Swallows on Barbed Wire

(Or There is No Perfect Home)

There is a reason I stopped writing about building our house. I'd love to tell you the whole story but can only tell you this:

We decided to hire a contractor for the foundation and frame. A professional to get us dried in before we finished it ourselves, with friends helping to run electrical and plumbing.

Get it done faster and right, we thought.

Instead the subcontracted crew made multiple mistakes they couldn't fix, which led to delays, and more money, and additional professionals, and eventually lawyers, and even longer delays, until we finally reached a settlement last month.

For almost two years, all the framing errors shifted my view of our home until I almost hated it when I looked at it from the outside, too tall, windows not aligned, a new roof that leaked.

"Maybe it will burn down and we can start again," we joked.

Due to our legal situation, I couldn't write about it, so I stewed in my "what if" questions, wishing for a do-over, even though years of parenting under unplanned circumstances has taught me (or continues to teach me) that we only have two choices: To accept or not accept.

I've learned (or continue to learn) that accepting the flaws of life is actually easier than railing against them.

Ah, but sometimes I just need to wail and throw shit and run as fast as my tired legs will carry me over this dusty pot-holed back road.

Twice a week, I start my work days at the prison by participating in the 7:00 a.m. prisoner/staff running club. I joined last fall and over the past few months I've grown more comfortable sharing the track with men convicted of all kinds of crimes, from theft to aggravated assault to murder.

During this morning hour, we are not inmates and state workers but bodies in motion, hurt human beings moving, heartbroken individuals striding, with all kinds of gaits; though the eighteen bright red signs along the barbed wire fence-- "Danger zone. Do not enter. Entry may result in your being shot"-- remind us where we run.

(And yes I've counted the signs many times and wondered about the passive voice at the end of an otherwise direct message.)  

All fall, I never noticed the swallow houses high up on the prison walls until the small acrobatic birds returned this spring. 

I walked into the yard on a Monday morning and the swallows instantly announced their presence as they swooped and dove above our heads.

"They returned home this weekend," said one of the men in yellow, when I commented on the unexpected presence of the swallows around the track. 

"There's a debate on the yard on whether the holes are all the right size," another prisoner told me, as we passed by a row of small wooden houses. "There's two different sizes. They need to be small enough to keep other birds out, but big enough for the swallows to fit inside."

I watched a swallow hover outside one of the holes before turning and flying towards the fence, landing gracefully on the barbed wire, as if the razor edge were made for perching. These small daring fliers travel south to Mexico or South America for the winter but return each spring to reside along these prison walls.

The irony of their freedom circled around the concrete track as I passed groups of two to three imprisoned men walking, some of whom will never leave.

In front of me, a tall Correctional Officer with dark skin ran alongside a heavily tattooed "white power" inmate in yellow. The sun peeked over Mt. Alice and for a moment the rays framed their opposing figures as I ran behind them.

I wished I had a camera because I felt like the two of them, running side by side, exemplified the more progressive rehabilitative practices taking place in this maximum security prison, and the idea that we are often more alike than we appear.

As our Superintendent often says, treat convicts like animals and they will emerge from behind bars rabid and ready to bite; treat them like the men you want them to become and perhaps they will reenter society as reformed versions of their former selves.

And hopefully society can see beyond the crimes committed to the human potential that remains.

Just as I hope society will view Elias as more than his multiple disabilities but recognize the strengths he shares.

We are all flawed.

This body that houses me comes with so many imperfections. And yet it is the only one I own. So I need to love it for what it can do and not dwell on its shape, not stew about cellulite, scars, aging joints, and graying hair.

This is my home.

The swallows return to their house in the yard every spring whether or not the holes receive them with a perfect fit. They dance and sail and land on barbed wire with ease.

Our house may not be 100 percent how we planned, but it's fully ours, paid for out of pocket, with an interior flow that feels right. I mostly love it from the inside looking out.

(View from our bedroom)

We may not yet live with a finished kitchen, bathrooms, floors, but we all sleep at night in our respective bedrooms and Nick just picked up four interior doors.

I could dwell on all the imperfections, the mistakes made both by us and others, or choose (yet again) to accept that life rarely works out exactly as I imagined. 

A prisoner in his late eighties, a former engineer, who knows about some of our building challenges as well as the struggles we face with Elias said to me: "If a boulder appears in your road do you lay down and pray or attempt to carry on in a new way?"

"I'd try to find a way through or around or over the boulder," I responded.

"Yes," he smiled. "And do you think you'll be better or worse off when you get to the other side?"

"Better, always better," I smiled.

(It just may take me a while to get there.)

Comments

[Cecilia Deatherage]

Thank you for sharing! Especially about, not only, your work at the prison, but more importantly, the opportunities to interact with the men who have been sentenced there. My heart, thoughts & prayers are for genuine rehabilitation of mind, body & spirit. I have a special man in my life, a 37 year old nephew who has been my pen pal for over 20 years.

My nephew, spent 18 years, all of his adult life in prison, with the vast majority being in Super Max. He was released after serving his time @ age 35. Life on the “Outside“ (of prison, not the outside, we Alaskans refer to as in out of the state) afforded a life in a whole new world! He found a job, got a truck & got married. Then the lure of alcohol led to many poor choices, arrest, local jail, divorce & return to Super Max.

He’s scheduled to be released again later this month. He’s many 1000s of miles away from our beautiful Mount Alice! Again, I look for “reentry resources” in his area with hopes of a better “go of it” this time. I know it takes rehabilitation of not only the mind & the body, but also the spirit!

Your blog today makes me wonder if my SLP training, and life education, might be used within the walls of a prison. I think of all the pragmatic language sessions I’ve done over the years assisting teenage students with social & vocational goals as they prepare for life after high school.

Perhaps, I might find an opportunity to work with men & women to prepare for life after incarceration. Perhaps, I need to find the Alaska resources for rehabilitation & transition to the Outside. Perhaps, you would share with me your ideas. Perhaps...

[Greta Campanale]

Your story reminded me of this one!

https://www.cpr.org/news/story/a-boulder-fell-onto-a-sw-colorado-highway-heres-what-happened-next

[Susan]

This is beautiful and profound. You have such a gift with words. Thank you.

[Christy]

I would love to share ideas Cecilia!

Thank you Susan, your words inspire me to keep writing during a dry word cycle:)

Greta, I just tried the link and was blocked (its my lunch break at work) but will try again from home.