Following Elias

May Every Day....

 

 ...Be Earth Day

Happy Friday!

Writing Elsewhere

I have up to 15 pages of a manuscript due at the end of the month for an editor/agent to review as part of the Katchemak Bay Writers conference I'm attending in June.

As well as another Arctic Entries story to prepare for May.

So I may not update here for a bit.

(Unless of course I just have to write.)

So in the meantime...

This is the view from lower Mt. Marathon of the town of Seward where we will move this summer:

 

And here is another view of the town from the road to Lowell Point, the spit of land we will call home:

Not a bad commute, eh? 

 

 

Its Really Happening

When I walked into Olive's room last night to snuggle with her before bed, she was sitting up with a pen and notebook.

"Mom, I'm drawing our new house. Do you want to watch me?"

"Sure Babe. Slide over."

We sat together as she drew a layout of a home that not only included a bigger bedroom for her, but her own private office. She drew bookshelves and a closet and a great big deck around the whole house.

"I like it," I said, as I looked at my six-year-old daughter who is more and more like her father, a little builder able to turn visions into tangible entities with her two small hands.

"Do you think we can build it, Mommy?"

"I think we can build something like it."

"Can you get Daddy so I can show him?"

"Of course."

And so here's the news, as big as a mountain:

Our family is finally doing what we've dreamed about for years--taking a giant leap and moving to Cuzuncle David's property above Lowell Point in Seward.

We will live in a 30 foot trailer at first. And tents. And outside on the 40 plus acres of land that backs up to both National Forest and State Park.

We are moving to my heart's home, to the place I fell in love with the first time we drove up the driveway.

I could live here forever, I thought.

Little did I know then that David would someday invite us to join him on the hill, in this place where eagles and porcupines reside as neighbors, in a space nestled between mountain peaks and Resurrection Bay

We may need to rent a house or cabin for the winter (not sure how long we can survive in the trailer) as we work towards a home of our own, on the side of a mountain, at the end of the road.

Nick has accepted a job as the Seward Educational Coordinator for Chugachmiut, a regional Native Cooperation. My job (at first) will be to transition the kids, develop support networks, and to write.

I want to write a book, I've wanted to for years, but with full-time work and parenthood my writing hours fall off my plate far too often, rolling beneath the fridge, lost for days. My hope is we can survive on one salary, for at least the fall, so I can write while my kids are at school instead of waiting till they are asleep at night.

I am still in awe that I will be given the gift of time to write.

And I owe this to Nick, who is jumping into a new job days after leaving UAA, giving up his summer vacation, stepping into unfamiliar territory, all so we can see if our dream of Seward matches reality.

 

How will we ever know if we don't go?

We will finish up the school year in Anchorage, and be back and forth over the summer, before settling into Seward full time by August.

Adventure awaits, and yes.... 

 

...you can come along for the ride.

Change is a Coming

"It comes in waves," I say about grief to a student in my office. "There will be moments where you don't think about it and then suddenly there it is again, making you feel sad or angry or numb or confused or a whole mixture of feelings all at once. And they are all OK to feel."

He looks at me with tears in his eyes and nods.

"Everyone experiences grief when they lose someone they love. It just doesn't always look the same."

We color as we talk with pencils in a variety of shades, some sharp others worn down from previous use. I work on a horse with a long flowing mane; with careful strokes I place red and orange between the black lines, adding fire to white. The student works on a turtle, bringing a rainbow of colors to the page.

On any given day, in a different hour, my picture could look completely different. More indigo and violet, a cooler palette, or perhaps the softer shades of pastels.

"What is your favorite color?" kids often ask.

"Orange, green, and purple."

"No, just one."

"But I can't pick just one."

It depends on the day, on my mood, and on what I'm picking the color for-- I can't choose only one shade.

It's been a rough stretch, both at work and at home, more gravity less light, but it seems to be lifting, just a little, as Spring stretches our days, and the heat of the sun reminds me that the only constant is change.

With change comes a longing for what we leave behind mixed with hope for what lays ahead.

I find myself here often, in this middle space between familiar and unkown, between yesterday and tomorrow, pulled between poles as if I can keep one foot in each space, a finger on the pulse of both history and future.

How many times must I say to myself, there is only today, only now, until my mind remembers and stops its wanderings into past decisions or out into days unseen?

I can be fully present for the children who sit in my office, who hand me their heart wrapped in a story of loss and pain, but I don't often give myself the same attention.

I don't write when I know I need to turn to the page.

But, again, the only constant is change-- and I feel the wind shifting, more of a warm breeze than a bite, more patient, soft, and forgiving.

More like a hug than a hurricane.

More to come...