Following Elias

Even to the Darkest of Rooms

Hope, such a short word.

Four letters packed with promise. A minimalist in the dictionary. A powerhouse of potential, like a seed waiting to grow. The one word I want in my pocket when storms brew, when doors close, when injuries arise, when bullets pierce, when a pandemic rearranges our interactions, making human contact scarce.

Hope, the spark that lives within the darkness, that reminds me right when I need it most, that light will return. That light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms.

This I believe.

This I hope.

“Maybe someone took it who really needs hope more than we do,” I say to the kids. It’s the holiday season and we stand at the beach next to the tree we decorated the week before, the one we adorn every year, the one that has grown several feet since we started the tradition, the one we can no longer reach the top branches of as it stretches towards the sun.

A silver star ornament with the word “hope“ engraved on it no longer hangs from the branch where we placed it. 

“Maybe it fell off in the wind,” Nick says. We kick the snow around the base of the Spruce tree.

No luck.

No star.

No hope.

Only footprints in the snow.

It's that kind of a year, where hope goes missing, carried off by wicked winds of change, stolen by greedy hands, covered up by layers of complications, plucked by a raven and plunked in the middle of the deep blue sea.

Hope trapped behind shuttered doors of stores forced to close, caught behind paper masks covering grim lips, strangled by lungs unable to breathe. Hope packed away with the parties, concerts, theater tickets, travel plans, family reunions, all canceled due to Covid 19. 

Long dark nights filled with worry, fear, uncertainty. Days without the intimacy of friends, without the magic of live music, without the collective gasp of movie theaters, without the cheer of the home crowd, without the warm embrace of multiple generations of relatives all in the same room. 

Days without the loved one whose heart stopped far too soon.

No luck.

No star.

No hope.

Only footprints in the snow.

But light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms.

Spring arrives with the promise of migrating birds, the return of social gatherings, the gift of days that sparkle with warm relief. We breathe a little easier as the snow melts and green memories break through the thawing earth. 

Last Sunday, I rose early with our new puppy Hemlock, a short walk around the property turned into a trek down the hill to the beach, the sunshine drawing me towards the glistening bay. I met a neighbor by the seashore and our light conversation turned more meaningful as we discussed the changes in our lives both personal and universal, from the adoption of puppies, to the pandemic, to travel plans, to the death of a father.  Our dogs played by the waves, without conflict, as we sipped our coffee in a comfortable silence, watching the sun rise higher in the sky.

As I walked back towards home, on a whim, I cut off the path to look under our holiday Spruce tree. And there it lay, the missing ornament, sunken in the dirty snow, a silver star with the word hope chiseled into the center.

Not missing. Just hidden. Buried beneath winter's stubborn layers, but there all along. No-one stole the star from our tree for their own needs-- a brazen breeze lifted hope free. I picked up the lost decoration and its absence left a perfect star imprint where it lay.

Sometimes hope is nothing more than a five-pointed indentation in dirty snow. Arrows pointing anywhere and everywhere but here. Hope for something better, for something different, for something more. 

Hope is the Geranium wintered-over, tucked next to the wood stove by the sliding glass door, sprouting tiny red buds.

Hope is wood floors covered with dirt, sand, hair, crumbs from the tread of daily living and handing your legally blind boy the vacuum cleaner.

Hope is asking a classroom of students to write and draw not just what was hard about Covid 19 but what was good. What did we learn? What made us stronger?

Hope, the small hole in the bay of despair, where an alternate story can take hold, a tale of homecomings, celebrations, potlucks, dance floors, hugs.

Hope, the ever-present four letter word that reminds us to keep searching for the light. 

For light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms. 

I Wanted to Write

Too many days without writing causes words to swim the streams of my veins, forming sentences in my lungs. I gasp for air, only to cough up clauses, fragments of what I want to say.

Stories settle in my stomach. Images ride the thump of my heart, like a swing, back and forth, never traveling beyond the confines of my mind.

So it goes these days, as I read books or scroll through updates when I have a rare moment alone. I don't pick up my notebook. I don't open my laptop. I don't release the words to paper or chase letters across the keyboard to make meaning out of memories.

And the more days that pass the easier it is to say, "I'm not a writer anyways."

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And yet I wanted to write about the twelve eagles that Olive and I watched circle above Resurrection Bay, the way they reminded me of the ease of unplanned social gatherings prior to Covid 19. The surprise of so many bald and immature national birds in one spot. Were they just as excited to see each other as I will be when I can finally flock to family and friends? What stories did they share? What emotions rode those currents above the sea?

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I wanted to write about Elias adjusting to so many changes, without a violent outburst since Thanksgiving. And I didn't want to write about Elias adjusting to so many changes without a violent outburst since Thanksgiving-- because I don't want to jinx it. But since Thanksgiving!!!!

My shoulders no longer live in my ears. Dirt replaces the eggshells under my feet. Elias could still scratch my eyes out tomorrow. He may swipe at me on Mother's day, his angry voice unrecognizable from the sweet boy most folks know.

Or maybe, just maybe, this streak of civility will linger longer than I dare hope.

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I wanted to write about our new puppy, Hemlock, the one we didn't plan to adopt.

Ever since our late dog Tonsina died last summer, our other Border Collie, Lola, prefers to spend time either outside or at Cuzuncle David's with his two dogs. Lola slinks under the porch, only stays in the house if we close the dog door, and then she follows us around panting with worried eyes.

We said we weren't ready for another dog. We said we weren't going to get a puppy.

And then our friend Jen posted a picture a four-month-old Sable Border Collie and next thing we knew we were driving to Moose Pass to meet her. That was all it took. We adopted Hemlock two weeks ago.

Today she made it to Tonsina Point for the first time. (We named our first dog Tonsina after this beloved beach and trail, back when living beside it was still a dream we didn't believe possible.)

The wind howled in greeting. I think it might have been Tonsina letting us know he approves.

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I wanted to write about that fine balance in life between spontaneous action and careful planning and how some of my best decisions emerge from my heart leaping before my brain restrains it, from moving to Alaska, to conceiving Elias, to adopting Hemlock. But planning has brought me equal joy, most notably Olive, the daughter we longed for but never could have imagined.

The trick is knowing when to free fall and when to make lists, or maybe, its the ability to forgive yourself when you screw it all up.

The trick is finding grace regardless of the outcome, regardless of the choices you make.