Why YOU Should Write It Down

Yes, that's a real tree...here in Davis...at the Arboretum.


Today I went into Caroline's 4th grade class to share her great grandmother's Native American basket collection.
Normally, those baskets sit on a shelf in our den...
over-looked, dusty, forgotten.
But they tell a tale of weavers and people from long ago...
of a lady who loved to travel...
who collected baskets and carefully recorded the date she bought them, the type of basket and
the place where the basket was from...
that precious information, lost long ago.

I shared what I knew of Mary Compton Goni.
A botanist.
An avid bird-watcher.
An independent woman in a time when there weren't that many of those...
or maybe there were and we just don't know their names.

She created a place of refuge for her family
called Silver Lake.

Today, when I was talking about this amazing lady, I mentioned to the 4th graders that Mary had written a book about her life when she was 91 years old called Mary Remembers.
When Mary approached her 100th birthday, I took the time to read her thoughts and her amazing memories.

What a gift she gave.
Her stories of growing up in rural California and the remembrances of things once so important and now mostly forgotten, gave me a glimpse into a time and place I knew nothing about.
As I was telling the kids, they wanted to check her book out...ready to read her story.

If only Mary Remembers was at the local library.
Or available through Amazon.
Or easy to find on a Kindle.

Mary Remembers was printed privately as a gift for her family.
Mary printed only a hundred copies.

Tonight as I was reading it with Caroline, I turned to the last page...
wondering how she closed such an epic life.

She concludes with this gorgeous poem by Alfred Joyce Kilmer,
explaining that Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American poet born in 1886 and
killed in the First World War.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

This poem, long one of my favorites too, touched me tonight in a hauntingly beautiful way.
I never knew she found solace here too.

Mary's final words to us.
How essential.
Simple and sacred in its truth.

What final words would you choose?

I might have to vote for Mary's.
But that's the fun of writing...
I still have time to tumble a few around, wrestle with a phrase or two...
time to ponder and wonder and enjoy the beauty of words and ideas.
Time to read more poems.
Time to linger in the language.
Time to savor and cherish...
so grateful for this precious time.

*****

I would never know Mary's echo except that she took the care to write it down.
Her experiences, her reflections, her favorite verses shared in print.
A tiny piece of herself.

Why do we hold those so close?

Does your family know your favorite verse?
Your favorite song?
Your favorite poem or book or writer or artist?

Don't you think it's time you shared?

I do.

The Map

"There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature.  

A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed -- done with."  

-- Harry Crews

I don't often see Patrick without his shirt on.  He's 14 years old and into privacy.  He takes his own shower, figures out his own clothes, always remembers his deodorant and out of my three children that can maneuver through this process on their own, he is the only one who routinely hangs his towel up.

So, it was with some surprise that I walked in on him looking at himself in the mirror, touching a rough spot on his chest, analyzing it and thinking about it.  At 14, like almost all the others, he cares about what he looks like.  He wants his hair to be cool.  

He loves to dress up with a tie and jacket.  

This stuff matters.

I could see him feeling his skin like a blind person reading Braille.  He wanted to know the story behind the scar.  

He didn't remember receiving it. But, I did.

The scar looks like a hashtag that might appear on Instagram.  It's faded but rough to the touch.

I touched it too...and like some sort of portal, I traveled back in time.

There on the center of his chest, right next to his breastbone was the entrance to what once held a Broviac. A Broviac (for the lucky people who have never needed to know that word) is a way of giving chemo directly into your body.  It also happens to be a way to take out blood as well.  Pediatric oncologists often suggest it as the best option for young children with cancer because of that blood-taking option -- fewer sticks with a needle then.  

But from my viewpoint, I'd tell anyone to go for option two...the port-a-cath.

John and I affectionately called the Broviac, the "X-files thingy" -- truly a scientific medical term if there ever was one.  The Broviac was a tube that hung out of your chest.  It required a tape over it and a netting to be worn like a vest over the entire chest so that it would not get pulled out.  It was next to impossible to bathe in.  It was hell to clean, not to mention life-threatening if we didn't clean it right.  At the end of each week, we needed to push Heparin into the Broviac and clean the area around it.  

There Patrick would sit, the most stoic three year old on the planet, letting us clean raw skin and push medicine.

All that is left of that awful, horrible time is the hashtag scar.

Tonight, I told him the story of his bravery and his poise.  I admitted that while I was afraid of it, he was not. 

He looked at me in a shy, proud way...

and he asked about the next scar.

This one was a three inch horizontal line about three inches down from his left hand collarbone.

That was where the Port-a-cath was placed.

After the x-files thingy came out...which was a Defcon 10 on my fear list, they casually replaced it with this.  This beautiful invention goes under the skin.  It's about the size of a fifty cent piece, circular, and attaches to a vein.  It has a sponge-y center where the medicine goes in.  You numb the area and then push the meds/chemo when needed.  But since it is under the skin and nothing needs cleaning, once the meds are done, you're done.  Free to go and live your life.  Go swimming -- no problem.  Take a bath -- a breeze.  Play in a water slide -- fine by me!  It was a miraculous transformation.  Patrick was four when he got the port-a-cath placed and we were a new family.

They "accessed the port" (don't we sound like we're in Star Wars?) whenever he had a chemo treatment, which was about once a month.  

Patrick was so zen and unafraid about the accessing that other children who were fearful would watch Patrick and see how easy it could be. 

He was fearless at four.

Pretty stunning way to live.

That scar tells that story and Patrick heard it tonight.

He asked if he had any other scars and I pointed out the tiny one on his neck.  It was part of the Broviac nightmare and truly I blocked it out.  I just embellished the other Broviac story and told him he was ready for his shower now...

except then I had to take my index finger and smooth his open heart surgery scar that runs right down the middle of his chest a good eight inches long and thick.  Like I had a bubble of glue under a paper craft, I smoothed that skin, petted that scar and reminded him of that amazing badge of courage.

That scar is hard to miss.  He knows that story so I mostly skimmed over it, like a favorite fairy tale.  

I could give the Cliff Note version.

He asked to see my scars.

I have only two.

One from a hernia operation when I was two -- a whisker thin three inch scar way down low on my tummy -- and one on my finger -- a Girl Scout camping accident with a sharp tin can.  

My stories show no bravery.  No zen-like calm.  No resilience.  No grace.

Like ports of call on a map, Patrick heard his story.  

The hero stood down a foe.  He maintained his cool.  

He bounced back from mortal adversaries and held his own.  

Mostly, he did it with effortless grace, good humor and kindness, fearlessly.

What's a little hashtag scar or two when you've done all that?

You're made of powerful stuff my boy.

I'm glad you finally heard it all out loud.

After all that horror, fear and dizzying sadness all that's left are the scars...and the stories.

They're both pretty beautiful now.

You Don't Remember

When Patrick was in kindergarten, he was just completing all treatment for leukemia.  He had been on a steady stream of drugs and drug therapies for over three years.  His body, just turned six, could barely remember what it felt like to feel strong and healthy since over half of his life he lived with the effects of cruel chemotherapy. 

So, going to kindergarten was a big deal.  

He had virtually no stamina.  He got tired quickly physically...now add in what we were asking his brain to do.  We had placed him in a typical kindergarten with typical peers and crossed our fingers.

We knew the academics would be rigorous...but we also thought he could do it.

He thought he could do it too.  

He went about his days, learning to make the letters of the alphabet, learning to add, learning to come in from recess and learning to follow directions --  from all directions.

It was a huge task.

Every day I would toil with the uncertainty of it.

Were we asking too much of him?

Could he do it?

Could the school do it?

What did his peers think?

What did the other parents think?

I had no idea.

Then came the trip to the pumpkin patch about eight weeks into school.

It was obvious that Patrick was worn out...tuckered out.  

He asked me to hold him.

I cringed.

No one else was holding their kindergartener.

I wanted to say no...play the tough guy...but I couldn't do it.

I could see it in his eyes.

He needed a lift.

So...holding him, inner cringing, here comes a mom with her camera 

(long before the days of everyone having a camera in their phone)

and asks to take a picture.

Although I felt awkward, I was touched by her out reach.

I didn't know her name.  She wasn't a friend.  

She was just a mom on a field trip and

she didn't seem to care that I was holding Patrick.  

She didn't seem to mind that he was tuckered out while all the rest were climbing hay bales and scurrying around.  

She thought this moment was picture-worthy.

Now here's the crazy part.

Apparently, she didn't just think it was worth a casual photo-op.

A few days later...yes, back in the days of developing pictures at a store...I receive in Patrick's backpack a clear plastic picture frame with a little red bow and this picture:

My pumpkin.

I was stunned.

Who was this stranger?

Who takes the time to develop a photo of some random classmate, put it in the frame, decorate the frame and somehow get it to the person?

I honestly couldn't get over the thoughtfulness...still can't.

When I see this picture, that still is on Patrick's dresser, every time I get choked up.

It was the tiniest touch of grace and goodness...a simple message:

I accept you.

You deserve to be photographed.

You are part of our class.

You matter.

This was my rainbow after a storm of not-knowing.

This was my sign.

It was all going to be okay.

I know this mom has no idea the depths her act of kindness has traveled.

She very likely doesn't remember doing it.

She definitely doesn't think it's still hanging around some kids's dresser.

Isn't it funny what sticks around and makes it to the trophy case of our life and lands on the bookshelf or dresser or wall?  

I always want to know the stories of these pictures because I know they're good...just like this one.

I actually forgot about that picture until a few days ago.

When the very same person came up to me, nine years later, saying:

"I'm so excited about this picture Beth.  I got his real smile.  I got him with his little buddy carving their pumpkin at just the right moment.  I'll send it in an email."

Sure enough...

...those smiles came through an email.

And I thought about her act of kindness all those years ago.  

About the door she opened of acceptance and inclusion.  I thought about her -- always behind the scenes -- taking pictures, remembering, capturing and holding close precious moments that drip.drip.drip away every single day.

She has no idea the lift she gave me many years ago.

She has no idea the example she set for me.

Her welcome couldn't have been any more warm or sincere.

I guess it's about time I said thanks.

Thank you for your kindness, your generosity and your grace.

I'm still holding it close many years later.

A Taste for Adventure

So...I've lived in my town for 15 years...had kids at the same school for that time.  My town isn't big and I've explored a lot of it.  Of course there are always new nooks and crannies to find but I know most of it very well.  I've scouted out the local "big" city...visited some other favorite parts of my state and even ventured out of state several times...but I admit it.  I'm ready for more.  I need some adventure, people.  I need new faces, new places and maybe even some wide open spaces as The Dixie Chicks liked to sing about.  I don't have a death wish or even need an adrenaline rush...I just want to explore.

When my family went to Hawaii a few weeks ago, I asked out loud who would want to visit Haleakala with me.  Haleakala is the highest point in Maui.  It is over 10,000 feet high, a dormant volcano, and an amazing place to see the sun rise.  I had wanted to go for years but no one wanted to come with me.  This time, Jack was up for it.  We decided to bike down from Haleakala with a group...28 miles, all downhill, ending up at the beach.

It sounded like just the adventure I needed.  It included a 2am wake up call and a very long van ride up a huge mountain in the dark.  I left warm and tropical Maui and entered mountain cold.  Jack popped up, we gathered our things and went looking for our shuttle.  We found him in the dark and for the first time I wondered, "What have I agreed to?"  It wouldn't be the last time I asked this question.

After we picked up other people and made our way to the main town of Kahului, we were given coffee and a video explaining the risks of riding a bike downhill with a group.  We were told it could be raining and slippery making for a treacherous ride. (Insert above question to myself here.)  It was still very dark and misty so I wasn't sure what our weather was going to be like.  They passed out nylon waterproof shells that we could put over our clothes and showed us their winter gloves that we could use as well.  I felt like a computer that just couldn't process the information.  How could tropical, balmy Maui be Canada cold?  

   Turns out 10,000 feet makes a big difference.

We drove our shuttle up the winding road to the top of a dormant crater, Haleakala.  We all were quiet and sleepy...nobody knew what to expect.  We arrived at the summit in total darkness...the first shuttle in the parking lot.  We put on our shell and headed outside.  The cold air outside shocked us awake and Jack and I made our way to the one warm room at the top of this mountain: the gift shop. After warming up and getting our bearings we ventured outside for the view.

We couldn't see much of anything...but it wasn't raining. :)

We had a flicker of light, 

a soft stripe of an orangesicle, 

a promise.  

We might get a real sunrise.

Boy, were we given a sunrise!

Non-stop performance is more accurate.

Mother nature went for it big time.

No, that is not the ocean...that is fog filling the crater with whipped cream waves.

The dance of light, mist and mountain...truly stunning.

Now imagine a traditional Hawaiian chant greeting the new day.  Imagine looking with hundreds of others at the world below.  Imagine silence and camera clicks.  Imagine so many sharing in such a sacred beginning.

We were ice cold...but we were smiling.

Our guides told us that we were the first sunrise that you could see since Christmas...10 days prior.  We felt lucky.
But we also felt nervous.  How were we going to get down this mountain on a bike?

We got back in the shuttle and made our way to the entrance of the national park.  We kept our shell on and tried to warm up.  When we got out of the shuttle just a few miles down the mountain, the mist was running over the mountain and straight on top of us.  I started shivering.  My toes got that numb feeling so well known from ice skating. I looked at Jack and he gave me a smile.  We weren't completely crazy...just a bit.

I got on my bike and got in line on the side of the road. We had a family of 6 people with us from Toronto, Canada; we had a pair of honeymooners from Santa Cruz, California; we had one lone adventurer, Amanda, from Sydney, Australia (if you think it's hard riding down a huge mountain, try doing it on the wrong side of the road, like Amanda!); Jack and me.  Owen would be our fearless guide.  He could ride the bike practically side saddle so that he could see behind and check on his ducklings.

In the cold mist, on a wet road, we began to ride -- straight down.  We had 29 hairpin turns in 8 miles.  Needless to say, I took my time and tried not to get too distracted by the indescribable view.  We all made our way down the mountain.  Owen gave us hand signals of when to get to the side, when to slow down, when to notice something.  After a very short time, we got to stop and admire the view.

Yes, that is the faintest of rainbows guiding the way to a eucalyptus forest.


Adventure rocks!

The first 8 miles are the most treacherous and dangerous.  Since we made our way through the hardest part, we had to celebrate with an early breakfast at a lavender farm.  
Life does not get any more tranquil or peaceful than celebrating your survival on a crazy mountain with a cup of hot chocolate, a breakfast burrito and your son. Wow!

After our breakfast we rolled through the upcountry town of Kula -- where Tom Selleck and Randy Travis make their homes.  We meandered by sugar cane fields.  We coasted into the cowboy town of Makawao.  We rode on empty roads and enjoyed the sounds of bike tires spinning.  We could smell plumeria and see the beauty of hibiscus in its natural setting.  We were seeing the rural part of Maui, the secret part.  I felt daring and privileged to see and know something that I had never taken the time to notice. We rolled into the hippie town of Paia, with its cute shops, gelato ice cream and surf shops.  We were slowly weaving our way back to the touristy Maui we knew and loved.  

Last stop: the beach.  Owen had us stop at a surf beach...giant waves, native Hawaiians surfing and a whole bunch of mainlanders trying their hand at the impossible.  We just watched the three and four layers of waves break on the beach, hypnotized by the surf and the sound of crashing waves.  Jack and I weren't even tired -- we're not used to riding only downhill -- but we sure felt accomplished.  We did it.
We survived a sunrise at 10,000 feet, a crazy bike ride downhill and hairpin turns and mist that acted like the natural obstacles of a video game.  Best of all, we did it together.

I'm on the lookout for more adventure in 2013.
How about you?
I might have to stay a bit more local but I'm up for anything...roller derby, a hot air balloon ride, a hike to some unknown spot. 
Do you have any good ideas for me??
Better yet, what adventures are you hoping to take?

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."
-- Helen Keller

Savoring Summer

"Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit.  A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world." 
-- Ada Louise Huxtable

Patrick flying a kite!

Who invented summer?  Who decided that school life should pause, that we need to be refueled and that a long unscheduled, glorious blank spot on the calendar should occur?

Can I kiss them?

Summer is such a sweet spot for me...such a golden time, that I always resist acknowledging the little sliver of golden leaves beginning their shake down and foretelling what must come in a few weeks: the end of leisure and schedule-free moments.

So filled with a full heart, from gobs and gobs of time together, I am savoring the summer and remembering my favorite bright spots.  Too many to count but here's a mini-scrapbook of my Top 10.

1) The gang's all here!  Yes...Jack came home and for a few months, he shed his cool college guy vibe and just became the big brother again.  I definitely wasn't the only one who enjoyed it. :)

2) BBQing at it's finest...no happier dad than John with Jack on the week-end teaching the young ObiWan the ways of the Jedi masters with some tongs.

3) Cousins, cousins and more cousins -- we got to have Lizzy all to ourselves for several days.  And if that wasn't good enough, we just had a whole host of spontaneous get togethers.  So fun!

Sweet baby Catherine Grace

Caroline and Lizzy...bubble girls!

The swimmers who wouldn't stop!

4) The first ever swim meet -- sometimes you never think it's going to happen.  You can't picture it.  You don't know what it looks like and so when you try to there is just a big black hole.  And then it happens and it all makes sense.  My favorite, favorite part of swimming: the focus on the personal best. For both Patrick and Caroline their first meet was a personal best, no doubt.

5) Unstructured time...Patrick and Caroline have delved into another layer of sibling hood.  They've become play partners like no other.  They have imaginary games that even the king himself, Jack, isn't allowed to join.  Sometimes I can follow along from another room, but most of the time the plot is too thick and the story too long.  But, it sure is fun to watch!

What, mom?  We're fine!


6) Watching Mary Kate travel with some kids from her high school to an entire other part of the world and grow and change and open her heart to the transformative power of travel -- meeting new people, learning about new cultures and sharing a bit of yourself along the way.

Mary Kate on the last day saying good-bye to her class.


Mary Kate's travel partners...enjoying time off!


7) The summer of 2012 will forever be remembered as the break out bike riding summer for Caroline and the summer of laughs with Junie B. Jones...Caroline's favorite thing to read and giggle about.  Most of our bike rides carried Junie B. Jones in my basket, along with a certain other friend, Teddy.

8) Summer means relaxing and having no where to go.  I'm grateful for the days when we didn't do anything we'll remember...a whole lot of nothing often adds up to something when it's summertime.

My personal teddy bear.


9) Moments of silence -- nobody rushing, nobody busy, just slowing down enough to see and hear the glorious life all around us.  So grateful for those quiet moments.

Nothing better.


10) I don't have a photo of the 10th favorite thing...but I've memorized it in my heart.  All six of us got to go to Sunsplash together.  Sunsplash is a waterpark with water slides, a "lazy river" that you ride on in innertubes and a wave area that is like a mini-beach.  Having Patrick be a strong enough swimmer to enjoy a full day of swimming and water adventures is a dream come true -- thank you Aquamonsters! His cousins, Chloe and Beau, came to show us how it's done.  It was a favorite day of Summer 2012 and one I know we will try to find a way to repeat on the hot days of 2013.


Today I am grateful for those beautiful months of long nights where even the sun wants to stay up, for time together and for the grace of unstructured time called summer.  So bittersweet to say good-bye.

"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." 
-- Emily Dickinson