Following Elias

March On Sunshine

This morning I learned a former student of mine stabbed a female companion in the Home Depot parking lot.

She survived.

He did not--not after the police chased him to his trailer where he emerged, knife in hand, and charged the officers. Shot dead on his front step.

I knew him as an elementary student, a boy from a trauma-infused home, the protective older brother, older than his peers in what he'd already lived through, in what his no-longer-child eyes had seen.

And the sun still filters through the clouds that arrived yesterday afternoon like the sails of wooden ships floating across an ocean of sky. 

Clouds after days of brilliant March sunshine.

I remember wanting to save every child that walked through my school counselor's door. Especially the ones with nursery tales so much more harrowing than mine. Tales of complex trauma compounded over generations of poverty, of systematic racism, of colonization, tales of empty refrigerators and nights left home alone. 

I remember the 4th grade girl whose dad asked me to talk to her about the birds and the bees. No mother in her present story, I gave her as much information as I could but not enough to keep her from getting pregnant before she completed high school. I couldn't protect her from the life she lived-- I'm not nearly as powerful as I blamed myself for failing her to be.

I eventually learned not to take it all so personally. And tried not take all my students home with me.

My mantra became: All I can do is love them. To no longer own their home lives, their decisions, their behaviors as mine to fix but to love them as deeply and openly as I dared--especially the least lovable ones, the students who most needed an adult to see them.

To truly see them, without blinders, in all their beautiful flawed complexity.

Snow and rain may return by evening, despite the sun's persistence to shine a filtered light on this soggy ground, to push through the cumulous layers, sending rays of resistance down upon the brown grass, the puddles, the crusty piles of dirt and snow.

I cried this morning when the police released the name of the young man shot. I know him.  I knew him as a boy. Just a kid absorbing how to be a man from those before him, those around him, from the messages he received watching shows and playing games in his over-crowded living room.

I have so many fewer answers than I once did.

My soap boxes turned into shelves for storing questions. My cape re-hemmed as a blanket to lay upon when the weight of the world makes me crave sleep. The deep dark silence.

I misplaced my crown.

And yet across the world, on Saturday March 24th, youth rose up in mass and spoke for me, their crowns, capes, and soap boxes fully in tact.

Whatever our political leanings, we lose our humanity when we fail to listen to children, when we stop seeing them and holding spaces for them to rise.

We can't save them all--but we can easily hand over our microphones. We can listen without bias and let the children be the ones who shine.

 

The One Sure Thing

I question everything.

Its in my DNA, my cells hardwired to worry at the seams, to dissect every thread, to pick at the fabric of my patchwork life. 

Every choice, every turn, rehashed inside my mind, as I weigh all the pieces, all the factors at stake.

The time on the clock. The people in the room. Words spoken. The way eyebrows raised. The weather.

Silence.

I’ve been known to second guess my decisions.

But not this one. 

Not my decision to marry Nicholas Aaron Jordan.

I never rehash our vow to take this ride together, for better or worse-- never question if he is the one.

He. Is The. One.

And so far, even during those times when everything around us seems to be getting worse, we just keep getting better and better.

 

 Happy 40th Birthday Nick and happy Friday all!

Without Doors

Olive sleeps next to me in our bed. Deep cough, sore throat, warm forehead. Her perfect attendance at school lost to a fever on the first day of Spring.

The snow turns to a soggy soup, puddles collect in the low places, soon to be ice if our temperatures drop as predicted. Old Man Winter not yet ready to release his frigid grip.

No flowers yet up here in southeast Alaska. No Iris, Buttercups or Forget Me Nots.

But the light announces the arrival of Spring, singing hymns of renewal when the sun rises before 8:00 a.m. and sets after 8:00 at night.

We crawl out of winter, with our pale skin and eyes unaccustomed to the sun so high in the sky, so brazen and bright.

The light alone relieves anxiety.

Still wound tight, I feel myself unravelling, thread by frayed silver thread, as I walk outside, as the sun still shines. I release a layer or two of tension when I feel the warmth of the sun on my lined face.

Elias has been more on edge this month, maybe its his hormones, maybe his equilibrium is off as winter turns to spring, maybe its the anticipation of moving again from this one room cabin to our trailer as we continue to work on building our house. A project delayed this fall when the roof leaked and we waited for the contractor to make it right. We are finally able to insulate, with a long way to go until we will be living in a finished home.

We will all be grateful for bedroom doors; you hold your breath more without them. We have now lived for 19 months without bedroom doors, with our two children only a few feet apart as they lay down in their pajamas.

Last night, Olive came booking down from the loft, followed by Elias throwing all his blankets, a towel, and Olive's basketball jersey after her.

"He was staring at me," Olive said as she leaned into Nick.

I stood at the bottom of the ladder looking up at my agitated son, "What's up Bud?" I asked, my voice as calm as I could muster, knowing all he hears is tone, no words, whenever he sees red.

"Olive didn't need to run away!" he shouted in his strangled voice.

"She's feeling scared by your unexpected actions."

"No! No she's not!"

Before they climbed up into the loft, Olive ran to us from the bathroom, with her brother in hot pursuit, frustrated that she came in to floss when he was in there to brush.

I stood between my children and Elias swung at me, grabbed me in the chest, twisted my shirt in his man hands.

No wonder she bolted when he merely looked at her. And yet I understand his desire for privacy.

I can't wait till we all have bedrooms. With doors. Two bathrooms. Space to claim as our own.

In the meantime, as the days stretch and cover up the shrinking night, we'll head outside.

"Wouldn't it be cool if we could live outside?" Olive said to Nick and I as we took a walk on Saturday night, without Elias, who spent the evening with a respite worker.

("Its not fair that Elias gets to spend time with a friend and I don't," Olive said at the beginning of the walk.

"Olive its called respite because it gives us a break from Elias, so you have time with Mom and Dad and we can do things together that Elias may not be able to do. And so we don't have to worry about him, we can have a break. Thats what respite means."

This explanation shifted her attitude from feeling left out to feeling included, "special" even, and the three of us soon engaged in a competitive sea-glass search with full-body tackling and all.)

Wouldn't it be cool if we could live outside?

Olive's question led to plans for a future backpacking trip, carrying everything we need, exploring the mountains behind our home.

"Elias would have to be with grandparents so the three of us could do something like that," I said.

And instead of wavering at the thought of missing time with her beloved grandparents, Olive asked, "Can we camp in the snow and build a fort?"

"Sure, we can even build a snow kitchen."

"Yeah, I want to do that. I want to sleep up in the mountains!"

When Nick and I first met, almost 18 years ago, during a 21-day hiking expedition, we dreamt of a life spent exploring this great state with packs on our backs and rivers and peaks in our sight.

Our life didn't unfold as we expected. Our packs and peaks more metaphors for the worries we carry and the obstacles we face. 

But here we are, building a house on the side of Foundry Peak, planning a someday expedition with our eight-year-old daughter. 

Possibilities exist beyond my imagination.

Elias will find his smile again. Olive's fever will break, she will stop coughing-- 

--and who knows what adventures await.

Oh To be a Gun

The phrase came into my head--oh to be a gun, oh to be a gun-- after the Las Vegas massacre this fall, when that same week the administration decided an employer's moral compass determined whether or not to cover birth control.

I kept thinking why does the government want to regulate the female body but not assault rifles, not weapons of war? 

Oh to be a gun.

Why is it that the same politicians who decry big government want to control women's choices when it comes to fertility, conception, pregnancy, and birth-- but these same regulators often do not support improved child care, health insurance, paternity leave or social services? 

Why do guns seem to have more constitutional rights than women or children?

Oh to be a gun.

I didn't plan on sharing my poetic rant publicly, as gun control is a complex heated issue and I live in a state where guns are woven into the fabric of our lives. And yet there is a middle ground--one taken by countless other countries-- between banning guns and arming teachers.

We can do better.

Still, I wanted to keep my thoughts to myself, stay out of the crosshairs of a polarized debate between so-called freedoms and controls.  

And then a young man killed seventeen teenagers and staff at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland Florida.

And thousands of brave students responded by refusing to remain tongue-tied.

So I decided to add my voice to the mix. 

 

 

As the Wind Blows

I try not to spend too much time fantasizing about alternative realities, such as the one where Elias arrives full-term with a brain not injured during birth. 

But at times, I’m guilty of letting my mind travel to this country I can't claim as my own. I sneak across the border, like a refugee, just wanting to taste a small bite of the freedoms I imagine in a land without a child with disabilities.

I never stay long.

In a recent fantasy, Elias hikes up Mt. Alice with me, steps over rocks and roots on the trail through the moss-covered Spruce until we stand side by side on the mountain’s shoulder and look out towards Resurrection Bay, across to Foundry Peak, to the mountain we call home. 

I put my arm around his broad shoulders as we gaze down at how far we’ve climbed. Elias smiles, turns toward me and looks directly into my eyes.

He looks directly into my eyes.

Elias looks directly into my eyes.

Words come easily and we discuss more than elevators, schedules, dinner plans or the latest weather report, as he lobs questions that run deeper than details. He asks about the stories Nick and I carry, about the meaning behind our choices, the philosophies we wear like crumpled clothes.

More likely, we’d climb in brooding silence, as my parent role rubs the teenage developing soul in all the wrong ways, as I continue my attempts to connect in places where doors only close.

His stride would out pace mine.

But even in this alternative reality, we might pause as we emerge from the woods to the snow-covered tundra, where the view widens, and silently watch a pair of eagles play in the currents of the wind as the bay catches the light of the sun.

We might pause and watch the world as one.

Either way, both fantasies end before we decide to ascend or descend. Before I lose myself in a world of ghosts fueled by the smoke and mirrors of lost expectations. 

A dream hike to nowhere.

Last week, Elias erupted at school, the bear in the classroom, swiping his muscled paws at the teachers he loves. 

Nick picked him up at lunch and drove him to the cabin. By the time I made it home he sat next to me on the bed, with circles under his eyes from crying, from energy dispelled, and when I asked him about the cause of his meltdown the answer surprised me.

The wind.

I wanted to dismiss his response as an excuse and yet the wind grates on me and my nervous system remains fairly intact. My vision clear. Balance within my control. My brain able to process the changes in my environment, able to recognize my feelings and find ways to cope.

"I didnt want to go to school because it was so awful outside," Elias told me.

The wind blew at 30 to 50 mph for two days, almost ripping the car door off the hinges when Elias opened it for school that morning.

“Have a good day, “ I said, as I always do.

My boy shook his head: No. 

When I emerged from a meeting at 12:30 and saw I’d missed a call from his teacher my stomach dropped. 

Before I could check the message Nick called. “I’m on my way to pick him up.”

With his iPad banned, Elias spent the afternoon sitting next to me on the bed as I worked on a piece of writing I planned to share at a reading at Rez Art coffeehouse that night. 

In the piece, from a blogpost almost six years ago, he and I dance together in the kitchen, after another aggressive outburst.  I attempt to teach him the box step by calling out appliances—step to the stove on two, now fridge one two…

I remember dancing to let go of my need for him to feel sorry about his actions. Dancing to let go of the hurt I carry after each violent episode. Dancing to reconnect with the boy who clawed at my face an hour earlier, my boy I don't always like but love endlessly.

The only son who will ever emerge from this body of mine, with eyes as blue as glaciers, eyes like his Dad's, eyes that look everywhere but at mine.

We did not talk as the wind shrieked through the trees, railed against the windows, as the cabin trembled from the gusts, instead we sat in our own silent stews.  Elias mumbled to himself at times, words I couldn't catch as I played with sentences, trying to align them in a way that shows the struggle and the beauty of this particular brand of parenthood.

The only reality I know.

Every once in a while, his knee would touch mine, as we sat with our backs against the wall, somewhat  connected but apart. Not quite a mountain ridge with water views, just a windy Wednesday afternoon in this one and only life of ours.

In this one and only life of ours.

And We Still Love Each Other

I sit at a small round table that serves as our eating  space, homework station, clutter collector-- a place for bills and paperwork and Olive's artwork.

Elias's iPad sits next to my laptop along with a pair of mittens, scissors, three coffee cups, a calendar, a notebook, newspapers, pens, a water bottle, a used paper towel, and a red headband with a bow.

And that's the short list of what surrounds me at this small round table in this small square cabin.

If I look up I can see our unmade bed a few feet away, a basket of laundry waits at the door. The fridge sits to my right, next to a small stove, a lone counter top cluttered with kitchen appliances, dishes, olive oil, bananas, a spaghetti squash

Ladder-like steps lead to the loft, where Elias and Olive sleep three-feet apart.

Her side a chaotic storm of clothes, art supplies, books, blankets, stuffed animals, thrown into piles she sorts through at bedtime when her creative mind alights.

Elias's side contains bags of our extra towels, sheets, coats, my clothes that don't fit into the eight cubbies I shove the rest into downstairs.

The three-foot pathway between their beds serves as a point of contention, as Olive continually spreads to his side of the loft.

"Why is Olive's coat up here? Olive's coat doesn't belong up here."

In Elias's world of predictable patterns, coats belong on the hooks on the side of the stairs. In Olive's world of creative chaos, coats belong wherever they happen to fall. Shoes too, the middle of the cabin, the tiny bathroom, in the space between their mattresses on the floor.

"Why are Olive's shoes up here? Olive's shoes don't belong up here."

Sometimes I feel like  our life is on a continual loop. Press play, repeat, play, repeat. Olive disrupts the organization and Elias asks why.

Someday we will all have bedroom doors. A much-coveted room of our own.

And yet, I think we might miss these cramped cabin quarters-- the way we can all hear each other breathe if we lay awake with our worries, our wonders, in the middle of the night.

The call of "Mom" doesn't need to be shouted to gain my attention.

Hugs are always within reach.

I waiver between comfort in this cluster of bodies and belongings and a claustrophobic unease that leaves me ready to scream--Give me space--when my children or the dogs stand too close.

When Elias stands up from the table and walks three feet towards me, as I cook him salmon tacos for breakfast, to tell me what he just told Nick from his seat.

"I could hear you Bud, we are all in the same room."

Or when Olive walks into the bathroom to ask me for a treat: "We can have this conversation in a minute," I say from the toilet seat as I swallow another scream.

I wonder, when we finally move into our house, will our voices echo across the walls as we search for each other?

Will we miss the way we stepped on each others toes, in our dance around the kitchen, as I moved towards the fridge, Nick to the stove, our children orbiting our rotations?

Will the much-longed-for addition of closets give us too many places to hide?

Or will our love grow more expansive with all those rooms to fill with memories, with meaning, with light?

I guess on this Friday morning, I'm just thankful for shelter, and family, no matter the size.

Happy Friday all!