How is it possible that school starts this week? Weren't we just dreaming about the long warm days to come?
And here we are with fresh snow in the mountains, leaves turning gold, and the dawning of months of snow and darkness on the horizon.
While I’ve neglected writing, our family has been soaking up the final weeks of our short-lived Alaskan summers. Building, hiking, gardening, camping, walking along the black rock shores of Resurrection Bay.
Nick and I spent four nights away from the kids at Salmonfest, a music festival that supports the sustainability of wild salmon, camping with friends, dancing under sunny skies. When the music stopped, we sat on the edge of a field and listened to the wind, no demands for our attention, no requests to please, no obligations, only a familiar hand to hold as our feet rested on the two extra chairs.
Elias stayed even longer with grandparents, a total of twelve nights away, and during that time we took Olive camping on Fox Island with friends, where she kayaked for her first time and made her own paddle boat out of the lid of a fish box that washed ashore. We kayaked to a small cove called God’s Pocket, with cliffs that dwarfed our small crafts, as if to remind us there is always something greater than us with our worries and hopes, our fears and joys.
Elias rafted the Kenai River with Bruce and Kathy and barely missed us during his longest time away.
And if I’m honest, I loved my kid-free time. I’m not one of those parents who pines for their children when out of sight. And the ease of interactions going from two kids to one, from a child with special needs in the mix to only a typical daughter, is almost a tangible thing, as if the air suddenly becomes easier to breathe.
Less on guard, more able to say yes to social invitations, more free—and yet not the whole of this family I’ve grown to love, challenges and all. Even though I enjoyed not being a parent for a bit, not being a special-needs parent for a bit longer, and even though the kids started picking at each other within hours of our reunion, I’m not ready to sell either of them down the road.
I’m not looking to run away, just hoping to carve out more times during the year to breathe.
This summer we’ve seen days of sunshine mixed with deluges that fill buckets right from the sky. We’ve witnessed winds bring down tree limbs and days where the bay seems more like a placid lake.
We continue to live in our trailer, hauling water, showering and laundering where and when we can.
(Today I even packed my dishes in my Honda Element and drove them to my cousin Liz's house because I didn't want to heat water and wash dishes in tubs on the picnic table in the heavy rain.)
“Its so nice to be in a house!” Elias said when I dropped the kids at their grandparents’ place in Palmer.
“Mom,” Olive said, “We can get water right from the sink!”
“And you don't even have to go outside to go to the bathroom,” I responded with a wry smile.
Oh the joys of camping full time for five months our second summer in a row.
Another day I will tell the story of why our house project derailed for so long, why it seems we will be living in another rental cabin this winter, as we slowly piece together the dream of our home up here on this hill.
Today I'll just end with a picture. Imagine Nick and I sitting here at Salmonfest after the last band finished playing, with one last night away from the realities of our life, feet up, hands laced, with nothing we needed to say and nowhere else we'd rather be:
May you all sink your teeth into summer before she slips away.
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