whenelephantsmuse

Morning News

2011-12-12T14:50:00.002-05:00

before it is time to wake up, M (3) yells out in her sleep, as she is prone, and I attempt to salvage the wee hours of darkness by stumbling over to her bed, perhaps to rub her back or tuck in her blanket. instead she grunts, as though peeved, yells something about a giving her a snack. having failed in the offer of comfort, I bestow a stern, "be quiet now." she is dreaming. before I can regain the warmth of my bed, N (1.5) yells from his room. in the last few weeks he has decided to take on the grumpy morning demeanor of his sister. so now instead of happy mumbles and chants in the morning, he half wails and moans in mock agony until I am forced to get him up out of desperation for ear solace. even though it is a much more stressful way to do things, when I am too tired, I will not get up bofore N. such is the case this morning, yet I go downstairs to clean out the woodstove and restock it with wood before I go up to save N from his own despair. I also happen to have a stiff neck this morning, my wife and I have long discussions about stiff necks and what they imply. for my current purposes, it implies that it is harder to hold two grumpy children on my lap as they try to wake up and try to whine the other out of their space, daddy's lap. we sit in front of the woodstove in the morning darkness, I try not to move my head too much. N is taking great delight in eating cereal and milk from a bowl like his sisters and has done well. until this morning when he decides to dump his bowl down his front. I'm not sure how much milk has dumped, how much has been drunk, until I observe a puddle of milk forming underneath his high chair, dripping out of the slot designed for a strap. I wipe him off and postpone a thorough cleaning of the chair until L (8) is on her way out the door to the bus (or the "cat bus" as M lovingly refers to it. or the "BSSSSSS!" as per N.) having completed her morning routine with a few smart alec comments, almost forgetting something, and kisses all around, although N trips while trying receive his kiss and must now wail instead of receive his sister's blessing. I now turn my attention to the high chair and discover there is a decent amount of squished food/milk packed neatly into the fittings of the chair strap. I decide it is time for a complete overhaul and am required to get a few tools out of the drawer in the kitchen in order to take everything appropriately apart. M and N also must watch and help hold the tools as I do this. eventually all the straps are removed, the packed food bits are painstakingly picked off the floor and appropriate surfaces cleaned with spray. I work the straps into the first load of laundry for this "laundry day." my wife is rustling in the kitchen, staunchly making hot oatmeal and pours the coffee I have managed to make in between the kids. M informs me that N has pulled yet another glass ball ornament off the tree. I search in vain for the balls matching cap and wire, and while I am kneeling in front of the small tree, M and N decide to parade around the tree. N half trips over the light cord and pokes his face in the branches. it is too tight for a good parade and I redirect his enthusiasm. I remind M to wash her hands after going potty and make sure that N does not try to wash his. my wife has time for an impromptu conversation and after several failed attempts we let the kids watch an episode of Maisy so that we might have our 5 minute conversation over breakfast. we speak about the nature of stress and back aches, stiff necks, the on-going "Amish project", what the day may hold and why are the holidays so stressful? what are we doing wrong? how can we simplify? etc. I ask about a few of her Amish patients and offer to start her car. (which happens to be my Dad's truck - as her car is no longer working, long story) we wife does not keep the habit of hanging keys up on the key hooks I bought at Lowes last year while carting around two kids and deciding to get the "real wood" mounted hooks even though they were more expensive. instead they usually are in her brown bag, her purse, or one of her coat pockets. after exhausting these possibilities, she remembers that she set them on the ground beside the raised beds last night while peeking at the spinach. I retrieve them in my flip flops and start the truck, taking care not to back over any children that may have slipped out the back door without my notice. my wife rubs my neck briefly until the attacks by N are just too much, she shows me a few stretches for shoulders and is on her way. I water the outdoor cats, who in the winter only get small windows of opportunity to drink as their dish freezes so quickly. I start the laundry for the morning, after finding a brown bag with handles for M who is asking for a "basket" to carry things with. I attempt to negotiate a parallel play opportunity, as N also wants the bag. this works until M informs me that N has torn the bag. I find another bag. we have about 3 days until the holidays break loose upon us. it is now 10:03 on a chilly Monday morning.

Lettuce Visions

2011-11-17T22:31:00.001-05:00

Guest blog by Olivia

Last night around midnight I realized that, if I keep paying off my med school debt at its current rate, I will be 57 when it is paid off. I can hear my uncle Phil joking, "Hey doc, how's it going making the big bucks?" all the way from Pennsylvania.

I suppose I could have become a famous neurosurgeon. I could have done 10 more years of residency, and paid off my loans after two days on the job.

I suppose I could have gone to Hershey med school with the dairy cows, instead of Einstein, where all the partying smart kids thought I was a little touched and left me behind when they took the express bus to Manhattan.

I suppose Matthew and I could have continued to rent a duplex in Lewisburg, never owning a home. Allen Roth would have been quite proud of us. We could have raised 3 more mini-Wengers across the street from Catherman's bakery, filling their bellies with the best eclairs on the planet, while singing "I've got a mansion, just over the hilltops" after supper every night. But I got a REALLY bad case of nesting instinct while expecting N. I didn't care so much about how we'd pay off a mortgage when I was two weeks postpartum.

We have lived in the prairie house for over a year now. I'm working almost fulltime. Most of my patients are on public insurance, and better thank their lucky stars for every Democratic vote next election. I keep dabbling in the genetic diseases of the other, not-so-Democratically voting, part of the county. A little failure to thrive here, a few seizures there. Add a pinch of dystonia. A few pleas to the Big Guys for a little more sacred time...it makes a bittersweet stew if you know what I mean.

There really isn't much to throw my arms up in the air and cheer about. Until I stumble out of the house after a day sitting in gloom puddles, to see M's latest creation. What finesse! What fresh home-grown spinach in the middle of November! Note the rain-proof roof, and the wind-proof clasps. Regard the frame built from salvaged wood! I shout Hosanna. Blessed be the Name of the LORD!!! I'm going to heaven, after all.

The November Masterpeice

Pine needles are automatic mulch if you plant your lettuce in the right place

Our Passionate Work

2011-11-17T10:53:00.001-05:00

The woodstove in our living room is quietly and increasingly beocming a part of the daily routine. In spite of the warm afternoons of the past week, the winter cold is on its way. This summer and fall, I've spared what moments I can in order to split and stack a supply of wood that rests sheltered in the barn. I don't yet have a good sense of how much wood we can burn in one winter. N can hardly wait to handle the splitting maul and the axe that I use to make kindling.

The essence of a good life involves sitting still long enough to hear the wind, watching the light patterns move slowly along the wall, on a cold morning in late fall. It also involves many days when this is not possible.

Those whom we love, we despise because of our own weaknesses that are revealed. To love fully is the ability to accept the seasonal, cyclical patterns that confront and obstacle our moments together. The sustenance of commitment is revealed in the callused hand that works unseen. Its touch upon soft skin an undeniable surety, our passionate work.

Bringing in the Wood

2011-10-15T22:33:00.004-04:00

long tall trees twitching in the strong wind

muddy meadow trails and

a bridge made of old spongy logs

not strong enough

to help fill the barn

with firewood this year

the world askew with leaves

the offspring of the summer past

the whine of twin chainsaws

and the strong men in my family

all of us strong

hefting eight foot logs about

staying abreast of the upswell

of Autumn

vivid memories

stacked into neat piles

and saved

for the cold short days

of the coming winter

These Thoughts on the 7th

2011-10-07T00:36:00.001-04:00

of October
when geese fly over our driveway
in the morning
I always check their direction
making sure they're headed the right way
like, toward warmer climates, for instance
although today was warm
enough
to work up a little sweat
while shoveling earth
and making holes the exact size
of half-bricks
to border a garden
that still holds
my wife's vegetables and herbs

and suddenly the leaves fall
and quietly startle me
and the silence
as I work outside
the small moment of peace
that fell upon me
after a full week
of single parenting

now, too, the ladybugs
must be hatching
they come over me
as mosquitoes
with a small bite
and I constantly twitch
like a horse with flies
they are so plentiful

In order to finish the bricks, I had to pull out two Chard plants, unbalancing the two steady rows where they had grown strong and tall. I was surprised by the density and strength of their roots. What a hardy plant! So abundant. We could not keep ahead of it despite stir fry and soup. I felt guilty tearing them out, especially without my wife here to come to their rescue, or speak on their behalf. She cannot stand to throw away or destroy even the minutest vegetable. Should I cook these two plants yet tonight? Sometimes my wife playfully refers to me as "the constant gardener" - a name taken from a movie - some mystery, perhaps a Poirot? I remind her consistently that I am a slow learner. Seldom do I latch on to something without rubbing my nose in it experientially for a good while. Such is gardening. It takes me a while to wade through the discomforts and stress of the logistics - and to actually experience a garden in a full cycle - such as bring up a jar of grape juice from the basement in the middle of January, or eat green beans year round that we have frozen, etc. - until I start to be filled with passion and compassion about growing food in our yard.

So Far This Summer

2011-07-22T13:44:00.006-04:00

One more-so and one less-so enthused astronauts.

.
A trip to the Great Lakes Science Center. To be remembered for M's running out of the play area back out into the museum and getting briefly "lost". I'm starting to keep my eye out for those back-pack kid leashes. Is our family really this big?
.
Although she prefers reading, to weeding, L can be arm-twisted into garden chores from time to time.

.

Planting a garden. More work than we imagined, but just as much fun.

N is ready to take the helm of the ancient tiller.

M found a place to play.

Wagon rides are great fun, if you get N to stay in the wagon.

N gets in touch with the Wild Man, helped out by chewing on a marker-laden balloon.

N at 1 year is not afraid of sugar-laden foods.

Ice Cream Cones on the porch. what can be better?

. We had to take these two mere-cats home with us after visiting the Cleveland Zoo. A day to be remembered for its heat, its sleepless children, and its parental arguments - just another normal day at the zoo.

Cats, cats and . . . well, Cats!

2011-07-22T12:57:00.004-04:00

as I sit down (lie down rather, on L's bed while shepherding M into her nap) to attempt BLOGGING, I at first thought, "oh, good, at least I'm posting in a one month interval - until I realized that this is JULY 22 and not the less surprising JUNE 22, which I apparently lost track of. so goes this period of life - lots of good ideas, lots of starts, lots of intentions, but mostly just good old-fashioned housework and family life. for instance I have a great idea to take thoughtful pictures of the different aspects of our gardening projects and write about them slowly, contemplatively and descriptively, absorbing them like an unchomped Life Saver or a Smartie that you leave in your mouth long enough for a hole to dissolve in the middle. when's the last time something like THAT happened?

a few words about cats. EXPENSIVE, PROLIFIC, SHARP TEETH. (apologies to the cat-absorbed) we started out our cat adventures last summer by trying to move and begin housing a cat at the same time. due to our noble intentions not to begin a cat farm or disease haven, we dutifully spayed and immunized as her breath was cut short by a fast midnight car, we ended up with a permanent, although costly, memorial spot in our perennial garden. sensing the time was right, a stray, pregnant, feline mother (albeit missing the toes of her right rear paw) took up shop behind our woodpile. who could say no to a hobbling, pregnant gal?

two litters of kittens later, my father and father-in-law's practical sense looms up within me. I haven't bought a gun, but I can more clearly understand the urge to "take them out to the back 40" so to speak. our family vet informs me that cats can indeed get pregnant during breastfeeding and because of virtually unlimited breeding seasons, are really kitten-producing machines. LESSON LEARNED. some of our kittens we gave away to "good homes", but the last litter of kittens for whatever reason, even though they were born and raised in our barn, were essentially wild. how are we going to give away kittens that we can't catch? while trying to round them up to take into the local animal shelter, I got more than one healthy chomp to my index finger (leaving teeth-shaped holes).

catching wild kittens is extremly time consuming, and difficult to do with small children around. taking their mother to the vet for a prerequisite exam and follow-up spay surgery is no less so. on the morning of our mother cat's surgery, I got all three children out of the house in order to begin the capturing and caging process. JD, the lucky patient, was no where to be found. we tromped through waist high wet grass in high humidity and ambled around our property and woods, shaking the food can and calling. I carried N the entire 45 minutes while M tried to keep up ("wait for me! wait for me!) and lost her flip flops somewhere in the middle of the pasture. Five minutes before the end of the drop-off window at the vet, I called to inform them of their reticent patient. I walked back out of the house and JD ambles nonchalantly across the drive. by this time I am exhausted, jaded and longing for the day when cat birth control becomes inexpensive.

in her two trips to the vet, JD was a stellar patient. she only went to the bathroom once while in the car and she did not bite me. she still limps and will need her stitches out in 7 days, but for all of my intents and purposes, will be kitten-free for the rest of her born days. unfortunately, we discovered last night that the one kitten we kept (for M) appears to be a female. according to the vet that means we have about 4 months to figure out how to take care of that looming problem. pay up or ship out?

*no cats were harmed in the making of this blog

Pell-Mell Into the Spring Playtime

2011-05-22T22:54:00.007-04:00

It's going to take a bit of adjusting to get used to these warm, sunny days. After a cold winter and a cool spring, 75 degrees feels like I can't breathe. A cool 11 o'clock breeze through the living room window that rustles the maple trees along the driveway feels like all the peaceful interlude for which I could ask on a Sunday night.

Congratulations on continuing to check this blog after such long absences over the past year - you are to be commended on your commitment to my literary efforts, bumbling as they are. I have bumped into enough of you out there to feel re-inspired to continue to write. The fact that this effort means something to you, means something to me. Please leave me a comment once in a while!

Well, the grace period is over (see last post to define "grace period".) We are pell-mell, tumble bumble into the spring work/play out in the yard. We have weeded, mulched, trimmed, planted (perennials, vegetables, herbs, annuals, trees!), transplanted, sprouted seeds, and mowed grass in the third gear of my Toro walk-behind mower, which is about the equivalent aerobic exercize of a 2 or 3 mile run. (I've even stirred up the year-old compost pile) All this in the wettest spring I can remember and with the most children I've ever had to take care of. I fall into bed exhausted, but it's a "happy" exhausted. I haven't had this much fun in a great while.

Our outdoor projects help us to learn about each other. Most of these projects start out in O's brain - she browses the catalogs, envisions the possibilities and orders the seeds and plants. Through conversation and looking over her shoulder, I soon get on board with the enthusiasm. After the seeds, plants, trees and mulch come, I work outside fiendishly in spare moments to bring all these visions to pass. While most of her ideas are brilliant and beautiful, I temper them with the practical aspects of cold reality and in the process of pouring myself into the said projects, begin to come up with ideas and alterations of my own. (wouldn't these trees look better over there?) These discussions and differences of opinion keep the conversation lively and the love warm - but perhaps this kind of ebb and flow of tension is what keeps our parents from being excited about planting their own gardens 30 years into the team effort. Be that as it may, I've seldom worked so hard, loved the earth so intimately, or tended so many plants as this spring.

Spring

2011-04-10T15:34:00.003-04:00

wow. it is spring, at long last. the daphodils have bloomed and the tree buds have given the woods a red blush of promise. we're in the grace period; after the long uphill climb of winter we've leveled off and can enjoy the view and excitement, right before we plunge headlong down the other side in the craziness of all the work that will undoubtedly come as we attempt to tend our little acreage. I haven't been an adult long enough to know how to walk around our place without constantly thinking of things that need to be done. good grief! let me alone! the cells continue to divide, children grow long legs and our age comes quietly.

Observing the Little Guy

2011-03-09T21:30:00.003-05:00

Observing the Little Guy

tearing apart my kitchen

limb from limb

like Dionysus

(nothing can be sole or whole

that has not been rent)

boxes, bags, dishes, containers

things on the ground

pushing them around

"learning the use of my hands!"

mouth, hand, hand, hand

mouth, hand, hand, etc.

two hands together, clapping

pulling, pulling out

sounds! making the sound again

turning over, pulling again

wanting to tear apart

and remake the world!

touching, tasting

everything!

wanting to know

to understand!

A Family

2011-01-22T12:36:00.005-05:00

Although the hazards and pitfalls of raising a family are many - I doubt anything could quite take its place. Pictures help us realize this. When you see the faces of your children and wife all day everyday, its sometimes difficult for these visual intricacies to make impact on the pool of your brain. Its easy to forget to take pictures at all. Only later, upon reflection and when something is locked in the past forever, irretrievable, do these images of the everyday and ordinary take us to a greater emotional depth.

Every once in a while I still run into someone who has stumbled across my blog for the first time - I'm like, "oh, yeah, that!" With a bit of embarrassment, with a bit of pride, with a bit of remorse. Writing for an audience can be pretentious; delusions of grandeur, and just plain delusions may be par for the course. A little bit of this and a little bit of that - "it is what it is" is a nice expression that comes to mind.

for me it is a place to collect some of the debris, the driftwood, the leftovers of the mind, the heart - their pitiful scrambling about, their happy little jaunts, their storms - hopefully their storms; arranging these little pieces together in stacks and patterns, or just letting them fall where they will. How real is real? What is worth talking about? I don't really know. I guess its an exploration then - and here is my family - my pride and joy, my stability, my storm, and my occupation. (the woodpecker is just a visitor)

Birds at Home

2011-01-15T07:57:00.005-05:00

Give Joy

2010-12-01T16:08:00.005-05:00

I am a piranha, quick and effective. I am pulling Nigel in and out of the little Civic, dashing from store to store, checking items off my Christmas list, holding it all together, actually kind of getting an enjoyable rush out of buying gifts. Then I notice a sign that states simply, "Give Joy", and at first I think it says, "buy joy" which makes more sense plastered on the front door of Best Buy, until I look again and sure enough, it encourages me to "give joy." I've just bought a gift card there, scuttling in and out since the store kind of scares me with it's weird, dim lighting and the suppressed but overstimulated tension that lays heavily between the long isles of screaming hd dvd covers and overpriced(?) and undersized electronics.

so I have to wonder about this "giving joy" thing, of course I'm giving joy, aren't I? with buying the gift card, with making the effort to drag a child around, wait in line with grumpy customers and making small chat with the brisk sales people who like to pretend they are checking my id. I'm even signing my name on a computerized screen without ink. I'm probably saving an ink tree which more than makes up for the extra electricity it's taking to backlight that little box that is so hard to read, to understand.

I decide that the most joy I'm actually giving comes from dragging N, 6 months, around to all the stores. The elderly and the very young are enthralled with his red-cheeked face nestled down in his car seat. an older man squats down in the middle of Sears and has a one-sided conversation. "Aren't you going to talk to me today?" he asks? a 3 yr.-old named Calvin runs over to him in Starbuck's, looks up at me and yells, "what is it?" he follows N and me around, over to the cream station, his mom tries desperately to get him to say "goodbye" but instead he gives a maniacal grin.

Into the Wild

2010-11-12T15:25:00.008-05:00

"Nature is not a place to visit, it is home . . . "

-Gary Snyder

so calling an overnight hike into the woods of PA a "jaunt into the wild" may not be entirely accurate. however, when the moonless sky becomes black as black and you can't hear anything but your own breathing, and your only source of heat is your own body on a cold night in November (below freezing) - it begins to feel like the wild. this is what happens when you plan a backpacking trip for a group of friends and you decide reluctantly to cancel the trip at the last minute because of bad weather - but you also can't stand the idea of staying at home when just minutes before you were anticipating stomping around in the woods, making a fire and seeking a bit of solitude.

I've only been out in the woods for a solo overnight adventure once before - and that was under entirely different circumstances probably 16 years ago. I never really thought much about wanting to try something of this nature alone - but the opportunity arose like a Walleye jumping out of the water and I grabbed it.

I barely made it to a campsite with water before dark, and hastily set up my tent before deciding to first cook my soup on a gas stove before searching for fuel for the fire. I only spilled my soup once time, which forced me to pump more water and start the boiling process all over again so it was very cold and dark before I got around to the fire part of the evening. I learned that it takes alot longer to set up camp when by oneself. there is no division of labor. also, it is a little more scary when you lose the trail and imagine yourself wandering around lost by yourself. but I encountered nothing that a little persistence and a compass couldn't handle.

Such a journey in solitude resembles a search for the self, an emptying and filling of conscious desire, awareness and the flickering embers of aliveness that heats your bones at night. it requires a certain familiarity with aloneness, it demands that we make a sort of peace with ourselves, it clarifies our actions and our movement. Sometimes, it is good for man to be alone.

For Those

2010-10-29T23:23:00.004-04:00

interested in pictures of us
at various times

waiting for the bus at home

Killbuck Marsh (otherwise known as "the swamps down in Shreve")

home again

Favorite Portraits of the Day

2010-10-02T23:47:00.004-04:00

for more portraits and other pictures, visit my photography website: www.lyricinblue.com

The Dad Project: Day 1

2010-10-01T22:21:00.005-04:00

These pictures originate organically from a "day at home with the kids" and due to the difficulties provided by blogspot, do not flow in chronological sequence.

The Daddy Experiment

2010-09-28T23:08:00.002-04:00

9-27-10

Today I begin the real test of my stay-at-home-ability. O is off to work and I am in charge of the house, 3 kids, 4 cats and 1 dog. This isn't a task for the amateur parent - I'll have to make use of all the skills I've developed over the last 6 years, combine them into a superhero caped father figure and fly around the house, swooping in and around the kids.

Things start out well. N (5 months) sleeps in, after waking me up only twice in the predawn hours, allowing me to concentrate on only 2 kids on the first morning of this next full-time aprent stage. L (7) woke up at 6:30 with a bad dream but I still had time to set out bowls and spoons, hair combing equipment, cleaned eyeglasses and a packed lunch for Lyric before needing to wake up the girls.

L is already awake and complains that M (2) hasn't allowed her to go back to sleep after her dream. M, poised half off her bed, asks, "get up?" I say, "Yes, time to get up!" and she jumps off the bed and scrambles onto my lap.

Cereal and hair-combing go smoothly - I can even grab a second helping of Rice Krispies for M in between L's braids. It is raining this morning so we gear up with rainboots, hoods and umbrellas. M cries because she want's L's Tinkerbell umbrella and can't understand why she can't have it. I tell her she can share with me but she is dejected and sullen as we walk out the door. The girls are intrigued by the wet, misty morning and are quiet as we walk out to the end of the drive. M's curls pop out from under her hooded sweater. N bobs and chews on his carrier, close to my chest.

Owning a Home

2010-09-03T16:00:00.003-04:00

owning a home

the apple tree out front
bends like a question mark
its apples falling below, periods and commas that feed the ants
I grab one up high, gray-speckled on green
a huge egg that fills my hand, crisp and sweet

.
a stand of blackberry bramble that draws the curiosity with its fat, generous, elongated , full fruit

but threatens the resolve with its sharp thorns on every side

sweet and bulbous, cutting skin and tearing flesh

one upon one they heap in the stainless steel bowl

borrowing space until eaten

the trees around this place
tall, silent, waiting
watching to see if I, too, will grow patient and enduring
I cut their lowest limbs carefully
respecting their dignity, covering their wounds
I want them to be proud
I want to live as long as they
my bark wrinkling deep, furrowed in age
and the strength of God in my loins

.
toiling in the garden
bending low to pull weeds
close enough to the Earth to smell her scents
the brown, earthy musk
the sticky juice that leaks from the crushed stems of purple stems
the oily mint that hovers about the raised bed
the ruddy blush of budding corn

.
a stray cat the harbors kittens between the woodpile and the barn
a vagabond, a survivor, a wounded spirit
she returns to her litter
after eating from the plastic blue bowl we stole from the kitchen
her month-old children lie together quietly while she is gone
a home is a place to put our children's beds
our cooking pots
our books
our garden tools
a place to let our dreams run free
tumbled out and unpacked
like our children, they will fall short of our expectation
they will scramble out of our control
they will become something other than ourselves
and they will bring us back to breaking
these things we have unleashed
then we will love them
with the same love
with new love
with love that finds its home in spaces between exile and want

On the Anniversary of a Death

2010-08-14T22:56:00.004-04:00

On the Anniversary of a Death

here on my patch of grassy hill

my head above hers, the grave

my thoughts and anticipation sift down

imagining her lying there, close

my sister, where have you gone?

inspiration, you've fled

unfettered, you've flown

your mystical presence here gone

these are the words of consideration

my eyes looking through grass

"our grass, our hill, our overlook, our sky"

our wonderful memories slanting through my hesitation

feelings melt, dripping, dropping

upon the cavernous soul, awake, alive

on this point, this axis between our foreheads

the world rotates, the moon revolves

you are mine

When Parents Fail

2010-08-05T22:15:00.002-04:00

Whenever I envisioned raising kids (which wasn't really that often) I never really spent much brain cell activity on thinking of how I would enact the tooth fairy. probably a good thing as I don't need to be all that disappointed in a dream unrealized. right as she turned seven, Lyric lost two of her front choppers. there was some drama and blood and lots of wiggling until we got 'em out - amid exclamation and exhalation and sighs of relief on all sides. I've never been one to play up all the fantasies of pop culture such as St. Nick and co, but putting her incisors under the pillow at night had started out as a fun tradition, and has now promptly ended - thanks to our malaise and her quick wit.

the first two times we forgot to replace the tooth with U.S. currency, we tried to play it off as a late or absent-minded fairy. perhaps she was extra busy that night, or perhaps she was extra sneaky - putting the money under the pillow right after Lyric got up and was trying to figure out what had went wrong. Lyric was skeptical, but she was enjoying the cash. on the third failed attempt, my 7 year-old daughter decided to lay low. she evidently didn't think Dad and Mom had much to offer by way of explanation.

when we sat down for breakfast, I could tell something was wrong and upon interrogation, she mumbled dejectedly, "everytime I put a tooth under the pillow, I check in the morning and it's still there. then I ask Mom and Dad about it and then it is there. It's so embarrassing!" she rolled her eyes for effect. I had to laugh in spite of myself, even though I could tell she was downright serious and even a bit insulted. I hugged her teary face and apologized for being such an unreliable tooth fairy stand in. I never was much good at telling lies.

Each Day

2010-07-18T17:02:00.003-04:00

each day

each day has its own death, birth, redemption

its poetry, its Fall

we die daily

some little disappointment rattling

or some tangled, scrambling fall among thorns

we glimpse a zenith at nightfall

when the moon is brightly midair

or at midday

when we drink cold water from a hose

there is reunion and congregation

woven in and out

a prayer shawl that is wrapped and unwrapped

one strand left loose is pulled

until all is undone

unraveled again in a sleepless pile

we tremble until morning

until resting, we breathe a few moments more

Don't Try This at Home (wherever that is)

2010-07-05T07:36:00.007-04:00

I suppose there never is a really good time to move, but we always seem to pick the worst possible times. Suffice to say that we've vowed several times in the last few weeks never to move with a newborn, (we've done it twice), never to move and take on a new pet at the same time, and not to move for a very long time. We've reached our 7th place of residence during our almost 9 years of marriage and we've decided that enough really is enough. I know people move more than we, and do crazier things with more kids - but this is as crazy as I care to get. Being experienced in "move" doesn't really help the pain (of, for example, the thirtieth time in one day, "where is that so-and-so? I thought for sure I packed it in such-an-such a box! I know I saw it laying around here somewhere!), it just makes you think that you'll be better equipped for the realities of this current move - which you are in a sense, but in another, you never can be.

we've been supremely dislocated - from big city and small town suddenly spit out onto a 7-acre piece of country with big trees and garden soil. we flop about with pink, gasping gills, breathless and stupidly try to do 9 years of dream in 2 weeks. we alternate between backing each other down in a corner to take slow breaths and save ourselves from drowning simultaneously in euphoria and despair.

I think of these years, with 2 of our 3 children under two, as the bottleneck years of parenting. time (or the wisdom of older, smarter parents) will tell the true tale, but the thought helps me get through the insanely plentious demands of shaping a gangley-legged lump of clay into the semblance of family. between pre-move, move and post-move there have been a zillion decisions crammed into 6 months and the kind of machine gun-rattle on the brain that creats statements from O such as "I really have no idea who you are anymore!"

all this and at the exact same time there is breathtaking cuteness in your kids, as they wring out and trample upon your sleep-deprived-emotion heart. as your futile attempts to keep your dog from frollicking in the overflowing sewage yet again. you stand in a foreign kitchen watching your daughters giggle with a kitten, their faces lighting up again and again with the intense bursts of light like the fourth of July fireworks and a voice whispers urgently in your brain "hold on! hold on to these moments! these delicate, delicate moments! oh, hold on!"

The Other Reason I'm Not Blogging

2010-06-23T15:10:00.002-04:00

In Ohio swimming through boxes
floundering in new space
lots of weeds to pull
raspberries to pick
septic systems to dig
etc.

don't lose faith
will blog again

Why I'm Not Blogging

2010-06-04T13:36:00.003-04:00

after six weeks of a 5-person family, I think it's finally starting to feel just a tiny bit normal. after about 6 years, we might even start getting the hang of it. until then, we're exhausted and strung out. not to mention we move (again!) in 15 days. hurray for insanity! raising an infant takes alot more consciousness than I prefer. sleep is precious. without it I can hardly run, can hardly think. this must be how young whipper-snappers turn into adults. but all is not lost. O and I are surprised almost daily how much fun it is to have 3 kids - chaos rules!

These Odd Shifting Planes

2010-05-10T21:41:00.003-04:00

it's been 9 months since my sister died. for those of you who have lost someone very close, you will not mind that I talk about grief and its process. for those of you who have not, you may wish that I would get on with life, quit belaboring the issue. sometimes i wish that too, but usually I do not. usually I do not mind the twist of the gut when I hear a certain song, or the sudden heavy visceral pressure that comes down whenever I visit my parent's house. and the spinning desperate, falling sensation that dizzys me when I step into Shannon's room.

when someone you love closely dies, it is impossible for your consciousness to swallow this in its entirety without collapsing. the moments you try, you feel death closely. most of your waking hours are not filled with a conscious awareness of their gone-ness. it is not real in this sense, reality eludes you. so these moments of realization are welcome, in a way, because the reality of their gone-ness is suddenly within your grasp. you see and feel things as they truly are.

as the months pass, one over the other, you begin to realize that these odd, shifting planes of reality will become a permanent part of your experience. in some ways, the loss is not blurred and washed away - but becomes more and more vivid.

Along the Way

2010-04-27T13:21:00.009-04:00

along the way

along the way

we spied a trinket

embedded in the earth

and

scooping it up

it erupted light

and showered

fingers of music

we aquainted ourselves

with the miracle of birth

again, anew, afresh

the startling sensation

of family

of death, renewal

of the circles

time wraps around life

and into the tiny

fingernails

attached to seven pounds

of new fruit

new labor

new love

anouncing the beginning of

Nigel Yeats

April 24, 2010pictured here with his first cousin

Paige Brooklyn

age: 5 weeks

In Love With Trees

2010-04-13T19:22:00.006-04:00

It's easy to fall in love with trees while strolling aimlessly about on a 1000-acre garden at the beginning of spring. That's what we decided to do for our last-chance get-away before our children outnumber us. (Longwood Gardens, PA) Like I told D, after this we won't have romance anymore. It'll just be arguing, macaroni & cheese and yelling at the kids from here on out. But if this really was our last fling - it was also our best. We soaked up acres of bloom and bud - slept in past 7 o'clock - and had a two-day uninterrupted conversation. We pretended to be first time parents while missing our children at home. I became reaquainted with my fascination with trees and bought a wonderful copy of A Natural History of North American Trees in which Donald Culross Peattie "writes about trees the way Thoreau writes about Walden Pond." We dreamt of the gardens in our future and wondered if heaven would be well-tended or wild. It was good to be in love and to love nature as much as we possibly could in one day, to "keep in the heart the journal nature keeps."

KEEP IN THE HEART THE JOURNAL - Conrad Aiken

Keep in the heart the journal nature keeps;

Mark down the limp nasturtium leaf with frost;

See that the hawthorn bough is ice-embossed,

And that the snail, in season, has his grief;

Design the winter on the window pane;

Admit pale sun through cobwebs left from autumn;

Remember summer when the flies are stilled;

Remember spring, when the cold spider sleeps.

Such diary, too, set down as this: the heart

Beat twice or thrice this day for no good reason;

For friends and sweethearts dead before their season;

For wisdom come too late, and come to naught.

Put down "the hand that shakes," "the eye that glazes";

The "step that falters betwixt thence and hence";

Observe that hips and haws burn brightest red

When the North Pole and sun are most apart.

Note that the moon is here, as cold as ever,

With ages on her face, and ice and snow;

Such as the freezing mind alone can know,

When loves and hates are only twigs that shiver.

Add in a postscript that the rain is over,

The wind from southwest backing to the south,

Disasters all forgotten, hurts forgiven;

And that the North Star, altered, shines forever.

Then say: I was a part of nature's plans;

Knew her cold heart, for I was consciousness;

Came first to hate her, and at last to bless;

Believed in her; doubted; believed again.
My love the lichen had such roots as I,-

The snowflake was my father; I return,

After this interval of faith and question,

To nature's heart, in pain, as I began.

On Nest Building

2010-04-02T22:15:00.002-04:00

I have 15 minutes for this blog: forgive me.

Mr. Bird here - I've been looking for a nesting site for the past 3 months and I'm not sure even now if I've found it. I'm not sure of the validity of signing years of our lives away just so we can claim a place of our own and yet we need a nest. I grow weary of playing the game of real estate buying - agents, appraisals, preapprovals and counteroffers. (I like listening to Alexi Murdoch much better.) I was determined to have a real nest by the time we hatch our third egg - but I don't know if we will. but even if we don't - we have real love: love that's come through the wash time after time with amazing resilience. we are, after all, only passing through - and in about 40 years (if I'm lucky) I'll be in a wooden box in the ground. (correction: in a concrete vault in order to comply with water table restrictions - I don't want to have any of my entrails leaking into your drinking water after all) I'll keep looking for that nest.

Books and I: Why and Why Not

2010-03-22T06:46:00.004-04:00

so this is the makeshift scrounged-up collection of books I found beside my bed that I'm trying to read currently (none of them completed). currently as in the last year or so. I'm not sure if it's a statement of who I am, who I want to be, or who I think I want to be. it may just be a little fantasy I cling to in which I trick myself into believing that I read lots of books, while at the same time a constant physical reminder that (in the words of Michael Ruhlman in HOUSE: A MEMOIR, yet another book that O. and I are trying to read through together before we run out of library renewals) "we have far more to do in our lives than there's time for." yes, I say, I agree mike. but here we digress. he pushes ahead, "given limited time, I determined to be organized about life, always to have a plan, always to be accomplishing something." while I consider myself to be determined, I hardly ever have a consistent plan, and seldom feel anything akin to accomplishment. (I should call this blog OUT OF TIME: MY FINITE COMPLAINTS)

I should try to remember that "the wise man reads both books and life itself." a proverb that stands politely on a bookmark given to me in a time period of my life when I had more books than life to read. surely, these two mediums are difficult to juggle fairly. it seems likely that while raising a young family, for instance, your books can easily become a stack of dust beside your bed. yet at the same time, there's life in abundance to read, if we can look at it that way. the question of import, then, would be, am I reading at all? am I thinking? am I exploring the crevices of my mind? of the world around me? (no, I'm trying to do loads of laundry and scrape sentences together for a blog while M., my nearly two-year old, stomps around in frustration trying to put on two different kinds of shoes and choking herself with a plastic clothes hanger, pawing at me but not allowing me to help her in any way)

but no matter how dusty my books become, I will always make room for their heavy boxes in the next moving truck, toting them from state to state, carrying them up and down apartment building steps. I will consistently and persistently check out more books from the library than I can possibly read and I will always dream about a time when I will be able to read that book I've had since 10th grade that I haven't opened, but sincerely believe it will help me to discover the secrets to life's mystery; although I grow less and less dependent on the answers I expect to find in my books and more interested in the relationship I can continue to develop with them: the comfort, comradery, understanding and challenge. there will always be a gasp in my chest when I step into a used book store, eyes wide and gleaming; like the time we went to Strand's in New York and I added to my collection of Hemmingway novels. Here are my current, dusty friends. THE OXFORD PROJECT PETER FELDSTEIN, STEPHEN G. BLOOM

a wonderful photographic depiction of the humanity in a small town of around 700 people frozen at two points in time, 1984 and 2005. very inspirational for my photography brain in thinking about the depth of humanity that can be captured and what can be done with it. bought with a gift card.

THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
this is my "classics" assignment. one that I've never read but if the covers says "a terrifying answer to man's eternal questions, this monumental work remains the crowning achievment of perhaps the finest novelist of all time" I'd better at least try to read it. I've read enough Dostoevsky to know it will be worth the read, but I've only waded through about an eighth of the book. this is the kind of book that would be much easier to read in high school when there were large chunks of free time - not conducive to reading in small fragments, as Dostoevsky takes a long time to introduce characters and set up his plots. I forget them in the meantime. I think this is O.'s book.

SELECTED MODERN CHINESE PROSE WRITINGS

this is one I like to dip into from time to time. the Chinese thought and prose is always refreshing in its simplicity and depth. given to me by my sister who lived in China.

DOG TRAINING DORMAN PANTFOEDER

dog training is deceptively more difficult than books would tell you. not difficult in itself, but difficult in its demands for time and emotional commitment. dogs are like kids, they don't act exactly like the descriptions in parenting books. dog training is a process, and I'm trying to read this to help in the process. bought at discount at pet close-out sale.

THE ART OF THE PERSONAL ESSAY PHILLIP LOPATE

I bought this book at the college university bookstore while attempting to audit a writing class. the class didn't work out but I've found the book very inspirational for my writing brain. I didn't really know what a personal essay was before I bought the book but I think it could be a good medium for me. of special interest is George Orwell's "Such, Such Were the Joys" in which he depicts his childhoold experience growing up in school and the ways in which he navigated spiritual and moral formation. (I quote the title alot, sometimes it makes O. laugh sometimes it annoys her) another memorable moment was Virginia Woolf's question, "am I here, or am I there?" and her depiction of the fragmented self in "Street Haunting".

EAST OF THE SUN BENSON BOBRICK

the subtitle is a very fitting description. this is my "history" assignment. I borrowed the book from my mom who's interest in Siberia began with my sister's pursuit of life there. I found the early history of Siberia remarkable (and terrible) in its similarities to North American history.

CHIEF MODERN POETS OF ENGLAND & NORTH AMERICA SANDERS & NELSON

my "poetry" assignment. the prettiest book of them all and probably the cheapest. I bought it (or was it free) at a library sale in college. this book was published in the early 40's so in this case, "modern" refers to poets writing in the early 1900's. this is kind of like the Bible - you read a little here and there and never try to grasp it all at once.

THE CLOISTER WALK KATHLEEN NORRIS

my "spiritual" assignment. given to me by a friend, this book surprised me by it's exploration of what a poet (or artist or prophet) is. I like books that give you something you didn't know you were looking for - this would qualify as one of those.

THE STAY-AT-HOME DAD HANDBOOK PETER BAYLIES

my "practical" assignment. this guy is probably more organized than I'll ever want to be, but its almost always nice to hear from someone in your field. he doesn't give the patterns for making a matching shirt/baby outfit but I'll keep my eye out. got this one for a gift and it has some good, practical stuff in it.

Over Lunch with a Pediatrician

2010-03-11T14:04:00.008-05:00

Over lunch we try to dream freely but not too desperately about the things we want to do with the house we hope to buy. Olivia astonishes me by wanting to have a "hosting night" once a week - presumably to host other human beings. in her plans for a children's garden, she explains the tension between organization and enough disorder and chaos that would allow room for the kids to experiment and explore on their own.

We imagine that we'll actually want a house that will take alot of work - we would rather avoid the pristine and packaged readiness of a modern home - if it's going to be our home, we want to put ourselves into it.

above Olivia's little cramped desk which sits in our little cramped bedroom overlooking Front Street, there hangs on the wall a densely printed photocopy that begins simply "The most important and effective action in neonatal resuscitation is ventilation of the baby's lungs with oxygen." things get a bit more complicated as the sheet continues with various diagrams, flowcharts and lists explaining how to assess the newborn, different actions to take depending on different presentations, intubation precedures and medications for resuscitation. although it doesn't happen very often, neonatal resuscitation is probably one of the scariest things about being a young pediatrician. but Olivia puts it right there where she can see it every day - I imagine it gives here a sense of perspective, but it also reflects her determination to face what she sometimes refers to as "the abyss."

the other day she wrote, "I am a physician in need of meaningful work, something that will make me proud to come home to my husband and children. Something that will give me stories to tell. Something that will let me stir the quiet pool of Truth with my extended index finger, even if only to see a few ripples result. I am learning to listen to the chattering voices of the Abyss, because they have a message to tell me. Instead of screaming in terror and fighting, I am willing now to lay my head agains the cool granite wall of the cliff and, panting, listen for a melody rising from the murmuring below as it crescendos and decrescendos in my consciousness."

above the photocopied neonatal resuscitation paper is a little wall of quotes, scribbled on pastel-colored sticky notes. These are the ones I like the best:

"The end of wisdom is to dream high enough to lose the dream in the seeking of it."

-William Faulkner

"It's not by imitating anyone that you'll open anything at all. One doesn't buy keys, one makes them for himself."

-Elie Weisel

"I have nothing against questions: they are useful. What is more, they alone are. To turn away from them would be to fail in our duty, to lose our only chance to be able to lead an authentic life."

-Elie Weisel

As I sit across the table from her, at Mya's cafe, enjoying a good thick cheesburger, I admire the way her face has become the face of a woman. There is wisdom sprouting at the corners of her eyes, a mysterious depth that falls away behind her pupils, a sense of rest and identity that is beginning to play into her smile. Her cheeks are flush with pregnancy hormones as she carries our third child and I am stunned. I like the way she believes in key-making and wants desperately to take her chance at leading an authentic life.

The Faint, Muddy Red of Dawn

2010-03-03T13:57:00.005-05:00

Thanks, Justin, for reminding me that I haven't blogged in quite some time. it's always good to know there's a demand out there somewhere. sometimes its easier, and always more fun, to write with specific people in mind. perhaps that's also why I decided the other day to begin reading the book you gave me months and months ago.

I was in a particularly hazy haze without as much as a hairsbreadth of room to "self realize" myself for what seemed like days and weeks. so I lay on the couch for 10 minutes doing absolutely nothing trying to remember that I am me and decided to open up The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris. I was so delighted by it that I decided it would make a good post all on its own. (at least until I am able to self-realize myself back into expressable form) later in the evening I jokingly told my wife that I had begun my 12th concurrent book - books that I am "in the process" of reading simultaneously. she inquired, "how many books do you have over there." (referring to my bedside stash) I counted eight right there and I suppose there are others on the bookshelf.

I haven't been able to consistenly finish books probably since high school. although, I still use the pocket dictionary I won in fourth grade for reading the most Book-It books. Something happened to my brain - I remember feeling it change in college. there could be many factors involved here - attention deficit, boredom, depression, lack of self-realization time, etc. so without further ado, here is Kathleen Norris' opening page: words that remind me of the value of writing, its purpose and its magic.

DAWN

Somehow myself survived the night/And entered with

the Day . . . -Emily Dickinson

Abba Poeman said concerning Abba Prior that every day

he made a new beginning.-THE SAYINGS OF THE DESERT FATHERS

"In the Orthodox tradition, the icon of Wisdom depicts a woman seated on a throne. Her skin and her clothing are red, to symbolize the dawn emerging against the deep, starry blue of night.

For years, early morning was a time I dreaded. In the process of waking up, my mind would run with panic. All the worries of the previous day would still be with me, spinning around with old regrets as well as fears for the future. I don't know how or when the change came, but now when I emerge from night, it is with more hope than fear. I try to get outside as early as possible so that I can look for signs of first light, the faint, muddy red of dawn."

In One Day

2010-02-10T22:37:00.002-05:00

complete elegance in one bite

as far as birthdays go, this one was great. Olivia suggested we get take-out sushi for lunch from our local sushi provider and I took her up on the offer. since it was my birthday and all, I opted for the more pricy "Lobster Roll" that was made with tempura shrimp, lobster, masago & scallion instead of the usual "Boston Roll" with salmon and tuna. I was competely overwhelmed by the intricate texture, taste and aromatic blend. it helps that I place on top of the sushi as much of the green wasabi paste as I can before my scalp goes numb. the tingling sensations that shoot through the cerebral cortex are at first frightening, but eventually very pleasant. I only let Olivia taste one half of one piece.

Olivia not only gave me birthday lillies, but commissioned Mike (the potter) to make me a decorative piece of pottery that looks kind of like a big vase. I'd show you what that looks like only I don't have a good picture of it just now.

after supper, Olivia and Lyric sang happy birthday for me and we chomped an ice cream cake that looked like the M&M guy.

birthday lillies

M&M guy cake

Just Like That (words only)

2010-02-10T10:32:00.004-05:00

just like that and its 2010. I'm 32 years old and we're getting a good steady snow today. I could be on the brink of a breakthrough, or not. I'm tucked away from it all in Cherry Alley Cafe, have my ears plugged with white ipod earpieces, am surrounded by printouts of things I've written. I bought three dollars worth of fresh orange juice that tastes like sweet gold.

Darren's right that "it seems possible for new objects to be designed in such a way or at the least be used in such a way as to conjure spirits through mimicry." (see previous post "A Real Post" with comment) as it turns out, I don't particularly like mimicry. I've been trying to discern what it is exactly that discourages me about the progression of things in the world.

A writer whose name I cannot conjure talks about our impulse to establish a permanent (or the impression of perament) home to counteract the impermanence and brevity of our lives. one of the wrong turns we have taken is to think that by mechanizing and technologizing our functions and processes, we save ourselves time. we think that by shortening the amount of time for "mundane tasks" and allowing the allotment of time for other, more choice activities - will make us happier people.

Time is severe in its unchangeable rate. we have what we have - life is a timed treasure hunt. God clicks his stopwatch and yells "go!" we're scrambling and stumbling in the dark. what are we supposed to find, where is it? should we stop and smell the roses? or fling ourselves off of peaks? or dig like John Henry for gold until our hearts burst?

maybe mundane tasks help us to view our lives more correctly. perhaps they help us not to feel overwhelmed in the surge of time, swept away. they ground us - not in the illusion of permanence, but by entwining us into the life processes that exist right along with time. in short, they help us to coexist less abrasively with the steps of time.

The Etchings of Being Here

2010-02-03T22:56:00.004-05:00

The Etchings of Being Here

I am awake and livng

now

I passed you by

like fleeting breath

succinct, toneless

breathe me

while you can

while I cling to earth

and slide through

space

upon the meadow

up in the light

there!

we can be as day

as it was meant

to be

your turning

and my turn

to come now

beside, beside

alongside

the etchings of being here

Poems to Tuck Neatly Away

2010-01-29T14:58:00.002-05:00

Extravagantly Pungent

there's a dog barking in my brain

somewhere, somehow

a barking rage

on and off and on and on

I turn on the wrong burner

on the stove

like my Grandma

almost ready

to burn down the condo

in her forgetful state

organized chaos

a mystery to repent of

the smell of bananas

too ripe

too extravagantly pungent

Freedom

I like the freedom

poetry offers

pig-

of writing down any word

that comes to mind

jar-

letting them drop

into the sea of emotion

canopy-

to see

what patterns they make

polka dot-

on its surface

Liking Mike

2010-01-28T14:03:00.003-05:00

it's hard not to like Mike. he's kind of like the impersonation of that little angel who stands on your shoulder and whispers encouraging things in your ear. except that this angel doesn't take care of his hair and has a giant goatee. the first time I met Mike, I thought maybe he was just a short Harley enthusiast - I could imagine his goatee flaming back into his face, flattened by the force of his big bike. but as it turns out, he's a potter. instead of bug stains, his clothes are covered with earth-colored clay and glaze.

you wouldn't necessarily think Mike was organized, or even passionate - in the way he comes across. but don't let the man fool you. he's a dreamer, yes, but a very good dreamer. he keeps thinking he can make an oblong cooking pot, even though all the other ones have cracked in the kiln. the latest one is still wet, sitting on the table in his little "studio with a view". it's all about the view for Mike. he used to be a landscaper and it looks as though the view from his studio is in a constant state of flux - Mike's own little ongoing search for a quiet place in the world to call his own. I imagine he must be really close to finding it, sitting there in front of his little wheel in the wee hours of the morning, his steady hands working the texture and smell of clay until they begin to take shape.

but making pots and mugs doesn't seem to be what really gets Mike going - (you know that he's going when you hear him laugh and use his favorite word "Amazing!".) and he's also willing to give up his view if and when the time comes to follow his real dream. he's sure that he can help undo the wrongs of the past, that his mediating skills can help turn this world around, and that dreaming of a church where everyone involved can come to the table and have an equal share in its creation is not dreaming too big.

and after getting to know Mike, I think he's probably right. I told him a while back in all honesty that he'll probably make it into the top five people who have most impacted my life. if I have to part ways with Mike at some point, and we can't meet for lunch anymore, I'm going to make sure I take along one of his mugs with me.

Grace

2010-01-19T17:08:00.004-05:00

for my graceful sister

who knew not grace

beautiful in her clumsy form

breaking my heart

as it could only be broken

have I done you wrong?

waiting up all night

to check your breathing

and the pressure in your skull?

did we weep too soon, too early?

not enough?

did I laugh too quick?

did I forget or remember too much?

you push me to the edge
I cannot help but face it

the uncertain depth

the brittle helplessness

of the air we breath

I am running, have run

but can no longer get away

you are here, not here

no, not here! not ever again!

this is real, forever and binding

I am left to discover myself

where do I lie? what is my angst?

where do I set myself down again?

what is my repose? my rest?

where do I go to glimpse the light?

my path?

with what eyes do I behold the light

and your grace?

is it sufficient?

A Real Post

2010-01-11T09:39:00.006-05:00

you know how during the winter stores and restaurants will paint white cloudy frost/snow in their storefront windows? well, we have the real thing in our house. (Harlan might appreciate this) when it gets this cold, the windows frost right up. the house we're currently renting doesn't have the "upgraded" windows, so we're more privy to the winds that blow - and right now the winds that blow are about 15 degrees - a pretty good dose of cold for here at least. (the windows actually rattle too) while not liking thinking about the extra cost of heat, I have liked thinking about real frost in my windows - but it is only this morning that I took the time to actually look closely enough to appreciate the frost more fully.

it illustrates nicely a common theme that I carry with me alot. we tend to think and believe in "progress", that is, we value efficiency, orderliness, sterilization, comfort, speed, etc. and even if we don't necessarily believe in them, we are often caught up in the current. now - you don't have to necessarily long to return to a hunting-gathering society, but I think it does do us good to contemplate where and why we're going where we are. my basic premise is that the "gains" made in all of our progress often have a valuable (if subtle) loss as well. not financial loss, but loss of soul nourishment.

I wish all these gains and losses could be listed up front - before we all decide to go ahead with all of our progress. unfortunately this process is compounded by financial incentives - hence the wit "the love of money is the root of all evil" which could also be worded "the love of paying less money for larger quantities of more cheaply made things is the root of our spiritual desolation". medical epidemics aside, I'm going to continue to strive for soul food and try to stay out of the current. progress may be inevitable, but I daresay not as inevitable as we like to think. anyway, I'm enjoying my frost this morning, much more than my silver. (see Ecclesiastes 5:10)

In Russia: part 3

2010-01-10T22:41:00.004-05:00

the Wickers' warm (ok, hot) apartment stands in sharp contrast to the -40 Siberian climate. their hosting of our family made it clear that the warmth of their home came not only from the local piped-in heat, but their hearts. we spent 3 1/2 days in close contact, sharing close space and close memories of our shared sister Shannon. these were precious days with precious people. I miss them alot.

upon arrival they assured us they had carved out time in their schedule to facilitate our time. we slept in their apartment, ate food from their table, used their computers, borrowed their rubles and made use of their excellent language skills. they connected us to as many people as possible in the short time.

John's contagious laughter kept us "giggling like girls" as he said, while Sharon's attention to detail kept us going the right direction at the appropriate times. John could have used a little more direction at the time he stubbed his toe. their stories of Shannon and insightful questions, kept our hearts moving through this difficult trip. I wish we could share another meal of soup and bread.

In Russia: part 2

2009-12-30T07:07:00.005-05:00

From where I sit in the Harrisburg Int'l Airport, I can observe travelers getting in line for the security checkpoint. They seem to emerge mysteriously from behind a giant Christmas tree decorated in ornaments of blue, red and gold. From there they melt into line, dutifully check in their bags and head off toward their gate. I will soon join them. The boarding pass in the pocket of my fleece dictates that my journey will culminate in Russia.

Of course, it will not be my first trip to Russia, maybe not my last. But it is the first trip any of my family will make to a Russia without Shannon. Even though over the past 6 years we have learned to associate Shannon with Russia, and Russia with Shannon. This is the same for everyone who knows Shannon, who knew her - they all understand that Russia was the greatest part of her passion and her pursuit - and most of her life. This trip is intended to aquaint us with her family in Russia - those with whom she worked closely, the people whom she loved and who loved her in the same way we did - as a sister and daughter and aunt.

The remaining five of our family have dreamed of such a trip as this, but not under these conditions - and perhaps it is only these conditions that could unhinge us from our lives to such an extent as to make this trip possible.

In Russia: part 1

2009-12-28T12:33:00.004-05:00

The first thing about Ulan-Ude, Siberia is the cold. We stepped off the S7 airliner into negative 39 degrees Farenheit. On the first breath in, the hairs in your nose freeze together. On the second you give a little cough. If you've brought enough clothes, the problem is not so much staying warm outdoors as it is, how do you cool down when you go indoors with 4 layers on? It seems like we spend half our time taking clothes off and putting them on.

The second thing about Ulan Ude is the fog. The city's heat is pumped all over town out of a giant coal burner. You can regulate it by opening the window in your bedroom. All the coal burning makes the air hazy and the snow a dusty gray. But if I lived here, I'd rather have the coal dust than no heat.

The third thing about Russia is that Shannon is not there. This trip is tough. My family goes because something is absent and missing - kind of like exploring the crater left by a bomb. We want to connect with what was and no longer is - in hopes of creating something bearable for the present.

Too Young, Too Old

2009-12-05T06:22:00.003-05:00

It is a frosty December morning - Maggie (17 months) is walking on the sidewalk from the bustop to home because she is getting so good at walking and I'm getting so bad at carrying her weight. She is stopping to look at every little thing - part of a leaf that blows by her foot and gently scrapes the cement, a distant flock of geese cavorting about the sky - things that my eyes are too old to notice anymore. A tiny puddle of water enchants her and she crouches down to investigate, touching it gently with her finger.

I begin to realize why she prefers to walk these days, on our jaunts through town. To walk is an ultimate freedom - freedom to explore a vast world of mysterious objects. I am too old to understand this freedom, and too young.

It is a chilly December evening. We have eaten our fill of a holiday banquet and played silly reindeer games. We are standing around in our winter coats (dry-cleaned for the season, the cleanest they'll be all winter) when I get the chance to talk to Miriam who can no longer walk and for whom swallowing food is a daily miracle. Her eyes delight and disturb me at the same time. I get the feeling that there is so much I don' t know yet, am not old enough to know and have no right to know - about loss and freedom. Yet her beauty gives me hope that I may yet find it - that perhaps one day I'll know again how truly free I am to be able to walk on out into the night, under a cold black canopy that goes on forever, stepping lightly on a ball floating in space.

Someday Never Comes

2009-11-27T22:41:00.002-05:00

I think that probably the reason I listen to this weird college station on the radio is that amidst all the random genres of music, there comes these elite moments when the music fits perfectly into my prismatic life.

so it's been like, forever, since I've posted and I'm sure you're dying to hear my laments.

I suppose what really draws us to great art and literature is simply that we discover people, real human beings, who have somehow managed to find the time and courage and sense of individuality to pull out of existence its beautiful and potently formative forms - the things we struggle to create ourselves in the 10 minutes per week we are allotted for contemplation and reflection.

I've been back on the hunting trail for meaning in life (ok, I've never left) but back again with heavier steps. what is it precisely that gives life meaning? finding wealth, a home, raising a family, ok fine. these things can be found. but finding contentment? now there's a treasure that one buys a field to find. this is what I think of when Jesus says "narrow is the way, and few there be that find it."

wringing, wringing, the drops of life

out of my bones

On Building a Family

2009-11-07T16:10:00.002-05:00

Last weekend we met up with my family at Cook's Forest State Park. There was a lot of rain, a few hikes, mixed emotion and a couple games of "Catan". For better or for worse - these people are and forever remain my blood family. We all know we don't get to choose our relatives - and we don't even get to choose how long they'll be with us.

My wife tires of all my regretting, but maybe it's one of those grief stages I'm stuck in. Regardless, much of my rumination of late revolves around how do I make the most of my limited time? At the end of the day (when all is said and done) family remains. We grow up in one, we leave one, we create one and we grow up all over again in our new one.

Our families know us (for better or worse) all too well, it's hard to fool them for long. But they also know us well enough to be able to give us really good advice. Our memories and our past will always connect us deeply, no matter how far away we go. Our sorrows are shared sorrows, our joys, shared joys.

As we cycle through the years, as new faces emerge and others disappear, I hope for moments of connection - moments of beholding ourselves within each other and true caring. I hope our arguments and tiffs dissolve more quickly than the times we've hiked in the rain, discovered old pipelines in need of repair, taught Dad a new strategy game, played "beat the Landlord", ate salty crab and cheese salad, and got yelled at by the prickly couple walking their poodle.

I know building a family is hard work - and so much of it happens while we're not realizing it. We have to learn as we go and deal with our own stuff along the way. Camaflouged bathroom or not, I'm very thankful for this weekend with my very own family.

How it is to be a First-Grader

2009-10-12T23:03:00.005-04:00

Tonight Lyric drew this on the computer and asked me to help her save it in her folder of drawings. When I asked her what title to give it, she said without hesitation, "How it is to be a first-grader." She also drew the following picture, titled "The Sprinkle Explosion."

Earlier in the day she asked, "You know what I want for Christmas?" "What?" I replied. "My very own blog!" she said excitedly. "ok, we'll see."

My Little Robot (and other poems)

2009-10-05T22:16:00.004-04:00

I Have a Little Robot

I have a little robot

made 'specially for me

it follows me around the house

and keeps observing me

it watches all my actions

and everything I do

but instead of copy-catting

the reverse is always true

the things i try to put away

the robot takes them out

the toys I take within the hosue

the robot takes without

I put things in their rightful place

and then without a doubt

the robot turns the drawers on end

turns cupboards inside out

the food I place within the dish

is dropped upon the floor

the socks I slide upon the feet

end up beside the door

the water I put in the bath

goes seldom down the drain

the laundry that I neatly stack

is taken out and stained

I've thought to take my model back

for something less deficient

a robot that could actually help

my time be more efficient

but then she smiles up at me

her hair all curled and bright

and waddles round the house to some

unbearable delight

I guess I'll keep her on a while

and see how things will go

she's only one year old and so

there's probably room to grow

The Well-Wisher Dragons in Flagons

dragons in flagons

and whispery beasts

all shut in their shells for the night

-there is peace

but wait, oh just wait

with a crack and a groan

out from their hiding

they rustle and moan

they're moving and slinking

and shifting about

they're yawning and stretching

they're all getting out

but I'm done for the day

i don't want them here

I don't want them ever

but now they are near

I'll wrestle and scream

I'll figure them out!

I'll lay every which way

and flopping about-

I'll kick them aside

and batten them down

I'll empty the trash can

on top of their town!

until I am done

my muscle all spent

my brain all in tatters

and torn like a tent

about to collapse

exhausted and lame

but still they all whistle

and chant out my name

I listen, cu-ckooing

and bickering go

back to my sleep

for I know that they know

they have me, have won

have snickled my gizzard

they've walloped me sore

and snookered my wizard

so back to their flagons

and back to their shells

these dragons and snivels

and well-wisher-wells

bid me goodnight

with a flick of their tails

but its morning and daybreak

it just never fails

To Those Who Mourn

I would not that

ye slip into the grave

the watery rain-slipped

sorrow - muddy

think not forever

about tomorrow

nor yesterday

be transfixed upon

this day

climb up, climb out

climb as you might

take in this wretched

mournful ball

of earth and stone

and its airy

drapes, moist cloaks

and wraps

its grisly hair and

its knotted brow

feel heavy upon it

walk upon feet

which you possess

claim it as

your own and

forget not

the heights

and depths you

have known

sorrow yet another day

and yet one more

but forget not

your footfalls

your breath

your gentle,

empty rest

Try This at Home

2009-10-01T10:03:00.011-04:00

It was the day I ran the farthest ever in my life. In order not to rush to an early death, I started out my first marathon " conservatively" with the 3:30 pacer who was supposed to be running 8 minute miles. When he ran the second mile in 8:20, I started to lose confidence in the man. Besides, this felt like jogging to me. At mile 3 I bid the 3:30 pack adieu, tucked in my tail and began to tempt fate with 7:30 and even 7:00 minute miles. I met my family at mile 10, which ended up being the 2nd best feel good part of the race. Last year in the half marathon, I had such a hard time finding my family and just ended up catching a glimpse of Dawn, so this year I was bound and determined to search them out. Lyric was on the top of the list because she periodically likes to ask me why I didn't see them or hear them or see the sign that they made. I was going to stop and sort through the crowd by hand if need be in order to make sure I found Lyric. Well - there they were so I waved and gave Lyric a hug before tearing off and then suddenly remembering I wasn't half done yet. It was metaphorically uphill from there. Miles 13 through 17 were pretty mundane and mental energy began to lag. For a few miles I even lapsed back to the horrifying 8 minute pace! After 20 miles I could begin to envision actually finishing this thing. There were runners who had stopped to walk at this point and I don't remember if that was discouraging or encouraging at the time. But -

Glory! Glory! There it is! I'm downtown and the ramp into the stadium! There's a guy running just in front of me as I turn into the stadium - I blow by him and I can see the finish! Some primal beast tries to leap out of my skin and I clutch at his hair just in order to hang on. I hear my family yelling and I'm sprinting like a maniac, trying to stay abreast of the hairy beast. What exultation is birthed here? I must have ran right by the guy who was supposed to shake my hand after the finish because no one shook my hand. I got my medal and a water bottle then walked over to lean on the fence. I cried for five minutes, laying Shannon to rest and exulting in the freedom I found in running. I walked off the field, threw up my water and was met with congratulations from my family.

When can I do this again?

Official Results: time 3:20:27

split average 7:39
place in age group 16/151

place in overall men 75/976

my thumbs up at mile 0.

giving Lyric a hug at mile 10

Dawn holds the blue "flag of Buryatia", a piece of

cloth from Russia given as a gift by Shannon

.just after seeing my family at mile 10

. Lyric listens to the anthem right before her fun run

Lyric (and Mommy) run!

It's over!

Photos courtesy of Darren Byler. For more photos of a maniac finishing a marathon, visit http://www.runphotos.com/

select Akron Marathon and enter my lucky bib number 777

I Must be Running a Marathon

2009-09-19T21:45:00.004-04:00

I must be running a marathon soon. I'm working on my second pair of running shoes for the year and I've been wearing a "hydration belt" along on my runs that can carry 40 oz of fluid. There are sweat-soaked pieces of clothing constantly drying in the laundry room and my wife has had it up to here with descriptions of running aches and pains, misgivings about how well training is going, etc. My 6 year-old daughter asks questions like, "is today a running day, Daddy?" and there are phrases on my workout calendar like "2 mile warmup" and "easy 8 miles". There are also more obvious phrases like "22 miles LSD" (long slow distance). (does the 22 miles really need this clarification? it's not like I'm going to run 22 miles at a 10k pace or something) Fortunately there was only one of those phrases on the calendar.

So it must be true. I'm hoping to still run my first marathon (26.2 miles for the uninitiated) in 7 days on September 26. I made this decision back on June 7th, nigh 15 weeks ago. My health has been stellar, my usual shin pain has even been kept under the radar - no complaints for me. That is, until yesterday when a frustrating 6 mile run revealed its true cause later in the evening with a sore throat and possibly (hopefully) a case of strep throat. How can I have trained all these weeks and 484 miles just to be taken down in the final stretch by a measly infection? I was miffed and went to bed without washing the dishes, just to show this infection a thing or two.

But if I remember why I'm running, maybe how I run won't matter as much - maybe. When I decided to run this marathon, I wanted to run it in honor of Shannon's battle with cancer - and I'm still running it for her, but now it will also be in her memory. Dawn tells me that even if I only run part of it, or have to run it slow, running it will still be great. She's right, but I want to run it fast. I was first inspired to run in middle school when Shannon started running to the end of the road and back. I started to run with her and decided that running track would be cool. When I was too depressed in high school to run track anymore, she encouraged me just to run for God. One track season we made a healthy eating vow for 3 months of no sugar or sweets that we kept together. (man that was tough) When I started running half marathons a couple years ago, she was thrilled. When she started being treated for cancer and got weaker and weaker, she gradually stopped being able to run, and then even to walk. After her treatments she was back out on the road, building up her strength with short walks. I wanted to run this marathon for her - for the times when she couldn't run. I wanted her to experience through me the joy of running, hard and fast. And I still will - there will just me more tears on the road.

Things I've learned while training for a marathon:

1. running 22 miles in a row feels just as bad as it sounds
.

2. running more than 15 miles without bringing along something to drink is really dumb (in medical circles they refer to this as dehydration)

3. long distance running is really just a way to make insanity look organized

(but it works)

4. the first two hours out on the road are relatively easy, then it comes down to guts and passion

5. long hair doesn't have to be a problem, with enough sweat the hair will sweep back over your head nicely and pretty much stay there

6. if you're going to run 500 miles in a summer, don't be surprised by a steady stream of sore, tired, aching bones and muscles throughout your body

7. the most meaningful things in life don't cost money but aren't completely free, they take discipline, sacrifice and dedication

8. running a marathon is a family sport - they all have to make a sacrifice to give you so much time to yourself

p.s. wondering about the picture? it's my "sweet" coat that I found at the salvation army. after buying this coat for 7 dollars and a pair of nice corduroys for 3 - I announced proudly to my wife on the way home that I have decided to only buy used clothing from now on - the prices are wonderful and the clothing has so much more character. then I did some reflecting and realized that I've already been doing that for the last 8 years. so it wasn't that great of an idea after all, although I'm even more enthused about buying and wearing really unique clothing. yes! Matthew's true character returns!

p.p.s. if you want to join my family in watching a fun marathon event and remembering Shannon (and watching me do organized insanity), then join us on Saturday the 26th at Akron

Our Time in Its Beautiful Way

2009-09-10T11:58:00.007-04:00

when my fingers trace the shape of you

along your face

with its softened skin

I sense you far beneath

down, down below the surface

deeper and deeper

beyond my knowing

beyond my sleepless stare

my eyes watery and washed

drowning in great salt waves

heaved from their burning ocean of tumult

thundering and dissolving my world
our world together

until I am undone

unmasked and mistook

aimless in my convictions
harrowed in my night

harrowed in my night

our time in its beautiful way

like ice crystals completely shattered

sprinkled in a graceful arc

across mountains and deserts

and all the empty air

all the empty air

a great loss is thrust upon me

piercing my chest to bursting flesh

its cavity scraped, scoured and blood-let

excised of its beatings

its hormonal angst

its pure love

its devotion

its haste

my splintered ribs clutch

at their barren vacancy

for entrails discarded

scattered into four winds

and many secret places

many secret places
.

walking the night along its ruddy breezes

its tempest breathing in and out

scalding me with ambivalence

pressing into my face the unimaginable

the unquenched path

and its unforeseen end

undeniable

your footfalls in the darkness

I walk towards you

and away again

towards you

and away again

a circling search

of a place I can know again

of a time I can remember

how to be

I watch for your shadow

undulating among the trees

among the slanted slopes

I touch your hair

and remember you

where you had once been

once ruminated and embraced

and died openly

empty, I float away

above the earth and this time

above my mumblings

my disdain, my reproach

secretive and bubbling sweet

a silky dream

tucked in a crevice

like a coiled web
.

I await your returning

and vow to wait

to sink back with the rain

into the low-lying puddles

and muddy spots

collected

trickled down and distilled

remade and undone
remade again

memories in gentle roundabout currents

swirl me along the dotted earth

replace my disgrace
rearrange my disguise

upend my brimming heart

convolute my silence

and my hope

I've been bitten

down deep

where I cannot go

to stop the bleeding

flowers I picked for Shannon with her scarf

More Insight

2009-09-05T15:55:00.002-04:00

We as a family agreed to an autopsy to investigate the cause of Shanon's death. No cancer was found in the body. However, a "pinhole" was discovered between the adjacent walls of her heart and stomach. This pinhole allowed air to leak from the stomach into the heart. These bubbles traveled to the bloodstream, lodging into the blood vessels of her brain, thus causing the stroke-like death of the brain.

The doctors at Cleveland Clinic have never seen this kind of pinhole develop in a person like Shannon, who had completed her cancer treatments several months before her death. When this type of pinhole develops, it is fatal within days. We as a family recognize and accept that the ways of God are mysterious. We believe that the doctors acted as wisely and prudently as was in their means and that this was simply Shannon's time to go. As usual, she surprised us all.

Olivia's Thoughts at the Funeral

2009-08-19T23:20:00.001-04:00

I first remember Shannon as the intimidating, opinionated, oldest sister of the man I wanted to marry. It didn’t take long until I was filled with admiration for her sheer force of will. Shannon was like a tornado when she got an idea into her head.

Last November, I remember going to the doctor with Shannon when the concerning esophageal mass that was causing her swallowing difficulties was first discovered.

Ironically, he and I both assured her that her chances of having cancer were next to nothing.

We all know what happened in the ensuing months. Shannon—not one to be intimidated by limited chances—faced her treatments with an iron resolve.

Only the people closest to her know intimately about the battles Shannon had to face this past year--battles that are so hard to talk about--like chemo, surgery, radiation, vomiting, and depression.

The last few months were the hardest, I think. It was like watching a wild and beautiful animal get penned into a shrinking cage. We had invested so much hope into fighting cancer, and hadn’t thought about what would happen when the fight was done. Shannon had outsmarted death, but needed to learn how to live again. Our fierce and determined older sister struggled with the simplest of decisions. The God she knew so well was silent. She had even lost the desire to return to her beloved Russia.

As we watched her life ebb quickly away a few days ago, we joked that Shannon would have gotten a kick out of stumping the world’s best Neurologists with her case. But I had to wonder…

Snatched away from Russia, did Shannon die like a Siberian husky would die if taken away from the snow and ice? Like a wild and untamable animal thrust into the zoo?

Matthew tells me of his pet songbird that he left at home for three months when he backpacked through Kazakhstan with Shannon. Unable to tolerate its master’s absence, the bird died.

Over the past few months, was Shannon unable to tolerate the silence of the God that she had communed so deeply with in previous years?

Did she know, and was she afraid to tell the rest of us?

We have so many questions, but I am reminded today of the beauty of an untamed and free life. I am reminded of the privilege of belonging to a family. I am blessed by the memories of a sister, aunt, and friend. Thank you, Shannon, for the gifts you gave us with your life and now, your death.

Links

2009-08-18T13:30:00.002-04:00

here is a consolidated list of links for Shannon

obituary and guestbook

slideshow of pictures in Russia

video prepared by Shannon's team

blog post by Leif & Jami

My Only Words

2009-08-18T11:08:00.003-04:00

On our boat from Vladivostok to South Korea, summer 2000

Dear Shannon-

How I miss you! I keep seeing your face in the intensive care – your lips dry and puffed up by the hideous ventilator. Your head sagging to the side because you were so sedated. Your stiff, short hair and all the needles in your skin. I wish I could have picked you up and carried you off and away to some summit in the mountains, or some grand adventurous place, the kind of place that I know would make you feel alive again. I would have laid you on a mountain peak and we would have been sunburned in happiness together.

I comb the mountainsides of my mind
Looking for remembrances of you
I hunt avidly for your memory
So to piece together
Some semblance of you

We sure had some grand adventures together – we sure did. I didn’t realize at the time all the wonderful gifts you were giving me. I’ll miss those times – stomping around those Russian train stations, trying to figure out where and how to go next – getting on an old boat bound for South Korea, not realizing that it was going to pick up 100’s of cars along the way.

Climbing mountains was the best part – they made you so happy. When we got lost and couldn’t figure out the silly maps we had, you couldn’t have been happier. There was no thrill for you like the thrill of challenge and adventure – the thrill of a mountain peak to climb, or a waterfall to find.

We got lost plenty – looking around for the trail and taking wrong turns – but we always seemed to find our way – we always got to where we were going eventually.

Now, this time, I can’t go with you. Before I could even think, you’ve slipped around the corner – so quickly you’ve vanished. There must be a waterfall around the bend that I can’t see yet – to me it just looks like a dead end.

I want to go with you, just like I always did, but I can’t. For now this waterfall is just for you to enjoy. You must be basking in your pleasure – you’ve reached the ultimate summit and the most beautiful waterfall of all. And you’ll feel God’s presence again just as much as you ever longed to feel as you climb around on the rocks and drink up the wildness of it all.

It’s just not the same, hiking without you. But I’ll keep trying to find the way – just like you always taught me. I’ll keep trying to find that waterfall too. And I’ll just keep thinking of you out on some grand adventure – looking back every so often, just to see when we’ll catch up.

Our Broken Beautiful Shell

2009-08-12T11:34:00.011-04:00

Dear Friends:

Just wanted to inform you of the incredible whirlwind of activity that we have been caught up in that last 36 hours. Unfortunately, my dear sister Shannon has slipped away from us in an altogether sudden and unexpected way.

She was diagnosed with esophageal cancer approximately 10 months ago and bravely pushed through her first round of treatment and surgery with flying colors. Her cancer was eradicated and her prognosis was good, especially for someone with her relative young age of 37. Post surgery and during her second round of treatment, her personality seemed to shift and her mighty spirit seemed to flag. She gradually became more melancholy, anxious and at times unable to make simple decisions. It seemed she was just really worn down. However, she made it through all her treatments, began a complex eating schedule with her new patched esophagus, began building her strength with short daily walks, and was on the road to recovery. Her blood counts and other tests revealed normal levels.

Last Saturday, approximately two months after her last treatment, my mother became concerned by Shannon’s lethargy, fever and trouble with memory loss in the afternoon. Shannon was taken to the local ER and admitted. She was also coughing up some blood. A GI assessment was planned for Monday but as the family was about to leave on Sunday night, Shannon had a seizure and was intubated. This prompted her helicopter ride up to Cleveland Clinic where she was admitted for a battery of tests. On Monday morning they lost Shannon’s pulse for about five minutes but were able to resuscitate her.

Olivia and I received word of Shannon’s “turn for the worse” on Monday morning. I was in the middle of a 17 mile run so I ran obliviously for over two hours while Olivia made frantic arrangements for a possible emergency trip out to Ohio. When I arrived home I called my Dad and we made made the decision to pack up the family and head out.

We arrived at Cleveland Clinic around 7:00 where family and some friends had congregated. It appeared that Shannon had some faint response in the morning on Monday, and was able to wiggle her toes in response to visitors. However, this response as well has her basic neurological function appeared to continue a rapid decline over the course of the day. She was never to regain consciousness after her after her initial seizure on Sunday night.

The doctors were scrambling for information but it was clear that the inter-cranial pressure in Shannon’s head was climbing to dangerous heights and was difficult to control. She also continued to experience periodic seizures, fever and swelling despite sedation and strong medication. Theories included some type of aggressive infection such as meningitis as well some type of trauma to the brain. Neither were ever confirmed although there was evidence of a “fatty embolism” or large blood clot in the brain. The origin of this clot remains a mystery.

I stayed overnight at the hospital with my brother Marty on Monday night. The rest of my family had been up most of the previous night so they tried to get some sleep at a nearby hospital. I checked in on Shannon periodically and about 3:00 in the morning, the fellow doctor on call continued to reiterate that everything they were trying to do to treat the “symptoms” was simply not working and that the underlying cause of Shannon’s condition remained outside of their grasp of knowledge, and therefore, untreatable. A second CAT scan that night further confirmed that there was continued, extensive swelling throughout Shannon’s brain and it was very clear that there was already extensive brain damage. It was time to begin making decisions regarding how aggressive they were going to continue treating Shannon.

As a family we agreed to begin backing off of the “medical care”. Mom, Dad, Marty and I gathered around Shannon for two hours from 4 to 6 in the morning – we sang, prayed, reminisced, cried and said goodbye. As the medications stopped, Shannon’s vitals, blood pressure and inter-cranial pressure reached critical levels and we felt that she had “spiritually passed”. All that remained of Shannon was her beating heart and a ventilator’s raspy breath.

A conference with the attending doctor at 11:00 a.m. confirmed that Shannon’s brain activity was likely gone and he felt she had passed some time during the night. The ventilator was removed around 12:00 and we said our final farewells to Shannon’s body around 12:30, her technical time of death.

Our sister Dawn was en-route from China and we picked her up later that night at 11:00 at Cleveland airport. She had missed being able to see Shannon by about 12 hours.

The suddenness and mystery surrounding Shannon’s death are terrifying and stunning. Sometimes it is hard to breathe. It is difficult to comprehend how the her 9 month struggle with cancer in her esophagus and apparent victory, was to end in a sudden whirlwind of neurological breakdown lasting only a few days. We had grown accustomed to and accepted her battle with cancer. But none of us could expect or be ready for this.

This is my first experience with this kind of loss. It is a deep, deep chasm of pain and darkness that feels unable to be crossed. I don’t know the way across, and I simply don’t want to do it. Yet it must be crossed – and we must cross without Shannon.

Beach

2009-08-04T22:06:00.003-04:00

we took our vacation to Assateague Island - saw a few ponies and played on the beach alot. Lyric danced with the waves and I bought a boogie board and hoped for the time to come when I might try surfing. Maggie ate sand and skipped 90% of her naps. I realized while being on vacation with two small children that being on vacation has changed since I was a wee lad. I don't remember there being so much sand in the car, or so many things to carry to and from the car, the motel room or the beach. I don't remember there being so much stress to try and forget about in order to enjoy the vacation. I don't remember babies screaming in their car seats. But when it's all said and done, there are priceless memories - worth a million trips to and from the car, hours of driving amidst chaotic and bored children, and a million soggy diapers changed hurriedly on the run. Bravo to all you young parents out there for braving the elements with your children! It's not an easy job.

Maggie turns 1

2009-08-04T21:08:00.004-04:00

so Maggie turned 1 year old in June. it's probably been the fastest year of my life. she's walking like a little pro now and is growing quite the crop of curly hair. she can say da-da, ma-ma, woof-woof (dog), bo-bo (bottle) and loves to grab Lyric's craft supplies.

Checking In

2009-07-23T01:18:00.004-04:00

I've decided to check in with a post - delivered at 1:21 a.m. since the wee hours is all I can seem to put towards such a leisurely activity as blogging these days. the first two pictures are at home, the rest are from Sarah & Matt's wedding. Lyric danced to her heart's content and Maggie tore around on the grass, browning her nice dress nicely. I danced while holding Lyric and in so doing, gained a stiff shoulder/neck for the next week.

In other news I have logged around 80 miles in the last 6 1/2 weeks. only 10 more weeks and 374 more miles and then I'll get to go out and run 26 miles as fast as I can and feel lots of pain. won't this be fun?

Maggie walks! Lyric can now ride her bike without training wheels!

Blah, Blah, Blog

2009-06-22T23:34:00.002-04:00

so you've probably noticed the large gaps in between blogs. at first I thought it was just a short phase I was going through - a little drying up of the creative energy. but so far the phase just keeps going. my apologies to all my loyal fans - I salute both of you. I've thought of a few things to blame this on: 1) Maggie is no longer sedentary 2) Lyric is on summer vacation 3) I have commenced training for a full marathon 4) trips to Ohio 5) a trip to Maryland 6) warmer weather and subsequent more outdoor activities 7) taking on a photo-card making project in attempts to sell them. hopefully I'll get back to some serious blogging at some point - and I'm trying to develop a photography website, so we'll see how this all goes. don't give up on me yet.

In Gray Velcro Shoes

2009-06-08T22:25:00.004-04:00

At home for a quick weekend, I was walking across the newer Dalton park when I spied Clifford sitting on a bench, taking in the game of pickup softball. It was Sunday morning and the sun was clearing up the sky and warming things up at the church picnic. I sat down on the bench and we held conversation. We talked about school, summer camps, and shoe sizes.

The most noticeable thing about Clifford right off is that he has cerebral palsy, and then his his goofy grin and his ready hand shake. It wasn’t until I sat down and enjoyed his peaceful presence that I realized how much I missed him and his brother Chad. I had visited them often over the course of a few years several years back. I had attempted to teach Clifford how to play Search and Rescue on the computer but even I couldn’t rescue anyone with that silly chopper. As Clifford got older we practiced shaking hands instead of his preferred lingering bear hugs.

Clifford is 18 years old with only a slight scruff under his chin. As I sit there on the bench I feel very comfortable – the silence in between our conversation is unhurried and soft, like his hands. Perhaps this is merely because he is not a threat to me – or perhaps it is because he is a tangible expression of my own inner imperfection and chaos. The more I can learn to be at peace with him, the more I can be at peace with myself. I miss him a lot.

The Random Order of Things

2009-05-24T22:22:00.002-04:00

The evening is humid – in times like this air conditioners come in handy – but our only air conditioner sleeps silent and dusty up in the attic after being lugged from Ohio in haste last summer.

However there are perks to open window life. Waking in the early morning, the cool air drifts in from the window right beside my bed and I am revived. The cool of the morning is a beautiful thing.

I haven’t blogged in some time – long enough that I feel warped and jumbled inside – too many things have gone in, too few have come out. I’ve been busy with photography projects and a yard sale.

The yard sale: a black woman in a sun yellow dress leaves money for a lamp she will pick up tomorrow. She returns two days later and chats it up, leaving sunshine all around and leaving with a lamp. A Hispanic man laughs at us as we speak broken Spanish, we give him a homemade chocolate chip cookie on the house and he buys lots of things including our SaladShooter which works great but takes up too much space in our kitchen. A lonely white man buys a Monopoly game and stays around to chat – we talk about camping and board games that we like to play. Lyric sells lemonade and makes up songs about selling her ware. She greets people with “Customers!” and they smile. A single mom picks through baby clothes and Olivia decides that yard sales are a form of charity that most people are willing to accept. Regardless, we are filled with happiness to see things from our attic in the hands of people who look happy to have them and capable of putting them to good use. I am also exhausted from two days of carrying stuff in and out as well as 5 days of undiagnosed strep throat.

Thanks to Darren’s generosity, I am blessed by the thoughts of Ben Fountain today:

“To leave the place where you grew up, and that you love very much – I expect there’s some sort of avoidance strategy working there, ambivalence expressed as a compulsion, but along the way a strange inversion occurred: although I didn’t stay home, home stayed with me, and in many respects that’s the only place it still exists.”

There’s so much to say about finding Place in this world. I hope I find the words soon.

Olivia's Porch Garden

our place for now

Favorite Photographs: February

2009-05-12T21:10:00.005-04:00

hint: I am not 10

spices
.

best friends
.
.
.

uncertain ride
.
.
.

Mag's curl
.
.
.

yes, I am beautiful
.
.
.

yes, I am loved
.
.
.

aw, shucks

Take Pleasure in the Flowering of Truth

2009-05-07T13:02:00.003-04:00

I stumbled upon this phrase while glancing at a photocopied songbook and balancing Maggie on my knee, all slobbery and full of joy. Phrases like this catch my eye in the exact same way that photographs do – I want to collect as many of them as I can in my Easter basket and store them up for the winter like nuts. I tell Olivia that after she has died melodramatically while lying out in the woods above a steep rocky drop-off that overlooks a cemetery (Iron & Wine playing in the background), I will spend my time in the rest home reading all the books that I refused to get rid of, even though I didn’t have the time to read them during our marriage. She suggests that “maybe by that time, these books won’t mean anything to you.” I give her a look of startled disdain and reply, “what do you mean? They’ll be the only things that will matter then.”

This phrase wiggled off the page with pleasure because it neatly sums up so much in the last phase of life: waiting. Sometime last fall, Lyric and Mommy put a caterpillar inside a jar, stuffing it with grass and twigs. The timing was perfect – in only a few days, the wiggle worm had sewn itself up into its winter home; a miniature mummy neatly tacked onto a delicate twig in two places. Mommy stuck the twig into the pot of parsley which nestled on the kitchen sink window ledge until the parsley dried up and died. The empty pot with the pupa-twig was placed at the window in the laundry/bathroom nook where it sat all winter long. Although it became a commonplace object, the sight of it never failed to draw my thoughts into a gentle pause – would it actually survive the winter? I did not really believe that it would.

We are almost eight years into marriage. In the early years I thought we could figure it all out right away. With enough communication, grunt-work, compromise and sacrifice, no problem was insurmountable. As it turns out, although we humans are gifted with free-will and conscious awareness of ourselves – there are limitations placed on our lives, forces at work outside our control, and mysteries that will always remain mysteries. We may even know what needs to be changed, want to change it, and try to change it – but are forced to wait. We go out in the world to seek our fortunes, but sometimes our fortunes seek us just as ardently.

If we try to pry out the sleeping worm before its time – it will not live. Sometimes there is a truth that you see which others do not. There is a sense of urgency on your part to tell them, to make things happen, to bring it to pass. But sometimes waiting is our only weapon – sometimes it is the only thing powerful enough to remove obstacles and reveal the path. If we wait long enough, truth has a way of revealing itself and making itself known. This is one of the reasons it is so necessary to spend time in nature. Nature teaches us about waiting, about seasons and forces outside our control – forces that can at the same time be cruelly objective and ludicrously beautiful. Sometimes our waiting must be for years, but we never know what beautiful wings are being formed. (see result of our caterpillar above) Can we survive the winter?

Painful Motherhood

2009-05-07T11:17:00.005-04:00

- posted by Olivia -

There are many painful things about being a mother. Icing cupcakes is the hardest for me.

I think it was the cutting of the M&M’s when the hurting started. Lyric has a birthday mid-summer. As one whose birthday always fell on a vacation day, I missed the chance to lead the line wearing the birthday button in elementary school. Plus, there is nothing better than seeing dreams course through a kid’s head as they look at a magazine with pictures of cupcakes. Those of you who love children understand—the only reason we give things to children is so we can borrow a bit of their joy. So, it is with this secret in mind that I sat down with Lyric to browse the latest Wilson cupcake catalog a few nights ago.

Lyric chose the “pizza cupcakes,” much to my relief. Wilson excels at marketing cakes that look as though they are cartoons come to life…catered to the dreams of every mother and little girl. There are BBQ grill cupcakes, pirate cupcakes, and octopus cupcakes with the necessary supplies ready-to-order in the back catalog pages. Knowing my tendency to over-commit, I was rehearsing my “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to choose something that won’t require the purchase of $200 worth of fondant and twenty hours of your mother’s time” speech, when Lyric’s finger decisively marked the pizza cupcake picture. A simple icing for crust and sauce, shredded coconut for cheese, M&M’s for peppers, and chocolate chips for sausage bits.

Matthew baked the cupcakes, and I struck out to CVS to gather the necessary embellishments. It was late into the evening, after the girls were tucked in bed, when I embarked upon the task of cutting chocolate chips into “sausage bits.” This morning, I iced the cupcakes. (Does anyone know how they get the icing to look flat enough to skate on?) I then began to cut the M&M’s in half to make pepper pieces. The M&M halves skittered across the counter. Inevitably, projects like these remind me of my mortality.

Usually, it starts with something taking longer than I think it should. Then I try to take a shortcut and mess up a crucial ingredient. My entire identity swings upon getting these cupcakes to look like the picture. If I don’t get these cupcakes right, I’m a dud as a mother, wife and doctor, too. Thankfully, my philosophical husband is rarely shocked by my rantings—even the silent ones. I say nothing and keep cutting. I apply my husband’s rule of living, trying to calm down and “enjoy the process.” It is an act of God that I did not marry the no-nonsense blue collar type.

The cupcakes and my identity survived.

The saddest part, though, was when I couldn’t take them into my daughter’s class.
“I can’t give you an exact time to drop them off. As long as they are in the office between 1:30 and 2:00 today, we’ll get them,” my daughter’s well meaning teacher said.

She was stealing my piece of the joy. My heart rose up in defense.
“I would like to be here to help give them out,” was the best I could say to explain it.
“Well, I can’t give you an exact time. Usually our snack time is just a rushed thing,” she said with urgent eyes.

I went home to finish the cupcakes. I thought about school shootings, blood, pink icing and childless teachers with two dogs. I packed up the cupcakes in their perfect Tupperware containers.

I stood outside the elementary school doors—locked, double doors with video surveillance and a call-in system. I pressed the buzzer. There was a click and release and I pushed through the doors. I set the Tupperware on the secretary’s desk.

“These are birthday cupcakes for Ms. E’s kindergarten class,” I said, and I left. My daughter’s birthday. The five year old. The one with braids who has to grow up in a locked up school so bad people from the world won’t come get her.

There are clear plastic thorns installed under the eaves of the school porch that look like icicles gone haywire—to keep the sparrows out, I suppose. But the sparrows were there--twirring and rustling anyway.

Guest Editorial

2009-04-29T11:03:00.006-04:00

Lyric (age 5.7) asked if she could snap photos. I hesitated, making sure she could manage the camera without dropping it, but gave her free reign. the result is an interesting glimpse from her perspective. all the pictures are uncropped. her comments follow.

this is the flowers that I picked, made for my mom.

this is me taking a picture of daddy and Maggie. I'm sorry but Maggie is not looking, so I'm sorry

this is the bathroom sink with the water running.

this is Maggie playing with daddy. I think daddy is tickling her toes. maybe I am right, maybe I am not.

this is the hallway. sorry that it is blurry. I just tilted the camera a little.

this is a tree in Front Street. it is very beautiful I see. before the flowers went away, I decided, since they were so pretty, I took pictures of them.

this is a dandelion calling out to be picked. she likes the sun and thinks that it is very fine. this is a rhyme.

this is a window with a tree shadow in it. no, not a tree shadow, a tree reflection.

this is our number

.

this is our doorknob

.

Daddy, say hi! this is my dad. he's coming in to say, "stop taking pictures! stop taking pictures! please stop it!"

Indulging My Fatherly Instincts

2009-04-23T22:42:00.004-04:00

I was so impressed with these pictures of incredibly cute kids that I had to post them. They've definitely won my heart.BIG SIS HOLDS MAGGIE WHO HOLDS POLLY

MAGGIE IS POISED FOR ACTION - TRUST ME WHEN I SAY ACTION

MAGGIE'S NEW TRICK - STANDING

SELF PORTRAIT OF A FAMILY STILL DETERMINED TO BE ACTIVE

What I'll Miss If I'm Gone

2009-04-17T21:28:00.002-04:00

THE DANCING TREES

This town is not a bad place. The other morning I tossed Maggie up in her backpack carrier and strode through the fog that had settled in this valley, hungry for black & white photographs of trees in fog. I found two trees dancing - a day later their leaves had burst out into little green flags.

At night I walk Dylan down Market Street where the shop windows are lit. At this time of year the town's smell reminds me faintly of New York: exhaust, food, smoke and concrete. On Friday night, the college girls on the sidewalk smell like flowers. Their faces are anxious like nervous fawns. The boys drive past in muddy open-top jeeps and toss city music out like seeds in this small rural town.

I like to look in the windows of the historic hotel where stodgy people wearing the clothes of their children's generation enjoy their animated conversation over dinner. I always look at the displayed paintings of the local artist - I like to see the large one of two green chairs against a white fence. When I turn down our street, I always watch the stars as they drape themselves over the oldish two-story houses. Many of these houses have real chimneys and real shutters - which I find deeply nourishing.

Tonight while Lyric and I picniced in our back yard, the man two houses down sat on his lawn and played a lively guitar he had "just strung up" after getting it out of storage. He sang his licks like he meant them and tapped his black leather penny loafer to keep time with his softened fingertips. He said he was rusty.

Maggie Tales

2009-04-14T22:24:00.002-04:00

Chalk it up as one of the dumbest things I’ve done in a while.

You parents out there know that before your child is able to walk, they need things to keep them occupied. Things such as chew toys, rattle toys, shake toys and unnumbered rainbow-colored toys that you can buy at the store. You also know that these kinds of toys don’t really work – at least not very long. Babies are surprising in their abilities to develop familiarity with their possessions. Once a toy has been chewed on for several days, they begin to ignore it. This is why a toy handed over the bench from a neighboring small family at church to your 9 month old is about 10 times more valuable than the 15 toys you’ve painstakingly remembered to pack and bring along. This is also why forbidden objects are a source of fascination – objects such as keys, pens, coins, etc.

So as a parent of a 9 month old, you’re used to grabbing moments when you can, moments when your child is occupied with a thing for several seconds at a time – a moment long enough to take a few bites of your cold meal, or clear the table, or fold some clothes or whatever it is that you were trying to do. You’re used to finding new and interesting objects that will keep their attention – a tube of cream while you change a diaper, a plastic cup while you prepare their cereal, a washcloth while you give them a bath.

So one day I’m trying to grab a few minutes and I swipe a small plastic bottle of red paint from Lyric’s craft table and hand it off to Maggie in her high chair. I don’t think twice about it and whisk myself off to the kitchen. (Maggie grins with devilish glee) I return in a few seconds to find the obvious – Maggie and the high chair drenched in red paint. I nimbly try to “clean up” the mess before Mommy comes downstairs to discover the latest hair-brained situation Daddy got himself in. But cleaning up a puddle of red paint in the shape of a baby is no easy task. By the time it’s said and done, Maggie and I are wearing new clothes, our olds ones will never be the same, and the high chair still has a faint red tint. Somehow Maggie learned how to open bottles, and it was the perfect time to show off her new skill. Daddy also learned a lesson that day – don’t give bottles of paint to babies.

MAGGIE PLOTS HER NEXT STRIKE . . .

Colors of the Morning

2009-04-06T22:24:00.003-04:00

I wake up in some dark, grey moment of the morning; it is too early. The air is foggy, cold and stiff like my body – blurry and sluggish like my eyes. Maggie has only gotten up once during the night and her rooster’s crow is loud and abrasive, shattering the predawn hour. I make a vow in imaginary blood to go to bed earlier at the end of this day.

At 7:15 I usher Lyric into consciousness and the day turns red with Lyric’s grumpy disdain along with the streaking yellow of her cheerful clarity. I am too tired to make heads or tails of it, too focused on the 8:00 bus pickup down the block. It becomes a swirl of breakfast cereal, hair, glasses, backpack, jackets, hats, library books and lunch. If Maggie cooperates and doesn’t have a mess right before we head out the door, things flow pretty well.

Lyric boards the bus and fresh green color eddies in her wake. She waves excitedly through the window. I blow her a kiss and she silently makes the hand signs “I . . . love . . . you!” The bus surges away from the curb and the tired effort of the morning is quickly forgotten – my smile unavoidable as Maggie bounces happily in my arms. The sun is up and the world is coming alive – the urge to crawl back in bed subsides. It is a new day.

Pictures Gone Awry

2009-03-30T10:15:00.010-04:00

CHRISTMAS PICTURE-TAKING GONE AWRY was the conclusive favorite December photograph, netting 7 out of 16 tallied votes. The next runner up only found 2 votes. Since this picture was so well-received, I decided to post more "awry pictures" from this series followed by the one I chose to use for sending in Christmas letters. It is an argument that the portrait photographer's job is not easy. It is also interesting to think about why we choose the pictures that we do. How much and why do we need/want to show our "best side"? And why was this picture the favorite? Does seeing imperfection relieve us from the pressure to perform as well as the fear that everyone is more perfect than us? Enjoy!

Favorite Photographs: January

2009-03-28T13:46:00.008-04:00

1 "YOUNG GIRL" - PA Farm Show

2 "MAN WITH HAT" - PA farm show

3 "LYRIC'S ICE HOUSE"

4 "WOMAN WITH THREADWORK" - PA Farm Show

5 "GIRL VIEWING CHICKS" - PA Farm Show

6 "BUCKETS IN CORN" - PA Farm Show

7 "FACES AT HOME"

8 "OWL AND EYE" - PA Farm Show

9 "RUSSIAN EXCHANGE" - Shannon visits the Russian church

10 "INAUGURATION" - Maggie listens to Obama's Speech

Vote for your favorite! - thanks for the votes and all the comments on the photographs from December. Encouragment and critique are both welcome - I especially like to hear what the various pictures make you think about and feel.

A Quiet, Bending Footpath

2009-03-21T22:02:00.003-04:00

We want so many things from life. We want our relationships to work, to be well-formed and nurturing. We want a work to do, an occupation that is innately meaningful and essential in some larger context. We want to be capable and self-sustaining, in order to be free of anxiety and fear. We want a place to call home, a resting place – and we want something to believe in deeply.

But tonight I take a break form all this wanting as I walk out into the chill of spring’s arrival. All my wantings are strangely condensed, distilled. I imagine that what I really want is a quiet, bending footpath – a place known only to me and the coon who has left his paw prints during the night. I envision this place unspotted from the road – unseen by the other passers-by. It is a place where, bending down, I can just make out its quiet invitation. I follow.

I comply with its graceful shape as it moves through scattered patches of dried growth, the chaff of the discarded winter, and over splayed pebbles, across pools of dried mud. It leads me under an arching tree and beside a heavy rock. I pause as my eye catches a robin fluttering among new leaf buds. The remains of a gray picket fence gently hold the slanting sun from slipping away too soon. I pass a tumbling rock wall and catch my shirt on a patch of briars.

I imagine this is all I really want – my quiet, bending footpath – where I follow its newness, its enticement to be alive.

The March of Tulips

2009-03-17T04:36:00.005-04:00

Tulip in Akron, March 2007

Most of the time spent at my kitchen sink is after dark. After the kids have been put to bed I begin knocking out my handful of evening chores which almost inevitably includes washing the dishes. But sometimes I wash dishes during the day, and I always spend some amount of time standing by the sink – after rinsing things off, washing my hands, or filling up a bottle for Maggie. The kitchen sink is just one of those places where you end up spending a lot of loose moments within the day.

At this house we are lucky enough to have a window behind the sink(see previous blog “Ordinary Love” for photograph). In our previous one, the minutes spent washing dishes romanced the individual to a tiled wall vista. Since moving here in September of last year, this window view has been a welcome change of pace. While neither exciting nor mesmerizing, this view is mostly filled up by our immediate neighbor’s house, an entire 12 feet away. The siding is a nondescript graying white. The space between our homes is divided by a short wire fence into two walkways that lead out onto the street. There is some sidewalk, some scabby grass, the occasional yippy neighbor dog, but nothing noteworthy – until now.

The other day I was surprised to notice tulips poking their spearheaded leaves sharply up out of the soil along our neighbors house. Where I had guessed only weeds and their descendants to dwell – bulbs had been nesting away in their quiet homes all winter long. Ahhhh! I can’t wait to see what color they are. What a difference they could make to this window view! It would be like inserting some drops of dazzling color into a black and white photograph.

I wasn’t always so interested in tulips. While living in Akron, my wife spent some of her precious few moments of “down time” troweling up the soil around our little cape cod and planting enough perennials to make us reluctant to leave them behind. Right beside our most-used entrance to the house, she created a bed of bright pink tulips; the bulbs were a gift from her Mom. These tulips became an inextricable part of our cycle of life in the four years spent going in and out of that door – four spring seasons in which we looked forward to the March tulips as they sprang from the still cold earth, straight and tall, stalwart and inviolate in their symmetry.

They multiplied every year and when we left last July, we dug up what bulbs we could. They sit now in a yellow bucket in our basement, waiting for us to find them a new home. We, too, are waiting. We are only renting this place; and expect to be here only a short time. My wife’s trowel waits in a cardboard box – the garden hose lies limp under the porch. For now we will await the March of the neighbor’s tulips.

A Controlled Swordfight

2009-03-13T11:19:00.006-04:00

We spent most of this week in Ohio while Shannon had her surgery. During this time Olivia also had half a dozen meetings with doctors in Akron and with Amish men in Walnut Creek. Maggie completely avoided her napping and feeding schedule and also came down with a stomach bug while Lyric’s cough eased. Dylan came along for the ride but was neglected most of the time as we spent our hours driving to and from meetings and the Cleveland Clinic where Shannon had a tumor, her esophagus and 15 percent of her stomach removed. We ate on the run but well due to meals given by friendly church folk. I ran six miles and drove about 20 hours. I drank one Rockstar, one White Chocolate Mocha and one Frappaccino.

On Monday my family camped out in the lobby of the surgery center from 4:30 a.m. until we were able to visit Shannon around 1:30 p.m. Olivia and I were sent to find out if Shannon could be visited so we ended up being the first ones to see her. I walked into her nook in the midst of the ICU – we were the only ones not wearing white - and moved into a swirling mass of emotion. I noticed few details about her tubing or appearance but simply felt sad. Her mouth was held closed around the ventilator with a rubber strap. I realized that it is frightening to lose verbal contact with someone, especially as their consciousness is compromised by pain and medication. (we learned later that her initial epidural was not functioning) As I looked into her face it felt like we were both floating in and out of a haze. Her right hand slowly touched her chest again and again. At first I thought she was cold then correctly guessed that she was indicating pain in this spot. She was clearly in a lot of pain but there was a subtle relaxing of her body when I told her how much of her stomach was saved. She had requested that we tell her this information right away. I also realized that I am not that good at one-sided conversations. I told her that she was doing a good job and that the surgery had gone well and that I would bring Mom and Dad in to see her. On the way home I decided that surgery is really just a controlled version of a nasty swordfight.

I attended Olivia’s final meeting in Walnut Creek with the mostly Amish board of the newly proposed Windows of Hope Genetics Information Center and two independent genetic researchers. I noticed with interest that the Amish men were adept at filling up a space quietly and purposefully at the same time – they did not exude an intrusive agenda in the same way my wife and the researchers did. After about two hours of discussion we stood, exchanged closing comments and made ready to leave. I reached for my black corduroy jacket made in Bangladesh while the Amish men reached for their nondescript homemade ones. The chairman of the board, after opening a door to check how much the temperature had dropped in two hours, decided to leave his bike there and hitch a ride home. Olivia and I stopped at the local dari-ette and casually discussed the beginning of the rest of our lives together while eating ice cream sundaes.

Saturday, March 7, 8:56 p.m.

Saturday, 9:11 p.m.

Sunday, March 8, 7:08 p.m.Monday, March 9, 4:37 a.m.Monday, 4:48 a.m.Monday, 5:17 a.m.Tuesday, March 10, 9:12 p.m.

Deep Into the Woods

2009-03-05T22:29:00.004-05:00

I carried my questions deep into the woods
wrapped tightly and nestled down in my pocket
I wanted to find the place without sound
the quiet place
and leave them there

we entered the wood
my dog and I
free-spirited and buoyant
bathing, awash in the universe
alone among trees

a hole in my pocket, unknown to me
let slip my precious queries
one by one they slid away, unkept
discreet and untied

when we paused below the hemlock
its branches bearing down
its aged face unaware of our time
one fell
and gently lay undistinguished
from the needles in their soft bed

while scampering up the ice-strewn slope
tilting with outstretched, balancing arms
another left
and spilled like glass
cold and shining
onto the potch-marked moss
left behind
reflecting the sun

as we crouched by the stream bed
leaning into its trickling voice
another dropped
into the current like melted silver
clear and clean
lapped up by my dog

into the carelessly strewn leaves
silently red and delicate
one floated down
turning over
fluttering voiceless
resting

and when we came to the quiet place
as we stopped to hear ourselves breath
the stillness of moss
the endless waiting of old rotten trunks
waiting to become soil
one became silence
another the wisp of our moist breath

I reached into my pocket
but none were there
none exposed by filtered sunlight
or embraced by the bare trees
alive and gnarled
wanting to burst into spring foilage

Favorite Photographs: December

2009-02-20T22:19:00.003-05:00

1 Mom bakes bread

2 Taussig Cancer Care Clinic

3 Rain

4 Christmas picture-taking gone awry

5 bus stop

6 gingerbread!

7 phone call to Grandma

8 Thanksgiving meal with Moyer Grandparents

Lately I have become highly interested in knowing who and how many are browsing my blog - so the time has come to reveal your identity. Some of you have left comments but many of you yet remain anonymous. If you read this blog regularly, abate my curiousity by shooting me an e-mail at whenelephantsmuse@juno.com While you're at it, vote for your favorite picture of December and I'll tally the results.

A House-Trained Yak

2009-02-16T07:28:00.007-05:00

Hair has become a way of life

I’ve been contemplating hair today. I spent a good chunk of the morning trying to clean it out of our vacuum and it’s been quite the challenge. As one who tries to maintain cleanliness and order in the house, I usually look at hair as a threat, an imposter, something that needs to be tolerated. It clogs up the drains in the bathroom, it litters the floor, it sticks on my clothes, it wraps itself tightly around Maggie’s wet fingers, it settles like dust on the couch.

Growing up at home, my brother insisted that I clean all the hair off the bar of soap in the shower. I laugh at this now – how sensitive we were to a few strands of hair! – how pristine our awareness! Getting married was the first step to changing all that – my hair tolerance has been pushed far beyond what I ever imagined.

I view my relationship with hair in four levels of intensity (so far. I don’t know how many more stages there will be.) Growing up with my brother was stage 1. We both had close-cropped hair and my mother cleaned our house regularly and well. Since he and I were the only ones to share the same bathroom, we lived a relatively hair-free lifestyle. (our older sisters had their own bathroom.)

Stage 2: living with a long-haired wife. This is the stage where you accustom yourself to finding clumps of hair lying on the floor. You also familiarize yourself with drain-unclogging procedures and become increasingly comfortable while “living with hair”. It is not uncommon to occasionally pull long strands of hair off your sweater or coat.

Stage 3: childcare with a long-haired daughter. At this stage you learn that long hair care is labor intensive. As your daughter’s locks grow, you spend more and more time washing, grooming and braiding. Long hair takes a long time to dry. If the hair is fine and wispy, it needs to be combed out twice daily to prevent irreconcilable knots. There are a host of infiltrating agents that thwart hair care efforts: honey, gum, milk, candy – virtually any food. A good game of “let’s play monster by thrusting our heads under a blanket” can completely eradicate 20 minutes of careful grooming. This is the stage where picking hair off things becomes second nature, and third, and fourth. Hair becomes a routine, a lifestyle, a mode of being.

Stage 4: raising a long-haired dog. This is the stage that puts you over the top. You have climbed the hair-care summit valiantly up to this point. You have conceded your obsessive-compulsive cleanliness as much as you possibly can – you have acclimated and adjusted to life with hair – now this! . . . this dog . . . this . . . hairy . . . thing! I will not go into a lot of details here – I feel like I’ve written enough about Dylan. (Let me not discourage any would-be dog lovers.) Suffice it to say that he has placed me in stage four of my hair awareness.

Suddenly, as my oldest sister begins to lose her hair because of chemo – I begin to view hair as less of an imposter. It’s been easy to take it for granted, but hair is a really big part of our identity – it makes us who we are to others and plays a role large enough that when it’s gone, there’s a big emotional impact.

I don’t know what stage 5 will be – raising a house-trained yak? I’m not sure I want to know. But until then I’ll work on enjoying stage 4 and being more thankful for hair, hair, HAIR!

Ordinary Love

2009-02-14T22:47:00.004-05:00

if it wasn’t for the years
we had passed along the way
I would have forgotten
your name-
into the idyllic stream we slipped
immersed in our togetherness like nothing
over fetching under
into arms weak with want
into days
into moments
now this-
these years of a lifetime together
of wanting and holding and walking and waiting
of willingness and letting go
walking through you, through me
each of us into ourselves forgotten
we forget how
we forget us
we fight for us
we want-
we yearn for the placeless things
the untouchable, faceless things
the outcast and misshapen-
sidestepping quickly
we are run down in the street
by necessities and eclipses
of other times
their yearning for us
for our seeds
like sprouts on the doorstep-
their consuming
and relentless becoming
out of our failing
our incompletion
our rejoicing among laughter
inside our weakest parts
and out of our love

Confessions of a Young Doctor Post-Call

2009-02-12T21:09:00.002-05:00

Olivia reoccupies her childhood landscape

-written by Olivia in January-

Bill Cosby once said, “Give me one hundred two year olds, and I could conquer the world.” They are tenacious and indomitable creatures.

Over last weekend, I was the doc on call. The siren of fear in my head started several days before, and grew to an all-out wail by Saturday morning, when I was up at 5:30 AM to start morning rounds in the well newborn nursery. After finishing rounds, I worked the rest of the morning at the office, seeing sick visits. I had a few hours at home in the afternoon, waiting for the siren to subside. It didn’t.

In fact, it got louder all weekend. The only thing that made it stop was when my beeper went off. My heart would jolt, and the siren would quiet long enough for me to punch in the phone number requesting my reply. I got all kinds of calls, everything from a baby who didn’t want to poop at 11:00 PM, to another baby with a “fever” (temp of 100.2) who was cooing and laughing at 1:00 AM. His Mom wanted to know if she could give Tylenol. I felt like I was turning stones over in the woods, desperately, at breakneck speed, searching for a *real* concern, listening for that tone of voice that might mandate further action.

One six year old’s father called Saturday afternoon. I had seen the little guy a few days earlier, with high fevers and a sore throat. “He is still having high fevers. He is looking tired,” his father said in a pleasant PA farmer tone. I remembered the little Mennonite boy who smelled like dairy cattle. I offered to see him that afternoon before evening rounds. He came into the office, still smelling like a dairy farm, and looking awful. His liver and spleen were huge. “Oh man,” I thought to myself, “my first leukemia diagnosis so early in my career.” The parents were self pay, with no medical insurance. I told the mother we needed to admit him. I sent them to the local hospital with orders for tests that would either raise or confirm suspicions for leukemia. I spent the evening waiting about in the ER for his test results. Somehow it was more comfortable there than at home. At least no one in ER was hoping I’d play a game or make a craft with them.

Sunday morning, the little boy’s test results were negative for mono, but they certainly didn’t support leukemia, either. I was puzzled. I called a specialist and welcomed his input.

Sunday afternoon, I transferred a baby to Geisinger for further eval of some dusky episodes she was having. Her color changes were scaring the nurses. I didn’t have a good explanation for them. I wish I had been a little less hurried when I spoke with her parents.

On Monday, still on call, I went in to the office for evening hours. I was slamming through the rooms (overturning stones), when I entered a room with a Mom and a 2 year old girl. The little girl was pale, greenish pale, but she still wondered curiously about the room, exploring. “Her belly is big,” her mother said. “We didn’t want to come earlier because we didn’t want people to think the bruising was from us.” Bruising? The little tyke climbed up onto the table. Her liver and spleen were huge. She had bruising over her belly and legs. I sent her mother to the local hospital with orders to start some testing.

A few rooms later, I entered the room of a little 2 yr old boy with vomiting and diarrhea for 24 hrs. His siblings were sick too, with the same thing. Sounds like viral gastroenteritis, I explained to his grandma, who trusted me fully as we joked about the amount of laundry she’d been doing that day. His pulse was elevated, but the rest of him looked good to me. He climbed perkily up onto the table. His eyes were bright. His grandma said he had been starting to keep fluids down a few hours before. I sent them home with instructions to follow up with any changes.

After wrapping up the office work at 9:30, I headed to the hospital to check on the little girl and her Mom. Her lab results: very suspicious for leukemia. I called the local specialist, and we transferred her out around 1:30 AM.

I went home, trying to calm myself down for a few hours of sleep. When I walked in the door, Matthew was cleaning Lyric and Maggie’s vomit out of the bedroom. They had caught the same bug as half of my patients. We spent awhile getting the girls back into bed. I think it was 3:00 AM when the siren finally silenced enough to let me drift to sleep. At 4:30 AM, my beeper went off. This time it was the ER. The two year old boy with vomiting and diarrhea had arrived hardly responsive. His labs? Very suspicious for new onset diabetes! He perked up quickly with the help of the ER doc and some IV fluids.

I had diagnosed a new leukemic and missed a new onset diabetic all in one night.

The hardest thing was getting out of bed a few hours later to shower and go back into the office for evening hours on Tuesday. Matthew was manning the fort at home, running load after load of laundry. I vented to my empathetic office staff, poured over the chart of the 2 year old diabetic, and started overturning stones for yet another night.

Yesterday, I got some results for the little 6 year old boy with a big liver and spleen. Looks like he has mono after all. The specialist taking care of the two year old girl with a big liver and spleen says it looks like low risk leukemia. Jokes on me, I guess, but who’s laughing?

I am eternally grateful for the resilience of two year olds everywhere. I respect their ability to take on life and all of its foibles with unbridled curiosity, despite huge livers and spleens, and no platelets. I am thankful that their bodies have enough life left in them to be forgiving of missed diagnoses. Two year olds don’t seem to be bothered by what their doctors do and don’t know. In fact, most of the time, they give me a royal fight before they give me what I want when I’m trying to examine them. I suppose I shouldn’t sulk over my own limitations, but should learn a lesson from my patients and get up and face the day, exploring and throwing temper tantrums at Life. A cream filled donut never hurts, either.

P.S. Who says Gen Peds is boring? The six year old with suspected mono is still having fevers. This is his fourth week of fevers. His labwork is looking suspicious for hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis, a very rare complication of mono with a poor outcome. The problem with Gen Peds is not that it is boring, but that it appears to be. I am on call again next week and my neck muscles are tensing just thinking about it.

A Roller-Coaster of Blah

2009-02-05T22:42:00.002-05:00

So it’s single digits again outside. On days like today, I feel guilty and relieved that I live in the modern era – after things like insulation and furnaces were invented. I secretly fear the stories I’ve read or heard about – of polar expeditions, of mountain climbing adventures gone awry, of prisoners in Siberia – and what it would feel like to be out in the elements without shelter on a day like this. How long would I last? Would I go insane?

In truth, I’ve never been good at being cold. Whether ice skating, skiing or even just swimming in a lake – my body has never held up well to cold environments. I’ve thought of myself as having poor circulation, although I don’t really know what that means medically. Are my blood vessels too thin or too few? Is my blood pressure too low?

Regardless of how much one likes the winter season, this kind of cold can be wearing. Lyric and I bundle up and stand at the bus stop waiting for that big yellow caterpillar that is always late – sometimes I have to take Maggie out too. (she loves it!) Lyric informed me that Punxatawny Phil, or whatever that pudgy rodent is called, saw his shadow again this year – she even made a cutout puppet of the rascal.

Yes, those of us who live without a garage are tired of scraping snow off our windshields. In town we are tired of trying to park on piles of ice and slush. My dedication to layer up and go out and exercise despite treacherous footing is wearing thin. Dylan is tired of trying to drink water that has turned to ice. I’m tired of paying for heating oil that my dinosaur furnace sucks like nectar to heat this tired, old house.

While my daughter was watching the antics of Curious George, I overheard the narrator refer to the winter doldrums George was experiencing as a “roller-coaster of blah.” I chuckled as this reference struck home. What better way to express these post-January cloud-weary blues?

Maybe if I envision this mid-west version of winter (with its endless freeze & thaw, rain and ice, cloud and gray) as a roller-coaster ride, it will be more fun. At least I know that every ride has an ending – the car pulls to a stop and we get off, albeit dizzy and with our heads spinning.

I’m looking forward to running in 70 degrees again, with sweat dripping down my back. I’m achin’ for spring, Phil, but I might be able to hold out for 6 more weeks.

A Poem From Uganda

2009-01-26T22:05:00.003-05:00

When I Cried

our brown and all too-white Pajero
bumped and chortled along the dust vein roads
of Uganda
my grainy moist eyes
stared unknowing like fresh rabbits
in moonlight
until the girl
in the dirty lemon dress
solidly barefoot
turned.

casting
ambivalent breathtaking dark
eyes into my unrest
unsettling all my confidence
speaking for the orphans
I had walked among
and carried
like Jesus
without divinity
and helpless
as I helped them down
the mountainside
back to banana
leaf homes

What I Want for my Birthday

2009-01-24T23:14:00.003-05:00

Maggie recognizes my 30-yr. old face

so I sit here approaching 31 years of age like a Mack truck barreling down I-80 in freezing rain. as usual during this time of year (suddenly realizing that my birthday has snuck past me like the tortoise) I am the startled hare caught napping in the sun. I wake up just in time to see that squeaky sneak about to cross the finish line on into the next year and I make a mad mental dash in attempt to catch up with the time that has elapsed.

at the height of this frenzy, I usually write some morbid diary entry like “on the eve of 21” or “on the eve of 26” (and so on). I tend to write some such sentimental hogwash like – “I seem to have lost my way this year,” or, “this has been a year of challenge and ultimately defeat,” and the like, in various ways expressing deep disappointments regarding the constraints of time, its inevitability and the ill-defined vectors that have bewildered my life direction. (and just general depressing pessimism like that.)

fact is, its tough as nails growing older. we have no choice in the matter, and try as we might, we’re never going to be able to keep abreast of all that we had hoped for, dreamed about and sought after.

so what do I do? give up and succumb to the disappointment? – throw out the figs with the bath water? (if I may toy with a figure of speech) find some manner of numbing my crave for enlightenment and the higher path?

this year I want to redouble my efforts at making the most of the rest of my momentary moments of breath that I have left. (lets face it – I’m almost half-way to dead.) but I want to be more subtle about it. I can’t go rip-roaring bull-like, “snorting and stomping around” like Ferdinand who sat on a bee – that’s for the teenagers who think they’re all that. I want to be more like a 50 year-old spy in a movie who has a better grasp on what can and can’t be bought, bribed or persuaded, and makes his move quietly at just the right time. I want my face to crinkle with wisdom and my eyes to be startling in their aliveness, alert but full of mystery.

I want to be like a 31 year-old who has gotten the wind knocked out of him by enough of real life to be a little wiser as well as a little older. I want to be old enough to have a good start on getting my edges worn down but young enough to still have a lot of fight left. I want to do more accepting and less demanding. I want to be more engaging and less condescending. I want to let go of the slashing sword of fear and come out of the captivity of abandonment. I want to get up off the floor and walk on into this ol’ sinful world.

an older couple whose faces crinkle with wisdom at the PA Farm Show

Favorite Photographs: November

2009-01-21T09:01:00.005-05:00

Streetwise Eve

November photo opportunities presented themselves while:

-in New York City while following Harlan & Marilyn, Eve & Eden around Manhattan.

-chumming with Darren at all hours of the night.

-entertaining guests from Ohio in Lewisburg.

Eve takes center stage holding forbidden fruit

Portrait of a young family in New York CityA Tree grows in Manhattan: view from Jen & Darren's old apartmentWere-icorn: Darren after Dark
The Zen couch
Food Truck

Dylan looking noble

View from Dale's RidgeTerry shaves

Six Miles of Unadulterated Exultation

2009-01-10T08:13:00.002-05:00

of the human spirit over fear

a runner in the NYC Marathon

I just got back from running six miles through freezing rain. my stride sputtered on the slushy roads and my sweatshirt gained 5 pounds of water. there weren’t even many cars on the road – and I didn’t meet any other runners.

why in the world was I running?

I asked myself this question several times throughout the 6 miles. was I a sucker for self-inflicted pain? was I trying to prove something to somebody? was I driven by some obscure motive? the only answer I could come up with during the 45 minutes of slush-trudging was simply this: I believe in something. and whatever that something is, believing in it calls me out of my semi-warm house and dry clothes, out into the weather to run.

what I believe in has slowly begun to take shape in my mind, and each time I run, I feel I am getting closer to my belief.

Dawn and I talked about how much we love to ice skate, because for us, it’s the closest we’ve come to dancing: the gliding movements of our bodies over the ice following the melodies and brush strokes of the soul’s delight; the swirling mesh of body, soul and spirit; synchronization, a flow of movement, a joining of rhythm.

distance running for me teaches me this possibility of joining bodily experience with careful concentration, with rugged emotional processing, with the weight of philosophical pondering, with the simple joy of existence; of breathing and moving and being alive, of striving.

running is my prayer.

Brooke & Jesse run to play "tap the ring"