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| Welcome to your travels - Garden of the Gods, CO Springs, CO Dateline: Santa Fe, New Mexico At an inn near the Plaza If I have to hear Finley talk about farts or perform them one more time, I'll scream. Okay, I already have. The kid needs to get a grip. If he doesn't expand his conversation skills, I'll never marry him off. Potty talk aside, the Grand Southwest Adventure is going... well, it's going. Really, it IS going well. I couldn't ask for a better travel companion than my friend, Shelby. She's a U.S. Air Force pilot (now in the Reserves) and mom to 4-year-old Luke and John, who's nearly 2. She's organized without being rigid. Major Shelby casually mentioned "ops checking" equipment before the trip, as only someone with a military background could. She has a folder full of Google directions, a bag of AAA guides and maps, plus coolers of snacks and containers of kid toys. It makes for a packed, well-stocked Subaru Outback. The kids sit sardined in booster seats in the back row (John's home with Shelby's husband, Matt). We spend 5 minutes before each new excursion strapping everyone in. The exercise makes my mini-van look very attractive, if not outright sexy (yeah, it's still a minivan). Rocky Mountain Highlights Fiona, Finley and I spent 2 nights at Matt and Shelby's in Monument, CO before setting out on this road trip. Monument is a suburb of CO Springs, and the subdivision our friends live in sprawls for miles. The streets have names like Leather Chaps Drive and Bowstring Road. You can see the Air Force Academy and Rocky mountains (including Pike's Peak) from the house. Shelby told me they have thunderstorms nearly every afternoon in summer. We witnessed flashing lighting and crackling thunder two days in a row. Fiona said, “Mommy, I’m scared of the lightning. Is it gonna get us?” It reminded me of summers in Ohio, with its foundation-shaking storms. Matt and Shelby made it clear from the start they'd spoil me: Matt prepared chicken with red pepper sauce and zucchini linguine one night, and pistachio-encrusted orange roughy the next. In the guest room sat a basket of snacks and a book: 1,000 Places to See Before You Die. Shelby told me she'd keep an ear out for the kids each morning so I could run. That is a very big deal: I can't run outside at my house, because (aside from once a week when a neighbor graciously kid sits), there's no one there but me. I've gotten quite cozy with my basement treadmill. From the moment Shelby picked us up at the airport, I've felt care-taken. What a gift now that my main, "Let me do this," "I'll take care of that..." person is gone. I've lost my partner and advocate who also saved me from my baser impulses. Not only is there no one to muzzle my inner 4-year-old day-to-day, but I'm primary shepard for 4-year-old Finn and 6-year-old Fiona. Someone always needs me. Desperately. Someone Else Steer For now, I'm content to sit in the passenger seat and let Shelby take the wheel. She drove us to the Garden of the Gods, comprised of 300 feet tall sandstone rock formations near CO Springs. I had a few minutes between the rocks to sit and think about the fact Sean brought us there. Even Finley said, “Daddy’s walking with us. Daddy’s lifting us up on the rocks.” I can't imagine taking this trip if it weren't for Sean: The friendships he helped cement, the struggles he endured, the death that stole him from us much too soon. And I wonder if he would've been able to walk 40 stairs, scramble up rocks, carry children... then realize the question is moot. Thankfully, Shelby and I are 2 strong moms who lift luggage, ascend stairs and distribute snacks with the best of them. I hoisted Finley onto my back when he fell asleep on a restaurant banquette after dinner in Santa Fe. The kids were drained, thanks to a morning of sightseeing at the Plaza and an afternoon of swimming at the hotel pool. As a bonus, Shelby encouraged me to visit the 10,000 Waves spa. The Japanese-themed bathhouse/massage center is featured in the 1,000 Places book, which says, "Check your modesty at the front desk at this oasis of pools, comprised of seven private tubs and two communal baths." Nudity seems to be the requirement and not the option, but after a 55-minute sandalwood scented rubdown, I forgot to care about lack of swimwear while wandering from 106-degree water to a 55-degree plunge pool in the women's-only baths. Got Faith? 400+ miles after leaving Monument, Colorado, we arrived in Santa Fe, a city of artists, earth-colored stucco homes and the panorama of the Sangre de Cristo and Jimez Mountains. Someone wrote on my Facebook wall that Santa Fe means, "Saint Faith," and that it was a fitting theme for my journey [I later read in a guidebook the name means "Holy Faith." Whatever. You get the idea]. Faith in... God? Sure, if that means, "What the hell, God?" Although, I’m not yet ready to renounce my faith, because that would be akin to renouncing myself and those I love. In my church (Episcopal) and many others, we say, “God be with you.” I also believe that blessing means, “God is IN you.” And so, I am reluctant to give up on God and in everyone on the planet. Faith for this journey means relying on the kindness of friends, family and strangers, because: -We will get lost. -We will get cranky. -We will get injured (we’ve already had one flesh wound; more about that later). So yes, a certain amount of faith is required for a year-long journey abroad; even for a 2-week jaunt in the American Southwest. And it helps that the vast majority of Good Samaritans rarely chant about flatulence at rock concert volume in the car. |
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Welcome to Your Travels
Monday, July 5, 2010
Ash Saturday at Camp
Ash Saturday at Camp
Some neighbors ask to borrow an egg, cup of milk, or sugar. I recently asked my neighbor for a tablespoon of ashes. Sean's ashes. I'd meant to pack them for family camp on Lake Coeur d'Alene. Camp Cross http://www.campcross.org/ was the last place Sean and I brought the kids together before he got sick. It's where we've spent every 4th of July (and many Labor Days) since 2005, when Fiona was a not-quite-walking toddler, and Finley was a (large) bump in my belly. We've canoed, changed diapers, sang songs, picked up children after they've rolled off cots onto the cabin floor, eaten s'mores, packed the kids on our backs, and savored grown-up moments alone (with help from other parents and staff). Camp is a place to disconnect from the chores of home and reconnect with each other and with the kind of relationship with God you only find outside.
Unfinished Business
I wanted to sprinkle part of Sean at camp, especially since I plan to take the kids on our year-long adventure in mid-August. I feel an urgency to tie up loose threads. When I realized I'd left Sean's ashes at home, I whipped up "Plan B:" One of my neighbors has a lake cabin (actually,her parents') around the bend from camp. Maybe she could bring them? I called her and said, "I know this is a strange request, and feel free to decline if it creeps you out. I forgot Sean's ashes. They're sitting on our back porch. Would you mind scooping up a small amount and bringing them to the lake?" Heidi's response was immediate: "Nothing grosses me out. Of course I will."
The Brown Box
The next day, I got a text from Heidi: "I got the ashes. It made me sadder than I expected." I thought of what it must be like to scoop up the remains of someone else's spouse. On one hand, you're glad your spouse's name isn't printed on the white tape label. You're thankful the sand-colored, fine powder does not belong to the person who was supposed to help raise your children. There's that. Then there's your own sadness: Sadness you've lost a friend, a neighbor... sadness as you realize, at some point in your life, you, too, will open another brown box. All of us will inhabit the brown box. No one gets a pass.
Another Favor
I asked a fellow camper who'd brought a boat if he could ferry me around the bend to "retrieve something a neighbor brought from home." I didn't tell him it was Sean's ashes. I didn't want him to feel obligated to run the errand. He said, "Sure," and the kids and I took a quick boat trip to grab a plastic bag on a dock in a flowerpot.
My Kryptonite
Like Heidi, I was surprised by the ashes' effect. After all, I've taken them to Canada, St. Croix, Lake Roosevelt, our backyard... haven't I been inoculated against cremains? I walked around with the familiar dust in my pocket all afternoon. It felt like my own personal Kryptonite. Any super-powers I possessed started to fade. I felt like someone had lined my sweatshirt with lead. I wept during the worship service as the priest talked about water and renewal.
A Little Child Shall Smear Them
That evening, at the campfire on the beach, we were invited to share whatever was on our minds. I couldn't talk. I could only reach into my sweatshirt pocket and pull out a Ziploc bag. I gave it to Fiona. "Do you want to sprinkle Daddy's ashes into the campfire?" I asked. "Can I do the whole thing?" Fiona eagerly replied. My 6-year-old, my heart, emptied the ashes. Many of them landed on a rock which Fiona later swiped her finger across after the fire died. She "anointed" other campers with the powder (and I wondered whether they knew what she was wiping on their skin). She smudged her nose, and mine, too. We looked as if we'd powdered our noses without blending well. I left the campfire feeling melancholy, but lighter. I had shared Sean in a place we both loved, with people who understood the gesture, even if they'd never met my husband.
Pass it On...
The next day, at the camp's playground, a couple from our church asked if it would be alright if they established a scholarship for family camp in Sean's name. The scholarship would ensure finances wouldn't stand between a family and memories at the lake. Sean had shown our friends a small kindness last summer, during their first visit to camp, encouraging them to hike alone while we watched their young kids. They had remembered the favor.
The kids and I are back home. I've unpacked the bags, washed the clothes and cleaned the van. I think about the weekend's souvenirs that live in my head: My neighbor's courage in retrieving Sean's ashes; the impromptu boat ride to get them; my friends' offer of a scholarship in Sean's name. Ashes still sit on my back porch, but the memory of how they joined us at camp gives me a tablespoon of peace.
Some neighbors ask to borrow an egg, cup of milk, or sugar. I recently asked my neighbor for a tablespoon of ashes. Sean's ashes. I'd meant to pack them for family camp on Lake Coeur d'Alene. Camp Cross http://www.campcross.org/ was the last place Sean and I brought the kids together before he got sick. It's where we've spent every 4th of July (and many Labor Days) since 2005, when Fiona was a not-quite-walking toddler, and Finley was a (large) bump in my belly. We've canoed, changed diapers, sang songs, picked up children after they've rolled off cots onto the cabin floor, eaten s'mores, packed the kids on our backs, and savored grown-up moments alone (with help from other parents and staff). Camp is a place to disconnect from the chores of home and reconnect with each other and with the kind of relationship with God you only find outside.
Unfinished Business
I wanted to sprinkle part of Sean at camp, especially since I plan to take the kids on our year-long adventure in mid-August. I feel an urgency to tie up loose threads. When I realized I'd left Sean's ashes at home, I whipped up "Plan B:" One of my neighbors has a lake cabin (actually,her parents') around the bend from camp. Maybe she could bring them? I called her and said, "I know this is a strange request, and feel free to decline if it creeps you out. I forgot Sean's ashes. They're sitting on our back porch. Would you mind scooping up a small amount and bringing them to the lake?" Heidi's response was immediate: "Nothing grosses me out. Of course I will."
The Brown Box
The next day, I got a text from Heidi: "I got the ashes. It made me sadder than I expected." I thought of what it must be like to scoop up the remains of someone else's spouse. On one hand, you're glad your spouse's name isn't printed on the white tape label. You're thankful the sand-colored, fine powder does not belong to the person who was supposed to help raise your children. There's that. Then there's your own sadness: Sadness you've lost a friend, a neighbor... sadness as you realize, at some point in your life, you, too, will open another brown box. All of us will inhabit the brown box. No one gets a pass.
Another Favor
I asked a fellow camper who'd brought a boat if he could ferry me around the bend to "retrieve something a neighbor brought from home." I didn't tell him it was Sean's ashes. I didn't want him to feel obligated to run the errand. He said, "Sure," and the kids and I took a quick boat trip to grab a plastic bag on a dock in a flowerpot.
My Kryptonite
Like Heidi, I was surprised by the ashes' effect. After all, I've taken them to Canada, St. Croix, Lake Roosevelt, our backyard... haven't I been inoculated against cremains? I walked around with the familiar dust in my pocket all afternoon. It felt like my own personal Kryptonite. Any super-powers I possessed started to fade. I felt like someone had lined my sweatshirt with lead. I wept during the worship service as the priest talked about water and renewal.
A Little Child Shall Smear Them
That evening, at the campfire on the beach, we were invited to share whatever was on our minds. I couldn't talk. I could only reach into my sweatshirt pocket and pull out a Ziploc bag. I gave it to Fiona. "Do you want to sprinkle Daddy's ashes into the campfire?" I asked. "Can I do the whole thing?" Fiona eagerly replied. My 6-year-old, my heart, emptied the ashes. Many of them landed on a rock which Fiona later swiped her finger across after the fire died. She "anointed" other campers with the powder (and I wondered whether they knew what she was wiping on their skin). She smudged her nose, and mine, too. We looked as if we'd powdered our noses without blending well. I left the campfire feeling melancholy, but lighter. I had shared Sean in a place we both loved, with people who understood the gesture, even if they'd never met my husband.
Pass it On...
The next day, at the camp's playground, a couple from our church asked if it would be alright if they established a scholarship for family camp in Sean's name. The scholarship would ensure finances wouldn't stand between a family and memories at the lake. Sean had shown our friends a small kindness last summer, during their first visit to camp, encouraging them to hike alone while we watched their young kids. They had remembered the favor.
The kids and I are back home. I've unpacked the bags, washed the clothes and cleaned the van. I think about the weekend's souvenirs that live in my head: My neighbor's courage in retrieving Sean's ashes; the impromptu boat ride to get them; my friends' offer of a scholarship in Sean's name. Ashes still sit on my back porch, but the memory of how they joined us at camp gives me a tablespoon of peace.
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