Its that time of year in Alaska, when the darkest it gets is dusk, and we all cram in camping trips and fishing adventures and summer camps, so it seems like we are only home to unpack and pack again.
I am in Girdwood now, at Adam’s Camp, a much needed program for children on the autism spectrum and their families. Before this, the North Shore of the Kenai River for dipnetting with friends and family, my parents here from Cape Cod to help on the beach, as Nick and I stood in the water with our giant nets, where we caught 55 sockeye salmon over four days. And before camping on the beach with our fishing tribe, we spent a week in Seward where Olive attended a Bluegrass camp and the rest of us explored our soon-to-be new home. Olive now wants her very own fiddle and can say that she’s been in a band that played on the street for ice-cream money, singing “All Fly Away” with a troupe of six-year-olds as she strummed on a borrowed guitar.
And in between our outings, our comings and goings, Nick and I flounder amidst all the decisions that arise with a move. Do we rent or sell our house? Do we rent a storage space or buy or make our own? What kind of house do we want to build? How long can we survive in a trailer before something gives? Space, creativity, solitude. Our sanity may go first.
So I’m here now, in the parking lot of Alyeska, alone, listening to the rain on the trailer roof, my feet up and computer on my lap, soaking in some much needed respite before the frenetic packing and moving and adapting begins again.
This morning, I dropped Olive off at her sibling program with plans to swim at the Alyeska resort, her rock-climbing cancelled due to the much-needed rain. Its wildfire season in Alaska, with one burning close to Anchorage, so we all exhaled when the sky shifted from days of seventy-degree sunshine to fat drops falling on our heads. Phew, we need this, as much as an outdoor exploration camp would be more fun in the sun, I’ll take rain.
Elias smiled big when he learned rock-climbing was cancelled, as he didn't like the sound of the bell at the top of the wall, nor the feeling of being off the ground. He’s a cautious kid, my Elias, and fearless, all in one. A constant contradiction, charming and infuriating, weak and strong, determined and helpless, loving and cruel, dark and light, like all of us, limitless in our possibilities, never staying still long enough to describe in accurate detail. More grey than black or white.
I wish everyone saw and accepted and celebrated the ambiguity that lies within each and every soul, not red or blue, north or south, but shifting like the weather, always unpredictable, where the only constant is change.
And perhaps the only thing we know for sure, is the sun will again, it may take months, like it does in winter in Barrow, but rise, rise it will.
Long, long time reader. Thanks so much for keeping up your blog and letting us move along with you. Beautiful family, honest and true writing, its glorious. I am a retired dairy farmer, same house for the last 44 years and I hope they carry me out.Blessings to all of you on this new jouney.
Nancy
Posted by: Nancy | 07/25/2016 at 07:26 PM
Thank you for writing Nancy. I'm hoping our next home in Seward is where I can stay for the long run and look forward to creating my own mini farm on the property. No cows but chickens veggies and lots of flowers. May you be in yours till the end of your days. thanks for letting me know you have enjoyed my writing, hoping for more time to write this fall.
Posted by: Christy | 07/29/2016 at 12:06 PM