Fly (for Barbara Coddington)

Wind, insistent, brutal, grasps the vehicle in which I sit, lashing and shaking with violent objection.  I sway on the waves which carry the phone's crackle of bad news, bearing the shattered grief that speaks of the cancer which silenced you.

My ear aches for the echo of memory.  Your words have no sound now, they hover and light on mute feather and wire.

Threading her way, like an errant shuttle on the bruised tapestry of sky, an eagle looms, lists, drops and drives, negotiating the woven strands of rain-knotted clouds.  

This is no dance.  The creature's artful arc belies the battle, the balanced bracing of bird against element.  Unseen adversaries, these belligerent breezes waft wings over water in benign atmospheres.

Malignant gales now swirl; pull and pool clotted hope, splayed and spread on a palette of prayers.  Each one hangs now, a hesitant wing in an indifferent sky.

Do the living ever truly know that when the cold persistence of the sustaining breath sucks it back from laboring lungs it whispers into a newborn's chest, expanding, informing, filling alveoli, a prelude to wailing.  

The eagle sings as it strives, a songbird's  delicate strain for one so large, as if the incongruities of existence should remain unexplained.  

The soul needs no air, no thermal currents to challenge or delight, but a song to sing as it leaves the husk of this world to return as breath to the One who breathes; tree, eagle, sky, the mist and the mystery.

The Gift of Water

In the previous 46 days leading up to Easter--more commonly known as Lent--I elected to drink nothing but water.  That is to say I DRANK nothing but water--I ate normally.  This was not exactly a way to improve my health, though I am sure skipping coffee, alcoholic beverages, sugar free sodas, etc. probably had a net positive effect on my health.  (I won't argue that there aren't health benefits to coffee and wine--they have been documented.)  My motivation was something much simpler and profound.

For years I have followed the music career of Christian rock/alternative band "Jars of Clay."  I was privileged and delighted to see them live and in person at the Alaska State Fair a few years ago.  It was there I learned of "Blood/Water Mission"  http://www.bloodwatermission.com/.  Basically it is a grass roots organization that helps some of the poorest villages in Africa provide clean drinking water in an effort to stem the tide of AIDS, as well as improve the health of the people.  Mostly they dig wells, but also provide small water pumps, and I imagine other services.  A startling fact that $1.00 will provide clean water for an African for one year inspired me to do presentations to the kids at my church about how a very small thing can make a very big difference in at least some parts of the world.

Last year my daughter and I gave up every beverage but water for two weeks--we drank nothing but TAP water.  (Bottled water takes a terrible toll on the environment.)  The money we saved from not purchasing other beverages we sent to the organization, which I will do with the money saved this year.  During the course of the 46 days of the "Forty Days of Water" fast this year I chose not to drink other beverages on the Sundays of Lent, which is technically allowed, since Sundays are not technically Lent.  It just seemed easier not to drink them but not because I am either righteous or stoic.  Honestly, it wasn't that difficult, though there were countless opportunities to turn down offers for other beverages, and most of the people around me simply forgot I was doing this.

While the initial intent was to raise money for Blood/Water Mission, what resulted for me was a keener awareness and appreciation for the gift of water, and how blessed we are in the United States to have clean, safe water literally at our fingertips when we turn on our kitchen or bathroom taps.  1 in 7 people throughout the world do not have this luxury.  In Alaska there seems to be an abundance of water as the state sports over a million lakes, thousands of glaciers, and a reliable snowpack that feeds countless mountain streams.  Anchorage's water has often won awards for the best tasting water in the country.

Interestingly enough, because I wasn't drinking any other beverages, I sometimes became dehydrated and failing to heed the sage advice to consume 8 glasses of water daily, would result in headaches which would most often be remedied by simply turning on the faucet.  It is something we take for granted, and so, by extension, we tend to waste this resource which will become more precious as the earth warms and population increases.  Wars for oil may one day become wars for water--a truly frightening thought.

In the recent past I usually took a daily shower.  Now, I try to take one every other day.  On cold Alaskan mornings I would often stay in the shower to warm and wake myself up.  Now, I usually play a short song on an ipod dock in my bathroom and try to finish before the song ends--which keeps the shower to about three minutes.  I have short hair so rinsing out shampoos and conditioners isn't much of a problem.  I also live in a small industrial type warehouse with excellent water pressure. The biggest use of water however is not baths or showers, but flush toilets.  A couple years ago our leaking toilet had to be replaced and we chose a low flow type which uses significantly less water.  While it has been difficult to implement the rule "if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down", doing so even once in awhile can add up to significant water savings (and money saving as well!)  Another benefit of drinking lots of water--besides the obvious health benefits is that urine, being less concentrated, hardly colors the toilet bowl water at all, making it easier to allow it to "mellow."

So, will conserving water in a water abundant state like Alaska make any real difference in the world? I have to believe it will.  I learned from my husband  that we actually sell water to India, though I never found out in what form.  At one time our former governor Wally Hickel proposed floating large chunks of glaciers to California to provide that state with more water, though I don't think we are currently floating glaciers to India.  The day may come when we actually do so, but if the glaciers continue to melt, who knows.

As a person who has tried to lose weight in the past I am finding that simply not buying food I will not consume (despite my best intentions), such as large Costco sized quantities of fresh vegetables, saves me both money and the shame of throwing them away when they go uneaten.  Having a large freezer has been an excuse to hoard excess food, which too often goes to waste because of freezer burn or the unappetizing prospect of having to eat large quantities of one food because buying 10 boxes or bags of it on a "clearance price" was such a deal.  My goal is to eliminate the use of my freezer, or at least keep it unused and unplugged unless an abundant harvest at dipnetting time yields pounds and pounds of fresh salmon.

Becoming water aware during the "Forty Days of Water" campaign has increased my awareness of the overabundance of many things in my life--a closet crammed with excess clothing, a sewing trailer bulging with fabric, craft items, things too numerous to count or even acknowledge.  And so, as part of my S.T.R.E.N.G.T.H initiatives I have begun a slow and steady process to lessen not just my body clutter, but the clutter all around me.  Sometimes I dream of having the "Clean House" folks descend on my place and help me achieve this task in a week or so.  I know that isn't going to happen, but each day I strive to "lighten my load."  Today I am taking a few bags of gently used clothing to a resale shop and a few more to a thrift store.

And this all started with a simple glass of water.....

Birthday Girl

My oldest daughter turned eighteen years old today.  It sounds trite, but it does seem like only yesterday, she was laid upon my belly, fresh from my womb, and as I lifted her to check her sex, was overjoyed to find out she was a girl.  You see, I had given birth to three sons in the 9 years before her birth, two of which were delivered by Cesarean section.  My second son was born vaginally in a hospital where I was given oxytocin, an IV, an episiotomy and had a neonatal team in the delivery room because there was meconium present when they broke my water.

Jasmine was born in a birth center, with no drugs, no interventions and no episiotomy.  I told her that it was the happiest day of my life, a huge triumph and a delightful surprise as I never knew the sex of my babies before they were born.

I left the birth center six hours after she was born.  Though I was exhausted I simply couldn't sleep the first night she was home.  She, however, slept through the night--a feat she wouldn't repeat for several months after that night.  I just gazed at her all night long with a heightened joy that I haven't known since that time, with the possible exception of the birth of her younger sister.  I did, however give birth to Jordan by C-section, and though far from the birth I imagined, I was grateful when I learned the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck two times. 

For several years I worked part time as a childbirth educator, and Jasmine's birth, 18 years ago today was a real triumph--a vindication of sorts.  Unfortunately, V-BAC's (vaginal birth after cesarean section) are rather rare now days, due to fears of litigation in the event something goes wrong. 

More than the triumph of a successful delivery so many years ago is the celebration of the success of parenting a child to adulthood.  I have good kids, not perfect, but good.  Though I have many shortcomings as a parent I am proud of the fact that in a very real, concrete way, I was "there" for my kids.  I was blessed to not have to work a full-time job, though I did, in my childrearing years put in many hours in our auction business--hours that for the most part I could choose.  Of course my kids will tell you they spent many hours at our many auctions, running bid sheets, selling concessions, even from time to time, cashiering or performing other duties--especially the boys.  I tried not to be overindulgent of them, and to teach them the value of money--a lesson more clearly lost on the younger ones, I admit. 

As I gaze upon my now grown daughter I am overwhelmed by how beautiful she is--the same sentiment I knew when she was only a few hours old.  One of my favorite things to do with my very young children was simply to sit on the floor and gaze at them, delighting in their newborn perfection and amazed that the universe still turns and teems with constantly renewing life.  Each of my children is a measure of grace that seems undeserved.  I am proud to call them my own, knowing full well they belong to me not, but that we all belong to the One who birthed us and delights in us eternally.  My hope is that my children know this as well.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa Stub

Today is my grandfather's birthday.  I might not know this information except that my mother told me that April 19 was also my due date, but I, true to form, arrived five days late.  I don't know the dates of my paternal grandparents' births, nor the date they died, how old they were, etc.  However, I do know both the dates of my maternal grandmother's birth and death.  As the sixth child of seven I was quite young when my grandparents died, with the exception of, again, my grandmother.  Such information could be relatively easily attained, but since my mother died just this past November it would be more difficult than simply making a phone call.

My grandfather's name was Stuart, but we always knew him as Grandpa Stub.  He died at 65 years of complications from gall bladder surgery.  His death was unexpected, and even in the mid 1960's, untimely.  I was only four years old when he left this earth, to join his daughter in "heaven."  She died at the tender age of seven, leaving my mother an only child.

My memories of him are vague, if not more stories told about him than actual memories.  I remember visiting him and my grandmother in Ironwood, Michigan, where I was born, but didn't return to until I was 16 years old.  I remember once sleeping in a crib, which for a four year old was a great indignation, but my grandparents had a rather small home with an upstairs that was more like an attic, with deeply pitched ceilings.  I remember him giving me Vicks cough drops, and I still associate the smell of them with him.  I remember another time him visiting us in our home in central Wisconsin.  It was "little brother/sister day" at the kindergarten my older sister attended.  We lived only a few doors from the elementary school and when we came home from school my grandparents were there.  My sister and I got a spanking that day for trying to steal away in his car, and I suspect he might have driven off with us hidden in the back if not for our giggling.

According to my mother, my older sister was a live wire and would sit on his lap and talk incessantly, play with his glasses and generally drive him to distraction. I was the direct opposite apparently back then, content to just rest in his arms.  I don't remember those times, or any others for that matter, but the differences in our personalities were often noted by my mom when she would speak of her father.

Grandpa Stub loved to fish and kept a rod and reel in his car at all times.  My grandmother told us that frequently on Sunday drives or road trips he would stop his car near a stream or river and nearly always would catch a fish. 

My grandparents owned a grocery store in Ironwood, Michigan, the building still stands today and you can read the words at the top of it--Reid's Hall.  It has fallen into disrepair over the last dozen or so years, as has many of the old buildings in that part of the country. 

When he was young, Grandpa Stub was in the Navy during World War I and crossed the ocean seven times during his years of service.  I have the pin that was given to the wives or mothers of service men at the time, only recently having found it after I thought it was gone for good. 

When my mother died this past November, I thought to myself, now Grandpa's family is complete again.  One day I look forward to getting acquainted with him again, on whatever plain of existence we find ourselves in the next life.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.  I love and miss you. 

What's Next

The time is 11:42 am and I have been at the computer all morning.  First, finishing an article for the Catholic Anchor newspaper for which I am a "stringer."  Second, creating a new blog focused on the challenges of living and eating healthfully.  And now, resurrecting my promise to write daily--one I have kept poorly and for which I feel much shame for my negligence of what truly feeds my soul--and that is writing.

A wise and dear friend took me to breakfast last week and challenged me to think about my future, to consider how I would spend my time now that my years and years of childrearing are drawing to their eventual close.  While I will always be a mother to my five offspring, their dramatic need for me has lessened over time.  This year my oldest daughter will graduate from high school, and only Jordan, my 15-year old, will remain at home.  A few short months from obtaining her driver's license, she too will become less dependent.

As we talked about my roles as wife and mother, as a business owner (though my husband does most of the work) and a committed church volunteer, he asked how I met the "transitional" times in my life.  My response was that I adapted to specific demands by doing what was required of me, by doing my "duty" so to speak.  That ability to adapt and respond he perceived as a strength, but also a weakness in that as "response" it didn't require of me the three things that are necessary to achieve the dreams I initially claimed I did not have.  Those three things; discipline, focus and sacrifice are requisite to attaining goals I little realized I had--perhaps the nearly 30 years of motherhood have obscured them. 

I remember writing in a survey taken during the last weeks of high school (and returned to me at my 20th class reunion) that my three favorite things to do were writing, sewing and photography.  Little has changed, though what now clarifies for me is that writing is perhaps my preferred pursuit--a vocation, perhaps, with sewing (and many other creative pursuits) being my avocation.  Clarity now demands a response, and the response is to return to the discipline of regular writing, focusing on honing my skills as a writer and sacrificing the things in my life that whittle away time, distract me in fruitless pursuits and undermine my efforts.

Stay tuned for more!

A Blank Screen

The challenge of an empty page is minor in respect to the vulnerability of the one who decorates and illumines it with words, especially when done in a seemingly insignificant public forum as an obscure blog--but public no less.  Exposure to one's own thoughts on paper or a blank screen is at times, brutal. This is known to anyone who keeps a private journal.  To choose to expose oneself may entail limitations on what is written.  Necessary, this is to spare the reader the excessive detritus of our lives.  To engage in such cluttered prose is unfortunate when our brains cannot adequately engage our bodies to write fast enough to produce on paper (or a screen) the words that come unrelentingly to our minds. In that failure, as it seems, we feel much is lost in what was meant to be written.  Perhaps not.

Still, some things are too precious to allow a type of censure that restricts the honesty of  a moment when joy breaks through.  I had that moment this morning when I returned an item to my daughter's room.  I noticed the "pillow pet" on her bed.  She told me yesterday her dad wasn't too pleased when she cajoled him into buying it.  "Cajoled" was not the word he used when he told me the story.  Seeing the red shaggy eared dog, with little red hearts on his white belly, I couldn't help but think of the heart of this girl of mine.  Tucked between the wall and mattress, there is stuffed blue bear, a brown one, and a tumble of bright blankets.  She sleeps in a cold room in our house, a room that gathers ambient heat, and sometimes I can hardly find her in the tangle of her bed.  But this latest addition to her sleeping environment is its own kind of warmth in the world of a 15 year old that has cold and tearful lessons for her, the kind that erode large pieces of childhood innocence.  These are her earliest, no doubt.

As the youngest of five, this precious one, has known a mother different from that of her older siblings, not intrisically, but stylistically, I suppose.  She is bright and tough in ways that they are not.  She is cautious and reserved to degrees they don't exhibit. Though there are "family resemblances," each child is as unique as each of us, a mother just sees this in ways others do not.  Each child of mine decidedly had a different "mother" in me, more likely invoked by their evolving personalities, which in turn evolved mine. My adventure in parenting is more than 27 years in the making, and it brightens as it mellows, sharp and subliminal at turns. This evolution of souls, theirs and mine, and now that of a young woman in a world that can be achingly cold is a marvel to behold.  I remind myself that we are all "works in progress."   Souls, each and all of us, are evolving in a universe that is purposeful, meaningful and created in love.  This universe renders a stuffed toy to warm a young girl's heart, but it also engenders a moment for a mother to reflect the preciousness of knowing the heart's need of a child, her child.  Her father understands this too.

In raising five children it is often difficult in the "now" of any challenge to ponder the important work it is and the cosmic value that it has, much less the imperative to try to do it well.  When you have the opportunity to ponder--and despite the intensity of any given moment--you do have that eventually, it is an affirmation that you have done reasonably well if you find joy, meaning, and relevance.  At times I get caught up in the many failures, the small regrets, the moments that I let pass without seizing or reflecting.  Of course, being reminded of them by my children can magnify them in my mind, but that keeps me humble.   And humility is the key to joy, and the best way to approach the blank screen.

An Exercise in Exercise

The treadmill; what an incredibly ingenous way to harness the energy of man or beast to power something.  I think particularly of Scrooge's comment regarding the dilemma of care for the penniless and powerless, "are there no poorhouses, are there no treadmills?"  I ponder this as I submit to the tedium of a different sort of the same instrument that requires electricity to function, and powers nothing but my own sense of wanting to respond to my body's need to move. 

The treadmill is torture without the tremendous grace of music in the form of an ipod which sometimes has the uncanny ability to deliver songs in a way that powerfully pulls me out of the drudgery of what I am doing--and the pathetic irony, as well.   My work-out today was blessed in that way. 

So when Gino Vannelli's "Venus Envy" is the first song for the warm-up I can't help but hope that those who believe they dramatically differ from the ideal the song speaks of, feel far less so in hearing their intrinsic worth affirmed by one whose voice is its own Venus of sorts.  From there, Yes' "It'll Be A Good Day" affirms the rightness and goodness of everything, as John Anderson always communicates in his amazingly resonating way--well, at least for me (and his millions of long, long time fans.)  I can't help but assent to his wisdom so many times in my life.

After a few more tunes that challenge my urge to want to just dance, and inspires some moves that would look weird in a public gym, I start to wonder how long I've been at this repetive effort that sometimes seems a metaphor for my life--moving quickly and getting nowhere. 

I generally don't engage the "scan" function on the treadmill which records my time, calories burned, etc, until a few songs anyway because I can't bear how long it takes to feel like I'm accomplishing anything or burning significant calories.   So, I wait til I break a sweat, or I wait for the next song to end.  I decided to do that today, and the next song was Bob Dylan's "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts" an 8:37 ballad that has a perfect beat for going 4 miles an hour.  And I can't help but feel that God has a sense of humor, the universe moves in ways we scarcely understand, and we move with it, forward.  I also think about if you take the word ipod and flip the "p" over you have a "g".  Certainly this little purple device I love best of all my possessions is filled with the sacred--in digital form. 

At the end of this song, I hit the "scan" button, and I have finished the 2 miles I wanted to achieve--2.11 miles, actually, in 35 minutes.  And I loved every one of them!