It’s not always easy to pinpoint the precise moment you fall in love.But sometimes, well, it is.
For years upon years, I’ve given The Husband fair warning that someday out there in the future – or by the time I turn forty – we will be adopting a dog. It was a topic that he tended to nod or smile or roll his eyes at and put forth varying levels of effort to assuage my longing.Sometimes I’d get supportive discussion of just which breed suits our chosen lifestyle and other times I’d get a list of reasons why a dog just does not fit into said lifestyle.To this I’d nod or smile or roll my eyes and put forth varying levels of effort to convince him otherwise.
Then, a solid three years before the deadline, this teeny, brown, Yoda-eared Chihuahua named Layla came in to our lives.
It actually started a few days before Thanksgiving with a phone call from Dallas, a plea to help our niece adopt a dog so that she’d have a loyal companion in her new city.Despite our best efforts to talk them out of it, we helped out and the adoption went through.We didn’t give the dog another thought until four months later, our niece, her mom, sister and grandma – and Layla – relocated back to Santa Barbara.
Then, out of nowhere, one Friday night, The Husband informs me that he has found our dog. Unbeknownst to me, he'd met the dog a number of times, saw that she played well with others, and caught wind that she might have to be given up due to housing issues.
Well, I’m no idiot.I freaking jumped on it!Who cares if we never considered a Chihuahua!Who cares if our landlords said no dogs!Who cares, who cares, who cares because THIS IS MY CHANCE!
Within a week, Layla arrives at our house for a trial run.Early the first morning of her stay at our house, Layla and I go to the pet store for some necessities.On the ride home, I glance to the backseat to check on her.There she was.Curled up on the towel I’d put down for her, eagerly staring back at me with those ridiculously large, ridiculously expressive eyes.
Aaand I was a goner. Stomach flip.Heart flutter. Hiccup with the happy tears.Love.
In the hours leading up to Layla’s arrival at our house, The Husband’s nerves over inviting another being to share our space were getting the better of him.What if she follows me around everywhere I go? What if I have to change my morning routine for her?What if? What if?
By the afternoon of the first day, The Husband stops me as we pass each other in the living room.He lowers his eyes and sheepishly, barely able to speak, says, “I have a confession to make.”
“What? What is it?”
He pauses.The words caught in his throat, somewhere between not being sure he can say it out loud and not being sure he wants me to hear it in the first place.My efforts to coax it out of him were failing when it suddenly dawns on me and my stomach flips again.
“You…LOVE her, don’t you!”
He raises his tearing eyes to mine, smiles, and nods.
I sure do love a shared experience, and walking 39.3 miles over two days with more than 2,800 other people is one hell of an experience to share. Actually, let me rephrase that because it wasn't like hell at all...not that I've ever been to hell. Except, well, one could argue that watching a loved one dying from cancer has a certain level of hellaciousness to it. And, really, that is why I participated in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer this year: I'm seeking ways to rearrange the painful sadness of Annika's illness and death into something I can continue living with in a positive, laughing, helpful-to-others kind of way. So, you know, why not raise some money and go on a long walk?
Still, I was nervous to make the commitment until I heard from a dear old friend - well, she's all of 35 years old but we've known each other since forever, that kind of old. Nicole tells me she found a lump, it's the Big C and she's headed through the ringer of chemo, radiation and mastectomies. So, what do you do when you're so far away that you can't take her to her appointments or go wig shopping or really do much of anything but share a few tears and send her a mug that reads "Fuck Cancer"? I'll tell you what you do, you agree to raise some money and go on a long walk.
And you share that experience with thousands of others who have also been affected by cancer - any kind of cancer - and are desperate to save every other human being from having to share any part of that experience ever again.
When I first signed up to participate in this event, I was alone...a solo walker feeling more than slightly nervous about the $1800 fundraising requirement to even be allowed to walk. Of course, this didn't last long because two of my local friends joined me and, by the magic of the small-world interwebs, we landed in the midst of one kick-ass group of ladies that is team Walking for the Girls!
It sort of felt like we were all the Wonder Twins activating into the form of a seventeen-strong, compassionately generous sisterhood of supportive, giddy, limping walkers. As a group, we raised over $40,000, which ends up being something like 1/160th of the grand total of $6.4 million raised by the entirety of the Santa Barbara walkers. It feels great knowing that the funds so generously donated by our friends and family will go towards local and national programs to provide education and treatment to underserved communities and uninsured cancer patients, as well as helping to fund clinical studies and research for a cure to breast cancer.
So, yes, it's true! We put one foot in front of the other for two days. We slept in tents and showered in trucks. We ate sack lunches and drank freaky sports drinks. We shared stories and tears. We wore matching shirts with lists too long of names of loved ones affected by or lost to cancer. We collected blisters and aching knees. We were cheered on by awesome support crews. We posed for pictures at mile markers, of which there were many. We laughed at boob jokes, of which there were many more. It was surreal as much as it was authentic, exhilarating as much as it was exhausting, introspective as much as it was a group event.
At the opening and closing ceremonies that book-ended the walk, a two-month cancer survivor named Noelle was given the opportunity to speak. She choked up while telling us that even though this was her sixth time participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, it was her first time walking as a survivor. Then Noelle bravely announced that, despite having a double mastectomy only one week prior, she walked every step of those 39.3 miles, and it was our turn in the audience to choke up.
In that moment with all those people collectively cheering, crying, aching, touching, smiling, it was truly palpable. "It" being missing my sister, worrying about my friend. "It," of course, being that every person has their own stories of love and loss and hope. It was an experience to be had. And we all shared it, you included.
You can use this link to view the rest of my pictures from the weekend:
Recently, people have been telling me that I'm looking "well" or "so healthy." I'll admit it too, I sort of love receiving compliments about my appearance (of course, I mean, who doesn't?). Still, I struggle with the art of just taking said compliment.
Nope. Instead, my mind will let it bubble around for the rest of the day, searching for ways to discredit its good intentions. Soon enough, the word "healthy" turns into, "Looks like you've put on some weight." Then I start to wonder how hideous I used to look for someone to point out that I look better now.
Why do I do this to myself, right? I'm an educated, forward-thinking woman with a healthy sense of self worth and body confidence. Not only do I know better than to let myself think this way but I foster a regular habit of admonishing others when they do it. Yet there it is...self-doubt, nagging internal criticism, unnecessary fretting over the width of my hips.
Today's theory is that I'm yet another victim of societal pressures, especially media driven ones like unnatural skinniness, super cool hair and clear, wrinkle-free skin. Another reminder that even when I know full well it's a waste of time to worry about the 15 pounds I managed to find in a matter of weeks (or perhaps it was a mysterious shrinking of ALL my pants?), it doesn't exactly make taking the compliment for what it is any easier.
But, guess what? Today, I may have landed on a formula that will make it much easier.
First, when a precious compliment is given, I will say thank you and genuinely mean it. Then, I'll go ahead bask in the glowy warm goodness that comes with it. Finally, I'll toss aside concerns that I'm falling victim to conditioned ideas of what I should look like and simply love the fact that I am currently enjoying the most impressive cleavage of my life!
Somewhere in those last few days, Mom asked Annika what animal she'd want to come back as. Her simple, poignant desire was to be "a big, beautiful hawk that lives up to its potential." Not surprisingly, each and every hawk sighting since has assumed a deep significance for our family members and many friends, as well.
During the first few years after Annika died, the hole in my heart was so gaping that I couldn't quite believe I'd ever feel genuine happiness again. Of course, eventually -- so slowly I hardly noticed -- the numbing pain began to peel away. It's only been four years, but it took the entirety of that time for my optimistic spirit to resume its place on the front burner. Right around when the optimism returned, I embarked upon something totally out of character. For no apparent reason I was compelled to learn how to run. Yea, you heard me...run, jog, exercise.
Fine, you caught me, there was a reason: I was an unacceptably low on energy, shamefully out-of-shape 35 year old. I simply lacked the energy to get up and go to do the things I wanted to be doing. This fact was brought most painfully to the surface in South Africa when I couldn't make it to the top of Table Mountain. Let us not forget this "hike" involves nearly two hours of climbing 15-inch stairs beneath scorching sun, but the agony of that defeat stayed with me.
Thing is, I'm just like anyone else. Full of New Year's resolutions to get in shape and do things right for a change but generally not seeing through such promises much further than January 2nd. This year, something changed...insert the proverbial mental "click" here. As I'm prone to do, I started things off slow by walking my commute to/from work every day. Shockingly, I stuck with this plan and, by spring, felt compelled to do more than just walk. Clearly, the best plan of action was to work up a sweat alone in my living room, thank you Netflix. Before too long, the opportunity to participate in Santa Barbara's inaugural marathon just happened to present itself. It was July at the time and December seemed a safe five month distance away to go ahead and form a relay team.
Let us just be clear on one thing: I. Am. Not. A. Runner.
In fact, I've long declared that the only time you'd see ME running is if I'm being chased, at which point I'd likely get caught before getting across the street. That's not a joke. I mean, have you ever seen a tall, out-of-shape, skinny chick trying to run? Well, it's funny looking, OK? Besides, it totally hurts the tall, out-of-shape, skinny chick's ankles and knees.
Too late, I paid good money to register for the stupid race and was officially committed (no, not that kind of committed) to do this thing with a friend. Preparations for training included purchasing the whitest possible size 10 sneakers of all time and my first sports bra since at least three presidents ago. Next thing you know, there's Rita trying to run her way around a high school track.
Boy, did it suck!
By the end of the first lap I'd apparently forgotten how to breathe. My heart rate was so high that I couldn't even count the beats of my pulse to calculate actual beats per minute. And, it freakin' hurt...all over. Pretty ego bruising stuff. But, tapping into my optimism and finding the bright side, at least I had a lot of room for improvement!
Alas, by the end of the second week of training I managed to run my left foot into tendinitis bad enough to force two weeks of rest, couldn't even continue my triumphant walks to/from work, dammit!
Being the smart gal that I am, I had sensibly signed myself up for guided training with an experienced runner, Coach Dan, to hold myself accountable on this venture. Brilliant move on my part. Coach Dan honored and supported my goals of simply wanting to be part of a team, to improve my personal health, and to conquer this long term fear of running. Moreover, he made me feel like I was an athlete from day one. And guess what? Athletes get hurt and sometimes have to take time off.
Before I knew it, I was back at the track huffing and puffing my way through practice sessions. I could barely run 1/4 of a mile without having to take a walking break. Keep in mind that my end goal was to run around six miles...that's it, just six simple, easy miles. No matter, I had a good 14 weeks of training to go.
Guess what?
It worked! I stuck with the training at a manageable level, which turned out to be running 2-3 times a week either with the group, a friend or by myself. Pretty soon I was used to being sore everywhere below the waist, all of the time. Week after week, I impressed myself (and the husband) with new found motivation to persevere and suffer through complete and total utter CRAZY that is running.
Time flies when you're running. Well, scratch that. I'm quite certain time in fact slows down when you are actually running but you get my point. Pretty soon, it was December and my awesome team (go SB Tchomies, go!) was prepared: matching t-shirts, support crew boys, pasta dinner, and we're off!
My leg of the relay was 6.4 miles, and my goal was to finish in less than 90 minutes (you do the math, yes, I'm that slow). I was the second runner on our team, taking off just after 8am on the coldest morning we've had so far this season. Cold, yet crisp, bright, clear, and utterly motivating. For the first time ever I managed to keep my pace steady, passing nobody and being passed by everyone (including Santa...for reals). Still, this was my first ever experience being anywhere near a marathon -- let alone in it -- and I caught the fever quickly!
How much fun is this? Strangers all along the course cheer you on and the buzz flowing across all the runners is a surprisingly powerful shared experience to be had. Turns out all those stories of race day adrenaline are true, go figure. Before I know what's even happening, I've run over 35 minutes straight without having taken a walking break...a first by over 15 minutes! I think, at this point, I psyched myself out and worried that I wouldn't be able to finish my portion if I tried to keep running to the end. I let myself walk for only 30 seconds and went back to it, but I could feel that I was losing steam.
When I passed mile marker 11, which put me at 4.2 miles into my leg, my attention was caught by two crows making a raucous off the side of the road. Just on a reflex, I turned to look at the birds flitting around the top of a large tree. That's when I saw it.
A big, beautiful hawk sitting still on the tree.
Momentum kept me from stopping in my tracks. Still, I couldn't help but look back at that hawk at least ten times. Was this really happening right now? Could Annika be here, showing me her support during the craziest thing I've ever tried?
But there I was, running stronger and further than I'd ever imagined possible in this tall, out-of-shape, skinny body. And there was this hawk, offering the reminder that my sister always supported my efforts to live up to my own potential. I struggled a bit to maintain my composure during what was positively an emotional, spiritual highlight of my entire life. Then, I focused on the task at hand and finished my leg -- ten minutes faster than planned -- breathlessly and unabashedly happy.
One bright morning this summer, I find myself utterly engaged in my peaceful walking commute to work: giant pine trees shrugging off dew, dozens of birds performing overhead, shadows protecting my shoulders from the warm sun, sweet kitty cats stretching in driveways. In this simple sidewalk moment comes the unexpected revelation, "Hot damn, my good mood is back!"
In fact, I feel more like myself these days than since before I knew any better. Since before the old self-confidence took an unplanned, extended vacation. Since back when Annika was just my little sister, the taller one who also snorts when she laughs. Since back when she was always around. When Annika was just my little sister...not my sick sister, not my dying sister, not my dead sister.
Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I'm a pretty lucky lady. Not very many of us make it to age 31 before experiencing a broken heart. That's right, I got to spend three whole decades living in relative ignorance (and you know what that means).
Of course, there's a flip side to living in bliss for so long. When the turning point eventually arrives, the change in outlook is drastic. All of a sudden, certain aspects of life come into an appalling focus -- like the realization there's nothing and nobody that's going to be able to save her -- and you finally start to get just how much you've been missing, how much you haven't understood. And you aren't sure it's been for the better. I wanted to go back immediately to before life got so horribly out of control and every little thing didn't feel so dreadfully heavy.
Early on in my grief process, it occurred to me for the first time how downright rotten and wretched the world really is. It dawned on me that this life we've been handed might just be a big steaming pile of it-ain't-worth-the-unending-suffering. All the joy was suddenly zapped out of all my favorite things. I mean everything; I couldn't wear mascara for a year.
For the longest time, I was under this faulty impression that grief is finite with a clear ending point. By next week, I'll have this figured out. After six months, I'll be all better. After a year, it won't hurt any more. I mean, that's what all the literature says, "Just give yourself a year." Well, the year came and went and nothing felt lighter. The only thing that seemed to have changed was my eye makeup.
It took a while to realize that the ability to wear mascara again was, indeed, a sign of healing. It took longer still to understand that my grief isn't ever going to end, but that it will change.
It has changed.
At the start of this year, I set two simple intentions: 1. walk to/from work every day (I've stuck with it, too; you're impressed, I can tell), and 2. to lighten UP already and stop being so depressed aboutthings I cannot control. Truth be told, lightening up is an intention I've set many-a-time since Annika died, always to no avail. While there are likely a multitude of factors contributing to this year's actual success, the passage of time is the primary suspect.
On September 30th, it will be four years. Four years of missing her everyday. Four years of accepting her unacceptable absence. Four years of applying and re-applying patches to a broken heart.
Without really noticing the transition, lately I find myself interacting with her from a place of happiness, pleasure even. All of her stuff that is now my stuff has been sorted, distributed, incorporated. I'm remembering her tenacity, her gangly goofiness, her great fashion sense, her extraordinarily deep love of family; remembering without automatically connecting the memories with her death. Other things are easier now, too. Spending time with family and casually wondering aloud what she'd have to say about what we're up to. Walking down the street and hiding laughter, not tears, behind my sunglasses.
That pledge to a walking commute in January leads to participation on a relay team for a marathon in December. The subsequent decision to go ahead and devote time in my day to cooking at home results in a magnificently fulfilling obsession with kitchen creativity. The self-confidence has at long last returned from hiatus and, thankfully, had the sense to bring my good mood back with it.
The first few years our backyard was smaller and it was on the other side of the fence. One of the neighbor boys tended to it when the time came, selling the bounty for rent money. There was even that one time Fuckin' Rick left a smoldering log at its base all night. The still quite prominent three-foot scar 'tis but a flesh wound that in no way hinders the giant, eighty-odd year old, absurdly prolific Mission Fig Tree.
Eventually, the husband expanded the borders of our fence to include the Tree, which became the perfect centerpiece for our outdoor living space. Or so we thought. Life with the Tree is great during the winter, when the branches are bald and cast interesting shadows across the yard. But when those first baby buds begin to emerge come spring, our relationship with the Tree takes a turn. Personally, I quite enjoy the remodeling process of what appears to be a naked, harmless tree converting itself into a fig factory. Alas, for the husband, it only marks the onset of this year's battle with his nemesis. He likes to call it the "droppin' shit season." Mostly he's talking about the leaves and the fruit; but sometimes he just means the bird shit, of the exceedingly sticky, purple fig seed variety.
With every season comes the threat that "THIS is the year I'm cutting that bleeping thing down!" Which is predictably countered with threats of divorce -- and wouldn't that be a silly reason to separate -- or promises to tie myself to the trunk -- and wouldn't he be sorry if he chain sawed his wife along with our aged, defenseless Tree.
See, the real tragedy is neither of us, in fact, like to eat the figs. They're sort of bland, and a bit icky. And let's be frank, how many hundreds of seeds does one two-inch piece of fruit really need? (Has anyone ever witnessed those seeds becoming trees? I mean, baby fig trees are delivered by stork, right?) Then there's the parade of critters that use the Tree as their personal cafeteria: raccoons, opossums, ten different kinds of bird, and, you know, other stuff, worse stuff. Consequently, the season pretty much means we're a couple of fig pushers. This part I quite enjoy, actually. People get so excited over a few strawberry baskets full of fresh Mission Figs; it's kind of awesome.
Still, unrelenting fig pushing is never sufficient. There are always more figs: more figs on the Tree, more figs on the ground, on our shoes/staining the carpet, more figs in the the trash. Truthfully, this never used to bother me. I mean, you know, the Tree is beautiful and it's fun to give away fruit; but the Tree is also mean. The leaves are scratchy and cause a rash on one's arms after harvest. There's this vicious, stingy milk in the stem and peel of the fruit that literally burns one's flesh if one does not use protection. The Tree does not want to make it easy, for anyone. So, the subsequent waste was all right, until it finally dawned on me that these figs are FOOD, man! What in the local, organic-loving world are we doing letting this free food go to waste?
"Hence," she declared, "This is the year we'll learn to love the figs!"
The project began the moment those green touches began to speckle the winter branches. At first, it was a little inkling in the back of my mind, a nudge, a poke. The husband casually mentioned how much he actually enjoyed those dried figs in that one salad at that one restaurant. Check! A friend sends me a simple preserves recipe she's used with her own backyard crops. Check! Then, the Tree filled out and the figs inserted their own color splashes in the yard.
The next thing I know, it's here: Fig Week.
All my big talk of being ready for it this time is coming to literal fruition. For the last several days, my culinary world has revolved exclusively around this one-woman production -- from picking to prepping to preserving. Fig after fig, after fig. I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my kitchen, it's fig-tastic! My first ever attempt at making jam was a mild success. Nine half-pint jars of runnier than expected, yet simply gorgeous, deeply purple Drunken Fig Preserves are quickly being spoken for amongst all those fig lovin' friends. Baking sheets dotted with shriveling fig halves have occupied all oven real estate for three days and counting.
For all this pleasure derived from food production, not to mention the bragging about it on Facebook, the husband and I have yet to actually taste the final results (I know, I know, rookie mistake, always sample the goods, whatever). There's a bit of trepidation in the air. What if, after all the fuss, what if we still don't like the taste of the figs?
Well, no matter. At least there are a few lessons to be gleaned from the experience:
Whatever the form -- fresh, dried or jammed -- a fig pusher is always well received.
Kitchen food production from backyard harvest is tremendously enjoyable and never a waste of time.
...or wait. Maybe they did warn us. But whatever, we don't tend to heed such warnings when we're young and invincible, now do we?
Alternate title: Things We Never Thought Would Happen to Us...But Did
1. Adult Acne - Seriously, folks. I think we can all agree that this one of the cruelest little jokes ever, can we not? There are actually some hazy pre-teen memories of my mom complaining about this very thing. But I must have figured it was an isolated incident or perhaps I assumed she was just kidding. At any rate, bumps on the face have been such a constant companion these past twenty-odd years that, come to think of it, I'm not even sure I'd know what to do without their presence. I'd probably find some other way to spend my time and facial product money.
2. Biological Clock- For years, this one sounded like the biggest bunch of malarkey to me. That is, until one day the incessant clock ruckus woke me from my peaceful slumber. I find it interesting. In our culture, we're so hell bent on defying our natural instincts. We combat aging, we manage our anger, we drive in four-wheeled death traps, for crying out loud. Not that far of a stretch, really, to want to be-still the internal tickity-tocks. It's something over which I continue to slap the snooze button.
3. Screaming Children = Nails on a Chalkboard - Let me just preface: I adore children. Just not when they're screaming. I was most definitely a child who exercised my screaming muscles frequently -- gleefully even -- without giving it a thought. It was easy to dismiss parental fears of "what will the neighbors think we're doing to you?" How else was I to express myself, after all? Fast-forward to present day: we live across the street from two homes which must house a minimum of a dozen children, each. Summertime always finds said children running around their yards and driveways, screeching their little hearts out...often until nearly 11pm. Sure, they're having a blast, but, at my expense, is it really worth it? Sigh. Probably.
5. LOVE - Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I really had no concept of how completely filled with love my childhood was. One of my many blessings that I've only just begun to grasp. Curious, and a weensy bittersweet, how it takes an understanding of the suffering of others to finally appreciate one's own good fortune. Love: a surprisingly time consuming, energy devouring endeavor. Sure, love is patient and love is kind. But love is also work and requires our constant, devoted attention. We have to live it, give it, eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nurture it, never stop perfecting our ability to offer it to everyone around us, everything around us, everyone and thing that we'll never come across.
