high points- low points

i woke up at 6 am with a killer migraine.  that was definitely a low point.  especially because i had to go give a little talk 4 hours later.  and it was painful- like i wanted to scoop out my left eyeball - painful.  luckily my 16$/ pill migraine medicine kicked in, eventually.  

but it left me with that post-migraine state of foggy-headedness, and a complete inability to be messed with. really.  i instituted a zero-tolerance policy for the day.  no whining, no stickiness, i needed them to step up to the plate.  i couldn't carry things alone. 

at noon i picked up two of their best friends and we all went to the pool.  everyone can swim- almost.  bryn just learned last week- so he needs me in the water the whole time- which was fine because it was 93 degrees outside.  hot like you burn your feet getting from the pool to your towel.  hot like you don't even need a towel.  so i was standing there beside the pool- with out the towel and i felt little bryn grabbing my bootie. 

" what are you doing bryn?" i laughed.
" i'm just pumping these parts back up."  he says giggling- as if i'm deflated. 

it was hysterical- in fact too funny to be a low point- but maybe i should be running right now, not writing.

then i got an email from a friend who just moved to india with her family as a missionary.  she is in that place where the new excitement of living abroad is wearing off and the reality of being far from family and friends is sinking in.  i had recently emailed her with an update about our uganda moving plans- it was full of logistics and the good news of how things are coming together and in her response she asked me- 'how is your heart in all this?' 

it gave me pause. 

how is my heart in all this?  have i stopped to think about it recently?  where should my heart be in all this?  how do you process a change like this?  i remember moving to costa rica for a semester in college and what was involved in getting ready and preparing and saying goodbyes and that was just me- and that was just 5 months!

when we moved from san francisco- i spent some time taking mental pictures- going to places i wanted to eat at for the last time- seeing friends and saying goodbye- but knowing that i'd be back soon- a few months- that we'd all talk on the phone whenever we wanted- and atlanta was familiar- i'd lived there before.  but even with that- even with preparation and knowledge of the place- even with parents in the same city- i remember things "oh dear God- what have we done!" i contemplated calling the moving van and sending them back- i contemplated not showing up for the signing of our home purchase.  even then i had a day of teary panic.

so where is my heart in this move?  to another world- another time almost- far, far, far away- and with minimal resources to jump right back into this life i'm leaving.  when i stop and think of it- my heart is beating a lot faster- it's a little scared- it's sometimes a lot scared.  my heart is sad and my throat lumpy at knowing how deeply i will miss my parents, my siblings, my dear friends who sustain me and support me and feed me with their presence and their words.  my heart will miss the sounds of these southern nights, the ease of living in my neighborhood, and the stability of a country where protests are allowed and even protected.

so where is my heart in this?  it's curious, and excited and really, my heart is ready.  ready to be surprised by it all- the hard things, the fun things, the things that will move me and grow me and transform me.  my heart is ready to see the world differently again- to know a different people who live a different reality- to become part of that reality.  my heart is eager to experience a life that i've wondered about for more than 20 years.  my heart is ready to live out what it believes- that 'things' don't matter, that ease and comfort aren't what we're called into, that instability was a part of our history too- that i need to walk by faith, not by sight. 

that is my heart- and this is a high point.

memorial day

so it's memorial day and we had a fabulous weekend at the lake, in the mountains,  but the last several hours have been ruined by a 'sticky thought'.  and i'm embarrassed to say- it's not zoe's, it's mine.   i can't tell if it's really dumb or legit- but either way- i've allowed it to consume me.  maybe it's less of a sticky thought and more of an inflexibility. 

i decided sometime this morning that i wanted to get home while it was still light- that i wanted to be able to relax for a bit - that i wanted the kids to get in bed at a normal time- so we had talked about it, and we'd decided to leave at 4pm. 

well things happened and we were distracted and soon it was 4pm and we hadn't left, we hadn't even packed the cars.   then mike did the unthinkable- he told the boys he'd take them swimming once more before we left- and in the hot tub.  now- women know what this means.  this means changing the boys into swimsuits, life-vests, sunscreen- trekking down to the lake- swimming- then dragging boys out of water who don't want to go- changing out of wet bathing suits- having everyone go to the bathroom- finishing packing- gathering snacks and the dog, and getting in the car.  women know this means another hour and a half before 'go time'.  women know this means more whining, later bedtimes and thus more whining tomorrow all day.  thus my sticky thought.

well- i decided- i want no part of this- we have two cars- zoe and i are leaving.  so we did.  and i stewed on the road for almost 3 hours.  it wasn't until we were in atlanta and almost off the highway that it dawned on me that i was being just a little ridiculous.  that i was behaving a little like zoe.

it was a bit of an 'ah- hah' moment.  i was able to see that when you are in that place of utter annoyance over plans not happening as planned, that you can get so caught up in the pure spiraling irritation of it- that you loose the ability for rational thought.  OK so the kids go to bed an hour later- so the swim suits are wet on the way home- so people may be cranking in the morning.  it's just not that big of a deal!

and, it's memorial day.  what a wack thing to get hung up on. 
on a day when we think of and celebrate those who have died in service to our country. when we should think of those who have lost loved ones in service.  which makes me think of all those serving and those who have served- our veterans- my veterans.  a day when i should be so acutely reminded of the big picture- of what really matters- and leaving at a different time then planned, should roll of my back like water on a duck.


now we're all home- the kids are in bed and it's 9pm- i'm thankful for those veterans who gave their lives- and who's day of honor helps me remember the things that really matter- and those that probably don't.  but- it's another piece of insight into zoe and her great spinning world.

two ears, one mouth

i've been thinking about listening and i've been thinking about cherishing.  and then being guided by these things.  i say this because things go better when i'm able to do this. when i stop- when i'm quiet- when i'm attentive- when i'm not in a rush- when i remember what really matters- when i look at my child and for one quick moment imagine if they were gone- and i soak them in- words- smile-scent. when i live in a moment where nothing is taken for granted.

maybe it's because i'm a doctor who takes care of people when they are close to the end.  maybe because i've had years of watching people say goodbye- maybe because i had a season of envisioning my life with out one of my kids-  these have informed my thinking- which slowly transcends into informing my living.

yesterday- in hindsight- i didn't listen to zoe.  i didn't hear her trying to say 'no' to swimming.  i had a vision of being down by the lake as a family- of all of us swimming together and laughing and hanging out.  but that wasn't her vision.  she tried to tell me that- but i was too focused on my plans- my ideas about what i wanted.  sho' nuf' it went sour.  we got down there and she sort of fell apart- everything was a problem- stickyland- my norman rockwell crumbled and i went briefly into pityland. 

i realized how desperately i need to be quiet. 
two ears, one mouth- we are anatomically set up to listen more than we talk.
i'm so bad at this.  i like to talk.  to share. i always have an agenda, and a plan.  i'm one of those people who will speak up if no one answers a question in class- just so someone says something.  i'm better at listening when there is a crisis- when someone really needs to be heard- but in the day to day- it doesn't come naturally.  i have to work at listening, especially to little voices that whine sometimes, or talk incessantly.  i have to remember there can be important stuff in there- disguised - but there. 

i have to remember to appreciate- to savor- to adore.  to value the little stuff. 
they go together.  when you stop and are still- you can hear the layers in what is said- the humor, the fears, the intellect, the memories that maybe hidden inside.  but the real magic comes when you focus and listen with your ears and your eyes and your mind- when you place value on what is being said- because then the mystery is revealed - because then you learn what to do.

whether it's a patient or a child or a friend- answers can be found in the listening.  hearing is taking in sound- it happens as long as our ears and our sensory-neuro-system is intact- as long as we have the ability to receive sound.  but listening is purposeful and active- true listening involves all the senses. 

words are powerful.  but communication is even more than words- it's what is said and not said.  it is tone, facial expression, and what we say with our bodies.  when we leave someone, when we have to say goodbye- we cling to this stuff- all of it. 

this week it will be my goal- my plan- my agenda. 
to be quiet- to hone in- to respect the one speaking- to strive to 'know' them- to find the gems in their words- to reflect on what is not said- or what their eyes said- their hands- the curve of their face.  to be guided and directed before i respond.  and to delight in the the little things- all of them- and to treasure those who fill my days.

a few favorites

We have lost even this twilight.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away? The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

-pablo neruda 

ask for it

i haven't been here since christmas.  when it was snowy and icy and the mountains stood strong and the world was quiet- silently quiet- more sound absorbed then emitted. 

today the smoky mountains are green when close up and blue when far off and the sun is hot and we all smell like coconut sunscreen.  the lake and the trees are cool and green and full.  the dirt is red clay. 

my family, all three generations, are milling around this house.  kids are getting freckles and splinters and memories.  the dog is smiling.  finally, for this memorial weekend, there is nothing we have to do. i love this.

i've being realizing how deeply i believe in and rely on prayer.  that there is power in it- that God has ears everywhere and they are hungry for our voice- at least that is my take on it. (i'm also weak and needy and incredibly impatient).  today, by around noon, zoe had used up my allotted patience for the day- for all the kids and anything else life wants to throw at me. she drank it all up- like she was thirsty.  it was gone.  i was on empty.  this is likely more of a reflection on my diminished reserve and less a reflection on her needs.  it was the small stuff- the slow sucking away of joy- the ongoing sticky thoughts- her (probably inherited) anger.  so i found myself lying bikinied on the dock while the boys swam, and while she stomped up to the house- begging God to expand my resources.
i told myself that i'm not asked to worry- but instead to pray.  to give my concerns over to the great comforter.  to let it go.  it wasn't eloquent- it wasn't kind- it was just desperate.

"ok- this is all i've got- so you'd better show up." 

and the world spun madly on- and the leaves waved and the dock rocked and the water lapped.

"no - really.  we're not even half way through the day.  help."

there were no fireworks.  there was no descending, dramatic peace. 
what came to me, was a song- a hymn by good old annie johnson flint in the early 1900s. 

"When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun."

"He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace."

and with those words singing in my head, i decided that instead of stewing in it, instead of spiraling down to that place of hopeless 'what if' despair, i needed to go up to the house- so that she was not abandoned.  i needed to give her, what i was asking for- deliverance- grace. 

as i walked up the steep hill, i walked on the brown leaves that had fallen last year- before all that snow- oak leaves and poplars and bark- and i remembered that she didn't ask for this complex and often limited processing system- anymore than i'd asked for a child with special needs.  and i remembered the 30,000 foot view, the goal of helping her develop the ability to internally regulate.  i remembered, LOVE.

when i came inside- she was dressed and about to watch TV.  i calmly reminded her that it wasn't time for that and i hugged her.  she asked for a snack and i told her she was doing a good job of listening to her body and knowing she was hungry.  then i asked her to help me make something. 

it was a small moment but it was a calm moment. 

and i looked out at the trees and was thankful.  that it was all green now- that the quiet blanket of snow wasn't there- that the branches are clothed in life- with their leaves wiggling, receptacles of my desperate words- sending them echoing upwards- so that grace can then fall down- and i can feel the joy.

summer rain storm

it smells like rain.  that earthy, metallic, dirty sweetness that emerges right at the start of the rain and stays for a while- hanging in the air, while things cool and soften and senses are enlivened and we are reconnected with the actual earth part of the earth.  the sky is full of noise and water and i love listening to it talk. like it's venting. like it's been a kind of bad day and it wants to share- to shout- to cry.  i get that.

zoe is at her friends house- her 'friend with autism' as she likes to refer to her. i'm wondering how she's doing in this thunderstorm- is she crying, covering her ears, all a dither? or is she being calm and helping her friend who might also be afraid- might also be more sensitive to the deep voice of the sky?

zoe.  me.  this process of trying to understand it- to frame it- to know it- to be still in it.
there are stages.  there are pieces.  i'm realizing that we are just.... here.  profound isn't it.

when i was in boston this past weekend, i took lily out for the afternoon.  lily, zoe's 'best friend', my god-daughter, the daughter of my 'best friend'. lily, normal 11, lily who've i've loved since before her birth, lily who i've watched hit all her milestones, lily who i looked at to show me where we'd be someday.  and it was an afternoon of what i'd hoped for in san francisco.  we shopped, we got massages, we laughed, we talked about 30 rock, we ate gluten and dairy.

it was all good and fun, and i allowed myself to be OK with it- to make it not feel like i was cheating on someone- to let it just be and not be betrayal.  i had wanted to take her out to thank her- to acknowledge her friendship with zoe- to let her know that i know it can be confusing and challenging and to tell her how much she means to zoe and to me. 

and it was part of a process- it was part of me accepting things- part of me being OK with who zoe is - that she is not lily- that she will never be lily- that she will have her own milestones and her own path.  that it can be full of it's own flowers- that are watered by the leaks in the cracked buckets.

today i heard the wiggly voice.  today i had a good conversation about what will be hard for her about moving to uganda.  today she kept eating pasta with her fingers instead of her fork.  today she cried about missing our dog clover if we can't bring her with us.  today she woke her brother in the car by pulling his hair because he was 'breathing too loudly'.  these are my days- her days- our inconsistent, confusing days.  i can not keep crying about them.  i can not wish that they'd go away- or my hair will go completely gray and my face will wrinkle into a prune. we are who we are.

the storm is still raging.
the porch is very wet.
the boys took their bath by candle light.
zoe came home with her ears covered in protection from the thunder and the baby crying in her friends car.
the air has cooled.  the roof is dripping, it's plinking on the metal grill cover. the sky is now quiet but the rain is speaking.  and it smells like a summer rain storm.

"‘Listen to the rain,’ she said.
‘It’s raining hard.’
‘And you’ll always love me, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And the rain won’t make any difference?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.’
‘Why?’ I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling steadily.
‘I don’t know, darling…I like to walk on it, but it’s very hard on loving.’
‘I’ll love you always,’ I said.
‘I’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the hail."

— A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway

salt and sweet and time

this morning it was windy and white outside and i sat on the porch of the inn where mike and i spent our first night ever as married people and i looked out over that gray atlantic ocean and all that granity rock and missed it.  i had spent the night alone in that inn having come up to celebrate the retirement of my 'godfather'.  i call him that, or 'uncle', but he is the man, of that generation, i'm closest to after my own father.  this morning, i looked in the mirror and tried to remember what i looked like 18 years ago-  but i just saw me looking back- with some more lines and freckles and thankfully, some maturity.

it's been a while since i've been back to new england and maybe forever since i've been back and alone.  it's beautiful and incredibly familiar and in it's rocky cragginess and shrubbery and peeling paint and un-manicured lawns, it seems realer than most other places.  like 'life' is happening- so things on the outside don't get tended to.  like in the battle with the weather and the seasons, nature wins - so you find your place in it and let things be.  and the people and their voices feel this way too.  softer in their weatheredness.  like sea glass and driftwood.  it makes me miss this place and it's deep history.

i ate breakfast quickly and walked out onto the rocks to feel that wind and smell the tide pools and seaweed and salt.  it has always given me a lonely feeling, standing on the eastern coast, because the wind comes from behind, off the land, like it's pushing you out to sea- like you're standing there alone with the world you know behind you- and you need to pay attention to what's ahead- you need to forge on.  it's a very different feeling than the west coast which seems to say- 'you're at the end, turn around and enjoy it'.

the celebration started with a lovely luncheon and then moved on to a time of music and reflection and more celebration of this man and his wife and their lives and their influence. the second part was at an amazing concert hall- small venue- newly renovated, seated on the coast line, and spectacular.  the seats all looked onto the stage, but behind the stage was a plate glass wall over looking the ocean.  so we sat looking out at the new england coast and listening to beautiful music and hearing about the impact that two people can have on a community.  i kept envisioning how cool it would be to watch a storm come in from this concert hall, with a moving piano piece being played on that steinway and a few candles- how powerful that would be.

but most of the time i sat in my seat with my eyes leaking.  that's how it felt.  they were leaking.  i wasn't anywhere near the ugly cry, i was just silently leaking tears.  i was full up and it had to come out. 

the hour was a celebration of a job well done, of a marriage well grown, of a commitment to vision, integrity, humility, following God, and influencing wherever you are. so i cried because i felt blessed to have been part of it, of them.  and i cried because of time and life's movement and its seasons. and how this community of people, these peers of my parents,  have suddenly become my grandparents age, and some people who were couples are now widows, and there are hearing aids and canes and cancer.  and now i'm getting close to the age that my parents were when i got married- in this community- with these people.  and i couldn't help thinking about what will happen in the next 18 years- or even 8 years.  who's lives will we celebrate because they're over, not just retired?  and whose celebrations will we miss living so far away?  and will there be regrets? 

but that ocean stood back there behind it all- that old, old ocean that's been there forever and as the music ranged from spirituals to jazz, my soul grasped the poignancy of sadness sitting beside joy and thanks, again.  like how the flavors of sweet are brought out and so much better with the salty.  and then we stood to sing, and i did with my voice cracking,
'this cornerstone, this solid ground,
firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
what heights of love, what depths of peace,
when fears are stilled, when striving cease
my comforter, my all in all-
here in the love of Christ i stand.'

so cracking and leaking and listening and looking i found some answers to those questions. 
go where you feel you should go.
influence where you are- wherever that is.
grow your marriage and your relationships.
be committed to your vision, to integrity, to humility.
live in the heights of love and the depths of peace.
trust the firmness of the solid ground.
be stilled in the comfort.

and like that salty craggily new england coast, this community will be here, in some form, as it was 18 years ago, as it is now. we are made of salt and sweet and mineral- and life flavors all of us. and our stories, our words, our music will live on and influence others.  but it is who we allow ourselves to be in this world that makes the biggest impact, wherever we are.

elephants and ferraris

the last night we slept in san franisco, it was on a table at our close friends flat, looking out over the mission with a perfectly round yellow lantern moon hung low in the sky.  zoe slept and i watched that lantern rise and the fog roll and the little lights sparkle and the sounds of the city grow more quiet.  but my mind wasn't quiet- it wasn't still- it was full and not ready to re-arrange the furniture - not ready to place things.

our last day was much better than the day before.  it started with sunshine- which always helps.  we went to zoe's old school- we saw her teachers and the staff and the women who'd spent hours with her- dissecting the social challenges and the nuances of language and speech.  we heard a quartet in the elementary school gym about how music talks just like our voices- something zoe totally gets.  we moved on to her pre-school, her old doctor, and finally the beach.

we lay on that warm sand- looking over the golden gate bridge on the right and the marin headlands across the water and listened to the ocean.  she lay down and closed her eyes and smiled.  and i remembered her running on that beach,smiling, before things got so complicated, before there were other children to share my time with.  before she understood there was a 'normal' and a deviation from that.

it has taken me a day to re-equilibrate to being home.  to give some space to our trip.  the settling down after stirring things up.

i'd like to think of zoe as 'normal', but having  few 'off' years.  i'd like to think of my life as that too, but when i operate that way- i'm most unhappy.  i'm overwhelmed by her needs and how far off we are from other 'normals'.  i panic at the thought of our future.  i create plans and lists for what we need to do to catch up.

i seem to be able to articulate that our life is not 'normal'- but emotionally, i'm not quiet there.  as usual, i haven't caught up with my mouth yet.

today i stumbled into a phone appointment that i'd forgotten about.  an appointment that was about zoe, with a woman who has known her for years- a woman who runs the social group that she's been in for years.  a woman who gets her- who cares for her-a woman with patience and process and wisdom that i wish i could buy from her- that i could soak in and absorb fully and live in.  i so wish for zoe that i could be more like this woman.

our half hour on the phone- which had caught me by surprise, brought me to tears and made me take notes- literally. i was given the permission to remember that i have a 'special' kid. i was given the validation that she is different, that her life, and my life, are a big challenge- that she is both really challenged, and really great.  she asked me to hold this.  she asked me to hold the tension of these opposites-zoe at her best- zoe at her worst.  to pay attention.  to trust my clarity.  to work to help her get to a more comfortable place.  to shoot for a goal where she can take care of herself internally.

i was caught off guard.  i was still thinking about san francisco and that yellow moon and my orange flavored morning bun and here she was making it all real.  giving voice to the music in my heart.
that it is really hard.
that the inconsistency is trauma.
that worrying about which writing curriculum i should use next year- is irrelevant.
so i sat on that phone and wept in secret.
i'm still not sure why.  if i was crying because i'm tired and jet-laggy and felt sorry for myself that my trip wasn't manicures and justin bieber books,  or whether it was because she got it- nail on the head.
but she said it out loud.

'hey- kris- i know your kid really well and guess what- she's not 'normal' and so neither will your life be.'
'hey- kris- it's both- it's black and white.  she is really challenged and she's also really great and full of potential.'
'hey- hold that- hold both'

(i wish i could just get it.
grieve it and move on.
memorize the instruction book and carry it out.
follow formula.
see the future.
know the right thing.)

'but what if i hold both and it pulls me apart?'
'what if i'm drawn and quartered trying to hold the tension of those opposites?'
'what then?'

but as i dried my tears and sniffled subconsciously; i heard such affirmation, such acceptance and such watering of my soul.

"you can't remove the obstacles- but you can be with her while she navigates them and help her not feel alone."  she said.

'but i'm moving her to Uganda!! i'm taking her from her closest comfort zone! new friends, new cultural norms, new language, new sensations, new room, new everything!'

"it doesn't matter if that obstacle is an elephant or a ferrari, you can't remove it- you can only help her around it, over it, live with it- know she's not alone."

i wanted to hand over zoe to her care- i wanted to immerse myself in 'shellyness', i want to become her zen.  

but.

i am just me.

this is it.  me - faults and beauty and disaster. zoe- faults and beauty and disaster.

so.

but how lucky am i to live in the meat of life.  to know that brokenness- that in the sadness and the 'not normalness' of it all- there is also beauty and learning and a deep joy.  that the great healer is walking quietly beside us.
helping me to navigate - whether the obstacle is an elephant or a ferrari.

there is the joy.
there is the peace.
 

expectations will get you every time.

expectations- they are just there even when we don't consciously create them.  sometimes we don't even notice them until they are left unmet- and we're feeling disappointed and wondering why.  when we have that feeling and we can't  figure out where it's coming from.  deflated.  

i'm back in the city of san francisco with zoe.  this place which so much reminds me of her- of our lives together when she was tiny and very, very blonde and we were very busy going to and from schools and aftercare and appointments.  this is also our first trip together just she and i.  and not surprisingly, it's been good and it's been hard and i'm exhausted.  it's also rainy and 55 degree's and gray and all the shine and shimmer of this sexy city has peeled back and i'm left annoyed by the lack of green, the parking, and the smell mixture of muni, dirty sidewalks and incense.  but mostly my mood is because of the underlay of my unbeknownst expectations.

i think i'd imagined that there would be pedicures and window shopping and revisiting old places and remembering.  i think i'd imagined connection.  completion even.  resolve.  that coming back to the place where in some ways it all began, would be healing, unlocking, or....something.  that with out all the distractions of normal life and with out her brothers or mike, we'd be able to talk, to dissect it, to explore nostalgia.

instead, we've experienced regression, distraction, overwhelm, disconnect. not awful sticky thoughts, thank God, but landing 'in space'- clearly regrouping into her happy place- or at least her safe place. which is removed from me and who ever we were with. it's not been horribly, but certainly far from my, dare i admit it, expectations.

it's a lot for her to take in.  new things are hard, but old things that look new but are supposed to be recalled, are even harder. and for zoe, who just this year, has begun to experience the complex emotion of nostalgia, the tizita, it's extra hard.

so i'm left with managing twice.  managing my, in full disclosure, 'let down' and, helping her process.  today, i didn't do either well.  today i let myself down.  i was snappy and annoyed and desperate. i wanted her to just be that 11 year old daughter i'd dreamed up sometime.  i didn't want it to be difficult.  i didn't want her to pull back into her head and pull up the rope latter behind her.

we were out for a late 'brunch'. 
at zazi's.
i was hoping to get some meat into her- some protein- bacon and eggs.  (the gluten/ casein free thing is killer when traveling!)
we were eating and the coffee cake thing i ordered was completely different than what i'd remembered and i had to go back to the car to get her special muffins and when i came back she was just checked out.  i asked her what we should remember about yesterday for her scrapbook.

"well, i don't know.  can i listen to peter gabriel on your iphone?"
"no- let's think about yesterday, who we saw, what we did."
"i really just want to listen to your iphone."
"but we're at a restaurant.  can we please just have a conversation?  you seem so far away.  why are you so far away? i feel so disconnected from you."
"i know.  i'm sorry.  i just want to listen to your iphone."
"not now honey."
"mommy?  you know sometimes i just get like this, do you understand?"
"yes zoe, i do.  i mean, i don't really understand, but i know you do.  i get tired when i travel too."
"well, what parts of it do you not understand but know you know about me?"
"i know you do this when you're kind of overwhelmed. "
"yeah"
"do you want to go home?"
"no, i'm OK."

so there it was.  there it is.  i need to lower those _(*$&%*$* expectations!  i need to live in the reality of my life.  i need to see the progress, see the challenge, accept the differences.  not be angry at what i don't have.  instead be thrilled with what i do have.  embrace the life we're given- in it's beauty and it's yuck.  forgive the wandering off in the market, the baby-talk when we see the buffaloes at golden gate park, the hiding from her friend who she hasn't seen in 4 years, the arguing with the 2 year old we're staying with.  i need to stop saying "can't you at least act 7?" and give her a giant hug.  i need to remember that different wiring requires more patience and more forgiveness and at least as much love as i give to others.

tonight we're toning it down.  she's watching 'noggin' to chill out.  we're eating over lisa and yoyo's which is like home to her.  we will just 'be' in this down time.

tomorrow we'll go visit her old elementary school- the place she was teased for not doing the monkey bars, for being too slow in line,  and for not paying attention in class, but where she was loved and supported by a group of very committed teachers and specialists. 

and i will walk beside her with nothing but pride because she is the one who wants to go back, she is the one who needs to see it, she is a courageous soul.  she allows herself to experience it, even if she knows it will be hard, even if she's not able to verbally process it, even if she'll need to just veg and listen to 'i'm a lonely little petunia' on the iphone.  and i'll let go of pedicures and window shopping.  and i'll wait for the remembering.  i'll wait for the processing.  maybe the remembering will be of this trip- of our new memories- of our mommy-daughter time together, of this new san francisco experience.

closer

i know i'm crazy, after all my complaining, but i miss my csa vegetable box.   i miss having something to start with.  even peppers.  i miss opening it and being surprised.  i miss the dirt.  i miss the challenge of making something from what i have.  i think it's in my future - creating from limited resources.  and we're getting closer.  closer to uganda.

today i had to say goodbye to some of my patients- people i won't see again before i stop working. people who i've seen almost monthly for a year or so.  who drive 100 miles for a prescription, exam and conversation.  these vets amaze me.  i remarked on this to one of them, that he'd come so far, gotten up so early, waited in the waiting room and all for 20 minutes of face time. 

"i guess in my heart i'm a marine.  if i'm supposed to be somewhere- i show up."

i love this. these tough guys who do what they need to do, who do what is asked of them.  i asked him when he wanted to come back.  i told him i could mail out his prescriptions since he lived so far. 

"you tell me doc, and i'll be there."

wow.

but i just couldn't say goodbye to mr. b.  i knew i needed to tell him i was leaving, but i had to sugar coat it.  so instead of saying goodbye, i told him i'd come visit him at home- or i'd extend my time at work until the day i fly out.  i just am not ready to say good bye and i'm not sure why.  i mean specifically, what it is about him and his wife that i've become so attached to? maybe it's time, maybe it's coming through the hard seasons when we all wondered if he'd make it.  maybe it's that he's shared his story with the entire first year medical school class, or maybe it's the feeling that we're somehow linked and loosing a link might break the chain apart and where would that lead?

i'm bad at goodbyes.  i avoid them.  i say things like 'i'll see you' or 'bye for now'.  i'm not good at final.

i know it's going to be really hard to say goodbye when we leave for uganda.  how do you say goodbye for years? how do you acknowledge that you're lives are going in different directions- and ours is across the atlantic? maybe i won't have to.  maybe people will come visit!  maybe i can stick with 'bye for now.'  yes, i think that's better.

today is another beautiful day after a long, needed sleep.  i awoke to an email with our housing assignment at the university where we'll be living in uganda.  this comes right after more news on the upheaval in kampala- more conflict, more riots, more violence.  and as the history of this country unfolds, so does our life there- and it still feels so right- despite a less stable situation than a year ago when we began this process.  we are watching it all come together and it's amazing.

i can now visualize our home, our porch, where i will sit and write at 5 in the evening, with a lot of bug spray.  i can hear our kids outside.  i can see the patients in the clinic that i will get to know.  they will amaze me as well, even more.  they will come from far way too, but they will walk, or ride a crowded bus, in flip flops, with children on their backs, and not much in their pockets.

my eyes are closed. i feel it.  we're getting there.  we're closer.

zoe in what will be our yard

the porch of our uganda home

zoe with ugandan kids

two long sleeps

last night was one of those nights when you almost wish it was 7 am at 2 am because you're so wide awake and tormented that you might as well just get up.  2am is a bad hour.  especially if you went to sleep 2 hours earlier and were woken by those 2am demons instead of choosing to be awake at 2am because something great is going on.  i can never stay awake until 2 so for me, it's just a bad hour. or as in last night, a bad few hours.

i worry at this hour, about pretty much, everything.  last night it started with anxiety about zoe's home schooling.  that i'm not doing enough, that i'm trying to do so many other things in that time, that she's getting shafted, that i'm not pushing her enough, not giving her enough time and focused attention.  i'd like to say it's false guilt, but at 2 am, i'm really wondering.  then it moved into every area of worry about moving.  when is it the right time to sell the cars, what if the short sale falls through, what are we really going to do with the dog, should we get rabies shots, should we take malaria prophylaxis.  then began my mental todo list- my way of trying to control all my mental anxiety- which ironically creates more anxiety when i'm doing it in my head at what is now, 3:30am. 
make passport application appointment,
get shots,
make will (yes! we still don't have a will!), 
call the bank and see where things stand with the sale,
write thank you cards,
buy more stamps,
print more fund raising stuff,
respond to emails from yesterday,
end of the year teachers gifts, 
judes star of the week project,
their forms for the ugandan school,
oh! and my work and all the things i needed to do related to my patients and the medical student course. 

and so you can see- sleep was far from me.

when i did finally fall back asleep at 4, i was awoken at 5 by bryn who was upset that i didn't tuck him in when we got back from dinner last night, which i did.  then at 6 jude woke us up to start the day. 

today my dad forwarded me an email about rest.  it was a brief commentary about the importance of rest for the body, and the mind; the spirit, the soul.  in the old testament God sets aside one whole day for rest. it's one of the 10 commandments. but culturally,  i think we're really bad at this- i know i am. my definition of rest is: not doing work.  period. that is it.  i'm incapable of napping because it feels like "i'm wasting time".  it feels like there is so much fun stuff i'd rather be doing that i wouldn't want to waste it with sleep. but when i'm 'not working' and therefore 'resting' i'm still checking email, answering the phone, and probably making some mental todo list.  i'm not good at slowing down.

rest- repose, relaxation, the termination of motion, mental or emotional peace or tranquility, to temporarily remain still or quiet, to be supported by.

ahh.  it sounds so good! i need this.  i need this not just at night- although that is important.  i need to incorporate 'rest' into my days.  i need to purposely set aside a time of stillness and quiet- no phones, no emails, no lists.  let the mind wander and find things.  let the space widen. 

it reminds of me of a funny scene in 'wedding crashers' when vince vaughn is about to loose it:
"Here’s what’s gonna happen, Tonto. Kimosabe’s gonna have some flavor, I’m gonna choose not to eat with you. I'm gonna recharge my batteries, and shut down the engines, and get myself back to neutral" 

i want to practice this- the recharging of the batteries, the getting into neutral, not just save it for vacation or the annual weekend retreat.  i need to practice knowing when i'm getting weary, practice saying 'no', practice knowing when i need a nap- when i need to shut down the engines.  and then perhaps the hardest part, allow myself to take "two long sleeps and food and a cool drink by a stream."

king of pops

i have a crush on alec baldwin because of 30 Rock, and the 'King of Pop's' himself- because he makes amazing popsicles (and he's really cute). i just had to say that because yesterday after jude got his passport picture taken we stopped at the neighborhood gas station to indulge at the 'king of pop's' cart.  i had no cash but he took a credit card -- on his iphone!?! what a world we live in! i signed with my finger.  amazing.  jude had strawberry lemonade and i had tangerine basil- (he said it was one of his favorites and i blushed- just a little)  delicious! www.kingofpops.net  check it!

it's these little things that make me happy. popsicles and 30 Rock- i'm easy.

and to make it even better, the boys both got into school in Uganda for september, and we're getting closer with the fund raising and we found a car over there, so things are falling into place.  and to make it even more better, zoe and i are finally heading out to san francisco together on sunday.  this is a long overdue trip- i have been promising it since we left 4 years ago.  we have frequent flyer miles and are staying with friends, so we're going on the cheap.

and to make it even better than that, since sunday i've been living the LOVE. (see mothers day post)  i mean really, i've finally, by the grace of God, had 2 days, in a row, of just loving and not reacting to zoe, to her brothers, to whatever is potentially irritating.  i've been doing more listening and less yelling.  i've been doing more smiling and less furrowing of the brow. i've been laughing and enjoying and not worrying, not being so angry.  i take no credit- it's God.  and i know it's only been two days, and if i were in AA i'd be far from my first 'chip' but hey- it's something- and i'll take it.  lighter, less lines, joy.

the other day i was at the pool.  the emory pool.  the pool that is mostly college students- buff guys and bikini-ed 20 year olds- and then a smattering of families- faculty or affiliates of the university and their kids.  this is the group i belong to.  i carry a large bag filled with spf 50 sunblock, waterwings, goggles, towels, pool toys, juice boxes and various individually packaged treats.  i'm usually taking someone to the bathroom, watching someone do a trick, adjusting goggles, wiping tears because someone got water up there nose, or telling one boy to not wrestle the other one in the water.  it's great.  it's what i signed up for.  but it's not about me at the pool. it's not about reading, relaxing, or looking good.

well the other day i was sitting by the pool with a friend and a college girl came over saying 'hey! what's up?'
'not much' i said.
' oh i'm sorry! i thought you were my friend i'm meeting!'
'no worries!' i said. meanwhile i'm thinking - you can mistake me for your college friend anytime!

then, the next day was mothers day, and i'm out for a run.  i have no children with me.  i'm not pushing a stroller.  i'm just wearing a pair of surf shorts and a white 'wife beater' tank top. and this car of young guys drives up and shouts, "happy mothers day!"

"thanks!" i shouted back.  then i thought, how did they know?  really?  i'm not wearing any mother gear.  i don't even have any food spilled on me.  so my shorts are 9 years old from my trip to hawaii, but they don't look that old.  i guess it's just there- it's just part of me- it's probably written on my face.

maybe it was him, the 'king of pop's' himself- maybe he recognized me because he see's me with my kids at his popsicle cart.  yeah- that must have been what it was.  he's a good kid.  i think i'll go watch 30 rock.

mothers day love

being a mom is the greatest thing i've ever done.  it's humbling and funny and full of mystery and surprise and it teaches you about love in a deep way, deeper than you can maybe ever know otherwise.  but it's also like the army- it's the toughest job you'll ever love.  and i do and it is. 

it was a great day.  it started with mike bring me coffee and a letter- a mothers day letter.  it wasn't a card, it was a letter- plain white paper folded in half the long way with a little sketch of a woman and a baby at the end.  the best gift i can get- his words.  then we went to church. 

OK- so it wasn't all that smooth.  we had to clean the house because the people who are buying it wanted to bring their parents over to see it.  zoe needed to clean up some mess in the playroom and while doing it decided to spit or drool or some combination, on the rug.  i only know this because she came upstairs to where i was getting out of the shower and announced that she'd done something that i wouldn't want to hear about it.  but i knew i was about to hear about it anyway.

i know it's not that big of a deal- but it just felt like it was.  it's mothers day.  can't you be perfect? can't you think before you do something that a five year-old would do?  can you control impulses- just a little? just for one day?

when we got to church i had that look- that no-poker-face i'm exhausted by the essence of my life- heavy look.  i knew it because people were asking me how i was doing instead of just saying 'happy mothers day!'.  then the kids attacked each other during the 15 minutes they sit with us in the service before sunday school.  again, it's mothers day! didn't you people get the memo?  can't you hold it together for 15 minutes!  the heavy face got a little heavier but my voice sang out- trying to find that place of stillness, that place of letting it go.  i was lost in that land of: is it them? or are my expectations too high? 

by the end of the service, after much song and prayer and communion, i was better- lighter- smiling- hopeful.  we came home and i went for a run.  maybe the reason i can't run and talk with other people, is that it's my time with God.  it's my time to let him or her know how i think things are going.  sometimes that takes the form of me being really mad and sometimes it's me being really joyful and thankful and sometimes it's me being really sad.  today it was me feeling really confused.  in some ways things with zoe have become worlds better- she is engaged in a real way- she is there and she is trying.  but then there is the spitting, or the wiggly voice, or some massive regression that sends me spinning off in my own orbit.

as i ran the last mile i kept saying in my mind- i just don't know what to do?   i just don't know how to parent her?  where is the instruction manual?  and quietly, what crept back in a soft answer form was, "love".

'it can't be that easy.  i'm talking about specifics, i'm talking about certain situations.  i'm talking about spit and wiggly voices!'

'love her.  respond to her in love.  remember always that you love her.  that I love her.'

'who am i kidding- that's actually not that easy.  yeah, it's hard! it's really hard to love her in those moments!  how can i ever do that?  i fail at that all the time.  i get so mad.  i let it all out- all that yuck- that is not love.  how?  how will i ever get this right?'

'lean on me. you are not alone.'

i ran on- a little faster.  i thought about the tattoo again.  i thought that i don't need the cherry blossom on my shoulder, i need the word "LOVE" tattooed on my hand or my wrist or somewhere i can see it all the time.  i'm a slow learner- i need reminders- i need LOVE  tattooed on my heart.

then we went with the willis family, back to a place that we went to last year.   back to do that  chattahoochee hike we did almost exactly a year ago with the willis family.  the hike that was a complete disaster- the hike that was one of the worst experiences i've had with zoe.  last year she was in a place of tremendous stickiness and disconnect and i was in a place of darkness.  (see post- http://bestillandknowkw.blogspot.com/2010/04/unglued.html)  given this morning- i was worried.  to make it even more of a set up for disaster, we'd decided that we'd cross part of the chattahoochee and eat lunch on some large flat river rocks.  again, for neuro-typical kids, this is nothing but fantastic, but for zoe- who is neuro-challenged, balance-challenged, coordination and sensory challenged- this is a big feat. 

let's just say.... i was very impressed, and relieved.  she had a few moments, but they were few, and they were handled well.  she bounced back.  she had fun.  she crossed the river and walked all over the place on those slidey, slippery rocks. 

and i remembered back to last year.  i remembered where we'd been, and i felt this incredible feeling of relief, and thanks, and hope.  i watched her walking around in that cold river and i felt hopeful.  and i remembered my run, just a few hours before.  i remembered the word i was given. LOVE.

so it's in the perseverance, it's in all the little additive moments.  like my mom always said, 'raising children is like putting pennies in the bank'.  bit by bit you get there.  this day was Gods gift to me- i got a snap shot of the 30,000 foot view.  and it's all in the love.

oh help me to live in that LOVE.

three guys

another beautiful day! the good weather is following us and i'm loving it.  the boys are outside examining worms and dead beetles and butterflies.  i need to clean the house, i need to go to the market, but i need to stop for a few minutes because yesterday three guys reminded me again, of why i do what i do.

it was friday. it was work and my fellow who usually sees most of the patients first, was on vacation, so i knew i would be busy.  and it was busy. not because so many people showed up, but because so many people needed things urgently- blood work and CT scans and urgent referrals and admission.  it was one of those days when the system needs to work and people need to answer their phones, and the person who needs stuff done, always shows up late on a friday or during lunch when people don't answer the phone.  but despite all the logistical challenges- it was a day with great opportunity to care for others.

mr c. i've written about before.  he's a very smart guy but he's spent many years homeless because of alcohol.  last year he got it together, went into treatment and eventually, and recently, got back with his wife and son.  two weeks ago, i saw him in clinic and i knew something was up- he was acting shifty and agitated and so i called him out on it.  he told me he'd been drinking some and knew he needed to stop, knew he was headed down a bad road.  so we made a plan- he would go back to his counselor and come see me again in two weeks.  yesterday he came in, he'd seen the counselor, he'd tried to cut back, but he also had gained 12 pounds of fluid.  this was a concern.  we started the work up- labs first.  they were off, but not that off, not revealing a clear cause, leaving a gray picture. it could be his heart, it could be his kidneys, more likely for him, his liver, his cancer, lymph nodes infiltrated or cancer or blood clot blocking his venous return.  i don't want this for him. we did a quick scan to make sure he didn't have a leg clot, he didn't.  i set him up for a scan this morning- to look inside- to see where the trouble is.  all that took most of the day- most of his day, some of my day.  for him it was a day of waiting.  a night of waiting.  and now another day of waiting- for the results- for a possible change of fate.

as i was walking him to the elevator yesterday afternoon-
he said,  "i am so thankful for you- really."

i'd spent the in between times yesterday feeling badly that i couldn't figure out exactly and immediately what was wrong with him.  i'd felt that i hadn't really done anything.
i said, " i really didn't do anything- you spent all day here and i still haven't figured out what is causing your edema- or treated it."

"no- you care.  you really care, and you're going to figure it out, and not everyone here does that. so i thank you."

"well, you are welcome.  i do care about you- and you're right, we will figure it out- let me know when your done with the scan in the morning."

i think it comes down to non abandonment, to transparency, to relationship.

mr r. has also spent many years on the street, also been addicted to many things and probably still is.  he is also very smart- but because of his skin color- wasn't given certain opportunities, things were withheld - doors were shut- and this has haunted him for the past 50 years.  these wrongs have stuck onto him and formed him- misshapen him.  now as he sits in his life, with his cancer growing, he's been reviewing it all, and yesterday was filled with regret and anger.

we talked about his life, then and now.  we talked about control and lack of control.  we talked about choosing to let go of certain things, of moving into peace, and i'm not sure we named it, but, forgiveness.  he has a beautiful voice.  a voice that is deep and clear and confident- if i closed my eyes i could swear it was morgan freeman.  and with that penetrating clarity, he recited a poem he'd written:

'my mind is like a tidal wave,
with a mass image to show
But in spite of the way i try to behave,
the trouble lies deep below.
Even when the surface appears to be calm,
an under current will always move.
but just like the quiet before the storm,
you must seek what you wish to prove.
how can i free myself from me,
what technique can i employ.
to reawaken the man i am supposed to be,
and stop acting like a young boy.'

wise and clear.  it was such a gift.  i asked him to write it down.  then we talked about him going back to his group for PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and i increased his pain medicine.  i told him i knew he had a lot going on, a lot in that mind, a lot to say.  i asked if he'd write another poem before his next visit - that he had a lot to give- and that his voice was powerful.  you'd have thought i'd given him the Pulitzer, he was so proud.  to be heard. to be acknowledged.

he said, " doc, i'm going to write about today- about this talk- thank you"
no, thank you mr. r.

finally, my dear mr. w. he called me from the 9th floor.  he was being admitted from the oncology clinic because they said, he was dying.  this was confusing, because i thought we all knew he was dying.  so i went up to the 9th floor to see it about it. he was lying in his bed, hair all a-poof with his giant tumored abdomen sticking out above the rest of him.  i'd seen his blood work, it didn't look any worse, examined him, i got his story, and i gave him a hug.  he'd gone home to visit his family in another state, he'd stayed longer than he thought, he'd been discharged from hospice in all that and had run out of pain meds 2 days ago.

i spent 30 minutes getting him his pain medicine.  i told him we would make sure he was not in pain, that if he wanted to, he could go home and be with his son and grandkids, that there were options for him.  then i knew we needed to have 'the talk'.  the conversation about his 'code status'.  a conversation we'd had probably 10 times, but had never been concluded.  a conversation that perhaps needed more prescription than i'd been willing to give.  and when i saw him yesterday, with his ribs sticking out in the back and his disease sticking out in the front- i knew he needed me to tell him what i would do, not ask him.   i told him if he worsened, if his spirit was trying to go, when he is actually dying, that i would make sure he was comfortable, but that i wasn't going to put him on any machines, that i wasn't going to pound his chest, that we would let him pass peacefully and honor who he is.

"thank you.  that is right.  thank you."

knowing his faith background, i asked him if he wanted me to pray with him.  "yes, please."  so i held his hand and together we asked for peace, for freedom from pain and suffering, for comfort.

three guys.  three gifts.  three reminders of why i love my job.  three reminders of the importance of being real, of being present, of the value inside each of us.

home

i'm home.  and as much as i love northern california- i love being home- and i love the little people who make it home, so much- walking in that door was like christmas.  now they've gone to bed and i'm out on my porch and the sun is so gentle at this hour, like a friend who doesn't want to leave- it's all so green and happy.  and i'm feeling green and happy with it.  trying to wake up from my trip and re-enter.  there was so much there- so many people and places- it was soul feeding.

yesterday i was reminded that when I run, I need to run alone- or at least in silence. i'm incapable of talking and running- it messes up my breathing. it turns out that i'm also incapable of listening while running- it messes up my thinking.

i guess yesterday i needed to think because as mike and I ran around the streets of lido island in newport beach, i just needed that quiet space. maybe i needed to process the week of visits and friendship, or maybe i needed to process these very streets that i last ran down 25 years ago. house after house of perfectly landscaped yards and well kept painted houses lavishly designed and fitting neatly onto their small but ocean-viewed lots. another step back in time - but this time- way back.

the last time i ran down these streets i was fifteen and on spring break with my family and best friend. those were years of beginning.  beginning to figure ourselves out, beginning to separate from our parents, beginning to clarify our faith, our choices.  it was the spring after we'd been been to peru and had our eyes opened wide to the poverty of others.  it was the spring before i'd go to africa for the first time.

this street, that house owned by my fathers best friend, was where i would go with my family just before i got married, where an aunt would remind me of the role of submission in marriage and i would fight it- and then keep fighting it for years- because i foolishly didn't understand what it means.
to submit- to give over- to yield.  that's what we do in relationships- in marriages- at least if we want them to work.

it's where our family would come after my grandfather died- that grand patriarch- who'd spent most of his years in california; thinking, writing and talking about God.

yesterday just running the main street via lido nord meant something.  that street we would run down in the late afternoons so many years ago, listening to our 'walkmans' and  passing all the perpendicular street names, in alphabetical order, spelling out parts of our lives that we didn't even know about yet.

via quito- ecuador, where heather would go and live after high school while i was in college- our first big separation.

via trieste- oh how many seasons of life this street speaks to. 

via undine- close to the word 'udine'- where i would go in italy after medical school - bringing back memories of gelato and baby zoe and the warmth of those people.

via venezia- again- my mind was back in italy- wandering streets and canals and going over all the little staired bridges and sitting on such old stones that had held up so many centuries of people before me.

so that is where i was as i ran.  there and also fast forwarding to what is coming and to the dramatic contrast of my sneakers on that pavement and my sneakers on the red dirt of uganda- weath and poverty- and i, somehow privileged enough to experience, to live, both.  it was humbling and moving. 
my mind was a slide show of blessing and memory.  so i couldn't talk.  i couldn't even listen.  i just need to be- to have my feet moving me through the process- allowing my body to go as fast as my mind needed- to breath it in and out and in again.

and now, i'm home.

One side of the sea

Driving over furry hills and jagged mountains beside the ocean with breathy wild flowers and peeling eucalyptus and every once in a while, a palm tree. Almost to santa barbra. The warm sun has been following us all week, it's now getting ready to hide behind this ocean and show up on the other side of the world. The other side where someone infamous was just found and killed. What a strange thing- rejoicing over a death- even his death- it's just strange. And it makes me wish the world was not as it is. And how wild that part of the world sleeps while part is waking. This great, misaligned spinning world.

It's late now - i'm gently rocking on a boat. I can hear sea lions in the water - the stars are way up at the top of the sky avoiding the rim of city lights- it's beautiful.

Good night.

shooting stars

i'm here, at the foot of mount tam, with the tall pines and the windiest, narrowest roads and the big ferns and the light crackling through the fir trees like spears. and it's been good. 

it's night now. it's quiet here in a way that the city can't be. quiet and still in a way that the south isn't- it's lonely silent- there are no tree frogs- no wind sounds in this valley. but i just saw a shooting star.  yellow streaking across the blackness- breaking up the stillness-reminding me of motion in the universe- then i looked up again and saw another star chasing it.  like four leaf clovers in the sky- raining down good luck when i wasn't even looking for it.

we've been so many places in the past four days that my head is spinning- and this is the first time i've sat down alone. 

i'm someone who needs some alone.  but it's been good.  so good.  reviving. renewing. reminding me. calling me back to other places and seasons- places that i've grown in, seasons that have challenged me.  places of peace.

today the marin headlands. sunshine and fennel and dry grass and views that go on forever. i found life in those hills during those years of hours of fighting illness and death as a resident.  paths that we hiked over and over with zoe on mikes back or running along over roots and stones. paths that echoed life as they wove between dark earthy shade and bright bare sun- steep parts and down hills and single-file flats.

a birthday at a park.  a man outside the playground, roaming alone with a boom-box playing led zeppelin wearing a jacket that said 'dance' in big white letters. pizza and pinatas and juice boxes and sand.  bringing us back to our years there.

our old church. friends and the music and the words of a wise man.  those seats where i cried every sunday i could make it there- cried out the sadness in the world of the hospital, the heartbreak of zoe's challenges, and the fear during my pregnancy with jude.  cried in the joy of a God who cares about all of it.

yoyo speaks english now and eats pot stickers and pancakes and watches elmo.  and lisa is not just lisa anymore- she's a mom-beautiful, busy, tired, but so happy.  and all the people we left four years ago- their kids read and write and have opinions instead of sippy cups. and you see when you return to a place, that life has gone on with out you.

there is the ocean at the end of the city- at the end of the golden gate park. the wind is always blowing off the ocean and making it cold, and the light at that unchanging angle, it hasn’t changed- it hasn’t aged. and I was ok until the coffee shop- until our old house, our street, our coffee shop and being recognized and remembered and then it was all too much.  there were tears back behind my sunglasses and my blue eyes and I just missed it all- the light and the wind and the sea, but most of all the years when it was easier and when babies were babies and didn’t talk yet, and zoe was- well- easy.  when life still felt undiscovered and beginning and not settled into- when we didn’t own anything – life was still borrowed and even with three kids we hadn’t decided who we were yet.  anticipatory living. all the license plates said ‘california’ which meant 'new' and 'potential' and felt ‘gold rushy’. 

and i went back to that place of wanting a tattoo- of grappling for pieces that make me feel like me- all the different shades.  wanting to imprint the parts that i forget about- to cling to the parts that aren't unfreezing fish and cooking zucchini, arguing over copy work and hair washing with zoe, telling people to stop fighting and put away shoes.

but that first afternoon we spent hours at the ocean. really hours.  just mike and i and our history -our lives- our choices – our differences and sameness.  we called back the choices we’d made and were making.  we called back and dissected our communication- what we want out of life and marriage and our days.  it was intense and good and needed. 

we called the kids and they cried about our being gone and missing us and we told them we loved them and walked the lower haight amazed that we helped create three people who rely so heavily on us for their days- but that we were a ‘we’ before them.  and that was good to remember.

we're half way to home- four more days- to just be.  to be reminded that we are all the parts that were and the parts that are.   that all of them are blessings- our past, our now, our future.  hiking the headlands, or letting out the dog, or trying to think in 'shillings' instead of dollars.  eucalyptus, tree-frogs or monkeys- there are shooting stars in every night sky.