down on three boys farm

31 days later

2012-01-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

Some felted monster hats that I made in my required down time over the past month.

Hard to believe but today is one month since my surgery! An update is in order.

In short: Surgery was successful and I am daily feeling better and better.
In long: It wasn't quite the walk in the park the doctor and his team led me to (skeptically) believe I was in for. But, the surgery was successful and every day I feel a whole lot better.

I had a laproscopic hysterectomy and a mid-urethral sling implanted 4 weeks ago. It was out-patient surgery, and I was told that I would be up on my feet within hours, discharged by dinnertime, no "bed time" in the days afterward, back to normal in a week or so. The nurse even went so far as to say one of their patients took a five mile hike the day after surgery! Wow, it's no problem! And I quote (my surgeon): "Laproscopic surgery is difficult for me, not for you."

Yeah, right.

Recovery was just a more challenging and bumpier road than I'd been led to believe. First of all, I knew that I was a cheap date. In other words, a real lightweight when it comes to any substance such as narcotics or alcohol or...anesthesia. I had the HARDEST time really waking up from the surgery. It was at 11:30 am and they had expected me to leave the hospital by evening. Well, at some point it was clear that wasn't happening. I was feeling pretty awful and just was so groggy that I couldn't imagine going to the hotel near the hospital (we live about 2 hours away so I wasn't planning to go all the way home), but Dr. B let me decide.

Luckily, the hospital had room so an empty one with an extra bed was found, allowing Mark to spend the night in the bed right next to me. In the morning I was doing ok, but not GREAT, not ready to take a five mile hike, let alone a five minute hike, and was so glad I'd spent the night there. I spent the rest of the day trying to get my bladder to wake up, to no avail. Otherwise, I felt ok, so they discharged me WITH a catheter, we went to the hotel for the night. (Really nice hotel, but I felt too awful to appreciate it!)

The next morning we went back to the doctor's office, the catheter was removed and I was given orders to take a walk, have some lunch, drink a lot of water, walk some more, and when I had the urge come back to the office and pee. Wellllll...I walked over a mile that day. My wonderful husband just padded along beside me holding my hand. =) We went out to lunch (I wish I'd had nicer sweatpants ), to a book store, walked some more, to coffee, walked some more. Long story...it took hours, but eventually my bladder woke up. Sheesh!

I went home that night.

Since then I have steadily improved. I used mostly Advil and arnica montana for pain. Oh, and ice packs! The ice pack is your friend! Only used the Big Guns the first and second day. Makes me waaay too loopy. My pain rarely got beyond a 3 or 4 and that was only in the hospital. Since coming home I get sore on the incisions (still a bit these days, though less all the time). And as things moved around and adjusted inside, that caused some discomfort, but not much.

I found that healing from the mid-urethral sling was more uncomfortable than the hysterectomy. That felt like a splinter in my crotch for a while and YIKES! that was bad. But, now I can sneeze without the post-3-vaginal-deliveries piddle problem and THAT my friends, was worth every uncomfortable second.

Luckily I had the input of (virtual and actual) acquaintances (experienced in hysterectomies) and friends in the nursing profession. I was diligent about resting every day (naps the first week, laying down the second) and found that my exhaustion was greatest when people would come over to visit. I had no energy to talk or socialize the first week. Got a lot of knitting and crafting done, though! And watched a bunch more TV than I ever do. Friends brought over meals and that helped a bunch.

I was able to drive by a week post-op. (By able, I mean I felt comfortable enough to do so.)

The worst pain I had were leg cramps about a week after surgery. Not sure what they were about, but they were HORRIBLE! And lasted about 48 hours intermittently.

I am still finding that I am really tired in the afternoons after just one outing in the morning, so I'm watching that and trying not to schedule too much.

Otherwise I feel GREAT and look good too. I'm in great spirits as well, much MUCH better than I had anticipated. So overall, I feel like this was the right thing.

At my 2 week post op appointment my doctor said that my experience was UNUSUAL. They view me as a "sensitive" soul. Well, whatever. I yam what I yam. I think that to be feeling as good as I do today, one month post-op, is just fine and I'm glad I took good care of myself these past four weeks!

The Thread

2011-12-11T08:44:00.001-08:00

Years ago, when I was a junior in college I became fascinated with the pregnant female shape. My sketchbook became swollen with images of round pregnant bellies with wings and murky fetus shapes. I obsessively created a series of etchings from these sketches and my professor, as I recall, was concerned. Was I pregnant? No, I think it was just my love affair with all things womb-full beginning.

I had completely forgotten about those prints until last week when they suddenly popped into my mind. I was driving home, thinking about my upcoming surgery, and so, as soon as I parked the van, I rushed into the house, unearthed my college portfolio and dug through the papers until I found them. There were more than I remembered and they were perfect.

Perfect because those images fit with a concept I’d been brewing for the past couple months.

On Monday I am having a hysterectomy. I was diagnosed with a large uterine fibroid and adenomyosis (fibrous growth within the uterine wall). After years of debilitating, heavy menstrual bleeding I am borderline anemic and nothing I’ve done non-invasively has been able to change that. After a lot of soul searching, a lot of interviewing of women who’d gone through the operation, and a lot of research I decided I needed to proceed. But I did so with a very heavy heart. Losing my womb felt very big. Very, very big.

I started to think about my uterus, the wonderful work it’s done (as evidenced by my three strapping young men), and my pregnancies. Those musings uncovered a thread that’s run through my adult life and those long forgotten etchings were like a link completing the circuit. When I found them I could feel the electricity sing.

The summer before my second year of college I was blessed to attend a birth, my very first one. My boyfriend’s sister-in-law was having a baby and the room was filled with friends and family (really, it was filled!). The only other birth I’d ever witnessed was my cat having kittens, which was wonderful in its own right, but this, this was different. I practically swooned (hospitals do that to me) and I had to leave the room. But I righted myself in time to see that little baby emerge from his mama and that experience changed my life.

The miracle of birth…a baby grows inside the mother…the baby emerges from the mother…this had never occurred to me before. Not like that. Not really. And that vision of it, that realization, was mind-blowing to this young woman.

I always knew I wanted to have kids and I looked forward to my first pregnancy. What surprised me was how ferociously I loved being pregnant. My pregnancy with Harry was perhaps the best physical time of my life. I got big and round immediately because I tend towards that pregnant shape naturally, and being able to let it all hang out was like taking a warm bath in my body all the time. I was meant to be this pregnant shape.

I took prenatal aerobics classes two or three times a week. I loved being in that room dancing around with other pregnant women. My limbs thinned out and my belly grew larger. I was HUGE by the end.

Throughout that pregnancy I was loving life so much that I considered the possibility of being a surrogate mother for infertile couples as a possible career! I did not want to live un-pregnant. As my due date approached I mourned the end of my pregnancy.

Having my baby, of course, changed that. Who has time to mourn the end of pregnancy when the outcome is as delicious as my adorable baby? (A baby who, by the way, just turned 18 last week!) I don’t remember thinking much about being a surrogate mother once he arrived. And my subsequent pregnancies with Ben and Toby were if not miserable, certainly never as easy and comfortable and enjoyable as that first time.

I started to help my friends during their labors. I quickly realized that I came into my essential self when I was guiding a friend through the relaxing, visualizing, breathing and pushing that happens at a birth. That feeling culminated when I coached my sister Mara through her labor 11 years ago. She was such a goddess and we got into the most incredible groove, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, breathing together, groaning together, holding each other till my beautiful niece was born. It was another life changing event. I was more present for her than the midwife in some ways. It was just us in that room (at least it felt that way) and I was her guide and protector.

Over the years I have begun to craft an idea that one day, I will do this. I mean, I will do this. Be a doula, be there to carry a mother through her labor and beyond. Last year, when Chanel asked me to be present at her second child’s birth (via C-section), to hold her hand and be her support, I leapt at the chance. It’s a long story, which you can read here, here, here, here and here, but suffice it to say that while helping her, my memory was recharged: I want to do this. I want to guide women in mothering, in birthing, in breastfeeding. This is my calling.

The experience with Chanel confirmed that when I grow up I want to be a doula (birth coach) or lactation consultant. I plan to wait until the boys are old enough to be self-sufficient for a period of time (the days I could potentially be away with long labors and new moms). Being a doula is bigger than just the birth experience, they often work with families before, during and after the birth, with preparing, with laboring, with nursing, and caring for the child and the mama. Just thinking of this makes me excited to move forward with it. But I need a bit more patience. Toby is only 10 and not ready for me to take on this other responsibility.

Hearing from the gynecologist that I needed a hysterectomy was a shock. Talking to many women who had had the surgery was a shock. “You don’t need it any more.” “Uteruses are for growing babies and then cancer.” At my pre-op appointment the surgeon actually used the word “amputate” (I know, surgeons, right?). I feel like my connection to that part of me is so different, so filled with appreciation and gratitude. It is that thread that runs through my adult life and goes to the deepest places of who I am.

I took a walk with my friend Madeleine the other day. We walked along the beach talking about transitions from one period to another in life, about moving through and beyond periods that define you in order to find new definitions. We talked about the sorrows and the joys that come with each new chapter. I drew my earth-woman-fertile-mother figure in the sand and let the waves caress her. I blessed myself, my core woman mother self. I have come to this realization: The earth mother in me is not going away, the core of woman- and motherhood that rests energetically in my womb will remain in me.

Tomorrow morning I will stem the out-flow of my own vitality. Though I will enter the hospital womb-full and leave womb-less, I will not be losing my self. I will be entering my next stage and it is a beautiful stage, that of wise crone woman, guide and caregiver, and the thread will remain. Think of me when you can and send me your healing blessings. Thanks.

feeling blessed

2011-11-22T22:11:00.001-08:00

I participated in an Interfaith Thanksgiving service at my synagogue tonight. I was part of the planning committee and was asked to play my guitar and sing and to speak on the topic of gratitude for the blessings in our lives. Following is what I wrote and read. I'm dedicating it to my friend Svetlana.

My sons and I enjoy playing a storytelling game when we’re in the car on long drives. It’s called Fortunately/Unfortunately. You take turns going around the group, each person adding a sentence to the tale. It goes something like this:

First person: There once was a kid who had to walk to the library.

Next person: Fortunately, he lived only a block away…

Next person: Unfortunately, it was an extremely long block…

Next person: Fortunately, he only had one book to return that day…

Next person: Unfortunately, it was a huge book with about 1,000,000 pages…

You can see how it goes. Fortunately/Unfortunately. Your fortune can turn on a dime. This game reminds me of a wonderful Zen story, you can find it in this book, Zen Shorts. It’s the same idea, a tragedy befalls a farmer, and his neighbors say “Such bad luck!” and his response is, “Maybe.” Then, something good happens because of it and his neighbors say, “Such good luck!” and his response is, “Maybe.” As you find out in the story, your perspective can definitely change your experience of life.

It was raining the other night when I was thinking about perspective while I tried to fall asleep. It was raining, and it was a particularly cold night, and our heater had not been working in over two weeks, and winter was coming on. My nose was cold. The temperature in our house was 54 degrees!

I rolled over and grumped at my husband. I grumped and wished to be warm and complained and felt oh so sorry for me. Me and my cold nose in my house with no heat.

It’s easy to get negative. It's easy to look around and notice what’s wrong in your life. We all have something to complain about. Aches and pains, someone suffering whom we love, the heater’s broken again, the internet’s too slow. And then there’s the world with all of its aches and pains and suffering.

Very recently I made a discovery that if I shift my focus, if I take a different perspective, I can release myself from some of the burdens I carry around. I suppose it’s one of those lessons I need to learn over and over again. It’s not earth-shattering, it’s very simple.

I decided to say to myself: This is your life. Be in it, be in it right now.

I don’t say: Enjoy it. I don’t say: Count your blessings. I don’t say: It’s not so bad or It could be worse. There’s no judgment. I say: This is your life. This is it. Your life isn’t yesterday and it isn’t tomorrow. It’s happening now and you need to be present for this moment.

Six years ago my family was hit by a tidal wave of what some might call misfortune, but what I would call Life. My father-in-law passed away very suddenly, a month later we had to move into the house my husband was building earlier than expected, and a month after that we found out our 8 year old middle son needed immediate brain surgery. That would have been enough, enough to keep most people busy. But then the recovery didn’t go well, there were complications and infections, spinal fluid leaks, several more surgeries and ultimately, 40 nights in the hospital, mostly in the pediatric ICU.

Months later I’d look back at that extraordinary experience, the days and nights in the hospital, the four surgeries, the months away from my other children, and I would find myself feeling very blessed. It was odd really. My lovely little boy had gone through something truly excruciating (we all had) and I felt wrapped in golden light. Throughout that grueling time we had been surrounded by friends and family. People we loved and people we barely knew had come to hold us, to be with us, to give us food, to give us a break, to tell us their stories and to tell us we were in their thoughts and prayers. I felt such gratitude for being held in that way. I had never felt quite so blessed before in my life.

You might wonder how we got through that difficult time and all I can tell you is you do what needs to be done. If ever there was a time in my life I needed to be present, that was it. Of course, I did worry about the future, especially for my son, but my focus got incredibly tight: Be in your life right now, right this instant. Don’t look away.

The day after we had finally returned home I sat in our loveseat in our not-quite-finished new house with my two younger sons on either side of me. Ben, my middle son, was 8 and Toby, my baby was 5. We sat there, right next to each other, with a big pile of books and I read to them for hours. We were all so relieved, so content, so good just being there together on the couch with our books and our bodies snuggled up next to each other. I remember thinking: This is all I need.

So the other night, when I rolled over and grumped at my husband about my cold nose in my house with no heat, I could have gone on. But, I stopped myself. I told myself: This is your life. Be in it, be in it right now. I changed my perspective and my focus. Electric blanket, wool socks, roof over my head, loving husband, happy kids. Blessings one and all.

shift

2011-11-18T06:47:00.001-08:00

I feel that I've been so selfish, keeping this information from you, but I want you to know that Ben has turned a corner.

Something shifted with this last surgery. Something shifted in such a big way that it feels like we're suddenly in a much sharper, more spectacular focus.

Ben is happy.

Sounds deceptively simple, doesn't it? Happy. Content. Cheerful. Laughing, telling jokes, smiling, willing, open. Seems pretty run of the mill, as far as states of being go. But for this boy, this boy on the verge of his 14th birthday, this boy who just underwent his 9th surgery, happy is a HUGE shift and it hasn't gone unnoticed.

Perhaps it was that he chose the date. Ownership, a sense of control over his own life. That has to be big. Think about it. You're almost 14 and for the past six years you've been handed a bill of goods that just felt completely unfair. That just was completely unfair. Time and again you were told "You're having surgery." You had no choice. You've spent countless days in the hospital, know your way around the needles and vocabulary and procedures in the OR and anaesthesiology and the surgical ward...and you're still a kid. This was your life and yet you were dragged along on this horrible, painful ride and no one ever gave you the reins.

But this time was a bit different. Ben was away on a trip with my mom to Washington DC and the night of their return he walked into the house and the first thing he said was, "We need to schedule my next lengthening. My back is killing me. I need to do it NOW." It just so happened that I had two possible surgery dates in my back pocket (the time for the next lengthening was definitely looming, but there's always wiggle room) and I offered them up. It wasn't a great choice: October 26th (and miss Halloween) or November 28th (and have surgery on your 14th birthday). He chose the former, there was no hesitation. I scheduled it the next morning.

The next possible factor in the shift was one I made. In September I attended a talk given by Gordon Neufeld, a psychologist and parenting expert who wrote Hold on to Your Kids, one of my favorite (if not my favorite) parenting books. I've heard him before, but love to get refreshers so I went with a couple friends to listen. What I heard was so eye opening that I gripped my seat. I leaned over at one point and whispered to my friends, "I so needed to be here tonight." I knew immediately that this was the information that was missing for me.

Gordon talked about resilience in kids. He talked about what is necessary for them to learn (not just mind-know but body-know) that they will survive. He talked about frustration and futility and the tears that come with those experiences. And he talked about how important it is, as the parent supporting that child, that you allow them to feel all that hard stuff, you don't redirect them just before they hit the wall. This was the key for me. I saw immediately that what I'd been doing with Ben was holding him close and not letting him feel it. I was so sad for him, so afraid of what would happen if he felt the totality of his difficult path, I didn't actually know what would happen. I was afraid of what he would do if he felt that huge sadness. And then I heard Gordon talk and I realized that I was not allowing Ben to get through it himself. I wasn't even getting through it myself. Hearing and knowing that, I was suddenly able to visualize how Ben would survive his experience and it was such a relief. Everything shifted for me that night.

When I next spoke with Ben about his scoliosis and his upcoming surgery I didn't hide an anxiety of how he would handle it. I didn't have that anxiety anymore. I knew that he needed to have his feelings about it and having them would aid him in moving through the experience with strength and the knowledge he'd make it.

So, the days before the surgery date passed by and he was not depressed. He packed for Philly and I did not hover. We said goodbye, he had a great trip there and an even better arrival (thank you Ritz-Carlton). And the morning of the surgery he texted me from the cab, "I think my brain doesn't realize I'm about to have surgery. I'm not nervous at all," and I texted back, "I think your brain knows that you're going to be fine."

Ben got through the surgery that day with flying colors. His mood was positive and upbeat. He was up and moving around within hours of waking up and he was happy. Happy. How is that possible? I thought to myself. Happy.

He was discharged 36 hours after the surgery (we again must tip our hats to the Ritz, a better incentive to get out of the hospital there never was) and I asked him if he thought his physical therapy was at all a piece of how good he was feeling. His response: "Oh, definitely!"

The third piece. Ben started physical therapy at my request after a friend of mine whose son also is going through the procedures at Shriners told me that it was making a positive difference for her son. I thought it couldn't hurt, but it was another thing I was making Ben do (if you asked him at the time) that he wasn't happy about. For several months this year twice a week he'd work out at the PT gym, which really didn't seem like a punishment, but if you're 14 and This is Your Life and you're surrounded by grandmas and grandpas recovering from strokes, let's face it, it's not the activity that makes you say, "Jeez, I LOVE my life!" At least, not Ben.

But again, that's shifted. Several times since the surgery we've talked about how the PT made a big difference in how his body felt post-op. I can tell that Ben's attitude is different. He's gained an appreciation for it. Then last week I asked him when he thought he'd like to start back up with it (See, I'm learning! I gave him the reins!) and he said with a smile, "Well, definitely sooner rather than later."

Yesterday he told me it was time to make the appointment! Now I'm happy!

Since returning home, Ben has had 99% happy days. He has not woken up and said "My life sucks." He has not been blue. He's been moving around and playing and laughing and cracking us up.

Shift. It's like a gentle earthquake. Emotional plate tectonics. I wanted you to know.

awesome

2011-10-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

I got a call today on my cell phone from Ben.

"Well, Mama, I'm getting out of here today. Going back to the Ritz."

"That's GREAT! How are you feeling?"

"I am awesome, Mama. Let me repeat that: I. AM. AWESOME."

His voice was full. Full of pride and happiness and awesomeness. I haven't heard him sound so strong in months. Years maybe.

Earlier today I called Emily at the Ritz. She's the Assistant to the General Manager. I told her the story of Ben's text message from the lobby upon his arrival. I told her how he loved the desserts. My voice cracked when I thanked her for all the Ritz does to change Ben's experience of his medical travails. The Ritz is like an incentive program on steroids for Ben. Get up and walk. CHECK. Get up and pee. CHECK. Eat something. CHECK. CHECK. CHECK. The sooner you do all these things the sooner you get to go back to your comfy digs at the Ritz. Oddly enough, Ben does not respond to most incentive programs. He is not easily coerced, manipulated or motivated. But, he now knows the routine at the Ritz and it's pretty sweet.

That's it for now. Just an awesome update. So very happy to have it share.

skin-on-skin

2011-10-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

When Ben was born I was quite sick. I was dehydrated, running a fever, some kind of virus was in charge. I went into labor two weeks early and even after several hours in the hospital on an IV the nurses weren't convinced that it was "time." Eventually, though, Mr. Ben made his appearance, and even though he was early he was a nice 8 pounds.

But, due to the distress in his last days inutero, for several weeks he wasn't able to maintain a stable body temperature, so we were sent to bed together to have skin-on-skin contact. I'd peel down my nightgown (and pray I wouldn't leak milk all over him) and we'd undress his little body. We'd wrap up together under flannel sheets and flannel blankies and a heavy down comforter and nap...and nurse...and nap. I mean, what better to do? He was a sleepy new baby and I, a sleepy mom. Now that I think about it, of course all mamas and babies should be so, tucked away in warmth and safety, sharing the heat they shared for the first nine months. But, at the time, not being quite so earthy-crunchy (or informed...or evolved) as I am now, it was a prescription for a fragile time, for a fragile baby.

Last night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, heart racing, thinking of my baby across the continent, laying in his bed trying to sleep, my mind paused on that memory and I was struck by the significance. Because, really, in all I do as a mother, it's that, absolutely. Even though he is 3000 miles away from me, I held him to my skin and I gave him the warmth, and security, and stability he needed to know that I, his mama, was there to keep him safe.

And when, at 3 am, I awoke, my body aware that 3000 miles away he was awake, and sitting in a cab on his way to the hospital, I began our two hour text-versation with these words: "I'm here."

* * * * * * * * * *

Update: Ben is out of surgery. All went well. He has a new 17" rod installed. He's resting, eating ice chips, and watching TV. It's not his best day, but I can also tell you, it's not his worst! More later...

the usual

2011-10-25T18:40:00.000-07:00

Frozen Snickers cake ala the most lovely chef at 10Arts at the Ritz

It's that night again. The night before. The night before Ben's next surgery.

I am here, sitting in the darkening office, twilight upon me. He is there, in Philadelphia, a tummy full of Thai food, tuning out the future, watching TV with his dad.

I didn't hear from the hospital this time. Days ticked by and no call came from Dave in Anaesthesiology. So, one day last week I picked up the phone and called him myself. "Dave," I said, "Ben's coming in next week for his surgery and I was wondering if there was anything you needed to tell us?" "Oh no, Mrs. M," says Dave, "We know you and Ben and we know you know the drill. We figured you'd call us if there was a problem."

Sigh. We're regulars. Regulars in Anaesthesiology (and the OR, and the surgical floor, and the cafeteria, for that matter) at Shriners Hospital on N. Broad Street in Philadelphia. This is definitely not something to which one should aspire. It's not like when I was in my 20's and was so familiar to the guys in my favorite downtown Oakland Cambodian restaurant that they knew my voice on the phone. No, it's not quite that good.

Ben is so familiar with the drill that he knows, at age almost 14, which needles they use for his IV, which needles he prefers, in fact. That's too much. Too much information. Too much surgery.

Of course, a plus is that he's also a regular at the Ritz. That is good. Last night, after an easy cross-country flight, Ben sent me a text that read: "Hello ritz it's good to be back." And a little bit later a platter of delightful desserts arrived at his doorstep. Then this text came to me: "HOLY SHIT THEY JUST COMPED DESSERT AND IT LOOKS AMAZING IL SEND PICS BRB" (*that's Be Right Back, for those of you who don't know the lingo).

Alas, there's a silver lining. Our story at the Ritz is beyond Good. Good Samaratin. Please don't think this is a silver spoon story. Oh no. This is a good-to-the-last-tear-get-out-your-hanky story.

But, tomorrow he will have his ninth surgery. Mine too, if you want to think of it that way. It's sort of a two steps forward, one step back kind of deal. They're replacing the rod that's hooked onto his spine and rib cage with a longer one. After this he'll probably be an inch taller or so with a straighter spine for a bit. And then, as he grows and he is in a big growth spurt right now, it will curve up again...and we'll schedule another surgery. Dave won't call us, but the Ritz will put on, well, the Ritz, don't you know.

Not sure how soon we'll be back there for "the usual," but we will be back.

student of the net

2011-10-04T14:37:00.000-07:00

I decided to indulge myself this fall and signed up for two online e-courses. It's a bit like ye olde correspondence course but using all the latest technology: internet, email, pdfs, videos, photo pools, conference calls, etc. These types of classes are popping up all over the 'net offering opportunities for people to dabble in writing or photography, home organization, cooking, crafts, women's health, and probably just about anything you could possibly be interested in.

I found my classes through the blogs I frequent. I am devoted to both of the women teaching these courses and after reading about their classes for quite a while, I dove in...two at once! The two classes I enrolled in are How to Cook Real Food from Nourished Kitchen and Unravelling: Ways of Seeing Myself from Susannah Conway. Traditional diets cooking and photography/writing/self-discovery. Some of my favorite pastimes.

I am enjoying the pace of the classes. You can check in and do everything as it comes out, or you can let things slide, do two assignments in one week, or skip the parts you don't want to do, or do them later. No grades, no critiques. This is how learning should be...just for the intrinsic value, just for the love of it. How to Cook is 13 weeks of recipes and cooking lessons. Unravelling is eight weeks of photography and personal journaling activities. In HtC I've learned how to make broths, roast grass fed meats, make cultured dairy products, put together a fantastic salad and utilize seasonal vegetables. In Unravelling I've taken a lot of pictures of my feet (and seen a lot of other people's feet too), shared some of my own stories, read lots of others', and done some very interesting contemplative writing. Both classes are giving me an opportunity to carve time out for me to indulge and do something wonderful. The cooking has a direct affect on the whole family, of course. And the photography and writing make me feel whole, so that has a trickle down affect.

I'm sure you'll see more about what I'm doing here if you stay tuned. But, I encourage you to look for your own inspiration online. There's a whole world out there!

twinges

2011-09-29T23:39:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling twinges in my midriff lately. Apparently there's a fibroid tumor (cyst?) lurking there but I really doubt it is so enormous as to cause pain and discomfort. Not that that couldn't happen, but my fibroid is not of such a size as to cause pain. At least, that's what I've been told and that's what I want to believe.

I've had twinges elsewhere, too. It's that time of year, Yontif, New Year. A time to look back at the past year, look forward to the new one. It's a time to atone for your transgressions, to face your detractors, to own your own shit. It's a time to look in the mirror, or worse, make a phone call to someone you've had an issue with, and say, "Um, well, yeah...Can we talk about what happened?"

I've been feeling twinges in my heart that have me twisting a bit. I have some loose ends to tie up, but I honestly don't know if I have the energy to deal with them. Energy is so hard to come by these days. And yet, what I really want to say about these twinges is that as much as I want to run away from the problems they foretell, they draw me back again and again. As much as I want to walk on by, they call to me and beg me to stop and look, look closely and do something for the better, something maybe no one else I know would do, but something all the same.

I might take this week to consider making a move. I might take a few moments to think about my life. I'm hoping for more energy in the new year, but first I need to face myself and my stories. I need to do more or do less, but I need to do...DO.

I'll be going to the doctor on Thursday to see about the fibroid. Ironically, or not, the next day is Yom Kippur, my day of reckoning. I hope I'm able to make something of it, do something with it, move a mountain. We'll see. We'll see.

Sending blessings to the planet

2011-09-11T18:38:00.000-07:00

Today was a grey day, low clouds, moist air that required windshield wipers on my drive into town. I have felt low and defeated all weekend. My plate is full with challenges and sadness, illness and questions. Today's anniversary only deepens that feeling.

Today I am processing, I am sobbing, I am resting and knitting and closing my eyes in bone-tiredness. I am turning my head away and wondering where I can hide.

Today I am anxious about an upcoming surgery for me and for Ben. I am grieving the loss of a friend, my friend's husband, her son's father. Today I am grieving the loss of a childhood and a fatherhood. And I am grieving the loss of innocence of our country, watching the movies online which bring me to tears with the music, the stories, the recordings of last phone calls from desperate fathers and daughters and wives and mothers and sons. They bring me to wrenching, clutching, soul-searing wails.

Today I am sending blessings to everyone in my life, no, everyone on the planet. There is so much healing to be done. I am still meditating on healing.

some spiders never learn

2011-09-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

I found this web this morning, strung between the handles of the manure wheelbarrow and the green bin. Same as two days ago. So beautiful with the beads of dew strung across each rib. Toby and I admired it for a while and then we unhinged it...just like the last time...gently.

The pasture must get cleaned.

But this time I made sure to leave the wheelbarrow far from the green bin. I hate to waste a spider's efforts, even if she doesn't learn.

fragile

2011-08-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

I came across this beautiful spider's web this morning when I was down at the pasture. It was strung so perfectly between the handles of the manure wheelbarrow and the green waste bin.

I needed to go clean the pasture, so I had to move the wheelbarrow. But the beauty and fragility and amazing strength and commitment of this spider's web made me pause.

Things are never black and white. People are rarely only fragile or only strong. Sometimes we pour ourselves into an endeavor and yet we find in the end we've chosen the wrong place or time or moment for it. Life is full of contradictions. Doesn't a spider's web capture that perfectly?

Scooping up manure is my meditation these days. There's something about the fog, the quiet of the country, the animals quietly munching on their hay. There's something meditative in the repetitive action of scoop, lift, heave, scoop, lift, heave. I do some good thinking out there.

But first I had to deal with the web. There really wasn't a choice. Silly spider, didn't she know I was going to have to move the wheelbarrow? What a choice...to construct her net between two transient objects.

I really didn't want to destroy that beautiful web. So, I moved the wheelbarrow slowly and slowly the web unhinged from the handles. Ultimately, it draped down from the green bin, useless, broken. The spider, luckily, was nowhere to be seen, so hopefully she did not witness the destruction.

I've been caught in a sticky web of conflict these days with some people in my life. Hurt feelings, silences, tears and rage. It's so easy to make blanket assumptions about people and to forget how complex they can be. It's so easy to destroy something beautiful, something that took much effort to build. It's also so easy to spiral down and down into a pit of anger, crushing the forward progress you've already made. Out in the pasture, my thoughts kept spiraling to a conversation I recently had and the things I wished I'd said and the things I'm relieved I didn't say. My anger bubbled up and my heaves of manure got pretty rough.

I stopped and breathed deeply and shook my head to clear it. My heart was racing. Again.

If we storm through, without taking in that quiet, without those moments of meditation, we're sure to cause damage. What I want now is to move through this, to carefully disconnect the sticky web, gently put it aside, yes broken, but gently, and move on through.

For some reason though, right now it seems to be about the destruction. I wonder when we'll get to heal?

bounty

2011-08-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

We’ve been getting a weekly box of produce from a local farm since June. It’s an incredible bounty to absorb each Wednesday. Bags of greens, shiny cucumbers, fragrant apples, huge brown eggs. I love going to pick up our box at a neighbor’s front porch, stepping over a pair of tiny blue flip-flops and carefully avoiding tripping over the tricycles and scooters strewn across the floorboards. It’s a very country spot, down a gravel road, across from an apple orchard, a stack of produce boxes sits waiting right there in the shade. I open our box and walk back to the car, arms full of bags bursting with Mother Naturey goodness. Sometimes there’s so much I need to make two or three trips to the car. Sometimes, I come better prepared with sacks of my own to carry all the loose carrots, turnips, corn, beets, and onions.

The way summer is we’ve had several weeks where we barely could touch all the great food in the fridge what with camping trips and homeschool conferences to pull us away from our kitchen. A couple times we had a friend pick up the box instead so her family could enjoy it, but mostly we just bring it home hoping to eat it, save it or haul some of it along on our travels.

Oddly enough, our own vegetable garden was a complete failure this year. Deer have gotten in either over the fence or squeezing in past the gate at least three times eating our beans, lettuces, and tomatoes down to nubs. We replanted the beans and tomatoes at the beginning of the summer only to find them eaten up again and so we gave up on those crops. We’d planted over 30 of each and it was a real disappointment to walk away. At this point we have some zucchini (who doesn’t?) and a possibility of pumpkins in the fall, herbs, and some radicchio, I think. I have a sinking feeling every time I look over the deck railing down into the garden since I’m afraid of what I’ll find.

So our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) box has given me an alternative happy farmer feeling.

What is required each week, however, is a certain amount of processing as soon as it all comes home. It’s a serious job and if I’m not feeling up to it, I stuff everything into the fridge and hope for the best. But, the reality is that the lettuces need to get washed, spun, torn and stored in a large bowl in the fridge, covered with a paper towel to absorb the moisture and plastic wrap. The root veggies need their green tops removed and to be bagged and put away. The onions need to be tossed in the pantry. And the cherry tomatoes and fruit need to get eaten! Fast! Otherwise they’ll be compost.

Last night, one day home from the biggest and final camping trip of the season, I cleaned out all the bins in the fridge and processed all the veggies we had. There were a few things hanging around past their due, a few that luckily lasted, and all the new goodies I’d picked up yesterday afternoon.

Besides a large bag of amazing compost material (looking on the bright side, of course), I was left with a huge bowl of lettuce, three full drawers of satsoi, spinach, cukes, scallions, parsley, basil, broccoli, turnips, and carrots. A bowl of Gravenstein apples sits on the counter. Red and gold beets roasted in the oven. My bedside table has three cookbooks on it (Local Flavors:Cooking and Eating from America's Farmers' Markets by Deborah Madison, From the Cook’s Garden: Recipes for Cooks Who Like to Garden, Gardeners who Like to Cook, and Everyone Who Wishes They Had a Garden by Ellen Ogden, and Nourishing Traditions by Sally Fallon)…I’m looking for some inspiration, something good and different for a bounty of sweet carrots and a large bag of spinach.

today

2011-07-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

Ben with Tess the day she arrived.

Today I am:

{blue} The morning feeding out in the pasture felt huge and empty without my girl Tess. It's impossible to not be reminded of her in every little thing. In time I know this will pass. But for now I am aching.

{quiet} Boys still sleeping, heavy fog outside. Weed is no longer calling for his girl. Even the birds are quiet this morning.

{planning} A long list of sewing and knitting projects ahead. Organizing my craft areas (again). A workshop I'll be teaching for new homeschoolers at the HSC conference one week from this morning.

{exhausted} From days of crying and saying good bye to my horse.

{expectant} Picking up my little one (not so little, I'll admit) from a week at camp. I'm expecting big smiles and lots of dirt!

She earned her wings

2011-07-28T18:57:00.000-07:00

Today I said good bye to my girl, Tess. We had two and half sweet years together, but they were two and a half years of pain and discomfort for her and anguish for me. Last week I made the difficult decision to end her life before she got to the point of complete agony. Some have told me it was the brave thing to do, I just know that hard as it was for me, it was right.

Tess came to me at age 16 with a long history of hard labor behind her. In her 19 years she was a rodeo horse, a pack horse, a dude horse, and my horse. For me, she was my very first horse after over 40 years of wishing and dreaming of having one. For me, she was my girl...the only other girl on Three Boys Farm. She was sweet and calm and expressive. She'd say hi to me every morning when I came down to feed her her breakfast. She'd rub my arm with her lip when I massaged her back. She'd blow warm air onto my face when she sniffed at me to say hello.

I could tell you the whole long story about what was wrong with her and how these past two and a half years were mostly spent in search of the treatment that would heal her poor feet. But it's technical and honestly, I don't have the energy to do it. What I want to tell you is that having her in my life was a blessing and I am only regretful that she had to live so long with so much pain.

Tess tolerated the donkeys, but she loved our old guy Weed, our gentleman border horse who came to live with us two winters ago specifically to keep each other company. They fell in love over a fence and spent the last two years like an old married couple. Every evening I'd let him out of his side pasture (where he was fed his high calorie diet) and he'd romp into the main pasture (where she'd eat her low carb diet), go straight to his girl and usher her into the barn shed for the evening. "Go home, Woman," you could practically hear him say. They were both chestnut quarter horses (though she was a papered Appaloosa...however without any spots!) and they looked like bookends. He would move her around the pasture whenever he wanted...go here, go there...he was her boss.

Tonight he walks the pasture calling and calling for her.

It breaks my heart to hear him.

We'll all adjust, Weed will adjust, but it will take time. Weed will remember the donkeys are there (he seems entertained by them) and will bond more, maybe even usher them into the shed, if they'll listen. I'll miss my girl every morning when I go out to feed and clean. I'll miss her whinny and her soft sweet hay smelling breath, her dark copper coat and her beautiful long tail that swept the ground. I'll miss seeing my horse, the one I always wanted, when I look out my window. But I'll be comforted in knowing it never got to the point where her feet hurt so much she couldn't get up. That is a good thing.

Tess earned her Pegasus wings. She worked so hard in her life and she endured a lot. Our two and half years together were a peaceful end to that life.

(A big thank you to Mark and Joanna for being right there with me at the end...and to all my friends and my sister, Mara, for checking in with me and making sure I was ok. I love you all!)

A month done and gone

2011-07-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

A month has passed.
My oldest chick has returned to the nest, having stretched his wings and grown in ways that are immediately evident and ways we have yet to see. It was an amazing month for him full of new sights and experiences. I was warmed to see how well he knew himself in the face of new opportunities, how brave he was in undertaking new challenges, and I was also reminded that "no matter how far you go, there you are." He is who he is who he is. Just as I am, of course, but why is this lesson so hard to learn?

I hope you followed along on his blog, as this one was totally silent (sorry) and he has a wonderful writer's voice. This makes me extremely happy, chip off the old block and all that, but I so wish my dad were alive to read it, too. Harry's grandmas both loved it and drank it up daily. (It was wonderful to be so close to the action and he was faithful in getting posts out almost every day.) That helped to assuage their worries about our boy so far away in a big, scary city! (I can say it helped me, too!) But, his Papa Joel would have enjoyed the storyteller in his grandson and the adventurer in a new port. He was like that himself. And loved to live vicariously.

This past month I have had writer's block, I suppose. And the longer I go with no words on the page, the harder it is to encapsulate all that's passed. There have been many moments I've thought "Oh that'd make a wonderful blog post." But alas, I never got the words out.

During the month Toby went to camp again for two weeks by himself and had a blast. Toby is known for his happy nature and will have fun wherever he goes.

During the month Ben went to stay with Nana and then Cousin Ruthie and then several different wonderful friends. He cooked, baked, chatted, played games, chilled, meditated, played more games (and video games), watched fireworks, camped and LARPed. And that was only one week out of four!

During that month Mark and I went away for our "second honeymoon" as he so lovingly referred to it. Despite the fact that he had just thrown his back out moving hay bales and was in terrible pain, we still had a wonderful time at Rancho Pescadero. We relaxed and relaxed and relaxed. Jumped (okay, hobbled slllooowwly) into the pool, sat on our terraced deck and listened to the waves on the shore, watched the waves on the shore for that matter! It's the most relaxing I've done in, well, my whole life I think. And it was much needed. Mark also visited a chiropractor while we were there...a well recommended ex-pat surfing chiropractor who worked his magic on Mark a couple times. Finally, a couple weeks later Mark is feeling somewhat better. Sigh. We're getting old!

Summer moves on. More to tell later. Thanks for your patience!

textversation

2011-06-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

It took 40 hours but Harry finally arrived in Buenos Aires last night just past midnight. He was greeted by his lovely and warm hosts, who apparently said, "Welcome home, Harry!" He sounded exhausted but quite happy when we talked to him last night at almost 2 am Argentina time.

Throughout his ordeal at Dulles International Airport he kept such a cool head, it was astounding. His plane took off 15 hours late and through it all he was riding the wave, just dealing with it like a pro.

Oh, and texting his mama.

I had a deja vu moment yesterday morning. He texted me at 6:45 am west coast time to tell me he was finally boarding the plane. We texted back and forth for a couple minutes and then he found out that they'd changed their minds, there was some mechanical difficulty and everyone needed to sit down. Though it was probably the hardest moment for Harry (he had stayed up all night long and was totally and completely exhausted), he sat down and waited. We texted back and forth on and off until he actually did board (at 11:45 am), buckled himself in and shut his phone off.

At that moment I realized it was just like a morning about a month (to the day) ago when Ben and I had texted back and forth for a few hours until the moment he was wheeled into surgery at Shriners Hospital. It felt so familiar, the light-hearted chit chat, the reassuring comments I would make, the palpable nervousness on their ends, but the good humor throughout it all, the fact that they both came to me, their mama, in this time of anxiety and anticipation because that was safe haven.

I love that. I love this technology. I say "bah" to all the folks out there who judge the texting generation as not being connected enough. I don't believe it. Those "textversations" are real and deep and would have felt awkward and irritating if we'd had them on the phone. Somehow the silences between comments don't add up the same way in a textversation as they do on the phone. I suspect if we only had the phone we wouldn't have talked for an hour and a half.

And you can't do the cute little emoticons if you're talking to someone, either. ;)

I also love my relationship with my boys. I love that they open up to me, want to be with me during those times, text me. Me! I love that we are so connected and I am their safe harbor. It's a wonderful role to have and it's really all about the relationship.

I urge you to read Harry's blog: Don't Laugh at Me, Argentina. He's quite amusing and has a strong voice. He's already devoted to filling us all in on the details of his life across the equator.

Today, on Father's Day, I am thinking of my father, of course, and feeling bittersweet about Harry's trip. It's a trip my father would have been so thrilled to observe. He would have read each of Harry's blog posts with a huge smile and a large and loud chuckle at the end. He loved good stories, especially about foreign ports, dashing young men (dancing tango?) with sexy young women. Harry's story would have fed him immeasurably. Today I am feeling the space my dad left behind this past year...and am still baffled by the fact that he won't be coming back. I really keep having this sense that he's just on a long vacation...out to sea in a way. But, I remind myself, he's gone...the final voyage, I suppose.

I won't be writing much in the next few weeks [we head off to a LARP campout tomorrow (until Thursday) and then send Toby off to Camp Tawonga on Sunday, Ben to Nana's house and Mark and I head to Rancho Pescadero for our 20th anniversary celebration week], so check on Harry at the link above and I'll catch you back up when I can.

red-eye night

2011-06-17T23:14:00.000-07:00

Did I say momentous? Did I imply today would be a new beginning, his first solo flight?

No one knew what the universe had in store for Harry today, now did they?

I am exhausted, so I will make this short and to the point: Harry is stuck at Dulles Airport in DC, the entire United Airlines computer system having crashed around 7 pm tonight. For hours we texted and called back and forth trying to support him in dealing with this very unexpected situation. Finally, about 30 minutes ago he found out that his flight will be taking off tomorrow morning at 10 am, only 12 hours late.

Quite the adventure for my hatchling, no?

Waiting for his plane in SF...this one was on time and we were blissfully
unaware of the chaos soon to hit airports worldwide!

What is so amazing to me is that Harry has always been a person for whom changes in plans are very distressing. It's not that he's inflexible, just that he likes to know what's coming down the pike. Last minute changes throw him way off balance and cause spikes of fear and anxiety. He doesn't just get upset or grumpy, he goes sky high in his response. With Harry it's always ExTrEmEs. Never gray areas. He's either c a l m or he's on HIGH alert.

I knew that this trip would push the envelope on that because I would not be there to help him navigate. (I am often a buffer.) He'd have to ask for help, make his own plans, be responsible about schedules and waking up on time, and the like. He'd have to roll with the punches (as my master teacher, Polly McCall used to tell me). All of these things are challenging to him, but they're all a part of living in the world, so I looked forward to him having to figure them out.

But not quite like this. I never envisioned the universe saying, "You don't like last minute changes? You don't like not knowing what's coming next? Oh, do we have a situation for you!"

And yet. Harry is hanging out at Dulles, on his laptop, watching movies on Netflix, texting his friends, keeping us up to date on Facebook. He's got a blue blankie from United and an outlet to plug into. Rather than a red-eye flight to Buenos Aires, he's got a red-eye night in Washington DC. Tomorrow at 10 am, so they say, his flight will take off.

I pray it is uneventful.

Until then, I'm keeping him close to my heart.

tomorrow

2011-06-16T21:51:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of morguefile.com

Tomorrow will be a momentous day.

Tomorrow will be a life passage, a milestone.

Tomorrow your world will begin to grow in size, exponentially, immeasurably.

Tomorrow you'll wake up on one continent and journey to another.

Tomorrow you will really be on your own.

Tomorrow I'll wake you early: you'll be grumpy from a bad night's sleep.

Your expectation of it being so did not make this morning arrive more quickly, or come more gently.

I'll make you a cup of tea: you'll wimper a bit at me.
You'll shower and dress and look at me with soulful eyes.
Tomorrow we'll load up the van and pile in and drive the miles to the airport in the big city (stopping along the way in Chinatown to load you up with dim sum delights).
Tomorrow I'll walk you to the counter where you'll show your passport and deposit your luggage. Tomorrow, I imagine, you'll want to do it yourself.
You won't need me tomorrow as much as you feel you don't need me today.

Tomorrow your wings will fully come in.
Your feathers will fluff and you'll step to the edge of the nest.
You've taken some test flights, yes, but this time you'll step up to the rim and then push off.

You'll soar.

I will sit back and watch, feeling the mix, the familiar mix, of joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy.
Watching my hatchling take to the skies.

Every mother on the planet must do this one day.

My day is tomorrow as is yours.

Safe travels, Hatchling. I look forward to hearing about all that you've seen.

stretching

2011-06-02T10:58:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I started back up with my yoga practice. Well, that all sounds so professional…my yoga practice. Really, all’s I did was start back up at the yoga class I used to attend which has gone on without me for almost two and a half years. The last time I was a diligent yoga student was before Ben’s scoliosis situation had hit the headlines of my life, it was on the way back burner lurking. Once I got busy taking him to a million Feldenkrais and osteopathy appointments every week, however, those mornings on my aqua blue yoga mat fell by the wayside. In fact, taking care of me in many ways fell by the wayside.

Over the past many months I’ve been turning my focus back onto my Self: my body, my mind, my heart, my health (sounds like the 4-H club motto). I’ve been lightening my load in so many ways. It’s been an excellent process. Changing my diet (removing wheat and most grains), taking bio-identical hormones and a panoply of supplements and vitamins to bring balance back to my very depleted systems, hiring someone to do the heavy lifting in the pastures to relieve the compression in my upper body…all of these things have contributed to my feeling better all around. This wasn’t some overnight turn around, and it’s still in process.

But, I was surprised to find that returning to yoga has probably made one of the biggest differences of all. My sister, Mara, who I should mention is in the most amazing shape and is gorgeous, kept telling me that stretching would help my aching joints. I am not a physical person generally, the opposite of her. But she was right. As soon as I started stretching on my aqua blue yoga mat I started to feel better. And now my body is asking for more every week. It’s amazing.

I will admit that I didn’t return to the yoga class because Mara told me it’d be good for me. I returned because Mark and I are celebrating our 20th anniversary this month. Late in June we’re flying down to Baja California to stay at this most lovely hotel, Rancho Pescadero, for a whole week. A WHOLE WEEK!! Besides being remote, small, beautiful, on the beach, having their own organic garden, and no kids allowed, one of their offerings is yoga classes every day, sometimes twice! When we made the reservations for our penthouse suite I hadn’t even started back up with my yoga practice, but I knew I wanted to, I knew it’d be what I needed to get to the next level in my recovery. I returned to my yoga class because I didn’t want to arrive at Rancho Pescadero and look like a dork in their yoga classes. And now I’ve had a couple months to warm up, to stretch.

At the same time that I’m preparing to head to the beach with my most amazing of all husbands on the planet to celebrate twenty incredible years of togetherness and life building, I’m also preparing to send my oldest chick across the equator on the first huge adventure of his life. Harry has been studying ballroom dancing for the past three years and this summer will take it to another level in Buenos Aires, doing a month abroad studying Spanish and tango. He’ll be living with a couple in the city, close to the language school he’ll be attending. I imagine he will return quite changed. I’ve sent him off before, to camp, to the JC, to weeklong meditation retreats. But this is different. This is a whole new world for him and it’s causing me to really expand my world, too. So far…Argentina is soooo far away. Tell me that this stretch will feel good in the end, too!

The other chicklets will be at camp (Toby) and with friends and family (Ben). It took some serious planning to make this week available for a trip away. It’s been 17 years since Mark and I had a whole week away from home together just us!

I can feel my arms stretching, I see them reaching to touch my children in their far flung locales. It feels good to stretch. I might be wanting more.

Doing well

2011-04-27T22:53:00.000-07:00

This is just a brief note to let you know that Ben is doing beautifully. He is cheerful and happy. His pain is minimal. He only needed meds twice today and even then, it was not to deal with overwhelming pain. We're not going out, or driving in the car (the travel-home day, Monday, was more than enough of that for a while!). And no hikes or carrying things or bending over. (We learned our lesson last time.)

But, video games, Scrubs, bowls of pasta and slices of pizza, and many rounds of Quiddler and Yahtzee with the family seem to be bringing our boy back into the land of the hale and healthy!

Oh, and a new charger for his cell phone (his old one was left at the Ritz). How's a boy supposed to communicate with all his "homies" with a dead phone? The horror!

happy, healing boy

2011-04-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

Ben and I texted each other yesterday morning. He didn't feel very good. He seemed pretty blue. Not that that should be surprising.

They'd moved from the hospital to the hotel the day before and he'd felt really crummy the rest of that day. Hadn't eaten anything except a breakfast of French toast ("It was surprisngly good.") in the hospital. I'd talked to him on the phone in the late afternoon (here)/early evening (there) and his voice was so weak and creaky.

"Hi Mommy."

"Hi Baby. How are you feeling?"

"Really bad."

"I'm so sorry, hon. I'm so sorry you have to feel this way. You'll feel better tomorrow."

I got off the phone and turned to my own mom (I was sitting in her kitchen) and said, "It's so unfair he has to go through this over and over and over." I felt a wave of self-pity and pity for Ben. Why? Why eight surgeries? Why repeated experiences with pain and medications and recovery? To what (ultimate, greater, existential) purpose?

People have told me "It will make him strong as an adult." Yeah, but guess what, he might have been strong anyways. And you know what else? Put your kid under a surgeon's knife 10, 12 times before he's 20 (it will more than likely be that, by the way) and have him sleep in a hospital bed 50, 60 nights before he's 20 (he's already hit 48) and see if that "strength in adulthood" consoles you.

Odd, when I started writing today I didn't realize I was angry.

I was actually going to tell you that later yesterday, after the morning's blue text exchange, Ben called home.

"Hi Mom!"

"Hi! What's up? How's it going?"

"I'm feeling great! And I looked in the mirror and I really think I'm taller now!"

"Wow! That's awesome. I'm pretty sure you must be. Dr. C really got some great extension this time, right?"

"And my curve is 25 degrees! I've been walking around and I ate some Thai curry chicken soup. I'm feeling so much better."

I swear he sounded better than he's sounded in months. Chipper mood, bouncy, bright. A totally different voice. Like a new man.

Did I tell you that after the phone call from my mom's kitchen Mark texted me this: "Post call FYI: he was way better 5 min before and 5 min after your call. Not better, but not as bad. It's great to be a mom." Well, I knew that. Really I did. Mamas get the unfettered emotion. The raw "I feel lousy" stream of whining. It's our job to receive it, especially after our child's 48th night in a hospital bed. Especially when you're way the hell across the country and not by his bedside, where you should be.

But it felt so good to hear that bright and chipper boy on the other end of the phone. It certainly washed away my blues.

Can't wait to see him tomorrow night. And give him a gentle mama's hug.

touching a nerve

2011-04-21T20:35:00.000-07:00

Of all things, I had to have an emergency crown set today at the dentist's office. The culprit, a cracked molar, started giving me trouble on Tuesday and luckily, I squeezed into Dr. McN's schedule before he left for a week off.

Not a great day to have a painful procedure. But I didn't have much choice.

It just so happened that at one point early in the procedure Dr. McN hit the crack with his drill and pain sizzled into my numb jaw. I jumped. I waved my hand (as instructed). "Oww, that hurts!" I said. I had actually been trying to be brave. It had been hurting a little as he neared the really sensitive place and I had tried to hold it together. But when he hit that crack it hurt so much. It was a zing not just to the nerve but to my whole confidence and composure. I suddenly was holding tears back and trying to breathe. I imagined myself at the end of the procedure going to sit in my car and having a really good cry.

About Ben, of course.

I talked to Mark after Ben came out of surgery and found out that Dr. C had gotten tremendous correction (we'll know more tomorrow). That is excellent news. Last time he got only a little and it seemed so much to do for so little a difference. Having a big adjustment is more bang for your buck, I guess. But, big adjustment also means big pain.

Think about this: They go in, move around his muscles, tendons, ligaments. They mess with the ribs, unscrewing the rod. They use pressure and gentle force to move his spine into a straighter position. They tighten the screws. They get out. And, of course, getting in requires an incision and getting out, stitches. That's a lot, for a "minor" surgery.

The after-effect of all this moving around is heavy duty muscle spasms. They come on if he's pushed or poked (think overzealous friends or brothers). They come from nowhere too. They're like Charlie horses in his back. Not easy to deal with. I'm getting myself prepared.

As for me, a second shot of Lydocaine and I was good for the rest of the dental appointment. I sat there in the mint green dental chair, listening to James Taylor, Carole King, and Crosby, Stills & Nash flowing in from the ceiling (ah well, some of my favorites are now dentist office music, sigh) and I breathed as deeply as possible. I didn't try to be too brave, just enough. It really didn't hurt any more after that one zinger. Not really.

When I got out to the car I didn't break down. I did call Mark and Ben as soon as I got into cell phone range (my dentist is in Occidental and there's ZERO coverage there). Ben felt horrible, and not just very, very bad, but really quite sincerely bad. So bad that he suddenly had to get off the phone and Mark said, "We'll call you back!!" and hung up so fast I felt that zing again. Right to the bone.

I took a deep breath. I went to pick up Toby at Shawna's house. Mark called back and told me things had improved. Shawna gave me gluten-free gingerbread she'd baked. I washed the horrible taste of dental cement out of my mouth.

Now, hours later my jaw is hurting. And now, I'm feeling how hard it is, and how hard it was last time, to be 3000 miles away from my boy when he's hurting.

text me you love me

2011-04-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

About a month ago we broke the news to Ben that we had a surgery date for his next lengthening. We softened the blow by telling him in the very next breath that we were (finally) getting him a phone. He'd been begging us for one for months because 1) Harry got one and 2) he needed one to text his friends. (Yes, phones are for texting even more than talking with the teen crowd, don't you know.) As with almost all the technology that I have been resistant to (and to which I have finally caved due to pressure from my children), I have found that texting is an amazing form of communication and has opened up doorways between us.

There is a beauty in the brevity of text messages. Had we not been texting, I'm sure we would have chatted a few times on Mark's phone. But all my boys (Mark included) are reticent to chat on the phone, so that call would have felt more awkward. Via text Ben was open to joking, being sweet, being vulnerable, and being present up until the very last moment when (I imagine) he hit send and handed Mark his phone and was promptly wheeled away. And, I have a record of it on my phone to look at and remember.

I've (laboriously) typed it all up for you here and I've left it pretty much as is (spelling mistakes and shorthand left intact). The incredible sweetness of my boy is palpable. It's like poetry. Well, maybe just for me. (I should tell you, especially if you're not familiar with texting, that sometimes the messages seem out of order since I might be texting him a response while he's texting another comment. You might have to jump back and forth a bit to get the drift.)

You can see that Ben was in fantastically light spirits (confirmed by a phone call from Mark right after he was taken into the OR). This surgery is only the second in his memory that is "minor," although, remember they are going all the way to his ribs to do the adjustment. Minor is relative, yes? Anyhow, it is a short surgery comparatively (2 hours) and that is a huge difference for him. Having the knowledge that he got through the last one fairly easily and was out of the hospital in 13 hours, I believe made all the difference.

So here you have it, for posterity...my text conversation with Ben in the early hours of today.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[3:25 am]

ME: Just want u to know I woke up and am thinking abt u

BEN: Hi mommy

ME: Hi hon...how ya doin?

BEN: Good i slept very nicely

ME: Excellent you're such a trouper

BEN: :)

ME: R u in the taxi?

BEN: Yes

ME: Ok that's what i thought. What's the weather like?

BEN: Blue skys with a couple of clouds

ME: Sounds nice. It rained here most of the day yesterday. Dark now of course. It's 3:37 am!

BEN: Haha

ME: It was weird...I just woke up a few minutes ago...no alarm or anything, like my body just knew u were awake and on your way so I should wake up

BEN: I woke up 2 minutes before my alarm went off

ME: Yeah. Sometimes there's like a sixth sense

BEN: Its like my body just new that i should be up u know?

ME: Yep same with mine

BEN: It was weird

ME: I know I couldn't see a clock so I had to turn on my phone and I went "hey perfect timing! Ben's gonna be up now too"

BEN: Wow thats cool

ME: I used to wake up in the middle of the night every night, but I haven't for a while now. That's what made this really diff for me.

BEN: O

ME: I just want to send u a big hug

BEN: thanks

ME: I love u so much

BEN: I luv u 2 mom <3 [heart on its side]

ME: <3
xoxoxox ((((you)))) [hugs around Ben]

BEN: :)
We are almost at the hospital

ME: I was just going to ask
We'll text more later

BEN: K we are there

ME: Love u!!!!!

BEN: I luv u 2

ME: xoxoxox

BEN: :)

ME: Toby just giggled in his sleep!

BEN: Wow thats kinda creepy

ME: I guess he's having a funny dream...I'll have to ask him about it in the a.m.

[a little time passes]

BEN: I just got my wrist band and we are going into the elevator

ME: Ok tlk [talk] later

BEN: Kk [Okay]
They just took my whigh [weight] and i whigh [weigh]128

ME: Congrats. :)

BEN: :(

[Two hours pass, no texts, I slept]

BEN: There about to come get me for surgery

ME: Ok I love u!!! How r u?

BEN: Good me and dad watched very funny tv

ME: sorry u had to wait so long

BEN: Its ok actually it was nice

ME: Excellent! You're gonna do great and I'll talk to u when u get out
I'm so proud of u

BEN: Ok

ME: It helps knowing what to expect
Doesn't it?

BEN: I like the shoe sock things there comfy
And yes

ME: Great get a few before u leave

BEN: To take home i like socks much better than these

ME: Oh whatevah
No iv yet?

BEN: Ya anyways mom i luv u vry much

ME: I adore u

BEN: Nope get that in surgery

ME: xoxoxox
Ok
(((((hugs from me to u))))))
xxxxxxxsmoochxxxxxx

BEN: (RE: ((((hugs from me to u) K im in the bed

ME: Oh thought u were already

BEN: Im a little nervous
Bye mom ttyl [talk to you later] luv u

ME: That's to be expected
Bye!!!!!
I luv u!!!!!
Ttyl

[break of several minutes]

BEN: Hiya mom it turns out that i only was going down to talk to the docters and i'll be under in 15 mins so hows it going?

ME: Oh!!!! it's going fine!
I was sending you big blessings.

BEN: Thats nice im less nervous

ME: Amazing

BEN: Thank u

ME: How come d'you think?

BEN: Thats good
Huh?

ME: How come youre less nervous?

BEN: I dont know everyones very confedent and calm

ME: That's great that u can take that in
What did the doctors say?
And did u have an xray this morning?

BEN: That im going to go in breathe then fall asleep and no

ME: Ok
Sounds easy

BEN: Yup im gonna be fine

ME: u definitely r

BEN: Yup u should take somthing to calm down

ME: And when u get out it's gonna be even easier then the last time
I'm calm, cuz u r

BEN: Yup

ME: I should say calmer
I was more nervous last time
But thx for thinking abt me

BEN: Still u should

ME: I'm fine, sweetie
Just lying in bed
Txting my boy

BEN: Hmm anyways calm down i can feel it in your txts

ME: Oh sorry I really am fine
Maybe I'm asking too many questions...?

BEN: Sure u r sure

ME: Lol
I wouldn't send u there if I didn't believe they would take excellent care of u

[pause]

Well it's my job to be a little nervous!
But really I'm just fine

BEN: Yeah
wel....................................................

ME: =)

BEN: Sure u r sure.......O.o

ME: 8)
:P
xoxoxox

BEN: jsshdikisabusukjkszdekjdszeksejzjzjedsmeds im not crazy BOOGA BOOGA MOOGALY tell that to tubs [Toby]

ME: Um...ok...when he wakes up.

BEN: Wait what time is it

ME: Hey! did they give u something to make u loopy? Cuz it suuuure seems like it!
7:33 am

BEN: No im just naturly crazy and oh thanks

ME: Too much time on your hands, it seems...

[long break during which I play Spider Solitaire on my iPhone]

Hey u there?

BEN: Barely
I am about to go
i luv u soooooooooo much

ME: Ok I LOVE U
Love u more!!!

BEN: <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
         <3<3<3<3<3<3<3 [32 lines long!]

ME: You're the best! xoxoxox

another surgery

2011-04-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

The anticipation is the worst part. The waiting and the knowing. It's really all well and good for other people to talk about how hard this is and to talk about how quickly it'll all be behind you. But for you it is another story.

This next surgery will be your eighth. (Started with a hernia at age 5, four brain surgeries/followups at age 8, the implantation of the rod and staples a year ago, and the first lengthening last summer.) Eighth. You have had more surgeries than most people have in a lifetime. A lot to hold. And this one won't even be the last.

So, if you've done this eight times then you know what to expect. You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you see the doors slide open to the hospital lobby as you climb out of the taxi. You know the flutter in your diaphragm when you put on your hospital gown and stow your things in the cabinet next to the bed. You've done this before. You lay down on the gurney in Anaesthesiology and watch the tiles on the ceiling, the lights and goofy posters on the walls slide by your vision as they wheel you away from your dad into the OR.

This operation is small potatoes compared with what you've experienced six of the eight times. Even the recovery is less work for you. But, you know the feeling coming out of the pain killers and it makes you tired, exhausted even, to contemplate another month passing by in your young life, a month of Valium and Hydrocodone and Ibuprofen keeping the edge off and the muscle spasms at bay. A month of shuffling around like an old man.

You're doing ok, though. You've chosen many days this past month to spend extra time in your jammies and wallow a bit in your life predicament. But for now, a few days before you say goodbye to your mom and brothers and head to the airport with your dad, you are upbeat, laughing at raunchy sitcoms and filling yourself with Indian food.

You are so strong and so fragile. You are only thirteen. Some boys at thirteen read from the Torah, their rite of passage to the next phase of their life. You, my son, you crossed that river years ago.

Weary traveller...blessings on this journey and may your doctor's hands be guided by the angels and may your healing be swift and easy.

Farewell, Oh Beautiful Swing Tree

2011-04-04T22:08:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago during a tremendous storm we lost our beloved swing tree.

The enormous old twisted oak that was the anchor for our new home, on whose swing I first fell in love with our property, silently gave up the fight. She had been unwell for a while now and we'd cut the swing's ropes a couple years ago to prevent a terrible accident from happening. She fell down over our pasture fences in the middle of the night, didn't even wake us up. Though Mark and Harry have sawn up much of her limbs and branches, her huge trunk still lies across a part of our field and when I look at that fallen tree I grieve her loss. We designed our house around her architecture, we watched her leaves bud out each March in fuzzy pink new growth, we enjoyed the screen she gave us from the road when popping in our hot tub on the deck, and the shade she gave the equines in summer.

In honor of the tree I am remembering one of my favorite books from childhood: A Tree is Nice by Janice May Udry. And, I am posting, below, a piece I wrote eight years ago about our decision to move up here to Sonoma county. Our beloved swing tree figures in essentially, at the very end...so read it all!

**********************************

Blame it on Cooperstown

You’re not sure if it’s the stretch of white board fence, the old white clapboard house, or the verdant green lawn shaded by trees, but your eyes are pulled over to that little photograph in the back of the magazine. You are ruefully perusing the section they have every issue that advertises old, sometimes ancient by your California-girl standards, houses for sale across the country. This one has definitely caught your eye. “Horse Lover’s Fancy” it reads. “7 acres of beautiful countryside, lovely 5 bedroom home, plus carriage house and 8 stall stable. Excellent condition.” There’s more, but you speed through the details. You’ve already peeked at the price. You can barely buy a shack where you live for that.

You sit back and sigh. There you are, tucked away in your comfortable Northern California neighborhood, each home within spitting distance of its neighbor. Your eyes wander back to the ad. “Near Cooperstown, NY.” You take a quick look at mapquest.com to check out the exact location of the city of Cooperstown in the state of New York. Far north. Not even close enough to the in-laws to justify a cross-country address change.

Whoa! What was that? Here you are innocently reading the ads, like they’re open houses on a Sunday afternoon. (Just because you like to look doesn’t mean you’re going to buy, does it?) And suddenly you’re planning, actually looking for a rationale to move. To Cooperstown, NY.

It’s probably the horses. The possibility of horses. You’ve been a horse-fanatic from the age of 3, but never did convince your parents to buy you one. Living in urban Los Angeles didn’t help, not exactly horse country. And even though your knees hurt every time you’ve ridden in the past ten years, having a horse of your own isn’t a fantasy you’re prepared to give up just yet. Even at 40.

Maybe it’s the seven acres. That’s a lot of land. You can’t even picture seven acres if you tried. Your mind drifts out of the office, down the stairs and into the bedrooms of your three sons. Lately, you think, lately life has been loud and chaotic here in your snug house in your snug neighborhood. Your mind flashes to the postage stamp-sized brick patio you knew would never be enough. Three boys need a place to run at full speed. Like an expanse of lawn. Three boys need some trees to climb. And maybe their mom needs a horse. Or eight.

You plot driving directions from Cooperstown, NY to the Long Island house your in-laws have lived in since before your husband was born. Maybe it’s not so far.

Later that night you casually ask your husband, “How far is Cooperstown from your folks?” wanting some verification that it’s just too far. Some really good reason to abandon this fantasy. “What’s it like?” you ask. He laughs, and describes winter in Cooperstown. Snow, piles of it. Weeks and months of it. You can barely imagine that much snow. At the high school you went to in Southern California, you could take surfing for P.E.

But that vision won’t go away. The next day you find the website dedicated to the sale of “Horse Lover’s Fancy”. Just for the fun of it you search their other listings and find yourself gazing at a ranch in northern Montana, copper-colored grasslands with a view of snow-covered mountains. And then there’s the home in southern Oregon on 40 acres (why dream small?) with miles of trails already groomed for you and your horses.

A visit to your therapist feels like the thing to kick this tickle-that-feels-like-an-obsession-brewing out the door. But when you mention “I’ve been dreaming about moving to the country,” she says “Go with it,” and you go deeper and uncover some visions you have about your sons, about the over-stimulation that comes with city living, about how you gave up on the big backyard when you were looking for the bigger house because big yards are just hard to come by in the city. And you talk about your husband, now one-year unemployed, a casualty of the dot-bomb era. Even though you were the one who convinced him to stay home and enjoy a slower pace for a while, you’ve been worried about the rut he’s gotten into, the amount of time he spends on computer games, and the grayness that seems to be hovering around him like an aura.

At the end of the session your therapist says, “Go with it,” again. So you return home thinking about moving to the country.

When your husband asks how your session went (he does that more now that he’s in therapy, too) he’s pretty surprised that you didn’t talk about him and the fight you had the other day about your sex life, or your lack of sex life. He’s shocked, really, when he hears what you talked about and he even looks a little worried. He knows what you can be like when you get an idea in your head.

And, like a bull dog you persist. Later that night in bed you have a long talk about this fantasy and he says, “I’ll look into it with you, but I’ll tell you right now I’m not moving.” The first part of his statement is really a victory and you know that. Before this year off and the time he’s had for his own evolution (therapy) he never would have entertained even thinking about something that scared him like moving. You remind him that when you moved into your current house he said, “The next time I move is in an urn,” and you both laugh. You, nervously.

Calendar pages fly off the wall. Hours spent doing research on the internet and in books and magazines. You love a project like this. Ordinarily, you do this for trips, but this adventure is more than just looking for motels, restaurants and museums, you’re looking for schools, community organizations, and local newspapers. Together the two of you make lists of pros and cons of moving and staying. Together you name the things you need and the things you want. Need: Good schools. Want: Good politics. Need: Jewish community (three bar mitzvahs are on the horizon). Want: Good produce. There’s even a list of what you can’t abide: Rednecks. Skinheads. Airports three hours away.

You notice he’s gotten interested. He’s been doing some surfing, too. Eyeing pieces of land in the Sierra foothills. And then he suddenly bites onto the concept of building the house himself. He’s an engineer, he knows his hammers from his rat tail files. He has a workshop in the garage that he never gets to use because it’s too cramped and there’s no room to spread out. He did contracting work in college. He’s a fine carpenter. Your favorite piece of furniture in your whole house is the big kitchen table he made from a length of bowling alley. He can do the electrical and plumbing, too. Loves that stuff, in fact.

All of a sudden, this adventure is taking shape. You can feel the movement and you no longer feel that you are in control. The electricity that sparks between you is making you stronger. The fantasy becomes a project and the project is driving you.

The worries arrive just about then. The questions and regrets. You start a new ritual: the listing of the things you’ll miss. Walking to school, your friends, short drives to the market, the preschool you love. And suddenly the house you live in is perfect, the city you live in is perfect and the friends you felt were only acquaintances are professing their love and admiration for you. Your nine-year-old has a teacher who completely understands him. Your business is picking up. Everything seems to be gelling. How can you entertain the idea of moving away from all this?

The more people you tell about what you’re contemplating, the more their responses make you question your choice. You never knew how many people harbored dreams of moving to the country. They live vicariously through you. But you weren’t someone with that long-term dream. You feel like a fraud. You want to stay put. One friend warns you about other friends of hers who had problems in their marriage, moved to the country, built a house, and when the house was done their marriage fell apart. Those stories make you think of all the people you know who had the problems, stayed in one place, and then their marriage fell apart.

You bring the boys up to the country to see different properties you’re considering and they always freak out. These wild, grassy, overgrown places intimidate them. The one who’s always adventuresome becomes clingy and the other ones get bored and whiny. “They have to learn how to play in the country,” someone says.

Then one day you find yourself swinging on a tree swing on a property in western Sonoma county. The swing has incredibly long ropes and when you swing you go out over a slope so far that at the farthest, highest point you’re probably about 20 feet up. It swings so slowly that you feel like you’re flying. You look around. The place is scruffy, there’s no verdant lawn, only an old vermin-infested mobile home and a rickety three story well tower. There’s no white rail fence, but lots of beautiful gnarled oaks, more than you can count. It’s only four acres, but that seems like plenty.

You sit back on the swing, hang on the prickly, lichen covered ropes. You pump your feet, push off from the ground as hard as you can. You want to go high, higher, higher. You fly. You fly on that swing and you can feel your chest expand. You breathe deep.

Your mind floats off the swing and up into the trees. Slowly it comes to you that it’s not about the horses anymore. It’s about living your life as big as you can.

Happy Trails, Zozo

2011-03-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

Zoey and I took our last walk together this morning. It was bittersweet.

I can't get out of my head the thought that I'm cutting this relationship short, selling her short in a way. Giving up too soon. While she spent much of the time pulling on the leash, wanting with all her might to go chase some birds or say hello to the sheep, she also periodically would turn and look back at me as if to say, "You still with me?" She was good on this walk.

About two weeks ago, after I'd decided to let her go, she was awful on walks. She pulled and pulled, was totally distracted, disregarded everything I said to her. When I told her to sit she'd look away, as if to say, "Hmmm. I don't think so." And rather than calmly reinforce the command and require her to sit, I got totally overwhelmed with her disdain. It pushed my buttons so completely that I could feel my heart begin to race and my mood change. One thing I don't need in my life is one more person to disregard what I have to say. That happens a bit too much around here. Three boys, two horses, two mini-donkeys and two cats...that's plenty, thank you very much! Poor dog just didn't have a chance, especially since she's a terrier. It's her nature to be distracted and to come late to the obedience table.

Unfortunately, I couldn't help but hold it against her. I took her disdain so personally.

Last weekend, about a week after I'd formally told the foster guy I was done, I felt Oh So Done. More done than before. Every chewed up piece of plastic, every time she refused to listen to me, every time she went to eat her poo (oh, did I forget to mention that lovely habit?) I would get livid. And I moved away from her emotionally. Well, guess what? Her behaviors all got worse. More chewing. More ignoring. More poo-eating.

On Monday I called the foster guy and asked politely when he'd be able to take her back. (He'd told me he had a foster with him and was waiting to place him.) I told him how hard it was to be with her. He said, "Sort of like when you've decided to get a divorce but no one's moved out yet." That was it and I had to laugh.

Something changed, though, after that. I went back to her with my open heart and decided that I could give her the love and separate, too.

Surprise, surprise...this week went much better. She was able to be more mellow, because I was paying more attention to her. She didn't exactly obey me on our walk today, but she didn't pull too much and she did look back at me to check in. Improvements, right?

And so I am torn.

She's bonded to me, even if she doesn't listen to me. She's bonded to us all. When Mark comes home she's so excited. When Harry takes her on a run, she's delighted. She doesn't give me that happy dog smile, almost ever, but if I get up and leave a room, she gets up too. She follows me everywhere and needs to know exactly where I am.

I remember when Jill, the trainer we worked with at first, said that Zoey was a challenge for her to work with so she was going to be impossible for us. I remember when Steve, our family therapist, after hearing me list all the health issues I'm trying to work out, looked at me and said, "You can't keep her. You need to take care of you." (But then, how he called that night and said he really understood how hard it was to give her up, how special she was, how even he was considering taking her...*)

I feel so selfish, sending her out into the world again. I wish I could tell her why she won't be with me any more. I wish I could watch her through a one way mirror to make sure she is happy in her future. (Certainly, having read Black Beauty as a child does not help me now.)

If she was truly a family responsibility, it would work. And this week the kids have pitched in more. But, I'm certain that's because it's temporary. Harry had no problem taking her out for a few runs, but he knows it's short lived. Ben and Toby took her outside for a potty break numerous times, and hung out with me at the dog park, too, but that's because they know it's only for a few more days. If it were on-going--nay, forever--they'd be putting up a fuss. And I already didn't have the time to spare. So now...what makes me have more time for her?

Nothing.

And so in an hour Mark and Harry will pack her into the car crate and take her to meet up with the foster guy (who will be delivering her to another foster placement in the East Bay). I'm saying good bye at home and then turning to other pursuits. Mark's my prince and he's doing that princely thing. Saving me the tearful drive home after the drop off. I feel somewhat like a weakling, but I like feeling his support. Why put myself through it if I don't have to?

Happy Trails, my sweet scruffy girl. I'll miss ya.

dog days

2011-03-17T22:59:00.000-07:00

So the problem with allowing so many weeks to pass with no updates is that when I finally do sit down to write I have too much to tell you and I fear no one will bother to read all the way through to the bitter end.

Thus, I write nothing and that nothing looms larger and larger and larger as the days pass.

Suffice it to say, I have been swamped by this dog. Zoey.

She came to us a month ago and will one day soon be moving on again, hopefully to find her forever home...a place where people are dog savvy and have the time and energy to put into her what she needs.

It's such a long story. And I hesitate to bore you with the details. (But if you really want them, they are below, at the end of this post.)

The sum total is that I like to believe she came into my life to teach me a few things and here's what I've learned so far:
*Listen to that little voice that resides over behind your right ear. The one that mentions the niggling doubts. Listen to that voice next time it says, "Hmmm. I think this isn't such a great idea."
*Make yourself first on your list for once. It's time to take care of you.
*Don't let everyone walk all over you. When you get ignored and you let it pass, you can't be happy with the outcome.
*Looks ain't everything.

Oh do I love this dog, but oooh boy this is not the right time to be care-giving for one more needy creature.

I am now facing some health issues that have been stubborn in leaving. The past four weeks with Zoey in residence I've not been able to care adequately for myself and barely for anyone else. A week ago I finally, finally realized that as much as I wanted to invest in this dog it was going to be at least a year before things calmed down and I don't have a year to put off the other important issues.

I will let you know more soon. I was just glad that I had a moment to write tonight.

**********************************************

Her name is Zoey and we brought her home four weeks ago.

As you can see, I haven't had a lot of free time on my hands to write, to think, to cook or clean or home"school" or even take a shower. It feels a lot like we adopted a toddler rather than a puppy. A toddler with sharp teeth.

She can not be left alone or she will destroy something.
She has the energy of ten men.
She is hands down the cutest dog at the dog park. She is very likely the cutest dog on the planet.
She is fast. No, I mean she is fast. In fact, when folks ask me what kind of dog she is I generally say, "She's part terrier, part speeding bullet." Yes, I say that.

And we're giving her back. Back she will go one of these days to Jon, the nice foster man who handed her over to us four weeks ago.

Our dog saga started on our lovely beach vacation in Cayucos when Ben declared that he wanted to get a dog. I told Mark, oh don't worry...this too shall pass. (Mark's not really a dog person, you see.) Ben and I got on the computer right away though, his passion for this concept running hot, and we read about dogs and watched dog videos. (An excellent homeschool research project.) We made a list of pros and cons and what kind of dog we were looking for (fully grown, not too big, sweet, mellow). At a certain point, I think it was when we got home and Ben's XBox started to look more interesting than dog books, I started to get more excited about the dog venture than Ben.

I went a few different places with my dreaming. Forgive me, but I was thinking of this dog, Ben's dog, as a way. A way out. A way of healing a boy who's had more than his fair share of pain and suffering. A way back to the boy he once was, the one who was so animal-sensitive and so physical, so in his own body. I was thinking, get this boy a dog and he will heal from all the nightmares and painful moments. So I started to push the dog concept a bit too much.

A voice in my head was definitely saying, Whoaaaaa. Hold on. Notice the boy at the XBox. Notice he is less interested than you, Mama. But I kept checking in with him and he kept telling me, Yeah, I do want a dog.

I knew better. I knew I was already maxed out with two horses, two mini-donkeys, two cats, and three boys. Oh and my wonderful, patient, forgiving, and ever-wise husband. Maxed. Out.

And yet.

I pushed on.

And we came home with this adorable terrier. The opposite of most of the qualities on our list. [Terriorists is what they call them at the dog park. And now I know why. She is so much a terrier. Rather than look up at me and ask with her brown eyes, What, o wonderous mistress, can I do to please you? She looks away from me and wonders (I can just see the wheels turning), Hmmm, how can I get this lady to do what I want?]

And just 24 hours after she came home Ben declared that he had changed his mind and he did not want this dog. He did not want any dog. He did not want the responsibility of a dog. (We talked about cold feet, new parents, etc. Didn't help.)

That was rough. All the rest of us had fallen for her, including Harry who is an avowed non-dog person. And Ben was turning his back on the whole thing.

I struggled with how to respond. After all, it was his idea. She was supposed to be his dog. He named her Zoey. What would happen if I just said no to his no? What would it mean if I said yes? And what about my hopes and dreams for them, this boy and this dog?

Well, I said no. I said, we all want this dog, maybe you don't but now the rest of us do. We started working with a trainer...that didn't go so well. My sister Mara came up and worked with me. That was wonderful...wonderful for me and Mara and wonderful results with Zoey.

But it the end it isn't enough. The reality of it all is that I don't have it in me to do this on my own. And on my own is the key. I'm the mom, so it falls to me. When Zoey became the family dog, rather than Ben's dog, the responsibility fell to me. Susie's dog. All my mama-friends with dogs have the same story at their homes. The dog is theirs.

It's hard to explain why this isn't working out. I have some health issues that have been plaguing me for months, things I've been working on correcting and have not made much headway on. Having this dog, this incredible time and energy suck of a dog (and I say that lovingly, but it just is so true) I have had to put my own stuff aside.

That is not the right choice. It can't be the right choice because my health is the key to the rest of the family's well being.

She loves us, we love her. That isn't the problem. It's really more a matter of timing.

I'm trying not to beat myself up about it. But it's hard to let her go...

moved by the music

2011-02-02T23:27:00.000-08:00

Rick Recht and Susie Miller in concert

I have a very strong memory from five years ago: I stood in the hallway outside the Pediatric ICU at Children’s Hospital in Oakland, talking on the phone to our rabbi, George Gittleman, in Santa Rosa. At that point my eight year old son Ben had been in the hospital for several weeks, maybe even a month, having endured more than one brain surgery and was spiking a fever that was baffling the doctors. Rabbi George was so good during that hell to call me regularly, to mention Ben’s name at services and ask for extra prayers of healing, to let us know that we had our community circling the spiritual wagons.

But that day, as I leaned up against the wall, my stomach flip-flopping, the ever-present vague nausea creeping up into my throat, I asked him how to pray. What words could I say to give myself some solace? George was honest and said that the typical prayerbook prayers rarely were the answer for him in this kind of circumstance. Talking straight to the One, asking for Ben’s healing, or finding the words that worked might be the key and that was challenging for me. I didn’t really know what I believed in God-wise and it’s always seemed rather cheap to me to suddenly ask for a favor from Someone when you had pooh-poohed the that same Someone on previous, less weighty occasions. Anne Lamott says she has two prayers “Help. Help. Help.” And “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Those worked. I used those a lot. Maybe even George reminded me of them, I don’t recall.

But I remember getting off the phone and standing with my eyes closed and quietly singing Debbie Friedman’s Mi Shebeirach, the Hebrew prayer for healing, over and over and over and over that day and the following days and nights that Ben spent in the hospital (40 in all).

Mi shebeirach avoteinu
M'kor habracha l'imoteinu
May the source of strength who blessed the ones before us,
Help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing
And let us say: Amen.
Mi shebeirach imoteinu
M'kor habracha l'avoteinu
Bless those in need of healing with refuah sh'leimah
The renewal of body, the renewal of spirit
And let us say: Amen.

A year ago, when Ben’s scoliosis surgery was looming and our friend James was undergoing chemotherapy and radiation treatments for non-Hodgkins lymphoma I carried around a little slip of paper with Craig Taubman’s Mee Shebayrach in my pocket. The words were essentially the same, but simpler and all Hebrew, and the melody was so beautiful and haunting. I sang them out loud in the car whenever I could and cried. I sang them silently in the pasture, in the shower, waiting in line at the market. I sang them and felt closer to a universal power, the Known/Unknowable, the Source of Being.

Jewish music is rich for me. It is the conduit between my self and consciousness and the universe. I have millions of questions, in fact, I sit through services questioning, questioning, questioning. (I guess like Anne Lamott I have a prayer and it seems to be "What? What? What?") But give me a Hebrew prayer in song, a harmony, a piece of poetry and a melody and my spirit floats. I stop questioning and settle down. I accept a little more. It’s a feeling and it’s all about the music.

I was raised on folk music, rock music, and classical, but it’s Jewish music that grabs me the most and the deepest. A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to attend Hava Nashira, the conference for Jewish songleaders and cantors in Wisconsin, and I came home a transformed soul. Debbie Friedman was one of my teachers there. Craig Taubman, too. Being in their presence, singing Jewish music with 250 gorgeous voices was beyond amazing for me. I had gone with the question “Am I a Jewish songleader?” and I came home with the unequivocal answer: “Yes.”

When Debbie Friedman died suddenly last month (way too soon, she was only 59) I sang her Mi Shebeirach. I woke up in the middle of the night singing it. Yes, she, the composer of that beautiful, tear-provoking melody for the Mi Shebeirach, had sung it to us one evening in Wisconsin and then we sang it back to her. I’ll never forget that.

People credit Debbie with having changed the face of Jewish music, especially in the Reform movement, but I credit her with having significantly changed the Reform movement in general. Bringing people back to the fold with her music. Debbie turned the liturgy into a participatory experience and with music that channeled Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, and other folk musicians from the 60’s she reformed the Reform synagogue experience. She brought people in. People who were leaving. She also inspired a couple generations of Jewish musicians and they are continuing her legacy by creating amazing Jewish music for prayer services and camps and Shabbat dinners and bopping along to in the car.

So that is why I wanted to share an experience I had this past weekend. I got to sing with Rick Recht at my synagogue, on the bimah (stage), into a microphone, in front of lots of people, including my children and husband. I got to sing something Jewish with a Jewish Rock Star.

Rick Recht is the hot Jewish singer in the Jewish music circuit. He tours constantly, looks like a rock star, plays electric guitar, has a band and many cd’s. And did I mention he’s a nice Jewish boy from St. Louis? He recently started Jewish Rock Radio. He inspires new Jewish Songleaders at Jewish camps all over the country every summer. He’s a mensch. A really down to earth guy.

(Why me, you ask? I suppose because I have been a songleader at our synagogue for the past six years as a music teacher in the religious school, at women's retreats, and at a few services. It was a wonderful acknowledgement and I'm so thankful it happened.)

I tell you this because 1) I want to gloat for a minute. Yup, I got to do it!! Me an’ Rick. Uh-huh. And 2) because it solidified the feeling I have that yes, singing Jewish music is something I really I love to do. And I need to do it more.

I’ll post a video link as soon as I have one, but for now you’ll just have to imagine the beautiful music Rick and I made together. La la la.

just another day at the beach

2011-01-24T10:10:00.000-08:00

Never underestimate the healing power of a shovel, a long stretch of beach, the rhythm of waves breaking, and the sun. Sometimes all you need is a bucket or a book, a pair of sunglasses, and an afternoon to loosen the muscles in your neck, to shed the anxieties you hold in your back pocket.

Ever since last summer when Toby and I spent a couple days at my sister- and brother-in-law's Santa Cruz beach house I realized that that was exactly what my family needed to get back to center. These past three years have been some of the most stressful, coming on the heels of three of the most stressful before that! We hadn't taken a vacation, all 5 of us, just for fun, no surgery hooked in, no family to visit, no conference to attend, nothing hanging over our heads, in so long. I was determined to get us to the beach and a couple weeks ago we finally did just that.

We drove about 4 1/2 hours down to a very small beach town on California's central coast, Cayucos, renting a house just behind one right on the beach.

(Please note all photos were taken with my iPhone and most were taken with its "Hipstamatic" app. This app gives a retro look to the pictures, as you'll see, and gives something of a comfy, old family photo album sensibility to my simple snapshots. Hope you enjoy it. I can't get enough of it!)

We hoped for warmer weather but planned for rain. We got glorious sunny days, highs in the low 70's. We packed wetsuits and beach towels and board games and the Wii. The boys played in the frigid water and dug in the sand (they still, at ages 17, 13 and 10, can find hours of happiness digging in the sand). Mark and I read books and magazines. I embroidered and knitted (though I've discovered my hands have started to get numb when I knit...more on that another time...grrr.) We went to see the elephant seals with their newborn pups hanging out at Piedras Blancas beach, toured Hearst Castle, and observed the Monarch butterflies that spend the winter at Pismo Beach. We had dinner with our long time family friend, Ann, who lives in nearby Morro Bay, and Mark and I got out for date night at the amazing Hoppe's Bistro right there in "downtown" Cayucos. We went antiquing in Cambria and Cayucos, and I found a great yarn store. We had nightly marathons of "Big Bang Theory" and "Eureka," our two favorite tv shows which we watch on Netflix. We baked chocolate chip cookies (grainfree!) and had pizza delivered (grainful!).

But best of all, we spent stressfree time together as a family. We needed this vacation that was unblemished by a surgery date looming, a surgery itself, a family obligation, a memorial, or anything on a "have to do" list. We woke up late, we sat in the sun, washed the sand off in the outdoor shower, cuddled on the couch, and generally unwound.

Couldn't have asked for more. Not an ounce.

Ben's skim board in the foam

Ben, buried in sand and wetsuit, his favorite beach activity

Toby, freshly ocean-i-fied, and a view down the beach

Mud, glorious, mud!

Ben, Hearst Castle

Casa Grande, Hearst Castle

Outdoor pool, Hearst Castle

Mosaic, Roman indoor pool, Hearst Castle

One of three embroideries I worked on from drawings Toby did of our animals

Elephant seals as far as the eye can see!

peaceful me

2010-12-25T11:21:00.000-08:00

It's been a month since my last post, and though much of my absence was due to that lingering blue, some I can honestly blame on the holiday hubbub, parties, presents, and a return of my passions. Historically, I've abhorred Christmastime, feeling Grinchy seems to come naturally to me. But this year the season's been a contrast. Rather than the blues, I've immersed myself in reds and oranges, flaming hot pinks and deep purples. Now I'm feeling really good, happy even, and very relaxed.

Today, Christmas day, our house is so quiet. Two of three boys are still sound asleep. Mark and I have already been out to the pasture to put the horses in their rain jackets (just in time, too, as it's now a deluge out there) and feed the critters. We woke up extra early to beat the storm which was predicted to begin at 7 am and then had a couple quiet hours until Toby arose. Our plans today are simple: hang out for the morning and head down to my sister's for Christmas dinner (she and her family celebrate the holiday) midafternoon.

As for right this minute: coffee, my knitting, a warm house and quiet. Peaceful me.

I think because Chanukah came so early this year I've had more time to relax, contrast my state of being with that of the rest of the US. Chanukah started on December 1st (it's the lunar calendar, leap month thing) and with Ben's birthday in late November and Harry's in early December we were inundated with festivities, but we handled that fine. By mid-December we were essentially done with all that, we'd collected and distributed the loot, and were happily using it all (our family went from a no-video-game-family to an XBox and Wii family in the space of 7 days! ah well, I couldn't hold out forever, I suppose). And I set my mind to the healing arts: my crafts!

I spent a weekend or two organizing my craft space. What a luxury! To have the spaces in our office for me to set up jewelry, sewing, cutting, ironing and our computers without putting any of it away! We are so buried in our clutter usually, that I hadn't really utilized the space efficiently for the whole five years we've lived here. I felt the clouds lift when I opened up these areas to do my work.

After finishing some holiday items (a scarf for Mike Walsh, the General Manager of the Ritz Carlton in Philadelphia, and some hand warmers and earrings for our 4H holiday craft sale/fundraiser), I turned to a few projects I've been waiting and waiting to get started on. First is a blanket out of thrifted and felted wool sweaters. Black and grey backgrounds with red, orange and pink squares on top. It is reminiscent of my favorite of Denyse Schmidt's quilts and should be very warm when finished. I'm about 1/3 of the way there!

Second is a pair of mittens for Harry who is about to head off to his third weeklong meditation retreat over New Year's. His hands have trouble keeping warm, so I've been working like a dog to finish these before he leaves on Monday. I think I'll be able to do it!

My grief process continues to be a learning experience. I'm surprised at the strength of my longing to contact my dad, to talk to him again, to share some of the news (Harry's straight A's in his first semester at the JC, Ben's report from the neurosurgeon: no more MRI's for 5 years!) and just to say hi. I can't believe he's really completely and totally gone. The finality of it is baffling, breath-taking, sometimes overwhelming. I'm overcome with great sadness now and then, but it's for shorter periods. It really is a process and as life has calmed down in other ways (those issues that plagued me at the start of the fall have all ALL resolved themselves...thank god!...) I've had more space to just be. That's been so peaceful.

Peaceful me. That's where I am. Thankfully.

asleep at the wheel

2010-11-27T21:06:00.000-08:00

This was a melancholy week. I am still feeling a tide of inertia sweep over me daily. I wake up in good spirits, but as the hours tick by I feel less inclined to move forward into the projects of the day and more like just zoning out, numbing my brain. The computer and the many, many amazing blogs out there in the internet twilight zone lull me into a strange sleeping wakefulness. I am drawn to the blogs and photostreams of some very creative and crafty people and can spend hours and hours gazing at them, being inspired in a way, but can't seem to light the fire in my own hands and eyes to create. I feel asleep at the wheel.

I don't want to cook. I don't want to clean. I don't want to read or knit or sew or paint. I just gaze, and simmer, and stare out the window.

It was difficult to even get up the energy for Thanksgiving at my loving cousin's house. Once there, surrounded by family, I was good. But that morning, that afternoon...it was an effort.

I am trying to be patient with myself. I am giving myself space. I am stunned at the time it is taking to gather myself together and get back to normal. And I wish that the time I spent in my quiet numbness would feel like a valuable expenditure of time. Unfortunately, the perfectionist in me, the overachiever in me feels a loss. At the end of the day I look at the clock, shake my head to clear it and take stock of the time I have wasted, with nothing accomplished, nothing to show for the passage of all those minutes. An emptiness is what is embracing me these days.

I had such anticipation for this period following the celebration of his life, thinking that I would feel lighter with the weight of that event off my shoulders. But I now realize that it will still take time, a march onward of the days and hours, until I begin to notice the sun peeking through the clouds, and a lightness returning to my step.

my father's navy watch cap

2010-11-24T16:45:00.000-08:00

It took my dad several months to figure out how to access my blog. I'm not exactly sure what was so elusive about it for him. But after sending him a link numerous times he finally got on it, and read it, this summer. He was pretty surprised, I think, that we both were writers and he loved the stories of my life that he found here. We had a lot in common. More than I realized for most of my life. Our looks, our love of photography and writing, our tempers. Our distractable minds, our cleft chins, and our love of family.

The poem below was my closing for the celebration of Dad's life we held on Sunday. I read it and then we followed it with a communal recitation of the Kaddish, the Jewish mourner's prayer.

My Father's Navy Watch Cap

11-19-10

I wear my father’s navy watch cap these days

when I go down to the pasture

on cold mornings

I knitted it for him early this year

He waited patiently for it

but I was otherwise engaged

- a sweater for myself

- a scarf for my sister in England

- a neck warmer for my mother

taking precedence,

in line before his thick, navy watch cap

He waited patiently,

though I could hear his eyes glitter when we talked about it

a cozy hat

to cover his head

just like the one he had in the navy

When I finally finished it and

sent it down to him,

it was spring

and spring in Los Angeles is barely spring

in other regions

it is more like the long beginning of summer,

temperatures in the 70’s, as you know,

not much need for a thick, navy watch cap

knitted by your oldest daughter,

your biggest-tallest

And yet he wore it

proudly, I suppose,

when the moment required it

when the thermometer dipped

a bit low

and his balding pate felt a chill

He dug around in the basket of his scooter

and pulled out the hat

then tugged it snuggly over his head,

thinking, I hope,

of the love knit into each stitch

It was there waiting for me to take it home

when he died

in the basket of the lonely scooter

not even worn through one winter

his winter

an LA winter of sorts

These days when I don my mud-encrusted boots

and button up my flannel barn coat,

I also grab my father’s navy watch cap

and pull it on over my thick head of graying hair

like a hug

and the memory of our last conversation

and the words “I love you”

I want to tell you I have other hats

but this is the one that calls to me each morning

I open the door, pulling on my gloves

and think about the day’s list

- what will occupy me

- what I need to attend to

- what takes precedence

and what will have to wait

And as winter approaches and fall fast becomes a memory

I tug my father’s navy watch cap down around my ears

and bring him with me to feed the animals

down in the pasture

A celebration of a life

2010-11-21T21:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my father's 79th birthday. Today we held his memorial.

Over 70 people came. Family, friends, old and newer. Business associates from 40 years ago. Both of the original partners from his beloved firm Stonefield Josephson. Two of three ex-wives! The tables were full, the flowers beautiful, the food abundant and tasty (from Canter's deli on Fairfax Ave. in LA), and a strong mid-night storm scrubbed the air clean to showcase the LA skyline and mountains covered with snow.

I did my dad proud. And now I can take a deep breath, sit back in my chair and relax.

Here are the words I opened the event with:

I don't know if you knew this, but my dad was a photographer. He absolutely loved pictures and taking pictures and he lined his bedroom walls with photos of all his beloved people, a constant reminder, like a group hug every time he looked at them.

When he was in high school, Dad set up a dark room in his closet and soon became known as the go-to guy for party photos. He often told me how much he loved that. Basically, he attained a certain popularity by being a sought-after photographer and because he was behind the camera he didn't have to navigate the tricky social terrain of the teenager. He got to be at the party without really being at the party. Clever, eh? Not bad for a shy stutterer...And he developed quite the skill with the camera. All these years later some of our most cherished family photos are the ones Dad took.

I knew my dad through the lens of the oldest child. Who he was, or who I thought he was and what I knew about him had much to do with my own lens, my own view of him. He was the man who stood at my door early every morning singing silly made up songs meant to encourage me to rise, he was the man who smoked a stinky cigar, who had a temper that flared unexpectedly and hotly, who listened when I talked but not all that well, who loved to sit next to the keel of a sailboat and breathe the salt air. He was the man who tagged along quite happily with my high school marching band and who walked me down the aisle on my wedding day.

I knew my father through the lens of his child, even as I moved deep into my own adulthood. I really only could see him through that lens.

As he aged, we aged, however, and our relationship deepened and grew. We did not have a fairytale relationship, it was not trouble-free. But, compassion and acceptance allowed me to appreciate that Dad loved me, us, with his whole heart. So, when he died our connection was whole and clear.

I cannot hope to encapsulate for you the highlights of his life all on my own. I cannot stand here and tell you about the man you knew, perhaps better in some ways and less in others than I.

And so I welcome you here today to share your stories and to hear some of his. For a brief time we can honor that avid photographer by overlapping all of our lenses to put together a picture of who Joel Stonefield was and to celebrate his life.

suspension of disbelief

2010-11-17T22:09:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me yesterday as I worked on my father's memorial service, that I can not believe he is dead. I CAN NOT wrap my mind around it. It is positively unbelievable to me. He is in the other room. He is in LA and I'm up here. He's at his computer, grousing about Sarah Palin or the Tea Party movement. He's watching a movie on Netflix with Mildred, his loving caregiver and sweetheart, pictured above. He's not dead, he's not gone, he's not a pile of ashes in a box in my sister's apartment.

He's not. He's NOT, I tell you.

What did Elizabeth Kubler-Ross call this? Denial?

As I put together a program for the service my siblings and I are hosting this coming Sunday, I have looked at many photos of the man who gave me the dimple in my chin and 1/2 my DNA. I read all the stories he wrote for his memoirs. I cried a bunch. And every time I looked into his eyes I felt his presence, not his absence.

It's been almost 3 months and it still feels impossible. How will I talk about him as if he's gone, if I can't wrap my head around that fact? I asked myself.

And then a thought floated to the surface of my brain. The suspension of disbelief: the willingness on the part of the reader to overlook the implausible or fantastic in order to believe...The suspension of judgment in order to accept the unbelievable (or just swallow it).

I need to do that now. It feels like time. And yet.

I should be packing. I have been attending to so many little details, big details too. The program. The number of people attending. The flowers (deligated). The food and drink (deligated). The paper goods (deligated). The obituary (mine).

I had a brilliant idea the other night to have family and friends read from my dad's stories at the event. I will also be posting some of them here, so that you too, dear reader, can get a sense of my dad's sense of humor. It feels wonderful to laugh with him, to hear his voice (it is so, so clear to me). The melancholy part feels so out of place right now. But as I said in my last post, I am missing him so very much.

So, here's the first one, one of my favorites, The Chaplain:

The Chaplain

by Joel Stonefield

In mid 1955, I was transferred to the USS Gainard, a sleek World War II destroyer, loaded with torpedoes, depth charges, 5 inch (diameter) guns…and me, an eager 23 year old supply officer with a weird sense of humor

My time aboard the Gainard consisted of an uneventful year at the Naval Base at Newport Rhode Island, BUT THEN….In the Spring of 1956, President Nasser of Egypt took over the Suez Canal from

Great Britain

. Gainard was immediately dispatched to the Persian Gulf to look after

America

’s oil.

First, a very brief story from the peacetime Navy.

While in the States, our squadron was assigned one chaplain for the entire eight-ship group. He acted as a sort of circuit preacher, moving for brief stays – of two to four weeks -- from one ship to another. When our ship’s turn came, we welcomed the young fellow to our fold. He turned out to be rather humorless and over-serious – not a great formula for popularity in the tight quarters of the Destroyer Navy.

Our visit with the Padre included a two-week training exercise – straight time at sea. Each night at “taps” the chaplain would gravely announce over the ship’s loudspeaker system:

“THIS IS THE CHAPLAIN. SHALL WE PRAY?”

The officers and crew were constantly grumbling about the Chaplain and his long-winded and boring nightly sermons.

Finally, the brief cruise ended. What do sailors want as soon as they hit port? Payday!! That meant me.

Minutes before the payday was to start, I asked one of my watch-standing buddies to go to the bridge with me. I asked him “How can I make an announcement to all hands? After he showed me which lever to pull, I suggested that he “take off”. Knowing I was up to no good, he did as I asked.

Next came the moment for which I had been waiting …….I pressed the lever and with my best official voice I solemnly intoned:

“THIS IS THE DISBURSING OFFICER. SHALL WE PAY?”

Tangled up in blue

2010-11-13T00:12:00.000-08:00

Dad and Ben on our last visit in June.

It's been over two months since my dad died.

Lately, my heart has been racing a bit too much. Localized anxiety. Generalized chaos. I put my head on my pillow and my mind churns and my heart runs away. I write things down on lists and then forget to do them. I remember things I need to take care of while I'm down in the pasture or in the shower, and then forget to write them on the list.

I keep wondering when the clouds will break, when I will calm down, when my head will clear. Things are easing up, but before me still lies my father's memorial service, an event that will bring us closure of one sort while opening up my heart, as well. I am coordinating the event (which we're calling "A Celebration of His Life" and which we're holding the day after what would have been his 79th birthday). I have been feeling blocked about the plan, the design, of it all. The more concrete details are taken care of. But what I will say, what we will read, what pieces of poetry or music I want to include is all up to me and still undecided.

We will gather at Kingsley Manor, in the Sky Room, a lovely spot at the top of the building he lived in. When he was alive and I was visiting we had several wonderful family and friend gatherings up on the roof, my cousin Beth bringing in large salads and pizzas and platters of bbq chicken wings. Dad would sit in his motorized scooter, enjoying the kids buzzing around and the variety of folk who came to enjoy each others' company and the view of all Los Angeles from that rooftop patio. So it is appropriate that we celebrate him there one more time.

The last time I saw him, in June of this year, we had one of those parties. He was both thrilled that we were there and exhausted by what it required of him. I noticed that time that he was a bit befuddled, a bit more distracted, and much more tired than I'd ever seen him before. It worried me.

In the past, my dad held it together at each momentous juncture in his aging process. After a serious car accident in 1985 when he temporarily lost the vision in both of his eyes, he only told me about it months later. (I'd been living in Italy at the time.) After that he suffered from some neurological issues that were finally diagnosed as Multiple Sclerosis in about 1990. He took it in stride over the many years the disease progressed, somewhat resigned to the weekly shots of interferon, enjoying the chance to flirt with the nurse. At my wedding in 1991, he proudly walked me down the aisle, dragging his bum leg along behind, tripping on the unfortunate white sheet marking the path in the grass, and almost falling down. I never heard him complain about that.

In fact, he never complained about his condition. He almost went the opposite direction. When it finally came to pass that he needed to move into an assisted living facility four years ago he argued fiercely that it wasn't necessary. After all, he was still young, in his 70's and those places are full of old fogeys. But, after a painfully difficult visit up to us it was obvious to me and Mark that there was no other option. He was living at the time in an apartment that was not wheelchair accessible, he could barely walk 10 feet, he needed a cane or two, and when he was feeling ill he had no way to care for himself.

I resorted to tough love.

I told him that if he didn't look for a place to live now when he was in relatively good shape, we would most certainly face a crisis situation when he took a fall, injured himself, was in the hospital incapacitated, and I would have to find the quickest, easiest solution, even if it wasn't the most desirable. I wasn't particularly nice about it, as I recall. But Mark was. I remember quite clearly Mark's gentleness at that moment. I'm not sure why I was so hard on Dad. Maybe because I'd been talking about it for a while with him and he'd been avoiding it, steering around it, denying how bad the situation actually was. I felt like I could see the future and I could feel him turning his face away.

I also knew I'd be left holding the bag, the one who would have to pick up the pieces, so I needed him to pay attention.

I need to say right here, I need to interject, that I never had a storybook, fairytale relationship with my dad. He was too distracted by work, his own pursuits, his needs, his second wife, his other family to really be there for me. He rarely picked up the pieces for me, and certainly never did after my parents divorced when I was 15. So when I think about that tough love speech, that was love tangled up with anger, anger about having to be a grown up for my own father. It had me in knots.

Ultimately, he heard me or maybe it was Mark, and a couple weeks later the family took a trip down to LA so that Dad and I could take care of it. We toured several retirement homes and found Kingsley. It was basically in the barrio, a section of LA near freeways, downtown and a very ethnic neighborhood full of Armenians, Salvadorans, Latinos, and Asians. The neighborhood has a fairly run down and scruffy feel, but Kingsley, formerly the Lutheran home, is a beautiful oasis in the midst of the city. The campus takes up several acres, has architecturally detailed old brick buildings, rose gardens, green lawns, and patios. The dining room was nice and bright and the people seemed happy. Dad signed up right away and moved in within a month.

I know he was feeling tentative, moving this direction is a one way ticket. (I've often said that it's like moving into the college dorms only people don't graduate, they die. And as awful as it sounds, it's the truth.) He was hesitant about giving up his independence, but as soon as he got there he was relieved. He called me within the first week to thank me, something I think he'd never done before in my whole life. He told me that he hadn't realized how lonely he was and how hard life had gotten for him. As soon as he moved in he was made to feel welcome. People greeted him every time he left his room. He called the ladies at his dining table "My Girl Scouts" and they were happy to have him there, it seemed. Soon he had a new girlfriend!

But the other side of that coin was that as soon as he moved in his condition worsened. While we'd told them he was still ambulatory, within a couple weeks he only used the motorized scooter to get around. Walking was so effortful, he endeavored to never have to.

Yet, life was good there. There was that slide, and then things evened out for quite a while.

But later that year he had a mild heart attack and again we saw a downhill turn. Less mobility, less energy. Several months later he had a bout of pneumonia which left him in the hospital for two weeks. Before he came home we arranged for a caregiver to come in the mornings to help him get up and dressed. He protested and we insisted. He agreed to it "for a few months" and we knew it was for good. A few weeks later he again thanked me, realizing after the fact how much energy and how many hours had been devoted to just the basic first steps of each day. It was a relief to have help with those tasks, to be able to conserve his energy.

Dad never complained. He never moaned about his lot in life. After the pneumonia I spent a full day trying to organize his medications, something he assured me he had a handle on. There were so many! At least 15 including vitamins! I was completely overwhelmed by his situation, I could only imagine how it affected him to have so many "conditions" (besides the MS there was also Chronic Lymphocitic Leukemia, high blood pressure, depression, prediabetes, obesity...maybe more). About his decreasing mobility he never whined. He just faced his life with a positive attitude.

When he had to give up his car he lost a lot of mobility. I was thankful he'd managed to avoid any dreadful mishaps, but he was depressed, his vehicle being not only a symbol of his independence, but the last actual vestige of it. He still managed to go out to eat, enjoying the multitude of tiny ethnic restaurants in his neighborhood, but it wasn't the same as having wheels.

However, towards the end I heard more and more a tinge of loneliness in the small print of our conversations. He told me how the space he lived in was between bed, desk and bathroom. And that the fact was he didn't have much desire to go out of his room and socialize. I worried about that, seeing his weight increase, his energy decrease, and his mobility evaporate. Soon, I felt, we were going to have to talk about the second level of care at Kingsley; Siberia, as he called it.

A few weeks before he died he took a fall while getting into bed. Ordinarily he got into bed at about 7 pm, when Mildred, his loving caregiver came in to help him with his compression boot and do his nighttime routines. But that night he wasn't ready to go to bed, so he sat at his computer watching Rachel Maddow on MSNBC.com. When he was ready he turned his chair, aimed himself, and launched to the bed. But for some reason he missed and fell on the floor. He was unable to get himself up due to his weight (he was close to 300 lbs at that point) and his limited flexibility. His cell phone was on the table far from where he was and no one was going to be coming by to check on him until Mildred returned at 7 am to get him up the next morning. For four hours he scooted himself closer and closer to where his cell phone sat in its cradle charging. Finally, after all that time he was able to knock it down to where he could grab it and he called the front desk to get someone in to help him up.

I received a call from the head nurse the next morning. I could see the writing on the wall. Dad was surprised I was concerned. He downplayed it all, and told me he was fine. He told me that, but I think he knew.

That slide, that decent, was happening. I think Dad knew it and I knew it. I turned my face away from it, I really did.

Two nights before my father passed away he dreamt that his mother had come to get him. She held him in her arms.

I spoke to him after this, but he didn't tell me. He told Mildred and he told his Girl Scouts. They told me about it. They told me he was scared, he was quiet. It affected him a great deal.

When I heard this story I felt the truth of it open up my heart. My grandmother had come to get my father. He knew it was time and so he went with her.

I miss my dad these days. I can't quite believe how much I miss him. When I look at the photos of him they are all full of his life, his laugh, his somewhat annoying banter. He has always been a part of my life and now...I just want the joke to be over, I want him back so I can give him another hug and tell him I appreciate his strength and his optimism. I know I didn't do that enough when he was here and I don't feel guilty, but I do feel regret.

I guess, though, that's alright.

Go ahead, laugh

2010-11-06T08:17:00.000-07:00

That's right. You can laugh at my weak attempt to control my life.

So much for waking up early to write. So much for going to bed early. Once!

Over the past 12 days my life swirled chaotically around me. I can't even begin to describe the issues I'm faced with, they bother me so much. Suffice it to say, I am taking a lot of deep breaths around here.

There is no end in the foreseeable future. Maybe by the beginning of next month things will calm down. I will be past a couple big hurdles. And maybe I'll be able to talk about them then.

For now, I am taking pleasure in the little moments in my life. The donkeys' squeaky-creaky bray, the taste of fresh baked banana bread (when life gives you mushy bananas--make banana bread! isn't that the saying?), and the insights on life from my youngest child.

The weather's changing, bringing gorgeous sunsets and foggy, foggy mornings. It's cooling down (well, some days are) so I've taken out my knitting again and starting some new projects. I've also begun to organize my craft studio/office space and that feels like something extremely positive.

November: Seriously Autumn. I'm ready for a new season. Very, very ready.

making space for the words

2010-10-25T21:16:00.000-07:00

I used to keep journals before I became a word processor. I used to process my words with a pencil or pen and a beautiful little book on my bedside table. I’d write long, self-reflective entries on my dreams or my boyfriends or my kids. And I put them on a shelf for posterity.

Now I write a blog and enjoy the way it seeps out into the world and then comes back to me. It’s not as private, true. There are topics I won’t go into here that could be written in a personal journal, tucked away in my nightstand. But, there’s a beauty in writing for an audience that motivates me. That even makes me think of myself as a writer. I mean, A Writer. Maybe it’s my exhibitionist side (you didn’t know that about me, did you?). Or maybe it’s leftover from girlhood when I hated keeping secrets. I know that at this point in my life writing is one of my true loves and a craft I intend to hone and delve into and savor.

[I heard today that every day 81,000 new blogs appear on the internet. Sheesh. I’m trying not to feel like a needle in a haystack. I’m trying not to feel like I’m in junior high again, hoping to be in the “in crowd.”]

Regardless, now I journal on my blog and you, Dear Reader, may choose to read or move on.

Finding time to write, in fact, finding time to do anything on my “me” list is a challenge. But part of the challenge these days is a general lack of schedule or the willpower to abide by such. Other than things I need to get the kids to (the JC, 4H meetings, Park Day, Science class, Hebrew school, etc.) there aren't a lot of things I need to get myself to. And few, if any, of these things are in the early hours of the day. So I awake with Mark (who has to be at work somewhere around 8 or 8:30) and mosey on over to the computer to check email or read one of the 30 trillion blogs I love to follow. And eventually, far too late in the morning, I get downstairs and down to the pasture to feed my equines. When I get back up to the house a half hour later I wake the boys up. It's usually about 9:30 but sometimes it's 10 and then we really have to hustle to do our 15 minute tidy of one room of the house, have breakfast, other chores, pack a lunch (as if), and get going for the day. Or, on the days when they have no specific plans away from the house...then we fritter the time away. We do? Oh yes. We Fritter.

Would that I had the self-discipline to arise in the wee hours of the morn to write. Would that I had the self-discipline to walk right by the door to the office and go down the stairs in the half-light to feed the animals out in the muddy (right now) or dusty (last week) pasture. Just this one bit of self-control (don’t touch the keyboard, don’t check to see what emails came in overnight, don't sit down to read other people's blogs) would give me hours to write, to contemplate, to meditate before the boys got up. So, the truth is that if I prioritized my daily chores, and reminded myself that throwing down hay in the cold morning air is a task I do for myself, not drudgery, if I convinced myself that I have a job that actually starts every morning at 6 am rather than 9, I might actually have more peace, more me for me and more words to share with you.

I like this idea immensely. But then when the alarm goes off (we haven’t used an alarm except sporadically since all three boys started homeschooling five years ago) at 6 o'clock try to motivate me to jump out of bed. Sure, the first time, ok. But daily? I just don’t know. That is a challenge. A sacrifice. With my perimenopause insomnia, my nightowlishness, my late hour time wasting, 7 am is a tough hour at which to arise let alone 6.

Excuses aside though, I’m willing to give it a go.

Tomorrow I will rise in the dark, don my muddy jeans, wool socks, thermal tee, navy blue watch cap I knitted for my dad last year (and inherited on August 26th, the day after he died), flannel barn jacket, rainboots, and nitrile gloves. I'll stumble right by the warm office and trudge downstairs to collect from the fridge the ground flax seed and iodized salt and vitamin E supplements already measured out for the critters. I will step carefully down the sodden hill to the hay barn and be greeted by the squeaks and wuffles of my donkeys and horses. And when I'm done I'll get to come back inside to a warm cup of tea, a piece of toast, and my words waiting for crafting.

it's a journey, that's all i know

2010-10-19T15:31:00.000-07:00

first view of tomales bay
taken with my iphone's awesome hipstamatic app

Sunday was drizzly as I returned, nourished, from our synagogue's Women's Retreat. Thirty hours with just us girls, singing, talking, praying, eating, laughing, and crying together. I gave and I received. And in the end enjoyed the journey so much.

The retreat is held bi-yearly at the Marconi Conference Center in Marshall, a small town known for its oysters on Tomales Bay. It's not far from where I live and I love that: getting away is so easy, just a 45 minute drive through the countryside and *poof* I'm in another world.

Well, ok, so the world isn't actually so terribly different from where I live, but there are no children to homeschool, no chores to do, no manure to pick up. A lot more estrogen and a lot less testosterone!

My life of late has been swirling around me, approaching a level of frenzy that I hadn't forseen. With Harry attending the JC, ballroom dancing, working at the synagogue, and practicing meditation at Spirit Rock in Marin, Mark and I barely see each other as we're driving him back and forth, picking him up or waiting for him in all those locations four nights a week. (He just got his driver's permit and began behind the wheel driving lessons this morning, but really, I'm not so excited about that anyways.) Add to that our blossoming homeschool group with weekly park days and teen and tween events. And then there's our new science class at Magi's house every couple weeks. And 4H club...and...and...you get the picture.

I've been trying to plan my father's memorial as well. And there just hasn't been much time.

Time. Lack of time. It's a recurring theme for me, have you noticed? It's not that I don't want to take the time for myself, nor is it a lack on Mark's part of trying to give me some space to do the things I need and want to do. It's just that I have a lot on my plate...a lot to accomplish...a lot of "to do's" to do. And maybe I'm not the best at prioritizing.

So, this weekend I prioritized. I put me at the top of my list. I put me up front and center. And the result was wonderful.

I helped lead services with music. Jewish music is one of my passions and I've been a songleader for years. This was my second time leading the retreat services and it was the best. Singing with women's voices, sharing new beautiful and meaningful music, praying while singing, singing to pray...all of that moves me like nothing else.

The Torah portion for this week was Lech L'cha...in which God speaks to Avram (not yet Abraham) and tells him He will lead him forward on a journey to a land he does not yet know (basically, "Avram, bubbeleh, trust Me! I'm the One and Only. Enough with the idols!"). Hence the theme of the weekend was journeys.

Now that is something that really resonated with me. My father's recent death, Ben's medical trials, recent hubbub in one of my homeschool communities, being a mother, entering menopause...all of this is a journey. I am constantly looking within and trying to find the right path, the right words, what is true for me. I feel like I live authentically and my life is full of blessings, but of late it has been hard to find myself in all my life swirling around me.

So, during the workshop periods on Saturday I went off by myself. I gave myself permission to not be social and to just be with my number one priority: ME.

First, I walked the amazing labyrinth created by Margo and Marcia from our congregation. Margo spoke about the journey and the symbolism of the labyrith at the Friday night service.

from wikipedia.org: ...a single-path (unicursal) labyrinth has only a single, non-branching path, which leads to the center. A labyrinth in this sense has an unambiguous route to the center and back and is not designed to be difficult to navigate.

I did a meditative walk through the labyrinth, breathing in and out consciously with each step, repeating to myself: Breathe in, breathe out, step, step, step. I meditated on each footfall, I meditated on my breath. And when I got to the center I realized a few powerful metaphors about the labyrinth, namely:

as you walk the path to the center you pass by all that you have already walked and all that you have yet to walk
you enter the same way you exit
from the center you can see the whole journey, beginning to end
going in my eyes were on the ground, the path, and going out my eyes went up, to the sky...I trusted that I could find my way more going out

It was a powerful experience. I loved the quiet there in the field, the simplicity of the path of pinecones, the sounds of ravens and the wind in the pines. I learned a lot and felt myself relaxing and opening up.

I also sat and sketched this scene through the trees, of the fishing boats on the quiet bay.

After lunch, I gathered several layers (it had gotten quiet cold, a real sense of winter approaching), my brand new watercolors, my watercolor paper, my pencil case, my iPhone for music, and a large and small jar of water for drinking and painting. I didn't know what I was going to do exactly, but I knew there was something that wanted to come forth. I wandered the hills of the conference center for a bit and found a quiet bench looking out over the bay, looking away from the activity buildings, so I knew I would not get distracted.

I set my materials up and bundled up myself, turned my iPhone onto a loop of Craig Taubman music and opened up my art supplies.

It didn't take long before I'd written "me" in the center and started to mind map, asking myself over and over: Who am I? Mind mapping is a great process, one I've used many times to find clarity. I have a book I love called Mapping Inner Space that has been an inspiration for this type of process. It's verbal and artistic, emotional, psychological and very creative. I used it years ago when I was struggling with the idea of bringing Toby and Ben home to homeschool them, too, and it really helped bring clarity to the situation.

So, when I began the process on that quiet, cold hillside, I knew it was just what I needed. But I kept getting caught up in the words. Mother, daughter, sister, friend, wife...all those words seemed to define me from the perspective of how I related to someone else. "Who am I at my CORE?" I kept asking myself. And then I started listing words, turned off the editor, and finally found them:

caregiver leader creator sharer partner
do-er teacher giver lover

These words started to make sense to me. For a long time I drew pictures, painted colors, and wrote more words to help the meaning surface. And then, near the end of my available time, I realized I needed to include my dark side...the side that worries and fears the worst. So I added "pessimist" under a dark cloud, and I felt that the work was more complete.

Here it is:

I have shown it to many friends, the women at the retreat, and my homeschool moms. Many people are loving it, but one thing they don't get is that it's not a work of art for me. It's a process. A piece, not a whole. Not even complete. Just like I am...a work in progress. I realized yesterday while talking to my friend Mindy at the park, that I'd left out a big piece: questioner, I might call it, but it will hold the ideas of faith, spirituality, Jew, God or no God, the universe and beyond. It amazes me that on the retreat I could have left out that part...but maybe I just didn't even have the space, the emotional space, to start looking deeper into that right then. Who knows?

It's all a journey. That's all I know.

**************

A friend of mine, G, has posted a picture of her "self-portrait". I urge you to check it out and then go make your own!

letting go

2010-10-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

Today I, after feeding the equines, I sat on my deck in the cool of the morning and meditated.

My mind refused to be silenced. Though I repeated, "Breathe in. Breathe out," it would not quiet down. Thoughts of conflicts, of my to do list, of the rest of the day, judgments about myself and others, even what I would write about it eventually buzzed in my skull.

"Let it go," I suggested.

"BE QUIET," I ordered.

And still there was only noise.

I sent blessings of well being to my friends and my family. I blessed myself. I breathed in. I breathed out.

All through me ran a stream of unhappiness, of judgment and of inertia.

And then I decided that all of that, all that negativity was a choice I was making. (I've been reading Sylvia Bornstein's "Happiness is an Inside Job: Practicing for a Joyful Life.") And wasn't it the most self-indulgent kind of choice? So, instead I chose to let it all go, to enjoy what I have, to lighten my load.

After 20 minutes of struggle I finally felt at peace. I opened my eyes, breathed in deeply and hung some laundry on the line.

it's about time

2010-09-21T00:06:00.000-07:00

I've been hitting a wall of late in terms of word flow. Oh, I have ideas, and usually they come to me when I'm out in the pasture scooping up piles of manure. But when I've sat myself down with the intention of writing I find only that I have chosen avoidance and really gotten nowhere. It's been very hard to concentrate and it's been very hard to put my finger on the point I'd like to make.

The last time I posted was the last time I had a few hours alone...16 days ago. When I say alone I mean A.LONE. No one but me around. At my home. Alone is not, in my book at least, when I'm in the office and everyone else is down in their rooms watching tv or on the computer or playing a game. Alone is they're gone and I'm here. No interruptions.

Facing the fact that life is so full that in sixteen days I haven't had another period of alone time, except perhaps a car ride by myself, makes me stop and shudder...because a soul needs more time off, more private time, than a few hours every 16 days. And that being said, I don't really count the moment, this moment, as time off, since everyone is here with me and I expect to hear "Maahh-ahhm" called from downstairs at any moment, or the click of the bedside light as Mark gives up on me coming to bed at a reasonable hour and turns in himself.

But tonight I was reading about my friend Maya's adventures on her blog, Tales from the Tour, and it hit me that right now her life is as opposite to mine as possible. She is travelling across the country and back, sharing her poetry with others and teaching poetry workshops. She is driving, by herself, thousands of miles. She is meeting new friends and some old, sleeping in their guest rooms, eating at their kitchen tables. Sharing stories and smiles and favorite coffee bars.

And did I mention she's alone? All by herself? No one to talk to but little old Maya?

[Our house was her very first stop on her Tour de Word and it was a magical couple of days. She helped us feed the equines, she accompanied me to a friend's farm to pick up fresh eggs and raw milk. And then, she taught two writing workshops in our living room, one for teens and moms and one for younger kids in our homeschool community. All three of my boys participated with enthusiasm, Harry said afterwards that it was the first time he felt inspired to write in his life. (And boy, did he deliver!) Ben, who ran away from home (temporarily, you know, for a few minutes) several months ago when I insisted he write something, sat on the edge of his seat all night, gazing intently at Maya and then writing with furvor when given each assignment.]

I know Maya from the days when I attended Wild Writing workshops at my friend Laurie's home in Alameda. Those were lovely times when I spent hours on myself, crafting poetry or narrative, looking deep within myself and then letting it all pour forth from my fingertips and the ink of my pen.

And that's where I come back to my point. My life, rich and full, fast and furious, is missing a very key element. The element of time for me to draw or write or meditate or craft or walk or ride or pick through the racks at the thrift store. I need to carve out an hour or a day or a weekend for just me, regularly, repeatedly, before I evaporate before my very eyes. I have all sorts of dreams for me: time to improve my blog/writing/photography, time to draw and journal, time to learn to preserve food, time to craft, time to purge all the dust and clutter in my beautiful house, time to build a relationship with my horse.
Oh, and time to grieve. That has become something that happens on the edges of my days, sneaking up on me at night or waking up with me in the gray morning hours. I can spend afternoons accomplishing little, and I forget to even check my to do list, that I even have a to do list.

I've been told by several beloved friends to be good to myself. And so I'm trying. Don't be surprised if you don't hear from me again for a bit. And, then, don't be surprised if you hear from me again tomorrow. I don't know which way I may go, but I'll be taking care of me. I promise.

And now, I'm off to tuck a boy in. ("Maaaahhh-aaahm!!") And hopefully get to my own bed before Mark turns out the light.

a lesson from my father

2010-09-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

Who knew the universe had this for me to learn?

* * * * * *

Acceptance

In the past couple years, after decades of struggling, I came to a peaceful place in my relationship with my dad. I stepped back and accepted it “as is.”

My father was someone who could love deeply without having a deep relationship. This was something I had not fully grasped or understood before. How was that even possible? But, as his life was pared down—by circumstance, his limited mobility, his age, the end of his third marriage—he became less distracted by his own life and drew his attention to mine, and what I had created with my husband and sons, in a way he never had done when I was younger. That doesn’t mean we suddenly had long meaningful talks or that hurts of the past were erased from memory. But he loved us fully. He adored my boys. He was thrilled that I had found my soulmate. I was able to give to him, take care of him, and pay attention to him after years of resenting that kind of expenditure on my part. When I accepted him I realized that years of wishing it to be different had only created years of deep disappointment and that the change in my heart was very healing.

Acceptance has made the past week much easier to bear. No holes to fill. No arguments left unwon. No expectations unmet. I have no anger towards him. I am only feeling love, and a calm and an understanding that truly would have been unfathomable to me a few years ago.

A few days into the week with him gone, as this awareness of my own inner peace washed over me, I realized that this is my lesson to take forward into all my relationships. Why only accept my father? Why not my mother or my sister or an old friend? Why not just accept everyone for their strengths and weaknesses and let the negative stuff fly right by me?

So yesterday, when Mark and the boys went off to play at the river (they left me in our still, quiet house; the only hours I’ve had to myself in over a week) I meditated on that. I meditated and chanted to myself: “I love you. I love you. I love you.” I pictured all the people in my life. And I sent my open heart to them. And then my meditation changed. I kept repeating “I love you,” but suddenly I saw myself. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I grew up judgmental and a perfectionist. I come from a long line of bitter grudge-bearers, folks who because of one angry event, or maybe a whole slew of them, cut ties with friends and relatives till the day they died. That’s something I’ve considered.

Acceptance. I have spent so much energy on anger over the years and anger is so debilitating. In the end, it’s my own self that is needing that acceptance and love.

I would not have believed this to be a lesson from my father. And yet, here I am today, stepping out of a lifelong mold.

my dad

2010-09-03T16:13:00.000-07:00

My father died suddenly last week and I'm having trouble gathering my thoughts. Not that I haven't written pages and pages of them. But nothing's come together yet that I would like to share.

So please have patience. I'll be back soon.

Until then, these photos:

summer garden expectations

2010-08-18T17:55:00.000-07:00

I was so happy that we finished a project this year. I asked for a garden this spring and that's exactly what I got. I showed you pics of it back after I first planted in June and now it is in full festoon. We harvest the beans, nasturtiums, herbs and squash every other day and still more come. I get so much pleasure from the snaking vines, the scents, the 8 foot tall towers of sunflowers. But, I am not a perfectionist in the garden. I've read some books, looked over the seed packets, and still my garden has issues. I am trying to look at this in a philosophical way and I'm learning about expectations.

I almost gave up on the beans. I almost pulled them out at one point in early June. They looked so wilty, so weak. And then, finally, they took hold and VA-VA-VOOM! Holy Moly! My beans are insane producers. I love hunting for them, my hair falling in my eyes (ok, I hate that part), searching through the dense underbrush of bean foliage and nasturtium tangles. There are always a zillion hiding out deep in that forest. Every day I get a full bucket of beans and then I make a marinated bean salad that is perfect summer potluck fare. Garlic-Dijon-Champagne vinaigrette over green and yellow beans (recipe below). Marinate all day. No cooking necessary. Crunchy, garlicky goodness!

The Cinderella pumpkin plant, below, is immense, taking up a full 12 foot bed. One seed made that plant. One little seed. I am awed by that kind of power. There are so many shoots and new pumpkins that I'm constantly cutting it back, giving some hope and energy to the ones already developing. It's hard for me to prune my veggies. Must be something in that that I could psychoanalyze, but suffice it to say I hate to minimize potential harvests. What I've found though is that some plants need the sting of the pruning sheer to flourish. The tomatoes are covered with blossoms but no fruit has appeared. The tomatillos are covered with empty paper lanterns but are waiting for the juicy green fruits to fill them from the inside out. Now that I see the wasted opportunity, I actually appreciate the idea of gardening with some reserve, with some self-control. It's like having a good sense of boundaries with your kids. A little uncomfortable to have such hard edges sometimes, but it's what they need to feel safe and to ultimately flourish.

When I planted the garden I had a combination of anxiety and impatience. Anxiety that nothing would grow and no patience to wait the time necessary to fill the empty spaces in between the plants. (I used to be like that with boys too, hating to wait for them to call me back, anxious about the future and the past until I'd talked to them again. It's been a long time since I had to play those games, and luckily, the guy I eventually got didn't seem to mind at all when I called him back right after a date!) So I planted plants in those in between spaces and now there are corners of the garden that I believe are suffering from claustrophobia. The bush beans are starting to keel over and the squash has stopped producing new fruit.

Of course, it's late August and we've barely had a handful of long, warm days. The wind from the ocean blows every afternoon and often brings a heavy wave of fog with it. There are mushrooms sprouting in our brand new organic compost + soil mix. I water by hand, but I'm never sure which things need more and which less.

But I guess I'm feeling sort of Zen about it. I accept it as it is. No need to improve. Everyone's having issues with their tomato crop this year. You can see many of my tomato plants have keeled over, musty and skeletal. I am thinking about planting a winter garden soon. My palate down in the garden needs some cleaning out. Lettuce, winter squash, maybe some Brussel sprouts. Lots of possibilities.

Honestly, I'm just glad we got through our challenges this past spring and were able to put a garden together.

I think the garden is helping me to deal with dashed expectations. Or maybe I should say "altered". This is somewhat of a struggle for me, the perfectionist homeschooling mom. I hate to live with no expectations, and yet every time I make a to do list for the boys or pile up a stack of books and materials to share with them I find that their agenda is apparently different from mine.

This year I've been collecting books that seem to relate to this place, our land, Mother Earth, Northern California. I have a strong urge to get us up and out of the house and to focus our attention on the horizon as well as the minutae around us. On our table is An Everyday History of Somewhere and Keeping a Nature Journal, a stack of brand new spiral bound sketchbooks, and some watercolor pencils. I have dreams of hiking and spotting jackrabbits, sitting quietly and watching hawks and vultures soar overhead. Honestly, we could sit on our deck and do some of that, but I want us to venture out a bit as well.

We homeschool year round, meaning we don't stop in June and start up in September, but we've been so out of kilter with Ben's surgeries, camp, camping trips and the like that we are not in a rhythm other than being in an unsatisfying one for me. I've started waking the boys up a bit earlier (9 am, not so early!) and writing a to do list of sorts on the white board the night before with things like: "Some things we may get to..." at the top. Maybe I'm not being forceful enough, but I've learned this much at least: If I force it they definitely don't show up!

I started reading An Everyday History to them yesterday. They were oh so resistant. For three days I'd written it on the white board and they'd avoided it in one fashion or another. But finally, I made them sit and listen yesterday. And guess what? They LOVED it. Toby has to figure out sitting quietly and focusing, but they all were intrigued by this lovely storyteller's history of the native peoples and animals of Northern California. Today I didn't need to coerce them at all and they even asked when we'd be reading it.

Tomorrow we head out to the annual California Homeschool Association conference in Sacramento. A weekend of fun, inspiration, and time in the pool with our friends. I haven't been looking forward to it nearly as much as in years past, but I'm starting to get excited. This year I'm volunteering in the exhibition hall rather than going to the lectures. This year I'll hang out more than soak up new information. I know more about what I want from our homeschooling life already six years into this life. But still, I'm trying not to have too many expectations, even low ones, of the weekend ahead, and yes, of the year ahead. I'm trying to let my garden teach me something. Having expectations often means having dashed ones.

That's such a negative, glass-half-empty kind of outlook, you know? Instead, I can choose to embrace the uncertainty, I can choose to wait with quiet patience and embrace the anxieties that go with not knowing what will come. I can also trust that if something fails, something else wonderful may fill the void left behind. I can do that, I'm sure.

Tomatoes are usually our favorite crop. But this year it's the beans.

Garlic-Dijon-Champagne Vinaigrette Beans

Ingredients:
Bucket o' beans
Nasturtium flowers for garnish
Dijon mustard
Champagne vinegar
Olive oil
Garlic
Salt and pepper

Trim beans. Place in a large ziplock plastic bag. In a bowl mix 1 T mustard, 1/2 c olive oil, 4 T vinegar, and 2 chopped cloves of garlic. Mix till they are fully incorporated. Pour into bag. Squeeze out air, zip closed. Toss until beans are covered with marinade. If there doesn't appear to be enough marinade, add more olive oil and vinegar. Marinate several hours in the fridge. Turn a couple times throughout the day.
To serve: Place in a serving bowl, pour marinade over beans, salt and pepper to taste and decorate with clean nasturtium flowers (I soak these in water to make sure the ants have evacuated!).

scenes of summer

2010-08-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a lot of trust in our technology situation of late, but finally organized some of the photos from our summer fun. Here are a few. No captions, since these photos say it all. More to come in a day or so.

the honeymoon is over

2010-08-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday all hell broke loose here. (Will I never learn to inform the universe that I'm feeling great?)

The boys started fighting with each other.
My horse got gimpy again. VERY gimpy.
The house is a total and complete wreck (two camping trips in direct succession and a cross-country trip for surgery will do that to a house).
Ants have invaded and staked out territory in the kitchen.
Mark and I talked about finances.

Well, I suppose I could have avoided the grief of the last on the list, but unfortunately, it's the month before the "new" year starts (schooling-wise) and I have plans. Big plans. Plus, Toby and I spent a couple days at the beach with Mark's sister and brother-in-law, and that got me to thinking how much our family needs a beach vacation. A vacation that doesn't involve surgery, as Ben would say.

And so the cash register started to b-rr-rr-rr-ing!

But the first four on the list, well, those just got me off on the wrong foot. I was literally in tears about Tess, my horse, who was doing great (just benignly neglected of late) foot-wise. She was very gimpy last year, but I healed her. And now, she's worse than before. Sigh. It feels as if any left over energy I might have gets funneled into someone with a chronic medical condition. Double sigh.

The morning hit its peak, though, when Toby and Ben were fighting over the breakfast table. Ben was feeling sorry for himself and apparently Toby and I weren't showing enough sympathy for his plight. (I was already taxed, having spent a couple hours dealing with Tess and calling various people who might have some insight and come to my aid.)

"I am feeling terrible about my life because of all the things I can't do!" he grumped.
"Oh, what things can't you do?" I asked, definitely not showing my usual compassion.
"Well, bungee jumping and sky diving," he said.
"You can do those when the rod comes out," I said.
"When I'm 19! I have to wait until I'm 19!" he said.
"How many people do you know who sky dive and bungee jump before they are 19? You'll just have to wait!" I wasn't getting any points for best mom here.

The conversation stopped but he glared at us. I returned to the reason for our raised voices: he had been calling Toby "stupid."

"Maybe you're not in the right frame of mind to go visit your friends today," I warned. Plans had already been made with Victor and Alex, two of Ben's favorite buds.
"No! You can't cancel that!" he and Toby shrieked together.

And then Toby burst into tears.
"Please don't cancel that!" he cried.
"Why are you crying, Toby?" Ben asked. "They aren't even your friends."
"Because," sob, sob, sob, "I just want you to have fun!" sob, sob, sob.
"But why are you crying about it?" Ben asked again, clueless.

"Because," Toby choked out, "I'm a mensch and mensches care more about other people than they do about themseeeeeeeellllllvvvves!" Oh boy! It was quite the moment, I can tell you.

Ben's eyes got pretty wide at that point, awareness dawning. Things calmed down. Apparently, Toby had justified himself and Ben apologized for his snarkiness. Moments later we rallied to get the car packed up for the day.

Suddenly, sobs rang out again. Ben and Toby had collided and Ben's back, specifically the exact spot where his adjustable growing rod attaches to his ribs, was in the epicenter of the collision.

Ben cried. And then, Toby cried. I stood and held one boy under each arm, patting them gently. "Ok, guys, it's gonna be ok," I said.

With that kind of morning, who needs nightmares?

Surgery the Sequel: Chapter Four

2010-08-04T14:17:00.000-07:00

I was visited by a memory this morning. It swooped in on me as I trudged up the stairs after feeding the equines and cleaning the pasture, kicking off my boots in the mudroom, and padding past Ben and Toby sitting on a window seat happily engrossed in a game of Magic: The Gathering.

The memory is this: I am sitting on our cushy love seat, Toby tucked in close on one side, Ben on the other. It is the day after Ben has finally, FINALLY come home from the hospital after having four surgeries for Chiari I malformation, two months to the day since the first surgery took place. I am feeling that I never ever want to be away from my children. I want to keep them home, next to me, safe. Whatever it takes.

Deja vu.

Ben is home again, and he is almost pain-free. He appears lighter in body and spirit. He is calm and even. Happy, considerate, grateful, mellow. He has focused on Toby and playing with Toby all day, much to Toby's intense happiness. The baby brother really REALLY missed the older one.

Driving Ben home from the airport last night we talked about being apart from each other while he was in Philly. "I'm going with you next time," I said.

Silence.

"Weeeeell, I don't think so, Mama," Ben said. "Daddy can move me, help me get up, reposition me," he paused, "I really need him for surgeries...and he doesn't mind helping me pee into a bottle."

Well huh. I protested a bit. ("I don't mind helping with the pee bottle!") But, I guess I can handle this.

I just want everyone to know that we're all lighter here today. We're at peace because our Benny is doing so well. Mark's coming home early from work, it's Make-Your-Own-Burrito night for dinner, and the piles of dirty laundry are scattered in front of the laundry room door. Life is getting back to normal.

But next time (9 months from now, according to Ben's surgeon), next time I'm going with him. (Anyone know of a place that I can order an extra large duffle bag from?)

Surgery the Sequel: Chapter Three

2010-08-01T23:04:00.000-07:00

A Yin and Yang Afternoon

Today Toby and I attended a picnic celebrating our friend James, a 17 year old Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma survivor. He was diagnosed with the disease at the turn of the year. He is one of Harry's friends and his mom, Sarah, is one of my dearest buds. This year he had chemo and radiation, lost all his hair, grew it back, and now is in the clear. The party was a thank you from Sarah and James' whole family out to their community for all the blessings and pots of soup and nights someone let the cat out and hugs that had been bestowed upon James' family this year.

I knew quite a few folks, mostly from our days at Harmony School in Occidental. People who know me and my kids and were actually around when Ben had his first serious experience with surgery, brain surgery, over four years ago. Of course, these folks want to know how Ben is and so, I told them. Mostly they were shocked to hear he was back in Philly for another surgery. It's like whiplash how fast the turn around was for this one.

At one point I stood with a few moms who were there for me four plus years ago. Moms who drove down to Oakland to take me out to dinner after Ben had been in the hospital for seven weeks, had had three surgeries and still wasn't healing. They all piled in a car and drove down to take me out for a diversionary dinner at which I learned that not only was I not the only one with a kid who'd spent time in the hospital, but every single one of us had a kid who at one time or another had spent time in the hospital. Every. Single. One.

Toby and I had another stop today. We were attending a gathering at our friends Anna and Dennis' home. Anna fought breast cancer two years ago and they just found four more tumors in her chest. So we gathered to bless her with our words, prayers and songs. I had my guitar with me and I led the group in some beautiful melodies of hope and healing.

Yesterday, just a day after Ben's surgery I felt such overwhelming lack of ambition. I was deflated, like a popped balloon. Looking back over the few weeks preceding the surgery I could add up the anxiety, the anticipation, the dread, the desire for it all to be over. And following that crescendo, Friday the surgery came and went in such a blur (I was truly asleep for most of it) and the relief was so strong to have come through, that Ben was okay, that it was over. The day after is always the day after. It's not a cliche for nothing. My day after was not so horrible, I suppose, but it still took me a bit by surprise.

As Toby and I were leaving James' picnic we got a call from Ben who had spent the whole day in pain. For some reason today was a hard day, but I've been told the third day after surgery is hard. That was today. Full of pain. (Have I mentioned how much I hate being on the other side of the country from my baby who is in pain?) He spent the day in bed. Grandma Joyce came to visit from New York. Dan the concierge brought him a popscicle. He's got his meds, so they're dealing with it. But, sheesh, I'm so tired of the pain...and it's not even mine.

I suppose I tell you all of this because we talked about blessings today at Anna and Dennis'. And Sarah's party was all about gratitude. And truly, when I have some energy I am so totally grateful for my friends, for hugs, for the popscicles and emails the blessings we get from our communities.

But in order to really see the blessings, there seems to be so much pain. Months of chemo or surgical wounds healing. Tears shed by a little brother missing his big brother while he's away. The anxiety and anger that fills my stomach as we wait to hear the results of a test. It feels like too much at times. And yet, I realize it's what life is all about. Every single one of us has wounds and loss and grief and where would we be without each other?

So, thank you for caring about me and thank you for accepting my songs of healing. This is not the end of my story, but I have a sniffly child sitting next to me who needs a hug.

Surgery the Sequel: Chapter Two

2010-07-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

Our Hero Bounds Back

Next time I’m going with him.

It didn’t occur to me until right before Ben left for Philadelphia that I’d never been apart from him when he had a surgery. Never, not once, in all the seven surgeries he had was I in even another building. And this time, surgery #8, I was across the country. That’s a bit too far.

It was not easy. For me. For him. I don’t want to repeat it.

I’ve never been with my other children when Ben’s had surgery either. I’ve never seen their anxieties rise to the surface, I’ve never hugged them before bed the night before his surgery to reassure them he would be okay in the morning. I’ve never seen their joy when hearing his voice after a surgery. And felt their relief when told he was on his way back to the hotel.

Until today.

Not that I didn’t know they felt all those things, but being present with them, and realizing that they also need a parent around during these moments of family crisis was important.

Last night Ben called before going to bed, completely undone by the distance between the two of us. It took a lot of self-control to console him and peel him off the phone into Mark’s arms. He requested that Harry, listening in on the speaker phone, invent a transporter device immediately so I could get to Philly on the double. He asked about 75 times that I hop on a plane and fly out to be there in the morning. His voice was like a small child’s, so vulnerable and sweet. Why did I agree to stay home, I asked myself.

But Toby held my hand as we walked up and down the stairs getting ready for bed, collecting toothbrush and toothpaste, a book to read, his retainer. I needed to get some emails out and update my Facebook status, and he spent the whole time calling from my bedroom, “Are you done yet? When are you coming in here?” Harry gave me a bearhug on the way to bed, after a long anguished day of the blues. I’d attributed it all to general teenage angst (I am so blind sometimes), but this morning he said, “You know, I think all that was about Ben.” You know, I think he’s right.

Next time, I think we’re all going with Ben.

Time has been surreal today. I few hours after saying goodnight to Ben, I awoke at 3 am, to call him as he rode in a taxi to the hospital. It was 6 am in Philly. He was still scared and unhappy, but at least the night was over. I noodled around, playing solitaire on my iPhone (and aggravating my carpal tunnel pain!) while I waited to hear from Mark that Ben had gone in to surgery. About 45 minutes later I got that call and somehow made my way back to bed, falling asleep until the next call, that he was out! Again falling asleep, I was awakened to hear Ben’s voice, groggy and fuzzy, but alert enough to tell me it was over and he was in his room with Daddy.

The sun was up here. At any rate, it was light and foggy outside. Toby woke as I squealed into the phone with delight. “It’s all done! Ben’s out of surgery! Do you want to talk to him?” I asked and so Toby’s first words were for Ben today.

Fast forward through a day of calls and emails and Facebook status updates, it’s 5 pm here and 8 pm there and Mark and Ben are waiting to be discharged. Tonight!

For those of you still unclear on what exactly took place today, here’re the gory details:

An incision is made on his upper back, into a previous incision, I believe.
The screws that hold the rod onto his ribs (with hooks) are loosened.
The rod is moved down about a centimeter.
The screws are tightened.
The incision is stitched up and bandaged.

Two hours under anesthesia, but really only about 40 minutes of surgery.

He was given the IV after being sedated which took a huge amount of anxiety and stress off the beginning of the process. He has a large fear of IV’s having been a human pincushion at one point in his life! He had morphine post-op but hasn’t needed any pain meds since. He’s walking around, drinking, eating, joking, peeing…everything you want in a patient before being discharged.

I called and alerted our forces at the RC about our hero’s return. Earlier than expected, but with admirable wounds to prove his mettle. Because of our caution he has three days to play in Philly. A good thing.

Did I say I’m going with him next time? Did I say we all are? Just wanted to mention that.

Surgery the Sequel: Chapter One

2010-07-29T09:49:00.000-07:00

...departures and arrivals...

Ben and Mark left yesterday for Philadelphia. Toby, Harry and I waved and blew kisses from the doorway (ok, I blew kisses and Harry and Toby yelled, "Bye! Buh-bye now! So long! Have a great trip!") and then turned, breathed a sigh of relief and went back into the house.

The anticipation truly was terrible, but the reality was a relief.

The night before Toby was so anxious he could barely sleep, had nightmares about zombies and ultimately threw up. Mark, downstairs sleeping in Toby's bedroom to provide some degree of comfort, took care of the situation but didn't get much sleep himself. I was upstairs listening and then panic-stricken that Toby had the flu, had infected Ben and Mark and that they would either wake up with symptoms or arrive at Shriners on Friday barfing their guts out. Lovely image. I didn't get much sleep.

Ben, tucked in warmly next to me in bed, slept soundly.

In the morning, Mark and I refigured our plans for airport delivery. Rather than my driving them down to the airport shuttle he decided to drive them all the way to the airport giving them time stop in Chinatown (Oakland) for goodies for their flights. This also gave us time to make sure Toby was truly not sick. (He was fine!) And because we'd arisen for an earlier time commitment that left us with literally two hours to kill.

When Ben heard "Chinatown" he leaped out of bed and ran to get dressed. (Steamed pork buns and sticky sweet rice cakes are super motivating for my kids.) That done, he asked to play a game with me. So, out came the board games...and up until the minute they left the house the whole family sat on the floor playing Scrabble.

No fighting. No bickering. No whining or crying or hiding away with electronic toys. Pure, good old fashioned family togetherness.

A group hug of three brothers and they were out the door.

Throughout the day I received texts and phone calls from the wonderful folks at the Ritz-Carlton, making sure every "i" was dotted and every "t" was crossed in order for Ben to have the best possible experience. I heard from Kimberly, the Medical/Business Liason, who was on vacation. Kimberly, enjoy yourself!

And I heard from my boys. They called from Oakland International. They called from Phoenix. They called from Philadelphia when they were waiting to "deplane." Their day of flying across country was perfect. (Lots of cute babies, according to our baby lover, Ben.) He was in excellent spirits. They arrived at the RC after midnight and found they had the SAME room we had in February with the additional bonus of chocolates, cookies and cold milk waiting for them.

This morning they received hugs from old friends: Violetta (our housekeeper), James (the concierge), and Kylie (from the front desk in February, but who's been promoted to Guest Relations), and had breakfast at Dan(the concierge)'s favorite cafe around the corner.

Mark reports that Ben's comment upon awaking today was: "I think this time it will be easy."

Crossing my fingers, crossing my fingers.

The Kindness of Strangers...and others

2010-07-27T09:22:00.000-07:00

I must have a look on my face right now. Gray clouds, lines of worry on my brow. A complete and total stranger asked me if I would like a hug just a moment ago.

Picking up a travel game and a cup of iced coffee at a local book store I was asked by the man behind the cash register how I was doing and, of course, I told the truth, never one to just say “Fine” and be done with it.

“Oh, it’s a challenging day,” I said, darkly, I suppose.

“What’s going on?” He asked me. And I told him.

“My son’s having surgery at the end of the week and it’s just difficult leading up to it,” I said. Wondering why I was sharing with a total stranger. What’s the point, really?

Turns out his nephew had three surgeries for scoliosis as a young child and is doing great now. He passed me my iced coffee. “Well, I hope it all works out for your son,” he said.

“It will,” I assured him/me. “It’s just difficult as it all comes bearing down,” I ended. I turned away, moving towards the side counter to add cream and pop on a cover.

He looked at me over the espresson machine on the other side of the counter. “Do you want a hug?” he asked.

Wow.

I turned him down with a smile, knowing I will soon be amongst some of my best friends at a homeschool park day and then later on the couch at our therapist’s office. It’s a day of many hugs both virtual and actual. Thankfully.

It’s Tuesday, just one day before Ben and Mark take off for Philadelphia. In less than a week Ben’s surgery will be over and he will be feeling fine, most likely. But the lead up, the waiting, the uncomfortable expectation is so difficult for all of us. This morning Ben’s first words to me after arising from bed were, “I don’t feel good.”

“What’s up?” I asked knowing it could be therapist-itis, post-playdate exhaustion, or pre-surgery blues. It was the latter. “I want a different back,” he said.

Poor guy. It’s hard to shake those blues.

The good news is I was able to arrange with the chef at Sur la Table to rearrange her curriculum to accommodate Ben’s schedule so he could take make up classes today and tomorrow (having missed two days of cooking camp a couple weeks ago due to a cold) before leaving on his journey. I dropped him off this morning in the store’s kitchen where he stood shyly eyeing the pretty teenage girls on the other side of the table as well as the pasta machines piled on the class’s work tables. “Good food and women,” I overheard him telling some friends the other day, “that’s all I need!” I predict his needs will get met this morning.

I haven’t done a very good job of predicting our needs presurgery with these most recent two. Of course, when he had his brain surgery four and a half years ago it all happened so fast I didn’t have time to prepare us. Boom, bang, bop. It was upon us. But this time and the last I had months to mark off the calendar or think about what we’d need and be going through.

As it happened, I was off the mark repeatedly. For the surgery in February I had no clue that in the two weeks leading up to the surgery I would be a germ’s worst nightmare and an absolute freak on an antibacterial crusade. We had all sorts of plans, all ultimately cancelled, during that time period that involved sitting in crowded theaters with hundreds of coughing, innocent but germ-infested citizens, or playdates with children with runny noses. I didn’t even contemplate all the germs we’d potentially encounter on the plane flight back east or the train ride from NY to Philly. It’s amazing we survived without mishap.

This time we had to take a surgery date that conflicted with a camping trip with other homeschoolers in Yosemite. I thought, “Great, one parent will go with Ben, one with the other boys.” Neat and tidy. He picked Mark to join him (“Mom’s my emotion parent, Dad’s my hospital parent.” Logical enough.) and so that was that. I was going to Yosemite. But as the time has approached not only have I grappled with the anxiety that is rolling over me about not being near him while he’s in surgery, but I realized that I will not be sleeping a lot while he’s gone, that I’d have to be focused on getting the rest of us packed up for a challenging camping trip at 9000 feet, and that once I’m in Yosemite I would be out of cell range and unable to talk to him. Clearly, this was not going to work.

I’ve rearranged things now so that Harry will be going on the trip with my good friend Laura and her son, Harry’s friend Wyatt. He’ll get the forest time he needs, attending Yosemite Institute naturalist programming for four days, surrounded by our homeschool friends the whole time. Toby and I have chosen to stay back, close to the phone, our critters and our burgeoning garden. We’ll be spending some happy and distracting time in Santa Cruz with my sister-in-law Sharon and her husband, Alan, as well. No one questioned my last minute change of plans. In fact, all of my friends agreed I was making the right decision. But the stress is much reduced.

I got an email last week from my pen-pal Rona, my emissary of immense good will from Philadelphia. Rona contacted me about a week after we’d returned from Philly in March. The mother of our beloved Dan the concierge, she had read my whole blog (Hi Rona, I know you’re reading this!!) and heard all about us and offered not only her friendship but her love and care of our family. She told me that their family was our adopted Philadelphia family and we embraced her right back. She and her husband will be taking Ben and Mark around Philly on Thursday for a (distracting and) fun tour of their city. I’m just sorry to miss the meeting.

So we are embraced. Embraced at the cash register at Copperfield’s Books, embraced by the cooking teacher at Sur la Table, embraced by our friends and relatives, original and adopted.

I’ll keep you posted.

p.s. I apologize for the lack of photos of late. Having some major technical difficulties here in my house full of IT personnel. Hope to have things ironed out in a week or two.

Sick Day

2010-07-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

To be sure, life has not given me many opportunities to sit still of late. But today I am quiet with the tail end of a cold, the boys are tucked away nose to the screen, I'm sure, with Pokemon or Firefly or Team Fortress 2. I don't have the energy to argue, and besides, it gives me a chance to update my blog!

Both Harry and Toby returned last Sunday from weeks away at Camp Tawonga. Harry was there for three weeks as a Specialist in Training. It was energizing and fun, full of new friendships, inside jokes and new responsibilities. He seems to have thrived in so many ways while there and plans to return next year to do it again. Toby also loved camp, but he says not as much as last year. Hard to believe since his big brother was there as a staff member at the same time, but this is what he says. Harry also related to me that Toby seemed homesick a lot, even into the second week, which surprised me. Maybe it's hard to go back the second year when you have been envisioning it as a repeat of the first wonderful camp experience. Maybe it just can't live up to that memory. Anyhow, he's still talking about "next year" when he goes back, so it wasn't bad.

On this end, it is good having them home and after the initial bumpy "reentry" period life seems to be back to normal.

Ben had a particularly hard time accepting their return. Life as an only child for my middle son was quite sweet! He and I travelled to LA to visit Papa Joel and many cousins two weeks ago. We stayed at the Best Western Sunset Plaza on the Sunset Strip. The hotel had a lovely pool. Got to have an eyeful of the babes du cosmetic surgery lining the pool's edge, too. I'm sorry, but boobs just don't come like that naturally! (Ok, so I've truly become a cornpone, living in the country as I do, gray hair, no make up and definitely, no cosmetic surgery for me! I just think bodies look better au natural.) We had a good trip, saw lots of family and friends in a very short time, and spent some quality time together, too.

Last week Ben and I went camping in Mendocino with several other moms and kids. The kids played LARP (I've mentioned this before, Live Action Role Play with foam weapons, etc.) and the moms hung out together. It was a fantastic week. The moms really bonded and the boys had amazing adventures for three days straight.

Most challenging for Ben was the pain he has begun to feel as his curve gets worse. The downside of the adjustable rod technique is that while he grows it holds his spine down and it seems Ben was feeling more aches, more muscle spasms and less flexibility during his heavy play. This was new. He'd been very active until recently with both LARP and swimming. But, the length of the days playing, the intensity of the play, and the constant bashing of swords against brace and body took their toll. By the middle of the second day he was in excruciating pain.

Face white as a sheet I took him into our tent, laid him down and tried to soothe him with word and touch. Not much helped. His mood became very dark. These are such difficult days for Ben. I recall the time, in the months before his February surgery, he hid in his closet crying and wanting to kill himself. Again, he has hit the bottom, wanting to trade in his life for another issue. Being unable to engage in his favorite activity took everything out of him. "I hurt," he told me as we sat in the warm tent. "Where is the pain? Can I massage that spot?" I ask him naively. "No, Mom. I HURT. Inside. All of me." I am blown away by his ability to talk about that emotional pain. His sharing it with me. I ended up just sitting, quietly, waiting for the hurt to get more fuzzy as his energy returned.

Eventually, he went back to play with the other LARPers. He had struggled with wanting people to know his situation and wanting no one to know. Wanting accomodations and not wanting to do anything different. It's a hard line to walk. Sitting in the tent we had talked about the challenges everyone faces, that he is not alone in facing demons, overcoming obstacles to just living life. In a group of homeschoolers it's easier to find the kids with issues, of course. We tend to be a self-selected group of square pegs! But that is excellent. Especially for my boy who up until he turned 8 lived a golden life in which it all came so easily to him. Not much easy these days.

The next surgery cannot come soon enough. Two weeks and a couple days from now. He is brewing a cold, which I pray does not blossom. Any respirartory ailment could cause the surgery date to be postponed and that could mean waiting until October! I don't actually think he could do it, the pains being as severe as they are. So he is in bed, sipping chicken broth and watching movies on Netflix instant download.

I will be taking the boys camping on Sunday for a few days with our new homeschool crowd, a group of very wonderful moms and kids all seeking deeper commitments and relationships in our community. We're again going up to the Navarro River in Mendocino county, but this time just to lounge, play in the river, hike around, and roast marshmallows at night. We're packing our board games, knitting, foam weapons, and nerf guns. How well rounded!

When we return we'll be packing Ben and Mark for the journey to Philadelphia. I'm putting that aside for the moment. It's a lot to hold on to, you know?

Catching up

2010-06-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

Foggy summer morning in our new garden.

I would have to agree with my friend Sarah who said recently that the longer you stay away from your journal the harder it is to return to it. I have definitely been remiss with this blog but life has a way of getting in the way. I have been overwhelmed by the minutiae, and unable to find enough time to gather my thoughts, cull through them, and focus on this task.

Truth be told, the main reason I didn’t write a post just after Jasmine’s wedding was that the only thing I could really talk about was slugs. Yes, slugs. SLUGS. With all the wet weather and then the warmth, the slug population in our area has skyrocketed and there are slugs everywhere. In the garden, on the front porch, all over the hay barn, on the wheelbarrow, inside the grain bin, inside the grain bag.

There were so many all over the hay barn, that I adjusted how I dressed for the task of feeding the animals every morning: cowboy hat pulled snuggly down to my ears, flannel shirt buttoned up to my neck, collar up, even as the weather warmed up. The thought of one of those slugs being shaken loose and falling onto my head and down into my clothes almost kept me from the job. They are baby slugs or a small variety, but their tininess doesn’t make them less disgusting to me. People keep saying, “Too bad you don’t have chickens” but if I did I’d then have to face the fact that chickens eat slugs and then I eat their eggs…better not to know.

Slugs on the outside of the hay barn as seen from the inside.

Above L, the hay barn. Above R, slugs as seen on the outside of the barn.

It offended me to follow such a pretty post with a post about slugs. But for a bit, that was all I could think about. So I didn’t write.

Almost three weeks later the slug fest is pretty much over and I feel that there’s enough space between the slugs and Jasmine’s wedding to proceed.

The slugs (guess I am not quite done) have been ravaging my garden as well. Despite the copper tape edging all of my raised beds and the saucers of beer that I’ve put out, there are nibbles taken out of almost every leaf and some crops have had a hard time overcoming their place in the late night buffet. The weather has changed enough that I think we’re getting ahead, the garden is bursting with new growth. I almost wrote “Maybe there’s enough for everyone” and then changed my mind. There’s not. I’m selfish about my garden. I want it all for us humans at Three Boys Farm. The tomatoes, the beans, the lettuce, the tomatillos, herbs, and nasturtiums. The pumpkins and cucumbers and squash. The flowers that the boys planted. I want it all for us! That’s why Mark and Harry built so many gorgeous gopher-proofed raised beds for me this year. No sharing! Once we start harvesting, if you’re human come on by. If you’re slug or gopher, this offer is not for you.

Summer is officially here. The camping trips, beach days, afternoons at the pool or the Russian River, and Fanwar (LARP: Live Action Role Play) events are filling the calendar. The boys sleep late while I go out to feed the animals and water the garden. I love this weather as I have always loved the beginning of summer, when you can really appreciate the change of seasons.

People ask me if we stop homeschooling for summer and I usually respond that our whole year looks more like most people’s summer vacations, so no, I don’t tell the kids, “It’s June. Stop learning.” and when September comes around, “It’s September. Start learning.” Our homeschool life IS learning. Wherever, whenever. We’re not gathering every morning to say the Pledge of Allegiance and the boys don’t sit in desks doing penmanship. There are no timed quizzes and there is no extra-credit busywork. By my bedside table are some new books that are inspiring me about science and nature journals, and one called Macbeth: for Kids to get us prepared up for the Sebastopol Shakespeare Festival next month. But no, we don’t stop for summer.

I saw some school kids the other day in town, a small gang of teens in cut-offs and tank tops, and they had the definite look of kids just set free from school. A wave of recognition swept over me, a sensation I remembered very distinctly, that feeling one has the first week of summer break. It’s pure freedom. No homework, no early morning bus rides. No pressure. I grew up in Santa Monica and those first weeks of summer were amazing because we’d grab our towels and hit the beach, just a few blocks from my home. This season was such a contrast to the rest of the year, not to mention the weeks preceding the last day of school/first day of summer break that had so much anticipation built in. The weather was warm and the ocean was calling to us.

My kids don’t have that definition in their lives even though our activities change during summer. Their lives have so much more freedom on a regular basis that they don’t chafe at the end of spring to be set loose. That makes our life different from a school-based life. Better in myriad ways, I believe, than it would be if we were sending them to school every day. But I still felt the nostalgia for the traditional when I saw those kids in town the other day.

Harry’s bags are packed and his hair is newly shorn for three weeks at Camp Tawonga. We’ll be taking him to the camp bus pickup tomorrow morning. This summer he’ll be an S-I-T, Specialist in Training, his ultimate goal is to be the arts and crafts counselor one day. We’ll miss him, but it will be a great experience for him and he has always loved Camp Tawonga. Toby will join him in a week, and is thrilled that his big brother will be a “counselor” while he’s there.

The rest of the summer holds three camping trips (two to Mendocino and one to Yosemite’s Tuolumne Meadows), cooking camp for Ben at Sur la Table, and the Homeschool Association of California’s annual conference in Sacramento.

Oh, and a surgery for Ben.

Three weeks ago we took another x-ray of Ben’s spine and found that his curve has progressed to 27 degrees, up 12 degrees from the last x-ray. This is a sign of growth. As he grows the rod is holding his ribs down and so we need to get him to Shriners Philadelphia so Dr. Cahill can get in there and adjust it. Just a centimeter…or should I say, a WHOLE centimeter! We just got the surgical date (July 30) this week and have begun to make the arrangements. Ben and Mark will be going while I’m in Yosemite with the other guys. We had two choices of dates, July or early October and the latter just felt too far away with the amount of change we’d seen in 7 weeks. Also, Ben had already opted out of the Yosemite trip, so it wasn’t a real conflict for him. Well, on one level, anyways.

I called the Ritz-Carlton yesterday. It was just like I remembered. As soon as I said who I was (speaking to the general manager’s assistant) I was greeted with, “OH!! How is BEN?! Everyone is asking about him!!” Within minutes the wheels were in motion and a “superior” room was booked for us and I was arranging for our star to have a tour of the restaurant kitchen one of the days he’s there. Those folks are so incredible. They want to do anything to make Ben happy, it’s truly incredible. Ben and I were interviewed recently for the Philadelphia Inquirer about our stay there, since now the hotel has developed a special program called the Medical Concierge, to help people staying there who are in Philly for medical treatments. Ben’s quote is priceless (“They treated me like a god”), and his story was the lead story in the article. His picture (from my blog) graced the front page of the newspaper. If he was a rock star there before, he’s a mega star now. I’m sure he and Mark will really get the royal treatment.

That helps a bit, but this is Ben’s personal rollercoaster of emotions and he’s having a hard time of it. Just when he was feeling really good physically (running around and battling with foam swords at Fanwar events, and rolling and jumping into swimming pools), he’s facing down his demons again. July 30th is just around the corner, but it feels like February 15th was not so long ago. This surgery should be much less difficult, with fewer hours under anesthesia, only a day in the hospital, less pain, if all goes well. However, as much as he enjoys seeing his friends and fans and being pampered at the Ritz-Carlton, I think he’d trade it away in an instant to have what he calls a normal life. He’s had seven surgeries in his 12 years, with more to come, and that is bitter for him. For his mama, too.

If you’ve made it this far through my post, I will say thank you. And, I promise to try to keep up with my posts, even if it means following up beautiful and sweet with disgusting and slimy. This, is my life. I need to appreciate the definition!

A wedding

2010-05-31T23:23:00.000-07:00

I went to a wedding yesterday. It felt like a milestone for me, but of course, I was only an innocent bystander. Jasmine, the bride. Now it was a milestone for her.

I was weepy all day. In fact, I was a wreck. I cried on and off the whole two hour drive down to Walnut Creek. I cried as I sat waiting for the festivities to begin. I cried every time I hugged that girl. So much emotion welled up in me. I was holding some powerful personal history in my heart that day.

On the way down Mark made sure I was wearing waterproof mascara. He's so thoughtful, for a boy! He even carried the kleenex for me.

Jasmine, as you may recall from a previous post, was a student in my class 23 years ago. I was her 4th and 5th grade teacher and she still calls me that when she's introducing me to her friends.

Towards the end of the wedding we were hugging goodbye and she grabbed the photographer to have him take a picture of us together. "This is my 4th grade teacher," she told him, as if that would express the significance of our connection.

He did seem to get it, though. "Wow," he said, eyebrows raised. I suppose most people's 4th grade teachers don't attend their weddings.

Jasmine's mom, Gina, and I had a bit of a love fest. Lots of hugs, lots of memories and tears, too. Gina was Jasmine's rock and I told her that. (Like teachers, moms often don't get the credit they deserve, I think.) Gina stood out from a lot of the moms I encountered in Vallejo. She was there in the background, working hard, making sure her kids knew that she thought their education was important. Jasmine's dad was not a part of the picture then or now, but her brothers and mom were. At the wedding her younger brother Julian walked her halfway down the aisle, and her older brother Jimmy took her the rest of the way, to the altar and then "gave her away."

Gina told me what I've meant to Jazz. More than a teacher, more than a friend. I honestly can't put into words what our relationship has meant to me. Gina didn't seem to mind calling it "like a daughter" and she's right. "You've watched her grow up," she said. And that's true. I remember Jasmine when she first came into my classroom. A sweet and somewhat spacey kid. I remember her performance as a possessed girl in our simulation of the Salem Witch Trials (!). I remember reading with her, singing with her, watching her play dodgeball at P.E. I introduced her to the beach and bagels and horses. And I remember visiting with her as a high school student, talking about the future, hoping to instill in her a sense of importance about her future and what she could make of herself.

I give Jasmine the credit for the connection she and Chanel and I still have. Without Jasmine as the glue, and sometimes the detective (there were years when I just couldn't find Chanel and Jasmine would ask around their extended group of old friends until she found her or at least found out that she was okay), I don't know if I would have had the joy of being a part of her celebration yesterday or Chanel's baby's birth in April. Thankfully, she has always been very good at keeping in touch.

When I think back on the Jasmine I knew in 4th grade, she looks a lot like the girl above. Gorgeous smile, full of fun, sweetness and a sense of humor. And what a sense of style! (This was one gorgeous wedding!) Jasmine is goodness. Her heart is full of love. I love that about this photo, I just want to hug that girl!

Jazz met Clinton, her handsome husband, when they were in grade school, but since he's a few years older than she I didn't have the pleasure of meeting him until they began dating about 10 years ago. She'd had a crush on him forever, but it wasn't until after he came home from college, Grambling State University in Louisiana, they finally started dating.

Things were going great and then one day in a horrible downpour, Clinton was in a car wreck on the highway. He was paralyzed from the waist down and was told he'd never walk again. Seriously, you read about things like this. But here they were, this young couple, and a tragedy of epic proportions hits.

Jasmine was his rock. I watched as she hung in there with him through the hospital stay and his recovery. I watched their commitment grow, too. Having gone through recoveries in my own family, I know that this road is not smooth. Jazz and I had many conversations about commitment, marriage, feelings, communication, and faith during those years. This was no fairy tale, this was gritty real life. But they persevered.

Today Clinton's walking. They have a beautiful little girl, Amora. And they're married.

Mark and I were honored to be included in the celebration of their past and their future. It was a beautiful day.

I'll leave you with a few images of the event.

Crafty Girls

2010-05-29T11:21:00.000-07:00

My niece, Eliana, age 9, is coming over today to quilt with me. I can't wait! I'm sending Mark off with the boys. Clear the house out. I believe he's taking them to the dump (and the awesome dump store!). A day for just us girls. (Now doesn't that sound like divisions down gender lines? I must admit, however, I enjoy a trip to the dumpstore, as well.) My sister may hang out too, which would be fun! This is the second time we've done this together. I love that she can come up to our "farmlette," play with the boys, play with the horses and donkeys, and craft with me. She's also a great reader and usually gravitates to our sunny booknook at some point in the visit. Seems like we have the potential for some great memories there.

For our project today I've been collecting "vintage" bedsheets and bedspreads (I say that with a smile, since I'm not really sure how old some of them are, mostly from the 70's, I think) to make picnic blankets. The project is from Amanda Soule's wonderful book Handmade Home. I will post photos as we go today, I hope!

This is the top of my picnic blanket which I prepared ahead of time.

Midway thru we stopped for a biscotti break, our reward for all of our hard work!

Eli wanted to hide a penguin in the blanket. Here her cousins are searching for it. (She found out that my sewing machine will embroider a penguin, so she couldn't pass it up.)

The penguin.

Outta the mouth of my babe: homeschool life

2010-05-25T11:27:00.000-07:00

We went to the farmer's market the day after I returned home from England. One of the vendor's looked at Toby and said, "Are there parent conferences at school again, or are you...homeschooled?"

Big smile. "I'm homeschooled."

"Oh, then you must be very smart. Homeschoolers learn so much, don't they?" she said.

"Well, the world is our classroom," I said.

"And every day's a fieldtrip," Toby added. I swear I didn't put him up to it!

So, here's our new homeschooling motto:

The whole world is our classroom, all our work is homework, and every day's a fieldtrip!

We started a nature table last week. It was wonderful scouring our property for Mother Nature's treasures. We collected specimens and then identified them on the internet. (LOVE the internet!) The snake skin was a gift from my friend Kathy. It's perfect, even has little eye skins!

Another new development is Ben's blog, MrCool's Food Blog. You must check it out.

And to think a couple weeks ago when I asked him to write a few paragraphs he ran away from home, temporarily.

Sigh...

Of Foam Weapons and a Boy's Bedroom

2010-05-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

Ben's scoliosis was the biggest worry of the past year, of course, and it was all-consuming. From the day we found out about its progression (Feb. 2009) to the numerous doctors' and specialists' appointments to the surgery (Feb. 2010) to the recovery period, it was hard to fit anything else into the same bandwidth. Every day I had some item on my To Do list related to Ben, and sometimes I even made a note to be sure I spent time with him in a way UNrelated to his medical condition.

Ben's scoliosis is not troubling me right now. At his last x-ray (7 weeks post-op) his curve measured 15 degrees, down 20 from the 35 degrees measured in Philadelphia before his surgery. It looks about the same as it did just after surgery, practically straight! You can look at that x-ray here. A tremendous improvement. I am now able to feel that much more confident about the process we're putting him through.

His separation anxiety, which was accute both pre- and post-surgery has calmed down enough that he survived my two absences in the past few months (to Sacramento and England) without issue. This week also saw him moving back down into his own bedroom, a move that is significant. Last summer we set up his first private bedroom, complete with posters from his favorite comicbook villains and one of his favorite video games. We picked a color scheme (red, black, white, and gray) and got new linens. We set up his new drum kit. And two weeks later (coinciding with his getting his back brace and being extremely unhappy about that) he decided he didn't want to sleep down there, but upstairs in the booknook, just around the corner from Mark's and my room. We traded the loveseat in the 'nook for his red and black bed and let it be. He could have been sleeping on the floor of our bedroom, after all. He's slept there ever since. Until this week.

My mind has eased up on the worry mostly, though, because of Fanwar, Ben's absolute favorite activity. Several times a month, sometimes even twice a week, Ben (and Toby) meet up with a crowd of other kids and one amazing man, Christopher Melville, at a park in Sonoma county to spend the day acting out a fantasy adventure replete with monsters, mages, orcs, and trolls. And weapons. Don't overlook the power of those weapons (made from insulation foam, duct tape and PVC pipe). There is a tremendous amount of running around, battling with foam swords and other weaponry, story-spinning, casting of spells, healing of wounds, and laughter. Think Dungeons and Dragons Live. Since our discovery of it several years ago at a homeschool conference, it has been Ben's idea of the perfect day. But it was a little hard to picture putting yourself in the way of a falling foam flail when you have three scars healing on your torso, so Ben sat on the sidelines, actually didn't even want to go at all, for the first several weeks post-surgery. About a month ago, Ben and I coordinated our family calendar with the Fanwar calendar, and now we're booked for many day-long Fanwar events and four week-long Fanwar camping trips this summer. The day a few weeks ago I saw him get out of his chair, don his armor (his camoflage-patterned protective brace) and tear off to run, bend, kneel, and battle, to engage in the adventure, I knew he had hit a milestone in his recovery. He puts his whole being into the act.

You've seen this photo before. Ben in his camo brace.

Much more palatable than his other brace which was a restriction for him both physically and mentally.

I have great compassion for any parents who must walk alongside their child as he or she walks such a challenging life path. It is the most difficult thing I've ever done. I have spent a lot of time grappling with not being able to change it for him, not being able to make life much easier. I have to remind myself to be more patient, more giving, to not expect life to be the same after so many critical events.

We adjust to a new normal.

This pondering makes me wonder then why I cringe when now and then, at age 12, he asks me to tie his shoes. Whether his reason is it's hard to bend over, or he isn't very good at it, or he's lazy, or he wants to act like a baby a little longer, or he knows it's something I can actually do for him, why do I cringe when, really, isn't it the least I can do?

Ben has an x-ray coming up in June, 3 months post-op, and after that we'll hear from the doctors at Shriners about his next surgery to lengthen the rod in his back. We're expecting it to be in September, but no plans have been made yet. It's a much more minor surgery, and if we can swing it he won't even spend one night in the hospital (just go directly to the Ritz-Carlton!). I guess that's far enough away for it not to be a worry. I can live with that.

Smooth sailing

2010-05-18T22:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I opened my eyes and noticed a definite lightness of being. Rather than the usual distracting tick...tick...tick...of the items on the day's to do list, there was quiet. And calm.

No drama. No worries. No fires to put out. No guilt about what I haven't yet taken care of.

Is this how those lucky people feel, the ones who don't have constant drama bombarding them in their lives? I wonder.

I should point out that it is definitely tempting fate to announce this on my blog in front of God and the internet, but on the other hand, I wonder why I should always be so lucky to be the one with the plate brimming over with things to torture me.

I recall a few years ago waking up the morning after we'd seen Harry and Ben off to three weeks of sleep away camp and Toby was left in the care of my mom for a week. Mark went off to work and I lay quietly in my bed listening to the silence, the reality of no one needing me for a week seeping into my consciousness. It was so unusual in my life to not have others to be responsible for that it was a physical sensation of weightlessness. It's been a couple years since that occured. A couple very challenging years.

Yesterday though, I contemplated the fact that we've gotten into a groove here at Three Boys Farm that feels fairly rut-free. No obvious potholes. Nothing to stumble on at the moment.

I'll be talking about all of that in the next few weeks. But for now, I'm just going to enjoy the lack of clutter in my consciousness.

(I took the photo above about a month ago on a day when there were dark storm clouds brewing, but the quality of the light hitting the trees was so gorgeous. Seems like an odd choice for today's post, but oddly enough, it's the photo that came to mind to put with these thoughts. I'm sure it means something...maybe that I just am not taking this all for granted...)

Last views of London

2010-05-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

Big Ben

I'm already home, feeling the surreal time warp one experiences with air travel. Here today, gone tomorrow. Odd that just two mornings ago I was driving on the left side of the road in the back of a classic black London cab and yesterday I was on the right side, driving my own minivan to the Santa Rosa farmer's market with the boys. Whew!

My whirlwind week in London was wonderful, emotional, and too short. Erica and I had many heartfelt talks, some easier than others, and got to know each other better. This was one of my goals for the trip. Our lives have been so disjointed until now, and as much as I had dreamt of a seamless reunion, of course reality is that the joy is mixed with pain. It's almost impossible for us to connect or reconnect without touching on some of the hardest and most difficult memories and experiences of our own lives. We have 18 years separating us in age and thousands of miles in distance. I think we both wish we could have another chance to be together, to learn from each other and to know each other. Unfortunately, that seems like a slim chance, and that knowledge made the week feel even shorter. I spoke with her yesterday morning and we both agreed it seemed almost like a dream, here and gone in a wisp. The only evidence of my presence there in that sweet brick cottage was a stack of knitted gifts and the fact that she now knows how to knit as well! (She was quite the enthusiastic student.)

Spending time with Gabi was another goal, of course, and that was pure sweetness. She is the easiest, happiest, and calmest baby I've ever met. Not to mention being one of the cutest, of course! And, man, does she look good in that hat!

Marylebone

I spent three days tooling around London proper; one by myself and two with Erica, Mike and Gabi. London is so full of culture I imagine you could live there for years without really seeing everything. Sunday M and E drove me all over town to just see as much as possible. We did stop in Marylebone, a fairly posh neighborhood that housed some great restaurants and shops. Visited the Cath Kidston store and went into a cutsie pink coma (that stuff is great in small doses I decided...a whole store was a bit MUCH). I loved seeing Big Ben, the Parliament, and Westminster Abbey even as we drove by in the quintessential London drizzle. And we ended the day in Notting Hill where M and E insisted we visit their favorite cupcake shop to allay our low blood sugar. Monday we took Gabi to her first museum...the British Museum...and I saw the Rosetta Stone and Cleopatra's mummy, to name a couple amazing archeological treasures housed there. I could barely stand it without the boys at my side, so much was there that they would have loved!

Tuesday came 'round with alarming speed, and saw me hugging and kissing everyone goodbye. Then working my way through Heathrow and back on a plane to the states (this time, though, I was smart enough to pay the $50 upcharge to get more legroom...well worth it! I actually ended up with three seats to myself!). The boys (all 4) were quite happy to see me again and I have to admit I almost cried when the customs agent said, "Welcome home." Homesick?

I've been the recipient of many heartfelt "I missed you Mama"'s and tender hugs from all of them. And I have noticed an increase in the civility between them. Maybe a bit of a break from each other is a good thing now and then. Hmmmm...where should I go next?

I now have dreams, however, of returning to the UK with family in tow. There are quite a few castles, museums, and ruins I'd like us all to explore, not to mention Platform 9 and 3/4.

Kings Cross Station

The boys need to know their little cousin and she needs to know them, as well.

But for now I have these photo memories...enjoy!

Regent Street

Parliament in the rain.

Looking across the Thames to London Bridge.

The enclosed atrium at the British Museum.

A church spire in a London suburb.

More from London

2010-05-01T18:12:00.000-07:00

It's waaaay past my bedtime, but I want to post some images from my stay.

Cute baby, eh? What can I say, she looks fantastic in that hat. (I made it.)

Erica and Mike's cottage

their hedgerow

their garden

Today I ventured into London on my own and visited Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross Road and the National Portrait Gallery. I took a double-decker bus and the Tube, wandered the streets in a torrential downpour, spent hours in the galleries of the museum and generally had a lovely time...all by myself. This is something unusual for me. Thoroughly enjoyable. Very civilized.

More tomorrow...