Following Elias

Dan Bern and my Daughter

Both my children slept at other people's houses last night while Nick and I sat around a table with friends, listening to Dan Bern live at the Taproot.

Dan Bern is one of the few folk artists who consistently visits Alaska, gracing us with his voice and songwriting skills, and man, do we appreciate the fact that he keeps coming back to the Last Frontier, even in November, especially in November, when our days runs short and we crave the light of song, along with the warmth of a roomful of people all listening to the same tunes.

Dan led us in a number of sing-a-longs last night and despite my cringe-worthy singing voice, I joined the crowd, caught up in the pulse of us all passing the same poetic words past our lips, as if we all breathed as one.

During these war-filled days of heated rhetoric and finger pointing there is something soothing about voices united in song.

And sure, Dan Bern fans tend to lean to the left, but politics is only one of the multi-faceted layers of division that keep us from seeing each other naked born to sing and dance and make art on this wild planet of ours.

Before Dan Bern, before my Saturday afternoon soccer game, Olive, age five, performed on stage for the first time as part of a one-day dance camp. Our dear friend, Reni, now 15, worked as one of the instructors.

"What if I'm too scared?" Olive asked before I dropped her off at East High.

"Its ok, to be scared. Most people feel scared when they try something new."

"But Mom, I might be too shy to dance on the stage."

"That's ok, most people feel shy about getting up on a stage, especially at first. When Reni was your age she was real shy in all new situations."

Olive climbed out of the car, her face serious, and walked through the doors of the big high school, her right hand holding mine as her left clutched her well-loved fairy. 

Once in the studio, Olive stood on the outside of the circle and watched the other kids, ranging in age from kindergarten to eighth grade, play a dancing game to warm up. Whoever stood in the middle chose a dance move while others copied. As I glanced around the room, you could see on the kids faces who desperately wanted to leap in the middle, who might or might not, and who hoped to remain as the outline.

Olive shook her head no when Reni asked if she wanted to join the circle, so this beautiful teenage girl I've known since her first awkward steps scooped my daughter up into her strong arms and nodded at me. I got her, she seemed to say, and every fiber of mine trusted she did.

Some folks are that good.

When Nick and I returned at 2:00 for the show, Olive moved from the front where she was first placed to the back of the stage to hide behind the taller kids for their hip hop song.  But when the music started, she danced, on a stage, her little arms copying the movements of the older children, her hips wiggling, feet moving, tentative, but focused, in her purple and white striped dress.

And later, as I played soccer, Nick caught her practicing her moves in the play room, she'd stop when he walked in the room and say, "Dad!"-- just like she was 13, and he caught her naked.

On Sunday night as I tucked Olive in for the third time, after she already convinced me to read an extra book and bring her a piece of cheese, she said, "Mom, will you tell me a pretend story?"

I could have so easily said: Olive its bedtime-- in that tone of voice I pull out when I'm done being a Mom and just want to heat up some leftover soup to feed my tired body after a dinner-time hockey game.

I was tired and sore and it was almost nine, but I lay my head down next to hers, closed my eyes and began:

"Once upon a time there was a brave young girl who went on a journey. She walked into the woods and met a group of fairies who asked her to dance. She felt scared and shy but one of them reached out and took her hand and said: Don't worry, I'll stay with you.

So she stept into the clearing and watched their arms reach up into the sky and their hips shake and their feet step and she listened to the music and before long she too was swept into the dance.

And she thought to herself, as she held hands and dance with the fairies: If my journey ends today, it will be ok. "

I opened my eyes, only to see Olive's eyes closed.

And you know what I thought, as I sat there at the Taproot, with good friends, singing along with Dan Bern, along with a roomfull of people who may not actually belive he's the Messiah, but who get the humor and the wisdom and the sorrow of his words, as we lifted our voices in unison, in song, in a spirit of one, well, if the world really is on its last demise, then I want to go out singing and dancing and bringing art to this place.

Paris, Muslims, and my Boy

A preteen boy rode up the escalator as Elias and I prepared to go down. The boy watched my son with raised eyebrows as Elias handed me his canes. I saw the boy smirk and, as usual, felt lucky that Elias didn't see the judgement on this boy's face. I looked back in time to catch him nudge his sister and point towards Elias. The older sister looked but caught my fierce brown eyes looking at her and quickly looked away. As for Elias, he focused on the moving steps before him, held onto both railings, and put his best foot forward.

Scenes like this happen all the time when out in public with a child who does not fit the norm. I try not to judge the smirkers, and if I'm honest, some days this is easier than others. My eyes can cut holes through someone who stares too long or laughs at my son's expense. 

I'm not one to say something in the moment, but there's times when I wish I was more confrontational. When I imagine calling strangers out on their stares. Other days I take the attention with ease, knowing people are just trying to make sense of a world that doesn't always fit into neat little boxes with perfectly tied bows.

Judgement. It's on my mind these days as people react to the events in Paris. I keep thinking that linking all Syrian refugees, or all Muslims, to terrorism is akin to linking all Americans to mass shooters. Just because I am born and raised in the United States does not mean I am likely to pull out a gun and mow down school children. The same is true for all the Syrian refugees and Muslims who will never be suicide bombers. Yet I hear this ignorant battlecry of judgement, fueled by fear and misinformation, and worry about where it will lead.

That boy gawked at my son because he is not accustomed to seeing children walk with canes. But what I find with kids is when they have quality time with children like mine, children who are different, they lose their fear of "otherness" and expand their worldview to include children with adaptive equipment, children with visual impairment, children with communication issues, children with motor challenges, children with incontinence, you name it, they accept it, given time.

I wish on the world level it was as simple as spending time with each other, breaking bread, playing ball, looking up at the stars that align with no religion, no country, no point of view, just lights in the darkness that allow us to see.

Its the same sun, after all, that warms our skin, regardless of its shade, with the power to make us squint, no matter our heritage, our title, our creed... 

...If only we woke one day to see ourselves in each other.

What then?

Just Right

We took the wrong trail.  

"We should have taken the zig-zag trail," Elias reminds you.

"I know."

I know...

And there it is again.

The moment you see your child in danger and know you can't reach him in time.

You can't control this world that tosses your baby fifteen feet down a cliff, heading straight for a downed tree, with broken limbs ready to impale him.

You can't save him. 

So the earth does.

He lands underneath the tree instead of against it, walking away with mere scrapes.

 

But of course you replay the scene in your mind, like a cosmic tape meant to make you feel miserable as a parent, especially of a boy with special needs, an eleven-year-old kid who walks with canes and doesn't see so well-- what were you thinking heading straight down the hill?

Ah, but you did, and you do, and you will again, take chances, as you embrace the life you were meant to live.

A life that includes cerebral palsy and traversing mountainsides. Visual impairment and the sound of eagles flying overhead. Autism and ADHD and weaving our way through Devil's Club and climbing over fallen spruce trees on our way to the sea. Incontinence and turning the steepest part of the hill into a slide as you all scoot your way towards the gravel of David's driveway and Tonsina Trail twenty feet below. 

Even when canes slip and a boy tumbles towards injury, only to be saved by the ground's indent, by the underside hollow of a mighty Spruce, even then, you will forge your own path through the living woods and reach forward or back, hands outstretched, ready to help a loved one to his feet.

You can't always catch the people you love but you can be there with them when they fall. You can sit on the earth besides them and say, "I'm here. I'm with you. Are you Ok?"

You may need to wait a whole month worth of minutes, or more, for a reply, but wait you will.

And when ready, you will keep on crawling, climbing, walking, dancing, together, however that looks for you.

On another walk, on another day, when you wore sun-hats instead of winter caps, it was you who fell to the ground when the weight of your body snapped an Alder tree. Elias smiled at you and said, "Did the tree just say: 'Oh, here's a lovely lady, I think I'll take her with me'?"

From your bed of moss and spruce tips, you looked up at your boy and laughed.

You lay your head back down on the ground, gazed at the blue sky sparkling through the canopy of elder Fir trees and thought: Life doesn't get much better than this.

There are all kinds of trails out there on this planet of ours. Whichever one you travel, may it feel just right. And may you pause, every so often, just to apreciate the view.