I Hope I Never...

There was a great big cloud that filled up the Sound and stopped right at the water's edge where we stood in the sunshine.

I hope I never get used to things like that.
I hope it always surprises me how the stones on the beach are worn so smooth and how the tides lay them out like expensive landscaping, only better.
I hope I never grow tired of watching my wee girl drawn to the water as if by magnetic force.
I hope it never stops amazing me how even with a fever, she will be silenced, energized, mesmerized by the surf while she communes, picking around in the seaweed, burying her toes and watching, watching, watching while the tide rolls in.
I hope I never forget that if there are objects near a body of water, my small, burly boy will throw them in, brush his hands with satisfaction and turn to throw some more.
I hope it never ceases to amuse me how he must find the largest rock and try to lift it, how he calculates strange distances behind his eyes and asks me if we can do impossible things.
I hope my breath never stops catching over the mountains and valleys and lakes and rivers and the trees, so invincible and fragile and huge.
I hope I never lose the butterflies that swim in my tummy when we lie down to sleep under the stars and laugh into the night as the fire dies and tell each other the same jokes that no one else would understand.
I hope I am never immune to the dirt between my toes and the smoke in my hair and the magic of fresh, hot coffee in the middle of the forest.
I hope these eyes of mine never stop seeing the endless beauty, the possibility, the minutiae, the bare and open hearts, the magic, the good, the life in all that surrounds me.

The cloud stopped there on the edge of the Sound and we stood in the sunshine and we watched as the waves rolled in, unexpected and broke at our feet. Through a sightless fog, these waves just kept rolling in.

I Love the Fall

I love the fall. I love fall food: apple cider doughnuts, chili, warm bread from the oven, hearty soups. I love the sweaters and layers and hats of fall. I love the smell of the summer winding down and starting to decay. I love the frost in the mornings and puffs of visible breath at night. My three favorite holidays are in the fall: Halloween, Thanksgiving and my birthday. I love the word "autumn". I love a toasty warm fire in the wood stove to take the edge off the evening chill. I love the early nightfalls, made for cuddling. Fall is my "energy season". I cook more, write more, knit more, make more. Albert Camus said "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." These flower-leaves are my favorite thing about the fall. 


I grew up in northern Vermont. As a child, I always thought it was a little bit silly that people would drive from all over the country just to come and look at our trees. Once a year, my dad would load us all into the car and we'd just drive. Out through the hills and small villages. Not to anywhere in particular, just winding around getting lost in the brilliant patchwork of a New England autumn. I wish I could say honestly that it was a time of magical wonder and idyllic family bonding; but at the time I think a lot of the focus (in the back seat, anyway) was on whose legs were in the wrong foot well, whose breath smelled, who was chewing too loudly, who might get carsick and who got to sit by the window - not for the view, but for the position of power it seemed to convey. Like most children do, I took it for granted. Of course it was beautiful. What was the big deal? It happened every year.


As a somewhat larger child now, I find myself living in a city of many trees. We have a long, slow autumn. As if on a secret cue given by school buses and eraser dust, the trees begin to change their clothes. One variety at a time, each with their own signature colors. The maples begin with the reds of fire engines, lipstick, clown hair. The alders blush a faded orange. The beeches trade their leaves for pennies, winking in the sun. A tree near our house is my favorite - a lime green to yellow, almost fluorescent. Bit by bit, they all don their ball gowns and jewels for their final curtain call for the year: tourmaline, garnet, amethyst, ruby, topaz, alexandrite, tiger eye. They swish on the sidewalks to the opalescent flashes of autumn sunshine, gracefully nodding and fluttering waves. 


I go about my business. I walk the kids to school. I go to the grocery store, the library, the bank. I trip through my days, spilling coffee as I organize, make lists in my head, clean up messes, fold clothes. I pack lunches, find shoes, answer countless nonsensical questions, check homework, retrieve library books, make dinner. Somehow I still find myself concerned with whose legs are in the wrong foot well, whose breath smells, who's chewing too loudly, who might get carsick and who gets to sit by the window. 


This time of year, the easy, torpid pace of summer picks up with the breeze and we find ourselves always en route somewhere. How many days have I hurried small, dragging feet through the freshly fallen leaves, seeing nothing but the minutes ticking toward the late bell at school? How many times have I driven the same routes, staring only at the red light making us wait instead of the red leaves waving along the street? How many times have I seen only the smudge of chocolate instead of the soft cheek that held it? How many times have I only half listened to rambling, imaginative story while I balanced the checkbook in my head? How many times have I tugged, wishing they would hurry up, without savoring the feel of small hands, so trusting, so sweet in mine?


I can no longer be mistaken for the child piled in the back of that station wagon. I recognize the fragile, ephemeral beauty of the autumn leaves. I understand my father's wish to just drive and soak it in; to fill the senses with the majesty of it while we still could. I know that there is no guarantee of next year. But still, like that child, I take the beauty that surrounds me for granted. Of course they're beautiful. What's the big deal? The thing is, they won't always be there next year. Not in the same way. Our seasons will change and their lives will move forward and will I have spent this time - this sparkling, colorful, fragile, ephemeral time - focused on petty squabbles and daily minutiae? Will I take this beauty for granted? Or will I take the time to really see my life around me - the bright eyes, the crooked, gap-toothed smiles, the messes that mean that there are little people alive and curious around me, the growing bellies that need to be filled with good food? All of that, like the glowing leaves, won't be around for long, but they're here today. I think today I'll leave the tussling and griping to the back seat of that station wagon all those years ago and lift my head up, out of myself, and savor the view.

Discovery Park

The winter had been mild, but brutal for reasons other than the weather. Seemingly for months on end, stuck indoors with first one illness and then another, circling our family like greedy, mucus-laden vultures. It shook me to the center. Made me question my beliefs about myself, my health, my children's health, my parenting prowess. I declared "Enough!" and bundled little bodies, sore with remnants of our latest bout. I stuffed my pockets with tissues, healthy snacks, a camera and a map and heaved us out the door in search of a cure.


The city is hemmed by natural vastness on both sides. The Cascades to the East, the Sound and Olympics to the West. Abundant forests, lakes, foothills, volcanoes surround us. Hulking, shimmering there, patiently allowing our farce of human progress until they decide to reclaim the land. It is this constant visage of the absolute enormity of nature while still having access to good schools, flushing toilets, cultural events and decent shopping that I love about my most recent home.


The kids were antsy as we wound a new direction through a residential area. They'd never been this way before, had I? How did I know where we were going? Was I sure we weren't lost? 
"Trust me, please, to be the Mama."
Their questions were literal, but the low boil of irritation they ignited spoke to my own set of questions on an entirely different level. How did they grasp that so naturally? Or is it just my inner critic speaking?
"No, honey, I've never been this way before."

The shadow of doubt infected our space, in spite of my reassurances. The oddly flat, well-manicured mid-century subdivision through which we were driving didn't seem like the wildness I was seeking. Slowing for speed bumps and watching for my cue, I think I held my breath a bit. Slowly, slowly, then - aha. There it was, my talisman: the small, slightly dated-looking, rainbow striped sign of a city park. With a triumphant flip of  the blinker and a tap on the brakes, I felt more vindicated than I should have. I was right. I did know the way. With that slight course adjustment, we left the landscape of tidy yards and ramblers for our personal frontier.


Over lunch we spotted a white rabbit, startling against the green underbrush. It stopped and watched us watching it before cocking its head and leaping off into the deeper forest. It seemed as good a sign as any that it was time to begin our descent to the beach.


The path was worn and well-marked and the kids enjoyed the freedom to dance or run or meander at their own paces. Stopping to inspect: witch's butter here, moss formations there, rocks, bugs, the first brave flower buds of late winter.


Across the meadow to the bluffs - the first lookout point to the Sound. I think it was then that they finally started to believe me that we were going the right way. Impatience, urgency - "There it is! I can see the beach! Let's go straight!" The futility of explaining that what felt like walking away was really the best way to go.

I watched their little legs and feet making their way down the steep and knobbly forest trail. Each step so much effort, distances so much further for them than for me. These two little forest creatures, gamely heading the direction I pointed them. Setting aside their doubts and plunging deeper into the evergreen glow of sunlight filtered through clouds filtered through cedars.


We rounded a bend as the cedars gave way to deciduous trees not yet in leaf. We three stopped to catch our breath and mine caught me. Unfolding before us, the wind and salt bleached trees, with bare limbs held high. Clothed in white, a crowd of supplicants, arms lifted in praise, frozen there in their dance down the hill to be baptized by sun and sand and sea. We took up their dance for them; eagerly, trippingly, breathlessly down the rest of the trail. At once blinded and inspired by the occasional flashing glimpse through the limbs as the ripples on the Sound grasped a little sunlight and tossed its sparkle up to us. In good faith we clamored through the last tangle of vines that completely obscured our goal until bursting, tumbling, gasping like birth onto the sand. 


Off they ran to dig, to hunt, to discover, to revel. The brilliance of the sudden afternoon sun was matched only by the shining, dancing, aching pleasure in my children's chilly, wind-kissed faces.
"Thank you, Mama! We made it!"