"Go forth, gently and with courage"

Today, I marked another New Normal.  

It was not a big deal to head to Mt. Rainier by myself.  It was an emotional deal.  I needed encouragement; a push and a nudge.  It's...complicated.  I finally mustered up my courage, my sandwich, snacks, water, map, and of course, a pair of long pants, a windbreaker, and an extra pair of socks, just in case.  

It was two years ago July we last visited Mt. Rainier.  She was and still is as magnificent as ever.  Serene.  Powerful.  It was at the beginning of my sabbatical, and an inaugural trip of the custom-built-sup'd-up-turbo-engine-diesel-powered-5-speed-EuroVan, which I affectionately named Albatross.  Eric wanted to test out 'Tross before our month-long road trip on the ALCAN.  

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I almost chickened out this morning.  I didn't want to visit Her without Eric.  I didn't need this new normal, I said.  So I did the inevitable:  I made myself a bagel sandwich with bacon and egg!  I never make this for breakfast anymore, but I know it would do magic.  

08:45.  I loaded up, determined to stare down my chicken-ness and mark another New Normal.  Determined to go forth, gently and with courage. 

A short 6 miles, 1700' gain on the Skyline Trail, and a fair share of teary moments later, I've decided that Our Mountain, shall always be our mountain.  I reached for another handful of almonds. Headed home.  

I didn't chicken out.  I didn't!   

July 31, 2013
Paradise View Point
Mt. Rainier, WA

July 7, 2011
Paradise View Point
Mt. Rainier, WA

GASP!  Lunch is getting away!

Serene.  Powerful. Our Mountain.

I remember everything

Seattle skyline
Photo courtesy of Andrew Reddaway
07.25.13

It has been a glorious summer in Seattle.  Gorgeous sunsets and comfortable daytime temperature.  If I had put some tomatoes in the ground, they would probably produce couple red fruit.  But, there is no tomato this year.  I sow some peas for old time's sake.  They grew, but I harvested exactly once.  There are carrots, yes, but they won't be ready for a while.  Eric always said carrots taste extra sweet after the first frost. I will wait until the first frost before I dig up any. 

I have very little recollection of last summer except for the vivid memory of multiple gruesome trips to Dr. Yin's clinic in Bellingham; the trips that completely occupied us from June to October.  I remember the crappy weather.  I remember diagnostic injection after diagnostic injection.  I remember Eric hurting bad, being exceedingly uncomfortable in the car after each injection and each trip.  Each diagnostic injection would aggravate his condition, and it took weeks for the pain to quiet down.  When it finally calmed, it was time to make another pilgrimage north for another injection, elsewhere in the spine.  I am lucky.  I don't have a personal relationship with anyone who had been tortured through water-boarding. But, I remember vividly a different kind of torture my husband went through.  Over and over.    

I don't know which is worse:  To forever grief the death of my husband, or to forever remember the extensive torture he endured.  I do not know how I am supposed to survive both.  It seems to be a bad joke at the moment. 

I vividly remember pleading with whatever gods that would give a shit, to make Eric hurt just a little less.  I concluded, unfortunately, "honey badgers don't give a shit." I remember feeling nothing but disdain.  

An old friend asked me just the other day why I no longer consider Christianity my faith - a surprise to him since I was very active in the ministry for so many years.  "What happend," he asked.  I chuckled as I typed, "nothing -happened-; I simply no longer find religions relevant to my life.  I haven't for years."  I am not godless, and I certainly am not an atheist.  I simply prefer room for uncertainties and for shades of gray - just like life itself.  I don't see the need to define and limit anymore.  

Hydrangea
Photo courtesy of Katie Wat

"Where there is love, there is god."  I don't need to define god.  I don't have a need to anthropomorphize "god."  
I don't even need to call it 
g-o-d. 




After a long streak of Victoriousness, today was full of tears, as I remember everything Eric suffered all too well.  This day shall pass.  And then it shall return. For now, it feels as if it will continue in all of eternity.  

  

What's That Noise?

I decided to be girly and paint my toenails sparkly silver.  As I enjoyed my moment of solitude, my memories went to the goofy 8-year old who loved to improvise.    

I didn't grow up painting my nails like many little girls do in this country.  I had no idea what a manicure or pedicure was. I most definitely NEVER had long fingernails.  I was a young pianist.  You could not possibly pay respect to the piano with that clicking noise on the ivories.  It would be like blasphemy.  

I was never a Barbie girl either.  I grew up a tom boy playing soccer with my bros, and got in plenty of trouble.  I was also a bossy tom boy who liked to play "teacher" at home - I was ALWAYS the teacher.  Imaginary students always obeyed my orders.  Our house had a big chalkboard for messages, grocery items, etc.  I stood in front of the chalkboard, pointing to the whatever imaginary lessons I prepared for my class, and taught away.  

Teachers were authoritative figures in my little head.  One of my fiercest teachers had long painted fingernails.  Long painted nails = authority.  I needed long painted nails for my class.  Poor Little Daisy.  I was so misguided...  It is a miracle I haven't needed to devote three-quarter of my paycheck to a therapist as an adult.  

Back to my nails.  I had no materials that could make me an authoritative figure. There was NEVER any nail polish around the house.  Worse yet, I had these little piano fingers that were strong as hammers but they wouldn't make the clicking noise I wanted. 

Then something caught the corner of my eyes. Tiny bottles of model paint with which my brother painted his tiny soldiers, his tiny tanks, his tiny planes.  Silver paint!  

"A bag of pistachios!!" I grinned as my eyes lit up. I found treasure!  I loved that goofy, creative kid in me. "Quickly!" The pistachios were delicious, but I was after the shells. Meticulously, I painted ten pistachio shells with the tiny paint brush. "Double-sided tape!" 

My authority is within reach.  My class shall obey my barking orders very soon...  

Carefully, one by one, I adhered the double-sided tape inside the pistachio shells, and pressed them onto my fingernails.  Viola!  I just created instant Lee Press-On Nails in silver.  I was elated!  

"Click click click click."  I tapped on the chalkboard.  Instructing Little Johnny on addition and subtraction.  Authority!  "Click click click click click..."

"What's that clicking noise?"  "What's screeching on the chalkboard?"  "What is that on your fingers??"  Mother asked.  Uh oh. 

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I think we were all goofy and creative not that long ago.  Let's claim that bag of Pistachios back.  




  

From Daisy to Victoria

The dictionary says "to be victorious is an act of defeat, typically an enemy or opponent in a battle, game, or other."  What is a victory when there is no enemy, no opponent, no metrics or measurement?   

Let me think.  I am not at war with anything.  I have no imaginary enemy or real opponent.  I do not have the deep-seeded need to win at all costs.  Instead, I have a simple and straight forward mission that requires a victory:  I shall welcome and embrace the 15th like any brave new days.   

I have decided - it is time.  It is time to be victorious on the 15th of each month, even the worst and scariest of them all.    

Victory is not measured by the absence of grief
Nor is Victory measured by the least amount of tears.  
Victory is not about winning. 
Or defeat. 
She is not about moving on, or forgetting.  

To be victorious is to be inclusive.  Grateful.  Thankful.  Joyful in spite of sorrow. Embracing in spite of fear. I shall be victorious.  

And I shall call myself, Victoria! 

Photo courtesy of Katie Wat

Please Take a Deep Breath

It has been said too many times that "things happen for a reason."  I don't completely agree with that statement.  I don't believe things have to happen for a reason.  Sometimes, shit just happens.  End of story.  Besides, the statement sounds too passive.    

I believe we have a choice to define and create a purpose for each event that happens.  I prefer "things happen for a purpose."  Being purposeful is being mindful. I believe in being mindful in everything I do.    

I deeply believe there is a purpose for my husband's dying as there is a purpose for his living.  His death has caused deep and profound impacts in me and my outlook in life; it gave me new clarity to my place in this world.  Our lives together over a decade, especially for the past two years, have been creating and preparing me for my tipping point.  I believe my tipping point is inching closely. 

"The meaning of death is that we were once alive," said my good friend Hallie.  To be alive!  Not just to have a breath, but to be alive.  

When I chatted with my dear friend Kevin this weekend, I tried to explain, albeit somewhat futilely, what fighting to triumph each day feels like, and what it means to me.  To keep repeating that I am still grieving sounds really, well, repetitive. But grief is well beyond sorrow.  It is engrained and engraved in the bones, in the core, in the whole being.  It takes up residence deeply in the lungs, impossible to extricate unless you do so mindfully, purposefully.  You need to breathe grief out. Long, slow, deep breath.  

Despite my intense grief, I feel big, I told Kevin.  I feel tall.  I am not fearless, but I am not fearful of anything.  Or anyone.

That height, that size, that bigness comes with a price tag.  It takes my mindful, purposeful extrication of grief from my core.  Every single day.  The process is incredibly unpleasant.  Tearful.  Achy.  And alone.  Alone because nobody else can extricate my grief but me.  Countless friends love me dearly, and have my back completely, but none can make this easier, better, less painful.  The only way to extricate grief healthily is to experience it purposefully, mindfully.  

"Things happen for a purpose."  

Eric's death has a purpose.  My unspeakable grief has a purpose.  My bigness has a purpose.  Our love, ever without bounds, has a purpose.  

I just let out a long, long deep breath.  

Winter road trip
Ashland, OR
Dec, 2011

It may not be all unicorn, but it is all Rainbow

I am determined to engage in nothing but positive, meaningful, loving thoughts and activities for the next 72 hours.  And I am going to write about them.  Writing lifts my spirit. 

I didn't have to search very hard when I remember two of my friends got married couple weekends ago, after being together for more than two decades.  It wasn't that they are not committed to each other or their relationship. They weren't allowed to get married until now: they are a lesbian couple.  


When she told me the news, I cried.  Granted, I cry easily these days but THIS, this momentous news, was worth the tears.  The "god-given right" bestowed upon any two heterosexual human beings - whether or not they are worthy or ready - is finally "granted" to my friends.  These two women are the most loving, kind-hearted, decent human beings with whom one can only hope to befriend, and they are my good friends.  Their legalized marriage now has a personal impact on me.  

My tears were genuine happiness, relief, and pride.  Proud that we, as a people, are making some progress in humanity.  At least in this part of the country.  

If we strip away the facade behind the political, religious, and self-righteous mumble jumble, it is all too simple and straightforward:  compassion and love.  It is much more than tolerance but an expression of human equality and justice.  It is to forego the limiting, black and white "conventional absolute" but embrace the gray possibility.  

It is courage.  

I am not an activist of any kind; I don't need any more labels.  I just want the courage to do the right thing when courage is warranted.  And if that means openly celebrating my dear friends' marriage, then so be it.  

I often remind myself it was not that long ago - perhaps only 70 years ago - that I would not be allowed to marry Eric simply because we are of a different race. That some people had the audacity to deny my right to pursue my happiness was horrific. For the most part, and in most parts of this country, this blatant ignorance has dissolved.  In time - hopefully in my lifetime - we, as a race, will make enough courageous progress that marriages between two people regardless of race, gender, and sexual orientation, will simply become un-newsworthy.  



  

Hot Sugar Water

I stare at the blank screen, wanting to say something, yet unable to write anything. The cooler temperature for the past couple of days gave me a chilling feeling that autumn is near, even though it's barely mid-July.  I am not looking forward to the end of daylight savings; the return of darkness.  I am not looking forward to the cold or the rain.  None of them ever bothered me before.  It's a little different now. 

People are moving on.  They have new lives to live.  So must I, but I move on at snail pace. The dreadful July 15th fast approaches.  Here I am, telling myself it's just a date on the calendar with no significant meanings unless I give it significant meanings.  In reality, I already gave it plenty significance by reminding myself it is the 15th.  I shake my head with disbelief.  

July 15th.  It is finally beginning to feel like a nightmare.  Pity, this is not a nightmare.  I don't get to wake up from it.  I own the nightmare now.  It's all mine.

Damn!  That's no good.     

People have moved on.  And have new lives to live.  Me?  I want to simply dissolve. I want to close my eyes and completely dissolve.  Like sugar in hot water.  Into liquid.  

I can't believe you haven't held my hands for five months.  I am a little mad about that.  I have as yet to embrace the 15th, but I suppose I can always try it next month.  There's August 15.  

Your Support of My Efforts (updated on 07.04.13)

(Updated on July 4, 2013)
The Kick-Ass Bread Campaign helped raise $1,890 in only 7 days!!  


Midnight June 30.  My Kick Ass Campaign is over.  

Whatever the amount we collectively raised for the PSCS Annual Giving Campaign, it was already a huge success.  It was a huge success because of you - whether you donated, contemplated in donating, read about it on my blog, or "Liked" it on my Facebook page.    

I thank you for your gift of time and your financial support.  Wholeheartedly. 

To 100% of my personal friends who gave generously, you did so because you trusted me.  I dare say none of you have heard about Puget Sound Community School before I wrote  you personally about its campaign, then blogged about it publicly.  None of you will benefit from your gift from PSCS personally or directly.  

Yet, you gave.  Because you care enough to support me and my efforts.  BECAUSE YOU CARE ABOUT ME. 

My nutty campaign, pun intended, is never about my bread.  It is most definitely not about me.  It is not even about PSCS.  

It is about you.  The magic is you and your love.  And your trust.  My Gratitude Cup still overflows.  

Daisy's Bread 'n Barter is officially closed.  I don't know when, or if, it will reopen.  Perhaps not until the next cause; perhaps not ever.  It is not important.  

What's important is now.