Arabic is hard…

This is what I learned today… (Or at least what stood out).  Arabic is a challenging language, but I had kind of figured that out before I came, so I’m not going to count that as one.

1. TRUE Argon oil (very popular here) comes from the Argon tree, which is only grown in one city in the world… Agadir, Morocco, which also happens to be the hometown of our house manager.  Goats climb the argon trees and eat the hard shell off of the nut, which then falls to the ground and is harvested.  I’m hopeful to be able to witness this… trees filled with goats.  Mohammad said it looks a lot like a tree full of birds, only of course they are goats, not birds.  Seems like something worthwhile to seek out.

2.  Bread is considered sacred (it is a very bread-centered diet here… again, died and gone to heaven on the food here…) so all bread scraps must be put in a separate container when we clean up our plates after mealtime.  The leftover bread is then fed to animals.  All other trash is thrown out.  No recycling (or at least not here…)

3.  If you are Moroccan and want to get a hotel room with someone of the opposite sex, you must show proof of marriage.  It is illegal for Moroccans to share a hotel room unless married.  This does not apply to other nationalities.

This is a fascinating country, and our in-country manager, Mohamed, is extremely personable and very knowledgeable.  He served in the Peace Corps, has a law degree, is fluent in several languages, and has an incredible sense of humor.

She’s not in Kansas anymore…

You know you are far from home when you have to go through two other translations before you finally hear English. Still, you’re discouraged that you can’t understand a word of your native tongue, which is hidden behind a very thick Arabic accent with a significant French influence.  And then there’s the signage, as beautiful as it is curious.

The journey to Rabat was long… not because it was all that far (a “short” two hour flight from
Paris), but because the most significant part of the flight, Boston to Paris, felt more like a Kansas City to Albany run given the size of the plane…knee to knee, elbow to elbow, bad food and generous pours on cheap wine, all adding up to a not so great experience, short of a lovely French woman sitting next to me (seriously, are we ever so intimate with strangers but on a plane?) who was interested in what I was knitting and pulled out her phone to share photos of her recent knitting projects.  Sometimes words aren’t necessary.  I love that.

The house where I’m staying is small but very charming and efficient.  It’s also immaculate, and I would feel totally comfortable eating off any part of the floor, where, by the way, shoes are not allowed.  Barefoot all the way.  I will be sharing my small room with two bunk beds with another girl, whom I haven’t yet met, as she is away this weekend.  I’ve taken cues from her neatly stacked belongings and have tried to organize my things with that in mind. I’ve copied her and am using the top bunk to lay out my clothes, as there isn’t another spot to put them. I couldn’t help but think back to my college dorm days, waiting to meet my roommate, whom I didn’t know and whose bed was mere feet away from mine.

Tomorrow, the four volunteers who arrived today and I will have our orientation, when I will learn more about what I will be doing during my time here. Mohamed, our house manager, said I may be the only one from the house placed at the women’s center, as it sounds like everyone else will be working at the orphanage.  The unknowing, going to bed with new sounds, new smells, and new sensations, reminds me of why I love this so much, which surprises my orderly, Virgo side.  It takes me back to so many first nights in new countries when I teetered between waking up in the middle of the night with feelings of what the hell am I doing?, to not being able to fall asleep because I was so anxious for it to be morning when I’d be able to get a closer look at my new temporary home and learn more about where I’d be volunteering.

There were only four of us in the house tonight as the rest of the group was traveling for the weekend. We had a lovely light supper of lamb, rice, fruit salad, roasted fennel, Moroccan soup, homemade bread, dates, pomegranates, and a combination of sautéed vegetables.  Not only was it a beautiful spread, but it was also delicious.
For now, I’m tucked in my lower bunk, ready to sleep off some of this jet lag.  I’m soaking in the smells and sounds of this new city, new country, new continent, and it’s feeling pretty fantastic.  I can smell a hint of jasmine that is coming through the billowing curtains of my open deck door. Perfection.

I need to add a disclaimer regarding editing. I’m not used to my new iPad combined with my blog site that’s totally gone French on me ( I definitely need to learn how to say “delete” in French and quit pushing that button.) This was quite a challenge for me to complete this tiny task of typing tonight. I’m hoping I can blame most of it on jet lag, but that may be overly hopeful. So ignore the obvious, including the creative indents that insist on being present regardless of what I do.

Salaam from Rabat!

Laurie Sunderland, reading from right
to left.

Going to the “BEYOND” part…

In a few days, I’ll be leaving the many comforts of home and stretching my travels a bit farther than my usual 677 miles east or west down I-70.  I’ll be headed to Morocco, where I’ll be living in Rabat for three weeks.  I’ll be spending my time volunteering at the Feminin Pluriel, a women’s center that utilizes social, cultural, and educational activities to empower women.  That being said, I really have no idea what I will be doing.  The language barrier is a bit daunting to me right now, given that I don’t speak Arabic, and I’m going to assume they don’t speak English, but I may be wrong.

Several months ago, I went through the motions of thinking I’d learn some basic phrases in Arabic. I bought the book, turned a few pages, and got discouraged.  Then there’s the whole Arabic characters situation, which, although quite lovely on the page,  is all very unfamiliar and overwhelming.   I will never complain about the subjunctive tense in Spanish again.  The book tells me that with a vocabulary of only a few hundred words, I will be able to “survive in an Arabic-speaking country and even communicate some thoughts.”  I’m still working on “good morning” (sabaahal kyayr), but am not sure how far the one phrase will get me especially once the sun goes down.  I think I’ll bring my knitting.  That’s one thing I can teach without words.  And photos.  Pictures tell stories without words.

This will be my second volunteer trip with the Cross Cultural Solutions organization (my first being to Peru) and my first time in Africa, which feels very far away to me right now… 4,681 miles to be exact.  While preparing for this (ie, packing, unpacking, rethinking, then repacking, etc.) I find myself teetering between feelings of excitement and anticipation, laced with a bit of what the hell am I doing?  I’ve been down this emotional path before while anticipating the pathways to new adventures. Whether it’s on a mountain trail by myself, or getting ready to travel to a foreign country for three weeks by myself,  where I don’t speak the language and know little about the culture,  I think a bit of fear and trepidation is good.  I believe it helps keep me safe.

I’m guessing people will ask me when I return home, What did I do? Did I help build houses, schools, or develop programs that will live on long after my stay?  And I’ll answer just as I did when I returned from Perú—none of those things.  But what I did do was, I listened.  I held hands.  I accepted gracious invitations into homes with dirt floors and was invited to sit on couches that scared me because of the rodents that I’m sure were sharing the cushions. I danced to Peruvian music that I never could find the beat to, and painted the thick, dirty nails of grateful abuelas with old, sticky nail polish while I held their hands in mine and recognized the thread of vanity that connected us both.  I listened to countless stories of abuse, fear, and pain told to me by some of the strongest women I’ve ever met.  I laughed with them.  I cried with them.  I held their hand and accepted their affection.  I immersed myself in a culture that I thought I knew about before going, but really had no idea.

But what did you DO???

What I did was learn that the world is far bigger than the country where I comfortably reside, and that there is so much to be learned from the handful of third-world countries I’ve spent time in.
I learned how much I take for granted—clean water for starters.  I saw a lot of sickness that resulted from drinking the local water without adding bleach to it first.  Seriously.  Bleach.  While we run our water through filters that are supposed to remove impurities, these people were adding drops of the same substance that has warnings on its label not to ingest. Fortunately, I had the luxury of bottled water at my disposal while in Peru, unlike so many in the community where I stayed.  One of the first things my daughter, Emery, said to me during our initial stay in Perú was how little the people we were volunteering with had, yet how happy they were, and maybe, just maybe, they had a much better understanding of what makes a person happy than we did.  What a beautiful realization for an 18-year-old to recognize about life.  To see such joy on the faces of people who live their lives in a constant struggle to survive was a lesson to us both on the importance of living in the moment and finding gratitude in the simplest of things.

I have no idea what to expect during my stay in Rabat, but am guessing many of the experiences will mirror those from Perú, which is what has attracted me to volunteer again with this organization.

Years ago, during my second attempt at college, I decided to major in anthropology after sitting through the first lecture of a cultural anthropology class.  Before signing up for the class, I wasn’t sure what the study of anthropology was.   After making a definitive declaration that my major was going to be cultural anthropology with a minor in Spanish, I was asked countless times what I planned to do with my Anthropology degree and Spanish studies. Teach Spanish,  perhaps?  I really had no idea.  Almost 30 years later,  it’s all starting to make sense.
Although I’m feeling nervous and have no idea what is ahead for me in the African country of Morocco, or “al-Mamlakah al Maghribiyyah” (المملكة المغربية), which translates to the Kingdom of the West, this feels exactly like what I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I look forward to writing my blog posts from Rabat, as much as time and the internet connection allow.  So, for now…. as-salaamu alaykum – the most common Arabic greeting and one that thankfully gets shortened to “salaam”, which means peace be upon you.

I’m going to call that “how to communicate without fuss or fear… instantly!” false advertising…

Apostrophes, ships and the 3rd grader who ended up writing stories about it…

Shortly after I shared my last blog entry about revisiting my first home with my parents as guides, my Mom emailed me with this:

“All that beautiful prose from the 3rd grader who didn’t understand apostrophes.”

My first reaction was feeling very honored by her words given that I was retelling her story about my beginnings in Colorado, as I was too young to have my own story.  Secondly, I was touched that she remembered the story about the difficulties I had with grammar in the 3rd grade, specifically with the placement of apostrophies.

I have more memories from 3rd grade than any other in elementary school.  I loved my teacher.  I loved her shoes. I watched those red fringe-toed shoes walk up and down the narrow aisle of the temporary mobile unit classroom, demonstrating to a captivated audience how Indians would walk without making a sound… toe heel, toe heel, toe heel.  It was crowded in our small trailer classroom and maybe because the situations weren’t ideal, she was just a little more patient with us than a teacher in a normal-sized classroom would be.  We were the class who had to spend the year in the mobile unit because of remodeling, and initially, I think most of us would have opted for the normal classroom we were used to as the mobile unit was half the size, leaving us with very little personal space.

One of my favorite memories was when the Sacajawea book would be pulled out every afternoon after recess and Mrs. Faires would read to us. I was mesmerized. I held onto every word and for the first time, the notion that school could be fun and interesting took hold.  She made that year of being crowded into the tiny temporary classroom one of my favorites, and even though elbows were bumped as we did out lessons in our pushed together desks, I would not have traded those squeezed together conditions for a normal classroom.  It felt special, like we were special.  All that love went out the small louvered trailer window when the lesson on apostrophes and ownership began.

It’s not that I didn’t understand the the concept of ownership and placement of the apostrophe, it’s that I did not understand my Alabama bred teacher’s accent.  When she gave the explanation of “ownership,” what I heard was “on a ship,” which made little sense to me, especially given that I lived in Kansas and could count on one hand how many times I had actually seen a ship. Were ships really that important that they got their own apostrophe when used in a sentence?

After hearing Mrs. Faires’ explanation on apostrophes and possession, my conclusions were to use an apostrophe when whomever or whatever were “on a ship,” or “showed on a ship” as my teacher explained it.  I wasn’t sure what “showed on a ship” was, short of the visual of people on a ship, which was simple enough… or was it?  This all makes a whole lot more sense when I’m able to voice the words out loud and show that “ownership” sounds like “on a ship” when spoken with a heavy southern drawl.  I usually did well with understanding new assignments in school, especially when they weren’t of the math variety, but my 8 year-old, wanting to please self, was getting discouraged when worksheet after worksheet were handed back to me with an embarrassing amount of red ink on them.  Even the boy next to me, whose papers were always marked in red when he got them back, was getting good marks and happy faces on his returned papers.  And then there was the amount of time it took me to complete the worksheets.  While the other kids seemed to breeze right through the sentences, without having to look up in thought or confusion, I would read each sentence over and over again while trying desperately to find the ship, the boat or out of desperation, simply the water in the sentence so that I’d have clearance to add my apostrophe.  It seemed to me to be a futile exercise as few, if any sentences, made reference to a ship or for that matter, any maritime reference at all, but none of the other students were questioning the absurdity, so in trying to fit in with my peers, I kept quiet and kept searching… for the ship in the sentence.

More than once Mrs. Faires brought me up to her desk and would explain the “on a ship” concept to which I would share my frustrations of not understanding what “on a ship” had to do with most of the sentences.  Of course in this now comedy of errors, she heard my words speak Southern to her and would explain, yet again,  that “on a ship” requires an apostrophe, hoping that eventually it would all make sense to me.  After failing exercise after exercise, some how, some way, someone who did not speak with a heavy southern drawl, put it together that what I was hearing was different than what my teacher was actually saying.

It was my Mom who eventually shared the story with my teacher, Mrs. Faires, after she had reached out to her over their monthly bridge game, with concerns that I wasn’t understanding apostrophe placement.   It was also my Mom who noted the way Mrs. Faires said “ownership.” After  a shared laugh, she insured Mom that when teaching the concept of “ownership” to a new group of 3rd graders, she would make a point of writing the word on the chalkboard.

The one in the middle sporting the Bob Dylan look and the attitude smirk,  wasn’t about to admit to anyone that she didn’t understand why ships garnered so much importance that they got their own apostrophe… especially in Kansas for Pete’s sake!

I’ve got to wonder how long this would have gone on had someone not stumbled onto the problem, given that I was too embarrassed and too insecure to admit that I didn’t have a clue as to what the teacher was trying to teach me.  This insecurity would resurface again with my 7th grade Algebra teacher, who was from Brazil,  and spoke with a heavy accent.  The difference this time though, was that the rest of the class was hearing Mr. La Torre the same way I did, so would throw their hands up in question before I had to.  I ended up struggling with Algebra through college and have to wonder if I had had a teacher who I could understand and felt comfortable simply asking for help, would seeing the x’s and y’s still throw me into panic mode today?  Or am I simply more of a words person than a numbers person?  I’m grateful that my stumble with the apostrophes in the 3rd grade didn’t ruin me for the act of writing, the way x’s and y’s did for me in math,  as it’s been something I’ve loved and enjoyed for as long as I can remember.

Thank you, Mrs. Faires, for giving me pause and a smile every time I place an apostrophe, whether there’s a ship in the sentence or not.  And thank you, Mom, for not forgetting the story and continually encouraging my putting pen to paper.

Returning to my roots with the keepers of the stories at my side…

A few weeks ago, my sister, Robin, and I were given the tremendous gift of getting to step back in time for a few days, and with our parents as our guides, revisited the place where we spent our earliest days – Evergreen, Colorado.

Although our time there was relatively short,  one would assume that we had lived there for decades, given the many stories Mom and Dad have shared with us throughout our lives.  Because of the many stories and the joy with which they have been shared,  I grew up knowing how significant this little mountain town was in my parents’ lives.

They were young, very young, 20 and 25, with a baby on the way (Robin), and were actually on their way to Oregon, simply on a “Why not?  It sounds like a nice place to live…” when they stopped in Denver to see my Mom’s parents.  While there, Dad found out that to teach high school music in Oregon, he needed a master’s degree (something that would come later and in Missouri), so they decided to stay in Denver.  Besides, with a baby on the way, it would be nice to have family nearby.  I love thinking about those carefree 20-somethings with a baby on the way, pointing their car and trailer’s belongings west, without really having much of a plan.  Somehow, it gives the many wing and a prayer plans I’ve had a bit more weight.

There were no teaching jobs in Denver, but while interviewing, a call came through from the principal in Evergreen with the news that the high school music teacher had not renewed his contract and through the perfect timing of a synchronistic moment, my Dad had a job and their plans to continue their journey west to Oregon were shortened to the short 30 minute drive west from Denver to the scenic mountain town of Evergreen.

Robin and I have both heard the stories, countless times, of our time in Evergreen, but to get to hear them again, with the soil underfoot, was truly a gift.  Hearing about Dad coasting down the mountain from Evergreen to St. Anthony’s hospital in Denver, my Mom in labor with me, made a lot more sense as we recently made our way down from Evergreen to Denver  – an easy coast of a drive that was a necessary choice on that day, almost 60 years go to the date, as the gas tank was near empty (he made it with fumes to spare, I’m told…).

Although Robin and I had tried to find the house we lived in when we were in Colorado last summer,  our interpretation of Mom and Dad’s directions had us on the wrong end of the town. Still, with their keen memories and navigational skills, we drove right to the house a few weeks ago.  Both of our initial reactions upon seeing the lovely home that sat off the road on five acres were… “wait… I thought we were poor.” ….  Yes, they reassured us… We were poor.  They said it looked like the house had been added on to and that while it looked nice on the outside, the inside had needed work… work that Dad chipped away at when he had the gift of both time and money.   The furnishings were sparse, and although Mom had a wringer washing machine, she didn’t have a dryer, so after washing the clothes, diapers in particular, with two under the age of two, she’d hang them out on the line, where they would freeze dry in the arid air.  She’d then bring them in and lay them throughout the house to thaw.  For some reason, I’ve always connected with pioneer women and have sworn that I must have lived during that period of time in a past life.  This explains it.  I did.

As we sat in the drive and looked directly at our past, hearing the stories from the ones that created them, that piece of my past, that I don’t remember, became real, and I understood where my love for mountains was born.  Dad told us that when Mom was pregnant with me, she told him that she was not going to come home from the hospital until we had a flushing toilet IN the house.  Yes, these adventure-seeking parents of mine were using an outhouse, not to mention transporting their water in  50-gallon drums.  Dad worked tirelessly at digging the leeching well near the house in preparation for my arrival, using a pickaxe, a shovel, and his favorite tool, dynamite.  And lo and behold, Mom had the flush toilet she had requested upon her arrival home from the hospital with me.  Simple times, but not all that simple a request.  Still, every mom just home from the hospital with a newborn and a one-year-old to greet her deserves the luxury of an indoor toilet —and one that flushes, no less.  It sure beat any “congratulations on your new baby” flower arrangement Dad could have gotten her.

Out of the many stories I’ve heard over the years, and my hands-down favorite, I heard for the first time last year.  Because evergreen trees surrounded us, Dad would go to the woods behind the house to select the Christmas tree, then drag it down to the house.  I believe it was my first Christmas (and if it wasn’t, I’m taking artistic license here) that Mom questioned the tree he brought home, wondering if he could have found a tree that was just a little bit prettier.  So, on his way home from work the following day, the perfect tree came into view with the lights of his car.  He cut it down, put it in the car, and as he was pulling away, his car lights gave him a better view of exactly where the tree he had just cut down had come from… the landscaping in the front yard of one of the summer vacation homes in the area.  When I asked him what he did after discovering what he had done, he told me that he couldn’t exactly put it back, so he covered the stump with snow and drove home.  Given that it was a summer vacation home,  he had several months before the missing tree would be noticed.  No doubt some of that guilt waned with Mom’s overwhelmingly positive reaction to the beautiful specimen of a tree that would grace our small living room that Christmas.

“Now THAT’s what I had in mind!  It’s the PERFECT tree!”

Dad had set the Christmas decor bar high on this one…
I don’t know how long it was before he came clean on exactly where the tree had come from, and I am betting that the following Christmas, it was back to the scrappy juniper Christmas trees.  All of our Christmas trees in those early Colorado days were decorated with pine cones that Mom had spray-painted gold.  It was only in later years that I understood the significance of Mom insisting on adding what we thought at the time were “the tacky gold spray-painted pine cones” to our then more lavishly decorated trees.  It was a nudge to the memory of where they began as a family, and although times were very tough, they were also very good.

I love hearing their humble roots stories—two kids with two babies eking out a living in the mountains of Evergreen, Colorado.  Funds were so tight that when a job offer in northern Missouri came in for far more money and an unlimited high school band budget, Dad had to say yes.  He has told me several times that when they drove out of town for the last time on their way to Missouri, he had hoped for a rainy, cloudy day or at least weather that was overcast enough so that he wouldn’t have to see the mountains in his rearview mirror.  It was sunny that day.   To this day, I think both Mom and Dad would agree that it felt like the mountains were waving goodbye to them as they left them in the rear view mirror.

What a gift it was to return to those Evergreen mountains just as they had left them so many years ago, and better yet, to get to return with the keepers of the stories.  Although I was always a part of the stories,  I feel a real sense of their connection to me now.

My Evergreen, Colorado roots
Mom and Dad… who still have a bit of that Colorado spirit in them….

Back in my boots…

As of yesterday afternoon, I’m back in the saddle…. or hiking boots, more specifically.  Feeling ready and anxious after almost two months of babying my injured shoulder, I ventured out on a real hike with boots, poles, and a full camelback.  I hiked  Mt. Royal, and although it’s not a long hike (only a mile and a half to the top), it’s not easy, as during that short mile and a half, 1,500 feet of altitude are gained, translating to pretty much straight up with no switchbacks.  This was a hike that I did several times over the course of my stay here last summer, as it was literally right behind where I was staying, so there was ease and no excuses in getting to the trailhead.  It also became my measure of how much I was improving, which speaks to the Virgo in me.  My first time up was a miserable journey that took over two hours to get to the top, and the last time I journeyed up last summer,  I had bettered my time to just over an hour – an accomplishment that I’m pretty proud of.  While making my way down that last time and feeling quite smug with my improved time and general efficiency, I passed my neighbor, jogging up the rocky trail and with still enough breath that he stopped to chat.  So much for my thinking I was “all that…”  I’ve learned while living part-time in this very physically active state that the safest person to compare yourself to is yourself; otherwise, you’re likely to be disappointed.

In keeping with the open and honest approach I’ve adopted for this blog, I need to back up a bit and do some rewording.  I hiked Mt. Royal, but I did not make it to the top, and I must say, it’s one of the prouder non-accomplishments I’ve had this summer.  It’s tough for me not to barrel ahead when I can all but see the end, ignoring any physical or emotional signs that are telling me, “Enough already!”  Well, yesterday, probably within ten minutes of the top, I experienced one of those “enough” signs.  Up to that point, I had been hiking like a 95-year-old woman in stilettos on ice with a tailwind… being very mindful of foot placement and with an eye on constant patrol for mud, exposed roots, or loose rocks, as I know too well that a quick slip can and does happen.  That’s the part that sucks.  I rather liked that barreling ahead with an eye on the prize and complete confidence that I’d summit without a scrape, take some time to revel in the beautiful views, and with a proud pat on my own back, would make it down again.  No problem.  But knowing that accidents do happen has changed the way I hike – or at least I was changed for the inaugural hike.  I feel more apprehensive, more cautious, and certainly more timid, yet I still have the confidence that I can do it, as I’ve done before.  But I also want to do it in a manner that doesn’t require a trip to the ER.

I had to stop several times to catch my breath, totally normal, but by the time I was almost within shouting distance of the top, I started to feel a bit dizzy.  My town of Frisco sits at 9,097 feet, an altitude that can easily affect even the fittest if not acclimated, and that’s what I’m going to blame it on.  Having only been back in town for a little over a week, I called myself acclimated, but more than likely was not.  So when that feeling of apprehension, laced with a bit of dizziness, came over me, I was very thoughtful of the messages and opted to abort the nearby summit and head back down.  As disappointing as it felt, at the same time I felt significantly grown up for having listened, very carefully, and followed through with what my body was telling me, which was go home… You already did most of it.  It’s OK.

By the time I got home, I had come to an easy place of peace with my decision and knew that honoring that slight twinge of a feeling was the right thing to do.  And so, in keeping with my hiking tradition of eat what sounds good post-hike because I’ve earned it, I sat down to a plate full of spaghetti and several heaping forkfuls of sauerkraut because that’s exactly what my body was asking for… oh yeah, and a cold beer…I mean two cold beers, to round it off.  And good it was.  I never falter on post-hike refueling.   It’s genuinely one of my favorite luxuries of the sport.

Today, rather than revisit my not-quite-accomplished hike from yesterday (which will happen and soon), I opted for big views, low physical expenditure.  And it worked… satisfyingly well.  The Lower Cataract Lake in the Eagles Nest Wilderness area never ceases to amaze me.  It’s not a strenuous hike as there’s little to no altitude gain, but it’s enough of a workout that I still get to savor the post-hike accolades of feeling strong, committed, and a little bit more in tune with nature than I was while driving to the trailhead.  I’m not sure I can think of a better way to spend a sunny Sunday morning.

Accomplishments come in all sorts of packages, and it isn’t necessarily the straight-up journey to the top that has given me the most pride.  Yesterday, it was NOT making it to the top that made me the proudest.  Next time…

Views of Frisco and Lake Dillon while on my way up…
The only non-climbing part of the hike… really…
Views for days…
The very majestic Mt. Royal (also the mountain I have a view of from most of the windows in my house).
Nature’s painting…
Wildflowers in full bloom…

Give it to Mom… she’ll carry it.

Moms are carriers.  Plain and simple.  I suppose it was my restricted carrying the past month due to a shoulder injury that has me thinking along these lines.  For nine months, we carry in our expanding belly an expectation of something we can’t possibly begin to understand until we’re able to hold it in our arms for the first time, and then we don’t want to let go.  We carry babies until they’re toddlers, and when they discover their independence and no longer wish to be carried, we carry their things.  We carry toys that should have been left at home in the first place and mutter  “I told you so” under our breath, while more unwanted “had to bring it” things are piled onto our already full arms.  When my middle child, Grant, was born, he spent the first four months of his life unhappy unless he was being carried.  The words, “Can you carry Grant?” were heard so often during those first four months that Grant’s other name became “Cary” Grant, quite by default.  Anyone slightly younger than me had no idea why we found his name to be so clever.  And carry him, I/we did…. in a front pack, on a hip, over a shoulder, or in the crook of an arm.  That same baby, many years later, while playing competitive baseball in middle school, had a coach who would tell the team as they were gathering up the equipment post-game,
“Catchers don’t carry.”
I loved that sliver of recognition that the catcher would get for having spent the past few hours in a squatted position looking through a hot mask.  He should get a pass.  In fact, more than once, I felt like the team should not only carry the equipment, but the catcher as well.  A few times, when I’ve been in a situation with Grant when I didn’t feel like I should have to carry something,  we’ve locked glances, and he’ll take the words right out of my mouth before I even have a chance to utter them.
“Catchers don’t carry.”
He gets it.  My child, who wanted to be carried for a solid four months, can appreciate that sometimes the person who’s expected to shoulder the heavy load needs a break.
I’ve often wondered what would happen if just once, a rule of “Moms don’t carry” were thrown out there?  (and not just on Mother’s Day…)  Would there be piles of half-eaten bags of popcorn, still sealed water bottles, souvenir caps, and worthless trinkets piled up at the exit of every amusement park because there wouldn’t be a mom to schlep them to the car?  Would stuffed animals, shoes that fell off of tiny feet and were easier to carry rather than put back on again, and the stray jacket be left behind on empty chairs in restaurants?   Or more likely, would the moms swoop in with exasperation and, like any good pack animal, load up the gear with a sigh and a “never mind” and continue?  Maybe we do it because it’s important to us.  Perhaps we know that a handful of stale popcorn will save the day, twenty minutes into a ride home with grumpy and tired kids.  Maybe we know that we’ll be the ones who will suffer the consequences if all of our options are left behind in piles when exiting.

When my third child, Emery, was born, the kids outnumbered the arms, which I hadn’t really considered until my maiden voyage outside the house with all three in tow.  My sister, Robin, said it reminded her of the guy who appeared on the Ed Sullivan show, balancing three plates in the air with two long sticks.  With the plates outnumbering the sticks holding them up, there was always a vulnerable one that had you holding your breath.  I think that same guy showed up every week on the show, and still, we watched with bated breath (entertainment was simple, times were different…).  I would think about that man on the Ed Sullivan stage a lot while I juggled three kids and their stuff —maintaining the balance of keeping all three “plates” in the air at once, always with an eye out for the vulnerable one.   I know I speak for other moms when I say that there was a little bit of “bring it on… I’ve got this” going on, maybe because there was an odd desire to see how much I actually could do or carry or manage before the delicately stacked tower would tumble.  It was always far more than I had predicted, by the way…
When kids had big enough arms to hold their own stuff, the rule was always “If you want to bring it, you carry it.”  The unwritten rule that seemed to go along with that, or at least as far as the kids were concerned, was, “Bring it.  Mom will end up carrying it.”  And sadly, she did.  Rules regarding carrying seemed to be regarded as mere suggestions, and I take total blame for that one.

All of the carrying becomes normal, and any mother of young children will tell you that when their arms aren’t overflowing with babies, car seats, strollers, or stuffed lovies, something feels wrong… almost like you have forgotten to put your second shoe on.  I marvel now at the strength and balance I had when I was able to remove and open a heavy double stroller from the back of the car with one hand,  while holding a crying baby and trying to keep a physical touch on his rambunctious older brother with any part of my body that was available.  Never again will I have the strong, chiseled arms I had then that sadly went unnoticed, simply because they were a side effect, not a goal, and something that I had no time to give importance to.  Even lifting weights 3 times a week with a personal trainer not that long ago couldn’t bring them back to their glory days. Funny how things work.

As much as I juggled, schlepped, and complained, the day came when I realized that my arms were swinging back and forth as I walked…back and forth and strangely empty.  It felt surprisingly freeing, yet not quite normal, and with a lingering sense of having forgotten something. Holding my kids and their belongings gave me a sense of control and security and comfort as all I had to do was look down and it would all be right there-right there in my tired, but contentedly filled arms.  When the babies, toddlers, crying children, and armloads of stuff no longer needed to be carried, that was when the real heavy lifting began.  This was the part that no one told me about.  This was the part that even the well-toned and strong arms wouldn’t be able to help me with.  This was the part when my arms set down the physical loads and my heart stepped in to carry the load.

In our ever-expanding hearts, we hold the hopes, the tears, the joys, the fears, the desires, and every memory, both the good ones and the not-so-good ones.  Unlike our limited arms, our hearts are limitless and seem to expand with ease to make room for more memories, more touching moments, more feelings that you want to hold close.  I’ve come to realize, after saying goodbye to my children so many times, that I must honor, respect, and hold tight to what I can no longer carry in my arms, but now hold in my heart. Although it’s not a load that can be felt physically, its presence is as present as my breath, my pulse, my being.

I’ve been reminded twice in the past month, while carrying the boxed belongings of two of my kids and their spouses, that the carrying doesn’t truly ever end; it just changes.   Although most of the load I’ve carried since my children reached adulthood hasn’t been carried in cardboard boxes, but rather in my heart, there are still times when I get to re-exercise my carrying muscles, and honestly, it feels nostalgically wonderful.  But kids,  six times in three years is enough!  Any more than that, and I’ll have to enforce my “catchers don’t carry” rule (which you’ll wisely read as “don’t worry, she’ll still help us move our stuff”…).  You know me well.  Of course I will.

Dust, noise, a swimming pool sized trench in my yard.

My front yard has become a construction zone, and I should really wear a hard hat when going to my car, which, as of yesterday, and until further notice, is parked several houses down the street from my home.  My driveway is no longer accessible, and with that, I lost my garage.  Mail delivery is iffy, and my overly full recycle bin was finally returned to my garage in the same position that I hauled it out in, as I got tired of waiting for it to be emptied.  I can hardly blame either the mail truck or the recycling truck for not making their way down my street.  It takes a brave soul.  This is what happens to homeowners when their old neighborhood gets a below-the-surface facelift, and it’s out with the old pipes and in with the new.  That alone is helping me stay optimistic about the whole situation, but when I tried to get to my house yesterday and had to quickly change from drive to reverse because a fire truck was backing down the street just feet in front of me, my positivity started to wane.

I asked the fireman, who was headed to my car, what was going on, and was everyone OK, and am I really going to have to back down the street to the busy road I just turned off of?
“A major gas line was broken a block from here… down there on the corner… sure does take patience to live on this street these days, huh?  And no, we’ll move the truck so you can get by.”
Thank you, fireman.  Yes, it does, and I certainly appreciated the acknowledgement of that.

As I was making my way through the tight squeeze around the fire truck,  I realized that “a block from here and down there on the corner” was, of course, my house.  Sometimes all you can do is shake your head, be grateful that the firetruck was called, and save lighting a candle for another time.  I’m still scared (although they said it was fixed and I couldn’t smell gas).  The whole gas line breakage has resulted in a hole the size of a swimming pool in the front corner of my yard.  I’m not even sure it could still be called a hole.  A trench, perhaps?  Whatever it is, there’s a deep end that could certainly support a high dive, as it was a few feet deeper than any of the men working in it – my estimates from my kitchen window said ten feet. Once all the workers had left and the coast was clear, I stood on the edge of the pit and, without scaling my way down, ten feet deep seemed about right.

Patience.  I’m trying to find it, keep it, put it into action.

The initial work involved replacing the 75-year-old gas lines to my house, which meant there was a pretty steady stream of workmen traipsing through my house and into my basement to do the work, have their work checked, and light my water heater, followed by a few rounds of shutting the gas off and relighting the heater.  They were in my house often enough that I felt like I should at least offer them a cup of coffee or maybe a piece of toast.   Only thoughts.  The good news is that the work has completely moved away from inside my house, so the workers are no longer coming and going. However,  the bad news is that my yard seems to have become the headquarters, and all the massive machinery is now stationed there.

I know having to back up those big giant machines to the nearest side street so that anyone who lives in this chaos zone can make their way to their houses has got to be frustrating for the workers and has me being a whole lot more thoughtful about how many times I leave my house, knowing that I’ll have to weave my way through the mess to get home.  Three weeks ago, I was making eye contact, followed by a quick nod and a smile.  I figured it was the least I could do to offer my encouragement for what is undoubtedly a difficult job.  I quit that last Monday when at 7 a.m., my house was shaking so hard from the concrete smashing that was going on in front of my house,  that I was sure photos were going to start falling off the walls.  That, along with the noise and the dust that have enveloped my house and have left all horizontal surfaces in my house coated so thick that you could write your name on it,  has my smile waning a bit.  It’s best to keep eye contact out of it.  I don’t want to be “that” person who is in continual complaining mode, but given what my front yard looks like, I genuinely feel like I’m taking one for the team here and feel totally justified.  Still, best to keep on moving and keep my facial expressions out of it.

Throughout this whole process, I have to think of how much worse it could be.  My neighbor has a 9-month-old baby, who probably hasn’t had a decent daytime nap for three weeks (the noise is constant).  Then there’s the danger element… if ANY of my kids were of “that” age, it would sure be hard to keep them out of that enticing canyon that seems to be growing in my front yard, let alone any curious pets.  For that, I’m grateful, as the flimsy plastic fence hardly acts as a barrier.

I suppose the clincher to all of this should be that a short three months ago, I had my old and very crumbling driveway replaced with a brand-new one, something that I’ve put off since I moved to this house four years ago because driveways are not cheap, nor a fun way to spend your money.  It was removed to the first joint this morning, as were everyone else’s on my side of the street.  I couldn’t watch.  I’ve been assured multiple times (because that’s how often I’ve asked) that the section will be replaced with a driveway of the same or better quality.  For now, I’m inclined to believe them until I see otherwise.  It’s keeping me sane and a whole lot calmer than I could be, given the situation.

Patience.  Inhale.  Exhale. (being mindful on the inhale as I live in a cloud of dust right now…).  This will end up good, and I genuinely believe that.  Besides, who gets to actually see what lives 8 or 9 feet under their street?  There’s a whole other world under there!  That’s a start…

THIS is the corner of my yard…
No worries… there’s a plastic net fence around it for safety.  This would be a pretty ugly fall in the dark of night…
Most people have friend’s cars parked in front of their house… not me!  I’ve got KOMAT’SU parked in front of my house!
The pipes have to be stored somewhere while digging the trenches where they’ll eventually be… my side yard seemed to be the best choice…
Just random stuff in my yard…
Every time I see this, I want to steal it.  I’m not sure why.

Road blocks and rerouting.

As much as I love a spontaneous change of plans, a slip in the mud and a bum shoulder to follow felt too much like a road trip getting canceled while literally sitting in your packed car, backed into the driveway, and ready to go.  My first thought while trying to maneuver my way out of the mud, and the thought that seemed to predispose all others for the next several days, was what my summer was NOW going to look like now that I had injured myself, an injury that would likely result in handing over some of my independence in the months ahead. THIS was certainly not what I had planned.  This was my first summer of owning a mountain place, and I had visions of staying there most of the summer, with a few trips back to Kansas for some scheduled commitments and a lot of garden watering. What I didn’t count on was a few helpless weeks of mainlining “Breaking Bad,” (which, by the way, I finished and am still having dreams about drug lords and blue ice…), wearing the same shirt day after day after day, and asking anyone close by to please put my hair up in a ponytail.  Life happens, and plans change, and it’s not all bad.  It can even be a good thing.

One of my friends and blog follower, LaMont Eanes,  commented on one of my original “Oh poor me, I fell in the mud and broke my shoulder” posts and said,
“All experiences are good, although they may not feel like it at the time.”
Thank you for that, LaMont.  With those words in mind, I suppose you could say I’ve been searching high and low for the silver lining that I was just sure was hiding somewhere under my now fading bruises.  I’ve discovered, yet again,  if you just let go, of both the search and the expectation, that the little gem of a silver lining will somehow find you but it helps if you’re keeping an eye out for it.  Watchful eye or not, I’m not a very patient patient.
Yesterday, while on an urban walk with Thomas and Brooke, that silver lining was so big that I had to exercise caution not to trip over it (I’m much more thoughtful with my gait these days…).  I was spending the day with Thomas and Brooke,  which was a gift in itself and something I’ve only enjoyed on my visits to Portland the past three years or for the brief and scheduled moments over Christmas.  A few months ago, they decided to move back to Kansas after Thomas graduated from law school in Portland.  A little over a week ago, the two weary travelers and their travel-tired kitties landed on my doorstep in the middle of the night after 37 hours of traveling.  They are staying with me until they find their own space in the city, which, sadly and selfishly for me, has already happened, and moving day is right around the corner.  Emery and Miles had made their move out of Kansas a short two weeks ago, and still feeling their absence, I was thrilled with the idea of refilling my now conspicuously large nest.

I knew of these relocation plans before I took my shoulder dip into the mud and had made my own plans around them.  I’d return from Colorado after getting Emery and Miles settled in, get Thomas and Brooke settled into my house, and would high-tail it back to Colorado as soon as it felt right, where I’d await their visit to see me in the mountains.  That was the plan, and from where I was sitting at the time, it sounded pretty good.  But life happens, and plans change, and I’m learning, albeit slowly, that it’s a whole lot easier to roll with it and see what it has to offer rather than wasting time bemoaning the fact that the plans got changed in the first place.  One would think I would have mastered this lesson by now, given my many aborted plans that have magically given way to decisions that have given me some of my greatest joys in life  . Case in point, my purchasing a mountain home when last summer’s mountain plans fell apart.
For the past week or so, I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with my son and his wife, without the rush that holiday visits always bring.  I’ve been able to sit on my porch every morning in my jammies and drink coffee with Brooke, talking or not talking, but I’m always appreciative of the company.   I’m blessed.  I’ve also been able to, by necessity, let Brooke cook for me, clean for me, and remind me to take it easy, lie down, and can I get you anything?  If that isn’t a little piece of heaven, I’m not sure what is.  Again, I’m blessed beyond words at the nurturing she’s given me… an ongoing hug with a spoonful of love. What an unplanned joy it has been having them both in my house, and with a duration that’s long enough for us to do all sorts of things or do nothing at all… both good choices.

My broken shoulder has kept me in Kansas as I’m not able to grip a steering wheel with two hands yet, and those I-70 winds around Russell, Kansas, are near impossible to maneuver one-handed.  I’m beginning to see the terrible timing of all this as the universe’s impeccable and perfect timing, a gift to me that presented itself in the nontraditional wrappings of a navy blue cloth sling, which currently supports my arm.  You are so right, Lamont; it is all good, although it didn’t necessarily feel like it at the time.  I’m also convinced that good cooking, a lot of nurturing, and a very full heart are integral to the healing of a broken shoulder, or any other broken thing, for that matter.

Screened in porch time…
Kansas City urban walk about with these two…
These two in my kitchen… it just feels right.
Homemade tortilla soup… good for the soul… and the shoulder…

Wallowing in the mud and complaints.

I fell in the mud two weeks ago and have been wallowing in it ever since. Sometimes you have to step back a few feet to gain perspective, and then again, sometimes it’s simply best not to look. This would be one of those times. I got a glance, and it wasn’t pretty.

When your day starts with two hours of binging on Breaking Bad before the coffee pot’s even emptied, it’s a good indicator of the direction the rest of the day is going to go. I need about four hours of a PBS or maybe a Brady Bunch cleanse to counteract the effects of Breaking Bad. The show truly makes me feel like I need sunshine, some fresh fruit, and perhaps a long bath.
Then there’s the whole shirt thing. Today is day, I’m not sure what, wearing the same shirt that I was wearing when I went shoulder-first into the mud. I’m teetering between being totally disgusted with the rate at which my personal standards have gone south and how easily I’ve adapted to the whole decline. Something about it makes me sad… or is it proud? I may not be physically up to the challenge of a multi-day backpacking trip… yet…but I’ve made a lot of headway in other areas that will come in handy on multiple days on the trail. I’m over the hygiene hump. I crested it about last Friday.

That was my morning, but it got better, even with my wallowing in the mud in an overly worn shirt and with too much Breaking Bad in my system for that early in the day… but I digress…
I spent a big chunk of my day in the KU orthopedic lobby (thanks, Robin) waiting to hear if all of the not moving my shoulder by leaving both my shoulder AND my shirt in tact, fearing still, that one false move and I’m back to square one, has been a fruitful commitment. I’m very happy to say that the doctor told me that things looked very good, no surgery necessary, and I could downgrade to a simple sling and,
“You can change your shirt…”
(That came up in the conversation that the shirt had been worn for a “few” days, or more accurately, longer than the length of most yoghurts’ sell-by dates.)

He (he being the Dr.) asked me quickly, in between his transcribing, two nurses who stood behind rolling computers, how I had broken my shoulder. I was glad to tell him something thatis legitimate.

I fell in the mud while hiking.
Where?
Colorado…Frisco, to be exact.
Oh, nice. At least you had a good view.

I’m so glad I didn’t have to tell him I fell off a small ladder perched on top of a leather ottoman, which gave me the height I needed to hang some artwork. Sadly, I know this from experience, but it was in Frisco, so I did have a nice view out the window. I swear by a smelly black shirt that’s heaped in the corner of my closet, that those days are over. Really.
So, my wallowing in the mud time is over, and I’ve climbed out of my hole, put on a clean shirt, and am on my way to happier days. I’m not quite ready to find gratitude or the silver lining in all of this, as my shoulder still hurts too much to see my resolve there, but I will soon. In the meantime, I have found a new appreciation for shoulders that work in full range and are far more awed by seeing a shoulder in motion these days than I am by lean runner legs, chiseled abs, or cut arms, as a working shoulder is a far more useful goal for me right now. Oh, to do a down dog again….

But for now, just one more Breaking Bad…it’s an open bag of chips and I can’t seem to keep my hand out of the bag… then I’ll do some PBS or Brady Bunch counteracting.
The truth on where I ended up on the black shirt lies somewhere between Emery’s worries of our separation anxiety and Robin thinking I should burn it. It will be washed twice, then hung in the back of my closet for posterity, or something like that.

New shirt, new sling, new attitude… the hair still needs some work though…