Wakatipu

The night we finally arrived in Queenstown, I slipped on my shoes and went for a run, a thousand emotions exhaling out of me as I paused in solitude for the first time in 56 hours. I found the playlist I had prepared for exactly this moment, still stunned by what we had just done.

It was long after the girls’ bedtimes, but still light outside on this high summer evening in February at the bottom of the world. The charcoal peaks that towered over me were as familiar as my daughters’ shoulder blades.

Eliza had turned 3 somewhere in the 20 hours we were in the air between the hemispheres. Jessie, 4, the same age I was when my parents first took me on this flight, absorbed clouds, oceans and about a thousand episodes of Powerpuff Girls from a window seat. I searched her eyes, wondering what was unraveling and regrouping behind them, her mind a frontier to me. John snored softly across the aisle, probably dreaming of the Aparima, the Mataura, the Borland Valley.  Summer waters he would be returning to, all these ribbons of rivers on maps that had been spread out over our dining room table for months, as snow blanketed the pines outside.

The worst winter in a decade was behind us in Montana. Our taxes were filed. The layers of bacon grease that had encircled the stove of our 100-year-old house were scoured out. Our couches were steam-cleaned. Mail was rerouted. Extensive notes on every possible pipe freezing scenario was written out for the nurses from Florida who would be staying for the three months we were gone. Keys, important documents and our dog, were all distributed to friends and neighbors. Car registrations were renewed. Invoices sent. Checks collected and deposited. Bills paid. Numbers crunched. We would make it, but barely. I made lattes, flipped breakfast sandwiches and frosted donuts in the mornings leading up to our departure; poured wine and carried prime rib and breadboards to tables on Christmas eve and New Year’s Eve. I would lay awake at 2 a.m. and stare at the ceiling. Please please please let this not be the winter our roof needs replacing.

Tonight, thousands of miles away, the haunted waters of the Wakatipu surge and recede over the rocks below me, like a heartbeat, so many of my old selves somewhere down there. More than two decades of old selves.  The  melancholy of this place laps at my feet, inviting me to shapeshift myself into every person I’ve been, running this same path, swimming in those stormy waters below. Me at 23, me at 28, at 32, at 42. This part of the world is where all my biggest heartbreaks have happened.

A thought bubble as I begin a slow, gentle jog along the path. This is  me at 47 – the lightest and most irreverent of all the selves, who intercedes.

It’s also the part of the world where you’ve paid the most in parking tickets. 

Yes. I give in to this boring anchor of reason, my limbs waking up from hibernation.This is true.

You’ve also bought and sold more cars here than anywhere else. Signed your name on more rental leases.

The inventory of the ordinary continues.

You’ve renewed more drivers’ licenses, had more dentist appointments, post office boxes, optometrist visits, sat for more exams, paid more road tolls. You’ve painted more bedroom walls, written more headlines, acquired more library cards, fired up more barbecues, attended more weddings and funerals, collected more holiday pay, moved more furniture, changed more flat tires and paid more taxes than anywhere else you’ve lived.

I always think of this place as the home of where I’ve had my highest highs and my lowest lows. But I forget: This was also just the backdrop to a life. Heartbreak is inevitable. Even the last heartbreak six years before as a visitor introducing her new husband to this landscape – that heartbreak to eviscerate all other heartbreaks –  feeling pieces of that brief life inside me leaving my body as I swam in the Wakatipu that afternoon, doing breaststrokes towards these same peaks, tears and blood trailing me, as John cast in nearby rivers, grieving on his own.

I pause. It is completely night now and the waterfront bars pulsate with light and music.

I can feel this net of forgiveness being thrown back behind me, spreading out over the years. I want to press my forehead against my 23-year-old self, like I do my daughters, when they crawl into bed with us after a nightmare. What a spectacular place to pay a parking ticket.

The days ahead here are empty. No taxes to file, wine to pour, floors to scour. There is nothing to do now, but surrender to the plane tickets we’ve already paid for, lease agreements we’ve signed our names to, car rental contracts sealed in the glove compartment. I feel the rush of adrenaline of having just done something irreversible.

All the hours, the maps of rivers, the roads to take a sharp left on, the cafes to go get flat whites and sausage rolls in tomorrow morning are ours, I realize, as I plod along back in the dark to where John and the girls are sleeping, wave machines going, phones charging, suitcases open, swimsuits lined up on top, like a promise. What if everything in the next three months actually works out?

There’s nothing to do but go back to them, crawl in between all the limbs, sleep hard for as long as we need to. Get up, put sandals on, sit in the sun with a coffee, buy a punnet of apricots and be in this summer where our feet are. I don’t want to stop being stunned by what we’ve just returned to.

Comment New Zealand

Regrets

Many years ago Dick Geary told me that I’d always have a horse when I wanted to take an afternoon off and go for a ride.


Dick and I never met in person. We communicated through weekly check-in emails and our columns. Both of us were bound to Montana – Dick was born into a Helmville ranching family; I had married a fly-fishing guide – but we each had a place in the world we held on to and wrote about frequently; a place that had shaped us as youth. For me, it was New Zealand. For Dick, it was Belize. We each had a boot in a land that still gripped us, and maybe that was why we connected here, through our writing, both of us a little bit restless and lonesome.


I missed being on a horse. I almost felt like it was pointless being in Montana if I wasn’t riding my own, or someone else’s, I emailed him one Sunday evening, when I was sifting through my inbox, trying to prepare for the coming week.


Well, he wrote back, there’s one here for you when you have time.


When I looked at my calendar, time was something I didn’t have a lot of.


A month later, Dick was haying. Pretty soon the first snow had fallen. And it just went on like that, a ride in Helmville with Dick, talking about Belize and New Zealand, ranching and writing, always pushed back to another month, then another season. I got pregnant. I left the newspaper. I was consumed by motherhood, then a winter move to New Zealand with an infant. Covid arrived just as we returned in March 2020 and my world became even more still, more insular. I couldn’t read the news anymore. I waited out another pregnancy until our second daughter arrived. It was in the first few weeks of Eliza’s birth that I was up in the early hours of the morning, that I thought of Dick. Maybe it was the relief of feeling like I was just starting to piece parts of myself back together again, or maybe it was the false spring warmth of March, but I was ready for that ride.


It had been years by then, since an email had gone out between us. I couldn’t remember the last time I had read his column. Maybe that alone made me hesitate before writing to the paper and asking for his contact info. Instead, I wrote his name in a search engine. It confirmed my hesitation. Dick had passed away, more than a year before.


I’ve spent a lot of time in the rocking chair by our front lounge window, rocking both our girls, at all hours, from infancy and into toddlerdom. It’s the best place to watch the first light in the sky at the start of the day, and to watch the sun disappear over the hills. I can’t help but think big thoughts when I’m there, one of my two life miracles on my chest, a cheek squashed into my skin, the rise and fall of their breath matching mine.


I don’t think I walk around with a lot of regrets. But if you were to ask me if there was anything I do regret in my life, without hesitation, I would say not taking Dick up on his offer of a horse to ride on a summer afternoon would be it.


It’s not a regret that hangs heavy over me. It’s more of a reminder that life is short and the months, summers, seasons, years, go by so fast. One day I’ll long for the years of rocking a baby at 4 a.m.


Next time I’m asked, I’m going to clear the calendar.



I’m going for that ride.

Comment Montana, Uncategorized

Summer, the end

Fog is suspended in the golden trees through the canyon above me as I zip up my jacket, pull the hood over my ears, and stretch the sleeves over my freezing fingers. I put one boot on a pedal and shove off with the other foot from the driveway of a kitchen where I store this gear-less bike with a basket. This is the last leg of my commute to work.

From the moment I open my eyes in the morning it is like a director somewhere has yelled out “Action!” There are babies calling out to be picked up, changed and dressed for the day. Breakfast is delivered to the couch where Jessie sleepily watches Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood while I feed Eliza then pour food in a bowl for Gabe the dog. Bags are packed up for the day and everyone gets secured in the running car as Raffi plays. I run inside and quickly get dressed, making a sprint for the door, coffee in hand, where I can finally drink it as we drive off. If I’m ever wearing make-up it’s been applied in the rear-view mirror.

By the time I get to that kitchen driveway where that bike is stored, I’m still feeling the adrenaline coursing through me, whipped onwards by caffeine. When I grasp the bike handles, the flow of my day abruptly stops and then restarts at a different setting. It’s like that same director of the film I am starring in has yelled out “And Cut!”

I coast down the dirt driveway and over Rock Creek Road, my arms jarring with the potholes, the air blistering my lips. My hood has flown back and my ears are like ice, but somehow each day I tell myself it is just early fall and gloves and hats are for later in the season. There is the smell of dead leaves in the bed of the stream I cross over, and I’m reminded of this same path in June when the runoff roars through and the trees above are green and fluttery.

Years ago, I used to walk this path at night, stopping to lean on the railings of the bridge and watch the stars and sometimes the moon reflected on the dark water under my feet. This was when I had that kind of time, when my hours were my own to squander.

But they were also the years when I wanted what I have now. This life was a long-shot back then. Those slow walks home at night were sometimes walks of grief. Sometimes they were walks of release and an attempt at acceptance. Sometimes it was a walk of longing for my younger self, that 33-year-old me who just wanted to travel and write and go for long runs in beautiful places and not be relied on. I wanted to want what I had wanted then.

All of these past selves flash through my mind in the four minutes it takes me to get to my place of work, jeans splattered with mud that I have to wipe off with a towel. I  put my hair back before opening a door and unzip my coat for the morning.

I always get asked if I want a ride, and I always say I’m fine taking the bike. It’s one of the few stolen moments I get in my days right now.

It’s like letting the pages of a book flip quickly past my fingers, arriving to where I am in this moment: racing over golden leaves, living out this long-shot life, very much relied on. I don’t want to forget that.

Comment Montana

Summer, the middle

  I was one of many introverts, I’m sure, who sprung to life with purpose and creativity as the world went dark in March 2020. It was as if we had been in training for this kind of event our entire lives. I remember saying to a friend just months before, that if I could envision what wealth would look like to me, it would just be more time.
  And Voila.
  My wealth was so immediate and extraordinary, it was like I woke up one morning and rolled out of bed to find a $2 million lottery ticket at my feet.  Maybe most importantly – and a high-five to my 2020 self – I knew what I had been handed was rare and fleeting and I pounced on it. I rented an office at our local theater and started writing fiction again, which had seemed indulgent and nutty before. Now all the lines of nuttiness were either blurred or erased and it was just like, ‘well, if the world’s going crazy I may as well be crazy along with it.’  When Montana started to cautiously reopen two months later I had 52 pages of a screenplay and  – unknown to me then –  a coffee bean-sized Eliza brewing away. I was two months shy of 43 when I took that pregnancy test and I still can’t think of that season without the first lines of Ellie Goulding’s “Anything Can Happen” starting up in my mind.
  So more than a year later, when Covid crept back into our lives at the beginning of August, a part of me assumed I’d return to that headspace, enjoying our family of now four, and bursts of productivity, all without the interruption of work and routine. When a quarantine finally became inevitable, I was ready to go.
  Except I wasn’t. I did not return to that headspace. There was no pouncing. After 48 hours I was furious. Also restless and uncomfortable and maybe worst of all, feeling deeply guilty that I was restless and uncomfortable. Shouldn’t I want to gather up as much time as possible with my daughters, now nearly six months and age 2? All day at home with my babies who were growing so fast it made my heart hurt every time I had to fold up another onesie or pair of pants that no longer fit and put in the giveaway box – what a gift, right? Instead I felt like I had been thrown back into a cage.
  All I could think of was that perfect Saturday in early June, post-vaccinations, two months before, when the world was suddenly unmasked again. Spring had just catapulted into summer and we took the girls to the farmer’s market in Missoula. I stood in line to buy a fresh baguette and a coffee at a French bakery on the hip strip as Eliza cooed at all the new faces from her stroller. We walked across the new bridge walkway over the Clark Fork to meet John and Jessie for lunch and the river was roaring, the lilacs were out, and the quaking aspens were green and shimmery. My baguette was warm, my coffee was hot and strong, I had just slept more than five hours the night before, and the world was so perfect and beautiful and so suddenly and exquisitely open. Had the sky ever been that blue? The hills that green? Every person I passed on the bridge was grinning like mad, just like me, all of us released prisoners. Missoula today, and then where? The Amalfi Coast? Portugal? Paris? For the first time in a year we could allow ourselves to dream ahead beyond our living rooms.
  What I loved the most though on that June day, was that all the arguing, the posturing, the memes, the viral video clips, and the anger – so much anger –  seemed bathed in this fresh summer rain. It felt washed away. Irrelevant. It didn’t matter anymore because it was all over. Covid was in the rear view mirror. Yes, there were other strains of the virus. Yes, there were uncertainties. But ultimately, we were back. Let’s shake hands across enemy lines because we were moving forward. 
  When Covid returned to our town, our daycares, our workplaces, and life had to come to a standstill again while our health system tried to get a handle of what was happening, I really tried to channel my 2020 self. But I couldn’t get myself back to that place I had been 12 months before. There was no way around it. Two days in, I was looking at spending 10 days being morose about being morose. I was disoriented and I missed the calm, resilient lioness of opportunity I had been. My 2021 self was inwardly throwing a tantrum that could have rivaled my 2-year-old’s meltdowns. This was all supposed to be over! I want to speak to the person in charge! I would watch Jessie dissolve into tears at the smallest infringement and think you are my spirit animal right now.
  It’s funny that loneliness hasn’t been a prominent key on my emotional keyboard for much of my life. I love my time alone and solitude is hard to come by these days. Eliza still wants to be held for much of the night. I can’t even brush my teeth without Jessie’s tiny hands sliding under the bathroom door. It is nothing short of agonizing to watch our world slide back into a tunnel of unknowns, just when we thought we were back in the bright, clear light. Are we wiser now? Maybe just more prepared to have our plans evaporate and get more comfortable with saying “I don’t know” when we look at the school year ahead or international travel. We are back to buying insurance for everything.The certainty we crave so hard just isn’t here.
  But this is the gift I’m taking from my unexpectedly morose August quarantine: While solitude is the gas in the particular make, model and year that is me, at the end of the day, I do need people. I need the banter at work, the small talk while waiting to buy milk or post a package. I need our book club meetings in the library courtyard and spontaneous chats with neighbors while out walking the dog.
As an introvert, last year was a grand indulgence. Maybe its a good thing to be reminded that I still need actual face time to function in the long haul.
  I don’t know what wealth looks like to me now exactly. I don’t know if I would blithely say “time” anymore. Maybe a healthy sense of awe. Maybe on my really good days I’d say its knowing how wealthy I already am.

2 Comments Montana

Summer, the beginning

  All of the sudden, summer is here.
  This will be my eighth one in Montana, and just saying that makes me feel both old and grateful.
It seems like another lifetime when I was driving from California in early June, arriving in Big Sky just before the sun was up, everything I owned packed into the used Saturn I had just bought for $1499, hoping it would just get me through the first season in my new home. I got out of the car, and stood there in the driveway, listening to the roar of the creek, deafening with spring runoff, and then birds everywhere in the first light. I had just arrived back in the exact place where I had spent the winter, but that place had been transformed. The snow, the quiet, the hushed darkness that I had cross-country skied through during the previous five months was gone. In its place was a land that was full of light, color, noise – not just birds and water, but wind in the leaves, in the waist-high green grasses; of cattle being moved; of horses released to the fields in the evening. It filled me with energy I didn’t know I was missing. I had only been gone from Montana for two months but it was another landscape I was returning to.
  I grew up in a temperate California climate where winters were almost irrelevant. I spent a decade in New Zealand, where summers were short and stormy months, potentially brilliant, with equal potential for disappointment. To me, Montana summers have everywhere else beat. Maybe it’s the brevity. Maybe it is the long winters that build up the anticipation. Maybe it is the suddenness of its arrival. It is long in coming. But every year it delivers.
  It is soft and warm. Gentle at first, then just when the heat you’ve been longing for gets a little too much to take, there are these storms that roll through, reminding you to just stop and bask in warmth while warmth is here. One storm arrived just as I was leaving work last week and a few of us stopped what we were doing and took a moment to watch its approach from the doorway. Even the summer in Montana has different moods, shades and smells – seasons within a season. For people who struggle with restlessness, this is a made-to-order landscape, changing every few hours. There isn’t enough time to get tired of it.
  Last summer felt stolen to me, first by a pandemic and then by morning sickness. I had enough energy after work in the evenings to do a faceplant into the couch and eat grape popsicles and chew on ice, until even the smell of water – even frozen – made me nauseous.
  This June, I feel like a corralled horse, anxiously pacing, watching the rest of the herd thunder past me for the hills. I am not the same woman who rolled into town in a beat-up Saturn eight years ago, arriving in this house I had rented from an online posting, unseen, and upon stepping into the lounge room, hearing my own footsteps echo on the wooden floors, thought, ‘how am I going to fill up all this space?’
  I laugh at that now, as I rock Eliza, now 4 months, with Jessie dragging her whale-themed potty around the house like a big teddy bear. This space has been filled.
  There is an Australian journalist I follow on social media, who gave birth a month before I did, and captures motherhood in a way that always has me nodding.
  “The phrase, ‘you can have it all, just not at once,’ keeps skittering around in my brain,” she wrote in a post I read at 3 a.m., as Eliza snoozed on my chest. “It’s not my turn for sleep-ins and long leisurely yoga classes and writing when the muse pokes her tousled head through the door. It is my turn to squint with one eye at the watch when I hear a yell from next door, and be delighted at wide new eyes looking at the world and wipe poo from between shoulder blades and wonder how the bloody hell it got there.”
  That Saturn that got me here is long gone. My arms are so full, especially during the summer  when I lose my husband to the guiding season.
  This last week I’ve watched from my couch, trapped by blankies and baby arms, my neighbor loading up to go ride her horse. Her kids are grown; she is a grandmother now. She swings her saddle into the bed of the truck and my shoulder muscles move vicariously through hers.
  Someday, it will be my turn to throw a saddle in the back of a truck on a bright summer morning. 
  For now, I am here, arms full, heart full, jiggling a baby rocker with my big toe as I write this, corralled. It’s my turn to be right here.

Comment Montana, Uncategorized

Here we are

There is a golden blur to the last five weeks. Nights and days bleed together. The state of our nation, world economies and so forth have become faraway concerns. Successes and failures are measured in the numbers of diapers changed, the volume and consistency of what is in them, ounces fed, and hours slept.

Not our hours, of course. John and I are still powered by the wild-eyed adrenaline designed to fuel new parents through these weeks, maybe months, in this Darwinian hurdle of human survival.

In the meantime, everything swirls around Eliza, now into her fifth week on earth. Eliza Jean Marie – an old family name on her father’s side and two middle names for both grandmothers. As I rock her I’m enjoying that it can all roll off the tongue sounding very French or very redneck. I wonder about the places in the world she will end up; what landscapes or cities she will make a home in.

Eliza is exquisite, of course. Just like her sister, she will worm her swaddled body up my chest and upper left arm and shoulder, until she and I are eyeball to eyeball, her head bobbing as she meets my gaze unblinkingly and this curious look of comprehension like oh, you’re the voice in my head comes over her face. Get used to it, kid, I want to tell her. I’m your mother, and I will probably be the voice in your head forever.

The successes all belong to Eliza. We own the failures, which are spectacular and jarring reminders that life with two kids is very different than life with one. At three weeks we decided to take Eliza and Jessie, now 21 months and a full-blown joyous, wilful toddler, on a ski trip to Idaho. Empowered by a blissful family lunch in Wallace – where I slowly drank a cold beer out of a mason jar, as Eliza slept peacefully in my arms and Jessie happily ate pesto bread with her dad as the sun shined down through the big windows on all of us – we decided to make a stop a local brewery down the road before heading to our hotel. 

It took us about 15 minutes to unload, do a round of diaper changes on the passenger seat, organize ourselves with strollers, front carriers, backpacks, diaper bags, and make our way up the street to the front door of the brewery, where we lasted less than five minutes inside. As soon as we had seated ourselves, Jessie dissolved, Eliza started screaming, and John looked over at me then up at our waitress – “let’s just get a growler to go.”

Back at the truck, the girls, still in tears, tucked into their car seats, John folded up the stroller and loaded it into the back. I stood there, hands in jacket pockets, watching a teenager on a bike ride past, looking at us like our life in motion was his worst nightmare. 

This scene would also have been my nightmare when I was a teenager, I think, sympathetically. Quite honestly, it would have been my nightmare when I was 33. 

And yet 10 years later, a “geriatric” mom on all the medical charts with decades of noon sleep-ins, brewery stops, and easy, lonesome roadtrips behind me, I’m surprised at how comfortable it feels, this chaos.

“Lets get these girls home,” John says, and I still have to remind myself that these girls are our girls. Maybe it’s because of this golden blur time, but I still have to pinch myself as a reminder that I’m not dreaming.

Comment Montana

Onwards

View from the shed apartment lounge that we lived in this time last year. Photo by Madz.

It is strange to be in a new year, after so much anticipation.

It was a year, as comedian Dave Chappelle commented in a podcast John and I listened to last month, while driving across Nevada, when for better or worse, we have all lived in close proximity with the decisions we have made in our life up until now. Our choice on the color of our couches and kitchen walls, to our careers, businesses, and spouses, was now under careful scrutiny as we have come face to face with them each day, often under serious stress. I told my cousin about that quote today and she laughed that she had just gotten rid of a dining room table that always went back to being wobbly, no matter what repairs she did to it.  She had thought it was quirky up until recently. She finally realized that 2020 was the year she needed a solid table to lay her head down on for a good cry and then get on with it.

For many this has been a year of heartbreak and tragedy, confusion, grief.  For others, this has been a season of hustle, as redundancies and cancelled plans have led to opportunities that wouldn’t have been available in 2019. For others it’s been a combination of all of this. Some have commented that 2020 has accelerated trends that we were moving towards anyways, like working remotely or ongoing independent study for those of our kids who have ended up being happier and more productive outside the traditional classroom.  We have all felt lonely, scared and a little lost without actual face time with our communities and families at some point in the last ten months.

In our house, 2020 has been a mixed bag that I’m still sorting through. This time last year we had just settled into summer in New Zealand in a friend’s beautiful shed apartment. I threw myself into freelance projects and worked at a pub at night while hanging out with Jessie – then just six months old – during the day as John fished and explored the rivers around the South Island. The idea was that we were setting ourselves up to do this every northern hemisphere winter, for as many years as we could. We barely made it back to the U.S. before both countries – and the rest of the world – shut down indefinitely in March. We had unexpected weeks with family in Colorado in quarantine, as Jessie had long nights of teething and we slept in shifts, drank endless pots of coffee through the snowy late mornings, ordered take-out, and took solitary walks by the creek when we needed a breather and a big-picture perspective of what was happening. It was all going to go away by Easter. Then the middle of summer (which, unexpectedly, exploded with work for both John and I – turns out that everyone in the U.S. wanted to be in Montana). Then it was September. By then we knew we had to put the plan to return to New Zealand on the back-burner, maybe indefinitely.

Instead, as the months have gone on and work has calmed down, it was replaced by plans for another adventure this winter that has become more and more certain.

It’s a journey that might be closer to home, yet no less nerve-wracking than a move across the world. And if you’ve run into me in the last few weeks, you’ll see that I’m well on my way.

At 32 weeks pregnant, with an 18-month-old toddler running laps around the couch I’m beached on like an exhausted mammal looking up at photo collages of the rivers, lakes, mountains and oceans of New Zealand we were exploring this time last year, I’d put my hand up to agree that this has been a year when we have lived in tight quarters with our collective life decisions that have motored us along to where we are now, then screeched to a halt, dumping us here in 2020: Surprised, messily joyous, overwhelmed, hopeful, exhausted, grateful, tougher and thicker skinned than we were 12 months ago.

At a work meeting on December 31, going over wines and a tasting menu that evening, we talked about where we all were as 2020 came, maybe mercifully, to an end for each of us. The theme for the night, with fire-dancing, a bonfire and fireworks, was “the rising of the Phoenix,” which has never felt more appropriate. I said that I felt like my own theme word for the year was “pivot.” I’ve had to release more than I’ve ever had to release this last year. Ideas of myself. The vision board I had for our future. I had to learn to relinquish myself to the rest that my body and mind had actually been craving, after months of traveling and living in transition. Then turn around and throw myself into work. Then turn around again and re-accept the gift of rest when our workplace shut down for 10 days in August, as Covid cases rose in Montana. I had to learn to incorporate fatigue and morning sickness into my summer and make peace with collapsing on a couch at the end of the night to eat frozen grapes and watch Below Deck. I got to learn the joy of having a wonderful community of parents and childcare pros around me – literally, my neighbors – who adored Jessie and helped shuttle her around and give her a beautiful summer with a wee tribe of adventurers that she will be growing up with.

In all of the unexpected twists and turns, the releasing of plans and control of the future – whatever that looks like – I’m okay with where our household decisions have landed us, even close up – scratched wood floors, tiny kitchen, toys, abandoned sippy cups, peeling siding on the front that I’ve covered up with a wreath and wind chimes, and all.  Winter and darkness is very acute in Montana. Solstice on the 21st felt appropriately somber. And comforting – like a heavy duvet had been thrown over me. As the holiday cards still strung up around the house tonight remind me, 2020 has been “a year to remember.”

Ha. Yeah it has.

Now bring on 2021 from the ashes.

2 Comments California, Montana, New Zealand

Choosing to be “a little bit deaf” this week

The late Ruth Bader Ginsburg once told a graduating class that the best marriage advice she ever received was from her mother-in-law on her June wedding day in 1954.

“It helps, sometimes, to be a little bit deaf.”

Not exactly the most romantic piece of guidance a young, bride-to-be might be looking for.

I watched the 2018 documentary “RBG” on a flight from Montana to a fly-fishing convention in Virginia with my husband two years ago. The documentary, ahead of her death at age 87 last month, went into detail about the early years of her nearly half-century marriage to her husband, Marty, who she met at age 18 at Cornell University. Ruth would credit Marty as being her best friend and greatest advocate as they were both accepted into Harvard Law School, grew their careers and family, even when Marty was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1957 at age 25. During that period, rather than have Marty drop out of law school, Ruth would go to his classes for him and take notes, while also attending her own classes, all while raising their 2-year-old daughter and nursing Marty through chemotherapy. These were the conditions that she was studying in, as one of nine women in a class of 552 men, going on to become one of the first women to be accepted at the Harvard Law Review. 

That’s a lot of stress for two student newlywed parents to make it through and then go on to have almost five, and by all accounts happy, decades together until Marty’s death in 2010. That idea of being “a little bit deaf”, Ruth would go on to say, would also carry into her career, allowing her to forge strong, life-long friendships with others who did not share her beliefs, maybe most famously with fellow Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, who disagreed with Ruth on just about every single issue that came before the court, yet spending New Year’s Eve together with their families was a tradition they both upheld for years.

As Election Day 2020 fast approaches, I’ve been thinking about the usefulness of deliberately going a little bit deaf in these final days – I think I’ve actually yearned for this for a long time, I’ve realized, but didn’t know how to allow myself that – luxury? Boundary? But two years after first hearing that quote from Ruth and finding it humorous in a 1950s marriage-advice way, I’ve found myself honing in on it as a mission statement for myself this election season.

I think I get what she was saying: Look at the bigger picture. Choose your battles and zero in. Stay focused and don’t let yourself get drained or sidetracked or chipped away at by petty wars that go personal. Or in another quote of Ruth’s: “When a thoughtless or unkind word is spoken, best tune out. Reacting in anger or annoyance will not advance one’s ability to persuade.”

Coming from someone whose career was a study and experimentation in persuasion in the highest court in the land, that’s probably advice worth noting.

A few weeks ago, we rented a vacation home in Wyoming with two of John’s best friends from high school and their families to do a series of day floats on the Snake River. It was a beautiful rental, with chairs lined up on a big deck that looked out to trees just changing colors and the mountains around Jackson in the distance – perfect for morning coffee and reading before packing up the trucks and boats. The living room had this great sectional leather couch in front of the fireplace where we’d flop down after dinners of barbecued Montana elk, and putting the kids to bed, a whiskey or beer in hand. On our final night, I ended up staying up way later than I had planned, just discussing a news story that had come out that day, with one of the guys. He’s a U.S. Army Ranger about to retire at 40, is very smart, and leans more right, while I lean more left. He also makes a point to stay the hell away from social media – which is maybe what made debating feel fresh and fun, in a way that I’d forgotten about. Kind of like I was back in university in the 90s, or sitting in the kitchen of a youth hostel while backpacking around Europe. Back when we debated the big stuff face to face late at night, in our own, faulty, still-forming ideas, rather than just reposting witty memes and photos that are supposed to say our views for us – but too often just end up being another grenade thrown in what feels like a trench war as November arrives.

Even though I had my election ballot on my desk for a week, I found myself delaying in filling it out and taking it in. Maybe I needed a few more days of being “a little bit deaf” so I could stop being so reactive and angry.

I think it’s that I wanted to be my best self before going to the polls, even if, in 2020, that was in my own living room.

Comment Montana

Homecomings

It is the first week of Spring, and we are back in the Northern Hemisphere, in a fast-changing world that has been whittled down to a tiny house by a creek in a wooded Colorado canyon. We have family, a teething 9-month-old, and hours to find our routines and fresh air.

 

New Zealand is like Narnia now, and we’ve come back through the wardrobe and into a cold, torn-up and muddy landscape outside the windows as winter recedes. It is like no time has passed, and yet everything has changed. Sometimes at night, when I’ve put Jessie back to sleep for what feels like the 18th time, I’ll go through the photos from the last three months on my phone, under the covers, up until our last journey down the long, winding driveway from the shed where we spent the summer. Five days into this quarantine, I now marvel at the ease of movement in each photograph. How no matter how far away we traveled, there were cafes to stop at for a cappuccino and egg-and-bacon pie, or a pub by a lake where we’d sit at a shared table with strangers, holding onto cold pints, condensation running down the glass and over our fingers as Jessie mastered the army slither she still prefers over crawling, in the grass at our bare feet.

 

Two Wednesdays ago, we were at my parents’ house in California, and I had gone to a coffeehouse on the coast. The night before, at dinner at a Mexican restaurant with a friend, we had scoffed that all this talk of a pandemic was election-year stupidity. That next day, as I typed on my laptop at an outdoor table, as rain fell just beyond the patio, I watched someone carry two super-sized packages of toilet paper from a grocery store across the wet parking lot. The sight chilled me, and even though I could brush it off as Californians over-reacting, I still felt fear setting in. Each day after that has felt like a collapse of some part of my life that I have taken for granted, as we would watch the news from kitchen counters: going out to eat with friends; stopping at breweries and sitting shoulder to shoulder on bar stools watching live sports; visiting extended family so Jessie could flap her arms and yabber away at her cousins; stopping at public beaches, parks, the zoo. Going out to the movies. Sitting in a coffeehouse on the coast like I was doing that day, sharing space with strangers, not thinking about how many hands had touched the jug with creamer, with a dim awareness that a virus somewhere was spreading, but that it wasn’t near, and definitely wasn’t my problem. Spring blooms were everywhere. Citrus trees were heavy with fruit. Before we left my cousin’s house in California, where we spent our final afternoon, she gave us five lemons from the trees in their backyard.

 

We ate the last of the lemons this week, here in this little house on a creek in Colorado. The pandemic is here and it definitely is my, and everyone’s problem, as we make decisions about who we will be each day in the face of this new world we are in. There is fear. But there is kindness, appreciation, compassion, gratitude and a deep exhalation of surrender to this time as well. This morning I made breakfast while Jessie sat with her grandpa and watched morning sports commentary. I got to go for a long run along the river, eyes on the red canyon above. The day will be about making a long and possibly complicated dinner out of simple ingredients, giving Jessie a bath with bubbles, toys, in her mermaid swimsuit and sending clips to family. Jessie will be wrapped in a unicorn towel by her grandma and sung to. I will dress her in pajamas and read “Hush-a-bye Bear Cub.” Her dad will rock her and put her in her crib. Then we will all pile on the couch and watch Jeopardy and the season finale of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Jessie will likely wake countless times in the night. But that is alright, because we can take turns napping all through the next day if we have to.
Someone sent me The Peace of Wild Things last night. It’s a Wendell Berry poem I had never heard before and it is perfect, I think, for this week we are all in. I also read this at 3 a.m., under the covers, after putting Jessie back to sleep for the countless time, then not being able to sleep myself.
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. 
I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
A month ago our world was so big. Now it is very, very small. There is nowhere to be right now but here, as we are, with each other.

2 Comments Colorado, New Zealand

A new wonderland

 

Everything is turned upside down.

Seasons, constellations, the length of days, what we wake up to in the morning. There is green everywhere. Birdsong so loud I have to wear earplugs to sleep. It is early summer here but storms are still unrelenting. Above our bed is a sun roof made up of thick, grooved plastic, where we can see the southern cross and see the rain pelt down, sounding like gunfire at midnight. John and I walk down with the compost pail, Jessie strapped to him in the front-pack, eyes bright, as Fiordland stretches around and below the long, winding driveway we are on, the flax bushes rustling beside us. We dump it in the pile, just a corner of a big, sweeping garden sprouting rhubarb, zucchini, green onions and new lettuce.

It is December 25th in New Zealand’s South Island. There are no gifts, other than Hospice shop books and a 50 cent stuffed bear and a straw rattle for our daughter, but Jessie is enraptured by her toes, the sight of a spoonful of food coming at her, by a crumpled up piece of paper, zippers on jackets and trees flying by when we’re driving down the road. The packaged gift years will come, but not yet. Our gift to her this year is summer. Green grass to learn to crawl on. The sight of sheep and wapiti in the distance. Of a horse being ridden along a ridge line at 9 pm in a still-light sky, its rider stopping to leap off and open a gate, then remount in a swift move, like a gymnast, then they race away. Of avocados for breakfast. Stone fruit – apricots, plums, peaches – from orchards just over the mountain. I take a bite out of a cold nectarine and Jessie gingerly grasps it, pulling it to her face. Her lips quiver as she tastes it, decides she likes it, then goes whole hog gnawing on the juicy sphere in her hands that also soothes her gums.

Jessie rolls like a champ, wrestling with wrapping paper like an athlete as she turns over, but is stumped by crawling still. She lifts her arms and legs in a complex yoga move, resting completely on her torso, and squirms, looking like a stuck sea turtle, head craning to look around as if to ask Am I there yet? 

John is fishing, just as he’d dreamed, catching beautiful, elusive rainbow trout, exploring the rivers during the days. They are high and murky right now with the heavy rain, water levels almost up to the bridges we cross in the ‘94 Honda Accord we bought last week for $800. We picked it up from a farm at the end of a long gravel road above the ocean, where the owner had lived her entire life. When we came in out of the rain, and into the kitchen to make the purchase, she was icing a Christmas cake. It was one of the traditional English Christmas cakes that are everywhere in a Commonwealth country, soaked alcohol then covered in a layer of thick, white, smooth icing that is rolled over the cake like pie dough.

It is as smooth as the snow in the hills outside our windows in Montana, I think, holding Jessie on my hip, her eyes on the artificial tree in the corner of the room, lit up with twinkling lights, wrapped boxes underneath. I remember back years before, of hikes into the woods to find the perfect pine, it’s needles filling up our tiny house with its scent. There is a distinct twist of homesickness that comes over me.

We will have other Christmases like that, ones with all the trappings, as we have before.

But for now, we are in another kind of wonderland.

 

Comment New Zealand