Finding Our Way

The Elusive Joy of Clean

Carrie — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 02:37:00 GMT

Two weekends ago, my live Christmas tree and wreaths were gone, burnt in a lovely Epiphany bonfire.

But the rest of the Christmas kitsch remained – garlands of evergreen and poinsettia on the mantles and stairways, antique and new figurines, crèches, more wreaths, mistletoe, candles, bows and ornaments that adorned doorways, shelves and walls. During the Christmas season the kitsch is festive and warm; afterward, it’s just clutter. I wilted at the level of lugging and packing and organizing it would take to find the boxes in the shed and properly take down and stow away all these items.

One week ago, to release pent up anxiety and sorrow at losing our beautiful dog to cancer, I threw myself into “putting away Christmas” and also to cleaning away obvious traces of dog hair, food, dog vitamins and medications. I scrubbed, I vacuumed, I de-cluttered, I threw away stuff; I gave away stuff. “Mom, the house hasn’t looked this clear and clean in a while. It looks great.” I know, I thought, with a happy, satisfied smile.

Isn’t it a great feeling to sit down and not have weeks’ old clutter tugging at you? Isn’t it beautiful to see a hardwood floor gleaming around and under furniture, with no trace of dust bunnies or stray crumbs or socks or hubby’s stray newspaper clippings? Organization and clean surfaces on the outside make me feel stronger and cleaner on the inside. It’s like I have cleared away any excuse that keeps me from spending time on other more valuable things. And I could invite folks over and feel comfortable and free.

This pleasant condition lasted oh, about 12 hours as far as I could tell. It was a grand 12 hours, but my deep need to get control of a messy life went a step further. I told my 17-year-old that she had to clean her room. You have to understand the breadth and depth of this request. If you’ve ever seen the Friends episode called Dirty Girl, well, my daughter’s room is what we would imagine Dirty Girl’s bedroom was like – “a pile of garbage,” live vermin included. Truly.

We have lived in this adorable house for seven years. Teen Daughter has an over-sized room with big windows overlooking the front gardens and the Short Hills mountain range. For the seven years we’ve been here, she has cleaned her room, oh, maybe once or twice. And I think it was I who did the cleaning. I remember finding a whole melted Fudgesicle on the top shelf of her closet under a box. She confessed that years before, when she was “younger” she heard us come home from work and thought she shouldn’t have the treat before dinner so she threw it in her closet. Her closet is a delightful, large walk-in closet. But there was no walking in it because it was packed solid with … oh god, who knows? Clothes, toys, papers, anything she didn’t want to show on the other side of the door.

She didn’t use her dresser either. So, all her clothes were on the floor. You could not see any surface in her room – not the dresser, the desk, the book shelves, the floor, the bedside table, or even the walls, which are covered inch to inch in posters. The posters don’t bother me – cute guys! But the rest… .

Over the years I have tried to tell her to clean it up. But, I am not the kind of mother to blackmail my kids or get into arguments with them over things that are not life-threatening. I did try to make the point that it was unsanitary and therefore could indeed compromise her health. Eh. 'Didn’t matter.

Her father was no help because his den across the hall is a bona fide disaster area with no surfaces visible either (gee, ya think this is hereditary??). Seven years. There were years I begged. Years I ignored it and figured she’d grow out of it. Very early (like when she was 10 years old) I stopped doing her laundry because I couldn’t stand bringing down a laundry basket full of stinky clothes, unloading them to put in the washer, only to find clean, folded clothes under the pile of dirty ones, still in the basket!! Aurgh. So, even having to do her own laundry for the past seven years has had no effect. For some years I tried to guilt her into cleaning, telling her how unhappy it made me that she ignored my “orders” or requests. Nothing worked, and again, it’s her life and her room. It’s a pretty stupid thing for me to be unhappy about (that’s probably why the guilt angle didn’t work - she probably saw through it and knew it was stupid). I love her and if she and I were going to come to blows, it was going to be about something substantial and worth fighting about. A messy room didn’t qualify.

So, back to my need to purge during my anxiety and sorrow. About a week before our dog died, I was already feeling “too messy.” It was a new year, after all, a new decade. Teen Daughter would be going away to college this year. Something had to change. So one morning, certainly “out of the blue” for her, I went into her bedroom, carefully choosing where I stepped so I wouldn’t twist an ankle. Teen Daughter was still in bed. First, she was surprised to see me enter her room at all; then she was fairly alarmed by seeing me walk through the garbage and to her bedside. When I started talking, the look on her face went from surprise to quizzical to OMG to true alarm. I said,

"My dear, I have been waiting and waiting for some big blow-up. For something awful to happen between us or for you to do something really bad so that I would have a reason to yell at you and say what I have to say.” She’s perplexed and getting nervous. I see her eyebrows knit.

“But that hasn’t happened. And I love you so much. I have tried so many ways in the past to get across to you what I have to tell you, and none of them has worked. But this just can’t go on any longer.” I see her gulp. She’s ready to cry and is getting scared.

“This is going to have to be the way I tell you.” I sit on her bed, reach down and scoop her into my arms in a big hug. She probably thinks I’m going to tell her I have a terminal disease or that mom and dad are divorcing.

In a loving voice, I say, “Darling, you HAVE to clean your room. Really. For real. You have to clean it. All of it. No, ‘yes, mom,’ and then doing nothing. I know it is going to be hard, but, we can’t go on this way. You must clean your room. Do you understand?” She lets out a sigh of relief and disbelief.
She said she understood, and that was that. But she didn’t clean her room - until this past week, when I was doing my “sorrow cleaning.”

“My part” of the house was looking and feeling and smelling so good. All the Christmas stuff was gone and neatly packed into the shed. Rugs and floors and stairs were vacuumed. Kitchen counters were wiped squeaky clean as were the sinks. It was great. And I thought, well, I will be cleaning so she may as well get busy. I told her that was the day. We had a 3-day holiday weekend. At first there were deflation and worry and quiet tears. Then there was me and her sister trying to give her advice as to how to get started and tackle the layers of squalor. She did not appreciate the advice. She finally stopped crying and we all agreed to let her approach it her own way. Well.

In the next 12 hours what was my clean house became the dumping ground for the stuff that was in her closet and in her room. There were about 5 large black trash bags she filled; one was so heavy she couldn’t even lift it. One small trash bag she brought downstairs holding out in front of her. “Mom, I’m fairly certain there is a live mouse in this bag. What should I do with it??” But there was more. There were about a hundred stuffed animals and toys – stuff from the size of a pea to the size of a breadbox. In my front hall are two big white trash bags full of stuffed animals. There were crafts and notebooks and books, books and more books. There are four boxes of books, some “keepers,” some “not sure,” and some throw away or give away in my front hall. There was a table that held her printer that smashed into pieces when she tried to move it, and a lamp, a globe, a chair and draped over it a toga made from a bedsheet for toga-day which was months ago, and other equipment that got shoved out into the upstairs hall. It’s all still there. There are musical instruments and a huge box of craft supplies, and small boxes of other treasures sitting on the front room sofa, floor and each chair. There are two reams of lined notebook paper teetering on a shelf in the family room, and a big box of old cassette tapes on the floor. There are miscellaneous items on the stairs - sneakers, a notebook, a hairy ball, a fancy beach theme wall hook. I don’t know where all the outgrown clothes are.

To clean a room like Teen Daughter’s, you do have to remove the things that you don’t need any more, and you have to organize all that stuff she’s had since we moved in when she was 10 years old, so that we can appropriately inspect and evaluate and decide what to do with it. After removing so much, she vacuumed her room, glory be.

The pretty, welcoming “surfaces” in my clean home – the hardwood floors and vacuumed rug in the front hall, the comforting chairs and sofa in the front room, the comfy family room carpet – are now largely covered with toys, boxes and various other crap. Her room is clean now. My house is … a mess.

“Clean” is delightful and elusive. Love is delightful and pervasive. It's also substantive and persistent and transcendent. I wouldn’t trade the Daughter even with all her mess for anything in the world.

Copyright (c) 2010

Today's the Day

Carrie — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 19:43:00 GMT

5:45 a.m. Today’s the Day, I think. We’ll have to summon the mercy and courage to say good-bye to Bou.

It was just Sunday, two days ago, I was remarking to a friend that he was still so vigorous and happy that you’d never know he had a time bomb in him (the aggressive blood-born cancer we found in March) – he still climbed stairs, jumped into my car for a ride, played with his squeak toys, jumped straight up in the air with enthusiasm when he saw us preparing his food. The vet I saw last said that if a dog had to have a terminal illness, this is the one to have, because it is painless and when they go, they go quickly. Painless until the end, I guess. That’s one of the ways you know that “it is time,” when he’s too weak to rise, to eat, to move much.

He was great yesterday morning. Normal. But by yesterday afternoon he was languishing and couldn’t eat dinner. We stayed near and gently stroked his soft hair. At three o’clock this morning I got him to take some water. I told him Thank You, for coming to be with us, for taking such good care of us, guarding us with his impressive throaty barking whenever someone even neared our property line. Of course, once inside the house, there were no “strangers” – he was a big soft bear of a lovable dog. I told him we would miss him and softly stroked his back. Now it is just a matter of sitting near him so he has the comfort of our presence.

I’ll have to call the vet this morning and figure out how to move him so we can take him in.

10:35 a.m. When I called the busy vet’s office, the third person who picked up the phone was just trying to serve as many people as possible… “Hi, I want to confirm that I am bringing in Bou at 1:00.”
“OK. And… you’re bringing him in for what?”
“Ahh…euthanizing.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, me too.” Pause. Pause.
“Wait a minute! Bou?? Bou the Bouvier? Bou-boy? OH NO. Oh no. This is so sad. I love that dog! Oh, I’m going to cry now.” And she did. And I did.

This something for which I’m grateful – that Bou touched so many lives and was loved so well by those who had the pleasure to know him. You, all of you, you’ll never know how much that means to us, especially to Bou. Thank you for loving him.

I sit by him in the kitchen. I moved my laptop in here and pivoted his body around so he can see me. A half hour ago I sat on the floor next to him, stroking him gently, in what I hoped was a comforting touch. I tried to see his eyes, which were mostly closed. I told him he didn’t have to wait till 1:00. If he wanted to go now, he could. He didn’t respond; he didn’t move; he didn’t stir or blink or shift. He continued to breathe. After some time I finally got up and there it was – eyes flashed wide open, head came up and he looked at me as if to say, “Hey. Where you goin’?” At least I know my presence is a comfort to him. As his has been for me.

Any given day, he would follow me to where I settled, and then lay down nearby – on a pretty pillow in my office, on the fireplace hearth in the TV room, on the rug by our bed. And now, we move to be with him where he is settled here, his last spot until we somehow move him into my car and take him to the vet’s.

2:00 p.m. He’s gone.
What a sweetheart. He was so docile and calm. The caretakers at the vet fed him a Mrs. Fields brownie, which he ate up. But, as he lay there in the doctor’s office, with the various attendants petting him, prepping him, and whispering sweet blessings to him, we could tell: He was ready. That in itself is a comfort.

We will miss you, Bou! Bou was great. His previous mama told us that he was like the big silent guy who sits in the corner of the bar, not bothering anyone or looking for a fight. But, step out of line to threaten one of his own and you’ll feel just how strong he is. A cattle-herding breed, “Bou the Bouvier” was built square and broad with strong legs and hips. He was appropriately territorial – the herds of deer who wander through our yard found that out. We all enjoyed letting him chase them down to the woods – never did catch them, but boy, he liked trying!

Bou was a big, soft, curly-haired lovable 95 pound bear of a dog. He was so gentle, we never had to worry about him around the grandchildren. He was spunky and joyful and, well, healthful – right up until he wasn’t! Like my Mom . We had him longer than we were “supposed to” when he got a 3-6 month prognosis at the beginning of April.

Before I let him go, I told him that when he gets to the other side, if he sees a big German shepherd named Noah, he should say hello from us. Maybe my Mom could find Noah and bring him to meet Bou. So, I told him to look for my Mom over there too. He’ll be in good company.

Thanks Barbara and all the rest of the gang, for sharing him with us. We enjoyed each other a lot, and he was a very happy boy during his year with us!

Good-bye, sweet Bou. We'll miss your enthusiastic greetings when we arrive home, we'll miss our long walks with you in the beauty of the Virginia countryside. But you will never be far from our thoughts.

(Many people knew and loved Bou for longer than we did. If you have stories about him, or comments to add, please do!)

Copyright (c) 2010

Gratitude

Carrie — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 15:10:00 GMT

“To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.” - Johannes A. Gaertner

Today, I am exceedingly grateful for –

My husband, companion, partner, lover, sweetheart, friend… "still the one" after all these years.

The inestimable satisfaction and joy of having launched children who are now grown and each of whom

has strong integrity and passion and a well-formed conscience
is devoted to each other in great affection, care and selflessness
loves me and their Dad

Children who felt empowered and loved and giving enough to produce children of their own, giving me grandchildren whom I will discover and learn from for years to come.

Siblings who are “my biggest fans” no matter how many miles and years of expanse there are between us.

The stability and care, steadfast strength and blessings on my siblings’ lives.

The gift of more siblings and children through marriage. I have already gained another sister, a daughter and a son.

The ability to fly, as a strong, steady arrow, having been launched from my parents’ bow long ago, feeling their strength even now as support beneath my wings.

My mother allowing me and my sister to hold her hands and usher her to the threshold of her Welcome Home party on the other side, and that I felt her joy at crashing through the gates that bound her on Earth.

Seasons that support passages of death, birth, struggle, freedom, courage and growth.

The fact that I can walk, sit, stand, use my hands to grasp another’s, to type, to cook, to bathe, to turn the soil, to sew, to wipe away tears, to love.

A home that is shelter from the heat and cold, the wind and rain and balm for those who come to celebrate and to rest.

A spot for my desk with a view of mountains and the trees who share the sustenance of this patch of land with us – redbud, willow, dogwood, pear, apple, spruce, pine, maple, and more whose names I don’t know yet.

Running water, electricity, blankets, slippers, boots, hat, gloves, tools for the jobs at hand.

Dark-eyed juncos who visit in winter, cardinals and blue jays who bring flashes of color to the white snowy landscape, sparrows, mourning doves, tufted titmice, wrens, finches, hawks.

Music. Everywhere – through cds and satellite, through glorious voices and instruments, and the songs of crickets, peepers, geese, birds, children and wind chimes.

Friends who write, call, visit, reach out, care and pray for me.

Peace and confidence in God’s work in us, and the work I’ve been given to do.

The ability to feel the Spirit of the One who creates, animates and sustains all, to see myself reflected in and part of it all – from the striped heaved rocks on a Pennsylvania mountainside to the sap and buds, flowering and leafing of the trees, to the wind that lifts flower petals and birds’ wings, to the devoted, warm presence of the family dog asleep at my feet.

Teachers and prophets throughout the ages who have left a path, pointed the Way, tried to translate what is ineffable and transcendent so that we might listen and hear and live as we were meant to and so heal the world.

Happy Thanksgiving Day

Carrie — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 17:06:00 GMT

Dear Family and Friends,

Here it is Monday of Thanksgiving week already, and I have not sent out any cards via the US Mail to you, which means that it is pretty much too late to send them now, so I will send you my words electronically. Is it any wonder the USPS is posting a $3.8 billion dollar loss this year??

So, this is me saying, "Happy Thanksgiving!" and I love you and I miss you. I am thankful for you - all that you are and all that you will be. You are a blessing to this world. You embody a gift only you can give to the Earth.

I pray for your happiness of mind and heart.
I pray you have enough food to keep you healthy and warm clothes to comfort you in the coming chilly days and nights.
I pray you have meaningful work and a welcoming home.
I pray you have enough challenges and good friends to help you grow, and that you rejoice with every new wrinkle or scar and wear them as badges of honor.

This Thanksgiving, when my family is together (13 of us!), we will gather and hold hands around the table. We'll feel the love and warmth in those hands and we'll thank God as we gaze at a feast that's a delight to the eyes and inhale the richness of the bounty we have been given. We will remember you. We will remember those we've lost this year. We will remember the poor who don't have hands to hold or food to eat. And we'll ask for God's mercy and that, somehow, we may use the riches we have to heal the world.

God bless you all!

Carrie

Cricketsong and the End of a Season

Carrie — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 10:30:00 GMT

I drove up the driveway and shut off the car engine.

That's when I heard it.

My ears snapped to attention. Oh my God, I thought.

I wrestled my purse and bag into the house.

Listened to the answering machine.

Started dinner.

Fed the dog.

Then finally got outside.

I sat on the front porch in the dusky dark of a November evening.

It’s so late. I would expect they’d be gone!

I smiled, and shook my head at the unlikely sound,

then relaxed and luxuriated in the gift

of the harmonies of crickets.

This sound says

summer.

solitude.

moon dance.

dreaming.

sweethearts stealing away in the season of warmth, growth and freedom.

serenade of a happy summer sleep.

holy activity – singing in the dark.

happiness and contentment.

wonder.

quiet.

Even the air on my skin added to the poignancy of the moment

- too balmy for a November night.

It was like being caught up in a sweet dream.

But I knew I’d wake, that this was temporary.

It felt like a good-bye.

I have felt this wistfulness before:

The devastatingly sweet pull of longing

that follows my departed mother’s spirit

to a threshold I cannot cross.

Watching my son’s first dance with his new bride,

each turn twirling him away from me

to affix firmly to another life.

Seeing my fresh-faced daughter

in the rearview mirror

as we drive away, leaving her at college.

It’s hard when one season ends,

because we give up and have to let go of beauty

and a full heart,

letting it all pour out so that it can be filled again.

Please let it be filled again.

(c) Copyright 2009

Book Reviews

Carrie — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 16:28:00 GMT

I was a little aghast when I looked at my blog and it said "70 days since last post."

NOT TRUE! I thought.

Here's why it's not true - I post to my Books I Read in 2009 more frequently than to the regular pages. The "book reviews" are not just "I liked / disliked this book." Usually, I write about what the book meant to me and what I valued, so I am hoping that these "reviews" are an interesting read too.

Recent ones over the summer pretty much reflect the discernment process I've been going through - all good stuff:

New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton

Womenomics by Claire Shipman and Katy Kay

Do What You Are

and

Difficult Conversations

Sleeping in Today

Carrie — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 13:13:00 GMT

When a very hot, muggy August day gives way to a very cool night, moisture from the steamy earth rises into that cool air and makes ground fog. It’s a pretty effect of “clouds on the ground” that I enjoy. I observed this effect one morning this month as I drove past fields and mountains on the way to work in the early morning, and this is what I thought:

Usually, she’d be up by now, bright-eyed and stretching wide over the expanse of Earth.

But Mother Nature’s sleeping in today.

I’ve seen her fluffy white blankets covering the fields and hollows where she snuggles against the warmth of the Earth.

She doesn’t seem to mind that we commuters catch a glimpse of her in her bed clothes or thrill to the lace of her petticoats brushing over the mountains as she rises for the day.

To Portland and Back Diary

Carrie — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 01:37:00 GMT

2009, Sunday August 2^nd,

We had an evening flight from Dulles so we had all day to get ready. We were ready early. So instead of waiting around doing nothing, we asked Mary to take us to the airport early. With online check-in boarding passes in hand, we checked a duffle bag on wheels and the multi-colored Guatemala bag. Turns out it was really good we got there extra early because the security line was longer than we’d ever seen it. Took an extra long time to get through.

Once through, I wanted one of Annie’s pretzels so I bought one and a strawberry lemonade. We found the Red Carpet Club and went in. The lady behind the desk said, “Oh, no, you can’t bring food from outside in here. Please go out and finish it before you come in.” WHAT?? I said (I had brought food in before many times.) “That’s the number 1 rule here…” I’d had enough. Number 1 rule my ass. What kind of number 1 rule is that? This is a premier club service for United Airlines customers. You would think there would be about 10 other “rules” more important to the customer experience that would rank before their “number 1 rule” that customers can’t bring in a pretzel. THAT’S RIDICULOUS! I spat out. I pay a lot of money for this membership! (That is not strictly true. It is a very expensive membership, but we pay NOTHING for it because we were “charter members” back in the early 70’s. She didn’t know that, though.)

I stormed out. As I left I imagined what it would take to make me one of those dignified people who sliced through the “number 1 rule” bullshit with logic and cutting charm to get my way and reveal how foolish it all was. Eh. I guess I’m not that suave.

I took my pretzel and my husband to the gate where we found people milling around looking nervous. The United rep got on the PA and explained they had seriously overbooked this flight and the plane was a smaller one than originally scheduled. “Listen: you will not all be getting on this plane,” she said. “I would like to ask for volunteers to go on the next flight out; we’ll give you a round trip ticket as a gift. Don’t everybody rush up here at once, now.” We thought about it. We had our seat assignments. We declined to volunteer. They let us on the plane.

The flight was uneventful except that Gil refused to pay $9 for a sandwich – he’s not used to flying the “new” way where you pay a la carte for everything from baggage to food to headphones.

We got to Portland at 10:30 and went to pick up our full size rental car. They didn’t have it. Would you mind an upgrade to the next class of car, free? Why, of course, whatever you can do. We left there with a boat. Well, it drove like a boat: a pretentious black “Signature L” Lincoln Town Car. Leather interior, GPS, Satellite radio, automatic everything for comfort. Thing looked like a limo, and Gil struggled to get a grip on its bodacious dimensions. Come on, I said. We grew up with cars like this – our fathers’ Oldsmobiles were as big. He learned quickly.

We got into the hotel and were crashing into bed by 11:15.

Monday August 3^rd.

We woke up at 3:30 a.m., our bodies still on East Coast time. Had a surprisingly good complimentary buffet breakfast at the hotel. Then we went driving looking for the class, which, it turns out, was walking distance right across the street to the left (we had gone right). Class was 7 people, most of which were from Virginia, one from Seattle and one from Chicago. The instructor was a local with eons of experience in voice networks and telecommunications. Every time he talked about his days as a “lineman for the county,” I heard Glenn Campbell in my head. He was jovial and extraverted and spent lots and lots (and lots and lots and lots) of time on “preliminary material,” which was orientation to the classroom, the rest rooms, the staff and amenities, his experience, our experience, his grandchildren, local attractions, and the fact that one of us was apparently dropped off to class in a black limo. I smiled demurely. I got a little nervous when, after 7 hours of class, he had spent approximately 70 minutes on actual telecommunications coursework topics.

The guy I was paired with was a high energy team lead for a firm that works for the gov’t in highly secure installations. He needed lots more than a basic administration course, but, he had to start with this one, so there he was. I myself was fine learning just the basics for now, and I let him click around frenetically exploring all sorts of screens and downloads and online manuals while we were supposed to be looking at the “add station” command; and I let him take over the keyboard for all the exercises cause it kinda looked like he would burst if he had to wait for me to do anything. So I would feed him the commands that he didn’t seem to retain the first time around because he wasn’t paying attention what with all that clicking. I got enough out of it that way, since I knew what we were doing and I would split my time between following his “explorations” and listening to the lecture. I was actually very glad to be paired with a crazy-aggressive learner because when the instructor would go off on one of his tangents, I would be itching to get back to work and so was my partner. So, we would just modify trunk lines or circuit packs or phone setups while we waited for the class to resume.

Gil came and picked me up for lunch and we went to Shari’s where we ordered half sandwiches and soup or salad, then homemade pies. Gil’s eyes got big with surprise and curiosity when I ordered “Marion Berry” pie. Marion Barry is Washington DC’s notorious and beloved past mayor. The guy who took kickbacks and was caught on tape smoking crack in a hotel room; went to jail; came back and got elected to the city council again, and right now is fighting some terminal disease along with fighting charges of tax evasion. Anyway, Gil had never heard of marion berries and so was amused by my ordering pie named after the discredited mayor of DC.

I tried to buy an Oregon Power Ball lottery ticket at Shari’s. Gave the lady a $5 bill and told her I wanted QuickPick numbers. The waitress ran away quickly. I wanted to do the PowerPlay, cause Mary says you always have to do the Power Play, but the waitress disappeared too fast. I followed to find her, and found myself in a dark, 6x8 foot den of slot machines and lottery and other tawdry looking stuff. Who knew Shari had a back room for this stuff??? She wasn’t there. She had ducked into the kitchen and come out a different way looking for us. She saw Gil’s t-shirt with American Red Cross on it and proceeded to tell us about her work helping hurricane victims. She does this frequently. I remember looking at her frail, small frame, her white-ish pancake makeup and the dark kohl smudge that ringed her eyes, top and bottom, and wondering how she managed that face in those work conditions. Did she wear that makeup? Did it melt and run down her face? Or did she go without? She gave us back the PowerBall receipt. I didn’t get 5 numbers. I got one QuickPick number that plays for 5 weeks. I didn’t even know you could do that.

Gil took me back to class. The instructor wanted to know where all of us had gone for lunch. We all reported, and he used the information to give us commentary on all the eating places around here, how he liked them, which ones were worth it, how to get to them, etc. The rest of class was mostly this type of discussion until it ended at 4:30.

Gil picked me up in “the limo.” We were in the mood for some good food, so we went to the Ringside Steakhouse which was next to some golf and country club. The “limo” fit right in. The food was delicious. We had wine, salads, filet mignon, prime rib, sautéed mushrooms, spinach with hazelnuts and cream sauce, bananas foster and strawberry rhubarb pie. The steaks were cooked to perfection, but the place was pretentious and friggin’ overpriced. Try $39.00 for an a la carte 8 ounce filet! Good God. We went with the $29.00 specials but it still ended up costing too much. We felt so full we could have been wheeled out. Plus, it was like midnight for us, because of East Coast time. I was just-shoot-me-now tired. We both crashed into bed. We woke at 3:30 in the morning, of course.

Tuesday August 4^th

We ate less breakfast this morning after all that food last night. Gil delivered me to my class. The day was spent much more on germane topics much to my relief. We learned the hardware of punch-downs and patch panels, 650’s and 8400’s, routers, switches. We learned the software of managing stations, circuit packs, ports, modules, cabinets and carriers, addressing for all of it and how to use commands like List, Display, Add and Change, which you never, never used like that. You would be lazy and type Li, Displ, Ad, Ch.

Gil picked me up for lunch and we went to a deli with festive outdoor tables in 72 degree balmy weather where I had a chef salad and Gil had dark meat chicken and rice. We shared a beer. We still had time so we walked across the street to a Leatherman tool factory, which had a very small retail store attached to it. I like tools. Leatherman makes Tim-Taylor-like tools that have a dozen uses – like a Swiss Army knife, but it is not a Swiss Army knife, it is a “Leatherman.” They give away bumper stickers that say, “I have a Leatherman. I can help.” I have been looking for this multi-tool for my garden ever since I lost mine (I inadvertently buried it in the garden somewhere.) I was SO excited, therefore, to go to Leatherman to find a replacement, which I did. 11 tools in one! Pruner, soft-wire cutter, grafting knife, bark lifter, saw, weeder, phillps screwdriver, flat screwdriver, sprinkler tool, bottle opener, ruler.

Back to class. They have bowls of assorted chocolates on every table. These assortments are like those mixed nuts you get where the label says, “no peanuts,” meaning, only the real good stuff, nothing cheap. So, the bowls had Almond Rocca, York Peppermint Patties, Snickers, Butterfingers, Rolos, Bit-o-Honey, Milky Way, Mounds, Almond Joy, and more. In the break-out room, they had pastries in the morning and a standing assortment of taffy plus a cookie jar shaped like a stack of Oreo cookies, with cookies in it of course. The reception area had more bowls of candy and dispensers of M&Ms. As if this were not enough, the office there was celebrating a birthday, so, we took a break at 2:00 for poppyseed cake, chocolate cake, rocky road and vanilla ice cream. By 3:00 we were all in a sugar coma.

By 5:00 Gil and I were on our way to The Grotto in Portland, a wooded sanctuary among high cliffs with pathways to statues and ponds and altars all showcasing a devotion to Mary, Jesus’s mother. The artwork was beautiful. Among the ethnic statues and little shrines were those from the Polish and Lithuanian communities. I took pictures of them for my ethnic Catholic relatives.

Being surrounded by all the green was soothing. But the high cliffs and rocks were my favorite. It was like a mirror of the inside of me. I feel large, unmoving and strong like that – standing against the elements, exposed to sun and rain, and still glorious in the unassailable strength and union with Nature that I hold. But it is more than that. It’s not just me, it is my whole lineage that forms this foundation of strength. So when I look at it I behold me, past, present and future.

We went to the gift shop. Gil’s sister had given us a gift of money to buy a garden ornament of some sort to honor my mother, Marion, who died this past May. We found in the gift shop a lovely faux stone angel who stood tall and serene with a bird sitting in her cupped hands. So now, we have angel Marion to keep company angel Loretta in the garden.

From the Grotto, we proceeded down Sandy Blvd on our way to good German cooking. Funny though, mile after mile we saw only Asian culture. After the neutral Fairley’s Pharmacy and Kim’s Kreations, there were businesses like Sieu Thi, Mai’s Floral, Thai Abode, OHana Hawaiian Café, Thanh Thuy’s Hairstyles, Viet SuperPages, Chaba Tai, Zien Hong and then, BAM, across from a Taco Bell, there’s the Rheinlander German restaurant!

It was great. Although Gil did have to try three times to fit the Town Car into the parking lot. Authentic German food with an authentic German import waitress, the sweet Maria, who hooked us up with delightful German beer – Spaten Urmarzen Oktoberfest for Gil and Spaten Optimator for me. Get this – the complimentary appetizer was a divine gruyere and Swiss cheese fondue with a basket of bite sized bread chunks – ryes, sourdough, French. Maria suggested we add sausage slices with the fondue, which we did. How is it possible to make sausage taste “light?” I don’t know, but they did! Their regular bread basket was served with herb butter and plum sauce. Then we had a full pound lamb shank with potatoes and carrots (Gil) and Sauerbraten (tender meat slices in brown sauce) with potato pancakes served with sour cream and applesauce and red cabbage. The talented accordion player came by and serenaded us; he played Lara’s Theme by request and Gil remembered dancing with our daughter at her wedding. The place was beautiful with hand-painted murals and flags and stained glass. We left without dessert, passing up genuine homemade apple strudel, and once again crashed into bed at the hotel.

Wednesday, August 5^th

The Portland morning was gorgeous again. Fresh air, 72 degrees, sunshine. I made myself a Belgian waffle at the hotel breakfast bar and my driver took me to my class across the street. Class was arcane tables of class of service and class of restriction on phone lines. More Li, Ad and Ch commands. And of course every morning the instructor would question us about what we did the night before. “Where’d the limo take you last night?” I effused about the Grotto and the Rhinelander, and at least one other student decided to make reservations there for dinner with his wife the next night.

At lunchtime my driver picked me up and we were off to Reed College to meet a newly-minted assistant dean, KC, who is also the daughter of a dear friend of the family. We found our way to her administrative building on the pretty city campus. She showed us around; I took photos of her in her new office to send to her Mom who hadn’t seen it yet. We drove out to the Laughing Planet for lunch and I had a chicken quesadilla. We decided to meet with her and her boyfriend, James, for dinner at a downtown restaurant called “R. Palate.” Reed College was pretty far away, so when I got back to class after lunch I was a half hour late. The instructor stopped class to ask me to report where I went for lunch. “Laughing Planet near Reed College,” I said. Why in the world would you go all the way out there? “It’s where my limo driver wanted to go,” I said. Then I told him about KC and James and he allowed how the students coming out of Reed College are among the brightest and the best minds anywhere. I couldn’t argue with that! The instructor also mentioned that he himself had installed the phone system in Reed College. Cool.

In the evening, we planned to pick up the youngsters then go to the Chinese Gardens and then to “R. Palate.” Now, Gil loves exploring new cities, and he is “geographically gifted” in the way he finds his way around. The Town Car had GPS, which we had never used before this trip. As we set out, I punched in KC’s address and the voice, which I will call “Mona,” started directing where to go. Gil does not trust Mona. And he anxiously, loudly complains about her directions: “WHY is she telling us to go THIS way? I wouldn’t do that. I can’t understand this. Oh, I have a real fear that this is going to be bad. I can tell where this is going. It’s going to dump us off at such and such street and that’s NOT where we want to be.” “Gil,” I say. “Get a grip. Mona hasn’t steered us wrong yet. I chose Shortest Time, and maybe you just don’t know the route yet. What’s the worst that could happen?” “I don’t know, Carrie. I don’t think this is right. I just have a bad feeling about …. Oh. Look at that. I didn’t know this road was here. Oh, I see where this is going now. This will be fine.” I roll my eyes.

We got to KC’s place in a cute, hippie Portland neighborhood before she arrived a few minutes later by bicycle – a birthday gift she’d given herself. We went up the narrow stairway to their flat and met James. Shortly thereafter we took off for the Gardens. Turns out they were way too popular and we could not find a place to park so we went to the Washington Park Rose Garden instead.

We wandered through acres of roses of every color and size, past fountains and arches and a big hillside amphitheater where there was live music. We bought a couple tie-dyed shirts in the gift shop – typical Portland – and headed off for the newly renovated, upscale downtown section of Portland. Gil found a parking spot on the street and had to parallel park the limo on the left side. We all held our breaths while he executed the maneuver perfectly in one smooth motion. We got out and headed for the restaurant only to have James go ahead of us and find that there was a For Lease sign on the door. Well, all we could think was that was a waste of a perfectly good parking job by our driver, and it was a shame. So I took a picture of it, at least.

We proceeded back to a small neighborhood Mediterranean restaurant called Lauro’s. James was directing from the back seat, so we didn’t have to contend with Gil’s arguing with Mona. James and KC were loving the luxury of the leather, spacious back seat with its own climate controls and the ability to push a button and adjust the seats in front of them (read: mine) to give them more leg room.

At Lauro’s we shared stories about how we met our partners. James, leaving Nottingham College in London to come to Reed; KC, leaving Reed for a period to study abroad in Nottingham. We talked about our families and how we appreciate them with all their crazy quirkiness. We talked about the phenomenon and hope that is Obama, and our hopes for the future. We shared a pitcher of sangria, and we ordered a burger, Moroccan chicken, grouper with honey crusted carrots and couscous, and I had smoked salmon raviolis with cream lemon sauce with capers. We shared warm fresh fruit cobblers with cinnamon ice cream for dessert. We delivered the delightful couple back to their apartment with hugs and hopes to see them again sometime in the future. It was becoming clear that there were many more things to see and experience in Portland than would could hope to fit into this one trip.

Thursday, August 6^th

Thursday dawned cloudy and pregnant with rain, though none had yet fallen. I suppose this is the type of weather people usually associate with Portland. Breakfast was another Belgian waffle and then Gil delivered me to class, which was uneventful.

Noontime we went to the Embassy Suites dining room where we met Marna and Lars for lunch. Marna is a friend from back home with whom Gil and his sister grew up, and whom Gil has not seen for perhaps, oh, 45 years? I love this about Gil. He sees community everywhere, and if you ever mean something to him, then, you will always mean something to him, truly. Marna clapped and bounced for joy as we arrived and the four of us settled into a happy engagement of thoughts, stories and catching up. She brought us hand-chosen gourmet chocolates and a sweet bracelet with the breast cancer pink ribbon on a heart with the message Love Heals. Marna has a heart for healing, and much experience with it over her career in nursing. It was such a privilege to hear her talk – about anything and everything – because she was so articulate and thoughtful, with experience in the world and a terrific perspective on life.

We met up with Marna later that night in the Alberta Street district in a little “dive” to enjoy Lars’ brother Terry who plays acoustic guitar. Great blues guitar and even greater old friends (new for me, but felt like “old” in no time) – it was all a blessing.

Before the evening guitar set, Gil and I drove down to this district which was all hippy-ness and hemp. The Lincoln was conspicuous in its presence in this neighborhood. I tried not to knock over the bicycles chained to the tree as I opened the car door. The sandaled, floppy haired people who lounged at the café tables outdoors with their Mac Books perched atop did not seem to be bothered by “our kind” invading their neighborhood. Our destination was the Siam Society restaurant, where we arrived in time for happy hour. I chose a pomegranate cosmopolitan and pot stickers; Gil chose an Alaskan Summer Ale – a micro brewed beer - and coconut prawns. Siam Society is in an old electrical building, with sweeping, high windows and modern art on the walls. Chris, our waiter was good – he said he was created in Washington, DC, but grew up in Sacramento, CA. He served us our main dishes of scallops (me) and pork roasted in banana leaves (Gil) and we took his recommendation for dessert: banana and hazelnuts in puff pastry with homemade coconut ice cream.

By now, we were accustomed to West Coast time, so we drove home comfortably, very satisfied after our last night in Portland.

Friday, August 7^th

No time for a Belgian waffle this morning. Being completely acclimated to the time change, I “slept in” till 5:30. Just time enough for a quick shower and then getting online to manage things back at the office on the East Coast. Got on a conference call at 7:00 a.m. Packed, dressed and dashed out to class.

Learned about voice-mail servers and accounts and features. Gil was meanwhile packing and checking out of the hotel and gassing up the Town Car.

We got certificates, shook hands good-bye, got out around 11:00 and Gil came to pick me up. We ate lunch where we had started earlier in the week, at Shari’s, and then took off for Rainier, Washington. This time he did not harangue Mona as he had the last three times we used the GPS. He was still skeptical, but he let her have her way, and it was fine. It was only a 2 hour drive, and the weather was more typical – cool, dense clouds and gray. We arrived at my sister’s driveway where I jumped out of the car to open the heavy steel gate onto the former Weyerhauser forest property. As soon as I pushed that gate open and walked onto the property I felt my mother’s energy. It lit up my chest cavity, prickled my eyes with tears, and scintillated through me. OH! You’re here. So, this is where you’ve been hanging out. (I don’t feel her that way back in Virginia.) We proceeded along the winding, wooded path of gravel with weeds, grasses, blackberry bushes and Queen Anne’s lace bobbing and brushing against the Town Car all the way. We arrived at the second gate to their house, the one with the star in the middle. I got out and opened it, saw the garden sign “Freedom” and felt welcomed.

Joyful, joyful reunion with my sister as we embraced, both wearing the same deep blue. Gil and I got out and ate leftovers – the doggie bags we had collected this week and brought with us in the car - and then later Tanya made zucchini buttermilk soup. It’s a cold soup, made with her zucchini, sautéed with scallions, cumin and curry, and then blended with cold buttermilk. It was delicious, and it made my face, my mouth and tongue freak out in involuntary contortions with the striking sourness of it. Great stuff.

Gil ate almost all the chocolate that Marna had given us, and found in the gift bag of chocolates the sweet bracelet Marna had tucked in there. He checked the local paper for the goings-on in Olympia and at the Red Wind Casino, but I said I just wanted to stay in tonight. Gil headed off to read and went to bed early while Tanya and I chatted about our journeys since we last saw each other in June.

When we were talked out, Tanya gave me her bed, which I appreciated. Gil had gone off to sleep in my mother’s room (both of these are twin size beds) which is in the other end of the house. He kept waking up wondering where I was. Tanya slept out under the sky on her picnic table, cocooned in her sleeping bag in the 50 degree cool air.

Saturday, August 8^th

Saturday Gil took us to breakfast at McKenna’s Y Restaurant in Yelm. He really talked it up. I was surprised to get there and find a sparse, order your bacon and eggs at the counter, country simple place, but it was the variety of pictures on the wall that Gil liked. I especially liked one of two winter-clothed wolves huddling together with the caption, “Love does not see with the eyes, but with the heart.” Good pancakes.

We went to Yelm Cemetery to visit graves. The headstone that sits beneath the massive pine tree is now etched with my mother’s dates next to my father’s, and the inscription says, “We shared each other’s completeness.” We then visited Gordon’s Garden Center where I love the garden furniture and statues and pots and other stuff.

‘Could not bring myself to buy many of the things that caught my eye; even the small things were too pricey, like a charming night light for $23.00. I settled for a joyful angel at 30% off - her arms are flung open wide, face tilted up to the sun, embracing the joy of creation. ‘Reminds me of my mom’s spirit – and my own.

We visited the other kitschy stores in the area, like JZ Rose, which had a delightful set of café table and chairs. I would have bought the fabulous set and had it shipped home except that it was $4,600. Instead, I bought chocolate truffles in the shape of clown fish for Mary, and Gil found me some wonderful The Thymes hand cream for 75% off. ‘Came back to Tanya’s to do laundry and drink strong coffee and eat her homemade, homegrown whole wheat zucchini bread, full of nuts and raisins. She made the coffee because she was so tired. Then I found her napping ten minutes later. I would think the coffee would make the napping unproductive, but go figure. She arose after a half hour or so.

We chatted about life again – you know, the usual stuff: tapping into the neural network of the timeless collective subconscious brain, the value of living your gifts and passions, the value of figuring out what those gifts are and which thoughts serve us well versus thought patterns that don’t support our human life so well. If you know me and my sister, this is all normal conversation. She tried to go outside to plant her winter garden on the roof one, two, three times, but we kept starting new conversations. I finally let her go and I got busy with laundry and figuring out how to economically pack all the STUFF we acquired on this trip so it could make it back to Virginia on the plane. When we were in the Portland rose garden gift shop, I bought two outrageously bright tie-dyed shirts – one my size and one Seattle’s size. They are great to remember Portland, the hippie, back-to-nature place that it is. I got out the one my size and put it on. YOWZA. This was really something on this middle-aged, size 2x woman. I like outrageous; it makes me laugh. So I’m wearing it tonight when we go to my niece’s house for dinner. They may have to wear sunglasses.

My sister is toiling outside in her garden. I saw her pushing her wheelbarrow down the hill, so I thought I would bring her some sunshine and humor by popping out in my crazy shirt. I opened the door, stepped outside and shouted Woo-hoo! She could only laugh. She came closer to look. “I want one of those!” she said. She welcomed the opportunity to set a spell at the picnic table on the patio (the same one that was her bed last night) and we talked about enthusiasm and joy, and how if you are born with a deadly-serious nature the way we were, you really have to choose and pray for and deliberately practice enthusiasm and joy in order to have it in your life. Wearing this outrageous shirt is an example of that. After she was rested up, she declared she had to continue on down the hill with her wheelbarrow to retrieve her worm compost which really needs to get used because the worms are all drowned now from the rains. Last June, the rains drowned the worms, but not before they shat enough into the dirt to make rich compost. My brother had pointed out that the soupy mixture in the wheelbarrow was hosting mosquito eggs, so my sister decided she had to drain it, but she couldn’t bear wasting all that good worm compost tea, so she tipped the wheelbarrow (a wheelbarrow with no handles, since they had broken off; try to picture this) to drain the water into buckets, which she distributed over her fruit trees and such. What’s left is what she is now adding to the winter garden soil on top of the house (this is an earth-sheltered home, with vegetable gardens on the roof) where she dug the beds this afternoon for planting cauliflower, broccoli and cabbage. She said this amendment adds tilth to the soil. Say, what? “Tilth.” Even my Word dictionary is objecting to this word with a red squiggly line. “Tilth is the quality of being light and fluffy,” she said. So the soil is “tilthy?” I asked. “Yes, that’s right.” Can bread be “tilthy?” “I don’t think so. It only applies to soil, I think.” Tilth. I looked it up in the dictionary and it says it is the quality of having been tilled. Hmm. You learn something new every day.

Tanya harvested various veggies from her garden to take to Jen’s house for a family dinner party. After a failed attempt at making a dip -- hung yogurt in a cloth overnight to drain and turn into cheese – it didn’t; combined fresh cucumbers with the yogurt, salt and dill in a blender anyways – it turned watery and boring; added fresh mint – didn’t help; now we had almost two quarts of this watery unsatisfying stuff. I said it needed capers and cream cheese. Tanya said, “BLECH.” – Tanya made a dip plan B and we took the veggies and dip to Jen’s.

On the way, Tanya mentioned that we would be driving right by Shipwreck Beads – an 80,000 square foot bead store. Oh! That sounds like fun. Gil rolled his eyes. I’m sure he was thinking, godalmighty, I thought we were going to Jen’s for dinner; I’m hungry; these women; I can’t believe they want to go to a BEAD store now. He complied, since he was outnumbered, and, he loves me. Once inside I seized on the ones that were made of delightful polished stone. Oh, I have to hand-pick a bowl full of these! Thirty-three rows of beads in this store and I never got out of row 1 while choosing my beads. I was focused. I bought 25 beads of various fabulous colors of deep green, oranges, bronze, and maroon. Luckily, the store was closing in 30 minutes, so I didn’t buy more, and we had to get to Jen’s house any way. It was a delight. I am pretty sure even Gil enjoyed it.

When we got to Jen’s, we got a tour of her new house which is truly FAB-ulous. The details! The layout! The three porches! The stone work! The kitchen! The front doors! So happy for her and Fritz and new Baby Girl who is at 7 months gestation right now. These are the good old days, kids. While we waited for the rest of the guests, I unwrapped my beads and examined each one, thrilling to the patterns in the stone and arranging them on the table. I took pictures of them. I played with them for, oh, 45 minutes, which fairly disturbed Gil, who thought I was regressing before his eyes. He doesn’t understand my love of stone yet J. The rest of Tanya’s family arrive and we ate melt-in-your-mouth peanut chicken Jen made, plus more of Tanya’s zucchini bread, this time topped with vanilla ice cream, for dessert. We were pleasantly “spent” by 10:00 pm and so piled into the limo and let Mona try to guide us home. Mona and Tanya disagreed on some things; Tanya won; Mona adjusted, and she did manage to land us right in front of the Weyerhauser gate.

Sunday, August 9^th

Ate breakfast of typical cereal decadence: spiced pecan cereal with fresh blackberries I picked from the roadside yesterday, skim milk with a splash of half-n-half. The blackberries are plentiful along the long gravel driveway road here, but you’d have to train with the Special Forces to be able to harvest them without serious injury. I scouted out the pickin’s with each trip up and down the road, and finally decided there were enough within non-hazardous reach that I could go pick some. I took a quart and a half berry bowl and found the proverbial “low hanging fruit.” There was much, much more hanging in copious clumps and invasive drapes of vines a-waaay up there, unreachable, and guarded by impressively large thorns. As it was, sometimes I had to perch on a rock on the precipice of a ditch and keep my balance while I reached in. Spiders rule the woodlands, and I know I reached into a web somehow when I was performing one of these ditch maneuvers. Finally my eyes landed on the spider whose home I was wrecking. She was quite large and was fumbling around looking irritated, so I backed away and called it a day. I walked back to the house with a full bowl, though.

Gil wanted to go to Sunday mass, so we set out for a Catholic church in Yelm. By the décor and architecture, I’d say it is a typical 70’s era suburban Roman Catholic church. We got there real early. I chose a seat way over on the right, next to the stained glass windows of Luke and Mark because I liked the energy of the color. The first thing I noticed was the kneelers. Oh, there was some cruel monsignor who was going to stick it to the lazy laity who must have been on the building committee. The good part: the pews were 3 feet apart from each other, which gave a ton of leg room in each one. The bad news: this arrangement meant that when you pulled down the kneeler you were forced to kneel properly, as in, straight up, none of this slide-to-your-knees-and-lean-your-butt-on-the-bench-behind-you irreverence. Once you knelt in this pew, your butt (even my big one!) was just out of reach of the seat behind you so you could not lean. Sneaky bastards. I have never seen this affliction of enforcement so well orchestrated.

The priest was thin and very old, with sunken cheeks and white hair. He was flanked by two altar boys – one a dark young man with black hair and Peruvian nose and cheekbones, the other a pale, freckled red-head with braces and glasses. They wore blood red full length cassocks which Gil said made them look like little monsignors.

You know how, when you go to church, there’s usually some nice middle aged lady sitting nearby who sings all the songs? She can’t hit the high notes; her voice cracks and rasps; she doesn’t come in on the downbeat and sometimes forgets or reads the wrong words altogether or has to clear her throat in the middle of a note? You put up with all this and think, God bless her; I’m glad she has such enthusiasm; at least she’s participating. Well, it appears they found this lady and promoted her to Cantor at this church. There she was in her matching seersucker blue and white striped Capri pants and shirt. She took her place at the microphone and sang every song, antiphon and response -- and startled me with each one. She wasn’t quite Edith Bunker, but her voice could pass for Edith’s sweet, church-going sister.

As if the cantor’s voice were not startling enough, the priest who led the mass had a… speech impediment? Each time he opened his mouth to speak, I found my eyes getting wider and wider in disbelief. What did he say??? How is it possible this man is speaking when he seems to be missing the entire top palate of his mouth? It was remarkable. Not quite the priest in the Princess Bride, but he pronounced his R’s the same way, and couldn’t do L’s or ch’s at all. There were whole sections of sentences that got lost in his mouth as he recited the familiar prayers … all this punctuated by the cantor’s song… it was kind of unreal. I did understand the last couple lines of his homily which talked about Jesus being an “irresistibly compelling” force in our life. I liked that.

The best part of the mass for me was the traditional sign of peace, where I got to grasp the hands and look into the eyes of the people around me. There was the Philippine family in front of me, the soft, round, white-haired pastel senior ladies to my left, the Thai family behind me – I got to trace a cross on the broad forehead and shake the little hand of the 2-year old Thai boy who had been bumping and shuffling against my seat and who sneezed on my back, twice. I kissed my own Gil, who was just glad to be present for this experience of “the church of the prairie,” as he put it. So be it.

We decided it might be fun and potentially lucrative to stop by the Red Winds casino on the Nisqually Reservation on the way home. We were willing to lose max $50. We arrived and lucked out on an amazing parking space. Feeling this could be a sign, we made our way to the casino floor, figured out the medium of tickets-for-cash and proceeded to try the nickel, then the quarter, then the dollar slot machines. We lost all 50 bucks and got the heck out of there. We gave up our choice parking spot to some other lucky dog and headed back to Tanya’s. I rolled down my window to try to blow the smell of smoke out of my hair and clothes.

Tanya prepared a feast of salad from her garden for us and I also had some of the “failed dip” from yesterday which made a lovely cold cucumber/dill/mint soup. A bowl of blackberries for dessert.

Ari, Tanya, Gil and I went to Puerto Vallarta for dinner, eating outside in the waning sun, next to a fountain. The food was very good, but Tanya couldn’t bring herself to eat more than chips and a strawberry daiquiri cause she was still full from that bodacious salad at lunch.

Monday we set off for Portland again, back to the airport to drop off the Town Car. We got it there with a few minutes to spare; got through security, and then we waited as our 11:10 departure changed to 11:45, 12:05, 12:20 and finally we left at 12:30. Since we left so late, we missed our 6:04 connecting flight in Chicago. Had to get seats on the 9:30. We ate an Italian dinner in O’Hare airport, and our flight got delayed till 10:10, then 10:24, and we finally left at 10:30. That would put us at Dulles around 1:00 a.m. Tuesday. “Oh, Gahhhhd,” Gil moaned. “How are we gonna get up for work tomorrow? Oh, jeez.” Gil. Stop. We’re on West Coast time. It’ll seem early! And hey, a bad day travelling together is better than a good day toiling at work. So, we chilled out, and Gil beat me at 500 rummy which we played in the Red Carpet Club lounge, and, after they kicked us out at 9:30, we played balancing on seats at the gate.

For all my bravado, I felt like a crumpling house of cards by the time we got to Dulles. A bleary-eyed Mary and Seattle came to fetch us and somehow we made it home where Gil and I slid into fresh satin sheets and well-earned sleep.

Portland, you were great. With your curbside composting, green ways and weirdness. With your youth and intellectualism and love of freedom and art. This couple will come see you again sometime in the future.

Rainier and Tanya et. al., thank you for your generosity and hospitality. Save a place for us - we'll be back!

Copyright 2009 (c)

Let's Continue

Carrie — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 18:55:00 GMT

My blog stats tell me I haven't posted a new entry in 74 days. I have thought about it almost all of those 74 days.

When I write here, it is because there is something significant, or beautiful, or inspiring or interesting that I want to share. The reason I haven't written in so long is that I didn't feel I could continue until I addressed the most significant thing that has happened in my life. And I just wasn't ready. I didn't know what to say. I did have lots to say, but it was too personal.

Today I continue. That "most significant thing in my life" was on May 27 losing my mother.

March 19 she got results of a PETScan that showed cancer, cancer everywhere. This portrait was taken that same day (after she had received the news). She was surprised. She was not afraid. She still appeared "radiantly healthy," which was her own vision for herself.

April she spent entertaining visitors - her family who traveled to see her one last time to be with her and tell her what she meant to them. She was radiant in those visits, "holding court," telling story after story of her long life. She was 88. Most of her children and grandchildren at some point threw themselves on her mercy and confessed their love and gratitude and sadness at having to say good-bye. As we cried and held her, she never once shed a tear, but became more calm and sanguine as she comforted each one. She tried to instruct us in what was happening to her and how it is not to be feared or resented. She saw death as just another step in Life. She knew her spirit would continue on, would see her husband and parents and brothers who had gone before her. The visits and conversations with us all really healed her spirit and brought her more joy than she has probably ever known.

She liked the idea of when getting to the end of one's life, she might be able to balance her life against the weight of a feather. The way you do that is to be able to look back on your life and see no pride, no resentments, no unforgiven sins, no grudges. Each of those things weighs you down. As you let go of all that and realize who you really are as co-creator, who the You inside really is, you replace every weight and blemish with Light. That April she filled up with Light. She was so light and bouyant that she could only welcome going home.

In May, she was slowing down. Instead of no nap, or maybe one a day, she was lying down several times a day. Any pain was controlled with mere over-the-counter Tylenol. She decided she wouldn't be getting dressed up daily, since she spent so many naps in bed. So for Mother's Day, I sent her a soft, easy-to-get-into nightgown and a short robe for the warmer months. She posed for a picture, all rosy cheeked and smiling with her jack-o-lantern eyes, toe pointed, and hand holding the nightgown out in a flare. Adorable. Radiant.

While I was with her in April, we had talked so much about her process of dying and about what she hoped for and expected. I was given several "tasks" to take care of - like writing the obituary and creating a funeral service, and writing her thoughts about her passing. She was so integrated about it all, and so happy to be "heading home." I told her I couldn't imagine not being there when she crossed over. It would be like helping her plan a party and then not being able to attend. So she said yes, I could come back when "it was time" and I could help usher her to her Welcome Home party.

That time came a the end of May. She waited for me to get finished with a conference in Orlando from May 16-24. She waited for the last round of grandchildren to come visit that same week. She had gotten up and got dressed in a flouncy skirt and comfortable top, and had sat out on the patio while everyone had dinner. She "held court" for the last time. After that evening, she was done. She was too tired. She said for me to come, and she gave in to her disease - perhaps for the first time.

It was clear that she was ready now and so she didn't want to delay. I arrived on a Sunday and was treated to a beatific smile from her, looking up at me saying, "You're here! I'm glad." It was Memorial Day weekend. All the visiting family went home and it was me and my sister, the youngest and the oldest, to count the hours, provide the comfort and the morphine and keep the vigil. We felt honored and a little awestruck at how Mom had orchestrated all this, how present, and radiant and wonderful she had been right up till the end.

Mom had always told me that when she died she intended to just choose the day and do it. She never intended to have a long illness or struggle. She just wanted to put her affairs in order and then lay down and die. That's exactly what she did.

When the end came, just 10 weeks after that PETScan diagnosis; just 18 days after her posing adorably in her new nightgown, just 6 days after greeting her last group of visitors, just 4 days after my arrival, my sister and I sat on either side of her, holding her hands and counting the seconds between her breaths. I felt her pulse flutter, stop, and then felt one last beat. She left. Somewhere in the Energy in the room, I felt and saw a great jolt of Joy and I laughed out loud and cried, "She did it! She did it! She made it! Oh, good for her!!" and I saw the image of a great, powerful horse crashing through gates and running away in freedom. We laughed and we cried. The laughter was all Mom - her spirit's joy infusing us. The crying was all us - our mother had left, and the overwhelming love we felt just poured out our eyes.

I'm okay. I am still surprised that she died at 88. I really expected her to live well into her 90's. She did too. I still miss her and I still get waves that make me cry. Like this past week when her birthday rolled around. I cried for an hour on the bus on the way to work. 'Probably confused the heck out of the bus driver who could see me in his rear view mirror, and who knows me as a smiley middle aged lady who always has a kind word for him.

One of my other sisters said that when Mom died, the world changed forever.

Mom said in April that she liked the idea of what St. Teresa said: "I shall spend my Heaven doing good on Earth." So, maybe her influence is still here.

I know that the way she approached her death was the same way she approached her life: intentionally. She taught us all a lot in those last days and the lesson I take away is to live life with intention. On purpose. Like you mean it. Live it fully right up till you die. Okay. I can do that. I want to do that. If I can leave this world with the overwhelming kindness to my family that she showed to us, that will be a wonderful thing.

I still miss her. I carry some of her traits in me. I have her seriousness of purpose, her curiosity, her deep love of nature, love of stones and rocks. I have her strength and work ethic, her love of reading and learning, her eccentricity and her love of rich food. I love life and my family. And I am not afraid.

So, that is the event I had to write about before I wrote about anything else. I remain full of gratitude and hope. So now, deep breath; let's continue.

Homage to the Leaves

Carrie — Wed, 13 May 2009 12:09:00 GMT

Driving the mountain-scenic roads
    to the Shenandoah hollow of Orkney Springs,
         the gentle greens of new leaves evoke in me
               tenderness.

I feel drawn into the greens,
      into the leaves, the trees, the stones.
Green quivers in the wind, in intimate proximity
     to many repeated expressions of the same leaf.

My breath is shallow and tender as I enter the leaves.
     The same as when I pray my emptying prayer.
          I have to clear the space of cares and illusions to make room
            for the spirit of the leaf,
                  for the mind of God. I in you; You in me.

Sitting in an Adirondack chair on a long second floor porch,
   I watch the storm blow in.
      I am eye-level with the leaves. You! Look at you youthful green leaves now.
         Collected together and fastened tight,
             whipped and ravaged by wind. I am so proud of you -
                  how you bend and furl in unison, your elegant shapes distorted, swept sideways.

Yet you do not remove.

You are the branches' and the branches are yours.
       Between gasps and gales, you settle down,
            with a shudder and a wrinkled pucker and then
                    quickly and happily return to your poised green space
                          next to your brothers.

But, even as you cling and endure now,
I know you have the wisdom to recognize when the light is waning.
       You know what it signifies:
             that there is a time coming when heavy snow or ice could cover you.
               Your strong surface could hold it, but the weight
                  would break the branches to which you have been affixed,
                       the ones that have supported you
                            and given you your green season of warmth, growing and glory.

And so, you begin to fade.
         You transfer your energy back to the branch, the roots, and
               -- gracefully, generously, before the dangers come,
                        while there is still enough time, -- you whither.

One day, when a cold wind whips hard,
         -- or, perhaps, if you hold on for many days, it may only take a soft breeze, --
but one day, with your energy sacrificed,
     with a sigh
        and a last breath,
          you will
             surrender,
                and
                  let go.

You'll be carried in your lilting, twirling dance
   to the gutter
     or the ground
        or the pond.
Here you are no longer leaf but food
   for worms
        and you enrich the soil
           that feeds the tree
           that feeds the branches
           that lovingly birth you again in Spring.

(c) Copyright 2009

Cake Tribulations

Carrie — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 18:20:00 GMT

It all started innocently enough. My pretty cake stand was empty. It is a holiday and the girls are behaving fairly aimlessly. "You want to bake a cake?" I asked.

We only had one can of whipped cream cheese frosting. The girls chose a red velvet cake from among several mixes we had on hand. Good combination. They started to work while I messed around on my computer in another room.

When I emerged to see how they were doing, I saw they had out one heart-shaped 8-inch pan and a cake pan for a dozen mini-muffins. They were spooning insanely red batter into the mini muffin tins. "You didn't flour the pans?" I asked. "No, were we supposed to?" I read from the box: Dust Lightly With Flour. Okay. They hadn't used shortening either, just the spray. Might have been olive oil spray for all I know. So, I took the remaining pans and floured them over the oil.

They baked the minis and the heart together. At the appointed time, the girls got the pans out of the oven. The minis were slightly overbaked and the heart was overflowing and you could smell the drips burning on the bottom of the oven. "Oh well, it was fun, anyway!" they said, and retreated to their rooms.

I came to survey the results. Hmmm. I frosted the mini cupcakes and added sprinkles, cause sprinkles cover a host of imperfections. I didn't want to use too much frosting, because I was going to need it to cover the unsightly, boiled over heart cake. So, I did a dozen with frosting and the rest with some decorative frosting from a tube. I put them all on another cake stand and covered with a dome, hoping they would soften up a bit. So far so good.

On to the heart cake. Seattle suggested I cut off the "love handles" (pun intended), which was the extra batter that oozed over the pan edge. I did. I frosted the sides, covering all the ragged edges. I frosted the top liberally and then said, "Okay, now what?"

"Let's decorate it all pretty! I think you should put little red hearts around... scattered. Like here, and here, and here." Mary said, pointing strategically to spots on the heart. "With what?" I asked. "With those pretty gel tubes," she said. "Okay, but first, I'd like to do scallops all around the edge, you know, like a Valentine," I said. "In YELLOW?" she asked. "Yes, it will be cheerful, and a good contrast to the red." (Plus it was the only color I had enough of to do this decoration.) She humored me.

I think you can already sense trouble coming.

So, as I started with the yellow scallops Mary got out the pretty gel icings in the tubes. She handed me red. I placed the little hearts just as she said. "I want another color now. How about orange?" I said. She thought it was risky, but played along. I added orange hearts. Hmmm. They were very dark orange; not much different from the red... "Any other colors?" I asked. I saw a purple in the pile. "No, purple comes out almost black," she said. I picked up the purple and squeezed a tiny bit onto my fingertip. Yep. Black. I licked it off. "Wow! That tastes awful. Really concentrated flavor.... oh, no. Mary, what IS this stuff? This is not decorative gel! This is concentrated FOOD COLORING! You're not supposed to eat blobs of food coloring! It's probably hazardous to your health. It's going to turn our teeth red!"

Here is what the ill-fated sweet heart of a cake looked like.

We can't leave it like this. "Well," Mary says, "what if we just lift off the blobs?" No, that won't work. "What if we make swirls with them?" Oh, now that is very risky. But it could be fun. Or disasterous. You decide:

We used a walnut pick, the end of a pickle fork and a tooth pick for the work. And after the swirling, Mary added dots all over and said, "Now it looks like the surface of the moon." Good lord.

We weren't loving the swirls, and we realized that we'd reached the point of no return. So, we said, "Well, what if we just swirl it ALL together? You know, like those swirl Easter egg kits. That could be kind of artsy."

You see where this is going.

Now it looks like the face of Jupiter or Saturn.

To our credit, we stopped there. But, the drips and swipes from the "decorative gel," which was really concentrated food coloring, are still stained into my hands, on my counter top, on my teeth and I think my lips are tingling from licking it off my fingers. If you read of a family found mysteriously comatose in their home on Presidents' Day, tell the papers it is no mystery. They keeled over from Red Velvet Jupiter cake poisoning.