Happily Ever After

The back of our "get away vehicle" (Anton's truck) after our wedding. 

This coming Thursday marks ten years of Happily Ever After with my husband.  I thought it would be fun to look back and share something I wrote while we were on our honeymoon in Gunnison, Colorado. 

August 10, 2005

It is raining.  I can hear it on the roof and I know that outside it is cold and wet.  I am dry and warm.  Sitting next to my husband on the couch while he reads Sacred Marriage.  My stomach is full of food. Too full--a little uncomfortable.  My feet have socks on them.  I am content.

Today A. and I took his truck and went on a driving adventure.  It was cold and damp outside and we didn't feel like being outdoors, and so instead we drove.  We went to Spring Creek Reservoir and Taylor Reservoir, Mirror Lake, Tin Cup, and Almont.  About a hundred miles in all.

On the homeward end of the loop we were listening to "Fix You" by Coldplay (an amazing song both lyrically and instrumentally and one of my current favorites).  I looked on both sides of the winding mountain road as we sped toward where we were going and away from where we'd just been.  A rushing river to my right, green trees and grass and bushes on either side.  Jagged rocks.  In front of us huge mountain peaks reaching high above timber line.  The motion of the car and of the water moved with the song.  I looked down at my sun-browned hand with no visible signs of aging.  So young.  My diamond ring and wedding band. 

I wonder if I will hear that song when I am 80 and look down at an aged hand. White and purple and wrinkled with dark age spots--possibly swollen arthritic knuckles. The same ring.  Will my husband be alive?  A different hand, but the same hand.  I wonder if I will close my eyes and see the road, the trees, the river and the mountains, if I will feel our winding movement, speeding ever forward, ever away.  I wonder if I will see Anton there, sitting next to me.  Steady gaze forward, eyes on the road.  His young, handsome face, dark hair, strong chin.  His jaw slightly clenched.  His mind active. I wonder?

I bet I will.  That is the power of music.  The power of love, of memory, of a life lived in (as much as possible--at least occasionally) awe of every moment.  "Being present." If there is one thing I have known since I was very, very small it is that we can never go back.  Only forward.  Only away.  I am thankful for memories and for music. 

Forbidden Highway

In honor of what would have been my brother Pete's 45th birthday yesterday, I'd like to share something I wrote about him four years ago.

Forbidden Highway 

The thing I remember most about Pete is his laugh. It always reminded me of a brook, bubbling. And his eyes would just dance, alive with some kind of mischievous energy, sparkling, glittering even. So bright! He was alive, too. Every move he made was quick and athletic. He went through life with a tense readiness—anticipation—for what the next moment would bring.

Pete was an avid Hot Wheels collector. By the time he was fourteen his collection had reached over two hundred cars, all catalogued and organized in official collector’s cases. No one was allowed to touch them but him. Especially not me, his three-year-old little sister. Sometimes, if I was lucky, Pete would let me come into his room and he would show them to me. He would tell me all about each one, the make and model of the car, how much horse power it had, where it was made, and what it would cost new on the market right now. I would listen to each word, awed by his knowledge. Sometimes when he was at school, I would sneak into his room and open up the cases and peek in, but I would never touch them. I always had a feeling he would somehow know if I did.

Once, my fifteen-year-old brother Matt and I were roughhousing when I fell into a wooden footrest, and my front tooth came flying out of my mouth. I cried a lot. It hurt, of course, and there was blood everywhere. Poor Matt felt sick, and my dad didn’t know what to do. His little princess was in pain, and was going to have to spend the next three to four years with a gaping hole in her smile.

Somehow Pete was the only one who knew how to comfort me. When my mom had cleaned me up and calmed me down as much as she could, Pete walked over to where I was sitting on the couch icing my gums. “Gina,” he said, and I knew something was about to happen. “Would you like to come play with my Hot Wheels?” I thought he must be teasing me. Looking up into his eyes I expected to see myself reflected in the joke in them, but they were calm and kind. I nodded.

I followed him up the stairs, expecting him to change his mind. He didn’t. We walked into the room he shared with Matt. I looked around at this other world that was always mysterious and impressive to me. The footballs, the large globe in the corner, the posters on the walls that I didn’t understand.

Pete set me up on his bed, careful not to bump my arm as I clutched the damp paper towel up against my bleeding gums. He smiled at me. His eyes danced. I watched, wide-eyed, as he took car after car after car out of its case and handed it to me, allowing me to not only look, not only touch, but play with each one. The bedspread became a forbidden highway I had magically been given access to, and I laughed, and quickly sucked in the blood and spit mixture that tried to spill out of my mouth. I felt so grown up! So special. So loved. I know it must have delighted him to see me so happy, even as he planned to carefully wash each car as soon as I left the room.

That day marked a vital shift in my self-concept. My big brother, who could pour his own cereal, tie his own shoes, and ride a bike, valued me, even more than his Hot Wheels. He couldn’t fix it—he couldn’t give me my tooth back, or even make my mouth stop hurting—but he could let me know how important I was. He could let me see that cheering me up was worth anything to him.

Life got a lot more complicated as I grew older. A few years later, my Pete was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I watched as his illness changed him, and his behavior became more and more erratic. He would have manic episodes where he designed cars he actually believed would fly, and steal cars and wreck them into trees. I knew that the Pete that was acting this way, making my mother cry, disappearing for days at a time, using cocaine, abusing alcohol, was not the real Pete. And I would remember sitting on his bed playing with those cars, and know he loved me. I found a peace in that memory. A peace that even though I didn’t know if everything was going to be okay (and honestly at times, it really didn’t seem like it would be) I was okay. I was loved. And so was he.

July 30th was my sixth wedding anniversary. It was also the first anniversary of Pete’s death. He had a heart attack last summer while camping in the mountains with my dad. Twelve days after his fortieth birthday. When my parents asked me to say a few words at his funeral, I knew right away that I wanted to share the story of his great love for me, and remind everyone who he really was under the complicated layers of his illness.

I’m not three anymore, and life is messy. There aren’t enough toy cars in the world to ease the pain of losing him. But just like the memory of his mischievous grin and glittering green eyes, the lesson he taught me about love all those years ago stays with me. I often find myself looking for ways to show my husband and two little girls the kind of love he showed me, the love that gives without concern for personal cost. So simple. So hard some days.

Pete and me, Easter 1985

Thank you for reading.  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Saying Goodbye

“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

 -A.A. Milne

On Wednesday, my sister-in-law (and best friend) Danette and her two kiddos, Theo, age 3 and Maeve, age 2, walked out my front door and drove away to catch a flight to Houston to join her husband Micah.  To live.

If I’m being entirely honest, I have to admit that I have a little bit of an inflated ego about my friendship with Danette.  Sometimes, if I’m having a rough day or feeling insecure about something (especially meeting new people), I’ll remind myself, Well, Danette likes me, so I must be pretty cool.  She’s the kind of person who makes everything more fun.  I’ve often caught myself looking over at her at social functions and thinking, If she wasn’t my friend I would want her to be.

We went to MOPS together last year, and when a speaker said something funny or moving I wouldn’t even have to look at her to know she knew what I was thinking.  Even if we’re not exactly on the same page, I can be pretty sure she knows what page I’m on.

We’ve been friends since she was thirteen and I was sixteen, and even though I was dating her brother when we met, she and I stayed friends after he and I broke up.  I wasn’t about to lose her over a boy.  She came to visit me every year in college and I went to visit her when she moved out of state for a summer job.  Later, after things got patched up and A. I were getting married, it seemed just too good to be true that my sister-in-law would also be my best friend.  And it has been.  Absolutely too good to be true. 

In the last seven years, through three moves between her family and mine, we went from living the distance of a five minute drive from one another, to a seven minute walk, to a seven minute drive, all in the same small town.  We saw each other at all kinds of extended family get-togethers and birthday parties. Danette would bring her kids over every Thursday, and we would drink too much coffee and eventually let the kids watch an episode of Kipper or Curious George or Little Bear while I made my famous macaroni and cheese for lunch.  You probably didn’t know that my macaroni and cheese is famous, did you?  Well it is.  I can’t take all the credit, considering I make it out of a box, so Annie gets some of the credit for sure.  But as far as the kids are concerned, it’s all my doing.  I’m okay with that.

Danette told me that a while ago, Theo was talking about how he sometimes feels shy.  He said, “But I’m not shy for Auntie Gina.”  And then later, “She makes me macaroni and cheese.”  Oh, Theo.  I’ll make it for you when you come to visit, okay buddy?  I promise.  The other day, I stopped by their house (when it was still their house) and he ran up to me, looked me right in the eye, and excitedly asked me to play superheroes with him.  I happen to love superheroes.  Um, yeah, I’ll play superheroes with you.  Anytime.

And then there’s Maeve (rhymes with brave, and she is).  I can’t even describe her.  She’s two, and such a powerful little person.  Every Thursday, as soon as she gets to my house, she asks me to hold her.  I think she can tell it’s my favorite thing to do.

I’m not sure I’m going to like Thursdays very much anymore.  Honestly, if this first Thursday with them gone is any indication of what the future holds, I know I’m not going to like Thursdays anymore.  I woke up in the worst mood.  Nothing seemed fun anymore now that Danette was gone, and I was listless and irritated by basically everything.  Frankly, I was not unlike a toddler who just needs to take her blanket and her teddy bear and have a good nap.  That might have helped me, but you can’t nap at 7:00 in the morning when you have five kids to take care of.  So instead I did what I needed to do, and wallowed in self-pity the whole time. 

Waking up last Tuesday and Wednesday with them here was way more fun.  They stayed two nights in my guest room because their house was empty and Micah was already in Texas working.  It was magical to see the cousins wake up and eat breakfast together.  They all play so well with one another. 

Tuesday night I stayed up way later than I should have; it felt like if I never went to sleep then they wouldn’t have to leave.  But Wednesday morning still came, of course.

Before they left, Maeve had me hold her even more than usual.  She climbed in my lap before I finished sitting on the couch and she stayed there until it was time for them to leave.  At one point, her soft hair brushed up against my cheek and it was so sweet, I felt a searing pain run through my core like when you touch something so hot your skin begins to blister instantly.  When the doorbell rang and it was time for them to go to the airport, she spun around and buried her little face in my neck like she knew it would be a long, long time until we were together again.  When I gave her to her mom so they could leave I noticed that her hair was wet with my tears.

I walked into the living room and sat on the couch.  My eight-year-old daughter climbed up next to me and put her arms around my neck.  We cried until our eyes were tired and sore.

I know I should be happy for them.  (And I am, really.)  This is a great opportunity for her husband’s career and an adventure for their family.  I’m so proud of Micah.  I should be thankful that I can visit, and that the pain of saying goodbye to them as they move is nothing compared to the pain of saying goodbye forever through a death or a broken relationship.  And I am thankful, but…

In college, my friend Karis used to say, “Don’t should on yourself.”  I needed to hear that then, and listening to it now, I feel an urge to let go of all the ways I “should” feel, and just be sad.  Because, darn it, I’m really sad.

A few hours after they left on Wednesday, I pulled up in front of their house.  Knowing it was completely empty inside made it almost feel like a different house, and yet it felt the same.  The memories were there.  I could picture Theo and Maeve sitting on the front porch, playing in the yard.  I felt like I needed to cry but my eyes were dry and itchy.  It was pouring rain outside, and I watched the raindrops slide down the driver-side window, blurring my view of the house.  It was as if the raindrops were the tears I couldn’t cry. 

The achy, needing to cry feeling has lingered through the week.  I know Danette and I won’t have any trouble “staying in touch.”  I’m already planning to go visit her in September and they’ll come home for Christmas and vacations in the summer.  We talked on the phone almost every day when she lived practically down the street, so I know we’ll still talk all the time.  She’s going to have an amazing time in Houston, and I’ll be okay here.  But I reserve the right to feel a little sorry for myself every Thursday morning, and to be really sad about having to say goodbye.  Because I don’t want to say goodbye.  It's so hard.  I am so lucky.

Risky Business

photo by Joel Peterson Photography

“Usually, when we say we can’t do something, what we mean is that we won’t  do something unless we can guarantee that we’ll do it perfectly.”

 -Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

I turned 34 on June 24^th.  I celebrated my birthday by competing in the Pike’s Peak International Boxing Championship, because nothing says, “Happy Birthday” like getting punched in the face.

Boxing isn’t something I’ve always been into.  Growing up in a family of athletes, I was content to be the “bookworm.”  Until recently, the most involved I’d ever been in competitive sports was a season sitting on the sidelines at soccer games cheering on my teammates when I was eight years old.  I’d missed most of the practices because I’d decided to stay home and read, so I wasn’t allowed to play.  I don’t remember feeling disappointed.

My brothers and my sister played a lot of sports.  My dad was a boxer, and he coached all four of my brothers to championship victories.  About a year and a half ago, my sister and I decided we wanted to see if we also had what it took to box.  I wonder sometimes why I thought, at the young age of (almost) 33, that it was a good idea for my first competitive sporting experience to be in a boxing ring.  But, “Go big or go home,” as they say.

There has been a learning curve for sure, although I am naturally athletic, and I have a propensity for this sport in particular for some reason.  My workouts have gone well, and I’ve managed to stick to my routine.  (Between boxing workouts, strength training, and running, my sister and I usually train at least eight hours a week, often more.)  My sparring (practice fighting) sessions have gone great and I’ve learned a lot.

But then I had an actual fight in March, and it went so poorly.  I got stage fright and completely froze, and I didn’t fight at all the way I had been sparring.  I was humiliated and confused.  For months, I seriously questioned whether or not I was ever going to compete again.  I began to wonder if I just didn’t have what it took to compete.  If I really was just a bookworm.  I started to think that I just couldn’t do it.  Actually, I'd realized that I couldn’t guarantee I would do it perfectly. 

Somewhere along the way I decided that I did want to compete again.  That I did have what it took, even though the time commitment for the training alone was overwhelming at times, and even though every time I got in the ring to spar I felt afraid. 

So there I was, on my 34^th birthday, geared up to get in the ring against the same girl I’d had my disastrous fight with three and a half months before.  In the meantime, she'd had another fight in which she stopped the girl by technical knockout in the second round.  I began to feel a little bit like I was living in a Rocky movie, or The Mighty Ducks, or (insert your favorite sports-themed underdog movie here). 

A couple of hours before my fight, my sister Janna gave me my birthday present.  It was a tumbler I'd been wanting, and a magnet that said, “Courage does not always roar.  Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” –Mary Anne Radmacher

My eyes filled with tears, and I knew, win or lose, I had courage enough to try again.

Right before my fight, I started having trouble catching my breath, and I felt my focus slipping away from the moment, from what I needed to do to get ready.  The haze I felt before my last fight started to cloud my perspective.  I froze.

My brother Jared and my dad brought me back.  “Just get out there and spar.”  My dad said, “You know how to do this.  You’re ready.” 

I was.  The bell rang, and I did exactly what I knew how to do. Unfortunately, I got hit with a hard jab in the first round, and my right eye immediately started swelling.  My contact lens bunched up in the corner of my eye and I could see the world closing in on my opponent.

My awesome black eye the next day.

But I fought well.  I protected my nose.  I kept my chin down, so my neck didn’t hurt the next day from having my head snap back.  My opponent was a more experienced fighter than I, and there were times in that fight where she was absolutely trying to knock me out—to kill me, it felt like—but I stayed alive.  I used my footwork to get out of her range.  I covered up and protected myself.  I clinched.  I punched back.  I didn’t win, but I went the distance, all four rounds.  In a lot of ways I’m prouder of that fight than if I'd been matched against someone less experienced and won.  I fought like myself, against a tough opponent, and that is all I wanted to do.

The Artist’s Way talks a lot about synchronicity.  As I was reading this week’s chapter and thinking about boxing, I found myself reading a quote from the movie Raging Bull that my dad and I have talked about many times.  It’s the first time Julia has said anything about boxing, and I was struck by the synchronistic nature of the timing.  In the movie, boxer Jake La Motta’s brother, who is also his manager, is trying to convince him to cut weight and fight an opponent he doesn’t know anything about.  He finishes by saying, “So do it.  If you win, you win, and if you lose, you win.”

My dad has also often reminded me that Wayne Gretzky’s famous quote, “You lose 100% of the shots you don’t take,” applies to boxing as well as to most of life, and that Woody Allen said, “Eighty percent of success is just showing up.” 

I showed up.  I lost, but I won.  Sometimes I remember how scared I was in that moment before the bell rang, and how scared I am every time I think about getting back in that ring.  It doesn’t get less terrifying.  But, as Susan Jeffers said, “We cannot escape fear.  We can only transform it into a companion that accompanies us on all our exciting adventures. … Take a risk a day—one small or bold stroke that will make you feel better once you have done it.”

Obviously that risk does not need to be getting in a boxing ring with someone who is basically trying to knock your head off.  (I don’t know if I’d even recommend doing that, honestly.)  But learning to play an instrument is risky.  Starting a blog is risky.  Trying a new recipe, writing a handwritten letter to a friend you haven’t talked to in a long time, taking a dance class at the Y—all risky.

I’ll leave you with one last thought from Julia Cameron about risk. 

Question:  “What would I do if I didn’t have to do it perfectly?”

Answer:  “A great deal more than I am.”