Thing One and Thing Two

It wouldn't be a new year without a new writing goal. And in 2015, I'm adding two!

One: In an ongoing attempt to finish reading books I start (numbers unknown, but it would definitely take all of my fingers and toes to count them, likely even all of the fingers and toes of everyone in the family), I am pledging to finish at least one book a week and to write something about it on Sunday. My posts won't be book reviews, which I generally find soul sucking. Mostly I will write about something I learned or something the book made me think about.

Two: I'm finally starting a project I've been meaning to start for a long time: a blog about making peace with my house, which is pretty much always overwhelming for me because I'd really rather be paying attention to other things. Though I am inspired by a few aspects of homemaking, I am mostly a reluctant homemaker. In this new blog, called Home*Making*Peace, I will explore all sorts of ways to come terms with it all. And, hopefully, my house will end up reflecting my cerebral efforts.

Click here to see my first post.

Feat #23: Closing one Book, Starting a New One

The title of this post represents an act of faith. I refuse to be discouraged by the obstacles I've encountered in my path since I started my 50 physical feats project--a project I am still committed to even though it is no longer the year I turned 50 and actually about to be the year I turn 52 (gulp!).

On my list of physical feats I've imagined writing about, I was going to include having a colonoscopy, which is expected by physicians once a person turns 50.

But something more challenging than a colonoscopy came along for this surgery virgin: having my gallbladder out. So I'm going to claim that as #23. It's been just over two weeks since I went under the knife, and my recovery has gone well!

Here are some things I'd like to remember about the experience before I close the book on the whole adventure:

• When all was said and done, I handled the idea of being unconscious while someone was mucking around on the insides of me pretty well. My strategy was to not think about it too much. Roger asked if I wanted to see a video of the procedure ahead of time. I opted out. Maybe some day.
  
  
• My big-hearted 15-year-old son showed me his big heart over and over.
  
  The night before the surgery, I discovered that, on his own, Jack had watched a video of the procedure and, as he described it with uncanny recall, he assured me that it was pretty straightforward and would not be so tough.
  
  The day of surgery, Roger and I got home just before school got out. After getting me settled upstairs in bed, Roger ran to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions. Since the car was gone, Jack didn't know I was there when he got home. Then Roger called to ask a question, and both Jack and I answered the phone. As soon as we hung up, Jack ran upstairs to check on me.
  
  Whoever is concerned about the next generation being too self-involved and irresponsible has not met Jack.
  
  
• Serendipity was a constant companion.
  
  My doctor recommended a surgery practice. When I called them to make an appointment, I had no idea which surgeon to ask for and said as much. They made me an appointment with Dr. Peterson. I immediately texted my friend, who is married to an anesthesiologist. Has he heard of Dr. Peterson? Why yes, he worked with him just that day. Thumbs up, she texted back.
  
  Then I met Dr. Peterson for a consultation. I told myself that if he was at all condescending or dismissive (I have issues), I would seek a second consultation. If I had a good experience at our meeting, I'd stick with him. I liked him. He laughed and told me it was smart to ask if I could have the colonoscopy I need done at the same time, even though it wasn't an option. Anyone who can honor wishful thinking like that gets my vote.
  
  A few days before surgery, I went to a lab to have blood drawn for tests. The woman who drew my blood read my form and said, "Dr. Peterson? He took my gallbladder out!" She was very happy with him and gave me some personal tips about going through it all.
  
  It turned out that I was able to request my anesthesiologist friend. I saw him a week before and he told me all about the cocktail he'd be mixing up for me and what I could expect. But more than that, it was a great comfort to have a familiar voice in my ear as I went under.
  
  When I came to afterward, I looked up and saw a familiar face. My recovery nurse turned out to be an acquaintance from my town! She took good care of me, and any sense of vulnerability I had melted away.
  
  
• Hearing what the doctor said afterward about the state of my gallbladder ("It was ugly!") was vindication--proof that I'm not a whiner.
  
  The only reason I had the surgery was that I had finally mentioned to my doctor at my annual exam that sometimes I have this pain. Like, for years. As I described it to her, she ordered an immediate ultrasound. Why was I so slow in taking it to her? I don't know. I guess I didn't want to be a whiner. Way to get in my own way!

There were a few things I didn't quite anticipate even though I knew a lot going in. For example, it was much harder than I expected to pull my brain out of it all, and my 51-year-old belly skin was awfully stretched out afterward. But my brain and my skin are both getting back to normal.

And tomorrow I will open to the fresh and hopeful pages of a new year!

(Although I've got that colonoscopy coming up in a few weeks . . . )

The Itch

Two separate conversations I had today:

I talked with Tina about how when Jack graduates in about two and a half years (!), I'm going to shift back into full-time work. Having two part-time jobs has been great so I can be home in the afternoons when school gets out, but I can tell I'm heading toward making a change. One of my hopes? That I will find a job that requires me to travel (and, okay, pays for it).

I have this persistent itch that I just can't quite scratch enough.

Not five minutes later, I ran into Merlene. She grabbed me and proclaimed, "You travel more than anyone else I know!" And then she confessed that she prefers to stay home. Maybe that colors her perspective.

Because, really. I haven't scratched the itch nearly enough. Not even close.

Pilgrimage

Utah Lake, December 2014

I started reading The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coehlo, a novel about a man searching for his path on the road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, on the way to my cousin Peter's memorial service early this fall. I set it aside after that, then finished it on my way home from my Uncle Chuck's memorial service a couple of weeks ago.

For many years, I believe I was searching for ways to disconnect. I found caring can be too painful. Living on autopilot seemed like a good way to numb the pain. The problem with skimming the surface, though, is that it sucked the soul out of everything. And life stretched endlessly on before me.

So I started searching for ways to connect. To be real. To dive beneath the surface. To care. It's hard, but living on autopilot was worse.

--------------------

I drove out to Utah Lake a few days ago. It had recently been unusually calm, a good destination to make a pilgrimage to reflect.

Bright and early this morning, I'm going to have my very first surgery. I'm getting my gallbladder removed. It's totally routine, but not for me. I have every confidence that it will all go smoothly, but, you know, things can happen.

So I want to put here that I've had more success lately figuring out my path.

And though I'm sure I'm going to come through my morphine haze just fine, I thought I'd make a few requests. I have a feeling they'll still be valid when I die a nutty old woman.

Take some of my ashes to a place I loved. Take some of my ashes to a place I've never been but would have loved if I had. And at my memorial service, please sing "For the Beauty of the Earth." Joyfully, like it's meant to be sung.

Sailing Away

Once again, I'm remembering a loved one. My wonderful Uncle Chuck (aka Charles, Jr., aka Charlie and aka my mom's brother) passed away earlier today, peacefully in his sleep after a long and difficult struggle. I thought I'd share excerpts of my last letter to him here.

Dear Uncle Chuck,

Since you are one of my favorite uncles, I want to be sure you know a few things. Especially the fact that you are one of my favorite uncles.

Throughout the years, I've been shaped by the way you have embraced life and the way you have embraced the people you love. Always Pratt Island would come alive when you showed up, so full of humor and light. 

Uncle Chuck, cousin Tracey, cousin Sandy, and sister Linda

I loved the way you openly adored your daughters. It seemed like such a simple and true thing for you.

Uncle Chuck and his three beautiful daughters

I loved that you and Sigrid and Lani were able to come to our wedding even though it was almost all the way across the country, and things were a little rough in 1990, and we had given exceptionally short notice as we were only engaged for eight weeks. That wedding weekend, and especially our reception at Sundance, would not have been the same without you. It meant so much to me that you were there! I still remember your gift shop discoveries and how you reveled in the idea of a partying at such a beautiful mountain ski resort. You confirmed we had chosen just the right spot to celebrate our major milestone.

I loved that you went out of your way on your big western adventure to see me and Roger and our new baby Jack. We still have the silver rattle you brought him, and we still hold the most awesome memory of you dropping your pants in our front room to show us the magnet contraption that was helping you cope with your sore knee on the long drive!

I loved that you pulled strings to get Jack out sailing on Long Island Sound when we were in town a few summers ago. A picture of Jack jumping off Friendship has been the banner photo on my Facebook page for years now, and I think I'm going to keep it that way for a long time. What a treat to be able to introduce Jack to such an important part of my childhood!

Thanks for being my wonderful uncle. Damn it, I really wish I was there to give you a big hug in person.  

All of the love in the world from one of your favorite nieces :). 

xoxoxo

At 95

I went to a presentation at noon today by an old friend, author Julie Berry. She has a fun new novel out, The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place (see entertaining trailer below).

After the presentation was over, I noticed Judge Monroe and Shirley Paxman, both 95 years old, sitting near the front. I've known them for years! Not only did they often come to events at our bookshop, Judge Paxman was one of my college professors.

I had to go over and talk to them. We walked out of the auditorium together, they with their walking sticks, me with my delight at seeing them still so curious and engaged with the community.

After reminding Judge Paxman that I had taken a course in criminal justice from him more than 30 years ago (he was in his 60s then!), I told him how pivotal taking that class had been for me. I had been thinking I'd like to go into the field to help people caught up in the criminal justice system to work their way out.

But taking that class made me realize just how naive I was. "I'd have believed anything they told me," I said. And then I happily reported to him that after many years of pursuing other goals, I was now working at the county jail, helping people caught up in the criminal justice system to work their way out.

I am less naive now. Imagine how wide open my eyes will be if I make it to 95. Especially if I stay as curious and engaged as the Paxmans have.

Also, I'm curious if anyone in Julie's new book ends up in jail. I'm looking forward to reading it!

Making a Statement

This morning I woke up to two pieces of news:

(1) The US Supreme Court has held up multiple lower court rulings that struck down state laws against same-sex marriage.

And (2) a good hearted young man--whom I first met when he was a TA in our high school library the year I worked there, who came out as a gay man a few years ago, and who suffered debilitating depression--took his own life a few nights ago.

Here is my vote and my prayer: that we can ALL figure out a way forward in love, not fear. In our society, we talk so much about freedom, including freedom of conscience, and our right to pursue our individual journeys through life. Let's mean it all around.

Because that statement is deliberately ambiguous (I truly do mean all), I also feel a need to be clear about a couple of things in case anyone wonders where I personally stand:

(1) A dozen years ago, I voted against the Utah constitutional amendment that was at issue in one of the cases that went to the Supreme Court. I would vote against it again today. I am celebrating today's decision.

And (2) I am ever hopeful that the increased funding for research and coverage for mental health care mandated by the ACA will make a huge difference for many individuals and families, and ultimately for society as a whole - I meet far too many people, for example, who end up being funneled through the criminal justice system because we haven't yet figured out a better way. We need to for the sake of our humanity.

The Last Chapter

Peter with Ally and Ajax on Fearless, Lake Geneva 2014

I learned yesterday that my cousin Peter passed away. Second cousin, technically, but his mother Jean was like an aunt to me. No one knows, yet, exactly what happened. Some hikers found him sitting beside a trail near Telluride, his pack still on his back. Likely it was peaceful for him. Maybe he didn't even know what was happening. It is comforting to think he was doing something he loved in a place he loved.

I'm always interested in learning what goes on in people's heads. Understanding what moves them, how they perceive the world. Peter, though, especially intrigued me. I saw him nearly every summer at the lake, but he was a mystery. He was ten years older than me and ran with the elusive pack of cousins that were the first in our generation. I was in the tag along group, hoping, maybe, to get a chance to water ski when everyone else was through or to get invited for late night swims.

The summer I turned 12, I started spending more time at his family's cottage when Jean's best friend's daughters started coming to the lake. We stayed up late at night playing Spades and Trivial Pursuit. Peter would never give up trying to answer the trivia questions, even if it took him half an hour to comb his brain. Somehow, the answer would always be in there! Mostly, though, he was off playing tennis or golf, and I was not part of that circle. His college years stretched into decades as he pursued graduate studies in anything that caught his interest. He traveled the world. He was a voracious reader.

So I knew about him, but I didn't really know him. I wish I'd tried harder. Instead I filled in the gaps with my imagination.

When we were all grown up, I'd sometimes be invited to his cottage for dinner. He'd sit at the head of the table while people buzzed around him, getting the meal set out or cleaning up afterward. He seemed oblivious to the activity. Was it what he expected of everyone? Or did he just let things happen? Other times, he'd track down Ally, a friend's daughter who was like his own, at our cottage to let her know he'd made her grilled cheese or hot dogs for lunch. As much as he loved surrounding himself with people, he also liked to disappear. He was notorious for being difficult to track down.

A few years ago, I caught him alone and asked him about a trek he'd taken in northern India around the time his mother died. We talked about spiritual journeys and how intangible they are, and we bonded over our mutual rejection of dogmatism. I was left hungry for more. What were his questions? Did he ever find answers? Was he driven by restlessness or curiosity? Or maybe both? Or maybe neither?

This summer I watched Peter as we listened to another cousin's son play the trumpet with a jazz quintet. We were in an old clubhouse that probably hadn't changed much in our lifetime. It felt timeless. I tried to read him, but couldn't really. He looked serious. Sad? Or was he just reveling in the music? Or maybe both? Or maybe neither?

It struck me in that moment that he seemed to move through life as though he were a character in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Later he told me when I asked what he remembered about my Grandpa Stuart, who died when I was six and Peter was 16.  Someone else I wish I'd known. "I admired him," he said and described him as soft spoken, intellectual, and curious about the world. He credited Grandpa's extensive slide shows for sparking his interest in traveling to far flung places.

I thought I'd have time to find out more about what was in Peter's head. Next summer, or the next. But the last chapter of his novel has ended, and as far as I know all the words I wanted to read died with him.

Feat #22: Over the Interstate and Through the West Fields

Please forgive me. I am still on a honeymoon with my new bike.

Sometimes on Sundays, I head to work at the jail to meet with inmates who have jobs they go to during the rest of the week. Today I decided to ride my bike there. It's only about 12 miles round trip.

A bit of a Sabbath meditation.

Except for about a third of the way there when I realized I'd forgotten my ID badge (Roger rescued me by bringing it). And then about two thirds of the way there when I bounced over some railroad tracks and my chain came off and jammed between the sprocket and the guard (a nice couple in a pickup truck stopped to help and gave me a few napkins to get the grease off my hands).

There isn't a bike rack near the entrance, so I improvised. I know a bike locked up to sign post can be stolen. But I also know the place is monitored by a surveillance system. And it's full of people with authority to make an arrest. I figured I'd risk it.

My bike and I both made it home. We're a good match. I think we'll be very happy together.

On a Roll

Today's bicycling adventure involved checking on the progress of the new reservoir Springville city is building near the mouth of Hobble Creek Canyon (beach! swimming! next summer! a mile from my house!). I decided to take the long way around through Mapleton, enjoying our unseasonably low 70-ish degree weather.

Il Postino

As I considered a post office run late this afternoon, I realized I had just enough time to get there by bike. I put on my matching sunglasses, wrapped the packages in plastic bags because it looked a bit like rain, put them in my basket, and headed off.

I arrived at the post office with time to spare because it was downhill and today it was also downwind! Of course, that meant the ride back was uphill and upwind.

The hair looks a little wacky, but I made it home intact!

Into the Desert of Mortification and Reward

Choosing to read last night paid off because I came across this delicious quote from Voss, set in 19th century Australia, written by Patrick White in the 1950s, and which I've got to finish by a book club meeting on Thursday.

Few people of attainments take easily to a plan of self-improvement. Some discover very early their perfection cannot endure the insult. Others find their intellectual pleasure lies in the theory, not the practice. Only a few stubborn ones will blunder on, painfully, out of the luxuriant world of their pretensions into the desert of mortification and reward.

Good timing for this college writing instructor who will be back in the classroom tomorrow, facing a new group of students who will be critiquing my performance.

I confess that I am still slightly reeling from one particular student's audacity in his final reflective essay last April after he was especially challenging in the classroom all semester. I am feeling slightly vulnerable. But I am trying to endure the insult, put theory for improving my performance into practice, and be willing to blunder on.

Choices

I could write about one of the million things that is always running around in my brain, but there's an awesome storm tonight. I'm sitting in the living room with some windows wide open, and I'd rather curl up with a book and listen to the thunder and rain.

My Birthday Present Came

Which was actually unexpected. A few days ago, the bike shop called to say it was lost in shipment and they had no idea when it would come. But then last night they called to say it was here and all assembled and ready to pick up! So we went to get it this morning (after stopping for waffles).

Maybe next year I'll get a proper bike rack.

Lucky, Lucky, Lucky

I've been restless the last few days.

So when I left work this afternoon to meet Jack after school and discovered a text message from him that he was heading to a friend's house, I was all of a sudden free.

And then I realized that I had a book I need to read in my bag, so if I went somewhere besides home, I could still get something done.

And then I realized that because Roger needed the car to go to Salt Lake for some meetings today and I was driving the Jeep, I was not only free but roofless. And the sky was blue as blue.

So I headed west to Lincoln Beach feeling lucky.

When I got there a couple of guys by the boat ramp asked if I had jumper cables. I did and we got their truck started again. Lucky.

Before settling in to read my book, I called Roger to check in. He was heading home from Salt Lake and told me about the storm he'd driven through and which was heading my way. I looked north and saw this. It was going to take me half an hour to get home. Without a roof. I took my chances and read a chapter first. Home before the rain reached me. Lucky.

Maybe I Really Can Do It

This morning a neighbor told me about the time she found what they thought was a tarantula on their driveway. They put it in a jar and took it to a biology professor friend for confirmation. It was a tarantula. In our neighborhood.

But all I could think about was how I had learned the word for spider in Spanish just last night. And I was so excited that I could remember it.

Una araña. Sí puedo.

Ein Wettbewerb or Un Concurso

Jack has randomly decided to take German this year. Well, maybe not totally randomly. Many of his friends are also taking German. And when he was little he always made me play the German version of the Bob the Builder theme song when we visited the show's website. And whenever we talk about going to Europe someday, the city he wants most to visit is Berlin. So not totally randomly.

I want to learn Spanish. I've studied it in fits and starts over the years without much progress. Now that Jack only has three years of school left, and less than three years until he turns an independent 18, I'm more determined than ever to learn. I want to be prepared for the next phase of my life, and I think that knowing some Spanish could open up some valuable opportunities for me.

So in honor of Jack's first day of German class, I set up a Duolingo account and have already earned three "lingots" (the program's virtual currency) by practicing Spanish words and phrases. I know at some point, I will have to find real people to converse with, but this is at least a place to start.

And it's free.

And it's competitive. I can link up with friends who have accounts and compete to see who earns the most lingots. I'm going to see if Jack wants to set up an account to practice his German.

Anyone else want in? Click here to see what languages they have courses for. Then sign up and come find me there! I could use the pressure.

Pencils (More Than You Think)

Last night I told Jack that I would pick up some school supplies for him after my fall orientation meetings on campus today, but I needed a list. Tenth grade starts tomorrow.

He owned it. Went through the things he already had and put together a detailed list. 

Pencils (more than you think)

Erasable pens (like 4+)

Paper (college ruled)

Spare 1" binder, maybe 2 (because then, he explained as we went over the list, he could have one for A days and one for B days)

And so on.

I'm taking this as a good sign that he's gearing up to own tenth grade in its entirety.

Feat #21: Eyes Wide Open

I faced down a demon with this one.

I used to swim with goggles (to protect my contact lenses) across the Spanish Oaks reservoir until one day something totally freaked me out. You can read that story here: What Lies Beneath.

Jack and his friend Rex at the reservoir, circa 2007

Since then, instead of really swimming across, I do a leisurely breast stroke without putting my face in the water or I just do 10 or 12 freestyle strokes at a time with my eyes closed before getting too far off course.

Frankly, it's ridiculous.

So for this feat I swam a nice, hard, steady freestyle across the reservoir and back, with goggles, eyes wide open. All I saw was green murky depth. Not a single dead body. It felt good.

Feat #20: The Approach

A couple of weeks ago, I watched my 81-year-old uncle dive off the diving board, classic springboard approach and all.

I thought, "I hope I can still do that when I'm 81!"

Then I realized that, now at 51, I couldn't remember the last time I dove off the diving board using an approach. If I dive off the board at all, I just stand at the end and dive. Usually, though, I just dive off the pier.

I thought, "If I want to be doing it at 81, I'd better start doing it again now."

So I did. And I made Jack witness it with a recording:



Yeah, I need to work a little on my form. Keep those feet together. I'll be practicing over the next 30 years.