Smells Like Wet Dog

The last thing I want to do when the rain comes in sideways and drenches me on the short walk from my house to David’s is to stay outside in the storm.

But my dogs want to keep walking. And they’ve been inside for six hours, as have I.

So I zip my raincoat and pull my hood over my head and walk down the driveway towards our neighbors’ cabin to see how their road is fairing the onslaught of creek water spilling from its banks.

As I walk, my mood lightens, as it always does, regardless of the weather, something about consecutive steps and fresh air. I discover a trail behind their cabin and though I’m not dressed for a hike I find myself climbing through the mossy Spruce. My jeans begin to stick to my thighs as the rain falls even harder, but I am in it now, in the weather, not listening to it pound on our metal roof, not watching it slide down our windows, and as thick as the droplets fall, they are far less menacing here in the woods than they appeared from the inside looking out.

The trail I walk snakes along the cliffs parallel to Tonsina Trail, with views of Resurrection Bay so socked with grey that I can’t see a single mountain despite feeling their watchful presence, ancient and all-knowing, reminding me that the tears I shed yesterday are nothing but small waves in the ocean of global despair.

Why the tears you ask?

Oh, were do I begin.

For starters, all the windows in our new house leaked during the heavy rainfall last week, along with our roof and our stove pipe, which we since learned, despite hiring professionals, was not put in to code. This led to the revelation that our contractors made a handful of other mistakes, which means we can’t yet insulate and I’m feeling pretty darn done with trailer life after three and a half months of camping full time.

Its mid-September, and in Alaska that means Almost Winter and I’m almost gonna lose my mind as the seasons change and I don't have a dry place to call home. Just a dank box with dogs that don't have the curtesy to take their paws off and hang their coats at the door.

So there's that.

And then the phone call.

The one with the Neuropsych who spent a full day assessing Elias. A medical professional I respect who is human in her communications but still the deliverer of diagnoses. Of terms such as “significantly impaired” “well below average” and “mood disorder”.

And sure I know these details about my son.

But I also don’t.

I forget about all his disabilities in our daily doings as we drive around and over the potholes on the road between our house and town, laughing about the bumps along the way.

I just expect him to rally for the occasion and something about the language she used made me wonder if at times I set the bar too high. Am I not realizing that his disabilities impede him from making the social and intellectual connections I desire?

I don't know.

There is so much I don't know.

I don't know how to build a house from the foundation to the roof and I don't know how to raise a child from a baby to a man-- and so I find myself in the boundary waters between realizations, wondering what images to cling to and which mirages to release into the bay.

Stranded between the home we desire and the construction project before us, between the boy I love and the labels that follow him.

And so I walk in the rain, I step over the composted forest, as I peel off layers of clothing, layers of armor accumulated with each revelation of something gone wrong.

I pull my hood down and let the water run over my head, my face, like tears, but not mine-- as if the mountain’s sorrow can cleanse me, can hold me with the reminder that grace lies within the sorrow, hidden deep within the unknown, within the questions we carry, like crosses made of bones.

Comments

[Kate]

Glad you got out for a walk. Such a hard in between place right now. Hope you and Nick can get some downtime together soon. Hugs. Keep walking keep writing.

[Christy]

Will do Kate, will do. Thanks for your words, always:)