Following Elias

"Best..."

This hat comes with a story.

A couple years ago, as Elias and I searched our favorite thrift store, Ukanuzit, for treasures, as we often do, from behind me I heard him say something like: "Mom, I think you need this." And then in his rough awkward manner, he shoved something on my head.

I turned around and yanked it off in one annoyed breath, about to lecture my son about personal space, only to read the gold letters: Best Mom.

I posted the experience on Facebook and a number of friends mentioned that I better have bought the hat.  I returned to Ukanuzit the next day and purchased it. I brought the hat home and hid it. I figured I'd give it to Nick to give to me as a gift from the kids for Mother's Day a month or two away.

Well, I forgot about it on Mother's Day. Remembered the following Christmas, but by then we had moved a handful of times between the rented winter cabins and our summer trailer, as we worked on building our house, and so I couldn't find where I originally hid it.

And then I forgot again about the black hat with gold letters boldly stating: Best Mom.

I often say I was the perfect parent before I had children. Before kids I was sure I would devote myself fully to their growth, health, and development. I would nurture their bodies with only the best organic foods, use cloth diapers, plant-based medicines, homeschool with a dynamic creative curriculum that engaged all their senses. I'd never let my children cry or eat hotdogs or stare too long at a screen.

And then I had kids--and my reality couldn't have landed farther from my imagination.

As I write Elias is spending yet another hour on his iPad checking weather stations, snow reports, and sports scores. Olive is off at Boys and Girl's Club, after a breakfast of Nutella on a bagel. I am content to be alone in my room.

Best Mom, yeah right.

I found the hat this fall, stuffed in one of my messenger bags filled with files, card and papers I'll someday go through--you know, all those important pieces from your life that you stuff away never to look at again.

Nick and I put the Best Mom hat in a gift bag under the tree, from Elias, through Santa. I opened it on Christmas morning. I don't think Elias remembered picking it out at Ukanuzit, or his reaction would have been bigger, but I do, and the memory reminds me of all the times I make assumptions that bite me in the butt.

I wore the hat the other day and when I went to the counter at Sak Town Liquor the clerk said, "So you're the best Mom huh?"

It too me a moment and then I smiled and said, "The best my kids will get."

And that's my new interpretation of the expression: Best Mom.

I am in no way better than all the other Moms in this world, not sitting all regal and proud on the top of the motherhood pecking order. Only doing the best I can given the constant challenges and creative chaos my family faces.

I continue to respond even when I want to ignore the constant call of "Mom".  I am not winning any awards in the parenthood category of life, only continuing to show up and love my two children, even when I want to walk into the snowy woods indefinitely.

Elias came out of his room clapping mad the other night because the socks Santa brought him are not exactly the same as the only socks he likes to wear. He threw the new socks down in the living room and ripped up the tag. Neither Nick or I raised our voice or even really reacted to his anger.

I call that a win.

Elias sleeps with six blankets every night, even in the summer, so we ordered him a weighted blanket for Christmas that he refused to try that first night. The second night I convinced him to let me put it on him as a trial. I showed him the timer on my phone and asked if he wanted to try if for five minutes or ten. He chose ten. "When the timer goes off you can decide if you want to keep it or switch back."

"Ok," he said, staring at the numbers on the clock.

Sure enough, his body melted under the soft weight and he decided to try it for the night after the ten-minute alarm sounded. That was two nights ago and its still the only blanket on his bed.

Another win.

We don't have a dishwasher and I tend to do most of the dishes since Nick does more of the cooking. I recruited Olive to help rinse, a few months back, to much groining and "not-fairing" (dishes and Elias's fine motor/balance challenges tend to clash) and yet now she joins me most nights without being asked. She'll even nudge Nick out of the way if he stands at the sink with me.

I'll call this a victory.

Olive turned eleven this month--a year I've dreaded from my own history of changing from my parents' sweet daughter to a moody disaster of a pre-teen around this same age.

So far, Olive still seems to like us. And as far as pre-teens go, she's a pretty cool one--still no interest in mirrors or make-up, motivated by school and creative projects, and always up for an adventure, if her nose isn't buried in a book. Olive loves Harry Potter and soccer and skiing and crocheting and baking--choosing to make cookies and cupcakes all on her own to give to people in the community. 

I can't claim the win on this one, as my kids bring their own unique spirits with them, but I'll take a moment to rejoice in who they are becoming.

I'll take Olive. I'll take Elias. And I will continue to become their "Best Mom", imperfect but true. The best I can do.

And isn't this true for us all--every single one of us is doing the best we can given our circumstances.

We could all wear hats with gold letters that say Best Partner, Best friend, Best teammate, Best Daughter, Best Employee, Best Self....

Let's imagine these hats on everyone's heads, a whole stack of them proclaiming all our best selves. Lets end this year and start a new one with fewer assumptions and more faith in each other. Less judgement, more acceptance, for ourselves, as well as others.

From my Best Family to yours, Happy New Year!

 

Twenty-One Seconds

Sunrise: 10:01 A.M.

Sunset: 3:53 P.M.

Day length: Five hours and fifty-one minutes, a gain of twenty-one seconds over yesterday.

Today is the day after the shortest day, when we finally gain light again instead of losing it, when darkness loses its bitter hold on our hours, our minds, our hearts.

I love winter solstice-- and this year more than ever, I need to celebrate the return of daylight.

A lot can change in 21 seconds.

A car can cross the centerline, a baby can take its first breath, a hand can pull a trigger, an apology can land with grace, a heart can cease it's music, a kiss can alter the direction of lives.

We can light a candle and place it in our window for the world to see.

We can cut down a tree.

For our Christmas tree this year, we salvaged the top of a tree that broke in one of our first big winter storms. It is not nearly as full as the farm-raised trees shipped to Alaska; but it is a homegrown Spruce, given a memorial service in our living room, bedecked with ornaments made and collected over the years.

It seems fitting for this year, for our lives, to take the shattered pieces and hang a star upon them, decorate the severed limbs with memories, while creating something new.

To find beauty in brokenness.

To begin again.

To always begin again. 

This year has been rough in more ways than words can capture, in ways we never imagined, in ways beyond language.

As I write, rain pummels our roof-- cold December rain, snow's dreaded second cousin who steals the joys of winter.

Yesterday saw me sledding and skiing down our driveway, as the fluffy flakes graced my smiling face. Today, I do not want to get out of bed to meet the dreary wet darkness.

This weather yoyo reflects my emotional state this year, as if mother nature acts out the inner turmoil many of us feel, as we waiver between hope and despair, joy and sorrow.

And yet, today, we see twenty-one more seconds of light--with more to gain each day, till the accumulation adds up to minutes, eventually hours, as the sun rises higher in the sky, and we feel its sacred warmth again.

Change is coming, even if it still feels far away.

And maybe we can't return to the way things were--or maybe we don't want to--so what do we want to create in the days and months and years ahead?

What visions do we hold?

That's All We Have

I didn't plan to keep walking. To meander along the closed runway, towards the head of Resurrection Bay, as night swallowed day. But I couldn't stop striding, despite not having a lot of time, or maybe, in part, precisely because I don't have a lot of time.

None of us do.

We don't know when we won't wake up again, when the side of a mountain will slide down on our home without warning, or alone in a hospital bed, our heart will stop playing the drumbeat to our life.

I just wanted to let Lola run in the field by the airport after sitting in the cold car; then complete a couple errands, pick up Olive and head home for the weekend. But my feet found the runway and onwards they walked, with a persistent North wind at my back, the cold whisper of ghosts blowing at the base of my neck. Tears from the cold mixed with tears of grief over the loss of lives from Covid 19 to mudslides.

I learned earlier on this frigid day that Elias's beloved bus driver, Todd, died from complications of Covid 19. Todd called Elias "bear bait" and made my son laugh during every ride. Every night at dinner we would hear Elias say, "Oh gosh, Todd was so funny today."

On mornings when Elias refused to take the covers off his head, I'd often say, "But if you don't go to school you won't get to ride the bus with Todd."

Covers flew off my boy as he sat up with a grin. "Oh man, he's so funny," he'd say.

Todd gave Elias a couple photos of bears that he took. He often gave freely to others. As both the Special Ed and Activities bus driver, he always took pictures during games, printed enlarged copies, and gave them to the athletes. He loved Seward and without kids of his own, held all the community's children in his heart. Todd's sudden departure leaves an empty space in the heart of our schools and small town.

Also on this Friday, we learned that heavy rain brought the side of a mountain down on four houses in the small southeast town of Haines. A community much like Seward, filled with people who love where they live despite the extreme weather and light.

Two young folks, a kindergarten teacher who recently graduated from college and returned to her hometown to teach, and a community business leader who travelled the world before claiming Haines as home, are still missing. Their house destroyed beneath the mud, rocks and trees that released from the soaked hillside above their property.

Endless rain, in December, in Alaska--Mother Earth cries too.

Each step I take towards the end of the runway, I know I need to retrace, and yet somehow my errands seem less important than walking towards the bay, aptly named Resurrection.

We need a resurrection of hope to make it through the darkest days ahead. A resurrection of truth to dispel the false information that fuels inaction, amidst a pandemic, during a world health and environmental crisis.

A resurrection of trust to work together for change. A resurrection of faith to believe change is possible.

Near the confluence of the river and the bay an old stone house crumbles along the bank. I stare at the broken building, once someone's home, and wonder what stories it still holds. Did tears mix with the chimney smoke? Did laughter rattle the walls?

Loss live here too.

When I reach the end of the runway, no thunder sparks illumination in my weary soul. No answers ride the tide to the shore where I stand. I don't see a vision in the last light of day.

I see once mighty trees turned to driftwood. Water frozen into shards of reflective ice. Mountains that circle the bay, like guardians of night, beacons for the start of a new day. 

It's just me, and my dog, with a long walk into the wind back to the car. 

But the process of walking, and feeling, and letting myself cry, does something for my heart. And as I climb into the driver's seat, with just enough time to reach Olive, I feel lighter.

With just enough time--that's all we have.

Until we don't.