Why Knee?

Snap, crackle, pop. That's what I hear each morning when I get out of bed. The sound of my waking bones after sleep. Yesterday, I was seen by an orthopedist for chronic pain I've been experiencing in my right knee.

This is not a new injury: I did not all of the sudden experience a "pop" or snap and start limping. I have been living this pain for ten years plus and was diagnosed years ago with osteoarthritis in my knees. Multiple X-rays and MRIs over the course of 15 years show the standard course of deterioration. I continue to run because I refuse to accept the inevitable. I've added knee braces, moved to trails and gravel, taken more days off in-between runs, cycled, swallowed ibuprofen and glucosomine chronindrin and swam. By strengthening my quads I took pressure off my knees so the pain was fortunately reduced. However, the arthritis continues to progress and last spring when I was committed to running each day during the 40 days of Lent, my knee said, "No".

Since then, I've been nursing my knee back to a level of mobility I can tolerate. I rest, ice, hot tub, swim, sit, and try to alleviate what I can during the day through stretching. I cannot seem to tolerate the level of running I did just 5 months ago and that is frustrating. No, that is beyond frustrating. It is depressing and has stifled me. I have felt like the victim of a cruel crime. Stripped of my moments of peace out with nature, my fitness regime, and mental well-being. Running has never been about time...or miles....or speed for me. I run when I can fit it in and sure, I have some knowledge of how far I go but whatever I accomplish on the road or trail is satisfying and helps me handle the stress of the rest of my day. Now I feel robbed of the one thing that keeps me healthy and present.

While this internal strife feels selfish for me to confess here--I realize so many worse things could have happened to me. I do not have a death sentence. I did not lose a family member. I still have most of my mind and body as a healthy unit. But I cannot belittle the effect this change has had on me. Some have witnessed it from a distance wondering why I don't walk with a kick in my step or why they don't see me tackling miles on the highway anymore. I'd prefer that they don't ask. It hurts emotionally for me to have to admit I cannot do it anymore. I've suffered a loss.

As I start to accept my diagnosis I am also trying to maintain some grace about the whole thing. There are some positives. One is that I swim. Two is that I have a good sense of humor. Three is that I won't become sedentary and will still run some until basically, I cannot do it anymore. And four, I know it doesn't take someone who's an athlete to do great things in this world. 

However, I still have to take care of myself. I am strong in the water and enjoy the monotony of laps and the silence underwater is soothing. I gain confidence with each stroke--unlike when I'm upright and trying to push through miles with large shoulders, heavy legs, and giant weighted balloons strapped to my chest. I knew I'd never win any road races. I don't have the wiry physique of my friends who are natural athletes and compete in marathons. On the up side, I do have a large, muscular Amazonian build similar to the first woman who swam the English Channel.  So, yea, I got that going for me.

My ideal swimming situation is this: A giant pool that heads out my driveway, around the valley here and back home. No laps, just miles of swimming right out my door. Swimming isn't convenient. And here in Oregon it is not an outdoor activity most of the year so the fresh air and wide open spaces that clear my mind disappear when trapped in a muggy, steamy environment.

The orthopedist pointed to the film of my knee and said, "Look. The damage is there." He was referring to the picture of my knee and the lack of space on one side of the joint. It looked pretty much like this image--bone resting on bone. He added that it was most likely happening to my other knee as well based on his analysis of my walk and physical examination. I'm a candidate for knee replacement. But we both said if I can continue managing the pain I would get about ten more years of moderate exercise before we'd be to the point that my daily activities would become difficult and it would be time to consider that option. And once my knee is rebuilt or replaced, no running. 

Ten years isn't a long time anymore like it was when I was in my 20s. It is in my near future now. So off I go. A vigorous walk, ibuprofen, a swim, and then ice or hot tub. I'll research other options to help alleviate my pain. I'll mix up my fitness options and add the mental exercise of pushing beyond the reality of my inabilities to living with my diagnosis and discovering new avenues of release. And yes, I'll continue to run.

Often towards the end of a hard run I create a chant to push through exhaustion, such as, "no pain, no gain",  "work it, breathe, energy". This new journey of acceptance and fitness requires its own motivating words and they are simple, "Keep on truckin'."

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?

Oceans Emotions

Yesterday, I cried quietly watching a film in a nearly empty theatre. I was positioned in a high-back, comfy seat with Sailor perched at the edge of her cushion on my right and my Mom on the left. The giant screen over us flashed beautiful scenery, shocking moments of disbelief, and touching love scenes. But you won't see any of the featured actors and actresses marching the red carpet or pictured on the cover of grocery store tabloids anytime soon.

You might be wondering if it was a "chick flick", a true story drama, or an adventure film but it was none of the sort. The film we saw was Oceans, a Disney Nature film that was released in celebration of Earth Day. Please go see it, if you haven't yet. The footage under the mass of blue water that most of us see from shore of unusual sea life, majestic whales, hilarious penguins, acrobatic dolphins, fighting crabs, adorable sea otters provided entertainment better than any dramatic film I've seen recently.

I was giddy with excitement when I told others about memorable scenes much more so than when I saw Brad Pitt for the first time in Thelma and Louise. I realize it is because this was the first time I have seen non-mammal, undersea life act with sense, determination, and skill. Watching crusteaceans like shrimp, lobsters and crab search for food and protect their shelter with purpose was phenomenal. I had always thought they were less able to reason, more reactive then active. Clearly, I was wrong.

It was such a positive feeling to know that there are places in the ocean that are untouched by human hands. I felt a twinge of jealousy while watching the dolphins flip, chase, play, and feed in their great blue world. How wonderful to live life in the moment, letting nature take its course and do what you need to do only when you need to do it. And what an incredible playground they have!

I remember as a child bawling through scenes in Benji, Bambi, The Black Stallion and later through Seabiscuit and Free Willy. Animals, just by their nature of being innocent and unable to speak to humans, instantly capture my heart whenever featured on film. I've always been curious about their thoughts and as I child I absorbed books about gorillas and chimpanzees, filled my room with stuffed creatures, watched Wild Kingdom religiously, and dreamed about a future writing for National Geographic or as a veterinarian.

So, then, why was I crying this time ? It was the sheer beauty of massive whales breaking through the blue to show all their glory as they breeched near feeding grounds that brought the lump in my throat. The sweetness of a mother sea lion urging her calf into the water to teach it to swim caused the warm, salty droplets to roll down from my eyes and rest into the creases of my mouth. My tears left tracks, too, because I remember dearly days and amazing nights I spent sailing on the ocean, rocking up and down with each wave gazing at the horizon and discovering the beauty of silence. I miss the serenity, the closeness to nature that just being there among whales and dolphins provides. And finally, I wept because I did not hold true to the vision of myself that I had while dreaming as an adolescent.

Now when I watch the purposeful actions of wild animals, I can't help but contemplate human behavior--everything from family relationships to large socio-economic and environmental issues. Frankly, we humans have screwed up. We have selfishly thrown garbage and poisonous waste into the ocean thinking that it just goes away. But we've been dumping

in someone else's environment. Creatures whose life is centered on survival. We have threatened species and created a massive heap of trash in the Pacific. Dead dolphins, whales, and seals are discarded everyday from massive fishing nets belonging to humans trying to make a living. And here we are faced with another oil spill, larger than the last. Pierce Brosnan in the voiceover during the movie said, "The cries (for help) of the endangered species may never be heard." Those are the biggest reasons I had to reach for a tattered kleenex from my pocket to wipe my wet face. I felt responsible for these actions. How do I justify these horrific actions to the little girl in my past who loved animals so much?

Oceans doesn't dwell on punishing us. The movie tactfully mentions threatened species and touches on pollution in the sea, but more importantly shows what exists for us to preserve. What beauty there is that we need to take action to protect. The film felt motivating in an organic way, not in a stuffy, "green" marketing manner but through giving us a vision into the world that lies beneath us and surrounds us. It is our responsibility to take care of not only ourselves, but the gift of the earth that we are blessed to dwell upon and those that we share it with. It is, for lack of a better term, human nature that gives us compassion. So listen to your heart and take care. Because that's what we're supposed to do.

In Perfect Harmony

A Visit with Jerry

"I'm a writer," I said to the deep, fast-talking voice on the other end of the telephone line. "Of what?", the man asked, obviously curious. I blurted immediately back at the nosey stranger, "of non-fiction." It was mid-morning on a Wednesday and I decided to answer the multiple post-card requests from my high school (Our Lady of Mercy) alumni association to call and update personal information. The man assigned to my call asked basic questions to summarize my life since the '80s and we had finally landed on the details of my present-day endeavors. "It's true," I smiled and thought to myself. In three words I successfully put an answer in all of the long blank lines I will face after the question "employment"on applications and questionnaires in my future.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a guy named Jerry Garcia, believe it or not. He was gathering my details to put into a book the publishing company plans to sell to Mercy graduates who have the desire to read about their fellow classmates' lives. "Oh, that's cool," Jerry said when I revealed my profession. I smiled at myself thinking he's going to say "groovy" in his next breath. But he didn't have a chance. I eagerly jumped in. It was my turn to be the interrogator and I just had to ask, "Is Jerry Garcia really your name?" He chuckled an almost perfect replica of the real Garcia's raspy smoker's rolling giggle with a "Yep," hidden in there somewhere adding that he, like the original, was from the same generation and from southern California. We plowed through his lists of questions while I imagined Jerry's bouncing wild, grey curls, round glasses and wide, bearded face taking notes about my life on his computer.

Towards the end of our conversation, he tried to sell me the "Facebook book" of all the alumni of my high school in hard or soft cover. I declined and he eventually respected my choice. I didn't really have to explain that high school was a long time ago and I didn't feel the need to share my personal history or read about anyone else's. After all, as the real Jerry once sang, "There is a road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of night, and if you go, no one may follow, that path is for your steps alone.”

"Thanks, Jerry, " I said like I'd been wanting to say that all of my life, wearing a self-proclaimed hippie grin from ear to ear as I hung up the phone. The conversation was a pleasant, surreal surprise and I did appreciate the uncanny connection with the name behind one of my musical faves. Not to mention the music that since this encounter has been streaming through my head. Was he really named Jerry? Was it his way of remaining anonymous? Was he using this name as a marketing tool to make me talk? How many Jerry Garcia's are there in the world? I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. He made my Wednesday. So, if that's ever me making calls on the other line......I'm Amelia Earhart. Who are you?

The Return Home

The return home from a weekend away, a long journey or any extended stay somewhere else is in itself an enlightening experience. There is the anticipation, the buildup of emotion before you pull up and view the place you live from the street. It starts days before you depart your vacation spot to venture back to your routine existence. You wonder, “What will it feel like to get home?” I have found this question to be answered with varied responses each time I go somewhere often depending on where I live, what things were like when I left, and what I have to do when I get back to my real life.

I grew up in Michigan and remember most of my travels once I was in my teens to involve flying. I spent summers in Connecticut and school breaks in Florida. These states offered an escape from my immediate family to experience extended family and friends in a drastically different environment. I would return to Detroit Metro Airport from the sky, peering out my window at the grey, smoggy blanket over the city and think, “Why would someone want to live HERE?” Through my eyes I saw a concrete mess of dirty houses, smokestacks, depressing city scenes surrounded by flat farmland and strip malls. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to leave the ugly suburbs for a life I imagined somewhere else near mountains or oceans, anything more exciting than concrete and cars. Yet, I continued to live in Michigan through college, and some years of work grounded by relationships of love that overpowered my desire to leave. “Some day, I thought, someday I will go.”

“Someday” came after I married Rod and we jam-packed our apartment and two dogs into a Volkswagen Jetta and moving truck to head to Utah for his graduate school opportunity. I’ll never forget entering Salt Lake City through the mountain pass and viewing the peek-a-boo scene of the valley as we traveled through the curvy highway to the valley floor. “This is home,” I thought to myself even though there was no one there I knew and no place for us to live. Fortunately, Rod felt the same way. We adventured locally while living in Salt Lake and Park City, there was so much to see and do in the mountains, every weekend provided a getaway. But when we did fly somewhere for a wedding, reunion, or funeral we couldn’t wait to get home. We were comfortable there and enjoyed our environment as well as the log home we eventually built in the mountains. I worked, he studied and we met at home where we truly felt like we escaped the chaos of Salt Lake City.

It took me a long time to acclimate to Oregon when we moved in 1996. I loved the high desert--the sun, the endless recreation, and everything about the puffy snow, except shoveling it, of course. When I went driving looking for a place for us to settle in this state I was se

arching for small town living and found it one day on a rainy afternoon drive in the spring through the Willamette Valley with a sleeping three-year old and ten month old baby in the car. Hunter and Phoebe would grow to know Silverton as their home while the neighborhood would watch our young family mature through life’s adventures. We drove to Mexico twice in our camper van, traveled to visit family in the midwest, drove to our favorite hideaways in British Columbia, and took multiple weekend and extended summer trips on our boat, Terrapin. Each time returning to the house we all loved with that feeling of relief once we rounded the corner on Welch St. and saw the greenish Victorian farmhouse standing right where we left it waiting patiently for its busy residents to occupy its rooms once more. So much of our young married life was enjoyed with holiday celebrations, birthday parties, halloween get-togethers in this century old landmark which I am sure my kids will remember as “the house they grew up in” . It was undoubtedly difficult to sell it when we left for an extended sailing trip in 2005 but we were moving on to Terrapin, to be our home for a year of life away from the familiar.

Surprisingly, the boat proved to be just as cozy and comforting, in some ways more so, than a house of many rooms. Each stroll down the dock to return to her Terrapin, whether in La Paz, Mexico, or in Molokai, Hawaii, brought the same feeling of “I’m home” that we had experienced on land. Our feet might be tired from walking to the store, or we’d be wet from a dingy ride back to the anchorage where she sat but once we climbed aboard, fired up the stereo with our favorite songs and relaxed in Terrapin’s wooden belly we felt very much at home. Her dark-green hull rests beautifully in the water and we were so proud to be the ones to claim her our own that we repeatedly invited others over to share our space. We had become confident in her ability to care for us in long ocean crossings, and that had made her, well, part of the family.

Now we are at rest in Mt. Angel and our family just returned from Spring Break 2010. We spent the week at Black Butte Ranch in the high-desert mountains of the Cascades in Oregon. It was a relaxing retreat for all of us including golf, swimming, snowboarding and quality time together in sun and snow. And as the week came to close I started thinking about our return. What emotion would be stirred up as I approached our tiny town? How would I feel when opening the front door? We arrived Sunday in the midst of pouring down rain. And while I was excited at thought of climbing into my own bed and relishing a good nights sleep, there was a hint of sadness when I turned knob and walked in the back door. "Goodbye," I thought as everyone retreated to their rooms exhausted, "see you next time."

Being home here with two teenagers means life away from each other because of busy schedules. When our family is apart naturally I worry about the well-being of my kids and as we all grow older I realize our time together as a family is limited. Happy memories in this house are mixed with tumultuous teenage crisis and mid-life dramas that continue to invade these walls. While our home is quiet, spacious, and charming it means less when the people who I care about aren’t here. So really, what I anticipated as I pulled into the driveway was the future in this house and that provided some thoughtful insight to the present. It’s interesting how perspective on the past or foresight into what lies ahead is often more pleasant and enchanting than the reality of today.

Two of my very close friends, whom I consider family, spent their spring break exploring new territory to settle with their families in states far from the Willamette Valley. They have the itch to move on to another place as they write the next chapters of their life. I wholeheartedly understand their need to start a new adventure and we will dearly miss them when they leave. Our house will be less of a home without their faces here to help fill our photo albums and memory banks. Thank you for sharing your life with ours for the last few years. This Irish blessing my Dad often quoted seems so appropriate here,

"May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”--Anonymous

The Hill House of Style

This morning I was gifted a genuine moment of true "mommy" laughter in our family's otherwise typical daily routine. I stopped dead in my tracks and instantly recognized how our average bustling household is by nature full of diversity and sometimes polar opposites. Toddler, teen. Boy, girl. Sensitive, strong. Upbeat, cranky. A combination of all of these are stirred into the soup of our everyday life.

I walk past two bathrooms on the route from my bedroom to the kitchen and today each was occupied simultaneously with the doors open and a teenage Hill inside. In one, thirteen-year old Phoebe was carefully leaning over the sink putting on mascara one detailed stroke after another. (By the way, she is skilled much beyond my own ability in this area.) Confident and secure she also made the last adjustments to her freshly straightened hair and overall “look” of the day which on this particular morning was 'casual-hip'. “Who are you looking so good for Phoebe?” I asked in a teasing tone secretly hoping she might reveal to me an admirer or crush, “The eighth-grade boys?” We started to laugh in unison while she shook her head and said, “NOT”.

I continued on my way downstairs, passing the other bathroom with the door wide open where sixteen-year old Hunter was putting the finishing touches on his “look” of the day. I would label it 'urban punk'. He was fiddling with his flat-brimmed black and red baseball cap while placing his headphones over the top of it and onto his ears. That’s when I couldn’t hold it in. Many of you readers may know the book by Robert Munsch, I’ll love you Forever? "Here it is", I thought to myself. "It is him, in the flesh!" The children's book is the heart-warming tale of a baby boy who matures into toddlerhood, progresses through adolescence, then his teen years, and eventually moves away on his own. Through each of these phases of life, despite the fact that the boy gets bigger than she, his mother holds and sings to him assuring her son that he will always be her boy. Until she is very old and the boy becomes a man and reciprocates her lifetime of love by holding his sick mother in his arms and singing to her. He also begins the same singing ritual with his own child. The story never fails to make my voice crackle with emotion when I reach the ending when reading out loud. But today, I laughed. It was the vision of my own son in the mirror that struck me so funny. Hunter had grown out of the boy of the story and there, in his reflection in the mirror I saw the teen that “belongs in the Zoo” according to Musch. I chuckled to myself recognizing this milestone of life as well as the dichotomies in our living arrangement. 'Casual-hip' and 'urban-punk' just starting another day while making mine. Everyone left for school together, relatively satisfied with how they appeared to the rest of the world.

Alas, there is three-year old Sailor who won't stop for a second to fuss in front of a mirror but has proven consistently she is undoubtedly comfortable in her own skin. One afternoon while she was immersed in an afternoon of dress-up and imaginary play, the doorbell rang. A neighborhood high-school aged Boy Scout was collecting checks for his troop's most recent fundraiser. Sailor jumped up at the "ding-dong" as if poked by an electric stun gun and answered the door completely naked. Casual but prompt, she said, "Hi" and looked up at the boy as if everything was hunky-dorey. Now, while most mothers would find this toddler with no tan lines and rosy cheeks adorable, our visitor was not as enthralled. When I walked in seconds later, the embarrassed teen was bright-red and holding his hand flat over his eyes making every effort to avoid looking at the baby in the birthday suit standing before him. She was blurting questions at him one after the other like, "What is your name?" "Do you know Hunter?", "My Mom is here. Do you want to see my dollhouse?" I burst out laughing when I walked to the front of the house to see the commotion but quickly apologized once I saw the horror on his face and finally got eye contact with him. Sailor looked up at both of us confused. Let's call her style 'beautifully bare'. And oh, she gets that from her father.

It's nice to have a household filled with unexpected joys. I can't wait for tomorrow.

A Taste of the Sweet Life

I am working with a writing teacher at the local community college here in Salem, Oregon. Here is a sampling of my first assignment which was to write about a turning point in my life.

I opened the shiny gold, foil wrapper carefully as to not break the precious contents. Creamy, chocolate bliss with a dreamy caramel center formed in a perfect square. I was attempting to teach Rod, my husband, the art of slowly appreciating the fine flavor packed in a Ghirardelli chocolate that often brings joy to my afternoons when I stop to enjoy one square on hectic days. Slowly being the key word. “Don’t chew,” I said. “Just let it sit and your mouth and let the flavor come to you. Wait patiently while it melts and it is an entirely different experience.”

Our kids, Hunter, eleven years old, and Phoebe, nine, watched me coach, giggling under their breath to each other knowing darn well how their Dad loves to inhale a sweet treat. We were perched in the small cockpit of our 36-foot sailboat, Terrapin. A large wooden steering wheel sits at the center of our seating arrangement and we nestled together around it in the chilly, saltwater air as Rod held us on course. It is Friday, December 16, 2004, and the late sun is making our faces radiate an earthy clay hue from reflections off the water and sails.

Typically, Rod eats candy impatiently; immediately munching the sugary morsel so his teeth can get right to the business of demolishing it. I was hoping to help him savor the moment, to take a chocolate break as I had a hundred times before, letting the flavors mix and dance on the palate. “Mmm,” Rod purred for a moment, then finished his square snack off with three chews and a swallow. “It does taste a little different that way,” motioning for me to pass him another, “Let me try it again,” he said with a smirk.

I had an alternative motive for trying to help Rod train his taste buds. It was my tactic to ration our chocolate. Our family had officially cast off our lines that day from Terrapin to sail out of Coyote Point Marina in San Francisco Bay towards the Golden Gate Bridge. We were finally leaving from land on an eight-month adventure that we hoped would provide us with a taste of flavorful characters and unforgettable experiences.

Ironically, we tie up Terrapin that evening at San Francisco Bay Marina which is aglow with a neon marquee that reads “Ghirardelli Square”. The Hills Brothers Coffee building is our protective neighbor illuminated by Christmas lights and the bright city scape that reflects off the water. We are stunned at the breathtaking panoramic scene from our floating home on this mid-winter evening--our sleepy hometown of Silverton, Oregon, tucked in the land-locked Willamette Valley just didn’t quite come alive like this at night.

Despite the million-dollar view, our cheap berth was uncomfortable. We sat unprotected from marine traffic in the bay making Terrapin’s exposed dark green hull jerk up and down and side to side from the waves of passing boats. The marina is also out of the proximity of town for an easy venture ashore with kids and simply provides us a transient resting place. That is okay with us. We had exhausted our stay in the Bay area by touring Alcatraz, visiting Haight-Ashbury, and the madness of our final provisioning of Terrapin. We ate dinner and settled in for the night planning to leave out the mouth of the river and over the legendary San Francisco Bay bar the next afternoon.

Finally, mid-day on Saturday we hoist the main sail and turn into the wind to glide under the Golden Gate Bridge. I think to myself how surreal it feels: We can only hear the swish-swish sound of our boat moving through water and the dull hum of our diesel yet we are passing by one of the largest metropolitan areas in America. “Look!” says Phoebe pointing to the water. A small pod of dolphins pleased with our wake escorts us towards the Pacific and I instantly feel connected with their carefree existence. I smile, sighing relief to be actually leaving the city and our busy life behind. I have no worry, surprisingly, and I realize it’s because we are all together and there is no mortgage to pay, no carpool to drive, no deadlines to meet.

The ocean swell begins to carry Terrapin slowly up high peaks and then down into deep valleys as soon as we approach the bar. Quickly my elated mood changes to serious focus. The frequency of these lifts continues to increase over the first fifteen minutes we’re offshore and so does the intensity of each climb. “Make sure you’re attached to the boat,” I say to the kids in the cockpit, feeling suddenly dwarfed by the size and power of the waves. I’ve read articles and heard stories of fatal attempts at crossing this bar. I’m standing with my feet planted in front of the helm, my knees bending to adjust constantly to the random movement. My sweaty hands are clenched around the steering wheel.

I glance at Hunter and Phoebe on the cockpit bench wearing toothy grins and shrieking excited shrills of joy as if they’re in the middle of a roller coaster ride at Disneyland. I choose to not reveal my overwhelming concern. “Whoa, this one is really big!,” Hunter says fearlessly and I nod with a crooked smile just as we start up another precipitous crest and ride it down shifting our bodies to help gravity bring us back to a stable, comfortable position.

Rod tethers himself to the boat with a safety clip and heads up toward the bow for a better look. This weird uneasiness is all new. Always entirely confident of Captain Rod’s ability, I’m not sure if I should start crying, yelling, or simply wait. Eventually, I can’t hold my words any longer and I blurt out, “Rod, I am really scared.” He instantly reassures me, “It’s fine. We are following the chart just as we should.” I retreat and start biting my cuticles, a nervous habit I’d developed over the years that keeps me quiet when stressed.

Five minutes later an approaching buzz breaks the heavy silence. Rod and I scan the horizon looking for clues and see what from a distance looks like a Playmobil toy set complete with plastic men, a rubber boat, and accessories descending upon us. When our visitors burst through a fog of spray in the valley of a wave, we are greeted by a cherry red inflatable Coast Guard Zodiac boat with nearly ten standing men wearing full rescue gear, helmets, and neon orange suits. Over the roar of their powerful engine, the captain tells us his vessel had been watching our progress and came to alert us of the danger of our location and heading.

Rod determines that our electronic charts must not up-to-date and Terrapin needs to point further west to avoid more treacherous conditions. He nods “thanks” to the crew and shouts to me from the bow to make an adjustment of “twenty clicks” on the autopilot. I obey his command by immediately tapping the left arrows on the electronic direction pad and we turn toward safe waters. Ten minutes later, the swell becomes less threatening and the boat flattens out.

Our adventure literally began with a dramatic turn for the better. Terrapin’s crew sat reunited comfortably in the cockpit after the affair watching the sun sink behind billowy clouds, float over the sea and then drift into tomorrow. We laughed at our ability to leave land in true, spectacular “Hill” style. It was the first of many sweet, unexpected moments during our journey that we treasured for their lasting effect. We couldn’t wait for the next. “How about a Ghirardelli?” I offered. For now, it was time to take a break and pass the chocolate.

The Bloggers Dilemma

Recently, a friend confided in me about a blog we mutually visited, “What is the purpose of it?", they asked, confused about its random content. I commented that the writer was probably trying to get their feet wet with an online presence and that maybe the site would morph into something very specific over time. The friend continued to look quizzically at me and said, “I feel like I’m reading someone’s diary.” This comment has since haunted me as I daily develop ideas in my mind and trash them just as quickly because I feel they are not “blog-worthy.” I guess the point is, “What am I doing here on Straight from Hill?”

Blogging, I've discovered through some research, serves multiple purposes and personalities. It is a creative outlet for the writer: a place to "file" important thoughts, discoveries and news. For the more practical blogger it is a useful means to reach a mass audience with answers, ideas, and advertisements. But in either case, the blogger is making an attempt to find a reader with a particular interest whether it be politics or parenting. The most successful bloggers have found a niche that threads together a community of followers and leads them on a journey.

In this respect, I've decided my blog has to evolve and grow a heart. A single, hard-working idea that pumps meaning into the body of my work. Up until now I have simply been writing thoughtful essays on subjects that emerge from random reflections on life. While meaningful, they do not encourage a reader to come back because I never intended really, on writing for anyone else but for me to get thoughts organized then written down. In other words, now that I've exposed myself, it's time to walk proudly in my skin and choose a place to go.

As is typical in my poor-decision-making mind, I cannot just choose one subject--yet. I have to try a few paths out. Ideas that have surfaced so far include: the writer's journey (too broad and

common); raising teens with a tot (this dichotomy of my life

creates its own chaos worthy of an entire encyclopedia worth of rants); Simply Small Living (the characters and happenings of small town life and how our family fits, or not). I also have thought about giving myself a "charge" such as eating home for 100 days or no laundry for a month. Your ideas and feedback are encouraged, e-mail me at hills@terrapintrips.com. But for now, I will embark on the next few entries with a different intent; an attempt to mainstream my expression.

Read an excerpt from my last entry into “Terrapintrips.com” the website I maintained while we sailed the Pacific. I refer to it often because it briefly states what the most meaningful aspect of checking out of life on land meant. Which leads me to my last suggested blog idea: "Land Cruising", discovering delight in everyday things (still random, but worthy).

"What if we treated everyday life like we were cruising? I continue to ponder how we can hold onto some of the pleasure of life we experienced the last seven months. One aspect of the cruising life that is so intriguing is the excitement that comes from each place, each new boat in an anchorage, each crossing, each day. What if we approached our life on land with that same sense of wonder, positive energy, and absence of time? Yes, it would be difficult to explain the time element to principals and bosses, but the essence of waking up with a smile and actually approaching life with a---"whatever happens today will be new, different, and a part of my history"--attitude. Kids do it everyday, that's why it's so difficult to get them out of bed and to school, or put them to sleep late at night.

The routines we get into and faces we see everyday during our life on land make it difficult to imagine being surprised or delighted on a Wednesday in February. But it's possible. If you can train yourself to find humor in the guy dancing behind the wheel during a traffic jam or make the effort to strike up a conversation with the clerk at the 7-11, inevitably you'll start to discover unforeseen treasures in your everyday life.

There's a little cruising blood in all of us, and sailing skills are not required. We hope you discover yours."

Haiti and Happy Talk

Compassion is not religious business, it is human business, it is not luxury, it is essential for our own peace and mental stability, it is essential for human survival.--The Dalai Lama

The news stories reported from Haiti since the recent earthquake that we read about, hear about on the radio, or watch from afar while perched in the comfort of our homes are numbing. Initially we are captured by the bravery, the sacrifice, the intensity of the moment of rescue or discovery of a corpse. We may shed a tear or say a prayer. But the reality is we have no concept, no real understanding of what that impoverished country is suffering.

In fact, Haitians were living such a dramatically different existence than ours before the earthquake ever hit and that alone would be so incomprehensible to our fellow Costco-and-Ikea-driven Americans. Their’s is a life of simplicity, survival being the reason for all things, everyday. Ours is not. Period. We have everything we need and more; our closets and drawers overflow, we have t.v and computers in multiples. Only by visiting or living in such a poor country for a period of time would an American ever be able to begin to comprehend what daily living in such conditions would require. But also, what it doesn’t require. Hunter said of his recent visit to inner-city impoverished Lima, Peru, “Here (meaning in the States) there’s always the next ‘thing’. In Peru, you just be.”

Our exposure to other Worlds is essential in understanding the full human experience. No matter how we get it, through media, books, experience, even National Geographic or the Discovery channel provide us a window into the survival struggles of others and an appreciation for what is important. Americans have to make an extra effort to seize opportunities to go out of their comfort zone, visit the distressed, and travel to impoverished nations in order to touch that part of our souls that naturally bonds us all together.

Disaster, then, has the potential to bring promise in the face of darkness. It can merge these two dramatically different Worlds by opening doors and encouraging change, rebirth, and action. Much like natural forest fires burn through acres of tall trees and lush meadows, to leave ash and dirt, what looks like smoldering death. But eventually, through natures will, green sprouts emerge among the blackened earth. Over time, grasses and low bushes develop and animals return to feed on them as life rejuvenates the land and brings back beauty. You’ve seen the people flooding to help in Haiti through rescue efforts, medical support, adoptions. Maybe you’ve even participated in raising money to send to help their rebuilding efforts. This is the type of change and renewal possible through crisis.

The challenge, then, is to live with an everyday awareness of how we are contributing to this bond we share. Those who are mobilized to do something everyday, to really make a difference in other’s lives by educating, to preserve forests, to save species are truly humanitarians. Giving of themselves for the common good of their kind, instinctively. My wish is that I am able to contribute of myself to the best of my ability to this human experience and in return am happy to just "be".

I believe that the very purpose of life is to be happy. From the very core of our being, we desire contentment. In my own limited experience I have found that the more we care for the happiness of others, the greater is our own sense of well-being. Cultivating a close, warmhearted feeling for others automatically puts the mind at ease. It helps remove whatever fears or insecurities we may have and gives us the strength to cope with any obstacles we encounter. It is the principal source of success in life.--Dalai Lama

A Journal Pick from Terrapin's Trip

In December 2009 we celebrated the five year anniversary of our family departing Oregon on Terrapin, our sailboat, to Mexico and Hawaii. I am (finally) making a concentrated effort to recapture the magic of our daily life adventures back then and put them together in written form. It is a monumental task and I am often distracted by the life I am living today. But one of the most effective ways for me to get back into the zone of writing and organizing is by revisiting the journal I kept and glancing teary-eyed, sometimes laughing, at the photos I have safely saved on cd's. I was asked recently to pick one story from our trip, and tell it to a group of people. I chose carefully, captured the moments with the best details and description I could muster and realized how much joy it brought others to 'experience' just a blink of time of our adventure. So, I've decided to once in a while, share something from my journal here at "Straight from Hill". My entries will be random as I post them , not chronolgical, however this entry does describe the day we left and my early expectations.

December 10, 2004
Final preparations before leaving. Toting the kids to friends' houses for final goodbyes. Then to the bank. While at the bank, the bank is robbed. I hear the teller on the phone with 911 explaining what happened. A gentleman went up to the merchant counter and handed her a white bag. He then asked her to fill the bag with money and she did. Then he left. I witnessed the manager in a panic, trying to decide what to do. I shook my head and thought of the poor bank manager I had met with earlier in the day who I was returning to see that evening at 5 p.m. when all this happened. He was a nice dark-skinned fellow with a great, positive attitude. When I saw him earlier, he said, yes, he would be there until they closed, “All, day, “ he moaned with a cheery grin. When I saw him later, he was panicked, couldn’t look me in the eye and obviously, very distracted. I left and went out to get in the car and the kids were excited because while I was gone they had witnessed a three vehicle accident. I wondered if the two had been related. Wild. What a way to leave Oregon!

December 11, 2004
We boarded the Amtrak train in Salem, Oregon. 3:30 p.m. It was drizzly and mild out, 50 degrees plus. The ride to the station was quiet, except for Phoebe humming her kazoo and Hunter blowing a nose flute. It was a positive goodbye with Mom. She was happy to see us embark and her last words were: “ Do everything I would never do.” She also smiled and while watching Rod out the window said, “he’s so excited, he can hardly contain it.” We both were sporting large brimmed wicker hats that made us stand out in the crowd.

On the train, the kids were excited, but plugged into headphones and kept busy. When we got to an area where there was snow, Phoebe noticed right away, and told Hunter to look out the window. He did and said he wanted to go taste it. But then Phoebe reminded him that we’re headed where there is no snow. And they both sat down grinning. The train lurches on. It’s late, midnight or so. I hear people sleeping—snoring, talking, people arranging their figures to fit the seats+ footstool that doubles as a bed for most. When the kids went to sleep, Rod and I tried to fall asleep as well. Laying there I thought about what the kids and Rod must be dreaming about. Shortly after, I found out that Rod wasn’t dreaming at all, he was thinking about projects on the boat. We both couldn’t sleep, our excitement had overcome us, so we kept each other company under our light in the dark train car.

I am thinking about what goals I have for this trip. I can’t stop setting goals, but this time my goal is one that requires me to stop doing that. I really want to relax. Get into the moment of life, not stress about little things. I realize it will take weeks before I actually stop thinking about everything that needs to be done. But I hope to get there. I want to enjoy life at a different level for a while, looking at things from a positive, joyful place rather than from a negative ‘gotta get outta here’ perspective. I want a truly ‘Zen’ experience, and I realize I will have to work for that. It will take lots of time and mind control, but it’s well worth the try. I think yoga will help. Deep breathing, and a lot of laughter.

I also want us as a family to look at the way we live and make some changes. Things like, being reliant on gadgets, always having any kind of food instantly available and only eating when the pangs of hunger actually hit. That’s something we all need to learn. And again, it’s taking control of myself, being a good example for my kids, and living that way happily and with fulfillment and a positive outlook.

I’m curious what everyone else’s goals are for the trip, I’ll have to ask. Surprisingly there is a lot less anxiety about taking off than I thought. I expected to be nervous about sailing. I’m not. I expected to be stressed about sickness, bad seas, scary encounters, losing the kids, but for now, I remain at ease. Thinking I’ve left an awful lot of stress back there in Oregon. And for certain it will all be back there when we return. And hopefully, my outlook when we go back is much more positive. So, here I sit, on a monotonous train ride with hours ahead and nowhere to go. It’s a beautiful thing.