From My Notebook

I sit in the sun, in Seward, on this lazy Sunday, body sore from Saturday's Lost Lake mountain race.

Nick and I ran 15.7 miles, up through the trees, to the tundra, on a path that weaves around clear blue pools of water, from small to large, tucked between peaks that reach for the heavens.

800 of us ran in waves along a single track trail to raise money for Cystic Fibrosis, with every half-mile marked by pictures of children affected by the disease. When I wasn't focused on my footing, trying not to trip over roots and rocks, I'd read the sign and repeat the child's name as my mantra to keep running.

"Are you ready?" a man asked before the race, as Nick and I stretched on the rocky beach of Kenai Lake at the Primrose campground.

"I guess so," I replied. "I just keep thinking how lucky I am to spend such a beautiful day moving."

"That's it, isn't it," he smiled.

And now here I am, the day after, race completed, injury-free, with Nick and I crossing the finish line holding hands. Proud that our bodies held up, even if my knees screamed at me during the decent, shocked that I expected them to keep going.

And the sun still shines.

And I'm here in Seward, on this land that I love, without my children calling my name, free to write in my notebook, no need to respond.

I needed this. To push my body harder than normal and now, to just be still.

Especially after the stress of the past two weeks, between Camp Fire's decision to no longer accommodate Elias's needs, to returning to work at a school that is under construction, bringing with it a whole new whirlwind of safety issues and concerns, and then the first day of 6th grade for my son who stands out in his class of typical kids, with his pull-ups and canes and repetitive comments that make noses scrunch and eyebrows raise.

The night before school started, I came home from our in-service a bundle of nerves, dashing around the house completing concrete tasks with a beginning and an end, like putting clean sheets on our bed, folding the corners just so, like I learned as a "Chamber Maid" (yes, that was my title) all those years ago. With half our school building blocked off as a construction zone, no cafeteria, no gym, no playground, ten relocatable buildings to house all the older grades (Elias's the farthest from the school), I just couldn't wrap my head around all our hopeful fragile students, my own boy amongst them, arriving the next day to go to school.

What would happen when the bell rang?

And now its Sunday, three school days down, and yes, I still hold a head-full of questions and concerns, but children are nothing if not adaptable and they seemed to enjoy walking from their relos to the building to pick up lunches from a classroom converted into a kitchen. Instead of playground equipment we played in the trees with truck tires and ropes-- the kids created their own challenges and games. And Elias walked eagerly to class at that first bell and came out smiling when the last bell chimed.

Losing Camp Fire forced us to research other opportunities and Elias seems genuinely excited to attend a new after school program for 6th through 8th-graders with special needs, one that will pick him up at Airport Heights and drive him home.

(Assuming the state passes our new Plan of Care, a process that can take up to 45 days. Fingers crossed.)

He'll spend his mornings in my office. When Nick told him this plan he presented it as a sign of Elias's maturity and amazingly Elias accepted this change of schedule with ease.

I know a thousand stresses still lay ahead, but right now, the sun is shining and all I see is blue sky and trees, Hemlock and Spruce, taller than the worries I hold, green giants, solid in their place.

 

These trees know nothing about the children on those mile markers and the families who love them, they do not worry about the school year and the myriad of issues that arrive each fall, they just stand tall, like beacons of hope to keep on growing, no matter what the wind blows your way.

Comments

[fleming ackermann]

this is reminding me of the quote, " When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window." Sounds like your window opens up on a beautiful view!

[Kate]

15.7 mile trail run?!? You go girl. And enjoy the view and time to self. And schedule your next one while still basking in the glow from this one. Glad the afterschool piece tentatively fixed. Cautiously optimistic. Hope back to school/work continues to go well!

[ebeth]

amazing that the run was for CF -- thank you!! xo

[Greta]

Responding and adapting to changes rather than worrying...like children and trees can do. Can adults rewind our brains to do that too?

[Christy]

Love you Ebeth and yes, we hope to do it again next year:)

Greta, god I wish I could, worrying is my own worst enemy.

Fleming and kate, I am hopeful about the new plan and do love the idea of turning a closed door into an open window.

Love to all!!