed to go climbing in canyon country.

Riley, with Moab Cliffs and Canyons, greeted us with a smile, loads of gear, and the expectation of a good time.  We had signed up for “family rockineering” assuming we’d be with a whole load of people, but we had him all to ourselves. Just us four and Riley for 5 hours of climbing in Kane Creek Canyon outside of Moab.  Riley was amazing with the kids, steady, confident, cheerful.  He was full of information about the local flora and dedicated to desert preservation.  He has climbed all over the world (the life of a climbing guide apparently consists of banking the bucks during the summer climbing season and then traveling to places like Thailand to bask in the sun and pursue your own climbs in the winter season—sweet) and guides people on some of the most technical climbing in the west.   And he assured me (when I finally let on about my, um, fear of heights, as we tumbled out of the van with our gear) that he “deals with this all the time” and “you’ll do great”. Adding some sage advice about it all being  a “mind game” and to let yourself “trust your abilities”.  Oh boy.

Surprisingly, going up was easier for me than going down.  On the rappels I went last, not really wanting to watch the girls (who were having a blast) hanging over the edge.  I’m certain that as this picture (above) was snapped I was saying to (relaxed) Riley “I don’t like this. I don’t like this.” with  a shaky voice. 

At some point during that afternoon I realized what I was doing.  I was showing myself (and our girls) once again that I can overcome fear.  That I can look it in the face and find something positive to focus on (like getting down).  That we can push ourselves even when we don’t want to.  To be strong, to be hopeful, to be resilient.  

The 35 foot ladder one must climb (with the canyon floor looming hundreds of feet below) in order to get to the ruins at Mesa Verde.

Seriously?  What is the Park Service thinking?

You’d think that after a year of facing cancer, a guided canyoneering trip or a escorted Park Service hike into the ruins of Mesa Verde would be, just a walk in the park, so to speak.  Controlled, safe, easy.  For me, it didn’t feel that way, yet still I welcomed the challenge.  I wanted to push myself further.  I think I wanted to find new edges of fear that had nothing to do with trips to the emergency room, or long days of chemo or the next scan.  These new edges rose up to meet me each step of the way.  They were red rock, sandy and oh-so-tall.  

And these girls.  A bit should be said about their eagerness to climb, to bike, to hike in the hot sun.  I have to admit I anticipated some whining, but it really wasn’t there (o.k. sometimes after 6 hours on the road it turned up).  But they couldn’t seem to get enough.  Iris, whose bike was more equipped than Mae’s for mountain riding, took several rides with her dad and emerged beaming (even with the new challenges of sand, and rock uneven trail surfaces).  Mae’s little legs and low center of gravity made her a confident and nimble climber and her smile was a bright as the sun itself when Riley lowered her over the cliffs of Kane Creek Canyon.

Andy was Andy.  Cheerful, positive, game for everything.  He felt great and it showed.

Turns out that fear in the desert now feels like more like courage.  And so back home as I shake more of that red sand out of our shoes, I remember the feeling of exhilaration and determination.

And I know that’s why we went.

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.

spring

This past week was Iris’ half birthday, that coveted afternoon where she gets Mama all to herself, for a walk, some ice cream a trip to the thrift store.  This girl, whose intense sensitivity has both served her well and haunted her beyond words this last year.  This girl, whose innate calling to nurture is something to behold.  I marvel at it and the love it brings others and I also can’t help but yearn for her to turn it inward as well.  Complicated and intense, astute and tender, she is a perfect mix of those who love her most.  And she is incredibly her own.  9 and 1/2, the definition of change, of growth, of moving out into the world.  We hold her, with arms just a little looser, and watch her go.

And then came Easter.  Memories of last year crowded our minds.  The Easter eve trip to the emergency room which started the tailspin of treatment that has been the last year.

But then to wake to this holiday with good health, with good news still so fresh, with hope and renewal singing as loudly as the spring peepers. The blessings do not go unnoticed.  Not even for an hour.

After a meal with friends and family and the annual egg hunt we headed to the Kickapoo Reserve in search of the Whooping Crane that Andy had been lucky enough to see (if full view) the day before. We did find it, stalking in the weeds at the far edge of the pond.  It was little more than a long white neck in the binoculars, but still there it was.

Against all odds, the rare and perfect symbol of tenacity, or hope or just plain awe.

elsa mae

Mae and I celebrated her half birthday yesterday, as is now our tradition.  If the pictures look familiar it’s because she insisted we do exactly the same thing as last year.   She rides (and sings) I walk behind and carry the hot chocolate. We headed to her beloved Kickapoo Reserve and the sparkly water of the bird blind pond.  She remembered it all. This year there were no ducks and it seemed a little, well, unexciting (to me, anyway) but Mae persisted, as is her way, and soon found several small red dragonflies flitting about.  She was delighted.  We followed them back and forth on the path, we sat and waited for them to light on our palms (they never touched me, but landed on Mae several times), we noticed their ragged wings and she wondered what will happen to them in the weeks to come. We spent well over an hour admiring them.  Then we found some scat with a raptor talon in it and that was just over the top!

I love spending time with this girl, whose focus is something to be admired.  Whose determination–to wear fancy purple shoes for a hike and bike ride, to play an instrument different from her sister, to ask big questions and understand their answers–serves her well as the youngest member of this family overflowing with big issues that can easily overshadow someone so little.  This girl stays so present every step of the way.  Her heart is overflowing with wonder at the natural world, she wears her joy and sparkle right there on the surface for all of us to see.  She is generous and loving and fiery hot.  She is sure of herself.

Riding/walking back to the car she randomly said (as is her 6 1/2 year old way).  “Nonnie is really little”.
Me:  “Yes she is.  Nonnie is little but powerful.”
Mae:  “Yeah, I’m little and powerful too.”

Yes, you are sweet girl.  Yes you are.

this day

There was lots of work around here this weekend.  Andy and I managed some weeding, a friend came and pulled the quack grass from our raspberries (thanks Mike!), Freddie brush hogged the orchard, I hired a hardworking teenager to cut thistle in the pasture and muck out the pony stall (two jobs that really just needed a hard working teen instead of a friend-thanks everyone anyway!) and Iris must have been inspired by all this work because she decided to wash (by hand) her entire stash of baby (doll) things and hang them on the line. 

That kid ain’t messing around.

It felt good to get that work done.  It did, and we were so grateful for the help.   But it also felt strange.  It’s hard for Andy to sit in the shade on the patio and watch someone else do the work he’s always done.  He doesn’t like it.  Who can blame him.  

These emotions we hold are big and they sometimes shape our days, our words, our moods, our interactions.  

The kids bicker more than ever, there are huge blow ups, angry sassiness, total meltdowns, loads of tears.  I know it’s hard for them to watch their papa lay on the couch on the days he doesn’t have energy, it’s hard for them to watch as I wipe away tears at the grocery when someone asks after him, or to know I’m crying (again) on the phone in the bedroom, to have us gone to appointments all the time, to see his hair falling out, to watch as other people come and do the work he’s always done.

Man, this gig is hard.  But there is this:  we also have many moments of strength, of positiveness, of smiles and laughter.  We are still us. 

And today, on a whim, because Andy was feeling up to it, we packed up the car and drove to Devils Lake State Park.  We did a short hike and the girls splashed in the water while we sat in the shade.  Then we bought them ice cream and I drove home while Andy slept. 

It was a good afternoon. 

Each day we take this love and hold it tight and then we build it forward.

prayerful

May he be protected and safe from all harm

May he be happy and at peace

May he be healthy in body and mind

May his life unfold smoothly and with ease

Loving kindness meditation, for now, for this week, for always.

moms and kids

Gorgeous weather.  A quiet little state park.  My good friend and theirs.  Water, fire, hiking, drawing, eating, laughing…

I wrote in my journal while they drew in theirs:
“At the lookout on switchback trail.  Amazing views of the valley below, just beginning to pop orange and red and gold.
Last night barred owl called as we crawled into our tents.  Today at lunch we ducked out heads as walnuts dropped from the tall, tall tree in camp.
Tree frogs and toads called until morning.  Just this last time.
We took the short trail to the big deep spring.  Huge water bubbling out of the rocks.  Cold.
Deep green watercress growing all around.”

Feeling so lucky to have this in my life.  Wishing you love and a bit of lovely nature in yours as well.