Unfinished Business

My life has been marked by endless feelings of unfinished business. I am certain I will be a ghost when I die.

As a child writing stories about my silly dog Midnight, or a superhero named Ernie the Goose that saved Michael J. Fox from muggers with a Super Soaker 2000 (you know, the squirt gun with the water tank backpack), I never stopped editing. It was never done. I read and reread every Shel Silverstein poetry collection trying to find something I had missed the first, second, third time. There was always work to be done. When my mom died in high school, I appointed myself as the healer. Her reach was infinite. She was so much to so many that the void was overwhelming. There were so many people to fix.

My ex-boyfriend called the night she died. He was sobbing. I listened. I let him cry. He cried and cried and I listened. I lied to him and said that it was going to be okay, because that is what you say. I remember watching three of my classmates huddled together at the cemetery falling into themselves in tears. I looked at them and wanted all of the crying, broken faces to be happy again, to stop looking at me with their heads cocked sideways trying to figure out when I’d be better. In one moment, I aged 10 years and gave myself a psychology degree.

“I am fine, but are you okay?”

I took on the world’s problems. This gave me a sense of purpose, chores and tasks to check off instead of letting myself rot. In ways, it was easier. I figured time would take care of my innards and the world needed me more. I had nightmares for years about my family dying. I attached myself to examples of my own reflection: hollow and reckless with a bravado about having fake, thick skin. I mothered the world in meaningless ways. I was terrified of loving anything.

But you can’t really decide not to decompose: it happens on its own. It’s taken me more than a decade to understand what I need and that those needs are important. I had to deconstruct myself much like I deconstruct what I read, look at it at every angle, analyze, hypothesize, test, repeat. I heal through reflection, solitude, reading and nature, then I give it all away. It’s like I have to forage for food for my survival, but instead of eating, I feed everyone else until there’s nothing left.

The day before she died, in a flash of lucidity, my mom told me I was an amazing writer, that I was so smart, and that I would do great things. I am starting to accept that maybe she was right. I get lost in counting all the ways I miss her and will miss her, how the loss has changed and will continue to change but never get any smaller. I’m learning to hold a space for her legacy instead of her absence and remembering how my father instantly turned into two super parents to a lost, shell of a daughter. I’m lucky to have a host of cousins, grandparents, and surrogate moms that stood behind me and took care of me when I was sure I didn’t need care.

Grief has been somewhat of a circle of healing and bleeding and repeating myself, telling the same stories until they become braided into the wallpaper of every house I’ll ever live in. My breath still gets caught in my throat when a mother and daughter show up in a story I’m reading. I worry if I’m emotionally prepared to be a mother myself, if I have miles more to go, if I’ll ever be ready for a child.

But maybe this is a never ending part of my life that I will forever have to navigate as I’m always remembering details about her that I want the world to know, that I want to remember, what she smelled like, how she hung a spoon on her nose, how she made me laugh until my stomach hurt, where she always left her shoes, our Queen sing-a-longs and soft serve ice cream fights, trying desperately to quantify in eighteen different ways how much it still hurts like the moment she left, my unfinished story, our unfinished story....

My mother was made of equal parts belly laughs and bear hugs and she loved me so completely that it shakes every step I take….

He says, “I don’t think the women at work like me.”

He says, “I don’t think the women at work like me”

And I say, “Why do you think that?”

And he says, “They don’t smile at me, they aren’t nice.”

And I say, “Why do they have to smile at you?”

And he says, “Because I’m a nice guy.”

And I say, “How would they know that?”

And he shrugs

And I say, “Women don’t have to be nice,” and I say, “Maybe most guys they know aren’t nice like you. They’ve all ruined it for you.

That’s the world I live in. You want the women to smile and we want the men not to murder and rape us.”

And he feels awful because he is a good guy but he doesn’t get it, how would he know that when I walk into any place by myself it’s very different from when he walks anywhere by himself? I have to tell him.

When I reached puberty, I learned that I am to blame if a man hurts me because I was taught to avoid violent men through a series of wishful rituals: not ever being alone, not ever drinking alcohol, not ever showing skin, but still, still still still still even if you follow all the rules and put your keys in between your knuckles with your right hand and have your left thumb on the trigger of your mace, some man can take you down with a glance. I have just now allowed myself to feel good in shorts, because for 10+ years I wore long pants in the summer time, in the 100+ degree heat because I didn’t want to deal with their stares and whistles and yells. You can feel so good leaving the house and be demolished by just one of them. It changes you, makes you feel guilty for taking up any space at all. You’re a bitch if you don’t like it, you’re a slut if you smile first and you can’t ever be right because you are not an actual person. You are merely just skin, tits and ass that can go from “sexy” to “fat ugly bitch” in a breath.

We internalize this, it becomes “how it is” so much that we let it fester and grow until you hear it again, some strange man says, “Smile honey,” and it rises again, to the last time you wore shorts and what the world felt like, like it’s your job to not give them a reason, the men who will stare at you anyway, in the grocery store wearing teacher pants, pants so incredibly large that your butt gets lost forever, on purpose, because you don’t want to deal with a crazy scary stare, a yell, and whistle, because you want to blend in so badly, because you are a teacher to middle school boys who have objectified you and told you that your skirt is too short and you want to hide and yell at the very same time, you’re embarrassed that you never wear that skirt again, and still, still still still, in the grocery store in your teacher pants an older man tells you, leaning in too close, in a hushed tone like it’s a secret, “Nice drawers” and won’t stop staring at your ass while you empty your apples and bread and oatmeal out of your basket and you get so mad “why does he get to make my butt an ass, why does he get to swallow me whole?” and you want to tell him to BACK OFF but you’re scared because you’re by yourself and the giant window at the front of the store will show him exactly where you’re walking so you grit your teeth and say thanks! because what else do you say? Being mean or saying nothing may set him off and he could follow you and you could get hurt. There’s a 30% chance that you will regardless. The only real protection is having a man with you. Men respect other men’s property. I’ve heard so many times, “Sorry bro didn’t know this was your girl.” I have never heard, “Sorry lady I just realized you are a human. I’m so sorry I scared you.”

So I say, If she doesn’t smile at you, there’s nothing wrong with her, or there is and it’s none if your business. You’re a nice guy? Then leave us alone. Let us be human, let us be pretty, let us be ugly, let us be angry. If you were to stumble upon a wild animal in the wilderness, tell me how you decide whether or not it will eat you alive. Too late, you’re dead.

• It is estimated that 35 per cent of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence or sexual violence by a non-partner at some point in their lives.

• It is estimated that of all women who were the victims of homicide globally in 2012, almost half were killed by intimate partners or family members, compared to less than six per cent of men killed in the same year.

• In 2012, a study conducted in New Delhi found that 92 per cent of women reported having experienced some form of sexual violence in public spaces in their lifetime, and 88 per cent of women reported having experienced some form of verbal sexual harassment (including unwelcome comments of a sexual nature, whistling, leering or making obscene gestures) in their lifetime.

  But please, tell me how it makes you feel when women don’t smile at you.

  http://www2.unwomen.org/en/what-we-do/ending-violence-against-women/facts-and-figures

Story/Stories

Over two weeks ago, post-hike, I wandered into a bookstore in the foothills. I had a long list of books to read. I picked up a collection of shorts stories from Lydia Davis and read it in four days. It changed everything. I have not read a book like that in my whole life.

But most notably, I started writing again. Not a boring blog entry about my latest epiphany on how to live life, but a story. Stories. My dreams became these crazy wild tales that I couldn't help but carry into the early morning and write them down before I forgot it all. I have filled up half of my journal in 13 days. Writing and reading have taken up most of my free time. It has been incredible and completely bizarre.

As with all change, I often agonize on what it all means. I try to fill in the unanswered questions that I've been struggling with and connect the dots to somehow figure out the rest of my life. It's a weakness I have to want to see into the future, peek over the hedges, make lists and plans and get ready for what's next. Except this feels like a return. I found a part of me that has been wandering around, drunk and afraid for a long time. The crazy 18 year old that was sure she was going to be a writer has come back, sobered up, got some sleep and now hydrates herself responsibly.

I wanted to immediately feel like I had wasted time, I was behind, I needed to catch up. But I realized that I've gotten better, in a lot of ways. I always thought unearthing the need to write seriously would bring back all these insecurities I had when I first set out. I do still have wild thoughts that I'm not good enough, will I ever be, who will want to read about my post office anxiety, am I relevant, etc. etc. But on the other hand, I kind of don't care if anyone gets it. I'm used to it. I don't need to beg the world to understand me and tell me I'm brilliant. I love to write. I always have. I think I'm pretty good at it. This time, I'm not asking for permission. Who cares where this is going! Even if I spend the rest of my life reading and writing on the edges of everything else and never really take care of my dangling modifier habit, what a wild ride that would be.

“We could, you know. We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, obedience - even of silence - by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn’t “attack” anything; a weasel lives as he’s meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity. ”

— Annie Dillard "Living Like Weasels"

I started this short story in 2006. I gave it a 2016 makeover.

Mice Men

There were two men in my stomach. They were putting up a fight about foreign politics. They could not agree. With everything, their yelling was banging up my insides. I was frightened. I was in bed and pulled the covers over my mouth and nose, but slowly so they wouldn't notice me. I held my breath so they wouldn't notice me. They didn't for a while.

I spent a long time arguing with myself on how to fall asleep. I finally mustered out a whisper: "Could you keep it down, please?" I held my breath and waited for an answer.

The men stopped arguing. Their voices became friendly, quiet squeaks. They decided to have a beer. They picked out handfuls of ale from the sky and placed them in each others cups.

They did not know, but I fell asleep hearing them sing a wonderfully silly song about zebras, laughing and drinking. They are thoughtful friends.

I had dreams about lovely purple large-brimmed hats that night. And the men, they fell asleep eventually, humming.

Five.

“Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”

— Road Dahl

Five years. How did we get here? I used to think I knew. I would spout out cliched advice to newly married couples that would ask what our secret is. Date nights! Loving yourself first! Cloning Paul! But this past year, a lot of people have gone through breakups, which has led me to reflect on us. And I realized that I truly don't have an answer rooted in science or logic.

We met in the midst of one of the worst years of my life. I was an unemployed college dropout with crazy amounts of self-esteem issues, lost in a fog of alcohol and a lack of direction. I was aware of how much of a mess I was and was dead set on ending a relationship of three years to (eventually) focus on school. Three days after breaking up with my boyfriend, I met Paul. It was the worst time to meet anyone of substance (or so I thought) and I was stubborn enough to deny this sunshine in my life because I was too young to figure out who I was going to marry, especially when I wasn't in the best state. But that's how profound meeting Paul was: if I wasn't careful, I knew I'd want to keep him around forever.

Our first year was messy and hard, but we walked out of the first year and just decided to figure all of it out together. And we found out that we were really good at the good, bad and ugly stuff of life when we worked as a duo. We argued about the dishes and would fight when we both drank too much. But then we grew up, got better jobs and went back to school. I knew I would eventually lift myself up and out of my drunk dropout fog but I didn't realize how much Paul would help. I didn't have to worry about him shattering my independence or choosing between a serious relationship and a career/college. Crazy nights when I worked and went to school for 12 hours, he made sure I ate dinner and left me to study. He was  unconditionally supportive throughout finishing my undergrad degree and the bear that was grad school. We became a really good team. It became clear in year two that life was improving immensely when we were together. So we just kept hanging out, for almost 10 years now.

I don't think marriage is hard. It's not because we are some alien race immune to challenges, but marriage itself is the easy part. Working on yourself and realizing when you're projecting your own fears and insecurities is the hard part. I am lucky to have a partner that works on himself just as hard as I do. Our work is carefully making sure we're not blaming each other for what we see in the mirror. We're constantly growing separately and support each other when that gets tough. It makes it really easy to be nice to each other when you don't hate yourself.

But I don't have all the answers. I didn't love myself before meeting Paul. I didn't give myself enough time between breakups like you're supposed to. I was so young. Following all the formulas for long-lasting marital bliss wouldn't have led me here.

As much as I wanted it to be, love is not scientific. It's not a checklist. You can't boil down logistics and make it happen. You can't take the great advice from your friends and grow love in a greenhouse. It's just magic. It just happens. You have to be smart enough to notice it and embrace it and help it grow, but it does its own thing, whether you like it or not. Whether you're ready or not. Whether you're a very put-together 31 year old or a crazy drunk of a 20 year old. 

I believe in fairies. I believe that trees talk to each other. And I believe in the Yo-Naus.

On Sunday morning after a rare late night, Paul and I decided to go out to breakfast at our favorite place. We didn't get there early enough and it was packed, so we ate at the counter. Two out-of-towner guys were sitting at the top of the L shaped counter. Paul ordered the biscuits and gravy, something he'd been waiting to order for months since it's not on the summer menu. When our food came out, one of the guys asked, "Is that the biscuits and gravy?" with wide eyes. Paul said, "Yeah! It's so good. But they don't have it in the summer." The guy got more excited. "I was going to order that but got pancakes instead. I'll have to get that next time." Paul nodded his head and took a bite. Then he turned towards the guy and said, "You wanna try it? We can split this. I'm not going to eat all of it." The guy politely declined, but I was in awe, and proud. Sometimes Paul's kindness floors me. Being willing to share your favorite meal with a perfect stranger (and not just waiting for my reaction) makes me fall in love all over again, and feel really grateful that I get to do life with him every day.

Five years. It sounds so long ago that we Jubilee'd at my grandparents farm. I'm pretty much done pretending that I have any clue what's ahead of us. Marriage itself may get hard. We both may change in uncharacteristic ways. But as naive as this sounds, I'm fairly certain that if I just keep believing, we'll still get to keep the magic.

And maybe if we're really lucky and if the past is an indicator of our future, it'll just keep getting better. 

What Are Your Plans?

It started in high school. My Uncle Bob used to ask me what my five year plan was every Christmas. He meant well, trying to help me figure out what it was I wanted to do, but I never had a good answer. I knew I wanted to go to college. I knew I wanted to write. When or where was always fuzzy. I guess I lacked the ability to pretend that life has the ability to be planned out five years in advance. I definitely tried.

The master plan was never really something we openly discussed at the dining room table at home. My parents were supportive of everything but my dad definitely made sure to instill in me an importance of supporting myself in whatever direction I ended up heading. At times, it was hard being a broke college student, but I am so incredibly grateful for the struggle because it helped me figure out how to take care of myself. 

What are your plans? I've had some sort of plan since I could hold a pencil. I thrived in event planning during my grad school years. I obsessed over party details every gathering we decided to have. Plans, for me, have always been fun to dream up and organize but the reality was that they always, overwhelmingly, went another way. I have never had the natural flexibility to "go with it" and be "okay" with plans shifting. 

I reached this place when I chose to give up teaching: it was a new place that required faith in the unplanned plan. There wasn't really a day that I symbolically threw my day planner in the fire, but somewhere in that career change, I decided to trust a life not thought out. It was terrifying at first, but with a little practice, I got good at it. Integrating improvisation in your life is good, but applying it to the "master (un)plan" is on another level.

What are my plans? I don't know. At all.  I've been conditioned to believe that this is wrong or lazy or devoid of direction. I'm "unfocused." But I choose to think of it as something I've never allowed myself to do: not know. My life-long planing gave me a false sense of control and direction. I have manipulated every decision in my life by planning years in advance. It led me to burn out in a career that didn't match my life. 

I don't have parameters for what I'm going to do when I leave here, or even really know what the next job or place to live will look like. I know what I don't want and I know what I'm good at and I know what I enjoy. But other than that, it's pretty blank. And I think that's okay. I am practicing being comfortable in the unknown. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. This is also the happiest I've ever been.

Some people think moving away and not knowing anyone is the scariest thing in the world. To me, being alone with your thoughts used to be really scary. Now I can't get enough. I have so much I want to do: read, write, run, hike, yoga, bake, cook, organize, create. I can't wait when lunch comes around and I get to sit in the swing behind the office and write. I can't wait to take the evening run with myself and the trail and daydreams.

Things are shifting. Fall is near and that's always been a starting over point. Change is happening, however slow it needs to happen. I will never forget where I'm from and never stop missing the people that love me and support me. But for right now, I need patience: to dream, to wander, to grow, to be alone. I am learning how to stay present and really get to the bottom of what I want. I think this will lead to me recognizing the "what" when it comes around and leaving the rest alone.

My plans don't have anything to do with how I make my money or where I live. My plans are making the most of every single day by getting outside and doing what I love. My focus is how I can improve, how I can make time for what makes me happy. And I never want that to change.

What are your plans?

This is How We Fun

Bill stood in the middle of the trail staring at the side of the mountain. We were at the part of the trail that broke off from day hikers into the wild. As we approached, he started talking, but never broke his stare at the slope.

"Man, that'd be a great run," he said with a smiled sigh, his tanned skin creasing into deep rivers. 

Ski daydreams.

"Isn't this just such a great place to be?" Gratitude leaked out of every word, inhale, stare. Bill was my kind of people. His eyes lit up like a child's with excitement. "I need to get out here more. It's such a recharge." We smiled broadly looking at each other. That's exactly what we call it. Before we parted ways, Bill talked fast about his plans to hike Mono Pass to Lake Thomas Edison. "They have a ferry for hikers that takes you across the lake to a prime rib dinner!" He was the last person we saw until late next morning.

After leaving the Mount Rose Trailhead, we saw tons of people all the way to the Galena Waterfalls.

Galena Waterfalls

Then Bill. Then no one. We headed west. The climb was gradual, but the pack made it intense. Adding 25+ lbs. to my hiking was really hard. The views served as medicine. We reached the highest peak on the Tahoe Rim Trail, 5 miles from the trailhead. I felt like I had conquered a whole country. It was a rush.

Atop Relay Peak. Atop the world. Relay Peak, 10,338'

Adrenaline pumping, we talked fast about the next backpacking trip.
"Why don't we do this every weekend?" we said, like dummies.
The best of times! Look at that lake!

And then our source of water ended up being bone dry. The next two lakes on the map, puddles. No water until we would reach civilization the next day. The realization that half our food for dinner needed water. The thirst that came with hiking 12 miles with lots of weight. The worst of times.

Fortunately, we conserved our water until we were certain we had a water source and packed more food than we needed. Our tired weathered bodies finally stopped for the night, nestled underneath Rifle Peak, about 12 miles into our 20 mile journey. We set out to find our campsite: somewhere flat enough to sleep with a tree tall enough to hang our bear bag.

Our campsite for the night

As the sun set over the lake, not one single soul for miles, we looked out atop our mountain perch and couldn't believe our view. It was ours. Unbelievable beauty. We found a rock that served as a perfect sunset-viewing chair. A panoramic view of the lake and a pink-orange-blue sky. The best of times.

An incredible view. One of the best sunsets of my life.

There isn't much sleep involved in backpacking. This was no exception. Our "flat" spot ended up being a slight incline, and we spent the night in our little backpacking tent trying not to roll over on each other. Side sleeping made for numb extremities. Back sleeping hurt my back. Every sound startled me and I spent most of the night making mental notes of what the wind sounded like and compared it to any other sound. 

Our stiff bodies rolled out of our tiny orange cocoon at dawn, sleepy, crabby, craving donuts and pizza. Once we moved around a bit, our stiffness subsided and we drank in the pink sunrise, only slightly dwarfed by the memories of our sunset. 

Eating up most of our food, wearing our warm clothes on a chilly morning and running out of water, our packs were significantly lighter. We were on our way by 7 a.m., looking forward to an easy 8 miler, mostly downhill to our Jeep.

All morning, we talked about food. What would be our first meal? I could make out Tahoe City from our view and pointed to our favorite restaurant. "There. I want that." The morning was fueled by BBQ daydreams. We stopped halfway, consuming the last of our water and two apples. The closer we got to the trailhead, the more people we'd run into. The day hiking tourists started wide-eyed at our packs and couldn't stop asking us about bears. The fellow backpackers would stop and idly chat about the trail ahead. 

The euphoria of hearing the road for the 1st time in 24 hours is incredible. It's jarring and foreign at first as your wild ears only consumed the wind and low grunt of bears in the trees. But the you realize you're about to finish a really hard thing. The relief and sense of accomplishment makes your tired face burst into wide smiles. I just hiked 20 miles with 25 lbs on my back and slept at 9,200 ft. in the wilderness. I just did that. On purpose.

After a light nap, an ice cream bar, a ton of water and a nap, we made the decision to section hike the Tahoe Rim Trail before summers end. A 165-mile, twenty-four inch, single-track trail that encircles the lake. Three day hikes and five backpacking trips. Three down, five to go.

Sometimes I don't really get why I love it so much. I go out of my way to carry lots of weight up mountains for miles and sleep uncomfortably on rocks. Every part of me gets tired and the hunger is unbelievable. But it's quiet. Miles away from what I'm used to. In the discomfort, it's comforting. It almost feels like I find a piece of me that has been missing. A new quiet that somehow awakes the wildness in me. It's addicting.

On every backpacking trip I've been on, and there have only been two, things fall apart and then come back together again in the craziest ways. It's a microcosm of life: you may work with a really difficult person, you may have spilled coffee on yourself pre-interview, but there is an epic sunset, a home cooked meal, a hug in your future that makes it all melt away. And just knowing that makes the falling apart a little easier. 

Mount Rose Wilderness, just passed the Galena Waterfalls

Just after summiting Relay Peak in the Mount Rose Wilderness

The last bit of sunset Saturday night

Day two, headed to Brockway Pass

Happy Birthday, Happy Life

July 17th used to be the highlight of my year. I've written about what this day signifies over and over again, and my battle to balance my mother's birthday legacy and honoring myself by chilling out. For 31, I (sort of) succeeded and (epically) failed, again. 

My mother was a larger than life part of my story that has been missing now for 10 birthdays. Every year, I flop around like a fish out of water trying to figure out how to heal. July 17th is about what my mother brought into this world and what she left behind. Pancake breakfasts with candles. Giant Mickey Mouse "Happy Birthday" signs. Hours of special birthday shopping. Ice cream dance parties to Queen. And then radio silence. The silence haunted me for a long time. I needed to make a lot of noise so it wasn't so profound.

The noise was always in the shape of showering myself with tons of friends and food and booze and multiple day plans and multiple birthday outfits. But it never came close to what she gave me. 

For a few years, I resolved to be like a lot of people and not do much. That just brought back the silence. 

So this year, I did both. I bought birthday outfits. I planned a night out and a day out. I let Paul plan. I attempted to carve out some rest and relaxation. It all became a big mess of confusion and fun and exhaustion.

But it also represented my life at 31. I am just now learning how to listen to myself. The part of me that says, "Okay, one glass of wine is enough," or "You're tired. Go back to bed."

The part of me that loves myself like my mom loved me.

Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I'm too excited to sleep. Sometimes I value other's wants and needs over my own. And that's just not a way to celebrate the day of your birth. 

What I really want is to finally give myself permission to own July 17th. I want to let go of the birthday legacy.  I want to start over. 

I want to be outside. I want cake and a candle. I want to shop for a birthday outfit and wear it in September. I want to go to bed early. I want to honor what being 31 is for me. I just don't know how to do that yet. And just like every lesson in life, I'll keep repeating it until I figure it out.

What did I learn from 31? That it can take years to figure out what you want from this life and even more time to figure out what you need. 

That's okay. 

And sometimes it takes an even longer amount of time to convince yourself that you deserve to get what you want and need. And that it's really up to you to make all those things happen.

Sometimes the best days of the year aren't on birthdays, or holidays, or Saturdays. They're the days that fill in your hollow spots when you least expect it. The days that make you full. They make you feel gratitude in ways you never thought possible. Pancakes for breakfast on a Tuesday. Spontaneous sunset picnic with your best friends. A quiet much needed moment with yourself where everything is peaceful and perfect. 

Honoring what you need has nothing to do with being lame and elderly; it has everything to do with getting smarter and stronger and having a much better, more fulfilling life. I thought a return to my younger years each year would keep me young and less sad, but in reality, doing whatever I want, like I love myself enough to take care of me, is the best idea. Making choices that prolong my days instead of cutting them short. Honoring my mom in a way that would make her proud.  

31 is an incredible age. I love 31. I no longer feel the need to focus my actions around others reactions. I have let go of feeling "old" and feel better than I did 10 years ago. 31 is powerful and beautiful and I am beyond grateful to celebrate the gift of another year of life.

Let's not give up celebrating our life just because we're getting older. Let's celebrate better: less booze more belly laughs. Less birthday blues, more cupcakes. Less feeling old, more gratitude for getting to be on the planet a little bit longer. Less waiting for vacation and more celebrating exactly where you are.

So here's to a million more moments, and a million more mistakes, that give us all a chance to pause and love life a little bit more. We're really, really lucky to be here.

Family Trees

My Grandpa Smith was a giant. Not only was he tall, but his presence was profound and asked gently for pause. When I was younger, there was an excitement around ringing the doorbell. Grandpa was going to come alive. He would throw the heavy wooden door wide open. His tanned leather face would light up and his exclamation of "Sarah!" always made me feel like royalty. His wide massive arms would swing me around until I was dizzy and giggling. When he returned me to the earth, I would crane my neck up to him to see his smiling face and hear his silly jokes. He was my giant redwood tree.

A few weeks ago, we went to visit the redwoods at the very top of California. In all the preparation I did for our first 4 day vacation by ourselves in at least three years, meal planning, camping accessories, road trip snacks, I did not plan on having wild dreams of my future or feeling new connections to old roads. Upon returning and laying Oatmeal to rest, what started on vacation has seemed to continue. It's been quite challenging to quantify, explain or analyze. But you know I've tried.

Sleeping underneath 400 year old trees is a spiritual experience. It felt like I was constantly in the company of my elders. I felt safe and couldn't help but completely revel in their massive presence. It was a sacred space.

It made me reconsider my focus. My whole life has always been about what's next. Everyone focuses on money but not your purpose. Being loved but not giving love. Speaking truth but not hearing truth. Failing to find the lesson in difficult people. We are all afraid of being alone and poor and unsuccessful instead of being afraid that we don't ever really get around to living.

What if I did something wild and crazy and focused on living? The trees don't worry about their bills, their success, their tomorrow. They stand tall and let it come. They waver slightly when the wind blows hard. They fall when it's time. 

Stout Memorial Grove. They shot scenes of Star Wars here, nbd.

After Oatmeal passed away, we hung a map of the U.S. where his cage used to be and several times a week, we stare at it, wonder about weird little towns we've never heard of, measure 8 hour drives from our driveway. It's fitting we do this where Oatmeal used to be. Beginnings and endings. They need each other.

In some ways, I feel like the trees were able to give me some peace and connect me to myself. A house will come. A better job will come. Kids will come. A new place will come. Without my interference or planning or anxiety. I've come to realize why Paul and I love the forest so much. I used to think it was because it was quiet and without people. Now I feel like it's a way to visit our friends, a way to come home again, to feel connected to the earth, to remember our family trees and the many people we lost that still reside in our roots, if we let them. We are never alone. And the more we trust ourselves, get to know ourselves again, the easier it is to find home when you're far away.

We could all learn a thing or two from our elders, and from the trees. 

"Stay patient and trust your journey." 

Some Pig

“But we have received a sign, Edith - a mysterious sign. A miracle has happened on this farm... in the middle of the web there were the words ‘Some Pig’... we have no ordinary pig”

— ―E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

On the day before Halloween, a rainy late fall day in 2012, Oatmeal showed up in my classroom. He was in a glass aquarium tank and quite shy. I was in the midst of my third and hardest year teaching. Paul worked 3rds and I would stay in my classroom late into the evening most nights. Oatmeal was with me more that anyone else that year. He always knew when I was having a bad day and would pop his head out of his cage to see what I was up to. I would sometimes eat lunch in my classroom when I was having a day and we'd share the apple I would bring. The night janitor loved Oatmeal so much she would buy him veggies and feed him a second dinner while cleaning my classroom. Val's kindergarten class visited us that year to learn about guinea pigs and Oatmeal charmed everyone. My students loved him. He would make the hardest, shyest kids open up. He even had his own desk and I would call on him during math class. We'd make up his answers or laugh if he was sleeping through the lesson. When we moved to Tahoe, his cage was directly in front of the kitchen and he loved to watch me cook, always trying to make me feel bad for not sharing the chopped up veggies I was preparing. He would get so excited when Paul and I would get home from work, racing around his cage and popping his head out for a chin scratch. When a noise startled him while I was holding him, he'd hide in my hair. When I worked from home, he'd get so excited that he'd just stare at me while I worked at the kitchen table. He had a silly soul and loved us deeply. I miss him so much already. 

It's funny what animal companions offer. The most loyal, dependable friend. Belly laughs. A feeling of family when yours is far away. An appreciation for such a tiny little creature that makes you love so big. Oatmeal was the best pig. I know, I've met many. He was the best one. Everyone he met loved him, including his cat friends Jungle and Biscuit. He didn't like dogs much, but he never really got to know one long enough to make an actual judgment. The vet's office workers wanted a guinea pig after meeting him. He was charming and bossy and a wonderful friend. 

After the shock wore off this morning, I felt a lot like when we put my dog of 18 years to sleep. No more pets. It's too hard when this happens. He would've been 6 this fall. He lived a long happy, healthy squeaky life, playing with his paper tube until the very end. And he will always be my spirit animal, prioritizing snacks and naps over everything else. Some pig indeed.

                                 Oatmeal by a 1st grader who wanted Oatmeal to be "a queen."

Oatmeal was one of my best friends and I will love and miss him always. Paul and I are going to have a private ceremony on our favorite trail we call the Fairy Garden this evening and put him to rest. Everyone in Tahoe who knew Oatmeal is invited to a memorial Saturday at Eagle Rock. We'll drink some wine and I'll tell Oatmeal stories. Feel free to dress in your favorite vegetable color. He loved spinach, carrots and green peppers the best. He also loved blueberries, oranges, bananas, apples and cilantro. Forget your best zucchini dress. Oatmeal hated zucchini.

Running with Mom

I started running in 5th grade. I joined this "long distance" community ed class that just had us running "indian runs" which meant running in a single file line with three to four other kids. You would then take turns leading the line. I took it with my friend Allison and we were really excited to run every time, but one of our teammates was a certified sand bagger. Every time he lead, he slowed down to nearly a walk, smirking. We, in turn, sped up way passed a comfortable pace when we lead, smirking. It wasn't the first time I fought back against entitled boy-idiots. Three years later I would memorize the rap names of each member of the Wu Tang Clan because the leader of the most sought after choir picnic committee said I couldn't join until I was able to name all members. I still remember, Mike Cartell.

I've had a sordid relationship with running ever since 5th grade. My perfection always had me wanting to be better but I would get frustrated by not being able to go fast, right away. My mom's only experience with running was having to take the police fitness test for her job as a private detective (grocery and department stores). Yet another reminder of how totally rad my mother was.

"Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth," she would say. "And think of something silly." It had nothing to do with running better, but it calmed me down when I was trying to be perfect. 

8th Grade Bronco, 3rd String Relay!

By middle school, I joined track and field with my friends, but spent the majority of the time in the athletic trainers office for knee problems. I was told I had "weak knees" and was given a set of exercises that I found to be even more painful than running. Being a 3rd string relay member was kind of humiliating and the only time I ever got a good run in was after icing all practice. I ran for fun in high school, especially when I began dating a cross country runner. I kept it up in college intermittently but the freshman fifteen came unexpectedly and I developed shin issues. Someone (I was dating) pointed out to me that shin splints happen when, "you're running flat or you're running fat." I had top of the line running shoes with great arch support, so..

Cool. Not helpful.

I moved to Chicago when I was 20 and spent most of my friendless free time running by the Lincoln Park Zoo. I lived in a studio apartment by myself where I wrote, did homework, drank too much coffee and did yoga every night. I just wrote and ran and was fortunate enough to not have to work. I had this strange view of a dentist's office and I would write stories about their interactions, setting myself up for exponentially loathing the dentist. It was a magical 6 months and the only way I could live in a big city by myself without having anxiety attacks every morning. Running has been and continues to be an incredible anxiety reliever.

Somewhere in 2012, my friends asked me to run a marathon relay with them. The word "relay" conjured up being a giant dork in middle school, so I was hesitant. My leg of the relay would be 5.95 miles. I had about 4 months to get in running shape and although I never really felt "prepared" it was an incredible time. I found out I was so much more capable of what I thought I was. And going through training with friends was a good time.

2012 Glass City Marathon Relay, 4th Leg, Turtle-Slow.

So when my friend Whitney asked me if I wanted to run a half marathon this year in June, I said yes without hesitation. I ran with Paul while he was preparing for a pack test to be a wildland firefighter last spring, but I got frustrated really fast. The lack of running for at least two years and the change in altitude had me quit before I could even finish a mile. And it didn't help that I had this lumberjack of a husband casually jogging with 45 pounds strapped to his back, barely breaking a sweat. But since January, I've started small and gave up feeling like I need to go "fast." I've just focused on distance. I've slowly felt stronger, able to run upstairs without feeling out of breath, my hiking has improved immensely, and although I don't feel like I'm ready, I feel like I'm on the road to getting somewhere.

Just like skiing, running is so mental. I have had weeks in my training where I'll run 4 miles easily, and two days later, barely finish a mile. This last weekend, I set myself up to run 6 miles, more than I've ever attempted to run, and way more than I've attempted in three years. 

I struggled to get past the 4th mile and I wanted to quit. There were unexpected hills and I felt like I was failing. I kept freaking out about my time, how slow I was going up the hills, how I started feeling pain in my shins again (am I flat or fat?!). But then it just came to me. My mother's advice for breathing when running, mainly, "Think of something silly." I thought about when Oatmeal sticks out his tongue. It makes me laugh so much. And I ran the best mile since I've been training and simultaneously nearly falling over with gratitude and love and tears. 

Not Oatmeal, but you get the point. Hilarious.

When my mom passed away, so many people always tried to comfort me with, "She's with you." And I just always rejected that because it's hard for me to feel that. Because I can't see her. I can't talk to her. I can't laugh with her. The mom I knew isn't with me. But now I think I realize what they were saying.

For the motherless children out there, and unfortunately I know many, don't ever forget that she's with you always. Because you are her. She is you. That's how the parent/child thing works. And I truly believe I wouldn't have been able to finish that run without her.

That 6 mile run was brought to you by the amazing memory of my mother. And Rich Homie Quan "Type of Way," a filthy song my mother would be horrified that I listen to. 

Me and Mom in those FILA days...