Following Elias

Imagine if...

"Imagine if someone showed up at our cabin and told us we couldn't live here anymore..."

It's the day after Thanksgiving, and our family of four sprawls on the double bed that also serves as our couch whenever we grow tired of the hardbacked chairs around the table, our only other place to sit in our one-room cabin.

We don't often all sit here together, but tonight it feels right.

"...and what if they told us we couldn't speak in our language anymore?" 

"Or dress in our clothes," Olive adds.

We are brushing the rainbow-colored sprinkles off the Thanksgiving story so often served, and imagining the arrival of the Pilgrims--our ancestors--from the perspective of the Native people who lived on this land for thousands of years before the arrival of the Mayflower.

"Elias, instead of sweatpants you'd have to wear clothes attached by nothing but buttons."

"Ugh," he says, with a smirk.

Our conversation is light though the history we speak of is nothing but--more granite than air.

I make up a pretend language and tell the kids they must speak it now. 

"What did you just say?" Olive asks.

"I dont know, I made it up."

This whole conversation leans on the imaginary, as our home, language, and livlihoods are not under threat.

My family is safe-- a luxury I forget when I stress about our current state of affairs.

Safety is something I too often take for granted. We are safe in this one room cabin on Lowell Point, a small spit of beach and woods at the base of the mountains two miles beyond Seward Alaska.

We are safe. We are safe.

Unlike so many thousands of refugees across the globe.

Unlike many villages in north west Alaska, soon to be some of the first refugees of climate change, as their land gives way to water, as the earth warms. Entire communities forced to relocate from the land that defines them.

I have fallen in love with Lowell Point and Tonsina Trail but it is a new young love, not one that runs deep in my genetic code. I was not conceived in this place, not raised upon this land. I am a store-bought button-pusher drawn to salmon creeks and mountain ridges, but I am not born of the tetonic plates of Alaska.

Still, as I lie here with my family, and imagine being forced to leave this place, as foreigners take over the land I call home, I feel myself sink into the mattress, heavy with our history's stones.  

(A mere sliver of the weight of Native people, with their generations of lives braided within the rivers, the tundra, the salmon that return to their origins, like the telling of time, usurped, dismantled, like the land overtaken by the sea.) 

My children still see our conversation as a game, until I say: "And imagine if we were seperated as a family and could no longer live together."  

The smiles leave Elias and Olive's faces, as the physical loss of family hits closer to their hearts than the abstract loss of language.

"Like we all lived with different families?" Olive asks.

"Yeah."

I don't say as slaves or if we were lucky enough to live. 

I leave only the image of the four of us torn apart, drastic enough to imagine as we currently crowd onto a double bed in a cabin smaller than most garages, all of us in physical contact, as foot touches leg, head touches chest, hand touches hand.

"What if I knew the family?" Olive asks, and I imagine her picturing herself at a friend's house thinking: Hey this aint so bad; I kinda like living here in this big house with all these toys and my friend and without my parents to nag me or my brother to hit me...

I interupt her imaginings with: "That'd be impossible. They'd all be strangers."

"Oh," she says, her lips pursed, her image of frollicking with friends burst. 

And yet our privilige is such that we don't have to stay in this scenario we created from the comfort of our bed. From the warmth of our cabin. Amidst our blankets covered in dog hair and devotion.

"But luckily we are safe here," I say. "And free to speak as we please and dress how we like."  

And to commune and make art and dance and worship and love each other however we choose... 

Imagine if this safety in being ourselves were true for everyone.

Imagine if everyone still had a place to call home.

Imagine if...

The Answer I Come Back to Every Time is Gratitude

In the dark, I walked to the low tide line, high-stepping over rocks I couldn't fully see, crossing over frozen seaweed and jelly fish, crunching mussels and barnacles, pulled farther and farther out by the magical lull of the Aurora.

My eyes roamed between the night sky and the darkened beach as I scanned for my husband so we could look up at the Northern Lights together.

An hour earlier, Nick left the cabin for a walk after we put the kids down, our energies not quite aligned, I climbed into bed,  only to receive a text from Cuz-Unncle David: "Northern lights out now!!!"

It doesnt matter how sleepy I might be, the aurora always lures me from the warmth of my covers to the chill of an Alaskan winter evening. The lights greeted me my first night in Alaska--oh my god, oh my god, I repeated from the deck of the ferry--and even now, seventeen years later, the dancing lights always leave me speechless with awe.

So I put on my coat over my pajamas, donned a hat and gloves, and walked towards the bay so I could look northwards for the lights.

I saw the green pulsing streaks before I even made it to the beach and their brilliance lulled me further out onto the shore, away from the electric lights of Miller's Landing, to the darkest patch of beach.

Like green clouds sailing in high winds, the aurora shape-shifted across the sky, waltzing with the stars, calling me away from the tribulations of my time.

Unknown to me, Nick had chosen to walk towards the mountains instead of the bay, until he saw the lights and returned to the cabin to find me, only to discover the bed empty, my boots no longer by the door.

So he too walked to Miller's Landing, scanning the beach for a familiar figure, only I had already travelled too far along the tidal flats, off into the shadows, my reflection no longer visible to his flashlight.

So we both stood under the aurora, looking up, only a few yards away, content in our solitude but wishing we could share the moment with each other. 

I think we all feel like this sometimes, in this world of ours. Together but separate. Separate but together.

In awe of the beauty, of the mystery, without the words to communicate what we see.

The next day, I walked to Tonsina Point, with my dogs for company, the North wind as my constant companion.

In the daylight, the mountains that rise from Resurrection Bay captured my silent awe and if I closed my eyes to the sun I could still see the green lights sashay across the sky.

I could feel Nick's presence in the distance, his steady patient love-- how thankful I am that Alaska called us both to this rugged land of extremes.

The question is how do I remember this feeling when I feel closed in by the walls of social constructions, misunderstandings, and the every day business of life?

How do I remember?

Thank you sky, thank you sea, thank you rocks, thank you, thank you, thank you....

As I Knew She Would

“It doesn't look like a herding dog,” so says the white male tourist in my backyard, which also happens to be a State Park, asserting his authority over my knowledge of my Border Collie/ English Shepard mix named Lola, named after Lowell Point, the land he and I walk upon.

This, after the three men appeared over a small ridge, with Lola too far ahead of me and too near them for a successful recall, no time to put her on the leash wrapped around my waist.

“Just a a warning, she may bark at you!” I call, as soon as I see the men, with my dog sprinting towards them, tail wagging, ready to round them up like sheep.

And bark she does. As she always does. As her ancestors have before her, working the farms, the fields, running on instincts bred into their bones.

“Sorry,” I say—always so quick to apologize, the word sorry born into me with my double X chromosomes, sorry, I breathe in and out at night, sorry, my footsteps echo, sorry, sorry, sorry…. 

“She’s just trying to herd you,” I say.

As my words of repentance leave my lips, to travel between me and the men,  the older of the three, the father, I assume, of the two young adults beside him, pulls a can of bear spray—high-powered mace— from his pack, and aggressively points it at Lola, which only makes my two-year-old pup more excited, her bark high-pitched and fearsome, she pounces before the man, tail still wagging, nervous but playful, a dog at work. 

The man follows her movements, with his defensive weapon of spray, his finger ready to pull the release.

I am in front of the men now, and I grab Lola by the collar. “You don't have to spray her.”

“I have a right not to be bit,” he responds.

“She’s not going to bite you, she’s just trying to herd you.”

And that’s when he spits out: “It doesn't look like a herding dog.” He turns his back to me, his eyes towards Resurrection Bay.

I walk a few steps from the men, release Lola’s collar, and she sprints ahead of me towards the squirrels' den in the woods, the one she always chases at this particular point of our walk; I follow her into the trees, to climb the hill to our house site, and am surprised by the force of the tears that fall, as I scamper over roots and rocks along the trail.

Lola’s fine. I’m fine. The guy was just an ass, I think.

So why the torrid release? I replay the scenario and hear our spoken words again, and realize its his assertion that—it doesn't look like a herding dog— that uncorks my emotional response, even more so than the bear spray pointed in Lola’s face. 

I can forgive his fear, his desire to protect himself, but not his denial of my truth.

His statement represents just one small drop in an ocean of men dismissing my knowledge, my words, my story,  my body— not seeing any part of me as legitimate, as real, as solid, as human, as mine. 

As a woman, I do not hold the authority of a male voice, of a male girth, a male definition of reality.

It doesn't look like a herding dog.

And I am just one woman amidst a pack of millions.

And in this time of women's accounts of harassment and abuse, rushing out of us like honest waterfalls, no longer dammed by the fear of retribution, stories spilling over edges, across divides, bridging generations, politics, and geography, women speaking despite years of silence, silence fueled by shame, by fear, still, still, the defenders of the power structure say:

Why did you wait so long?

Is it really wrong?

No proof, your word against mine, mere allegations, a witch hunt, false news, if its true…

I think I cried for all of us, for all the times we’ve shouted our truths into the wind, all the times we’ve stripped off our layers, stood naked before the masses, born our souls to the stratosphere, only to be told our mouths, our hearts, our eyes, our brains, hold no weight in this male-defined world.

And yet as I write, in small towns and big cities, in countries near and far, the gravity of sexism, voiced out loud, seems to finally be leaving marks upon the social structures we exist within—powerful men continue to fall. 

And the chorus of women’s voices is just warming up, as we create harmonies of injustices, no longer stifled within our minds’ closets, no longer normalized as the walls that surround our living rooms. No longer. 

The pillars to the castle are cracking, for this isn't a tale of evil men, but one of a civilization built on the breasts of women, the backs of men of color, and there is only so long we can stay strapped down, nursing, sowing, birthing, building a world that doesn't include us as equals.

As I held Lola’s collar, and walked away from the three bundled men, with their layers of gortex and fleece, their hats pulled low over their ears to defend against the North wind, one of the younger ones looked at me and mouthed the word: “Sorry”. 

Sorry, sorry, sorry…

He seemed to be apologizing for the older man’s behavior, for his curt dismissive words. He might not have said the word aloud, as I so easily disperse it across my existence, but he looked me in the face and apologized with his lips, his eyes. A recognition of my humanity from the apple that I assume fell from the dismissive tree. 

Hope.

As I tromped off the main trail, the one built by humans, to the trail that originated with the footprints of lumbering bears, of dogs bred to herd, the one that our family has adopted as our own, that leads from the State Park to our someday home, and I realized my tears were connected to a well of dismissals, harassment and abuse, my sorrow turned to anger. 

And I found myself with a stick in my hands, swinging at the dead branches of trees, the ones covered in moss, in fungus, decaying slowly on otherwise healthy Spruce.

I swung my stick like a sword, like a baseball bat, like a broom, like a pen, like a tongue, and knocked the archaic branches to the ground, as Lola ran towards the den of another family of squirrels. 

As I knew she would. As she always does when we walk upon this familiar ground.

Only Time Knows

The sun just rose above the mountain.

Light streams through the upper windows of Rez Art coffee house, where I sit with my computer reading old posts.

Reading about a different time, when we were a family of three, with one dog, and Elias rolled his way around Anchorage with his shiny metal walker, referring to himself in the third person: Yias want more. Yias want to pay outide. Yias want to ride an abater...

What about me? I can hear Olive saying. 

And I would tell her I didn't yet know she was possible. Didn't trust my body to carry a baby full term. 

Could never have imagined that we'd move to a gravel road over a hundred miles away from Alaska's medical hub, where the four of us--and two dogs-- would build a house overlooking Resurrection Bay.

Which makes me wonder what impossibilities will come to fruition ten years from today?

What will be resurrected from this particular moment in time?

As I sit here, squinting from the November sunshine, I am not the same over-scheduled thirty-something woman trying to come to terms with Elias's disabilities, as I juggled a hundred misshapen balls, unsuccessfully.

Often lying on the ground as they shattered on my head, bounced by my feet, splashed on my thighs, squashed under my eyes.

Today, I feel more at ease with the word "no", with a slower pace, with fewer titles, with a blank page, with silver hairs and smile lines.

 

I found a draft of a poem I penned last spring, that speaks to this feeling of acceptance that comes with age, if we're lucky enough to find it:

 

Between the marks

 

I can no longer smooth the two lines between my eyebrows

 

two lines like quotation marks

signs of expression

outer edges of voice

containment of speech

like something about to be 

 

said—a story perhaps

told in a voice emerging

a voice subverting

a story about a girl who isn't a coveted princess

nor a neglected stepdaughter

a tale about a woman who isn't a heroine

nor a home wrecker, someone 

 

who lines her face

with metaphors 

with meaning

her ink, her heart

she pens her life

on her forehead

 

her narrative arcs

but she still doesn't know

how the story 

unfolds

 

closing marks await...

 

So who knows where I'll be ten years from today. What Elias will be doing. Who Olive will become. The unimaginable that will take form--that will rise from the earth with solid lines, textures, and shadows of their own.

I hope I'll still be writing and sharing-- as the sun continues to rise, as dark spaces give way to light.

Now Forget I Just Said That

Ssh...

Pretend I am not actually sharing this, not transcribing the words from my head to the page, or else it might jinx the tranquility.

You ready?

My children seem to be getting along.

Not just today.

For more than a week. More than a month even.

It almost coincides with our move to the tiny cabin, but even our last few weeks in the trailer seemed smooth. What is it they say about small spaces?

On a recent road trip, Elias shared his small bag of barbecue chips with Olive. She gave him a bite of her hotdog. This may seem minuscule but the unprompted sharing loomed large as I drove on the scenic Seward highway over Turnagain Pass.

On Saturday, they played the timeless game that begins by accidentally getting Object A stuck in a tree only to get Object B and C stuck in the process of trying to free A. When Object D finally releases Object A, after a short celebration, Object A promptly gets thrown back in the tree, on purpose this time, because the process of freeing A proves more entertaining than the original game that ended when it got stuck. You know what I'm talking about.

I told my kids, "Guess what, all over the world, right now, children are are throwing things into trees. In Africa. In Australia. In Cape Cod...."

In their case Object A was a ball they were throwing for Lola and when it got stuck they found a pile of old trim pieces of wood, long and skinny like spears. And they actually peacefully took turns throwing them up into the tall Hemlock. No one got poked in the eye. The wooden sticks never became weapons.

I split wood nearby with my back to my children.

At night, in the loft, I often hear them talking to each other and even laughing, if say Olive farts or Elias pulls his covers up around his broad shoulders only for his big feet to hang out the end.

"What should I draw?' Olive asks her brother, on many a night, as she always seems to turn into an artist whenever its time for bed.

And he actually answers.

The other night he responded: "Draw what you think our house will look like when its done."

And she said: "Ok." This after rejecting my earlier suggestions.

Last night as Olive tried to reach her Halloween candy on top of the fridge Elias said, "Here let me help."

"Thank you," said Olive.

Nick and I glanced at each other like: What the fuck has happened to our kids?! 

In a good way.

Like who are these kind helpful creatures?

Things have been so peaceful in our often turbulent home, I even entertained the idea of leaving Elias and Olive alone in the cabin, for fifteen whole minutes, as I drove up to our building site to pick up some supplies. They ended up opting to come with me, but the fact that I gave them the option to stay is pretty darn miraculous considering a few months ago I felt like I couldn't turn my back without instigation and injury.

Instigation and Injury felt like our constant, the thrumming noise we tolerated-- until one day it just  stopped, and we all looked around bewildered by the silence. Awed by the absence of discord.

And we realized we'd been holding our breaths for months. Ah, the beauty in exhalation.

And sure this bubble will most likely pop.

For all I know, Elias will try to slash his sister with his overgrown nails tomorrow, or a week from now--yet I want to record this moment of harmony.

The page pulls me more often during distress.

During moments of darkness I turn to the computer screen to write my way through the shadows, to connect with readers who might understand my feelings, even if they don't have children of their own, but have tasted grief in one of the numerous ways it can be served.

Today is not one of those writing sessions.

No, today I write to remember the calm, to share something as simple and complex as sibling grace.

A moment of accord between these two beings that share my DNA, two souls fused together by nature and nurture, who raised their white flags high enough, long enough, for their Mama to note.

 

Back from the Undead

 

Most of my creative energy for the month of October went into preparing to perform Shakespeare, dressed as a zombie, for a Readers' Theater at a local restaurant called Chinooks.

A friend directed the production and invited me to perform, knowing I've participated in spoken word events sharing my poetry and stories.

I said yes, even though it was a bit outside of my comfort zone--I do not like zombies or anything horror related and I never understood Shakespeare when I skimmed the plays in high school and/or asked friends to tell me what I needed to know for the tests. (Yeah, unfortunately I was that kind of a student.)

And acting, well, it was my childhood passion, creating plays in my bedroom, but not something I'd really participated in since grade school. Not since I chose the sports track in middle school and found myself on the other side of the artificial divide.

It wasn't until my early twenties, when I read a poem at a Take Back the Night event and then another one at my grandmother's memorial, that I remembered my inclination to perform.

In my late twenties, I discovered poetry slams; and after competing as part of Team Alaska at Nationals, I planned on continuing on this path, till my tracks were derailed six months later, with the premature birth of my son.

Here I am, in my forties, stepping back out on stage.

Oh and there's the whole memorizing the script part, which I realized quickly is much more challenging when I'm not the one who originally wrote the material and the style of speech and vocabulary does not come from my everyday life.

It was a good thing I had a few solo extended car rides during the month of October to practice, occasionally pulling over to re-read the script then returning to the road to attempt to recite from memory. Pulling over and returning to the road. Pulling over...

I'm a Mom, with mush for brains, and was trying to retain terms such as "lascivious goth" and sentences with the word "ye" sprinkled in the mix: And be ye henceforth called the undead.

At our first rehearsal, I recited my part with clarity but not a whole lot of emotion; and then was floored by a member of the cast who delivered his two parts, as two different characters, with changes of voice and mannerisms-- clearly a real actor, unlike me.

I thought about my part on the drive home, how in the first monologue my character, newly a zombie, is terrified, and realized I may not be an expert actor, but I know how to feel.

I know what its like to be scared.

I know terror.

The shake of my legs on the gurney as the nurses rolled me back for an emergency c-section shy of 25 weeks into my first pregnancy.

Still today, over thirteen years past that middle of the night scene, my heart speeds up just thinking about it. The moment I realized there was nothing I could do to keep my son safe inside me for four more months.

I didn't know what lay on the other side of surgery, through the closed NICU doors I was about to call home for the next 94 days.

All the times I'd watch my son stop breathing and think, this is it, this is how it all ends. Or signing the release for brain surgery before Elias weighed two pounds.

Yes, I know fear.

And so I called upon my inner ghosts for the Zombie Shakespeare show, and after practicing the part on every solo drive or walk, the lines fell from my head, fluently, with emotion, as the audience ate bone marrow toast, blood sausage, octopus ink pasta, and other "uncomfortable delights".

I'm glad its over so I can stop waking up to dreams of deceased humans rising from their graves, stop reciting my lines constantly, and return to my creative work as a poet and writer.

And yet it sure was fun to stand on that stage, to interact with the audience, and to momentarily be someone so far removed from myself.

In between shows on Saturday night, I walked downstairs to the bar to buy a drink in my full zombie attire. A line of middle-aged men sat in the stools and leaned their arms on the counter, various drinks in hand.

All their heads turned, as I walked past. 

"Bartender," one of them said, "I'd like to buy that woman a shot of formaldehyde."

I would have accepted a Bloody Mary if he offered me one.