RV Adventure

The other day I saw a vintage luggage tag that summed me up perfectly.
It read: “I Love Not Camping.”

It brought to mind our first trip in an RV. A long weekend in Maine seemed like the perfect trial run.

In four short days, here is what I learned:

• If your teenager has seen the movie “RV”, they will expect you to pull up in a 60’ fully loaded RV, complete with television and hot tub. When you pull up in the 15’ version that looks and drives like a refrigerated truck and has 1-800-RENT-ME on the side, you may want to have a back-up plan for the kids. They will make good on their promise to keep you equally miserable for the duration of the trip and quite possibly into the next millennium at the mere mention of RV’s.

• When you arrive at the campground, have one person take charge of choosing the perfect campsite right away. This will avoid 18 trips around in a circle arguing over which site looks the best. It will also eliminate having to duck down below the window for the 3rd – 18th trips around as you pass by the other campers who are now openly pointing and guffawing.

• Some camps have areas designated for different kinds of camping: one area for RV’s and another for tents. Usually an RV is too big for a campsite designated for tents. Should that not deter you from using a tent site, make sure you really don’t plan on going anywhere else for the rest of the weekend. Once you squeeze into that spot, only a crowbar will get you out!

• If you fire up the generator at 6 am after a sleepless night with your head smashed against the metal wall and your feet in the air because you parked on a slant, be prepared for a multitude of dirty looks from the other campers as you greet the dawn. Particularly if yours is the lone RV surrounded by tents.

• If you decide to have a shower, remember the RV is on a slant before the water runs away from the drain and into the rest of the RV. This will eliminate spending the rest of the weekend with the shampoo in your hair.

• Take 15 minutes to lay in the deserted road with your heads together and count the stars. This is what you will later overhear your teenagers telling their friends about their miserable weekend.

• Do not joke that there is an axe murderer hiding just over there in the pitch blackness. The kids will jump up and run back to the RV, leaving you to grope through the dark and desolate woods alone.

• A husband who gets excited about having a bed-toilet-refrigerator-TV on wheels also loves opportunities to jump out from behind trees pretending to be an axe murderer.

• Do not bring a gun – your brain rattling screams of terror will deter even the hardiest of real axe murderers within a 10 mile radius.

• With experience comes wisdom – and snazzy luggage tags that remind us of exactly who we are.

Alaska Haiku

A caribou leaps!
The faces of Denali
Fill us with stillness.

Reflection

In the shallow cove
along the sedge,
a turtle crouches on the sandy bottom
peering up.

Still and fearless,
she can wait for a
very
long
time,

holding her breath
against the promise
of the sun.


In the shallow cove
along the sedge,
I crouch within the hard shell
of my canoe,
peering down

between the flickering shards
of the sun.


Waiting
for the dark and silent thing
to move along,

I fear one of us will drown.

When Less Becomes Too Much: Confessions of a Maxxaholic

I feel myself starting to twitch. And hum. A little sing-song nothing to try to distract myself, but it isn’t working. My chest feels tight and I can’t con…cen…trate. I sidle over to the front door, casually picking up my pocketbook and slipping into my shoes on the way. Almost there. Emma glances up from the book she’s been buried in all morning.

Suddenly she is alert and demands, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” I reply. “I’ll just be a few.”

“Don’t go, Mom.”

“It’s fine, Honey. I just need to get…some…stuff…”

“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO DO AN INTER…”

The door slams behind me and I dash to the car. Already I am breathing a little easier and the twitch becomes a tingle of anticipation.

When I arrive, I make sure to park a little way away and walk. If anyone recognizes my car, maybe they will think I’m in Staples. At the entrance, the doors swoosh open before me like the welcoming arms of a long lost lover. I step in and I am home.

The euphoria sets in while I survey my domain and carefully select my cart. Not the one with the squeaky wheel. Ditto the sticky handle or the one with the broken seat – that one is trouble with a capital T !

I plan the most gratifying route that will leave no aisle unexplored. Hmm, start at handbags and work my way over to kitchen gadgets? Or jump right to active wear and see where my urges take me? While I contemplate this, Jocelyn from Returns gives me a friendly wave. I feel myself stiffen and aim my cart directly to bedding in the back.

An hour passes… maybe two. Three? Who can say as I meander my way around the store, exploring the jumbled potpourri of the clearance aisle for secret special bargains and baubles of joy. I zig. I zag. Floating my way from aisle to aisle, the cart gathers throw pillows, some tongs, the dreamiest pair of red leather Etienne Aigner’s marked down to $99, gourmet jelly, a giant orange ceramic Buddha head, and last year’s Life Is Good t-shirts for the whole family.

In the wall art section I come across a beautiful print and I instantly imagine it hanging in that perfect place, just the right wall in a cozy room.

I suddenly realize that the perfect place I am imagining to hang this picture isn’t in my house. I try to think where I was thinking of - maybe someone else’s house I’ve been in…

No. It’s just an imaginary house. A pretend-glossy-magazine-image of a room. I have invented the perfect setting for this print. I am frozen, the print hovering over the cart. Do I buy it? Where can I put it? I mentally explore my own house, going from room to room and realize with dismay I was going to buy a print that would in no way fit with the décor in my actual home.

Carefully I place the print back on the shelf, but I am shaken a little by this. What was I thinking? I look into my brimming cart for comfort, some positive reinforcement. My eyes go wide with terror when the realization hits me that I don’t actually need ANY of the crap in my cart. I stumble backward a little bit, reeling and even then, I’m thinking: just grab the shoes and go; you’ll never find shoes like that again at that price. Besides, you can always return them tomorrow if you change your mind!

But it is too late. The veil has been lifted. I have officially crossed the line from Maxx-inista to Maxx-aholic.

Somehow, I make it out of there and back to my car, fumbling the key into the ignition, trying to get away before I convince myself I’m overreacting. How did this happen? I know I love a bargain, but when did I graduate from being a simple jacket junky to a card-carrying (literally – you get 10% back – who wouldn’t!) dress hoarder?

On the ride home, I quietly review my behavior over the last few months, trying to find where I went off track. Having a stake in the island economy, I am constantly touting the virtues of “buying local” and yet, here I was driving over the bridge every week as my first option instead of as a last resort. And what about my vow to avoid products 'Made in China'? That place is so filled with goods made in China, I’m surprised they don’t offer Moo Goo Gai Pan while you wait in the checkout corral! Somehow my minimalist tendencies had been seduced by the “Brand Names for Less” slogan and my innate desire to dig for treasure.

Deflated, dejected, I quietly join my family as they are finishing dinner.

“Where were you?” my husband asks.

“I… I was at… at the store,” I stutter, fumbling with the napkin in my lap. Emma gives me a knowing look, one eyebrow arched in disapproval.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind that we started without you,” he says. “Did you buy anything?”

“No. Nothing. I just needed to get out. Relax a little.” I take a bite of mashed potatoes. Silence and chewing. I am careful not to look at Emma.

“I did see this great pair of shoes, though…”

Warning Signs of Maxxaholism:

• You find yourself commenting to Fidel, the homosexual sales representative originally from Guatamala, that you’re surprised he’s not at his usual register.

• You own more then 3 black dresses, all with the tags still on them, just in case you might have the perfect function come up.

• You skip out on yoga class when you overhear the instructor saying she was at the Maxx yesterday and they had just gotten in a shipment of Prana.

• You splurge on a $40 designer straw hat at a local boutique and your neighbor shows up at the beach wearing the same exact hat, only she got hers for $7.99. You switch hats while she is swimming in the ocean.

• You drive 30 miles to a different branch so as to avoid the eye-rolling Jocelyn who is annoyed with you for returning the Jack Daniels infused mesquite briquettes she told you not to buy in the first place, even though she could’ve lost her job.

Me and Betty Joan Perske

I hate my name. Laura. I can barely say it properly. It feels like I have marbles in my mouth, trying to say it. Especially, on the phone. “Glenda?” the caller will ask. “Maura?” “Sharon?” …Sharon?

My mother told me my name was supposed to be Lauren, but my father changed it at the last second and wrote Laura on my birth certificate after seeing some movie (called Laura). I’ve always resented him a little bit for that. Who might I have been if my name was Lauren? Would I have a sultry, husky voice and legs that go on for miles like Lauren Bacall? Or luscious black hair and green cat eyes and boyfriends with names like Beau or Jacques like the Lauren I knew in high school? Even Ralph sounds cool when you stick Lauren after it. Who doesn’t want to be Lauren! 

Maybe girls with names like Heidi. Or Cindy or Ashley. Whenever I meet one of them I secretly think: bitch. even if they are nice as can be. How dare they have a perky name like that? As though their parents knew they would be just that much cuter than the rest of us. Unless it’s spelled weird. Like Cyndi or Ashlee. Then I think: annoying bitch. You can tell if a woman likes her name by the way she says it too. Women who don’t like their names put in an apology with a shrug of the shoulders. 

Women who do like their names lift their chin a little when they introduce themselves. People with names like Diane and Melissa and Angela. Who wouldn’t stand a little taller with a name like that? My mother-in-law actually pauses and strikes a pose when she says her name, as if to say, “See how my beautiful name suits me?”

I’ve thought about changing my name to something I like better, but I fear it may be too late. I have a friend who did that. She went from Marie to Malea and I have to admit, I like Malea better, but inevitably, I call her Marie and then I just feel awkward. Besides, what would I change it to? 

I asked my kids if they were to name me, what name would they choose. (I know, brave or stupid, not sure which.) My one daughter looked at me with an appraising eye and proclaimed: “Tula!” I thought about that one. Maybe... Kind of endearing, certainly unique. I Googled it and discovered this was the name of the “Bond girl” in the 1981 movie For Your Eyes Only. Wow. She’s hot, right? Actually, she is! The character of Tula was played by a transsexual originally named Barry Cossey, later Caroline Cossey. Smokin’ hot, famous, global supermodel and actress?... I may not be able to live up to ALL of that and put that suggestion on the shelf. When I asked my other daughter for a new name, she just rolled her eyes at me. I’m pretty sure, in her world, that’s already my name. “How do you spell that?” I asked.

My neighbor who teaches in a city school district tells me to count my blessings. “Do you know how hard it is just to get through attendance? I actually had a kid in one class whose name was spelled s-h-i-t-h-e-a-d. How do you ask a bunch of 6th graders if ‘Shithead’ is present? Turns out the kid’s parents are from some country where the “t” is silent and his name is pronounced Sha-HEED'. 

A name that’s too unusual would never work for my husband, Peter. He has trouble with names as it is. Throw in some European flare and he stumbles all over his tongue, which is surprising since he grew up around friends with names like Schuyler and Minter and Stokes. Part of the problem is that the instant a person tells him his or her name, Peter forgets it. We try to use specific techniques in social situations to help him remember. Name-trait association, repeating the name back to the person, and immediately introducing the person to a friend all help to improve name recall - to a point. 

He met a lovely couple on the beer line at an outdoor concert once. As we threaded our way through the crowd to join them on the vast lawn, he told me, “His name is Tom and her name is…well, I forget, but it was something like Big Belly.” 

He made a motion with his hand in front of his own belly, carving an arc in the air from top to bottom, indicating a large belly. “Big Belly?” I pondered that one. “Bertha?” I asked. “No, Big Belly!” he made the motion again. “But foreign-sounding.” “Beeg Be´lay?” “What is that supposed to be, French or something?” He giggled. “No, it’s like Big Belly, but not Big Belly.” He kept making the motion, faster now and more emphatically. “She doesn’t have an accent or anything. Just her name sounds foreign.” “Ok, well, that hand thing you’re doing isn’t helping. I know what a big belly is, just not what this girl’s name is,” I shot back. “Does she at least have a big belly?” “No. Shhh, they’re right here. Just do the thing we always do,” he muttered. Turning to the group, he said, “Hey, this is my wife, Laura. Honey, this is - ” 

That was my cue. I put out my hand to shake and smoothly interrupted him, saying, “Hi, what’s your name?” The woman smiled and said, “Hi! I’m Birgit.” Beer Gut?? I wanted to laugh, but I suddenly remembered an acquaintance of Peter’s, nicknamed “Grinder.” I repeatedly called him “Hoagie”. Sometimes the obvious eludes us. 

A few minutes later Birgit turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, what were your names again?” I lifted my chin a little. “I’m Tula.”
And pointing at Peter, I said, “And that’s Sha-heed´.”

The Power of the Om

One of my favorite moments in yoga class is the chanting of Om. When I first began taking yoga classes, I felt self-conscious about joining in and I would sit quietly or pretend I was om-ing without actually making any sound.

Finally after several sessions, I gathered up my courage and opened my mouth to softly chant Om. I didn’t want anyone else to hear my Om. What if they think I’m weird? What came out of my mouth sounded more like GAAAK than Om and I cringed in horror. When I looked around the room, though, nobody was laughing or even looking.

Over the years, I have come to embrace the Om. I especially love it when the whole class participates and you feel the vibration of the other Oms in the room.

I have heard that if you pluck a string on a violin, the same string on any nearby violin will begin to vibrate as well. That’s how I feel. I’m a violin string being plucked by the vibrations of the others in the room. I can feel that resonance against my vocal cords, against my skin, like the wave action in a pool, coming back at me.

I have gotten louder, more confident, but I could never Om as long as the instructor. Her Om would begin before everyone else’s and continue long after the rest of us were out of breath. I wanted to see if I could Om as long as she did. I decided to work on my breathing and expanding my lung capacity.

Where could I practice my Om, free of interruptions, away from raised eyebrows and out of earshot of neighbors? Living on an island is a lot more crowded than I previously realized and I never thought I’d actually chant anywhere outside of class.

Then a summer of magic happened when someone gave us a kayak. My husband hauled it up to the beach, got it in the water and helped me get in and beyond the breakers. I loved it! He fashioned a wheelie carriage for it from someone’s discarded baby stroller and I began taking it up and launching it myself every chance I got.

Oh, how I loved being out there, surrounded by water, watching the fish jumping, the birds flying overhead, or the pattern of the sun on the water, far beyond the daily chatter of the people on the shore and the demands of the day. The joy of it filled me up and spilled out of my mouth in a spontaneous expansive chanting of Om!

Well, that was it for me. Every chance I got, I’d climb in the kayak and head out beyond the prying ears of tourists and Om away.

I would chant on the glassy green stillness with giant skate undulating beneath my kayak. I would chant to the passing dolphin pods. I would chant through my fear when the shore break grew with the wind shifts. I was like a howling wolf, loud and wild. And yet, out on the vast sea, Om sounded small and close in my ears. It didn’t have that resonating quality - that echo effect of an enclosed space.

Over time, I noticed in the studio that I could breathe through an Om for as long as the instructor, sometimes even longer, but it didn’t seem relevant anymore. Something much more important had happened along the way: I stopped thinking about Om-ing and began feeling it.

I am comfortable now. I feel strong and connected from within. There is an energy rising up and out behind my Om now, at once as subtle and powerful as the ocean rising and falling beneath my kayak. While I am, at times, like the violin string, resonating in sympathetic vibration because I am close to the music, I am also at times the musician creating the song.

After the Accident

“I wish I could put my life on pause,” she said.
“Freeze time. This moment.

The sky such a blue it makes me ache.”
I wiggled my edges deeper into the sand,
some kind of reptile,

absorbing the heat into my skin.
Into my cold bones.
Before me, the sun jumping off the glass-green sea
gives way to the cool clarity of twisted metal.
And always,
that hooded dark angel screaming toward me
in every blink
of my lazy, lizard eye.
“No. No you don’t,” I replied.

Quelling the Grel

“I’m not myself today.” We hear people say that and sometimes say it ourselves. We have a plethora of hackneyed phrases to kinda sorta define what it means: we’re “off our game”, “out of sorts”, “feeling off-kilter”, “out of whack”. What exactly does it mean?

In Michael Gruber’s Tropic of Night, it means your grel is in command. A grel is like a gremlin, but instead of creating mechanical failures, a grel is the demon spirit that resides within each of us, feeding on our emotional scars and advancing its own destructive agenda. When we are healthy and whole, the grel sleeps. Dormant, passive, unknown. But with any injury, real or perceived, to our psyche, the grel is suddenly wide awake and in the driver’s seat.

I picture the morgue scene in Men in Black, where the dead guy’s head peels back to reveal a tiny alien critter sitting in a “command central” seat.



The other day, I gave it up to my grel. Someone said something that brought up an old hurt and with it, negative thoughts about myself. I tried to let it go. It’s in the past, right? But those thoughts just clung to me like barnacles. Or like the stink of dead fish because pretty soon flies started buzzing in my head, depositing packets of animosity and rage like maggots in my brain. I am the victim here! How dare they? Why am I always the one who gets treated this way? People suck. My life sucks. I am unloved. That grel was up there pulling levers and pushing buttons like a mad fiend.

Eventually, I ran out of room in my head for these kinds of thoughts and they started spilling out onto other people. On the way to work, the grel slid into the aggressive driver cruise control mode, directing my un-loved-ness out into the world complete with hand gestures and tire squealing. I was not myself. At my desk, I barked orders, slammed phones, scattered papers and threw my weight around the room if anyone dared approach. I’ll give them unloved! Co-workers gaped. And ran. I was not myself.

At lunch time, I had moved from white hot anger to a woeful blue haze. The old wounds were fully seeping with the pus of insecurity and isolation as the grel moved into self-pity mode. Being angry takes energy and I was worn out, hungry and alone. I got back in my car in search of food. Oh yes, I was well aware of the grel run amok, but knowing it’s there doesn’t mean you can stop it. I was too busy crying over my renewed victim-hood to give more than a half-hearted attempt to wrest the controls out of his greedy clutches. In Tropic of Night, exorcizing the grel required a voodoo witch doctor performing an elaborate Santeria ritual involving chickens, fire and sacrificial bloodletting. Mumbling “Get outta my head you damn grel” hardly qualified.

Up ahead was Wawa and I contemplated the seething mass of cars cramming in and shooting out of the parking lot. The last time I had gotten a sandwich there, I watched the harried overweight woman behind the deli-counter throw the contents of my lunch together. She slapped on the tomatoes, crammed in the lettuce, jabbed the knife down, squashing and squeezing the contents of the roll, and bundled the whole thing into a greasy bullet shaped wad. Maybe she wasn’t herself that day…

I remembered wolfing that sandwich down at my desk, trying to keep the contents from slithering out with each bite. By the time I finished, I was bloated and more worn out than fed. The negative energy of the deli-counter woman had made its way directly into my gut. I had vowed I was done with Wawa and that I would eat at more wholesome local venues. We are what we eat, right? The intimate act of nourishing my body deserved better than some haphazard assemblage of an overworked production line. Is that even food or just bad mojo?

It was this remembered promise that veered my car left instead of right and I found myself in the empty parking lot in front of Livin on the Veg.
“That’s a stupid name for a restaurant,” said the grel. “It doesn’t even look open. You’re going to be the only one in there, which is going to make you even more self-conscious. It’s probably expensive.”
“Shut up, grel,” I barked. I wavered, secretly contemplating crossing the street to Wawa…
“This is going to take too long,” the grel whined.
“I brought my book. I can read while I wait.” The grel went silent and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for being prepared to wait patiently. Before the grel could think up any more excuses for NOT following through on my earlier vow, I marched into Livin on the Veg.

It wasn’t nearly this dramatic, but I recently read a commencement address given by author Paul Hawkins in 2009 at the University of Portland where he quotes my favorite poet:

“One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though
the voices around you kept shouting bad advice,” is Mary Oliver’s
description of moving away from the profane toward a deep sense
of connectedness to the living world.

Looking back, I think that’s what I was doing in that moment, sitting at that empty counter, reading my book while the Livin on the Veg crew created an avocado club on whole wheat toast, neatly wrapped in crisp white parchment paper with a side of zucchini rice salad. I was moving away from the profane. It’s a quiet kind of power. None of the anonymous frenzy of the Wawa action happening on the other side of the boulevard. In fact, it was so quiet, I could hear the grel settling into a snoozy little nap. Aw! He’s actually kinda cute when he’s asleep.

“Laura?” I looked up from my book and the girl smiled as she handed me the paper sack with my lunch in it. “Have a nice day!”
I smiled back and dropped a dollar into her tip jar. “Thanks. You have a nice day too - ” I glanced at her shirt for a name so I could reply in the same personal manner in which she had addressed me. She didn’t have a name tag, but the logo on the front of her shirt read: LOV

"Sunshine, Freedom and a Little Flower"

“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself” ~ D.H. Lawrence

My dog is dying by inches. Always a picky eater, her interest in food is close to non-existent now. I find myself performing nutritional acrobatics in order to get a few tablespoons of matter into her disappearing form. I have moved from worrying about what’s healthy for a dog to thinking if she’ll eat it, that’s enough.
On a good day, she might agree to several bites of oatmeal laced with canine appetite stimulator – flavored high fructose corn syrup touted as irresistible to dogs. On a bad day, she might sniff at the carefully grilled bits of London broil trying to fool me with a noisy lick or two, but always inches away from the bowl to avoid accidentally touching the food with her tongue. She is living on air.
Yogurt, broth, chicken, cheese, rice, deli meats, vegetables, and yes, even dog food. Twice a day I pull out an arsenal of options in my campaign to nourish her wasted frame, coaxing, crawling, painstakingly hand feeding and applauding each tentative nibble. I am a comestible contortionist. Lying on my belly next to her dish, crawling after her with cottage cheese laced fingers, feigning indifference while I use my legs to hold the other dog back from the gourmet meal she would prefer to her dry kibble.
It is wearying and rarely rewarded. Sometimes, it’s downright comical. Like when my daughter screeched, “Eww! Mom, Flower just vomited and now she’s eating it!” and all I could say was, “Well, make sure she eats all of it!”
I negotiate, cajole, bargain and pray. Bottom line: she is dying.
I think about people who tend aging parents or grandparents and I wonder if they go through much the same rituals. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d have that same infinite patience with another human being. Every day I send out a blessing for those who do.
I feel so defensive about my dog wasting away. I fear people will accuse me of starving her. If they only knew! I tell people she has cancer. I think she does have cancer. But really, does it matter? Why do we have to name it? Why is it so important that death fit into our framework of understanding?
It isn’t pretty, this slow death. When an animal stops cleaning itself, you suddenly become aware of just how important those habits were to your own sensibilities. Even the mildest pat can leave her looking mangy, her coat having lost its spring. It goes right along with the milky eyes and the funk of old dog.
She shrinks from being touched now. There was a time when all she craved was human contact, nudging and cuddling and melting into a nice petting with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. Now she cringes, like a beaten down mongrel as if her frail bones will shatter with even the lightest touch, or maybe she’s tired of having perpetual bed-head.
I fear that I am waiting too long. I saw a dog once that had clearly exceeded the “quality of life” yardstick, its grotesque shape covered in pendulous tumors that dragged on the ground with each labored step. As I gagged in disgust, I told myself: there’s your measure. And then my eyes met those of the woman at the other end of the leash. Hers were pleading, “Please don’t judge me!” I looked away shamefaced because I already had.
On the bad days, I call around to the local vets, trying desperately to find one that will perform at-home euthanasia. I haven’t found one anywhere in the area yet. She’s given me so much. Love. Loyalty. Lower blood pressure. A stainless steel vet table just feels like the ultimate betrayal.
Let me be able to give her comfort, familiar faces and a safe place to die peacefully. That is my wish for her – that she die in her own bed, in her sleep. But really what I mean is that she die in my sleep.
I have seen the final moments of loved ones, the innate will to live fiercely at odds with the pain of organs shutting down. I am certain this dying business is going to get uglier before it resembles anything like peace. Ultimately, I am a coward.
On the good days, I give her permission to go. “When you’re ready, sweet, you just go. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine!” I tell her, but I have thrown myself at her feet, body wracked with sobs. She looks at me, impassive, and I wonder, in those final moments, which of us will suffer more.

Flower shared her life with us from 8/24/1999-6/29/2010

Leaving The Nest

I’m sitting here on the bay at Maris Stella, just a few miles from home. The geese outside are calling, calling and I can’t help but think of the lines of Mary Oliver – my favorite poem, Wild Geese. I know you tire of hearing me say those opening words to you:

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

Words to live by, for me, anyway. I remember driving up Hooper Avenue and seeing a family of geese in the grassy median. The mama would take a step into the road, prodding at her youngster to follow. The baby would take a tentative waddle to the edge of the curb, ready to take that first, daunting hop down just as the light changed. The parents would dive back up onto the median in the nick of time, squawking and frantic as two lanes of traffic descended upon them. How I sobbed watching them nip and flail at the confused gosling in a desperate attempt to call her back to the relative safety of the median. Surely they were bound to perish before my eyes as miles of cars sped by, brakes squealing with each narrow miss.

As you step away
We will be waving at you
Our hearts aflutter.

Thinking of it now reminds me of when you were much younger and we stopped to help those ducks trying to cross the boulevard. You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but you knew just what to do. There I was, frantically trying to “shoo” the mama across in hopes her babies would follow behind her, but she was having none of it, fiercely trying to protect her young. Calmly, you scooped up a duckling and holding it tenderly but firmly in your tiny hands, you coaxed me. “Pick up the babies. The mama will know we are helping her and follow them.” With downy bits of fluff gathered in my shirt, I followed behind you.

Mother duck scolding:
The best way to cross the street?
Look both ways.

I wish I could give you more than that. Some pearl. This earth. Here it is: Stand for something. Care about something. Have a purpose. It doesn’t matter what, really. For me, it’s nature. When my mother died, I felt untethered. Like a balloon let go, in danger of floating free of the atmosphere where surely, the cold isolation of space would cause me to burst. You patiently held my hand as we travelled back in time through the layers of rock down the Bright Angel trail, grounding me again, bringing me back to myself.

Sandstone walls give way.
Each step out of the canyon
New vistas appear.

And maybe I have given you that after all. I know that among your tally of perfect days sits John Muir. How hushed and hallowed were the giant trees of Muir Woods. A cathedral if ever there was one to awaken the soul to knowing it’s true self. And later that day the warmth of Muir Beach, in contrast to the cool dim drippings of an ancient wood. I remember your delight as you crouched on the shoreline for hours seeking bits of polished glass hidden there.

The shush of water

receding through small pebbles.
Ebb and flow.

Dad and I hiked to the top of the ridge, leaving you there to your quiet pleasure. The trail was dusty and steep through the scrub, but filled with delights big and small: A Great Heron stalking in the tall grass just inches from me, a bright orange insect with a thousand legs undulating across a hot rock. At the top of the trail, we drank deeply from our canteens, washing the grit from our mouths, the water warm, but reviving my brain. The sea stretched out endlessly in a rich turquoise and my heart expanded to meet its vast embrace; a yellow kayak floating on the fishbowl flatness, kelp waving long feathery stalks far below the glassy surface. In the cove, a string of horses picked their way through the boulders on the trail far below. Along the thin C-curve strip of sand, 2 blond heads, bowed in nature’s prayer, the sun glinting off them in bright sparks, minute treasures to this bird’s view.

Amid the silence
Geese will be calling you home.
The nature of things.