What three important gifts have helped shape your life?

The month of November lends itself to asking the annual question, "What are we are thankful for? " Children are often grateful for items they can pull from the depths of their bedroom--Legos, a doll, a favorite blanket--and then eventually mention people in their lives that make a difference: parents, grandparents, or teachers. When a friend recently posed this adult-version of the yearly Fall query,"What three important gifts have helped shape your life?" I felt compelled to answer it in a manner similar to my young counterparts: by choosing three material, and three non-material gifts.

The tangible items I would choose are: a diamond necklace my grandfather gave me upon graduation from high school, my guitar, and my diploma from college.  For many years the necklace my grandfather gave me was simply a beautiful piece of jewelry. I wore it everyday and often forgot it was there hanging visible to everyone. It became a part of me.
The chain withstood the rigors of constant washing, chlorine,  nervous twisting during meetings and interviews, toddlers hands yanking on it, and my curly hair getting caught up in the links. Then, nearly 10 years ago I went to the hospital to visit my grandfather and leaned over his bedside to share a moment with him. My eyes were locked with his as I moved closer to give him what I knew would be a final goodbye. He could not speak at that point because of tubes that assisted his breathing draped out of his mouth. As I went to kiss him, the necklace swung near his face and he reached up to grab it. Without saying a word, so much transpired between us. I felt his sadness on leaving, his wishes for my future, his love for the granddaughter who was so precious to him in that moment as I smiled, teared, and held his hand.

The mellow-sounding, Sigma guitar crafted with blonde and dark woods by the Martin company, was a surprise from Rod when we were first together enjoying the giddiness that ensues with a new relationship. He researched, spent time shopping with my brother who is a seasoned player, then wrapped a pick in a simple package for me to unwrap Christmas morning. I quickly took up lessons. Much like art is a hobby for some people, so is music to me. It makes my soul sing to be able to create meaningful sound that can bring our busy family together for brief moments.

My diploma sits dusty in a drawer somewhere in the caverns of my house. However, it means no less to me because I choose not to display it for all to see. While I earned it through years of hard work, I see it as gift my parents gave me that they knew would keep on giving. It was a priority to them to send my brothers and I to a university and they did whatever they could to provide us a debt-free experience. I am especially grateful now as my own children embark on their college years. The time I spent thinking, researching, learning, and discussing with other academics the intricacies of the material we were studying gave me the urge to seek knowledge. I gained an understanding of myself and how I process information. I also earned an appreciation for tenacity, and the satisfying reward of accomplishing personal success.

Non-material gifts require more reflection, especially when considering how they have helped "shape your life". Mine include first: compassion. This gift, if it could be wrapped would be contained in a massive box because its benefits often inspire an action which touches others lives. Compassion tied beautifully with an empathy bow. The gift makes me tear up when I hear about someone's last moments with a family member, then hold them as they cry; or grants me patience to give up a day of duties for my family to work at the shelter; or inspires me to drop a card in the mail to a friend who I know is experiencing difficulty in their lives.

The ability to take risks. I was often the one among my peers that my high school and college friends called upon to do something first. Whether it was jumping into a freezing cold pool or drinking a shot of tequila. This led to many unusual predicaments and a lot of laughter. Later in life when Rod and I committed to leaving on our sailboat with the kids for a year, it was a great comfort knowing that things would work out in the end as they always had when I had taken leaps before. This gift is waning as I get older and it irritates me. I feel unsettled and I understand this to be that it is time to shake things up and take another risk. But I hesitate because those dependent on my assurance are not comfortable with the idea of jumping into something unfamiliar.

The ability to forgive. Forgiving is freeing. It allows you move forward with positive action instead of wallowing in self pity or anger at another individual. I like to face a problem, clarify a misunderstanding, or apologize if someone has been unintentionally hurt. I don't live by the, "time will heal all things," idea. Nope. Face it, deal with it, talk about it, move on. If someone is not willing to discuss or face the issue, than I will move on without their blessing and forgive. Life is too short to walk around constantly worried about relationships and what may or may not happen. I forgave my Dad, even before he died for the unfair conditions I had to endure while he suffered alcoholism and depression. I became his parent while in my late teens when I should have been immersed in college life. Though I was away at school, I would return to his condo on weekends to clean up his living areas, shop for his groceries, and be his companion. I did not know what else to do. For me, this was normal. And while it made me terribly irritable at the time, I always went back. The love and patience that continued to motivate me to return to him filled my heart every time I saw his smile and received one of his long hugs. There is comfort, joy, and hope in forgiveness.

I'm motivated now to go dig out the hand-made turkey decorations and prepare for the feast with family at the end of the month. Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

The Way We Hold Each Other

It is true that in life we never really know each other. We do our best to provide a profile of ourselves to one another, but it is not a complete or accurate portrayal. It's tainted by what we wear, what we said at a party, or what we spend money on. The gaps are filled in by each person based on their experience with you. In short: Your image isn't you.

I am lucky enough to have a few close friends who have deeper exposure to my true self because of what we have endured together. I also grew up with loving parents who encouraged me to be strong and defend my own principals. Despite these positives, I still hold my deepest, most difficult struggles to myself in the hopes I can see myself through. So while others continue to expect my "image" to perform the way it has in the past, my inner self is screaming to turn course because of turmoil.

In the photo here, it is 1968 and I my mother is holding me tight. Clearly I am forcing a smile, with some hesitation. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's that I don't really know what "Say Cheese!" means. But either way, I'm comfortable for the moment in her arms. I was her first daughter after having two boys 18 months apart. She's clearly proud of her accomplishment, beehive hairdo and all. Her smile is genuine, though I can tell now when I look at her eyes, it may not have always been her natural state.

Mom adored her four children, dedicated her life to our happiness. And when my youngest sister died of a brain aneurysm at 6 years old there was nothing we could do to comfort her but be there. Mom got busy, though, doing everything in her power to try to make the pain go away for us, and for herself. She drove us to every music lesson and sport practice, attended every game, fed our friends, and told us there was nothing we could not do. She fought off her own sadness with wine, valium, and hours of piano playing that included loud, banging chords, endless runs up and down the keys, and sad, minor notes. We all went to college, earned our degrees and embarked on our own life adventures while she divorced our Dad and continued her methods of maintenance despite her depression. Rarely, did she ever talk about losing her daughter except once in a while in Oct. when it was the anniversary of my sister's death. And when we moved across the country, Mom followed and continued her role as caretaker by helping our busy family with child care, exposing the kids to culture and taking them special places. Somehow she managed to carry on.

So I learned from her and became a nurturer at heart. I have, over the course of 20 years of raising three kids put many of my own needs aside. I am hopelessly dedicated to what I consider to be most important--our family. This includes not just my kids and husband, but Mom who now lives nearby and was diagnosed 25 years ago with an illness that no one would know she has by her appearance. At 78 she has survived breast cancer and is physically in fantastic shape and looks it too. However, for the span of her lifetime and mine, she has suffered with manic depression/bipolar mental illness.

Caring for her during her different phases of depression and manic behavior has been exhausting and encompasses much of my time. I could write a novel based on some of the bizarre behavior I have witnessed and difficult situations I have been in because of this unspoken illness though I have told only few of what I've endured. Today, I loosely monitor obvious basics like Mom's trips to doctors and her medication, but the core of what constitutes most of my time is keeping her emotions in check as she progresses through her life and fights off depression and loneliness.

I 've recently decided to pursue more consistent employment in my career. I need to channel my intelligence toward something that gives me a sense of accomplishment with less emotional involvement. And though I have written and edited on brief projects over the course of raising kids, I realize that my resume experience consists now of life skills that may not transfer easily to employment in the business world. Here is a list in order to clarify my recent experience: Get Mom out of bed. Make sure she eats and showers when she is severely depressed. Take her to the grocery store. Tell her to stop medicating with alcohol and refuse to let her behind the wheel. Call to settle payment disputes when she cannot face a bill discrepancy. Keep her spirits up and remind her of her blessings.

Our roles have switched since that wonderful photo from the sixties. So while others may view my profile as an energetic and positive wife, coach, and mother who is available to everyone always, in reality I'm emotionally spent and physically busy. Today, my career is caring for an ill and aging parent and struggling to keep myself positive in the process while raising my own family.  That's what I've earned my Ph.D in and it's been a challenging but fulfilling education. Now I too will carry on.

My Name is Momma

Many who know me well are familiar with the bizarre stories I share about unusual circumstances that often arise when I do absolutely ordinary things. The other day such an episode occurred. I thought I'd share because it was one of those shocking jolts in life that ended in grateful peace.

I was taking Phoebe to her first physical therapy appointment at a clinic nearby. The office was in a building directly across the street from the local hospital and Sailor, Phoebe, and I trotted in on time to her scheduled appointment. We were directed to the lobby and I set Sailor up with entertainment, opened my book, and Phoebe was quickly called in with her therapist. I was unaware how long the appointment would take, being that it was her first time.

Twenty minutes into our wait, I heard "Code Blue" yelled from one end of the building. It seemed almost unreal. Then again, "Code Blue. Call 911 NOW." I reassured myself with that voice of reason that it couldn't be Phoebe and started to feel sad for the family of whoever was suffering. Then I took note as to how many people were actually in the waiting room. There were two: Sailor and I. I started to sweat, couldn't look at the words on the pages in front of me anymore and started listening to the voices in my head always conscious that Sailor would pick up on it if I were to express concern, worry, or panic. 

Meanwhile, an employee from the other end of the building rushes down the hall saying, "Is this real?" (I found out later they had had a Code Blue drill earlier in the day--this was NOT a drill). Then sirens. The EMTs arrive, fire truck, five or so firemen, and others run to the room where "Code Blue" had been called from. I only saw people running past the doorway where we were sitting. It was clear that this was an unusual situation. Medical professionals were panicked, obviously upset. So I watched the mayhem ensue, staring in to space and listening to two voices inside my head: "it couldn't be Phoebe", .."but we are the only one's here in the waiting room?",...  "it's only physical therapy"... "but it is her back...could something have happened when she laid down...", and on and on.

Then a woman with a blue coat on and a tag that said 'Silverton Hospital' came into the room. I looked away thinking she was just passing through. But then she stopped, leaned in closely towards me and asked, "Are you momma?" My worst nightmare had come true! "Yes! What!" I screamed. I stammered glaring into her eyes, "What??!! This can't be!" Sailor jumped wide-eyed watching my expression. "My daughter is in there!" The woman stopped for a minute, her eyes were glued to mine, she stuttered, then started shaking her head. "No!" she said. I quickly stated, "We came here for physical therapy, she is in there!"  

She put her hand on my arm and said, "Oh, oh, no, no. Your daughter is over in a different room. There is a gentleman here who was accompanied by a woman he calls 'Momma' and I am looking for her. I thought she'd be in the waiting room." 

Blood was rushing to every extremity in my body. I was hot. I was shaking. I was relieved. Warm tears filled my eyes and I turned my head. I was crying. I had built up so much anxiety sitting there listening to the chaos, worried about the person and their family and then for me to think, just for one fleeting moment it was my daughter was simply too much. I slumped into the chair in shock. Sailor sat still, confused and unsure of how to react.

Sure enough a few minutes later they locate Momma sitting in her car with other family members. An overweight woman, probably in her 70s, with gray hair and a homely, disheveled look smiled and said she was waiting for her husband because "we were all going to go to pizza when he was done." She had no idea what was going on. Immediately they brought in a nurse to deliver the news of what happened, and fortunately she added that the man had "come back" and was breathing normally and seemed fine. Momma was clearly worried, but calm. They had to take her husband in an ambulance to the ER for observation.

I sat numb. Relieved for her. Relieved for me. And oh so grateful when Phoebe finally came out smiling, happy, relaxed after her appointment. I grabbed her, gave a big hug and told her the story. She laughed and laughed. "A woman named Momma?! What are the odds?!" Sailor chimed in to say I was "freakin' out". We had ourselves quite a moment in that lobby. The receptionist giggled on the way out, "Oh, silly girls!" unaware of what had happened, but sharing the joy of our contagious relief.

I will never forget it. It was my heart that stopped still that day, just for a moment. And then I was lucky enough to be revived and returned to my familiar reality. Sometimes reality is a tragedy but this time just wasn't my turn. Thank goodness for today.

A Tasty Summer Treat

Contrary to what you may think because of my lack of posting in the last few months, life has not stopped dead in its tracks as my blogging has. This is the balancing act that I can't juggle well, in fact, that I struggle with: how to continue full force through each sunrise to sunset, fully attentive to every moment and then attempt to stop, retrace, and pick a particularly poignant part of my day to reflect upon. Lately there have been many and stopping to write feels like a chore. I don't want to diminish the effect of the memory, try to recreate the laughter, colors, views and turn it into work. But then what I forget is the beauty of the words. They exist forever. I can always go back and experience vividly a moment of sheer delight by simply reading my own thoughts on paper. I need to write to create those treasures I can pull out of my diary or computer when the rains of a Northwest winter return and I forget how we danced in the dust of summer. Or when it's dark in December I can reminisce through written reflection on the brightness of early morning sun while drinking coffee on my deck--how everything felt like it would fade before August's end because of the sun's rays sucking the moisture out of green grass, golden wood, and bleaching colors out of the plastic bubble wand laid to rest in the yard.

Honestly, I don't expect myself to record it all I would miss too much. I mentally take stock of an instant and cross my fingers I won't forget. There have been many wonderful moments in the last months. A trip to the horse races in Seattle with my Mom Phoebe's graduation, recital, swim meets. A week on Terrapin, Hunter's visit to University of Utah, Sailor's birthday extravaganza, and first round of swimming lessons. String Summit, our yearly camping/music festival. Picking plenty from the garden, and dinners with friends. I have a slide show running through my head of snapshots that are some of my favorite and these have not necessarily made it to film. Most recent is a fleeting minute yesterday that made me close my eyes, try to imprint what I saw through my eyes as best I could on my brain, and then spit it out with laugh from deep my heart.

Sailor had our two neighbor girls, ages 5 and 3, over an

d they were playing in an area of the yard not visible to me while I chatted with a friend. It was 90 something degrees and early evening and we were all sweaty and tired, my hair was a messy bouquet perched high on my head to keep it from curling tighter from dampness around my neck. When I turned the corner of the house I saw what to

me is the essence of being four. Sailor was stark naked from the waist up. Her delicious, creamy white skin on her belly shockingly bright in the fading light. Covering her bottom half was the largest tutu imaginable for her size bursting out from just below her waist while streams of pale pink, purple, yellow and blue tulle cascaded down to her ankles to reveal her pudgy toes peeking out from underneath the giant shade. When I called her name she turned, ruffling the tutu in the warm breeze and exposing her gorgeous self she squeaked with delight, "We're dressing up!" and there all three of them were, princesses grinning from ear to ear, lost in an imaginary fairy land leaving the rest of us behind. Now that's what I call a summer treat.

Morning Run

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Rubber soles meeting asphalt on a quiet morning run. The rain has subsided for a moment and a cool, light breeze occasionally blows pleasing my sweaty face as I lift it to fill my lungs with another long breath of crisp, earthy Oregon air. Thwap. Thwap. My soles grind then displace a few of the small pebbles below my pounding feet. Breathe. There, around the back of that tree, a robin watches me go by unaltered in its quest for whatever lurks near the trunk of the stoic oak he quietly hides behind. Birds move in such quick, jerky motion and with purpose but cautious nevertheless. I, however, thwap, thwap, thwap. Slow, steady, and strive to reach the state of consciousness where I am purely thoughtful and less aware of the legs attached to my body. The soreness in my knees, the oddness of my gait, the weight upon my feet, the quickness of my breath. I’m almost there, rising to meet nature on a meaningful level of awareness. Feeling better, like all of the old air is flushed out and the new brought in. Smells like the forest, of dirt and pine needles. Everything is bright even though it is overcast. More spright sparrows searching for worms watching me from afar.

I look down at my companion, Maggie. The jingle of her collar reminds me of her presence. No complaints, steady jog, happy dog. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. I listen carefully now to birds chirping and even hear a rooster crow over the streaming bluegrass music turned low, spilling into my psyche from minuscule speakers plugged into the bend of my ear canals. It's a perfect combination: banjo, guitar, mandolin, and...breathe in. I take in another mouthful of tasty, moist air. I turn my head in all directions for a full view of the valley I live in. Lush. Vibrant green, endless fields of fertile soil absorbing the misty rain and reaching, reaching for any light available.

A breeze blows, curling the leafy crops in one direction, then the other. I can hear the wind travel from a distance, over the grassy fields, then meet my structure, and continue beyond. I hear a car in the distance behind me, approaching fast. We guide ourselves into the muddy shoulder, enjoying the added cushioning provided by the saturated ground, a relief from the unforgiving road that throws all of our force immediately back at us. Misty rain begins to fall, the droplets hold on to my face, my sunglasses for a moment, then drip to rest on the gravel below. They provide the ideal relief for my salty, glowing skin. A natural cleansing.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Now beginning a hill. Focus, push through. Keep breathing. I thrust open my chest, pull my shoulders back and lift my head then visualize filling my lungs. Don’t stop. Make it to the top, slow your pace. Think beyond, find a thought to take me to the end. Jingle. Jingle. How's Maggie? I glance, following the red leash from where it loosely sits in my hand down to the white, shaggy Westie dashing across the ground. She is keeping up. Clearly, she is tired but determined to continue despite the weight of her twelve-pound frame burdening her four short legs and tiny paws. I need her tenacity to push me onward. Her tongue is out, she looks at me with no emotion now, just focused. Click, click, click, click her bare feet scrape the pavement. Off in the distance across the field, I hear the "moo" of a lonely cow.

Finally, we’ve made it past the crest and I slow down. Time to breathe. Time for Maggie to breathe. Our walk morphed into a run we both embraced. Here comes the sun, hazy behind a light grey cloud. The blood is rushing throughout my body in a happy dance of renewal. I feel exhilarated. We walk now, more like prance, to cool down. Ah, Maggie spots a grey squirrel. She pulls the leash taut then whines as she follows the busy-tailed creature's every move. It scampers up a tree, then across a telephone wire. We both watch intently as it maneuvers itself with its fate in flux. Maggie retreats, not defeated but realizes the grey squirrel is out of her reach and brings her attention back to the sidewalk. The squirrel waits until we've passed underneath, then continues on its narrow path across the street.

Suddenly, the red trim of the house appears on the horizon. I smile. Maggie's step quickens. Comfort comes to mind. Dry, warmth, drinking water. The rain has subsided and someone nearby just started their mower. Another deep breath before I open the gate and release Maggie to find her bed inside and relax. This spring day in a quiet country town, alive with nature, bursting with color and new life has now officially begun.

Phoebe for President

This week voters in Oregon are casting their ballots not only for the governor primary candidates but Mt. Angel teens are choosing next year's freshman class president at Kennedy High School. Phoebe decided to run for the leadership position and her preparations have been underway all week including the necessary campaign procedures: designing posters and speech writing. No propaganda-filled newspaper ads, phone calls, or television appearances. She's making her first run at politics based on just who Phoebe is as a person. Au natural.

I, of course, would vote for Phoebe but decided I would list all of the reasons she would make a perfect candidate for the position.

Phoebe's work ethic is this: give whatever you have to do everything you've got, then enjoy yourself as a reward for accomplishing your goals.

Her passion about an issue directly leads her to be proactive about it. She believes in herself and the causes she is behind. She will fight until the bitter end (believe me, I know this first hand).

She is thoughtful about everyone and NEVER manipulative.

She makes good choices, period.

She can debate and defend her position on a subject better than most adults. I was blown away at the argument she presented the other day while trying to convince me to allow her to have texting as an option on her phone. She even got into my psyche and told me how I was thinking (and of course, how it was wrong). I had to admit, she came at me from many convincing angles but Mom held her ground.

She likes to learn and is a good listener.

She cares. Better yet, she loves from her heart but keeps herself well protected from being hurt.

She is honest, reliable, funny and if you're lucky-enough--a true friend.

Plus, of course. She is smart, witty, loves good music (and is talented), and just plain adorable.

Phoebe used these lines from John Lennon in her speech, "A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality." When Phoebe was little we used to say, "In Phoebe's-World.....(everything is seen in technicolor, money grows on trees, pajamas are worn all the time, people hoola-hoop all day, etc.)". But in Phoebe's grown-up world today, everybody deserves a chance to achieve their goals and she is leader who can help her peers get a little closer to reaching them.

So, vote for Phoebe Mt. Angel Middle School 8th graders! And if the rest of you want to cast your vote or add a comment please do it by becoming a 'Jen's Friend' here on Straight from Hill, Facebook Phoebe, or send an e-mail to hills@terrapintrips.com. May the best candidate win!

Bury Me in My Prom Dress

The sun broke through the early-morning clouds two Saturdays ago providing the perfect spring day for Prom 2010. While it felt fairly ordinary to the rest of the family, Hunter was cheery and clearly looking forward to an evening out with "his girl"(as Sailor puts it), Julia. His plans were set: pictures, then driving into Salem to eat at Bentley's, then prom and an after-party/bonfire.

The previous week had been eventful. The tasks included going to measure for and pick out the tux, order the corsage, and figure out transportation. Phoebe and I spent an entire day with Julia talking endlessly about color and dresses, shoes and accessories. At one point, I remembered that tucked away deep in one of my closets I still had my prom dress. "No WAY!!" Julia and Phoebe said in unison, "Go get it! We want to see!" Rod said, " "Wow, why would you keep something like THAT?" Clearly, he had never thought twice about his nights at prom while I remembered details like it was yesterday. I was excited to finally have a reason to pull it out and show it off.

The build-up before my own prom had been four years in the making. At the all-girls Catholic school I went to, we hosted only a senior prom so students had the opportunity to go to the elegant event only once. My prom was at the Renaissance Center in Detroit which at that time had recently been built and was a hot Motor City attraction. I had a boyfriend, but things were fizzling out and I was much more interested in having a terrific evening with my best girlfriends. My dress was simple, big surprise, but elegant. It was a white, spaghetti strap dress with an empire waist, a tiered, ruffled skirt , and was finished with a pink bow that tied in front. We had a memorable night, and wrapped things up with a breakfast party at a friend's house. Then the dress went to rest under a plastic bag for 26 (can that be right?) years.

I brought the precious item out from the plastic grave it was hidden in. There it was, complete with champagne spills still in tact and a ratty ribbon that hung lifeless like it hadn't had air for, well, 20 years. Julia said, "It's really not that bad." Phoebe just said, "Ewwwww!" Hunter shook his head, looked sweetly at me with that, "Oh, Mom why do you have to be so sensitive?" look and a warm smile. It was then that Rod had an epiphany. He realized when I revealed the attire from my past that prom is a major event for the girl, maybe not as much for the boy. In fact, he couldn't even remember who he went to prom with!

As the days neared Prom 2010, I witnessed Hunter rolling his eyes whenever we'd start talking about times and places, flowers and pictures, parties and cars. He had no patience for the repeated discussions about the same issues over and over. So, Rod sat Hunter down, explained how important this was ("I mean, look, Hunter, your mother saved this dress this entire time!") and from that point forward, Hunter didn't complain one bit about the attention that was being given to the details and planning for one night.

The well-dressed couple had a wonderful night. We rented a luxury car to shuffle Hunter and Julia to and from Salem where prom was held, and they agreed to let Rod be the chauffeur in order to satisfy our concerns of being safe for the big night. Dressed in black from head to foot, Rod looked like he was straight out of a mob movie when he opened the doors and guided his son and date into the fancy Cadillac SUV. They rode in a caravan behind the Hummer limo rented by ten other Mt. Angel couples and by the end of the night Rod and the other chauffeur were sharing driving info. Too funny. I think Rod has a future behind the wheel in retirement, don't you?

So, while saving that prom dress for a special occasion was self-indulgent and a bit out of the ordinary, it provided about five minutes of laughter and then went back under the plastic bag that survived years of neglect and multiple moves. Maybe when it's Phoebe's turn for prom I'll bring it out of the closet again. I'm not so sure the threads on the dress can hold out until Sailor hits 16. When Rod and I chuckled about it later he asked, "What are you going to do with it now?" I said, "Bury me in my prom dress." At least it has a purpose for hanging around. Of course, I had to ask Julia to at least think about keeping hers. Now, what should I do with my wedding gown?