the ineffable grace of mundane days

2004-08-16T22:05:00.000-07:00

Just after I returned home tonight, there was a knock on my door. Can I just say that I have the best neighbors, ever? Kay and Andy, my downstairs neighbors. Kay is from Texas, but she's not a Bush kind of person. She's friendly and talkative, a counselor, always interested in my life. I've been taking her to Hydro-fit lately, and we'e been introducing our lives to each other on the drives there and back. Andy is from the Philipines, originally, and he's soft-spoken and kind. He has spent the entire summer transforming the small lawn space before our house into a glorious garden. Orange zinnias and bright pink fuschias and a profusion of plants for which I don't know the names. (I blocked out the botantical facts after working with Keely on the gardening book.) The doorsteps are covered in summer spectactulars. And I didn't do any of it. Andy did.

He's also a cook.

Yesterday, as I passed him on the front steps, as he worked on the garden, Andy told me that he caught a 20-pound salmon when he went fishing. Wow, I said. He said he was going to smoke some of it, and they'd have me over for bagels and lox soon. Okay with me.

So, they knocked on my door tonight. I greeted Kay, and her pug dog, Daisy. We chatted about her weekend in Southern California. And then Andy emerged from their front door and handed me a plate. A huge piece of perfectly grilled pink salmon, on a bed of red-green lettuce, roasted zucchini, and a roasted ear of corn. What? They just gave me this. No reason. No occasion. Just sharing. I had just eaten at the lovely party I attended tonight, so I'm saving it for lunch tomorrow. But the glowing effect is the same now.

I feel really blessed to be surrounded by so many kind, giving people in my life. This summer, in particular, I seem to be noticing the profusion of them. The orange zinnias and bright pink fuschias of my friends and acquaintances and the ones whose names I don't even know. Everywhere, it's kindness. Those are the only people I have in my life now, the ones who give.

And the ones who like to receive, because I'm the same. I love, love, love giving to people. Sending care packages to Alaska. Editing friends' dissertations. Making mix cds for any occasion. It's the only way I want to live, helping other people. Even when my kindness is not directly reciprocated, it comes back from someone else, almost immediately. Even when someone in particular responds to my gestures with silence and lack of kindness in return, and it hurts my feelings, it still doesn't stop me. I just want to give.

Yesterday morning, I made oatmeal cookies, big fat ones, and took them right out of the oven and headed to the pool. I have made so many friends there, most of them over seventy. Mary had been teasing me that I didn’t bring any food for the goodbye party the day before. So I woke up early and threw together cookies. I didn’t have time to taste them, but I knew they were good. They were enormous and filled with nutmeg. When I arrived at the pool, Mary was already in. All I could see was her fuschia-pink bathing suit straps and her white Nike hat above the blue water. “Mary!” I shouted, and I brandished the bag of cookies at her. She giggled her throaty laugh and smiled. After class---ah, the buoyant feeling after class--we all climbed out and gathered around the bag of warm cookies. Bob had to take out his bubble gum first. Everyone oohed and ahhed. It seemed it was a particularly good batch. It was a sweet feeling, all the senior citizens gathered around me in the sunshine, and me feeding them cookies.

I made a vow, long ago, to help everyone I could, in every moment. Because that's why I'm alive. Why we're all alive, I feel.

"Kindness is my only religion." --the Dalai Lama

Hallelujah.

2004-08-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

These summer days have been an indolent gift. Every morning, I wake up after nine hours of sleep. Do you have any idea how gorgeous that is? I wasn’t able to sleep uninterrupted for four months after the car accident. When I did finally start sleeping in April, it was because of sleeping pills. But now, I just flop into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep. Every morning, I feel a month better. So I sleep, and wake to my life, slowly.

Coffee. Ah, the French press. Or, if I’m really feeling bleary, I just tuck the button on the coffee maker into place. That’s a happy burble.

And then, I sit. I sit meditation while I wait for the coffee to brew. There’s no point in putting words to meditation, especially when most of the work in front of my small shrine is in trying to move beyond the words into that vast space of consciousness. So, I sit.

Slowly, I turn the knob to make the music come alive. Lately, it has been this Danish boy named Teitur. What? He’s from the Faroe Islands, which I barely eknew existed before hearing about him. And he’s probably 22. But his voice is so clear, and sweet, that he makes the mornings easy. (Thanks to Clown for the downloaded cd.) And he writes about childhood friends and writing postcards and riding on airplanes. And love. Or course, love. “Love is somewhere in between what you believe and what you dream.” He feels familiar.

Coffee’s ready. Ah.

I check my email, write some back. Read the Guardian and the New York Times online. Check out some other blogs (try mimismartypants for a funny read). Write more emails. Bounce up and down on my purple exercise ball. Move away from the computer (foul machine I love). That green chair by the window looks inviting.

Stretch out. A series of little exercises that keep my body from completely falling apart. It’s always about twenty hours away, if I’m not careful.

Muesli’s nice in the morning. Ah, and that chicken pesto sausage smells good.

Book of the day. When I was a kid, summers always meant hours in my room, reading away. Now, I have other activities, and most of them outdoors. But I must read in the morning, somewhere in the afternoon, and just before bed. Must. I’d like to say that I’m reading something edifying and outstanding. Hey, I’m working on the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying in my shrine room. But right now, this morning? Honest? Live from New York, an oral history of the making of Saturday Night Live. Shut up. You try to put it down. It’s like crack cocaine, without the nosebleeds. * (see below for footnote)

More email. Okay, true confessions here (which I started to type as confusions). I like to see myself as intelligent and healthy. Many, many people tell me how powerfully I have changed their lives, so I must be doing something right. But like everyone else, I have a whole bunch of stupid little idiosyncracies that don’t put me in the best light if you know them. And long summer days give me even more of a chance to see these in action. Examples? You want examples?

a) I leave cds face up all over the little table on which my cd player sits. I keep meaning to put them away, because I adore music and I want to treat my cds right. But when I’m done with one cd in the three cd-changer player, I’m usually so eager to hear the next one that I forget to put the old one back. And so, there are four or five bare-naked cds, on top of each other, in my living room. I know. I’m a horrible person.

b) There are always at least a few dirty dishes or errant coffee cup stains on my kitchen counter. I dream of being completely clutter free, but it never really happens. I’ve been meaning to clean out my living room closet, build shelves for all the photo albums, and free myself of the unnecessary items by generously donating the detritus to charity. But I’ve been saying that since I moved in, over a year ago. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I’m always going to have a little bit of clutter. And I’m not apologizing anymore.
Oh, and you should see my car.

c) I check my email way too many times a day. Seriously, like way too many times. Like every fourteen minutes sometimes. If I’m on a hike or playing with friends or out for the day or working on my novel in a coffee shop, I’m not checking my email. But driving home from it, I’m kind of excited that I can connect up again. I know, it’s sad. But the thing is? Almost every time I check it, someone has written to me. I love all the people in my life, and staying connected with them is one of tmy most potent forces. Communication is the key to all great relationships. And there are so many stories to tell. But really, I just love opening my email and seeing that someone has written to me. “Ooh, someone likes me!” And irrationally, I’m still disappointed when I check it and there isn’t an email. (If you want to help me feel more loved, write to me at shaunaforce@mac.com. I’d love to hear if you’re reading this, anyway.) I could say that I’ll try to stop, but I don’t see it happening.

So I checked my email again.

And then, it’s time for Hydro-fit. Ah, the joys of Hydro-fit. The entire morning is building to it. And it was a stellar day at the Magnolia outdoor pool today. Kate, the dippy, twenty-one-year-old girl who has been teaching our class all summer, leaves for her last year at WSU next week. Thus, this was her last day at the pool. Now, as much as I may have liked Hydrofit in the late winter/early spring, that was only a nascent crush. Now, I’m utterly in love with it. Every day, I’m at the outdoor pool at 11 am. The first plunge into warm water is like coming home, every day. And then I bob and float and run cross-country across the pool and pretend I’m a ballerina and do crunches underwater. Mostly, I feel so buoyant and delicious that I could just float on air when I leave the pool. And if I do this, then I can stave off most of the pain in my body for the rest of the day. Ahhhh. I’m daily grateful for it.

So, even though Kate seemed to live in her own little spaceland most of the summer, which made her a rather poor teacher (“You call that teaching?” Mary once said to me in the pool. “That’s being generous.”), she did show up every day. And without knowing it, she has become a big part of my summer. In the pool in the preceding days, all of us chattered and planned as we worked on our triceps. We decided to throw her a party. Because, that’s the thing. These people have become my outdoor pool family. Any group of people whom you see every day for an hour become important, eventually. And with me, it’s usually immediately. I adore these senior citizens and young people with rheumatoid arthritis and brain injuries and torn calf muscles. They know what it means to be grateful to be here.

At the end of another sunny class with Mary’s giggle and my ridiculous laugh intermingling in the air above the water, Kate said, “Okay, guys. That’s it. Now, let’s turn on the slide!” There’s a dark green, corkcscrew plastic slide above the pool, fifty feet in total. They only turn it on for special occasions, because gallons of water shoot down the center. And when you lie down in the water, you can let yourself go and the water carry you, around and around, down and down, until you plunge deep into the pool and come out reborn. Or at least laughing. So all the senior citizens whose bodies could handle it and the little kids and the overweight, middle-aged women and me--we all lined up eagerly at the stairs. And you know what I did when I was going down. WHEEEE!!

Afterwards, we ran to the poolside to eat our food. Mary had made outrageously good guacamole (“It’s not my best,” she apologized beforeheand, and now I know not to believe her). There were crackers and goat cheese. Krispy Kreme dougnuts. Cranberry juice. Carrots and salmon dip. And twenty-five people in their dripping-wet bathing suits, eating and laughing under the kind Seattle sun. People whom I would never have met if it hadn’t been for the car accident. And now, I love them.

You see why I love these summer days? That only takes me up to noon.

* I do believe I unwittingly stole the “crack cocaine without the nosebleeds” line from one of Sharon’s old stand-up routines. So, credit to the inimitable Sharon Jensen.

2004-08-12T00:06:00.000-07:00

My nephew has become besotted with Mr. Rogers lately. Andy told me about this the other day on the phone. Apparently, they showed Elliott his first episode, and he sat there, transfixed. Immediately, he started referring to the experience as “Frogers.” Where did he pick up the F? We don’t know. He must have heard someone refer to Mr. Rogers as Fred on one tape. All it takes is once, with this kid. Now, Andy and Dana don’t want Little Guy to watch a lot of tv, but Mr. Rogers is okay.

So one morning, Andy was feeding Elliott in his high chair. Andy was talking about the day’s possibilities. Maybe we’ll go to the park. Maybe we’ll dance. We’ll read books. And maybe we’ll watch Mr. Rogers.

At this point, apparently, Elliott became all attention. Fast, almost frantically, he waved his hands back and forth in front of him, the sign for All Done. All DONE! And then he started saying, over and over again, “Frogers! Frogers!”

I love that.

So on Friday, when I went to Vashon to spend my birthday with Mr. Baby, and then again yesterday, when I spent the afternoon playing with him, we watched Mr. Rogers. And damned if I haven’t become besotted with Mr. Rogers too. All over again.

I vaguely remember loving Mr. Rogers when I was a kid, but in the way that you vaguely remember breathing. I loved him, sat transfixed before his show, and then eventually outgrew him. When I was a big kid, he seemed kind of geeky, hopelessly corny. After all, I was trying to be cool. What was with that sweater? And of course, Eddie Murphy’s satire on Saturday Night Live is more clear in my mind than the actual show was.

As I grew older, I softened. I’d catch glimpses of Mr. Rogers in the media, or run across a show in one of my idle channel-flipping moods, and I’d go, Ahhh. He’s such a sweet man. You have to give him that.

Two years ago, when Mr. Rogers died, I felt unexpectedly, genuinely in grieving. I cried when I listened to NPR. I read all the eulogies and stories. All the geeky, gawky teenager of me gone, I no longer worried if I was cool. (I’m not. I’ll never be. And what a relief.) I just knew that this man with the soft voice and kind eyes was one of the truest beings I had ever met. And I felt like a friend had died.

But he hasn’t. Because now Elliott, who is not even a year and a half old, has made friends with Mr. Rogers. He watches, agog, when Frogers shines a large flashlight on the refrigerator, and shows how different it looks when he flashes it on the brick wall. And you know what? It is cool. Because watching it with Elliott, I see how exquisitely Mr. Rogers understood the way children see the world, what pace they need to walk. How, once in a while, he will look at the camera, instead of the goings-on, and smile wide, just so the kids know he is participating in this with them. And they are there. Elliott may not understand everything that’s being said--although I wouldn’t put it past this one--but he knows that he trusts Mr. Rogers. He never takes his eyes off the screen. And he’s actively watching, almost quivering with attention.

(Here’s how clear Mr. Rogers is. Dana’s congenitally easily addled mother, who is visiting them this week, didn’t have to ask a single question after watching Mr. Rogers!)

So on my birthday, we watched an episode called Learning is Everywhere. (It’s true!) Yesterday, we saw an episode about stringed instrument. Mr. Rogers showed a film about how bass violins are made. I thought of Kristin Korb, and her sturdy bass, once in pieces in the hands of some unknown maker, and now making gorgeous music. And I started to grow a little agog myself, watching how they come together. And then Mr. Rogers went to the music store to meet Yo-Yo Ma, who talked about how the cello allowed him to express his feelings. When he played the cello, Mr. Rogers sat quietly, his hands in his lap, his mouth open, a look of utter joy on his face. And I saw that Elliott’s eyes were open wide, his left hand tapping out the rhythm of the music on his chest, as he leaned back against me. And my mouth was open in awe at it all.

And later, I realized, that’s what so magic about Mr. Rogers. He’s in a constant state of astonishment. Constantly astonished. And it looks silly to adults, who like to be jaded and feel they are above it all. But really, what are you gaining by doing that? Because little kids are constantly astonished. Elliott is constantly astonished. Every time I hold him in my arms, and he turns my cheek with his hands to look at my ears, and he grabs the dangling green glass from my lobe, he says, every time, “Earring.” (Or a close approximation of it, in baby language.) And every time, there’s this sweet little lilt of awe in his voice. And now I sense he’s just astonished that he knows the word for it. Because that is an enormous power, to be able to name the objects in life. To name your feelings. (All these words? They’re just a more prolific version of “Earring! Ball! Flower!”) And now, by knowing Elliott, and seeing the world a little like he sees it, I’m continuously moved by it.

And after the car accident, I’m constantly astonished by life. Constantly astonished.

Just this evening, I was astonished by:

--the sight of two little girls in long blue tutus, bouncing up and down on the trampoline in their front yard, giggling as I drove by.

--the bowl of sky above the blue Olympic mountains to the left of the Aurora Bridge, pink streams of clouds twirling

--listening to My Sharona on the mystery mix cd I’d found in the car, the song a total surprise, and suddenly hearing it again like I did when I was 14, all that sex and power a possibility

--walking up to Andi (one of my favorite former-student-now-friends) at the Greenlake community center, and seeing immediately the easy confidence with which she commanded that place

--opening her birthday present in the parking lot, and gasping at the quantity of kindness. A tin of cards, one for every month for the next year, to be read on the first of each month. Plus, a mix cd to accompany each one. My god, the kindness in the world, and how easy it is to make people’s evenings.

--walking around Greenlake with her in the dark, talking and waving our hands in the near darkness, feeling close and laughing. Then, turning the corner and seeing, unexpectedly ahead of us, an ice cream truck. Walking away laughing, and sucking on Big Sticks.

--writing this. Always.

That’s the thing--astonishment is always there for us, if we want it. We’re just the ones who choose to put the scrim of expectation and disappointment on top of all the moments of our life. Remove them and every moment is sparkling new.

And along with this, it’s Mr. Rogers’ gentleness that moves me so deeply, that probably keeps Elliott still in my arms as he watches.

After all, this is the man who sang, at the end of one episode: “I like what’s inside of you. Your toys? They’re just what’s beside you. It’s you I like.” And you know he did. Truly. Do you know how much gentleness it requires to like everyone?

Yesterday afternoon, Elliott was having a hard time going down for his nap. Unusual for him--he’s a naturally sweet-tempered kid. But there were new people in the house, his mom was working again, and it was hot. So he struggled and he cried. And my brother walked him around, gently, in the bedroom, talking to him. “I know. It’s hard to be Baby. But it’s okay to have these feelings, Elliott.” And sitting in the next room, checking my email (I have to stay out of the way, or Elliott would never go to sleep), I could hear Mr. Rogers in Andy’s voice. He’s an amazing dad, my brother. Really. But in the week since Elliott started saying “Frogers,” Andy has become even gentler.

Elliott finally went to sleep. But he woke up too soon. And after his nap, he was clearly feeling a little tender and fragile. Quiet and contemplative. He wasn’t the giggly baby I know so well. That’s okay. He just wanted to dance with Andy, be held close and know that someone was willing to move around the living room with him in fluid grace. And Andy moved his feet nimbly, as they do every day, several times a day, moving through Rosemary Clooney songs and the Cucuracha cha-cha and the mambo. Elliott wanted this to go on forever.

But, after awhile, exhausted from all the dancing, Andy put on another episode of Mr. Rogers. Where he goes to the circus. And we learn that some people, like Daniel Tiger, are afraid of clowns, because “...I don’t know what’s going to happen with them.” (I know what you mean, Daniel Tiger. Some people are like that for me, and they don’t have to be wearing big pink wigs.) And Mr. Rogers sat, his mouth open in amazement, at the men and women on the trapeze. (And I whispered in Elliott’s ear: “I was on that once, Elliott. It’s hard, it hurts your ams. But it feels a little like flying, Elliott. Like the birds in the park today, how you noticed they were flying.”) And he patted the elephants’ trunks with wonderful kindness. And he turned to Betty and said, “You know? I think I’ve seen enough of the circus. It’s not necessary to see all of it. I can always come back.” See? He understands kids’ attention spans. (And mine, at that point. It was kind of a lame circus.)

And by the end of the episode, Elliott was fully awake, dancing to the music, and giggling as his dad and I planted kisses and raspberries on his belly and chin. Mr. Rogers had brought him out of his fragile mood, into the world again.

My god, I love this man.

At the end of that program, Mr. Rogers said to his television neighbors: "Do you know how special you are? Just for being you. I know I tell you that often, but it's important to me that you know this. That just by being you, you are special to me." Damned if I didn't have tears in my eyes after he said it. Again.

Because with this astonishment, always, always comes gratitude. Gratitude at how much is offered, all the time, if only we will open our eyes to see it, open our hands to receive it. I’m grateful for all of this.

Since the car accident, astonishment, gentleness, and gratitude are my only religion. I’m astonished at how much I love my nephew, how fiercely and deeply and playfully he has changed my life. I’m aware of just how gently I breathe or approach people or talk changes the air around me. And I’m grateful, so damn grateful to be here to experience all of this.

Frogers, I'm so happy you're my friend.

2004-08-09T22:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a gorgeous day--everything relaxed and happy under that big Seattle sky. The fat grey raindrops on my actual birthday (Friday) made the air clear and solvent for my big birthday party at Discovery Park yesterday.

(And no, I don’t know why I used the word solvent there, especially when it means “capable of dissolving another substance,” at least in chemical terms. But it’s the word that appeared in my head, and I trust it. See, the rain dissolved the gunk that had been appearing in the sky from the lack of rain these past few weeks. And the clear sky dissolved...ah, who cares? It felt right, and I’m sticking with it.)

So it was my, “Hey, I’m alive to live another year!” party. This year, I know what it means to be alive. And to celebrate, I wanted all the people I love around me. Now, of course, that’s not possible. I can think of a googleplex of people whose presence would have enlivened the proceedings. In fact, anyone reading this right now? I wish you had been there. But luckily, the entire year has been teaching me to let go of my preconceptions and just live, dammit. (And besides, the airfare would have been too expensive for some of you, especially at last-moment’s notice.) So yes, I wish you could have been there to share it with me. But I wasn’t worried.

Instead, I sprawled out on my green tablecloth (the one I bought new for Thanksgiving, and someone promptly spilled red candle wax on it, and I’ve never been able to get it out) with Meri, eating sandwiches from Macrina Bakery and sucking back bottles of root beer. And then my parents arrived, with an enormous blue cooler full of beverages. (At one point, Mom put one of each kind on top of the cooler, as a kind of display of what was available: Coke, Vanilla Coke, and Arrowhead water. And it looked like she was running a little store for my friends.) And an enormous Tupperware container of homemade oatmeal cookies that Mom had made that morning. (See, I learned it from somewhere.) She had Pop in tow, who was grinning like a goon under his Vashon Island cap. Always good to see that loveable goofball. And Ruth and Mel, who are my parents’ best friends, and a constant source of amusement for me as well.

Then Tita and John showed up, and we all waved heartily at them. John rarely comes off the Island, so I was honored. He was also wearing some kind of Hawaiian shirt, as was my father. And suddenly, I was dazzled by the pure Americana of the event, especially when I noticed that the giant cooler had indentations where you could place your drinks. Tita and John made me smile, as always.

Then Amy and Paul came bearing grapes and a kite. We dragged out the cheese and bread. (Have you ever had Cambozola? Well, neither had Amy, even though she’s a foodie, like me. I recommend that you run right out and buy some, right now. Amy would agree with me, now that she has devoured a lot of it.) Lisa ambled up, only two days home from a month in Spain, after one of the most gruelling returns home I’ve heard, after a lifetime of bad airline stories. That made me happy, to see her. And we all sat around and ate, of course. And told stories. And laughed. Moved into the shaded picnic tables. Both Paul and Tita stepped in dog shit in their bare feet. Yuch.

And I didn’t worry about making anyone happy or making sure that everyone was properly introduced or tried to whip round and see that all the worlds were meeting gently. Ah, fuck it. My birthday--I’m going to have some of that pasta with homemade pesto that Tita made with the basil from her garden. And of course, everyone smiled and laughed and acted like old friends immediately.

And the sun kept shining on the field off the north parking lot of Disovery Park. If I lay back on the tablecloth and peered at the sky, I couldn’t see anything but blue. And feel anything but the warmth of the sun and the dance of the breeze along my face.

Tamara arrived, with a four-pound container of Red Vines. Awesome.

And so, all afternoon, people arrived in waves, with smiles on their faces (like that kindergarten song. Did you have to sing that one? “We’re all in our places, with bright shiny faces. And this is the way, we start off our day.” I have this feeling that singing that every morning when I was five left a deeper impression on me than I’m willing to see right now.). And we lounged and laughed, inviting our souls. The former-student contingent showed up, the ones who had just graduated. They’re still really excited that they can be with me at a party now, and listen to me swear. (Oh, and swear I do. It takes all my willpower to not sprinkle fuck lightly into sentences at school. Take away the rigors of work life and I become a truck driver. Well, not technically. Just my language.) And I was really excited to see them, outside the walls of school, just human beings with hilarious stories and gorgeous smiles. Thank goodness, I don’t have to be in charge of them anymore.

Almost every single person who arrived said the following, as Jessica and Brian did: “Well, we were standing by our car, looking at the groups on the lawn, wondering if this was the right place. And then we heard your laugh, rising above every other noise, and we knew we were in the right place.” All right, I give up. I have a loud laugh. And damned it makes me happy that this is how people identify me. (Much better than that connection with Pierce Brosnan, thank you.)

So there were dozens of people there, laughing and eating and telling stories and looking relaxed. My parents had brought their bocce ball set, and massive games using wide swaths of the field ensued. I looked over once in a while to see a green ball bouncing wildly across wheat-colored grass, just to knock the red one out of its place. Everyone was happy.

Later, a big bunch of us played Apples to Apples, this goofy-ass word game that makes everyone laugh. Really, I defy you to play it and not enjoy yourself. Short of a big Scrabble tournament, things couldn’t have been better, game-wise. We shouted and pitched forward and swore and slapped the table at some of the choices. And Lisa, who complained vociferously that she hated games for the competition, even won!

Mary, my 73-year-old friend from Hydro-fit, and her irascible daughter, Katie, showed up with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of white wine (warm, but with a ziploc bag of ice cubes accompanying) about 7:00. We sat telling stories, of course. (Apparently, Dave Matthews is a really good tipper.) Laughing. Katie mentioned something about Dick’s burgers. Eric said that he has a certain guilty pleasure there, and he has to visit frequently. Meri admitted that she’d never been to Dick’s before. Aghast, Eric and I turned toward and each other, and said, “We’re going.” So, waving goodbye to Mary and Katie, we drove down to Lower Queen Anne and ordered Dick’s specials, bags of french fries, and chocolate shakes. I haven’t eaten food like that in a long time (not since Lane Seven in Sitka). Damn, it was good. And somehow, we started telling falling stories. Because I’m an inveterate easy laugh for anyone tripping in front of me. Mostly, what makes me laugh is clever word-play, someone who really pays attention to the phrases that have arisen in the moments between us and riffs and repeats. I’m a goner. But for some reason, pratfalls just kill me. So Eric and Meri and I traded falling stories, and I laughed until I was nearly apopleptic.

What a perfect ending to a perfect day.

The party gathered friends from the most disparate places: people I’ve dragged here from New York; the little liberal private school in Capitol Hill; the tony gym in Belltown; retired folks from Gig Harbor; my little magic camp in Sitka (when I described it that way the other day, Mel wanted to know what magic tricks I had learned. ha.); the 18-year-olds who are now my friends; and the outdoor pool in Magnolia. And they’re all just fucking great. I’m so damned blessed.

Driving to Dick’s, trying to talk with Meri, I noticed that my voice had gone completely hoarse. I could barely talk. Was I growing sick? And then I realized I had been so completely imbued with happiness all day that I had laughed myself hoarse. Not a bad way to go.

(And yes, there are approximately three hundred parenthetical comments in this post. It’s my birthday. I’m allowed.)

2004-08-06T09:46:00.000-07:00

"You say it's your birthday?
Well, it's my birthday too, yeah.
You say it's your birthday.
We're going to have a good time.
I'm glad it's your birthday.
Happy birthday to you."

--The Beatles (but, if you didn't know that, well, yaboo sucks to ya)

I woke up at 8:22 this morning, solidly happy after a full night's sleep. And when the consciousness rose up to my face, I remembered. And felt even happier. To be alive. To hear the rain pattering on the roof. To have the entire day stretched in front of me. To feel the muscles in my legs, newly stretched by days of hiking and an outrageous yoga class last night. To raise my arms above my head and not feel the sinews of my neck twitch in pain. To be able to send the breath out through my entire body and not find places blocked by muscles cramped up or holding in fear. To have an entire day off, and most of a month splayed out before me without having to go to work. To have everything a possibility. To have a body. To have breath. To be alive on another birthday.

And then I walked out to the living room, plucked the second disc of the White Album out of my massive cd book (and technically, it's called The Beatles, but you would have been confused if you didn't know that, so I'll use the colloquial), put it in the cd changer, and started dancing. I've listened to this song, in the first moments of my birthday morning, every year since I was 16. 22 years since I lived in that house on Tulane, newly besotted with the Beatles, and everything opening up before me. And every year, no matter where I am, I'm listening to this insistent beat, the raspy vocals, Paul singing me awake, and my feet dancing. Hips swaying. And thinking about all those years, all of them in my body somehow, even when I can't consciously remember them. But mostly, just dancing, instead of thinking. Dancing that happy "It's my birthday, and I'm alive" dance. Just dancing.

And this year, in particular. This year, I really know what it means to be alive. And I'm grateful.

Happy Birthday to me.

2004-08-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

Life is good. Full. Alive. Suprising. Threaded through with comfortable silences.

I've had a slew of houseguests all of July.

Maya, Roblin, Dawn, and Forrest for a packed day. (Piecora's pizza, warm sunlight pouring through my windows, playing with Forrest on the floor while talking with Maya, driving in the heat, Indian food and laughter, and Maya and I editing her writing piece on my bed, talking like the two deeply connected friends we are. Why does it matter that I'm 37 and she's 13?)

My friend Carlos for five days--I edited his 240-page PhD dissertation in four days. (Whew.)

My dear friend Gabe for four days, which meant hours of happy talking, watching movies, and feeling loved.

Then, four days with Kristin Korb in Port Townsend, and you can imagine what joy that was. (She stayed with me unexpectedly for one night, because Air Canada lost her six-foot-tall bass case for an entire evening. We had to drive back to the airport at 11 pm, then be on the 5:30 am ferry to Bainbridge Island the next morning. Thanks, Air Canada!)

And then my friend Nick was here for nearly a week. He just left. He's from London, and he had never been to the Pacific Northwest before this. He's besotted with it. And so am I, through his eyes. We hiked somewhere gorgeous and wild every day, for four to eight hours a day. You'll read more about it later, here. But for now....Mount Rainier all day, coming down in the moonlight. Clambering up Hurricane Ridge in the Olympics, taking in the entire range of mountains and the Strait of Juan de Fuca in one slow sweep of the eyes. Waterfalls, alpine lakes, old-growth forests, burbling rivers--we've been seeing all of it. On Tuesday, we did the most outrageous hike I've ever done. Six straight hours, straight up, past a huge, surging waterall called Bridal Veil Falls, then up through the hell of severe switchbacks to Serene Lake, which is small and right up against a mountain. Black slate cathedral rocks with clouds clinging to the top. (And I'm sure they call it Serene because you're so fricking happy to to be sitting down and no longer climbing!) I'm never more happy and clear than when I'm in nature. Oh, and add to this all the lovely breakfasts at Macrina Bakery, the joyful food at Dahlia Lounge, and kayaking Lake Union.

I guess the best news in all of this is that my body has been able to do it. Six-hour hikes don't phase me at all anymore. I'm finally healing, deeply. I stood at the top of the mountain on Friday and let everything go.

But, I must admit, I'm happy that it's August. My birthday, a month left of vacation, and no planned houseguests. Hours and hours to work on the novel.

In fact, I have to stop writing this now. The characters are calling.

With all the exuberant calm of deep in the forest,
Shauna

2004-07-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

PORT TOWNSEND

I’m sitting in a capacioius room in an old home in Port Townsend as I write this to you. The window is thrown wide open, the breeze ruffling the curtain. I’m listening to Keith Jarrett on my iPod, waiting for Kristin to return from her vocal class. When she does, we’ll venture into the sunshine for a long walk down the beach, taking rapid-fire and laughing. Then drive to town (all of five streets--Port Townsend has only 8,000 people, like Sitka), for lunch and the post office. And whatever else might happen.

Yesterday, I sat in this room for half of the day, listening to music and writing for hours. And then the same all afternoon, except I was on the porch outside, gently rocking in a wooden chair. It’s amazing how little it takes to make me happy these days: hours to write; good music on the heaphones; a lack of longing; a clear day; and the chance to see good friends.

Oh, and dark chocolate.

Last night, Kristin and I ate dark chocolate with raspberries. It made our evening. And this, after dinner at the Silverwater Cafe--seared ahi tuna with lavender pepper and gorgonzola rotini. Isn’t it odd how words rarely connote the experience? Not even close. Because gorgonzola rotini really should be: warm sunlight pouring through the window on our shoulders, a loving conversation about experiences about camp passing between us, warm crusty bread already in our bellies, glasses of red wine half drunk on the bar before us, and the rich, stinky cheese, mingled with salty walnuts and wilted broccoli, filling our mouths and making us close our eyes at the same time, confirming once again that we are friends, because we are equally grateful for this experience. And that’s a long sentence. But it’s not long enough. Because all of those sensations, tastes, and emotions are layered upon each other to make up a densely complex experience. But we all agree to speak in shorthand--gorgonzola rotini.

And that’s enough.

And then we went to see Fahrenheit 911, which was playing at the quaint Rose Theatre. Thank goodness we had all that good food in our bellies. Holy shit, that film devastated me. I knew it would. That’s why I have been resisting it for the last month. It’s not that I don’t care about what the film shows. It’s that I care too much. We live in such a miserable time of denial and lies. And it’s all right out in the open, for everyone to ignore. All of the facts Moore presented? I had read them in the Guardian or the Economist or the New York Times, these past few years. Given that I teach a 20th-century Humanities class, and that I’m involved in politics (because I’m fiercely interested in the humanity of this world), I feel a moral responsibility to keep current on the news. But still, there’s only so much that reading can do. And besides, I’ve assiduously avoided listening to W these past few years. When I hear him start to make a speech, I turn off the radio. His voice makes me feel a little nauseous. But there was no avoiding him in this movie. And besides, seeing mothers weep over the loss of their sons teaches far more. As the film proceeded, I just sank farther and farther down in my chair, completely absorbed and horrified. And I cried and covered my eyes at times. When the film finished, I couldn’t say anything for long moments. As Kristin and I walked down the darkened main street of Port Towsend, toward my car, we agreed: we’re done worrying out our own petty concerns, because we’re both so wonderfully spoiled; and we must all do something about this election in November. You guys, we have to DO something.

And now I’m home, typing this up and ready for bed. Tomorrow, Nick arrives for a five-day visit. I’m excited to see him--it has been since October in New York, another lifetime. He has never been to Seattle before, so we’re going to explore. Driving to Mt. Rainier for walks through meadows of wildflowers, hikes through old-growth forests, dinners at Wild Ginger, and maybe even sailing on Puget Sound. We don’t have many plans, just to be together. No expectations. So I’m sure that the week will sing and yield more stories. And that I won’t have much time to write here. But I will, when I can.

And thanks for reading.

2004-07-25T15:51:00.000-07:00

fast impressions of a full summer

These days have passed in a happy blur. Here are some of the moments that stopped long enough to show up in clear outline.

--Long Lake with Tita. Every summer, we go for one, indolent day. We met on the Southworth ferry terminal, at the junky general store at the end of the dock. Coffee granitas and string cheese in hand, we drove off, down the curving roads. Set up our towels near the tree, the food on a picnic bench under the shade. Peeled off our clothing to reveal our bathing suits, then sauntered into the lake. Swimming in the lake was like a nostalgic dream of summer as it happened. The water silty with algae, everything porous, like memory. And looking down, I could see my arms stretching forward in brown-green water, like a daguerrotype. Like an archetypal swimming memory. Like a photograph of my life. And then laying in the sun for fifteen minutes at a time, to dry our skin. And then food. Conversations about art and why it feels imperative for some people, and why others can leave it on the side of the road as they drive into the next part of their lives. Catching up on every person we know in common. And the ones we know from past stories alone. Silence. Grinning. Looking at the silver-green leaves glimmering in the trees. Childhood stories. More swimming. And at one moment, every year, we stretch our arms out to find each other and say, "You know, you feel like a friend from grade school. You feel deep in me, like I've known you forever. You're the one friend I know I will always have." One of us says it, the other says ditto, and then we return to the water.

--Carrying Elliott on my shoulders as Andy and Dana walked us around a property on Vashon that they want to buy. Nothing but madrona trees, pine trees, soaring sky, and cleared field. Heaven. As they showed it to Jim, and he offered suggestions of where to put the dream house they want to build, I just felt my steps in the uneven grass and held onto Elliott's legs. And he reached down with his hands and patted my cheeks while we walked.

--Leaping like a little frog in the Magnolia pool, the sunlight hot on my head, bodies surrounding me, and I feel alive.

--Walking away from Uptown Espresso, back to my car, Meri and I talking slow and calm. A woman approached us, muttering, I thought at us. She wasn't talking to us. Tight velvet pants, cinched up to her waist. All her hair tumbling down onto her face. Contorted, the lips in a snarl. And she shouted, her voice increasing in volume with each sound, "I'm going to find a fucking hammer and smash him in the head myself, murder him." And she was sobbing, I noticed, as she passed us. We stopped to look after her, then moved on, shaking our heads. Poor woman.

--Elliott dancing, all the fans blowing on the hottest day of the year in Seattle. He's wearing only his diaper, and he's perfectly happy. His dad is there, and his grandparents, and me. Missing Mom, these are the most important people in his life. All watching him, perfectly content to be there. Andy put on this disc of West African music he found, all double-time beats and surging rhythms. I picked up Ellliott and began dancing him around the living room on my hip. And he pumped his body up and down in time to the beats. This kid has been listening to eclectic music since he was two days old. (When he was really little, and had colic, only Gamelan music from Bali would soothe him. And Andy started playing him the Hoosier Hot Shots from his first week.) He arched his back, which meant he wanted me to turn him upside down at my ankles. So I did. And all I could see was his chin and wide grin. Andy picked him up, to dance. Elliott threw his arm in the air, pumping his fist in exultation, perfectly in time with the music. We all laughed and participated, even my mom from the chair. At one point, Elliott asked to be put on the floor. He sat, cross-legged, and watched us dance. I started stamping my bare feet on the rug, in time with the hurly-burly music. One foot in the circle toward him, and then the next. Back and forth, foot forward, music propelling me forward. For a few moments, I felt like I was back in the days before the car accident, when I spent every Sunday afternoon in African Dance class, shaking off the thoughts of the day, and any sense of self, losing myself in the music and the feeling of my feet on the floor. And Elliott watched my feet, studied them, so he would know what t do when he stood up. He stood up. Shook his hips. Moved his feet. Waved his arms. And looked as happy as I felt.

--And in just a few moments, I'm about to climb in the car with my suitcase, a bunch of cds, and snacks. Time for a little road trip. I'm off to Port Townsend, to spend a few days with Kristin Korb. "AAAAHHH!" we always shout at each other when we see the other for the first time. And then lift each other up for a big bear hug. One of my dearest Sitka friends, she's going to be in PT for a music camp. And I'm going to camp out with her for a few days. She'll work during the day, and I'll find a suitable coffee shop in the small town and work on my novel for hours at a time. And in the evening, we'll break open bottles of wine, bars of dark chocolate, put on dvds, and laugh until late in the night. Life is good. I'm going to stop at Easy Street records first, and buy the new Magnetic Fields cd. And drive with the sunroof open, the wind blowing through my hair, singing along to the songs I'll know soon. Leave everything else behind me, as much as I can. I love road trips--even three-hours ones. So I won't be writing here for a few days.

But I'll be back with new stories soon.

2004-07-23T09:12:00.000-07:00

for those of us who have somehow forgotten

THE SUMMER DAY

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel into the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

--Mary Oliver

(Thank you to Gabe for reminding me of this poem.)

2004-07-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

Before Sunset

Gabe and I went to see Before Sunset tonight, before he left for New York again. Ah, and it was a sweet, evanescent visit. Sun-drenched, food-filled, lots of talk and silly voices. Movie script conversations and Hydro-fit classes. Music. Long nights of sleep. Watching his latest filmic creations. And songs. Sushi at Chinoise. Raspberries and peaches on cereal. Coffee with Monica. And a sweet, easy goodbye at the airport. I love him dearly, that Clown.

But the movie.

I never saw Before Sunrise. It looked awkward and adolescent. I've never been a big fan of Ethan Hawke. Too much the hipster with that perma-mark goatee. In fact, Gabe reminded me this evening that I saw Ethan Hawke standing outside a club in New York, the first summer I visited there, and I wasn't impressed. Scrawny little pipsqueak, I seem to remember saying. I saw him again, on 10th Street, sitting on the steps of his brownstone with his kids, as I walked toward therapy. But that's about it for Ethan Hawke connections for me. So I didn't really plan to see this film.

But the reviews have been glowing. And Gabe and I love going to movies together, since we have the same sensibilities (and about music and food. People too, most of the time), and we love debriefing afterwards. There isn't much good playing right now, since it's the vapid season for movies: lots of guns, jiggling breasts, and thinly written scripts. He'd already seen Fahrenheit 911, so no seeing that. (And no, I haven't seen it yet. I know, I know, I'm abrogating my liberal duties, but I just haven't been able to stomach the thought on these gorgeous days. And I know it's going to make me cry. So there.) So we thought we'd see this--it was playing at the theatre just down the hill. I expected slight and stretching, but a pleasant diversion.

I love it when I'm wrong.

This movie moved me more than any movie in a long time. It all unfolds in real time, so you have the sense of immediacy and excitement when two people are falling in love through their banter and silences. To quote a Lisel Mueller poem I found recently:

"...a gaze anchored
in someone's eyes could unseat a heart...
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility."

Why is it so hard to write about falling in love? And do it justice?

This film comes close.

The lovely banter dance when two people have chemistry, so they are both buoyed up by the play of conversation, and it doesn't really matter at all what they are saying. The way a single, casual touch on the arm can set off trembling in the bones. The small, beautiful specific details of two people in the same room, changing each other's lives, and too caught up in it to name it for what it is. And broken-heartedly, the way that one or the other can refuse to recognize it, because it feels too scary to make that leap.

The last half made me cry continuously, tears floating down my cheeks in a langorous stream. I could feel Gabe looking over at me and feeling it for me. It made me cry for clear reasons that I don't want to say here. If you don't know, then you can figure it out.

And the ending made everyone in the theatre gasp. I haven't heard that kind of visceral reaction to a film in a long time. I adored it. As with poems, the endings of movies have to be right. This one is.

Ah, I could go on. But I won't. I don't want to besmirch it by analyzing it. It just moved me. Gabe and I both left the theatre feeling quiet and connected with ourselves. I love how great films can put you in that space, where everything feels right for a moment. And everything feels like a possibility.

2004-07-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

It has been unswervingly gorgeous here these past few days: high blue skies, 80 degrees, nary a cloud, and fierce clear light. And I have to share with you that I am sitting by my window, typing on the laptop and the Olympic mountains are etched dark purple against the post-sunset-orange sky. Pure bliss.

This July giftedness makes everything more redolent of joy. This morning, I took my Hydro-fit class at the Magnolia outdoor pool, where I am most days at 11. Yes, it’s the old ladies water aerobics class, but you stop snickering until you have joined me there. It’s a hell of a workout. I can feel my body deepening, the muscles loosening and strengthening at the same time. Finally, the slow unraveling. Perhaps the last skein of pain. With yoga and long walks and the promise to do this every day, my muscles might just be letting go of most of the knots. There are no words for that gratitude. And knowing that I'm giving it to myself makes it all the sweeter.

And I love the outdoor pool. I feel six years old again, being there. Little kids run around the white cement, chasing each other and laughing. Two little girls with pink bathing suits walk slowly around, one with her eyes closed, the other guiding her. Small boys learn how to dive by flopping on their bellies, over and over again. Pregnant women, trim men ready to swim laps at noon, old women limping, and babies feeling the summer sun for the first time--we're all there. Everyone squirts on the sunscreen but manages to be berry-brown anyway. (You should see me with my bathing-suit tan. You'd never believe that I live in Seattle.)

I’ve made friends there, especially my 73-year-old friend, Mary. She's alive, feisty, deeply kind, and unswervingly fashionable. She's the one who told me where to find the best pedicures in Seattle. I adore her. Her throaty giggle fills the air above the chlorine-blue water every morning. This afternoon, after our watery social hour, she took me out to lunch at Ray’s Boathouse. She has been wanting me to meet her daughter, Maureen. A lovely person. Mary has told me stories for months about Maureen's daughter, who is a twelve-year-old writer. And she is. I read a couple of her poems, and I was moved. Immediately, I wanted to meet her, start working with her, start talking with my hands about the joy of writing and how it's okay to look at the world differently than everyone else. Mary also brought her friend Lee, who’s visiting from Tucson. Oh god, what a character. She had that wispy-thin, old-lady hair, and it had been dyed bright orange, like carrot soup. She wore these sunglasses that took up half her face, rose lenses and intricate, 18-karat-gold frames. Elton John would have tried to steal them from her. She talked about her husband of 58 years, who just died this year, whom she referred to as Papa. And how Papa took her jewelry shopping all around the world and never looked at the bills. She wore three or four gold necklaces, about twelve gold bracelets, and managed to have such a sense of humor about herself that I ended up adoring her too.

We were sitting at the outdoor cafe, in the sun. I had my back to the water, but I could see the vast expanse of Puget Sound behind me in the windows. The mountains gleaming blue, and white sailboats dotting the blueberry-colored water. And my arms could feel the sun. Now, I have a sunburn down the back of my arms that’s going to throb tonight. We drank gin and tonics, ate salmon with fennel and mashed potatoes, moaned at the citrus creme brulee, and laughed for three hours. And Mary wouldn’t let me pay for a thing.

Isn’t it amazing how people just drop into your life?

2004-07-20T00:03:00.000-07:00

An Affair to Remember?

Yesterday, after taking Carlos to the airport, I returned home and crawled into bed. Roused myself up for a long yoga class, which turned into a private tutorial, since no one else showed up. Then I stopped at the video store, ambled home, and stayed in bed all day. I felt so decadent. Feeling sentimental, I rented An Affair to Remember, which I had never seen. Women sob about this movie. There's an entire motif of it in Sleepless in Seattle. Do you know it? Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell sob into their popcorn, talking about it, talking about how people just don’t fall in love like that anymore.

I don't understand. I mean, yeah, the bantering between Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr was scintillating. Leo McCarey knew how to write. And it was thrilling to see a woman onscreen be as snotty and daring as I can be when I’m with a man I like. I’m relentless. So was she. But it was also over-sappy, saturated with color, and filled with strange musical numbers. At one point, after this off-screen accident, she becomes a music teacher, and the little children gather around to sing for her. In the middle of it, the two incongruously placed black children break out from the back and start doing a little dance. Goodness, was this 1958's version of equality?

Also, the ending is contingent upon her having been in a car accident and not wanting to tell him that she's paralyzed now, in a wheelchair. She’s trying to be brave, because she doesn’t want to be vulnerable for him. She doesn’t want him to feel like he’s responsible for her. But for godssakes, wouldn't you tell Cary Grant that you're disabled just to have him give you a back rub? Sorry for the rant, but that was really strange. It saddens me, really. God, falling in love is the most mysterious, gorgeous spinning experience, mostly beyond words. But so many of the archetypal romantic comedies are just plain dumb.

2004-07-19T23:57:00.000-07:00

some highlights of my time with Carlos:

--Macrina Bakery, egg bialy sandwich loaded with smoky bacon. An array of baked goods lining the table. Coffee steaming hot. And we’re having breakfast on a summer day in Seattle.

--Strolling through the neighborhood on a slow morning, Carlos telling me about the chapters in his dissertation. I had been dreading the 250 pages to read, a bit. But when he talked, I could see the order in my mind. Editing is like that for me--deeply physical. It’s like unearthing ideas from a mound of dirt. It’s like whittling away everything that isn’t necessary to reveal the sculpted form below. And in giving this to a writer, I can see the liberation on his face. So four days of reading academic prose was worth it, entirely, for the joy in Carlos’ eyes.

--Walking through the PCC in Fremont, enormous windows pouring sunlight on the produce. Walking slowly, to smell everything around us. “Carlos, do you want some cherries?” He took one into his mouth, then closed his eyes, and moaned. I’ll take that as a yes. The cart quickly filling with rosy mangoes, black plums, sweet peaches, ripe blueberries, plump raspberries, and a dozen fresh vegetables for salads. God, the bounty of summer. Add to that, bright red wild Alaskan salmon steaks, a mound of herbed goat cheese made on Bainbridge Island, and blue cheese-stuffed Greek olives. I thought that Carlos would faint by the end of the store.

--Perambulating in Parsons Gardens, listening to Carlos talk about his job. And even though I care, I’ve heard him complain before. And those roses in the northwest corner are threatening to explode. So I lean down, close my eyes, and smell. Thoughts stop. I’m there.
Later, Carlos said, “I thought you were going to gobble up the flowers on that walk.”

--Bouncing in the pool and trying not to laugh in Carlos’s direction. Gamely, he was in Hydro-fit with me, at the outdoor pool. The sun shining on our heads. And Carlos nearly drowning. His waist belt wasn’t working, and he was flailing. He wasn’t naturally comfortable in the water anyway. But he was trying. And he was still talking. So he’d try to say a sentence, over the din of the senior citizens babbling to each other, and the inappropriate hip-hop music, and his head would bob backward. His dark curly hair was soaked. And suddenly, the water crept up above his mouth. He’d spray water everywhere and awkwardly thrash about until he was above the surface. And then do it again. When I pointed out that he could try these exercises in the shallow end, he moved like a drunken chicken toward the north end of the pool. And when he hit solid ground, he said, “Oh thank the lord in heaven!”

--Introducing Carlos to the joys of Unclefucker. I told him about the South Park movie, which he had somehow never seen. (And if any of you reading this has still not seen that movie, shame on you. Run and rent it now.) And the joys of listening to this song outside of Baraboo, Wisconsin with Sharon. So I found the mix cd in my case and slid it in to listen. And we laughed our full-throated chuckles together through the fart medley. And hit the button to play it again. We played it again and again. Walking through the house days later, Carlos would be softly singing, “Shut your fucking face, Unclefucker.” I made a mix cd for him, with that as the first song. And every day, we drove down 99 with the sunroof open, shouting the lyrics at the top of our heads, laughing.

--Stomping in the squishy black mud of the tidal pools with Elliott, on Vashon. He smeared himself with mud--all over his green shorts, his bare arms, his cheeks. Andy and Dana didn’t mind. Everything can be washed. So the little boy (clearly, no longer a baby) felt the mud between his toes, the squirt of clams beneath the surface, and the spray of water in his hair. And I was there to dance him around. Twirling him, his head and body spinning out, and all I can see is the wide smile on his face.

--Eating lunch at Fred’s Homegrown on Vashon, my brother and Carlos talking about the ease that being in a loving relationship with someone for years can bring. And listening to them both, instead of feeling jealous of their experience, all I could feel is how much I love them both.

--After dropping off Carlos at Tita and John’s, I drove Andy back to Lisabuela to join Dana and Elliott at the picnic. One last hug from the little guy. And then I’m on my own, for the first time in days. Driving the roads I once knew so well, the back roads of Vashon. And I turn up the music and roll down the windows, and drive back to Cove Road. Green trees and winding roads, houses only occasionally dotting the fields, and long minutes without any sign of human beings. Just arching trees and sky. For the first time in months, I’m enjoying driving.

--Dinner at Wild Ginger, Saturday night. Carlos and I talking about the people we both were seven years ago, when we met in that terrible graduate school class at NYU.

Introduction to American Studies. Eighteen turgidly written books in twelve weeks, which no one read. But everyone “interrogated” them, for hegemonic tendencies. And not only that, but every week, we had to answer the question: “What is American Studies?” Arrggh. It was like setting two empty mirrors against each other and watching the echo.

Carlos has said that he knew he wanted to be my friend on the last day of class. Our professor asked us to discuss, once again, “Just what is American Studies?” As we went around the circle, people spewed (and yes, I use that word deliberately) toadying statements about counter-hegemonic interrogations, questioning heteronormativity, and other mumblety-pegs I have blocked out deliberately. When the professor reached me, I looked up from the paper where I had been writing, and said, “Well, American Studies seems to me like an 18-year-old having an identity crisis. Full of wonderful, questioning energy, but lacking the solidity of an adult who knows who he is.” And then I went back to my crossword puzzle. The professor simply looked at me agape. Several students glared at me as though they would fling some of those turgidly written books at me. But I had spoken my piece. And thank goodness I gained Carlos’ friendship out of it.

So we talked about who we had been those early autumn days of 1997. And who we are now. God, I love being in my late 30s now. The calm. The quiet. The lack of need to impress. The way that watching the world feels far more important than watching myself. I can’t even imagine how great the 40s are going to be.

Oh, and the ahi tuna bruschetta was fantastic. And have you tried the lychee nut martini?

--After yoga classes, long hours of editing, Top Pot doughnuts on a sunny day, talking into the night, a party on Friday, brunches and dinners, laughter in silly giggles, and endless conversations about the dissertation, it’s time for Carlos to go home. Comfortable silence in the car on the way to the airport. One more Unclefucker at full blast as we approach the check-in drive. Long hugs at the curb. And the deepest feeling, of how vast and loving my life has become. New York, London, Los Angeles, Sitka, Seattle--these are my homes. And they have all been populated with people dear to my heart. Carlos, and a dozen more, in this summer alone. And the moments just keep coming. How much I have been given.

--Driving home, exhausted, looking at the schmutz in the sky from too little rain, sunroof open, Seattle in the distance, music blaring, and nowhere to go but home. The full pleasure of five days with Carlos. And now, time alone.

And now I can go back to my novel.

2004-07-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

Party at my house

Carlos has been visiting since Tuesday night, which is why I have been silent here for days. More about his visit later. About the chance to introduce him to the joys of Seattle summer food. Or the mind-bending work of editing his PhD dissertation (hey! I'm on summer vacation! but he's my dear friend. There's no other choice but give when it comes to my friends). And today we're headed to Vashon.

But last night, I had a party in his honor. The most people I've had in my home at one time since returning from Sitka. It was a good party. Carlos is so fucking hilarious, and the two of us set each other off. After listening to us tell our stories of taking the Hydro-fit class (in which Carlos nearly drowned, but I'd have to do the physical gestures in person), or him trying to adjust to a yoga pose this morning, or just wildly gesticulating as we described my editing his dissertation, my friend Amy said, "I wish I could just have a videotape of the two of you walking through your day. It's like a Seinfeld episode." (And damn, that was a long sentence.) I love introducing all my friends to each other. It's one of my favorite activities in life. Eric brought frozen Tombstone pizza (!), but he had thought of bringing pigs in a blanket. And then he proceeded to make me laugh so hard that I nearly burst my spleen. Typical. Jim arrived unexpectedly from Chicago, and he pontificated from the couch. Tamara showed off her new red shoes and talked with Carlos about the history of the Dominican Republic. And then they figured out that they both just finished the third book in the Proust series, yesterday. Annie, Pattie, and their friend whose name I never caught (but it's something like Jarsheesh? Is that possible?) begged me to tell Pierce Brosnan stories, and Eric was so eager to hear the Grey Owl one again that he nearly begged. Amy and Paul brought over Maui Sweet Onion chips, and we stood in the kitchen talking and reaching and decimated that bag in five minutes flat. My neighbors from downstairs came up, bearing platters filled with homemade bruschetta and this fabulous heap of linguine with fresh mozarella, zucchini, succulent tomatoes, and kalamata olives. (Damn, I live in the right place.) And three people I only barely knew--they were all Tuney's friends, but she's golden with me, so whatever--showed up at 10:45. We practiced trying to balance on my exercise ball, spontaneously. And then we played Apples to Apples (have you played this? genius.) while lying on the floor on our stomachs.

There was much laughter. Of course. And no one got drunk. And they all left at midnight. Perfect party.

Well, of course, except for your absence.

2004-07-12T22:36:00.000-07:00

Bad pain day.

I remember when I was a kid, growing up in Southern California, this wacky weatherman named Dr. Arthur Fishbeck used to come on television on certain summer mornings. In his tweed jacket and bow tie, his wacky Groucho glasses, and his wild gesticulations, he was hard to take seriously. But still, he determined my fate for the day. Because on certain summer days, this hammy man came on television and said, “Today’s going to be a red flag smog alert day.” Groan. The sky was always grey in those days, in the Pomona Valley in the 1970s. I don’t remember it ever being blue, except on a few days of October. Even then, it was pale blue. But during the summer, the gunk in the air covered the mountains, which were only forty miles away. The air breathed brown. And on those red-flag smog alert days, Dr. Fishbeck said, “Don’t go outside, unless you absolutely have to.” And so, I was stuck in the house, trying not to breathe. I lay on the floor, reading books, or listening to the Beatles on the headphones, not moving, staying away from the windows. Only in the evening, after the sun had set, could I move into the backyard, and slip into the pool.

Luckily, the air in Seattle is infinitely more clear. Unfortunately, my body is not. And today, in my body, it’s a red-flag alert day. I’ve been feeling tender since I returned from Sitka. My back is still creaky, my shoulder still aches, and my left knee is kinked up from all the limping. Great. It’s like I’m back in March. But when the sun outside is limpid, and the air so warm that I want to be waterskiing on Lake Washington (not that I ever have, but you know. I could.), it’s harder to sit on the bed than it was in March. I moved slowly for the first week back, silent and happy. But in the last three days, I’ve been seeing people in droves. Dinner with Daniel and Jeff in the garden, pizza and beer in the twilight, hugs on the driveway at the end of the night. Vanessa for coffee, with lots of happy babbling on both sides. School people, whom I love. But the thought of school returning makes me feel a little ill. All that bustle and responsibility. All that noise. And the noise in Victrola today drove the headache up. Another headache. Welcome back.

And I’ve been doing Hydro-fit at the Magnolia pool or walking through Discovery Park or doing yoga in the living room every day, sometimes twice a day. Trying to make my muscles strong, so everything doesn’t feel so tenuous. But maybe it has been too much. And I spent most of the day cleaning, preparing for all my lovely visitors. But maybe it was too much. Because I’m done now.

Nobody wants to hear about the pain again. I don’t want to talk about it again.

Suffice it to say that I couldn’t work on the novel all evening, because my arms hurt too much again. I suppose that I’ve been writing too much. God, but after six months of not being able to eat a word, it’s hard not to gobble them up for hours. And here I go again.

But I know how to listen now. To turn off that insistent voice that says, “Go outside. Jump! Play! Leap and be free! Or at least take a walk around the neighorhood.” Instead, I’m on the bed, watching movies, trying to rest. Again.

And if I can't gobble up words.... Well, I bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia. Why not.

Just so you know--as beautiful as my life is right now, and as much as I appreciate the moments as they come; it’s not all sweetness and light around here.

This is hard work.

2004-07-11T23:51:00.000-07:00

"I don't know where I'm going. But I do know that I'm walking."

This afternoon, I took an unexpected, magic walk in Discovery Park. I love this place, this expansive park on the edge of the water in Seattle. Seven years ago, I went there for the first time. Blown open by grief about something potent, I drove there, blindly, moving my body to hug the curves of the road. And I hiked along the bluffs, into the trees, and found a bench not covered in rain water. And wrote, for hours, about something I had never been able to tell before. Since then, it has been one of my sacred spaces.

So why am I not there every day?

Now that I live in Queen Anne, it’s only a twelve-minute drive to the entrance of Discovery Park. And yet, I have only been there a handful of times in the last three years. A walk with Meri, her sister, and brother-in-law, in the rain, when I was heartroken about a relationship that just broke up and nearly incapable of speaking. A picnic with my family, years ago, just before I moved to New York, and every one of them angry with me and not able to say it. Picking berries with Jessica and Brian until our hands were stained purple and our calves covered in scratches from the thorns. A glorious, stumbling run in the early autumn, when I was just starting to run seriously, dreaming of a marathon for my fortieth birthday, before the car accident cut short that dream.

This afternoon, I had been writing. But there was also the house to clean for Carlos’ visit on Tuesday. (yea, Carlos!) And phone calls to return. And a nap, possibly. But mostly, my body had started to hurt. No Hydro-fit this morning. No yoga. An indolent morning instead. And my neck began its achy, seizing dance. (“Reber, I need a neck rub.”) Within an hour, I knew I’d have the migraine sprouting from the muscles bunching densely in my neck. And so, I needed to move.

I’ve been walking around my neighborhood for days, slowly dropping into my space. But this afternoon, the sky loomed enormously blue. The air warm as baby’s breath. I just couldn’t be around people. I wanted to be in the woods. So, without thinking about it too much, I let the car drive me to Discovery Park.

I cinched up my sturdy, Salomon hiking shoes, the ones I didn’t wear in Sitka this year, improbably. There, I dressed up every day. Here, I’m wearing my Moroccan pants, the baby-blue tank top, and my hiking shoes. Nearly everywhere. I had my iPod, of course. And when I stepped out of the car, the warmth of the air caressed my shoulders as I turned on the music.

I downloaded Rufus Wainwright’s new ep from iTunes, and I listened to it, over and over, the entire walk. (I still don’t understand how this works. I open a page on the web--and I don’t know how that exists either--press a button, and within fifteen minutes, there are four new songs on my computer. I connect this slender white cord to my computer and wait. After a few moments of it dangling from my keyboard, I have new songs I can carry through Discovery Park. Really, the world is amazing.) I love his music. Lush and honest. Deeply harmonic and simple lyrics. Self-conscious and cutting through it at the same time. Solemn and funny. And I can tell when certain songs are going to seep into my consciousness, because I have to listen to them ten or fifteen times in a row until I know every word.

So I took off walking, at my own slow pace, in no rush at all. “I don’t know where I’m going. But I do know that I’m walking. Where? I don’t know. Just away from this love affair,” Rufus was singing in my ears, and I was nodding, already moved. And not just by his voice, his lyrics, and the eerie ability of music to match exactly what is happening in my life. But also by the trees above me. Ten minutes from a parking lot, and I’m hiking uphill, my muscles already loosening, slowly. I look up, and I can’t see the sky for the dense interlacing of leaves, entangled with each other, stretching across the path. And I’m in the middle of a city.

Another few moments, and the path circles around the park, within it, skirting away from teh city. But to my left, jumping out from among the trees, are white tombstones on a green field. It’s always there.

But after a few more moments, and another turn through the songs, I’ve stopped thinking. I’ve entered the part of the path with ancient, enormous trees. They stretch far into the sky, their many limbs branching out toward the ground with far more grace than I can ever muster. No matter how slowly I am walking, and thinking, all my turnings and wonderings feel frantic next to their girth and silence. They make a patch of shade as large as my home. I want to curl up under one and fall asleep, safe in their arms. Or just look up at the broad green leaves, overlapping and making darker green shadows, fanning themselves out against the rich blue July sky.

I’m smiling, now. I’m starting to sweat, the muscles in my back relaxing.

Within another few moments, I turned a gentle corner and opened into an enormous vista. On the right, blond-wheat-grass-colored hills, gently sloping down, toward the bluffs on my left. Abutting the water. Puget Sound, sparkling and blue, waiting. Blue water, white sails, and a large cruise ship just taken off, probably headed to Alaska. And the Olympic mountains, rising craggy and blue, above the blue-grey land.

I stopped walking, for a moment, spinning around and around, trying to take in the entire sky with my eyes. I couldn’t. I just felt my mind grow wider and wider with each turn.

And in the distance, a small black kite, like a hawk, soaring and dipping in the sky.

I walked even more slowly, running my hand along the tall grasses along the path, feeling their soft scratch in my palm.

Enter into the trees again, after that patch of dazzling sun. And here, dozens of low-lying bushes along my legs, with glossy green leaves. Pale purple blossoms where the blackberries will be, a month from now, just after my birthday. And the smell of summer hits me: days of warmth, acrid green leaves, a slight sweetness, and everything refulgent. Except refulgent means light, the way something can shine from within. Is there a smell version of this word? If so, I would use it here, the way the smell of everything offers itself up to those of us passing in the moment.

And it’s quiet. All the fast people have passed me. And it’s just me and the trees. And Rufus Wainwright walking with me, the soundtrack to my own life. Sometimes, not being able to hear everything makes every sight more potent.

Almost to the parking lot now, about three miles in. I pass a little family: a mom and dad my age, or a little older, looking harried and happy. Oldest boy with a walking stick and Australian hat, feeling important as the first of the line. A little girl in pink, maybe three, holding onto the straps of her dad’s backpack dangling down, saying Hubba Hubba over and over again, just to play with the sound. And as I pass, I see the little boy in the backpack, just over one, looking at me intently. And when I smile at him, his face breaks open in lovely joy. And he waves at me.

Sometimes I feel so in love with the world. It’s physical, not an emotional decision at all. It’s along my entire body. And when I am that in love with the world, as I was in those moments of walking toward the parking lot, I feel like my heart will burst. And I welcome it. Finally, I can remove that final skein that separates me from the world.

I’m moving slowly now, but this time to feel the juicy openness of all my muscles. I pass the last open field. Two men throwing a red frisbee, their arms loose and bent toward each other. A little girl in the middle, wearing Mickey Mouse sunglasses, and grinning at everyone going by.

I know how she feels.

And as I walk toward the car, I see pair of pale white feet hanging out the window of a long green car, bouncing to a song on the radio.

And my body feels alive.

2004-07-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

SUNDAY MORNING

I'm having an indolent Sunday morning. That's one of my favorite words of the moment: indolent.

I woke up after almost nine hours of sleep, naturally, with no alarm clock. I slowly shift my body in the bed and let the breeze coming through the window open my eyes. Such a humane way to live. That way, I remember my dreams. And there have been some vivid ones lately.

I made a full pot of coffee as soon as I talked myself into rising. I used up the last of my Raven's Brew from Sitka two days ago, and I miss it. But this Caffe Vitta blend from Macrina Bakery ain't bad either.

I unrolled the Sunday New York Times. Now, this is one of my peculiar habits. One of my favorite moments of the week is opening the enormous pile of papers in the Sunday New York Times, then sorting the sections. I go through and throw all the sections I'm not going to read (mostly the business and sports sections) to the right of me. And then I go through all the rest of the sections and pile them up in placement by the order I want to read them.

Styles section first. Yes, silly, I know. But they have this weddings section, with photos of the couples and details of their lives, that usually shares good stories of how people met. And you know me and the stories. I like the improbable ones best. That section is also the most tongue-in-cheek of the entire paper, which suits me just fine. It's also my fix of silly New York doings. After I'm done reading those stories, I feel happy that I don't live there anymore. I'm also happy that I had the experiences I did so I know what I'm disdaining.

Arts and Leisure next, which is a whopping big section on dance, theatre, movies, television, and music. I'm usually inspired by one of the artists, inspired enough to write down a quote in my idea book for later perusal. This morning, it was Mark Morris, diva dancer and choreographer who adores music. "With my company, sometimes I say, 'That's nice, but it's not inhabited.' I tell them that it looks like footprints painted on the floor. Learning the steps is only like learning the notes, but I want more."

And then I write down ideas for the novel in my little idea book for the next half hour.

At this point, I'm on my third cup of coffee and have eaten my chicken sausage and five-grain cereal. And this morning, nearly half a pint of organic raspberries I bought at the farmers' market yesterday. They were so damned good. When I ate the first one, while standing by the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish dripping, I spontaneously rose to my toes and shouted. Ah, pure sweetness with enough tartness at the end to make me come back for more.

And also at this point, my fingers are blackened from the newsprint, so I have to rise from the bed to wash my hands. Magazine next, which is glossy paper. No hint of stain. But also the more serious news, the longer pieces, the ones that make me wince about the world. Since I read everything thoroughly, it's quite the bulk of information. But since I read fast, it has only been an hour and a half. Time for a break.

And so I'm writing to you.

I might go back to the book review, the travel section, the front page. Or I might let them languish on the floor next to my bed for the next couple of days. It's time to move into the world now. I'm going to take a long walk downtown, slowly, while listening to music. (Maybe the Beatles this morning.) I'm meeting two of my favorite Seattle students, who both graduated a month ago. They're brilliant and talented and spazzy, two of my favorite people in the world. Eager to see me, and me them. I know they'll have stories. So we're meeting at Top Pot doughnuts, which makes, undeniably, the best doughnuts in the city. If not the world. Seriously. If you ever come visit Seattle, I'll take you there. There will be hilarity and serious conversations both.

And then I'll come home on the bus, opened by the contact with other people. And write for a few hours. Then feel utterly alive.

So I'd better go and start that.

Oh, and I really have to clean my kitchen.

2004-07-10T23:21:00.000-07:00

I'm slowly coming back to myself, and even more slowly entering my world in Seattle. Everything here feels too big, too loud, too much. But not quite as much as it did last week. Funny how we change, all the time. Four years ago, I was living in New York, the country's capitol of concentrations of color and swirling bodies, noise, fast-damn pace and everything important. NOW!! When I came back to Seattle for my first visit after moving there, my brother kept saying, "Slow down. Stop walking so fast!" But I had adjusted my heartbeat to that city's pace, and it moved fast. But that's the funny thing about New York. Everything moves so fast, even the need for that city. By the time I moved away (three years ago, this month), I had just about drained my desire to live at that pace. I missed seeing the sky. I missed hearing birds in the trees. I missed the sound of quiet out the windows. And so I left. Seattle seemed like such a sweet little town in July of 2001.

But everything changes. That's the only truth I know.

Because here I am now, thinking that Seattle is just much too loud for me. There are too many people, too many smells, too many choices. At heart, I'm just a small-town girl, more and more as I grow older. Which is funny, because I've only lived in one small town. Grew up in Southern California, where the car reigned supreme. But even as a little kid, I knew something was wrong. Even though I had never seen that many of them, I longed to see trees. And really, should the cement of the sidewalks and the color of the sky be the same? Then I went to school in Tacoma, which smelled perpetually like a wet paper bag full of sauerkraut. At least this time there were pine trees. And then New York. Where life is like dog years, so even though I only lived there for four, it feels like 28. It's where I grew up, actually. London for a year--another big city. Sleepier, certainly. But still, that choking smoke from exhaust pipes and strangers on the street. Time in Europe. More New York. And now Seattle.

There were the five years on Vashon, and more and more, that place is calling my name again. It's the same size as Manhattan in width, and two miles longer. Only nine thousand people live there. Not one of them a single man, unfortunately. That's part of what drove me away when I was 30--because I'd never meet a man who didn't mud bog on the weekends and lived with his mother unless I moved. And I also left because I had never really lived by the time I was 30. This, another story. I'll never regret my time in New York.

But I love the fact there isn't a single stoplight on the entire island. There are four or five stop signs on the main highway, but that's it. People know each other there. That's part of what I hunger for, again. The way people care for each other. I remember two summers ago, when Sharon and I were on our cross-country trip, and we had stopped in Pierre, South Dakota for a day. We stayed with her childhood friend, Stacey, who had lived in that fairly small town for most of her adult life. I asked her if she ever minded it, only knowing so many people, and she looked confused. "No. I like it. People can't cut each other off on the road, because they know they're going to see each other at the grocery store the next day. And you want to stop and talk to the guy who runs the gas station, because he's your only source for fuel." She talked in a low, soft voice, which came from deep in her body. Her two children were asleep inside the house. We were sitting in the backyard ingesting enormous root beer shakes, which had cost $1.89 at the local ice cream place. And we were watching shooting stars dance above us in the night sky.

That's what I want now. I've had more excitement in my life than most people. You'd have to be patient enough to sit for days and days, just to hear the stories. And I love the stories. But mroe and more--and maybe it's because I'm closer to forty--I don't really want to live my life for the stories anymore. I don't have anything left to prove. I just want to live in a place that's quiet, to match the quiet in my mind.

So Vashon's calling again. Of course, Andy, Dana, and Elliott are over there, and that's a lure. Tita and I could walk together every evening along Cove Road and never run out of conversation. Julie and I could sit in her beautiful kitchen trading notes and cooking for days and still not be bored. And I could write my novel on KVI beach. Maybe I'm ready to give up on the search for the man anyway. There have been a bunch of men since I moved to New York--serious relationships; funny flirtations; long-distance crushes; and some inappropriate stories. But Seattle doesn't seem ready to reveal my match. And I think I'd rather have that beach than any more blind dates.

There's Alaska, too. Ah, Sitka, my second home in the world. There's something about it that calls to me, in a low, soft voice, deep in my body. That vastness. The shifting water. The trees, those green trees, that I dreamed of as a kid. And more. But that would be a big leap of faith, to move to Alaska. I've done it before. I live my life by leaps of faith, and I always feel more alive by the time I reach the other shore. But I don't know.

Mostly, I don't know. That still seems like the most honest statement in the world.

What I do know is that I'm here, in Seattle, the night sky dark midnight blue out my window. The cars have stopped racing down the street. Queen Anne has become a sleepy small town for the night. I've been out all day. Bobbing in the pellucid blue pool in Magnolia, with Jessica. Walking slowly through the farmer's market: fresh basil goat cheese; just-picked Rainier cherries; organic dill; beet greens; squeaky cheese curds; a bunch of sweet peas. Meeting Meri for cinnamon doughnuts and coffee, at the place just down the street from her new place in Capitol Hill. Eating crab crepes with avocado sauce, while drinking margaritas, with Tuney and her two friends. And then attending a fabulous dance performance at the Paramount, with one of my students on stage. Five soon-to-be-seniors ran up to me in the lobby, smiling and calling my name, and I almost didn't recognize them. Too soon to think about school. But I gave them hugs and asked about their summers. Then moved away. The day ended with a concentration of color and swirling bodies, people up on their feet in the aisles, and my hips swaying to the beat. "Celebration....." Everybody singing. Everybody dancing. And for a few moments, no thoughts. Just joy.

So where will I be this time next year? I don't know. Where am I right now? Here.

2004-07-09T18:02:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in Macrina Bakery in the late afternoon, taking a break from the novel for a sip of my soy latte. And the chance to write to you. There are crumbs of my buttermilk biscuit on the table. And dollops of strawberry jam. Gathering rainclouds outside.

I have no wild strawberries to share with you.

I have only hours of sleep, quiet conversations, and time to think. But my writing has come to life again these past few days, after months of it being dormant. I feel as though my wings are unfurling from that tight ball, and I'm just learning how to fly again. I've been writing for six or eight hours a day, the words pouring forth in some kind of deluge of grace.

I'd like to say that I'll be done with the novel by the end of this summer, but I've learned my lesson on that. Life interrupts you when you announce your plans firmly. Last year, after camp, I promised myself---swore to myself--that I would be done with the first draft by the time I went back. I imagined carrying the fat manuscript to Sitka, with pages to edit and scenes to flourish at people. I didn't imagine crumpled green metal, shooting pains in my head, an ache in my arms so bad I couldn't lift them, and four months without being able to write for longer than fifteen minutes. So I have no way of knowing what this year between camps will bring. I won't even try to imagine it.

But I do know that this life has changed me, unutterably. And I'm grateful for it.

So I'm trying to practice, in writing and loving, what I have learned from meditation: there is no goal. The path is the goal. The tough practice of staying open, remaining loving, writing, no matter what happens--it doesn't lead me anywhere but to more of the same. That is my work. And so I have decided to write, in this small, imperfect space, with a leaky blue pen. Write to say that I miss you. Write to let the words pour forth, not needing to know what they are forming. Write as a way of walking the path, stumbling along the way.

And the more I write, the more writing appears. And the more I love, the more love blooms open. The more life blooms open. My nephew giggled his face and showed me an entire row of white teeth when I picked him up this morning. We walked Seward Park together, me pointing out the looming green trees and floating ducks and raindrops on his hand. And he repeating the words back, in his baby voice, practicing the sounds. And later, he snuggled onto my shoulder and fell asleep.

Right now, outside, there's a small girl in a striped-red shirt, wearing a long blue cape, and carrying a turquoise light saber. And one green mitten. She's kneeling down to pet a small, shivering dog, which is tied to a metal table. There's such love in her eyes, as she scratches him behind the ears. And at this moment, nothing else exists, except watching this girl, and loving the world.

And sharing it with you.

All my love,
Shauna

2004-07-07T22:41:00.000-07:00

I finally feel like I'm home. It has been a balm to return to hours and hours of alone time. After the last, packed days of school--with dozens of voices calling “Shauna. Shauna? Shauna!”--and the densely packed two weeks of camp--with artshares and conversations in the elevator and teaching more students--I’m finally alone. Just me, in the house. Nothing to do but read. Or write for another hour. Or take a nap. Finally. It's finally summer, and my body is going to heal more fully.

I'm still missing Sitka, although I probably have more time to miss it than most of my colleagues do. They have rushed back to their office jobs (I’m sorry, you guys. And have you seen The Office yet?) or family vacations, or more camps ((Kristin's halfway through a bass camp in Oakland, right now). One of my friends wrote to me today, saying, “I can’t believe that I just saw you last week. It feels like years ago now.” Not for me. But because I didn't have to rush back to work or move onto another camp, I've had time to really digest my time there. I’ve had days to chew on those moments, savoring the sweetest ones, then letting them go. I feel cleansed.

One of my friends, Jessica, said this morning, of the montage I sent out (and posted here this evening): "My god, the images you have held in your head. I can't take that much in, much less keep it." But that’s me. Wide-open eyes. Everything an experience. If I want to be here, it’s all beautiful. This morning, I walked too quickly past my kitchen counter and brushed against the container of almonds I had forgotten to close. With a loud flourish, dozens and dozens of brown almonds fanned out against the white floor in slow motion. I looked back at it, and laughed. I know that other people might have been annoyed. I might be too, in another moment. But in this one, I just laughed. So I kneeled down to pick them up. And then I slowed down. Instead of rushing to have them all off the floor, why not feel each one as I was picking it up? Call it the five-minute rule, instead of the five second. So I felt my knees on the hard floor, felt the shape of each almond as I picked it up--chipped or sheared in half or furrowed diamond--and felt the breeze coming through the window at the moment on my right cheek. And in the middle of it, I slowed down enough to feel this: This is life. Just one of these moments after another. Picking up almonds could be a sanctified activity, if we only remembered to experience it.

And then I stood up, because my knees hurt.

Strangely, the more deeply I focus on the images of my life, the more quickly they pass through me. The ones I don’t look at it are the ones that tug.

“The only way out is through.” --Albert Camus

And when life feels slow like this, I’m walking around feeling almost broken-hearted. I don’t mean that in the romantic way of Cole Porter songs and easy-to-hum pop songs. I mean, broken-open-hearted. I was trying to tell Reber about this in Sitka, on one of the first days I could walk again. I don't know if he understood. When I’m walking slowly, I feel it all. I’m not rushing to impress or do the work I think will give me more stature with people or ticking off the perpetual to-do list in my head that never diminishes. Those are all just a wall against feeling, a way to convince ourselves that we don’t have time to listen. Listen to that little empty ache at the bottom of our stomachs, the ache that means we’re not truly loving or doing the work that makes us feel most alive. When I’m walking slowly, I’m just here. And when I’m here, everything breaks my heart. In the feeling-the-connections way. In sensing the ephemerality, the sweet evanescence, the way it’s more gorgeous for the fact that it’s all going to end soon way. And the pure absurdity of life way--how we strive and strain and hide from ourselves. And how easy it is to see when you’re just walking slowly.

Since I returned home, I've done as close to nothing as possible. Hours to write. Long walks in the evening. Sleeping for nine hours a night. Talking with friends on the phone. Hydro-fit classes with my 70-year-old friends. Indolence in the afternoon.

This morning, I thought I had the germy viral infection my brother had on Saturday. Slightly queasy. A little fever. Logey. So instead of pushing it, I sat up in bed, propped up on pillows, back on the heating pad. Why not? And I watched Return of the King, over the course of six or seven hours. God, I love that movie. I had to keep stopping, for food or naps or a break from the violence. Since the car accident, I’m such a ninny. I feel every act of violence I see. I felt so invigorated from watching that film, though, not only because it’s fucking awesome (there’s good writer language for you), but also because I sensed all the love and determination and courage it took for all the artists to finish it that way. I cried and cried, especially when Sam said, “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you.” And he muscled Frodo onto his back and lumbered up that mountain, slowly, out of pure love.

Yes. That’s what I want. That’s how I want to be in the world.

When else am I going to have an entire day to watch one movie and ponder it for hours? I love summer vacation. A real sense of rest.

Why is it so hard for us to rest?

But mostly, after these days of lying low and processing, I feel like I'm back. The novel is taking over my life. When I read Jessica’s comment about how many images I hold, I wanted to giggle. What I wanted to say was, "You should see the images in my head that I haven't told you yet." Letting go of Sitka is opening the door for my characters to come flooding back in. And oh, are they talking to me again. In urgent voices, filled with passion.

In fact, I have to stop writing here now, so I can listen to them.

So I'm good. Feeling alive and whole. Feeling profoundly changed, in some way, after Sitka. And feeling like I have no way to name that change. That's okay.

I'm just here.

2004-07-07T22:02:00.000-07:00

SITKA MONTAGE 2004

I’m tired almost beyond recognition, but I still have to write a few words, since it’s my first night in Sitka. I love this place so much that there really aren’t any words. Walking around downtown, being in the Back Door, landing among those green-brown dots of islands amidst the water--it all feels like home. This place has become so much a part of me that I cannot find the words. But of course, I’m still going to search.

Staying in the nursing home, the windows overlooking downtown Sitka. Korb and I are sharing a bathroom. This is going to be trouble. We’re not going to get any sleep for the talking.

At dinner the first night, I felt this wave of melancholy go over me as people began introducing themselves. I didn’t feel alienated. Quite the opposite. I felt enlivened and loved, as we all talked about the love we feel for this place and each other. Instead, I felt the pain in my shoulders and neck anew. Looking out at the blue-grey mountains, I could remember the way I felt in my body this time last year. I felt good. I felt exuberant. I felt unscathed. No more. I don’t have my usual energy. I have had such a hard time. And here I was, at this dinner with people I love, and I had to leave early. Last year, I had all this crazy, bounding energy. I felt alive and shrieking much of the time. Now, I feel quieter. More at ease, certainly. But not able to open my jaws so wide to smile. And I can’t quite capture that back

All the faculty seated in a wide semi-circle of chairs, in front of the students sprawled out on the floor. And as each one of us stood up to talk  (to say our names, and where we’re from, and any camp story we have), I fell in love with the camp all over again. There are plenty of creaky places here--staying in the nursing home is not much fun--but nothing will stop me from enjoying this place. Especially now that classes have begun. And so, we defined ourselves, and the experience of the kids, by talking in exultant tones of love.

I can see this time, having been here twice before, how much we create our own experience. In the first meetings and dinners, we comment on how much we love it, those of us who have been here before. And in doing so, we set the tone for what the camp might be like for everyone else. Now, two days in, we’re already confirming what we thought that first night. And every time we do, we just build that sense of goodness more and more. By the end of the two weeks, it will be a frenzy of love and admiration. And we’ll leave, exhausted, and ready to re-create the place again next year. It’s amazing how much we choose our own moods.

Early morning at the nursing home, the attendants talking loudly at 5:30 in the morning. There will be no sleep in this place. So instead of fighting it, I open my door to the hallway and walk toward the babbling, happy noise. “Kiran!” I squeal, and run toward her to pick her up for a hug. Muesli and coffee for breakfast. Yoga stretches. Talking with Jessica, again and again, as I straighten my hair, and we debrief on the day before, anticipate the day to come.

Back in Sitka, and I’m in love again. Already, this fiction class moves me, and we’re laughing. There’s nothing like being with a bunch of new kids, their faces already familiar after a few moments, and knowing that they will soon be burned indelibly into my brain. 19 students in my fiction class, all of us gathered around three round tables placed together in the upstairs of the library. Every one of them participates. They are all telling stories, listening to each other, laughing, and writing. They're filled with enthusiasms, snorting when they laugh, funny as hell, and the most generous kids I've ever taught. Here it is, summer vacation, and they're all writing, every day.

Drew is 18, and blind. His eyes are peeled back in his head, pale pink and opaque. He’s filled with confidence, all the same, but he’s clearly lonely in there. He likes to interrupt all the time.He wants to make a connection with whatever anyone is saying. He’s not socialized. But he will be soon. That’s what this camp is about, after all. Alison and Kristina and Jessica and Maya and Acacia are back from last year, but most of them are new. We share the same space, creating a community of writers, disparate people bound by the compulsion to put words on the page. What that is, I still don’t know. But what I’m going to share with these kids, which I have learned fully this year: writing is a way to be utterly alone, in my own experience without outside influence, but still deeply connected to other human beings. I’m sure it’s the same with all the arts. In this way, it’s the perfect metaphor for being alive. It’s about reaching deep inside for something you know is there but can’t name yet. And then bringing it out into the light and watching other people’s faces light up at the sight of it. Because they recognize themselves in the image you have just created. And in seeing the look on their faces, you see it yourself.

There’s nothing like it.

I’m still moved to tears every time I hear a new group of kids talking about why they love to write. My role as teacher drops away, and I’m simply one of them. And in a way, I’m like a kid who has been lonely all her life finally finding friends. Finally, some people who think like I do, who understand the way my mind moves. It no longer matters that they are infinitely younger than I am, or that I’m supposed to be in charge. They are merely beings, and I am one of them, together. I love this gig.

Finn, my curly-haired, sweet-as-honey, favorite student (except for Maya, who is in her own category), who writes like a dream, produces his own radio show in Sitka, listens to everyone around him, gives hugs liberally, and laughs with his entire body? Finn's in my fiction class. On the first day of classes, I asked everyone to talk about why they write. Do you know what Finn said? "I write because it reminds me. It reminds me that even though there is violence and sadness in the world, nine times out of ten I think that the beauty of the world is more potent." He's 15. Everyone else in the class around him nodded.

I adore the other members of the faculty. They are some of my dearest, deepest friends in the world, and I only see most of them these two weeks out of the year. So these weeks are like a connection extravaganza--every conversation goofy and meaningful, loving and alive. I’m so glad Jara is back this year. I’ve missed her caustic kindness. And Christi? What did I do without Christi last year? We eat bad cafeteria food together, and complain about the lack of vegetables, mildly. This year, we're staying on the top floor of Sitka's nursing home. Don't ask. It's weird. There are beeping alarms and old women in wheelchairs with blue bows in their hair and heart monitors attached to the wall alongside our beds. But we have the entire third floor, and every time I open my door, I see someone with whom I want to talk, someone whom I hug. About forty-five hugs a day. Every evening, we gather at the ArtShare, in which someone, or several someones, presents his or her art. It's astonishing. And it always makes me want to work.

I love looking out the window and seeing all the masts of sailing ships in the harbor, bunched together in front of Mount Edgecumbe. And the blue, blue sky outside, on this glorious, unusual day.

Aren’t they all unusual?

Hot today. A little muggy. I ran all the way back to town, when I had nearly reached campus, because I suddenly remembered that I had left my wallet on the little shelf beneath the pay phone, outside the outdoor clothing store. I panicked, because I have all the cash from the faculty for the bonfire tonight, all of it tucked in there. Ack! And of course, I can only run so far. But when I finally reached the foyer, panting, I found it lying there, with a newspaper I had been reading. Not only that, but tourists were swarming the area, and no one had lifted it. So I love humanity again.

That view from Reber’s beach is truly one of the most, if not the most, beautiful sights I have ever seen. Green water, made deeper green when the sun hits it right. Dark fir trees topping little islands. We pointed out sunlight streaking the green water, eagles on wooden poles, shafts of light among the trees, pointed them out to each other.  And there were bald eagles and black birds calling outside the window, diving down to the water and soaring up on widespread wings. The eagles, when they land, keep their wings tufted up until they balance in the top of the tree, then let their feathers settle softly. A snow-covered mountain out his living room window. It just moves me to tears.

Vastness.

And on top of that, add bonfires, back rubs, smores, and roasted bananas.

Could there be anything more beautiful?

God, I love my job. This is an endless well of happiness. Kristin and I were talking about this at lunch, over bad food and too-sweet cake--how creative teaching is. When you move away from the rote expectations, you trust the process. Have a rough outline, and then let the moments determine themselves.

Goddamn it, Reber beat me at Scrabble again. I claim bad back pain as a distraction. Rematch next year.

A kid named Marley told a hilarious story about his hippy mom picking up a hitchhiker, and somehow connecting it to a local man who had cremated his wife. “He turned her ashes into these wacky beads. He put one on top of a mountain. He wanted to put one down the throat of a lion, one down the throat of a baboon. And he gave one to me.” He’s a natural. He had us all rapt and laughing. And for a twelve-year-old kid, that’s pretty great.

Dancers flashing across the stage in a tumult of energy and listening to each other.

Life moves too fast. I can’t keep up with it. I have one wonderful conversation after another with people I love here, new students who have bloomed in my mind, and there are only twenty or thirty minutes a day to write it all down. I have to let it go.

We’re all exhausted. No one is sleeping more than five or six hours a night, which is terrible for the health. The past few days, and yesterday in particular, I was exhausted. I walked around campus in a daze yesterday, utterly spent, punch-drunk, but more creative for it in my teaching. And I keep falling asleep now--my body just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been running it into the ground. The food is always lousy here, so I’m not complaining, but little to no vegetables or healthy food plays its part as well....

A grey day, finally. The fog has rolled in, and I’m happier. Sitka feels more real with the clouds above my head.

Oh my god, the steak at Ludvig’s--with the creme fraiche and dungeness crab slathered on top--is beyond compare. Of course, the two bottles of wine probably helped too.

Mary won the Scrabble game tonight. And she feigned beginner’s luck....

Laura tirelessly tugging at the heavy screen onstage at Centennial every night. I’m glad the kids roar their approval for her, because she’s working hard. And Simon! My god, poor Simon. And Reber taking pictures every night, after teaching a full day of classes. We all work too hard at this camp.

I’m trying not to complain, because I’m at camp, and I love this place. But I’m exhausted. This is the ninth straight day that we’ve had classes, and I don’t know how we’ve made it through. Part of me would like to go home right now--for my warm bed, my music playing, and the sunlight coming through the living-room windows. But I also know that as soon as I return home, I’ll miss this place. I’ll wish that I was sitting on the second floor of this library, Maya’s feet propped up on the orange upholstery chair where mine are resting. All the children writing away, just because I asked them to try.

Reber and I driving by the dock full of people, waiting to leave for Berry Island, waving hello, then deciding we had time to drive to the P-bar to pick up more wine, so peeling out of the parking lot. Laughing.

On the boat headed toward Berry Island, away from Sitka, away from classes after nine straight days of teaching. Away from the alarm sounds (boop, boop, BEEEEPP) of the patients calling out for help in the nursing home. Away from it all. Through the dark grey water, threading through the dark green trees and islands, the breeze on my face, the wind roaring in my ears. My mind felt quiet.

The green amazed me, as always. But after a few moments of meandering among the tables laden with beautiful food, and talking with people, I headed over to the far cabin by myself. I wanted the hot tub. No one else was there. I peeled back the first half of the hot tub cover with a thump, then stripped off my clothes and slipped in. Eagles flew overhead, their wings unfurled, floating slowly above me, toward their rest on the other side of the island.

Alon ate a dozen sushi rolls in a row with enormous gusto and no sense of shame. Good for him.

Ravenswood wine. Foot rubs in the hot tub. Laughter always in the air.

We heard their excited cries as they came up for air. And then we all laughed as we watched these two naked men swim out for the other shore. On red head and one dark head. We all waved and laughed, shouting, “You’re crazy!” And they clambered up the rocks, glorious, and thrust their fists into the air, in a triumphal yawp of a moment.

Neck rubs on the cabin floor, in the middle of Roger telling the kayaking story. Smoked salmon. Rhubarb cake. Dawn watersking with elan. Pablo trying hard to stay up. Twirling Kiran above the green, green grass, in spite of my tender back. And as we pulled away from the dock, a burst of fireworks in the sky.

The sound of Jessica and Gary and Lynne laughing in the faculty lounge, wafting down the hall. Kristin coming home late from Minneapolis. And in spite of my tired mind, I can’t help but call out, “Come sit on my bed and tell me stories!” She does.

Dancing to the big band concert, at the feet of all our musician friends, felt like joy in physical form. Everything easy.

Alon in a yellow shirt, red fez, and bare feet, lumbering across the stage to the piano. Roblin, nimble and lithe, doing frenzied jumping jacks as the music sped up, faster and faster. And my laugh left my body in waves of joy, louder and louder, watching the two of them play together.

And by the way, if you haven’t bought a copy of Mary Fettig’s cd yet, you’re just dumb. That woman rocks.

Jessica’s kids in that searing play, the one that made me gasp out loud as it ended. Beverly’s mask kids, one of them holding up the sign, “GASP!” Roblin’s clown kids, cavorting in full extensions of themselves.

The last number of the last concert of camp. The jazz band playing a cha-cha Summertime, everyone taking a turn, almost everyone in the room up and dancing in the aisles. All that life and energy, fulminating, the exuberance of the last two weeks expressing itself in jumping up and down. Wide smiles. Sweaty faces. And people holding each other, close, sweetly, knowing that it’s all just about to end.

All of us gathered at Ludvig’s,  the last night, the happiness filling the room. Roblin tries to take good pictures on Kristin’s camera, but Reber keeps closing his eyes. One last try. Roblin laughs so hard--eyes shut again--that he falters back in his chair. Then kicks out at the table to catch himself. And knocks over the almost-full bottle of wine, which spills all over the table, then all over Reber. I laugh so hard that I dive headfirst into the kitchen. Let this be a lesson to us all. Keep your eyes open!

One last, lingering coffee at the Back Door. A sad trip to the airport, then the plane lifts away. And I’m gone.

So that's camp.

I've been thinking of this phrase often, these days. "The readiness is all." (Shakespeare, of course) It feels as though I am readying myself for something, clearing away layers of habits and langugage that I no longer need. This time in Alaska felt more profound and loving with each passing day. So I don’t know everything that this time in Sitka has taught me. I just know that it is profound and loving, once again. And it will take me the rest of the year to know it fully.

And I have all of you to thank for it. In spite of what was said, in haste, at that last, strange faculty meeting, there will never be another Mark. There will never be another Julie or Kevin or Amy or Hannah or Bob or Laura or Scott or Jamie or Mike or Charles either. There will never be another group of people like this. Thank you for being there, all of you.

See you next year.

2004-07-04T21:59:00.000-07:00

As I write, the honey-colored sunlight is arching through my Tibetan prayer flags and dancing along the white living room wall. It’s the evening of the fourth of July, and I’m at home. Somehow, this year, I couldn’t participate in any of the big Americana activities. Usually, I peal with laughter, like a little kid, at the sight of fireworks exploding in the night sky. I stand on my tiptoes and clap with glee. But this year, I just can’t do crowds and noise. My time in small Sitka has ruined me.

I had a hard time returning this year. Every year, when the plane descends after two hours of flying away from Alaska, I peer down at Seattle below me and think, “Turn back! This is wrong.” Especially this year. Everything looked brown and overpopulated. Squat and impersonal. Too large. I don’t think I can live in a city much longer. So the first day back, I stayed in the house. (Except for a slow walk to Macrina Bakery, for an herb baguette, olive tapenade, half a roast chicken, goat cheese, fresh fruit, and a bing cherry tartlette. No more cafeteria food for me. I had a picnic on the floor by myself.) Connecting with friends on the phone. Unpacking slowly. Writing for hours. And it was the first time at home, since the car accident, without the constant nagging feeling of needing to do something productive. An entire day of silence, without responsibilities. A good way to be.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my nephew. He grew taller and more confident in my absence. He smiled wide when I entered the door. We spent the entire day playing. I read him a dozen books, then a dozen more. We bounced on the orange ball. We practiced walking. (He’s learned how to do pratfalls, just to make me laugh.) I watched him watching the world, sitting with him in silence, not needing to be anywhere else. And then we ate grapes and watched the breakfast sequence from PeeWee’s Big Adventure. My brother and I shared it all, and laughed.

In the evening, my friend Tita and I walked slowly through a secluded nature reserve on the island, a couple of miles of narrow path cut through green trees. It reminded me of Sitka, and I could feel my center of gravity drop. She had been in Wisconsin, for the funeral of a family friend. And the death had hit her hard. I listened to her talk, holding her by the arm in silence, then holding her when she cried. We sat in front of Fisher pond, in the white plastic chairs someone had left there for us, and listened to the emerging symphony of bullfrogs amidst the lily pads. White egrets nestled into each other in the distance. The sun set slowly, leaving us in golden light, and chilling air. I felt at peace with her. I felt at home.

And today, I started work on the novel. It’s surging through me, after Sitka. I have to finish it. No choice. And there are so many images swarming out of me, into the blue ink on white paper, that I’m dancing in my mind today. Three or four hours a day, every day, and I’ll be somwhere else at the end of summer than I am here at the beginning.

This evening, taking a break, I took a long, slow walk around the neighborhood. I’m walking faster than I was on those walks back to the library after lunch. But not much. Nine or ten hours of sweet sleep every night since I returned has relaxed my back even more. And I’m determined to heal. So I’m walking, among the leafy trees, the broad sweep of blue water and mountains to the right of the old boulevard, among the white tombstones in this beautiful cemetery above me.

And as I walked, I watched. I watched the sun glinting off the silver windchimes on all the porches along 6th Avenue. The wilted red roses flopping down toward the ground. The fat lilac blossoms bouncing in the small breeze. And when I put my nose to them, that indolent smell of summer. Small boys playing basketball on their cement driveway. A guy in a tank top, leaning over his car. The streets mostly empty of people, everyone off to a barbeque or picnic. And just outside the cemetery, the sweet evanescence of honeysuckle, filling me, singing with me.

When I returned home, my downstairs neighbors called to me from their rooftop garden. They invited me up for dinner, spontaneously. Barbequed chicken, roasted corn, fried oysters they had caught at Deception Pass the day before, and seaweed salad, from seaweed he had picked at Lincoln Park this morning. It was all so unutterably good. And lovely, to sit on the roof and talk with people I barely know, but who were being so kind.

At the end of the cemetery walk, I always smile. A large brown tombstone, with the family name: Livengood. It reminds me, every time. Living is good. As soon as I remember to let go of what I’ve had, life comes rushing in with every breath.

p.s. As soon as I finished writing this, I heard the boom of the fireworks outside. Two shows in Seattle, at Myrtle Edwards Park along the waterfront and above Lake Union. I listened to the hissing and thumps out my window, thinking that would be enough. But then I noticed a clump of people standing in the middle of the crosswalk beneath my window, shouting and looking east. I ran outside, in my shorts and flip-flops, into the cool night air. And there were the Lake Union fireworks, framed by the the trees along McGraw. Thousands of people had waited all day at Gasworks Park, and not one of them had as good a view as the ten of us in the street. A little community, oohing and aahhing at the weeping willow golds and enormous red thrusts. And of course, I ended up laughing and dancing on my toes, even in my flip-flops. See what I mean?

2004-06-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

Here I am, at my favorite place in the world: teaching writing at the fine arts camp in Sitka. It would take me hours to write some of the images that make this glorious camp. And of course, part of the experience is that I never have those hours to write. But here are just a few for you, to convey how much this place means to me, and how much I would like to share it with you:

--19 students in my fiction class, all of us gathered around three round tables placed together in the upstairs of the library. Every one of them participates. They are all telling stories, listening to each other, laughing, and writing. They're filled with enthusiasms, snorting when they laugh, funny as hell, and the most generous kids I've ever taught. Here it is, summer vacation, and they're all writing, every day.

--Finn, my curly-haired, sweet-as-honey, favorite student (except for Maya, who is in her own category), who writes like a dream, produces his own radio show in Sitka, listens to everyone around him, gives hugs liberally, and laughs with his entire body? Finn's in my fiction class. On the first day of classes, I asked everyone to talk about why they write. Do you know what Finn said? "I write because it reminds me. Even though there is violence and sadness in the world, nine times out of ten I think that the beauty of the world is more potent." He's 15. Everyone else in the class nodded around him.

--I have two more classes--Advanced Writing Workshop and The Beauty of Inflections--just like that one.

--I adore the other members of the faculty. They are some of my dearest, deepest friends in the world, and I only see most of them these two weeks out of the year. So these weeks are like a connection extravaganza--every conversation goofy and meaningful, loving and alive. We eat bad cafeteria food together, and complain about the lack of vegetables, mildly. This year, we're staying on the top floor of Sitka's nursing home. Don't ask. It's weird. There are beeping alarms and old women in wheelchairs with blue bows in their hair and heart monitors attached to the wall alongside our beds. But we have the entire third floor, and every time I open my door, I see someone with whom I want to talk, someone whom I hug. I'm giving and receiving about forty-five hugs a day. That's about right for me. Every evening, we gather at the ArtShare, in which someone, or several someones, present his or her art. It's astonishing. And it always makes me want to work.

--The first night at ArtShare, I read a piece I had been working on, about the car accident, and its effects afterwards. It was scary to read. I felt like I was standing naked on that stage, baring my most vulnerable parts. (I can send it to you, if you want to read it.) But I felt safely held in that space, 200 kids, faculty members, Sitka citizens, all waiting with their faces turned toward me in the darkness beyond the stage. It released something in me, to read this piece. They all responded beautifully--watchful quiet in a large room. I managed not to cry. When I walked offstage, the room burst into applause. When I reached the dressing room, I burst into tears. I felt this release, all this sadness about just how hard these past six months have been, something leaving me, and me mourning at the passing. My friend Beverly, who was just about to go onstage to do her mask work, hugged me close, and said, "This is life. This right now." My friend Reber, who was photographing the show, came walking toward me, opened his large arms, and held me for five minutes as I cried. It was good. I felt like I had come home.

--Two nights ago, my back went out again. It hasn't done this since February, so it scared the hell out of me. There were lots of little signs along the way. We never sleep here. I'd had maybe five or six hours a night since I arrived. There are always activities and conversations and preparations for class and after-ArtShare-beers at the Sitka hotel. My left foot had been going pins and needles all day, and I kept messing up my words, so I knew something was up. We were at the bar, smushed into a table, and I had just ordered my beer. I shifted my hip to escape the cramped space, and immediately my left foot went numb. And the sciatica pain, which I hadn't felt since early February, raged down my leg like fire. I stood up immediately, a darting look on my face, and said: "I need to get out. I need to walk." I did, but it didn't help.
Limping back into the bar, I approached Roblin and said, "I have to go home. Can you carry my bag?" He went into action mode. Everyone else looked up and saw my sweaty, contorted face. Reber leapt up to help me. Those two men walked with me, slowly, since I had become an eighty-year-old in two minutes. Reber held me up as Roblin ran for a wheelchair. There I was, back in a wheelchair, and hating it. Afraid. At first, I said I wouldn't climb back in--too many resonations. But then both said, "Shut up. Swallow your pride. You can't walk." They took me upstairs in the elevator, and found pillows for beneath my legs, wet a washcloth for my forehead. Beverly came in and helped me change into my nightgown as the men averted their eyes. They found me the Percoset I had stashed for emergencies. And they helped me move, gingerly and wincing from the spasms, onto the bed, then propped up on pillows and the heating pad. Jara and Christi came in and said they'd check on me all night. Reber kept trying to make me laugh, but it hurt. You know how my laugh comes from the belly? Well, in back spasm mode, that laugh clamps down in pain, so I was reduced to humorlessness. Except that Reber and I always tease each other, and I couldn't help but laugh. So I'd start to laugh, then stuff a fist in my mouth, then wince and buck on the bed from the spasm of pain.
So there I was, completely vulnerable again, in my low-cut nightgown, my face perpetually covered in sweat, in my glasses, unable to speak or laugh, in terrible pain. And totally loved. At one point, there were ten or twelve people in my room, all concerned and taking care of me.
And it was another release, because at the height of the worst pain, in January, I had some people taking care of me, but only sporadically. For the most part, I have been through this pain alone. And it felt terribly lonely. And I've been worried about recurrences, and here it was. But here, I felt swarmed with love. Reber almost insisted on carrying me across the street. Jara checked on me three times during the night. Beverly simply breathed with me. And I felt at home and loved.
How could I ask for anything more?

So I had to miss one day of classes. Spent the day in bed. The cousin of the wife of the director of the camp happened to be in from Portland for two days, and so he came to my room yesterday to do some accupressure and meridian work. Who knows what it is? But it worked. I feel half better already. And I'm at campus right now, having taught one class, two more before me. Feeling tender and a little wary. But here. And writing this to you.

So that's camp.

2004-06-03T20:35:00.000-07:00

The sunlight coming through the living room window right now is honey golden, rich and porous. It looks like summer. It is summer.

Not yet.

One more week. This time next week, I'll be thrilled and dazed at the prospect of not having to go to school the next morning. Almost done. One more week, and I'm on summer vacation.

This has been the hardest school year of my life. The car accident bissected everything, seeped into everything, reduced me to melancholy zombie headache woman for more than three months, and still haunts me today. It's hard to drive without imagining someone darting in front of me unexpectedly. And there I am, my life ruined. Except, it wasn't ruined. I'm still here. And I've been saying, for months, that there's something beautiful about all this. There is. I just haven't been able to hold it all in my arms yet.

I'm tired. We all are, at school. Everyone has dark circles under her eyes. Everyone walks in talking of too-little sleep. We walk through these honey-colored days with our eyes stuck shut. My body had been improving, steadily, for days and weeks. But these past two weeks, I've gone downhill again. A little. I feel like I'm sliding on my butt.

Yesterday, I had to come home early from school, because I could feel the migraine starting to dart up the back of my neck. Luckily, the seniors had left on their final school trip--and oh, how I will miss them; and oh, how they need to go--so I had no one to teach in the afternoon. I simply slipped out of school and walked slowly to the car, the thumping in my head increasing as I reached Broadway and the gravel parking lot I park in every morning. Driving home, I was nearly blinded by the cramping along my ears, down the neck, the sweat beading up on my forehead. At 2 pm, I crawled into bed, the heating pad on. I never really left. My body insisted--it's time for a day in bed. In a way, it was a welcome relief. After months of dutifully returning home, every day after school, and cutting myself off from the world to recuperate in my bed, alone, I've been bounding around the world. I've been on dates practically every night for weeks. (this another entry, later, when I have the energy.) I've been attending parties and reading on ferrries to visit the island and staying up later than I should. Once again, I have to find the golden mean.

So there I lay in bed, watching the dvds from Netflix that had been languishing on top of my television. Retreating into my silence again, trying to find a respite from the pain. The old headaches, after a liftetime of rarely having them. Now, when the stress creeps up my neck, so does the pain. I have a feeling that I will be haunted by this pain, intermittently, for many years to come.

This morning, I rose, late, feeling better. The ghosts of the migraine darted around my head, but never landed. Putting on my shoes, I felt the creak in my back, still. And with a pang of real sadness, I realized that I have been feeling increasingly better over these past six months, but I haven't felt good yet. I haven't felt good in over six months.

It takes its toll.

And so, the light is fading in this room. My eyes are closing as I write. It's time to sleep and lay everything down upon the floor. I won't carry it into the bed with me. Tonight, I sleep alone.

2004-05-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

In the midst of a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, I played two games of softball. This may not sound like much to you, and I understand. But for me, this was one of the more glorious days in the past few months. Even though we lost both games.

You see, my mind exulted that my body is capable of playing softball for hours at a time now. It was only four months ago--almost to the day--that my back was so badly injured that I crawled on my hands and knees around my apartment for days. I can still remember the feeling--the shocking, sickening pain of sciatica and a throbbing migraine for days on end. My god, I've been through hell. But now, it's May. Suddenly, miraculously, it's May. The sun has shone for weeks on end in Seattle. That last entry about the unexpected pleasure of rain pattering on the roof was purely aberration. It's 65 and pellucid blue outside. Again. And my body feels similarly clear.

I've been playing with this team for a few weeks now. X-Box. I play with Microsoft guys who design video games. You'd expect serious geeks, who snort when they laugh and swing at the ball feebly. But they're athletes instead. And lovely, adjusted people. Yesterday, I looked down the bench at all these married men my age, men who know how to swing the bat and play graciously, and I thought, "What did I do to miss out on this? Why can't I have one of these?" But that's another entry, about the frenzy of dating and trying to find love. That one's a book. This one is about softball.

So we win. Much to my surprise, I'm finally on a winning team. My entire life, I've been the star of a sadly faltering team. The CHS Wolfpack, which didn't know how to field grounders. The slowpitch team on Vashon, which let balls roll through their legs or rush over their heads. The hilarious Irish bar team in New York City, where 8 out of the twelve had never played baseball before, and our pitcher spoke with a thick accent made thicker by the cigarette perpetually hanging from his mouth. And the engineers' league in Seattle, in which every game seemed drenched by rain, and we splashed through the puddles to losses.

They were always fun--I love playing no matter what the circumstance. Especially the Irish bar team in NYC. We played in Riverside Park, perched on the edge of the Hudson, and I made line-drive-double plays at first base every game, because no one knew how to hit. We lost every game but one. The team had played together for a couple of years, and they had never won a game. But somewhere in the middle of July, one hot and sticky day, we actually won a game. I don't really remember how, now. It was a surprise to us all. But win we did. When we went back to the Broadway Dive (the bar at the bottom of my building that sponsored us), we were treated like returning heroes. Pizzas arrived from Sal and Carmine's across the street, steaming with the sweet smell of success. Beers were poured all around. The owner of the bar asked us to sign the winning game ball. And a couple of hours into the evening, someone put U2 on the jukebox. Triumphant and drunk off of lagers, we all joined arms at the bar and shouted, "In the Name of Love" with such pride and gusto that I actually felt, for a moment, as though we had won the world.

But still, it's better to be on a winning team. And now, I am.

Except we lost on Sunday. We played the top team in the league, every one of them a bat, every one them a player who knew how to hit the cut-off. Doesn't happen that often. They slouched balls over the shortstop's head or slammed balls over the left fielder's head. We never knew what was coming. Still, we came close. In a middle inning, I stood on first, Luke up to bat. I love Luke. He adores the game, knows it by blood. He can hit the shit out of the ball--two games ago, he had two grand slams in one game. And mostly, his body is loose and ready, his eyes always watching. But he's also kind, not wrapped in his competition. He says good job to everyone who hits, everyone who attempts a play. It's joy to be on a ballfield with him. And when I'm on base, I want Luke up next. So he hit this long, loping drive into center field. Not a home run, by any means. But as soon as he hit it, I took off running. I ran as though I'd never had an injury. I ran, head down, legs pumping, dust rising. I ran hard and it felt good. Rounding second, I looked to see the center fielder bobble the ball, so I took off running for third. Made it, and I forced them to throw fast, because they hadn't expected me to move. The third baseman leapt, but the ball rattled against the chain-link fence of the dugout. I sussed out immediately his lumbering pace, and I took off. I ran toward home with all my energy. Nothing in my mind for those few seconds but making it down the base path and leaping onto home plate. I could feel the ball come from behind me, but the girl catcher looked tentative. So I darted around her, suddenly, which made her lose her focus. And I ran across home plate smiling.

Man, that was a sweet, exultant moment.

Final score: 17-15. Them. I didn't care.

Quick break, for bathroom stops and Subway sandwiches from across the street. Time to gaze at Greenlake, which is always a pleasure.

Next game, we held the new team for three innings. And it was in the third that I had my other baseball glory moment. This game, I was playing catcher. Normally--in fact, all my life--I've played at first. I know that bag like my breath. I know where to stand, how to gauge when the ball's going to be hit toward me, how to guide the rest of the infield based on a flicker in the batter's eyes. And standing at first base, waiting for that pitch, is one of my favorite places in the universe. On the ballfield, I don't think about anything. I just move and adjust and blink. No grading or bantering or second guessing. I'm just there. I love that spot of earth.

But this team already had a first-base person. And I'll give it to her--she's good. She knows that plot of land and knows how to stretch out on it to make the play. And besides, since the car accident, I'm not so possessive of my place. I just want to play. So the first game, I was at second base. Except that it felt profoundly odd to me. Playing on the right side, but not at my spot. And just where do I stand for the cut-off? (I think the last time I played second base was in the fourth grade.) It's like moving into a new house on your own block. You're sort of in the same place, but you don't know how to read the creaks in the basement yet.

So during the second game, I played catcher. Afraid at first of all the squatting and the proximity of the bat to my head, I used to hate playing catcher. But now, it feels right. It's slow and methodical, just catching the ball and throwing it back. But I am also involved in every pitch. And I can see the field with more expansiveness than when I'm guarding my little plot of land. I could grow used to this.

In the third inning, they put a man on second. Damn. After some close pitching by Craig, the guy at the plate hit a solid thunk out to center field. The guy on second was sure he was going to score, so he started wheeling. But this time, the girl catcher didn't get thrown off her focus. Luke pegged it to Chuck, our shortstop. I bent my knees to ground myself in front of the plate, blocking the third-base line a bit, and shouted, "HOME!!" Chuck turned and pegged it at me, with a whoosh and solid accuracy. Right to my glove. The glove that was positioned right at my left knee. Without thinking, I swooped down and tagged the guy on the leg, while also grounding down in my heels, so I wouldn't be moved. Out, I gestured, triumphant with the play. "OUUT!" the umpire shouted. And this big guy on the ground grinned up at me and said, "Nice play, Catch." And all around me, I could hear my teammates whooping and hollering, shouting my name.

I'm back. I'm here. And don't try to stop me.

2004-05-07T12:39:00.000-07:00

Finally, it rained in Seattle.

For weeks, the days have bloomed, gorgeous and wide-skied, endlessly sunny. How strange. I can't complain--it has dried out my once-dampened spirit and I've remembered my grace again. Along with this, since Daylight Savings Time, the skies outside my living room window stayed light until well after 9. There have been orange glimmers above the blue-shadowed Olympic mountains well after the time I'm supposed to go to bed. I haven't been able to sleep properly in weeks. My body wants to be awake. My body wants to play. My body wants it to be summer.

I can't wait for summer. Right after school, I leave for Sitka, Alaska, the happiest place on earth. Disneyland has nothing on my little fine arts camp at Sheldon Jackson College. Impassioned people teaching enthusiastic students about how to do art, and live in the world with dignified chaos. Light all night. Swapped stories in the bathroom as we brush our teeth together, Beverly and Kristin and I. Bad food in the cafeteria. Green fern fronds out my window. Endless sky. Faculty art shares. Clean air. Teaching students writing without the need to grade them at all. Perfect play. I adore that place, and I'll write much more about it later. But for now, I wish I were headed there right now.

Because the only downside of all this sunny weather has been the havoc it's playing on school. When it's 78 degrees outside, light until 10 pm, and the warmth pours in all the windows of our classrooms, not a damn one of us wants to be here. I can see the lassitude on students' faces. I can feel it seeping from mine. If someone could tell me why I need to be in a darkened office, preparing a test on the Middle East and Latin America (I mean, what in the hell? 11th grade woes are another entry), when I could be outside, walking around Greenlake, listening to Walking on Sunshine--I'd be thrilled to hear it. And don't tell me it's to earn money or be responsibile or teach the future leaders of this country the horrors of American meddling in the world. I'm tired of being serious. I just want to stretch out in the sunlight and lie in the warmth all day.

So it rained this morning. When I woke up, all the streets were slick dark with wet again. And I breathed a sigh of relief. So good to hear the gentle insistence on the skylights in my kitchen. So good to see people huddled under umbrellas, dancing with the distance between them and their cars. So good to feel the wish to hunker down on the green chair in front of my living room window and sip my coffee slowly, the warmth cascading down my throat. Home.

I love this weather. I love the sun too. I just like how ephemeral it all is here--no endless days of sunlight, at least not predictably. Weather in Seattle reminds me how quick-silver it all is. How much I want to enjoy it in the moment, not after it passes. And how I am alive.

And it's Friday afternoon. Glory be to all that is good in this world, it's Friday afternoon.

2004-05-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

A quick snapshot from my crazy-ass school:

Community meeting day. We gather together in the commons every Thursday morning, the entire school (all 450 or so of us ) sitting on the worn carpet, packed in together so tightly that students lean back on the knees of the student behind to find a place to rest. But today, the seniors were gone, so there was an anomalous sense of spaciousness in the room.

Today was Drop Everything and Read. I had just been discussing Chronicle of a Death Foretold with my juniors, another fabulous forty minutes. (In it, I read my favorite passage from the book: "I dreamed that a woman was coming into the room with a little girl in her arms, and that the child was chewing without stopping to take a breath, and that half-chewed kernels of corn were falling into the woman's brassiere. The woman said to me: 'She crunches like a nutty nuthatch, kind of sloppy, kind of slurpy.'" You try to do an exegesis of that one.) But at 9:40, we left our cold classroom to wander into the commons. And flop down onto the floor and read. Once a quint, we give over the community meeting time to DEAR. Every person in the school is reading something, including the assistant head of school (who sat tall and proper in a chair by the trash can) and the receptionist. We turn off all the phones and don't answer the door. We read.

I'm reading Middlesex, by Geoffery Eugenides, and I'm so utterly besotted by it that I'm slightly resentful that I have to do anything else but flop down in the sunshine and read for hours. The narrator is a hermaphrodite named Cal, who used to be Calliope, who comes from an epic, Greek tragedy of a family. And mostly, the voice is sprawling and precise, wonderfully tragic and ironic, mostly filmic, some poetic. God lord, I love this book. And I'm only 136 pages in.

So I read, in my camp chair (brought in for my back, months ago, and now I just like sitting in it, like the queen above her dominion), along with everyone else in the school. Students filtered in after half an hour, because it was time for announcements. Reluctantly, I stopped reading.

Most of community meeting is listening to students and teachers make announcements. I lost my cd player; has anyone seen it? Yeah, I have it, right behind you. There's a dance performance at the Broadway Performance Hall, my friend and I are in it. Please come to see us dance. (This from a beautiful junior boy who is proudly out already, and beloved.) Don't forget to compost in the lunch room. You should really clean your plate, so you don't waste any food. But if you do have to throw food away, remember to put it in the compost can! The seventh grade was best at cleaning their plates, so the entire class will win a prize. Basketball camp this summer--sign up now. Thank you for coming to the first Asian food festival. The international students are so proud, even though there were a few mistakes. And we raised lots of money for the migrant farm workers trip. I did this internship with the peace and reconciliation fellowship last summer, and I want to recommend it to everyone else. They pay you to work, and they teach you how to bring peace to the world. And make public speeches.

In the midst of this, today, a ninth-grade girl raised her hand, was recognized, and stood up. She's gawky, has enormous black glasses, and an ironic smile. I'm Trina, and I'm a freshman. And then she pulled out a little red accordion, started to play it plaintively, and sang the first verse from Soft Cell's Tainted Love. "Sometimes I feel I'd like to get away, I'd like to run away..." And with no abashment, she tugged at the accordion, back and forth, and sang this broken-hearted love song in a quavery voice. And when she was done, she sat down, and everyone applauded, thunderously.

These are my days.

2004-05-05T19:04:00.000-07:00

In my eleventh-grade class, we talked about Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold. I love this book, for its sensory details, beautiful absurdity, and the way he shows just how time bends back on itself and turns everything around. We were talking about this, but really, they were talking. I love leading discussions of literature, because all I have to do is ask the right question, and listen intently, and they're off. I love watching them having the bravery to bring up ideas, watching them listen to each other, watch their faces widen as they realize a new idea from the kid sitting to the left. And I stand in front of them, quiet and happy, orchestrating it all. Today, we filled the board with ideas, spurred by my asking them, "Why did Marquez write this book? What is it really about?" They talked about violence and dignity and absurd expectations and the different way people's minds work and the role of women in Latin American society and sexuality and death. All within ten minutes. That's part of the reason I love teaching.

Later in the day, I met with Todd, one of my favorite juniors. When I first taught him in the ninth grade, he was gawky and nearly silent, but filled with this expectation of grace. Now, he has filled into it. He moves slowly, methodically. He loves Japanese anime and silent films, anything to do with language, and traveling to new countries. And everything to do with Macintosh computers. He has this delicate surety that most teenage boys could never understand. When he's 30 years old, he'll be so powerful and kind that he'll move beyond himself entirely and start changing the world. I adore watching these children grow into adolescence and starting into adulthood. The first students I ever taught are 28 now, and they have full, adult faces, and life stories I could never have predicted. They still come back in droves to see me, and I'm grateful every time. Some of them are my dearest friends. Todd told me, excited, about his upcoming trip to Japan. And then we went over each sentence in his precis about the war in Iraq with a loving attention as though it were an ancient manuscript. The sun was shining through my office window, the day was almost over, and I was in love with my job again.

After school, I drove to see Sarah, my massage therapist. This is one of my favorite times of the week. I'm healing, deeply. Enough to enjoy all of this, deeply. For months, it was agony. It has also left me irrevocably changed, and better for it. I'm more grateful and insatiable for life than even my friends thought possible. (I was like that before the accident, but a paler version.) Now, I'm on the last stages of pain, and I can feel it all becoming a memory. I went from having a three-month-long headache (seriously; not one break in three months) to feeling clear-headed most of the day. The sprightly energy that comes from this release is impossible to convey. Just say that it feels like spring, and then some. And so, today, I could feel Sarah's hands in every moment, instead of drifting in my mind. There's something powerfully loving about touch. When we allow someone to touch the outer edges of us, then closer, and closer, everything becomes softer, and more itself. So I left feeling close to tears, in gratitude and happiness.

Driving home, I was listening to NPR, as usual. More money for Iraq. The administration weakly apologizing for abuses in Iraqi prisons. Bush on the campaign trail, already. I could have been deflated. But feeling soft after my massage, I floated through it instead. I felt my hands on the steering wheel, my body bending with the turns, and the sunlight coming through the window and falling onto my body. A long line of cars snaked up the hill, under 99, on the way to Queen Anne, off Dexter. Instead of sitting impatiently, wanting to be home, I widened my eyes instead. Stopped under Canlis restaurant, I saw a blonde waitress dancing by the window, when she thought no one else was looking. A grey feather drifted down the air, toward my car. And all the greens ferns and grasses by the side of the road, blue sky behind them, reminded me that it's finally, firmly, spring. The long, dark winter is over. And I'm here.

So now, I'm going to have some shrimp gyoza with lemon pepper ginger sauce, an arugula salad, and a couple of squares of good dark chocolate. I'm going to read, and catch up on conversations with friends on the phone, and write. And fall to sleep early. I'm ready to surrender after massage.

I hope that the day left you feeling soft and open and happy.

All my love,
Shauna

2004-04-28T21:29:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went over to Vashon on the passenger ferry to babysit the little guy. (Or Bodge, as Andy and Dana now call him. Apparently, he made that noise for a few days, and now it’s his name.) In a rare occurrence, both parents needed to be elsewhere for the evening, and they had no one to watch Elliott while he watched Baby Einstein. And so, I volunteered.

It’s not like they had to twist my arm.

I love that little kid, more every time I see him. Frankly, sometimes when I’m with him, I feel his adorableness coming off him in waves, and I’m worried that my heart will burst. This kid is cool.

So here are his latest innovations:

* he has become relentlessly verbal. Of course, in this family, there wasn’t much choice. He has been saying words for months. But they were sporadic, precise. “DAT. DIGHT. GOG.” But now, they’re looser, and more frequent. DAT has become doff or deese or daaahv. He’s playing. If he says “dar” when I car go by, I’ll enunciate, “Car.” And for the next few moments, he’ll make the noise: “Kuh. Kuh. Kuh.” He also says flower, with a d at the beginning (writing this, I realize he has a d fixation), but with so much utter love and awe at the beauty of the little purple blossom in front of him that I want to cry and laugh at the same time. And mostly, he babbles, mimicking the rhythm of everything we’re saying with silly sounds. But he has certain words, exactly. No more guessing what he’s trying to say. He says kick and ball and bapple. (Okay, that’s not entirely precise. But it’s cute.) And what is his most precise word? “Book.” Ah, I’m in heaven.

But perhaps my favorite Elliott word is “Yummits.” That’s his word for food. When you show him a photo book of life objects (toothbrush, tractor, tarantula), he finds the inch of fruit inside the blender, and points to it, and says, “Yummits.” And he says it with a sweet adoration, because he really is just discovering all of this. This is also an innovation--he’s developing his own voice. Until about two weeks ago, he sounded like BABY. But now, he sounds like Elliott. He has a precise, giggly, gentle-tempered voice. And it’s lovely to the ears. So last night, I was showing him pictures, and he kept finding the food in the smallest photos. (What kind of eyes does this kid have? When you read him Goodnight Moon, he spies the tiny little clock on the mantlepiece on the back of the room, and he shouts, “Cock!” And yes, that makes me laugh.) He said Yummits each time.
Finally, he said it often enough that I said to him, “Are you hungry? Do you want some food?”
And he looked up at me, raised himself to his knees, and tugged on my sleeve. “Yummits,” he said, with real conviction, looking me in the eyes.
That’s the first time he’d ever used his words to ask me for something. Now of course, we’ve been having conversations since he was only a few weeks old. Elliott has taught me more than anyone about how much mre powerful a conversation without words is than talking. But I must admit that it’s a thrill to have him look at me and ask for something. And then I can give it to him.

And so I spponed him spooned him up some yogurt. And he ate a few bites, happily. And then he took his left finger and poked it in the yogurt. And then he took his entire left hand and splatted it in the yogurt. And then he smeared it all over my shirt, and his.

We switched to Os. And string cheese. And when he felt he was done, I pulled him out of the high chair and finished the calzone I had heated up for myself as I put in another Baby Einstein. I thought he was done eating, but he kept breaking his gaze on the bouncing balls to look at my calzone and say, “Yummits.” And I said yes, yummits. Finally, I offered him a little sprig of dough, but he kept giggling and turning away. As if he were saying, “Please, you think I want that?” But after ten or twelve times of me patiently holding out my hand, he said Yummits, then grabbed the little twist of dough. And then kept doing it again and again. No more Baby Einstein. Who cares about the cow puppet now? Soon, I had no calzone left. We switched to raisins. I grabbed a big handful, but hid them in my left fist. (He has a habit of grabbing all the food he can and stuffing it into his mouth.) So I’d grab one surreptitiously, as his eyes drifted back to the television, and then put it in my right hand. He’d look down, make eye contact, and grab the raisin. But after ten or twelve times, he looked at the raisin in my right hand, then stared at my closed left fist. And then he looked at me, full in the eyes, with a hint of sardonic gleam, as though he were saying to me, “Come on, you think I don’t know there are dozens of raisins in there?” And I could only laugh. Another conversation.

And later, we danced. He loves to dance. Andy holds Elliott in his arms, puts on a cd of bouncy tunes, and watches as Elliott starts to bounce up and down in his arms. We all laugh and love it. Andy found an old 1930s Latin American music, which has a mambo on it. The singers shout, Yo quiero Mambo! And when the chorus begins, Elliott starts chanting “Bombo. Bombo.” It’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Except when Andy found a tiny red maraca and put it in Elliott’s hand. Oh lord. So yesterday, I picked up Elliott and danced with him. And he started saying, “Dance. Dance.” (That’s another one of his precise words.) But after a few moments, he said “Down.” I thought he wasn’t enjoying himself, because I’m not Andy, until I saw what he was doing. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, waving his arms in the air, fists raised high, like he was doing the frug. I burst out laughing.

And I’m realizing how much harder he has become for to write about coherently. Because it used to be that he would do four or five cute acts in a visit, four or five acts of consciousness. But now, he’s just a person in the room. And you know what? He’s such a great person. He’s unbelievably sweet. He’s filled with ridiculous humor. He’s attentive and loving. He may be only one year old, but he’s my absolute favorite person in the world.

You know, when I left school and boarded that ferry, I was in a sour mood. The day had been too long, the constant interactions had left me exhausted, and I just couldn't wait for summer to being. But by the end of the evening, I was beatifically happy. Just being. Thanks, little guy.

2004-04-13T20:43:00.000-07:00

It rained pink petals this evening.

I left the Queen Anne community pool feeling buoyant and quiet. Another Hydro-fit class. I really have become quite addicted to them. Truly. My legs feel more powerful than they have since the car accident. And I can see the difference in my arms, which seem sculpted and lighter. All from simply playing, and jumping around like a frog in the forgiving water. Evaluations are due tomorrow, and you'd think I'd be jumping in a different way. But instead, I'm waiting for dinner to finish cooking, and I'm writing to you.

So when I emerged from an hour-long class, and another chat in the sauna with the denizens of Queen Anne, the sky had grown ominously dark. We've been blue-sky gifted these past few days in Seattle. Easter Sunday was azure blue and nearly 85 degrees. I just turned my face into the sun and smiled. Everything felt lighter. Itself. And in spite of cowering reports from weathermen the past few days, it hasn't started to rain yet. Except, when I walked into the growing darkness of this evening, I could feel the difference in the air. Rain coming. Wind brewing. Flat grey skies approaching.

The wind must have blown mightily while I was inside, because the entire sidewalk was covered in pink. Spindrift piles of pink cherry blossoms lay plump on the concrete. Across the windshields of cars. In clumps on the lawn of the middle school across the street. It looked like it had snowed. There was the same expectant hush as newly fallen snow. Something shifting. And everything pink. Above me, the sky was that rich dark blue--crepuscular blue; Gabriel blue; Sikta blue. And I smiled on my way to the car. Spring is here, and I'm feeling alive.

2004-03-24T21:14:00.000-08:00

Here are some of the more peculiar (and probably, therefore, more wonderful) moments of my day:

--Late this afternoon, I stood outside of the bathroom door at Madison Market. Just after a gorgeous ginger apple juice. Just before an hour and a half long massage. You do the math. So I waited patiently until the person before me came out. I was looking down at the floor when the door opened, so first I saw the boots. Brown, worn, and encircled by little bells. A jingling noise ensued. Looking up, I saw a pair of green tights. Above that, a BRIGHT skirt, covered in splotches of spring orange and green. And on top? A grey grizzled beard on a 60ish-year-old man.

--Later this afternoon, in a drenching rainstorm (with a bit of hail mixed in), I turned the corner at Pike and 3rd. I just wanted to make it to the bus shelter, the glass steamed up with all the bodies. Out of the McDonalds in front of me stepped a young Asian woman and man. He was dressed conservatively, all dark blue and business shoes. She was wearing a tan overcoat, over a bright orange skirt about a micromillimeter long. Sheer tights, then tight, black leather, fuck-me boots. As she toddled down the street before me, I was thinking, "Oh honey, why are you working so hard to look like a whore?" At this moment, three young black men, huddled in a doorway together, began calling out in whips. "Ooh boy, you've got some girlfriend!! Hey honey, come on over here!" And whistling. It took me back. I hadn't heard that since New York.
A few feet later, I turned my head in quick surprise, as a skittish clatter rose above all the other noise. A number of us turned back, only to see a homeless couple, walking side by side. I don't know if they were retarded, or drunk. Or both, probably. She had thick glasses, smudged by the rain, and hair pulled back skintight. He shambled by her, lost in a fog, his glasses a complete mist.
She was clearly embarrassed at the attention, and she yelled, in a thick voice: "Okay, I kicked the bottle. Okay? Just a bottle!"
No one answered. No one had accused her.
She continued, slurring her words as she rushed to have them leave her mouth. "Okay, next time I'll just trip over the bottle and fall. Okay?"
I was already starting to laugh at that sentence. But I laughed more when he suddenly roused himself, and at the top of his lungs, with a world-weary voice that said he had been through this twelve hundred times already, shouted: "SHUUUUTTT UUUUUPPPPP!"

As my friend Meri said, it's always a fun and freak show in downtown Seattle.

--And this is how I started my morning. On the bus to downtown, listening to random music on my iPod. (I'm still infatuated with it. In fact, I want to marry it. It plays with me all day long. It's technologically able. And it's always there when I want it.) I've learned that browsing randomly through songs means it goes methodically through songs, alphabetically. So I was somewhere in the Ts. I was surrounded by dour people, still sleepy and clearly not happy about going to their cubicle jobs. I had too much in my backpack, and I knew there would be a Vietnam War lecture to endure in a few moments. But for the moment, there I was, a hot cup of Macrina coffee in my hands, the window beside me fogging up, the sky outside it trying to lift. And there was a pause, and then the iPod must have slipped into the Us. Because what came on next? Unclefucker. From Southpark. Two cartoon voices singing in Canadian accents: "Shut your fucking face, unclefucker. You're the one who fucked your uncle, unclefucker..."
And suddenly, I was back in a cheap rental car with Sharon, on a hot July day two years ago. Just outside of Baraboo, Wisconsin. We were listening to a random mix cd Andy had loaned us for the trip, filled with old-timey bluegrass and obscure Belgian music. We had been appreciating it, nodding. And just outside of Baraboo, without any warning, Unclefucker came blaring out of the stereo. We looked at each other in astonishment, then burst out laughing, our bellies hurting immediately. And we played it again and again, laughing so hard that the car was swerving back and forth on the road, because I could hardly drive a straight line while listening to musical farts.
And so, this morning. Except that I was surrounded by these dour, silent people. And they couldn't hear it through my headphones. And they weren't Sharon. So as I listened to the triumphant swells of farts, a symphony of gaseous explosions, I held all the laughter just behind my lips. And I looked up at the sky, giggling to myself quietly, all that energy and memories buoying up my tired head, until I nearly exploded with happiness.

2004-03-22T20:52:00.000-08:00

Acupuncture is the shit.

I know that sentence is probably a desecration of a sacred, ancient art, but that’s as eloquent as I can be after a treatment. They stuck a dozen needles in my back tonight, and I nearly fell off the table in relaxation when I was done.

I’m starting to feel incredibly grateful again, now that the most acute phase of this accident has recovered. Sure, I don’t go more than an hour without thinking about the ramifications of being rammed by that car. And that’s a good hour. Every time I feel pain in my back, or my neck muscles feel like iron cords, or my headache flares, I think about it. But there are a few odd moments in the day when I suddenly stretch my neck and think, “Wait, why does my neck hurt?” I actually forget for a few moments. That’s the kind of forgetting I don’t mind.

And now, having survived the worst of it, I’m grateful for the routine. Most people have bodywork done once or twice a year, if that. I know someone who has never had a massage! When he told me that, I wanted to turn him around and start kneading his back muscles immediately (injured I may be, but my hands still know how to work). But we were at a restaurant, and it may have looked a little odd. So I didn’t. But I know that, for me, a massage was a luxury I gave myself four or five times a year. And afterwards, I felt wonderfully deep in my body, and I’d fall asleep as soon as I reached my bed. I’d be swarmed with realizations and relaxation. Now, I’m having some kind of bodywork every day.

Ah.

During the cranio-sacral work last week (with a powerful woman named Ursula Popp), images from all parts of my life rose up from my muscles. In a slow, methodical fashion, her gentle hands seemed to dredge up every time I have felt vulnerable, unprotected, and hurt. I still don’t know how she did it. All she did was put her hands under my hips, or along the sides of my neck, or dangling her fingertips on the top of my head. But something happened. I felt wonderfully stoned afterwards, enough that driving felt like a dream. And I slept well. Deeply.

Sarah, my massage therapist, leaves me in a similar state every Wednesday afternoon. She has small hands, with bony fingers, and when I first saw them, I thought: “How is that going to do anything for me?” But they’re wonderfully directed hands. Every week, she releases more pent-up energy from my muscles. I don’t know how. But I feel the warmth of her hands vibrating into my skull. My brain feels different afterwards. After every appointment, I leave feeling like there is nothing wrong with me. Anywhere.

Physical therapy is a bit more prosaic, but still lovely. Lisa, my physical therapist, taught me how to do exercises for my back properly, without making it all worse. She coached me through my despondent days. And she made mix cds for me, when I could first do some kind of aerobic exercises again. (early Michael Jackson! “I’m Walking on Sunshine”) For the first ten weeks after the accident, my neck muscles were too damaged to touch. I wasn’t allowed to start massage, or any of these other treatments. Lisa’s warm hands were the first touch since that day. Her neck rubs made me want to cry for their kindness. I had been longing to be touched for so long. And slowly, the muscles have started to unravel, with all this kind attention.

But I think that acupuncture is my favorite of them. I have an entire team at Bastyr who make me laugh, then plunge small needles in my skin. I really don’t know what they are doing. I don’t really understand how chi moves in my body. I have no way of talking about this practice in the language that Western medicine has taught me. I love that. Before this accident, I relied on my mental acuity: my memory; my vocabulary; my ability to process faster than anyone around. But that was all thrown around by that white Ford, along with my body. I’ve had to let go of so much. And so I’ll happily let go of the need to understand this with language.

I know that I feel protected in that room. The windows look out over 45th and Stone, and usually there’s a rush of golden light coming in through the slats of the blinds. There I am on the table, the hospital gown only covering a portion of me, so my ass is hanging out in the air. Now, there’s nothing like recovering from a car accident to make you lose your inhibitions. Still, it’s a vulnerable position. Plus, I have my face down in the cradle at the end of the table, so I can’t see anything. I’m trusting them to just stick things in me. And as soon as there are four or five needles in me, I’ve lost the ability to be coherent. I can only respond to each needle going in with a soft grunt when it hits the right spot. And then I lie there, everyone out of the room, needles protruding from my skin, blinded, unable to move. And fine. The soft warmth spreads throughout me. I have let go. And that’s when the healing begins.

What an amazing thing, that these injuries make me do this work every day. There isn’t a day that goes by without me feeling like I’ve dropped all artifice. I’m just there. I don’t feel at all oblivious to myself. I feel right here.

And then there’s the lovely sleep that follows, sweet and filled with patient dreams. I’m heading there now. It’s nearly 9 pm on an acupuncture night. What am I still doing up?

2004-03-21T21:04:00.000-08:00

Today was Elliott’s first birthday party. Now, his first birthday isn’t actually until Tuesday, so you should expect a long paean to the little guy then. But today was wild enough to merit a little writing.

I drove to Vashon with the sunroof of the car open, blasting music, feeling good. It’s spring. Friday was the first day of the season, and I can think of nothing better. Yesterday, at Greenlake, I stopped under the canopy of blossoming trees by the community center and gazed up into fat, white buds against blue sky. And today, I drove down 99 feeling fine, almost not blanching at the act of steering the car among other cars. When I saw that the Viaduct was closed, and I’d have to go down 1st to pick up the highway again, I dropped my aggravation out the window after only a few moments. Instead, I sang at the stoplights. Traffic detour near the museum didn’t faze me. So I was going to miss the 12:20 ferry. There’s always another one. And there was incipient green in Pioneer Square this afternoon. Out the sunroof, I saw these little green leaves starting to unravel against brick buildings, blue sky behind. And the sky in Seattle, the light. After long months of flat winter light, one day, the light, like liquid, everything expanding--and suddenly it’s spring.

My accident happened just a few days before the winter solstice. Now, spring is here. Finally.

The long, dark winter is over.

So I reached the ferry terminal in a good mood. I always feel better on that long dock jutting into the Sound. The sky is enormous, the water vast, and Vashon waits before me. And I had my iPod, a bag of animal cookies with pink frosting and sprinkles, and a giant book about the history of Monty Python. What could be wrong?

When I reached Andy and Dana’s house, a dozen or so cars followed me up the driveway. Everyone had come on the same ferry--former co-workers of Dana; fellow teaching-program students with Andy; friends with little kids. When I walked in the back door, Elliott was in my mom’s arms. I sneaked in, then started snickering at him, my face bunched up, saying “Elliott!” in my best Pee-Wee Herman voice. His face widened into a smile, then a giggle, and he immediately arched his back and leaned out of Mom’s arms. Leaned toward me. I held him to me, smiling, hearing everyone in the room coo: “Someone’s happy to see Shauna.” I ran him up and down the room, squealing. And delighting in the way his little white teeth showed as we ran, because he opened his mouth wide and just laughed.

I just love that kid.

And luckily for him, so do many other people. Mom and Dad dote on him, entirely. Andy and Dana’s friends regarded him with amusement and close attention. Dana’s mom flew up from Sacramento for his birthday, to bounce him on the orange ball. And of course, Andy and Dana are the best parents I know: devoted without being clingy; attentive without being sickening; relaxed. That’s one lucky kid.

And how did Elliott react to having a birthday party, when he doesn’t even know what a birthday is? When he was sitting in his highchair, he tugged at the clutch of colored balloons tied to the arm, throttling them up and down while chuckling. When Dana brought over the gingerbread cake on this weird green plate that twirled with soft lights and sang Happy Birthday (I don’t know), he exulted and had to put his hands on it. Also, he bounced in his chair as three little kids under three danced to the song. When Mom put a giant piece of store-bought cake in front of him, he poked his finger into the yellow icing, then saturated his hand with the cloud-white swirls. When he opened presents, he went into such giddy spirals of grunts and giggles that it sounded like baby swearing. He loved the soft animal books. The bubble wands entranced him, especially when I threw him up in the air and into my arms, so he could view them from great heights. But mostly, he loved the tissue paper.

So it was damned great. We did our usual routine at times: he investigated my earrings; he clutched at my sky-blue necklace; he squeezed up his face in a silent giggle when I made faces at him; he cuddled into my shoulder when he grew tired; and to everything else, he pointed, and asked, “Dat?” And me? I just soaked it all in, not feeling anything else but awe and love.

But eventually, I felt more pain. Once again, the muscles in my neck bolted against the noise. And oh, the noise, noise, noise. (To quote The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, whom I have no intention of becoming.) I love kids. Adore them. In some ways, I understand them better than most adults I know. But there’s nothing like having seven children under five in a space only slightly larger than my bedroom, for three and a half hours, to make my muscles revolt. Squealing, squawling, screaming, and shrieking--these are not the s words I need in my life. Really, I should probably just go into a sensory deprivation tank instead. I hate that I’ve become such a ninny. But the parents of these children were talking and laughing too, and I can hear every individual conversation, as well as the general din. Even when we all went out to the neighbor’s barn to look at the newborn lambs (ah, it really is spring), I could hear every echo of every conversation off the thin wooden walls.

So I drove home a little dampened, a little dejected. I-5 seemed spooky in the dark, all the cars too close. And I feared a migraine, for the way my neck muscles felt like dense ropes, sodden and tense. But now, it’s not so bad. My mom brought me some lotion her doctor gave her, thick cream with amitriptyline, a topical muscle relaxant. Yep, my mom is my drug dealer.

Besides, whatever pain came from the cacophonous afternoon, it was worth it. To be there for Elliott, this little being who has completely changed my life with his giggles, his curiosity, and his mere presence in the world? Worth all the pain.

Happy Birthday, little guy.

2004-03-20T22:43:00.000-08:00

There have been so many thoughts falling through my mind today, emotions roiling gently to the surface. After an intensive Hydro-fit class this morning (including a lovely sauna conversation with some of the senior citizens), then lunch and a slow walk around Greenlake with a friend, I was spent. I came home, ready for more play. A solid writing session. Or at least cleaning the house. But instead, I drifted through the afternoon, thinking. Took a long bath. Took a nap. Settled on the bed with the heating pad and never really moved away from it.

If the accident has taught me anything--and the list of those lessons is longer than I can list here--it has revealed to me how keenly I must listen to my body. If I have to spend the afternoon resting, instead of completing the plans I had intended, then the plans have to vanish. If my mind wants to dart faster than my body can move, then I have to let it. If the muscles in my neck ache, unexpectedly, after relative peace the day before, then I can do nothing but rest.

My friend at lunch asked me to tell him about the car accident. (I haven’t seen him since early December, a different lifetime.) “Or, you can tell me about something else, if you don’t want to start with that.” I laughed, then grew quiet. There’s not much else to talk about these days. It makes me sad that all my stories revolve around healing and resting days and lessons learned from my muscles. Me, who always has three thousand stories and the hand gestures to accompany them. (“Shauna, you can make a story out of any three minutes of your life,” a friend told me once.) Now, I can only pause, open up, and reveal deep-at-the-core-of-me stuff.

Or, I can try to go the other way. Become the happy chatterer, go back to old stories, play with words, turn on. And that's not a false self--everyone knows how gregarious I can be. When I’m happy these days, I’m happy with a capital H. I don’t have a headache! Life is beautiful! There has always been this dichotomy in me: talking and cheerful; quiet and solemn. Teacher; writer. Best friend/family member/kind to strangers; hours alone. But now the divide feels farther than before.

Last night, I turned into the happy chatterer. Blame the headache. I sat, trying to listen to this soft-spoken man beside me, with a table full of drunken-loud women behind me. The restaurant reverberated in my ears as soon as we walked in. My body flinched. I should have listened, asked to go to a quieter place. But I didn’t. I thought I could brave it out. Dismiss it. So as I sat amid clinking glasses, the spill of noise from the kitchen before us, tables full of Friday-night jubilance, and the individual sound of every fork on every plate, the headache snaked its way up my neck muscles. And as the headache crept up, I became brighter and brighter. By the end of the evening, even though I was enjoying myself, emotionally, I was miserable, physically. But I was still telling stories and making jokes. I just didn’t want to ruin the evening. I wasn’t being honest.

I hate that.

So this afternoon, when my friend wanted to know, I stayed soft. I let him see some of how difficult this has been, all the spiritual questing and stumblings. I told him how I lost my language for a time. How my super-sharp memory has been blunted. How there are still windows of time I walk into when I can’t remember the telephone number of my best friend. Or, as happened this week, I leave her a melancholy message on a Thursday, saying, “Where are you? We haven’t talked in days.” But we had talked for an hour and a half the night before. So my message was a repeat of details I had already shared. I didn’t know this until she laughed about it today.

What else am I forgetting?

My friend at lunch said, “That must have been really scary for you, considering how language is fundamental to who you are.”
And immediately, I said, “No it’s not. Words are important to me, deeply. But they’re not who I am at the core. They’re not fundamental to me. They’re not real. I don’t trust them.”
He blanched, since we have subsisted on word play and philosophical talks since we have known each other. “You wouldn’t have said that a year ago.”
“Oh, I might have danced around it. I knew it then, intellectually. But since I went into shock, I know it in my body.”

For some reason, lately, I keep going back to the hours after the car accident when I went into deep, deep shock. In some ways, from this distance, this was the scariest part of the entire experience. Because once the adrenaline drained from my body, and the ambulance raced to collect me from the curb, shaking, I lost myself. Everything faded.

In the back of the ambulance, I kept falling out of consciousness. The medic kept trying to shake me awake, to ask me questions, to keep me from going under. I remember him asking my name. Something about the urgency, even the annoyance, in his voice, cut through the fog. It made me realize that he had asked me three or four times before I could focus on his face, hovering above his blue uniform. I didn’t know some of the answers to his questions. I didn’t know much of anything.

I knew that my arms felt useless. I couldn’t feel my legs. I didn’t even remember that they existed. When we reached Harborview, the best trauma emergency room in Seattle, the nurses kept piling blanket after blanket on me. But nothing would stop my shivering, the trembling at the core of me. Vaguely, from a great distance, I heard the confusion, even the fear, in the nurse’s voices, when they wondered why they couldn’t warm me up. From a great distance, a thought arose, “Am I dying?” But the thought vanished, along with any fear of it. Not because I talked myself into feeling all right. Because my mind didn’t have the energy to care.

After having gone through it, and studied up on it, I know that in deep shock, all the blood rushes from the extremities, toward the core, to protect the inner organs, the heart. That’s why my arms felt so flaccid at my sides, so foreign. That’s why my thinking nearly stopped. That’s why I can only remember it now in flashes of disconnected images.

But the studying hasn't helped. Now, I can only feel that hour or so of shock before they finally warmed me back to consciousness. It felt like death. How do I know? I don’t. But it feels like that’s what death will be like. I feel it deep in my bones. And what did it feel like? Utterly anonymous. Everything that was particular, individual, quirky, attached to the world, or what I identify as Shauna? It simply didn’t exist. It just slipped away. And in that way, it was wonderfully easy. There was no struggle. There was no great epiphany, no white light. I was simply fading out.

I haven’t been able to forget it since. Death has been sitting with me ever since.

And in some ways, that has been scary. Impossible to convey. And terribly lonely, because I don’t know many other people who understand this. This is the first time I’ve tried to write about it. I’ve just started talking about it this week. And every attempt with words is a failure.

But in other ways, it has been an enormous grace. This presence has meant that I can’t take anything for granted, can’t take anything too seriously, can’t wrap myself in senseless fear or stress. I know all those trivial details will slip away someday, so why waste my time with them now?

And there’s a comfort in knowing. Of having gone down to the core of me, and knowing that I don’t have to struggle. Or try to control everything. Anything. “Let life live itself.” One of my students brought this in the other day, when I asked them to find one sentence they adore. It has been tripping through my mind these past few days.

But more than that, I’m just so grateful to have this life, as it is: complicated, attached, quirky, and destined to fade away entirely. I’m so damned glad to be here. Because I know, wonderfully, what I am at the core. Not words. Not my stories, my wordplay, my brightness, my kind acts, my memories, my to-do list, my verbal acuity, my accomplishments, or my hopes for the next few days, the year, the rest of my life. I’m not a Shauna.

I’m not me.

What am I, at the core? Just life. Breath. Consciousness. The ability to hear the din of noise in a restaurant, feel the heating pad on my back, smell the acrid cologne of that man passing me on a sunlit day, taste the burger with white cheddar in my mouth, or see the craggy Olympic mountains rising high in the pale blue sky. A beating heart. An alive mind. This moment. Right now.

And the joy that comes from knowing this is immeasurable.

“....having a minute ago nearly gone mad with fear, she was now suffused with a slow, deep ecstasy at being at one with her body and the earth and everything that was matter.”
--Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass

Yes.

2004-03-19T10:54:00.000-08:00

So I did it. I finally bought an iPod.

And here comes the justification. More for myself than for you.

I've been longing for one for months. Years, if I'm being honest. When they first came out, they made sense to me. The same way that digital cameras finally match the way my mind works with photography (spontaneous, looking for that tug of color or texture, the chance to edit, and no need to spend a bunch of money), the iPod matches how I think of music. Why can't I hear one artist after another whom I love, instead of having to be relegated to single albums or carefully crafted mix cds?

Music is constantly flowing through me. If there isn't music on in my house, it's only because I'm a) asleep, b) meditating/trying to maintain a meditative state of silence, or c) dead. No thanks to the last one. And even the three-disc changer in my cd player isn't enough for me. Now, a colleague of mine has a 100-disc player, or some such nonsense. Of course, he also has a typewritten list of which disc is in which space. Um, not going to happen in my house. So I'm left with three discs. And increasingly, that isn't enough.

Music has been one of the great healers for me in this recovery period. The others? Sleep. Dark chocolate. Meditation. All my bodywork. My smart, approachable doctor. Writing. And mostly, loving people and feeling loved. (Insert Raymond Carver poem here, if you know it.) With the help of all these, and my determined, positive nature, I'm slowly healing. And learning, enormously. But that's for another entry.

And so I've been carrying around my discman, as I walk around Greenlake, or walk through the twilight air in Queen Anne, or taking out the trash. Music is ineffably beautiful Hearing the joy, ache, longing, jubilance, caustic humor, and mostly the deep gift of creativity from other people has brought me out of myself in this process. But there are only so many times I can listen to the "Recovery music: yes; healing; love; rest" mix cd I made for myself in the middle of the worst sciatica pain. Or Rufus Wainwright's new album. Or Beck's Sea Change.

Beyond that, physiologically, I need music. Especially now that I'm back at school. You see, my sympathetic nervous system was activated by the accident, and it hasn't calmed down since. This I just realized during my ten-day respite. Or at least, my physical therapist put a name to it during that rest. Because my pulse has been racing, consistently, since the accident. My muscles are having a hard time relaxing. And my senses are so heightened that I have almost-superhuman powers of perception. If you blindfolded me, I could walk into any produce section in the supermarket and walk you to individual fruits. I can hear all the individual conversations in the main hallway of the school, as well as the general din. I can smell every person who walks by me at Greenlake. I can smell cleaning products through closet doors and tell you which ones are in there.

Can you see why I'm a little overwhelmed at a school with 410 teenagers?

Well, now, so do I. Time off allowed for quiet. Space. Sleep. Healing. And therefore, the headaches dissipated. Enough so I could tell what drove them up again. Driving. Oh god, driving still freaks me the fuck out. At every moment, with every movement, I'm physically aware of how it could all go wrong. How that car pulling out could hit me. How that stupid woman talking on her cell phone while driving could just barrel through that light turning red. How I could lose my awareness for a few moments and just drift. After a long drive, my head bulges with pain, because my muscles have automatically tensed up.

What can I do? I put Beatles cds in the car, music I know like my own breath. And whenever I'm driving, I'm singing. Singing makes the muscles in my neck and jaw keep moving, which keeps them looser. And keeps the headache in abeyance.

What else starts the headaches? Well, since I'm so aware of sounds and smells and sights, too much sensory stimulation sets me off too. This from someone who was already pretty damned aware anyway. As you know, I love my senses. I hate cutting myself off from them. But I figured out that if I have just a little less sensory input at school, my mind wouldn't have to process so much. My sympathetic nervous system would calm down and not send the urgent message to my muscles: gird yourself! Tense! Accident coming! You see, my sympathetic nervous system reads too much stimulation as more trauma. And so I'm experiencing the car accident over and over again in my body.

I'm tired of being Sisyphus.

So I figured out that if I bought a good pair of heaphones--the kind with giant puffy ear muffs that block out noise--and listened to music while I'm at school, then I could have more control over the sensory input coming in. And at the same time, block out the inane conversations of some my colleagues. Choose when I want to talk. And always have music playing in my ears.

So I did. I bought a pair of Sennheisers, the kind that look like Professional Headphones. I thought that would be enough. But then I thought about listening to one cd all day long. Or having to carry a bunch of cds in my backpack, for the variety. But I don't need any more weight on my back.

And then I thought about the iPod.

Actually, I had been thinking about it for weeks. Thinking about it too much. Two or three times, I was in the Udistrict, running errands, close to the Apple store. And two or three times, I almost drove there and bought one. But they're $300! And do you have any idea how expensive it is to recover from a car accident? New shoes, new backpack, lumbar roll, a variety of heating pads, new keyboard configuration, more and more Motrin. Ack. And besides, there are so many starving children. Could I really justify spending that much money on a music player?

Yesterday, I said yes.

Actually, blame it on the acuity that writing brings me. Yesterday, I was writing an email to someone, telling him why I was justifying the restraint. And I wrote this line: "But instinctually, I know I want one. And when my instincts tell me what I want, I listen. " After I wrote that, I knew I had given in. How could I lie to myself anymore? My gut kept telling me to buy one. So I did. I walked into the gleaming Apple store and bought an iPod that holds 3700 songs. 37 years I've been alive. That sounds good to me. I loaded it up last night, and I already have 1257 songs on there. (If you should wish to give me more, send them my way.)

And now, I'm sitting at the computer in the Humanities office, typing away, the words flowing from me in a way they haven't at school in months. Perhaps never. Because as I sit here, listening to Yousou N'Dour, Dar Williams, Magnetic Fields, Sam Cooke, Annie Lennox, and whatever the name of the band that did "Afternoon Delight," (I swear that's what is playing right now) I can watch my colleagues talking, growing annoyed with something, and I don't have to hear it. I can't hear the creaking of the floorboards above my head. I can't hear the raucous, joyous shouting of teenagers in the sunlit main hallway. I'm only hearing music.

And I don't have a headache. This is the first time since early December that I haven't had a headache at school.

Thank you, iPod.

2004-03-18T10:06:00.000-08:00

Last week, on the first real day of my break, I drove to the Queen Anne community pool, determined to walk in the water. My doctor and physical therapist had recommended it weeks before, saying I could strengthen my back and not have to worry about injuring myself. But between all day at school and an after-school therapeutic appointment every day, I just couldn’t muster up the energy to go to the pool in the evening. But here I was, on a Monday morning, ten hours of sleep behind my eyes, and nowhere in particular to go. So I walked into the community center with my bathing suit in my bag, wanting my solitary trudge through water.

But the woman at the front desk shook her head when I said I wanted to walk. “Come back at noon for lap swim. Now, there’s Hydro-fit.” She gestured through the glass windows into the pool, where I saw dozens of gray-haired heads bobbing in clear blue water. Oh, the old person’s class. My back wouldn’t let me take any gym classes yet, but how hard could this be? Sure. Why not?

I walked into the locker room, the smell of chlorine-soaked bathing suits on wet cement taking me back immediately. To being a kid, in Southern California swimming pools, my body like a seal beneath the water trying to escape the enormous heat of the sun. To feeling buoyant. Everything possible. I ducked my head and grinned to myself, then tried to figure out how the lockers worked. There’s always that tentative feeling when I first enter into a new situation, whatever it might be. Meeting a new person. Tackling a new task. Being somewhere I’ve never been. I’m equal parts excitement and sudden shyness. Like being a kid again. Ussually, I start talking and joking, and the diffidence slips off my shoulders. But here, I stayed silent, listening. It was clear, immediately, that I had walked into a fully formed community. Older women called to each other from across the locker room: “Mabel, is that a new suit? It’s beautiful on you.” They chatted and laughed with ease. They were clearly here together every day. I was the only person under 60.

At the poolside, I tried to watch what everyone else was doing instead of asking what to do, so I grabbed some styrofoam dumbbells and some weird ankle floats. I snapped them on me and put my feet in the water. Warmth. Slowly, I descended the steps in the shallow end and closed my eyes in the pleasure.

I love water. I love being in it, floating in it, not talking in it. It’s something primal, something deep in my limbic system, autonomic. Years ago, when some friends and I went to Jones Beach on Long Island for a day at the ocean, they all spent their first hour arranging their blankets and dabbing on sunblock. But I had arrived with my bathing suit beneath my clothes, slathered in sunblock already. I threw off my clothes and ran into the waves, exulting. I didn’t come out for an hour, as I jumped over waves and did handstands under the water, the sand falling away from my palms. They were amazed. I ate, then went back in.

But in some weird way, I prefer pools. I know that’s absurd, but it’s bred in me. When you fly over Los Angeles, descending into LAX, you can’t even count the dots of turquoise blue spread out across the suburbs. Pools meant relief from the sun. A bit of affluence. Long summer days spread out before us. We only had a pool in one of the houses we rented, when I was 14. But I used it every day, practicing back dives and perfect strokes.

No back dives in this pool, however. Everything still hurts. It’s more localized pain, and the muscles are starting to soften. Now, especially, after my week and a half off. But on that Monday, I was tentative and tender. However, I could feel the headache lift the lower I went into the water.

I made my way toward the deep end, the only dark-haired head among the white and grey. It was me and 28 senior citizens. You know me--I was laughing internally, immediately. Then, the instructor, a muscled young woman who worked as a lifeguard, started softly shouting physical cues. Running underwater. Jumping jacks underwater. Side steps. Criss crosses. Crunches. Twists.

I was exhausted.

The old people were kicking my ass.

It turns out that Hydro-fit is one of the best physical activities I’ve ever done. It’s right up there with yoga for deep muscle work and wonderful relaxation of the mind. Because, the longer I stayed in the pool, trying to move, the more the headache dissipated. And the more I stretched out my limbs, letting my fingers play on the surface of the water. I moved in ways I haven’t been able to move since early December. I could feel the blood rushing back into my body, my muscles joyful for the use. I had to stop a lot, because I haven’t been able to exercise concertedly since the accident. And I felt humbled, again.

I stayed toward the shallow end, because whenever I wandered over to where my feet couldn’t touch, I’d feel as though I was starting to drown, and I’d begin to flail. There’s still a lot of fear left in my muscles from the accident, I guess. After all, they’re still guarding against it, three months later. Also, I couldn’t figure out the floaters, and they kept coming loose. Or, more accurately, they worked too well, and suddenly I’d find myself with my feet at the surface, unable to move, looking foolish. Except no one was looking. They were all chatting with each other, their flowered bathing suits bright beneath the water, their hair perfectly coiffed and dry. Meanwhile, I was drenched and still not able to control this.

By the end of the class, however, I had stopped worrying about control. I just floated. I moved in the poses as I could. Other than that, I remembered to feel the water on my body. I relaxed. And by the time I climbed out of the pool, I knew I’d be coming back on Wednesday.

I’ve been going back every chance I have, ever since. I’ve found my body yearning for the pool. Nothing hurts underwater. In that pale blue pool in Queen Anne, my back is powerful enough to move my legs, my shoulders open fully, and my headache is a memory. For an hour, I’m not in pain. And there’s no way to describe my gratitude.

And more than that, I’ve come to love this community I stumbled into. I’ve found myself jealous of the 70-year-olds. These women and men have it set. They wake up at 9 in the morning. They move when they want. They float in the pool with their friends, talking about good books and good food and good memories. They don’t have to push or struggle or be better than they are. They simply are. And they’re characters. Mary has a broad Irish face, a dark blue suit, and a knowing smile. She’s the major doyenne of that place, apparently. I knew I was in when she handed me my dumbbells, rather than making me swim to them. There’s a man who looks like Joseph Campbell who dives into the pool before class, rather than slipping in like the rest of us. Maybe he’s trying to impress the ladies. There’s the woman who wears a turquoise turban, trying to keep her hairdo in place. And dozens of other happy chatterers whom I want to know.

When I told my mother about taking the class, she said, “Did you strike...?” and then started to laugh.
“What?” I said.
“I was going to ask you if you had struck up a conversation with anyone there, but I know you. You did.”
I did.
There’s Sonora, the lovely woman from India who teaches journalism at Seattle U. She’s only a few years older than me, and she has been coming to these classes for months. There’s a sub-community within the larger one--we younger ones who have been in accidents. She was in a terrible car accident several years ago, which smashed her leg. She’s had several surgeries since, and she has to have ankle replacement surgery this summer. Above water, she still limps. But under the water, she has easy grace. We’ve been talking for a week now. I gave her the names of my acupuncturist and massage therapist, since she hadn’t tried either. We might go out for Indian food soon.

There’s another young woman there, with a slender body, a bathing cap, and sunglasses. For the first couple of classes, I thought she was too cool, wearing sunglasses. I imagined her haughty. I was wrong. Sonora introduced me to Casey, and we started talking. She took a bad fall at work two and a half years ago, tumbling down some stairs, then bouncing her skull against concrete at the bottom. She has not been able to work since. Her nerve damage is so extensive that she has had a crippling headache every day since. Her left side is so injured that she feels pain if someone stands too near to her. And she wears the sunglasses because the light hurts her eyes. I felt instantly chastened, not only for misjudging her, but also because my three-month headache felt blessedly brief in comparison. She talked about how long it takes for her to hang up a sweater, because her memory loss sometimes prevents her from remembering what it is. I felt childish in ever complaining.

And so I’m making friends, people bound together by suffering and good attitudes. We all agree--we love the water. Nothing hurts underwater. “It’s like returning to the womb,” Sonora said, and I laughed, because I had been thinking the same thing. (I’m glad for my mother’s sake that the womb is not as large as the Queen Anne pool, however.) And I’ve been listening to how all the people there care about each other. One of the older women had brought some food for Casey’s lunch that day, since they know she can’t cook for herself. They remember each other’s stories and ask about their days. “Did you choose that tile yet, Mary?” It’s people being kind to each other. They just call it Hydro-fit.

But actually, that class kicks my ass. I’m starting to notice differences in my muscles for doing it. My triceps are aching from the curls under the water. (Turns out that the flimsy dumbbells take on enormous weight when they’re soaked with water. That, plus the natural resistance of the water means I’m lifting weights again.) Everything feels more alive for it. And the endorphins that have kicked in from the class, my long walks around Greenlake, and the return to yoga (yay!), have elevated my mood. I’ve found my joy again. I feel like I’m back.

Yesterday, I returned to school. 6 am hurt my head, and for a few moments, I thought I couldn’t do it. But I did my shoulder, neck, and back exercises, drank my coffee, and forced myself out of the house. All the students at school were thrilled to see me. Plenty of hugs. And lots of noise. The main hallways thronged with teenagers is louder than an airplane hanger to me. I endured two periods, talked my juniors into relaxing about the test today, and then I left. I drove home, because I had a couple of periods off before I taught the seniors how to write. And I drove to Hydro-fit.

This time, I walked into the locker room confident of where to go, what to do. I greeted people and ambled to the pool feeling decadent. Playing hooky in the middle of the day (Well, not really. The head of the upper school gave me permission.) I put on the purple waist belt (I recognize my lack of strength now. I’m not ready for the ankle floaters yet) and slipped into the deep end. I gave up my clinging to the shallow end, on the edges of the experience, days ago. Chatted with Sonora, asked Casey how she was feeling. Smiled with Mary. Talked with a woman in her 80s with a plastic bathing cap who had just undergone bladder surgery four weeks ago. And there she was, back in the pool.

Just before the class began, I looked down at my feet. There I was, floating, my perfect red pedicure chipped from the chlorine, and I didn’t care. It’s the strangest, most peaceful feeling, to see the deep water beneath you clearly, and know that you’re not going to drown. That you can just bob and float, throw back your arms and trust the warm water. I feel like a kid again in the pool. I just play. And nothing hurts.

When I returned to school later in the afternoon, I talked with my seniors, these 18 kids, about-to-be-adults, who have been working hard (and laughing hard) with me all year. They were jubilant at my return, and we just told stories for awhile. I told them that I feel like I found my joy with this time off, and that they should never just succumb to the American ideal of push, push, push. And then I told them about my experiences at the pool. They laughed, of course, but they also looked a little jealous. And I told them, “For the rest of the year, I just want this class to be the pool for you. In your writing, I want you to trust the feeling of being here, try out new sentences you never would have dared before like you’re kicking your legs underwater, and play. And I don’t want anything to hurt.” They looked grateful. They looked even more grateful when I told them I’m never going to give them another grade. I’ll edit their writing. I’ll listen to their stories. But fuck grades. They just make us push. And I just want to play.

So if you need to find me, come by the Queen Anne community pool. I’ll be one of the few dark-haired heads among the grey and white. But I’ll be playing, rolling around the water like an otter, at home in my body for the first time in months. Maybe years. And I’ll have a peaceful smile on my face.

2004-03-12T20:33:00.000-08:00

I have been healing. This week off was the best idea I've had since the car accident. I've been slowly spreading out to fill my days. As my shoulders literally open up, like a plant unfurling to spring sunlight, so has my heart. I feel like I've rediscovered my joy, even in the midst of the pain. Perhaps because of the pain. Writing ideas, teaching ideas, life ideas--they've been bombarding me. I feel alive again, flawed and secure, because I'm so acutely aware of the insecurity of all of this.

And it has been mostly mundane. The hilarious hydro-fit classes at the Queen Anne community pool, bobbing up and down with the senior citizens in the warm water. Shopping for the laptop stand, new keyboard, and mouse at the alluring Apple store in UVillage--almost buying an iPod, but refraining for the money. Having lunch at Macrina with Vanessa and Melody on a sunny afternoon when they showed up spontaneously at my door. Curled up with The Golden Compass, my back on the heating pad, as I turned pages almost as fast as my eyes could read. Walking around Greenlake with Francoise yesterday, finally able to walk at her purposeful pace. Waiting for the bus in Wallingford after another transformative accupuncture treatment, the sun warm on my head, and me in no hurry to go anywhere. Dancing to Michael Jackson as I set up my computer this morning. Cooking garlic-lemon chicken in the kitchen. Watching episode after episode of Queer as Folk on the dvd player. Taking my first yoga class in three months, deeply humbled by the exeprience of not being able to reach past my knees in forward bend for the pain in my back, when I used to be able to place my palms upon the floor. But feeling it more fully now. And mostly, not talking with that many people or going that many places, except for the daily therapeutic appointment. I've been with myself, mostly. And it has been a wonderful experience.

The headache is down to a dull roar, with flashes of more intense pain every once in a while. And the glorious patches of feeling my own mind without the veil of pain upon it. My back feels strong after all the exercise, the stretches, the nine and ten hours of sleep a night. I've let my body be my wisest guide this week, doing only what it wants. The house is still cluttered. I don't care. I haven't caught up on my emails, because it took me until today to make my computer configuration ergonomically correct. Fine. All the projects I first thought about have simply fallen away. Instead, I'm just being here.

So I'm going back to school next week, on Wednesday, instead of Monday. I could probably go back on Monday, for the way I'm feeling. But I'd like four more days of feeling pretty good before I forge into the fray again. And I'm returning with much more clarity, buoyancy, and joy. And knowing that there's something beyond it.

And I'm writing.

And today, I spent the afternoon with Elliott, who smiled wide when I walked through the door and started crawling toward me as fast as he could. We danced up and down the carpeted floor. I fed him a bottle full of goat's milk, and he giggled so hard he made raspy noises in his throat when he figured out how to bounce the nipple back and forth in his fingers. With his chin covered in milk, he looked at me, then nuzzled up to my chest, cuddling. Who cares about the t-shirt? He watched in amazement as I drank cold water from a clear glass, emphasizing the "Ahhhh" at the end of every gulp, and then he laughed. We read books. He bounced a blue ball. He bounced up and down on my knee when we watched the breakfast scene from PeeWee's Big Adventure. And he slept on me, his soft breath on my neck, his cheeks growing more and more pink as he slept. Andy worked on the computer in another room, I read seventy pages of my book, and the birds were singing in the big field outside the window.

All feels right with the world. Finally.

2004-03-08T15:19:00.000-08:00

I've gone dark lately, as someone I know put it an inquiring email to me the other day. I haven't posted anything in here for ages (that kind of non-specific reference being the only one that makes sense to me these days). I haven't written many emails in weeks, a rare happening normally explained and apologized for profusely. But not now. Now, I'm just here.

I've gone dark inside of me, deep down into the darkness, until I could grab fistfuls of light at the bottom, then make the slow journey up, back to myself.

My stupid injuries are the reason for my ridiculous silence. In some ways, I have experienced a setback. In other, deeper ways, I think I'm finally starting to heal. Last week was exhausting. The day of the Oscars, I realized I just didn't have the energy to be around a group of people, even people I adore. So I couldn't attend the Oscar party I had known about for a month. That's not a good way to start a school week. Exhausted and wanting to avoid groups of people talking.

And then I started acupuncture, last Monday. It opened something in me, deeply, something that had remained guarded since the accident. Have you ever done it? This was my first time, and I'm convinced. It's extraordinary. First of all, they did an hour-long intake interview, asking me about EVERY part of my life. Whatever the consistency of my bowel movements, the frequency with which I turn red-cheeked during the day, or the color of my tongue have to do with it, I have no idea. Whatever they are doing by sticking little needles into various places in my body, I have no idea. But all power to them. At one point, the supervising doctor said, "I bet your bad headaches start right...here," and then proceeded to put his finger on the precise part of the occiput where the skull-splitting headaches are born. (I should call them the Athena-born-from-the-skull-of-her-father headaches.) I screamed and squirmed, and he calmed me with his hands. And then he put a needle there. This wave of cold rushed down my body, and I yelped. When I told them about it, they all just said, "Hm. Good." Okay. Whatever.

I left that night feeling utterly stoned. Deep within myself. Everything as it is. And as I walked back to my car, I realized, I was without headache. For half an hour, the first real time since the car accident. There's no way to describe the first time without a headache after twelve weeks of having one. Beautiful. How could life be better?

Except that I went back to school the next day and undid all the good work. Right back into the fray.

It's hard having a headache for twelve straight weeks. Harder than I can possibly convey, even to myself. But at the end of school days, I have a headache so bone crushing that I've taken to referring to it as my full frontal lobotomy headache. (I have a lot of nicknames for headaches, I've realized.) Ugh. Tuesday night, coming up Queen Anne hill on the #2 bus, I realized that I needed a day off school. I thought that would do the trick.

I just rested all day Wednesday. Went to Macrina for lunch, which felt like a decadence. Worked on my novel. Went to bed early.

But after a day off, and the first hint of real relaxation in my body in nearly three months, I thought I could go back to school on Thursday. And after another day at school, I realized one day off wouldn't do the trick. I really haven't taken a real break since the accident. Oh sure, there was Christmas vacation, but I was a wreck then. In total shock. Unbearable pain. Denial. And I went to Ashland, which made the sciatica pain flare up even more. Then there was the week off from school in January, but that was because I could only crawl on my hands and knees and sleep for an hour a night. Emergency care. And I went back to school the next Tuesday. And there was the week in February, but you read about that already, the nightmare of writing evaluations all week with a series of migraines. And then went right back to school.

Now I look at it, feeling much better along, and think, What? Why didn't I take a month? Partly because this society has all its priorities wrong, and we think we need to push, push, push. As much as I practice meditation and know that slowing down is the path to happiness, it's hard to resist that call. And also, schools are hard to leave. It did my psychology good to be among people I care about, to leave my own confines for awhile. But it's just that the pressures and decisions and craziness that is inherent in schools is not good for my physical space.

And suddenly, I knew in my gut that I needed a break. A real break, to heal. I'm going to some kind of therapeutic appointment every day, literally. And last week, I figured out that I was going to each one and working hard just to muster up the energy to gird myself up and go back to school the next day.

So at my physical therapy appointment on Thursday afternoon, I told her just how exhausted and shattered and still in pain I am. And before I could even say it, she said, "You need to take some time off." She phoned my doctor, who came down immediately from his office upstairs to sign me a form barring me from work. On Friday, I went to work to take care of the logistics. Signed forms. Told everyone I was going. Garnered sympathy. Told my students. Declared myself on medical leave, until... I'm not sure. We'll see. It might be that a week will do the trick, and then a series of three-day weekends in the successive weeks. Or it might be that colleagues will have to donate sick days to me, and I'll take two weeks. Or more. I'm going to let my body tell me. That's the deepest knowledge I have.

Today is the first day off school, and I don't feel at all guilty. It's gloriously blue skied outside, and the entire day is stretched before me. I woke up slowly this morning, took an hour to do all my therapeutic stretches and isometric exercises for my lower back, neck, and shoulders. Ate poached eggs on sauteed spinach with La Brea Bakery french bread. Drank an entire pot of french press coffee, slowly. Talked with a friend. Read three chapters of The Golden Compass. Noted down the ideas for writing and possibilities for jobs outside of teaching that are blooming in my head, as soon as I took the time to relax. Now, I'm going down to the Queen Anne pool, to walk in the water, slowly. A long conversation with a friend. Time to write. Slow lunch. A walk around Greenlake. Then an acupuncture treatment. I'll come home feeling stoned, free of headache and free of school. And then I'll sleep, sweetly and slow, long into tomorrow morning.

So that's how I am. That's why I haven't written before this.

And also because, I'm really fricking tired of talking about my car accident injuries and the recovery from such. I'm one track mind, in conversation, these days. I hate that. And so I've been waiting for other stories before I post again. But these past few days of rest, I've realized that I have to just work with what I have. There will be other stories, soon.

But in the meantime, here I am.

2004-02-22T20:19:00.000-08:00

My brother and his little family moved to Vashon yesterday. As I think I've mentioned, my brother is dear to me. His wife has become a dear friend as well. She's grounded, sane, involved with the world, and the most compassionate veterinarian I know without being sappy. And my nephew? Well, he's really the love of my life. I've always loved my brother, from the moment he was born. So seeing his son, at first, just reminded me of my brother. But now, Elliott is just himself. And it's a profound experience, loving him. Because he doesn't have to do anything for me to love him. When he cries or pulls my hair (and this rare, because he's an even-tempered baby), I still love him. He doesn't have to smile or do cute tricks for me to love being with him. Instead, he just is. And when I'm with him, I just am as well. So this week, Andy and Dana spent their time outside of work packing up their house. Obviously, this is hard to do with a small baby, so they called on me. I was over at their Seattle house every day this week, almost. And I held the boy, and walked him around the yard, showing him how to pat tree bark and listen to birds and watch cars go by. He grows so excited with everything that it re-animates me to how beautiful the world is. And when a car comes rumbling up the hill, I quiver too, because I know I can point it out to him soon.

On Wednesday, after I had the miserable morning of trying to write evaluations, I went over to be with him. And he said my name for the first time. He says "DAT!" to everything, which means "What is that?" Early in the afternoon, he pushed his hands against my chest, and said, "Dat?" and I said, "Shauna." Then he put his head on my chest and nuzzled in. Later, he pushed on my chest again, but this time, said, "Na-na. Na-na." Then put his head on my chest for a hug. Well, that quickly blew away any problems I thought I had.

So yesterday, Dana and I went over to Vashon on an early morning boat, settled Elliott in their new house, and then she left for work. He was slightly anxious, but it was easy to distract him with my blue necklace or a copy of Rolie Polie Olie or walking outside to look at the pasture outside their door. I was there for several hours with him alone, the sun parting through the clouds and throwing sun spangles on their new wooden floor. Later, my parents showed up, and we all played. And then I drove around the island visiting friends.

When I first became a teacher, I taught at the high school on Vashon. I love that place. It's one of my sacred spaces in the world. The five years I spent there were deeply connected with people and nature, and me starting to learn who I was in the world. That island was my shelter. Later, I outgrew it, for a time, then moved to NYC. (One island to another, about the same size, one 9000 people and the other countless millions.) But I've always known I'll move back to Vashon someday. In some ways, I wasn't ready for it then. But whenever I go back, I feel connected again. Former students bag my groceries. I see my former principal in the grocery store, buying soup, and we catch up in a few moments. And one drive down the main highway, the green trees blurring past my vision, the entire sky open, and I feel like I'm home.

So having Andy and Dana move there makes me happy. Beyond happy. They were ten minutes from me in Seattle, and I'll hate having them away. But it's just another excuse to visit the island.

My sister-in-law had to work all day yesterday, so my brother organized the move by himself. Every night for weeks, he'd been coming home from a long day at school, playing with their baby for awhile (usually singing to him or telling him the words for the myriads of objects surrounding him), sitting down to dinner, then packing boxes. She'd work alongside him. They traded off who made dinner. They joked every night.

Yesterday, he and three friends moved most of their house. Normally, I would have been heaving boxes with them, because I'm like that, you know? If it's the people I love, I'll do anything to make life easier. But, I've been hampered by a car accident and I can't lift boxes. So I babysat the nephew all day long instead. (Oh, there's a tough job.) My brother drove the big truck, lifted the couch, and maintained his sense of humor and good grace through it all.

In the late afternoon, he took a nap with the baby on his chest.

Later, he woke up and started unpacking boxes. I looked up from playing with Elliott and said, "Sit down. You deserve a rest."

"Nope," he said, unpacking silverware. "I want to impress my chick." (note the ironic word choice)

I laughed. "I think you've already done that, amply."

"I can never do that enough," he said, still working.

This moved me deeply. I hope I'm lucky enough someday to be married to someone like my brother, but someone who's not my brother.

But it turns out that taking care of an 11-month-old all day (lifting, kissing, carrying, spinning, dancing, and slinging him on my hip) wasn't the best idea for my back, neck and shoulders. I came home with a terrible, pounding migraine last night. Took two Vicodin and crawled into bed at 8:30. And this morning, I felt woozy and discouraged until about noon. This is a long road, still.

Luckily, there will be healing, eventually. There already has been. The doctor says that I should be free of pain in two months. My physical therapist says that my patience is astounding. She also says that my neck muscles are starting to soften. I'm going to try intensive massage, acupuncture, walking in the pool. Anything I can to make this dissipate.

This afternoon, I was at Macrina, talking to Jesse, who runs the place. She asked me how I was doing, noting the purple splint on my left wrist (for the tendonitis that has flared up and still makes typing this difficult). I told her that it seems to be about four days of doing better, then two days of going backward. And she said, "A friend of mine has chronic fatigue syndrome, and she says, 'I can do everything I want, but I just can't do it too many days in a row.'" That sounds about right to me.

So that's why I haven't written before this. I just returned home from more time with Elliott, looking at daffodils in the dusky light and playing peek-a-boo with paper plates. School starts again tomorrow. I can't say I'm thrilled, but it will kick in during the middle of the day. I do love that place. I just want to sleep in. That's why I have to go to bed early tonight, to make sure I'm ready.

But it doesn't take much to be ready. Just being here is enough.

2004-02-19T07:52:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, I was miserable. Slumped against a bank of lockers, the heating pad warming my back, I felt near tears. Evaluations were due. All around me, faculty members sorted piles of paper fanned out at their feet. Everyone babbled happily, even while complaining about the arduous process, the rigors of teaching that meant we never have a full break. They were done. Finished. Finally on vacation. But me? I just bent forward slowly to grab another one of my advisees' thick white forms, and grimaced.

I hadn't finished on time.

Now of course, this isn't the world's biggest problem. And even in my small world, this was about 32 on the list of bummers of the last month. Everyone I know has commented on my good nature, my optimism, my endless wells of smiles in the midst of lousy pain. Of course. This is me. I'm hard-wired to see the best in situations. Not that it's a duty or a facade. I truly am happy in the midst of this pain. Most of the time. But not yesterday.

Once again, my hobbled back and addled head prevented me from feeling fully part of it all. Writing evaluations is hard under the best of circumstances. There are all those papers to read--"The Stranger is the story of a taciturn young man..."--all those Cold War tests to grade--"While the USSR did do some bad acts, the US was not justified in the Cold War because of McCarthyism and deposing leaders."--all those student short stories to read. Well, you see the picture. Normally, I love those students and their well-meaning scribbles. But when it hurts my head to read for longer than twenty minutes (and that's reading the best literature in the world, or at least silly magazines), you can imagine why I staved off reading for as long as I could. And then, all weekend, there's the little nagging, "Yes, but you should be grading."

Finally, I did grade. And then I was exhausted. Because then, I was faced with all those little paragraphs. Five times a year, it's my job to judge my students, to come up with concise capsule reviews of what they have done, and what they might want to do next. Given that it's me, this also means a brief psychological insight, searing and true. Oh, just thinking about it exhausts me again. Can't I just put a grade in a box and send it home?

So all day Monday, I struggled with it. But normally, the writing is the fastest part for me. I'm a writer. Right? Except that I'm still, every moment, hampered by the accident. If I look at the computer screen for longer than fifteen minutes, my headache flares to the top of my head, surges around my ears, and pulses along every point. Along with this, the tendonitis in my left wrist, which was reawakened after the accident, bulges and clicks and flings itself into electric pain with the typing. After ten or fifteen minutes, it literally siezes up, and I have to ice it, and coax it, into moving again.

And some of my friends wonder why I haven't been working on my novel?

You try writing evaluations under this circumstance. You try remaining cheerful.

So I showed up to school with only a third of them done, a sad heart that I would be spending the rest of my vacation bulging and siezing and writing these buggers instead of my own work, and a whopping headache. Luckily, everyone understood. No one yelled at me. I have today to finish them.

So of course, I'm writing this instead, right now.

It occurred to me, a couple of days ago, that reading this blog, you might think I'm a saint. In the face of a near-death experience and continuous searing pain, I remain above it all. Firmly grounded in it, yet above it. Well you know what? I'm not. Right now, this just sucks.

I want my life back. I want to want work on my novel, and not just scribble in my idea book or plan it in my sore head. I want a clear head without a headache taking it hostage. For five minutes. That's all I ask. Five minutes. I want to be able to take a yoga class or walk down Queen Anne Avenue. I want a day without sitting on a heating pad. I want to jump in puddles. I want a full night's sleep. I want someone else to be able to understand this, and not just say, "Oh, you're still in that much pain? I didn't know." Or, "My god, your optimism in this always inspires me."

I want to not feel so alone in this.

And I really want my evaluations done.

2004-02-14T23:06:00.000-08:00

"It's what we all want in the end
to be held, merely to be held,
to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips)
for every touching is a kind of kiss."

--Alden Nowlan

Thank you for holding me, these past two months. It was two months ago today I was in that horrible car accident, and finally, after much hard work, I'm starting to feel healing spread throughout my body. I'm able to teach, to connect with those wonderful human beings who congregate in my office in all moments of the day. I don't necessarily fall onto the heating pad and ice pack the moment I come home from school anymorel. I'm driving again--just this week--and a stick shift, no less, so my leg has enough strength to work the clutch. And I'm going on walks around the neighborhood in the late-afternoon light, the sky open, the mountains placid.

The other day, I was walking down the old boulevard in Queen Anne, the sky an endless stretch of blue. And I was listening to a song that always lifts me, soaring, with its elegiac piano, its softness. At the moment I passed the last dark tree for a stretch, the song exploded in my headphones, and I opened into the sky. The Sound was a broad swath of golden water, shimmering into the distance. And I was home.

I wrote this excerpt from a Seamus Heaney poem in the front of my new journal, a full month before the accident. And now I know it's true: "...as big soft buffetings come at the car sideways/And catch the heart off guard and blow it open."

Open, grateful, joyful love to you all. I'll happily be your Valentine any time.

All my love,
Shauna

2004-02-09T19:26:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I:

--went out to eat for the first time in five weeks. And then I did it three more times the next day.

--attended two concerts (my dear friend Jackie was in town with her musical group Anonymous 4 to play Town Hall, which was the source of much of my acivities, and much of my joy).

--bought ripe-to-the-moment fruit at Sosio's, my favorite fruit and veg. stand in the Market, where i hadn't been in more than two months.

--lifted up Elliott without any pain in my back.

--spent much more time out of the bed than in.

--drove for the first time in eight weeks, the first time since the accident, just now, when I drove once-Andy's, now-my Honda Accord home to Queen Anne and parked it in front of my house. I have a car again. I have the leg strength to work the clutch. I'm not pinned to the bus or relying on my parents to drive me around.

This weekend, I feel like I gained my life back again. The worst of it is over. I'm still in pain--I have had an eight-week-long headache, for example. And I was knackered today, after all that unexpected activity. But I'm farther along the road of recovery. And there's a bounce in my step that I haven't felt in months.

Much love,
Shauna

2004-02-07T08:37:00.000-08:00

I'm slowly recovering. It is a long road, but at least I'm not crawling it anymore. A month ago was the worst pain of my life. It's close enough, with the echoes of it in my body, to remind me to be grateful. I'm able to walk upright, teach a full day at school (with the aid of the heating pad and lots of rest), play with my nephew, and stay up until past 8 pm! I'm still in pain, but the blinding headaches have quieted. Tomorrow, it will be eight weeks since the accident, but this is the first week that my physical therapist has been able to massage my neck muscles. Before, they were so badly damaged that touching them would inflame the pain. So that's a bonus.

Honestly, it's hard to describe what this time has been, however. In the midst of feeling loved by the people in my life, grateful to be here, and slowly recovering every day, I've felt very much alone these past two months. There's something ineffably powerful that I haven't been able to communicate, some deeper place than I've ever been. And no one has been able to go there with me.

And the water in my hands when I wash my face looks extrarodinary.

There have been so many gifts in this. I'm alive to life in a way I have never been before (and my friends tease me when I say this, because I was pretty alive to life before). I feel like I have been living life to the point of tears these days. (Thanks to Camus for that sentence.) Everything moves me.

A powerful story on NPR about a woman in Arizona who works seven days a week, caring for the sick in their homes, who earns $9 an hour. This country has all its priorities backwards, and I'm moved to tears in righteous indignation all the time. But I was also moved by how that woman has the better life than the man who earns millions of dollars a year.

A wonderful conversation in class with the juniors, about Holden Caulfield, and how perceptive he is, how deeply he sees life, and how wounded he is. And yet, how much righteous indignation he has, and how right he is.

A connection with Monica, who comes into my office nearly every day, in some form of crisis or exultation. Today was crisis, since it is quint three of the senior year. Remember those doldrums? I listened closely, then joked her out of her bad mood, offered her kleenex with a dry eye. But as soon as she left, I teared up, at the way people let me into their lives, and how lucky I am for these connections.

Later, Jake came around the corner of my office door, a gorilla mask on his face. Pearson and I laughed, not knowing who it was. And then Jake sat down on the couch, to talk in his quiet voice, the talking filled with pauses, the silences soft among the three of us. Later, Alex joined us, leaning his body against the wall with the Ernie poster, and we all talked, about how all the girls in the senior class seem to be having emotional breakdowns, and the boys remain strong. And there we all were, sharing the space. And I realized anew that they will all be leaving soon, that all of my students leave eventually, and yet I keep having these connections.

A dozen quick-paced conversations, with Vanessa and Melody and Daniel and Matthew, who comes into my office at least twice a day, usually to have lunch with me and talk about life. He wrote me a note the other day, on notebook paper, part of which read, "I am much obliged to you for your endless days sitting and bitching in your 10-square-foot office of well-being. For this, I am forever grateful. It is a great fortune, as well as a blessing, to find a soul as understanding and insightful as yours." And teachers complain they aren't paid enough?

A slow walk from school, the clouds parting into blue sky for a few moments.

Music softly humming in my ears.

Stepping off the bus, across the street from home, I felt a spring in my step I haven't felt in weeks. Somehow, I wasn't shattered with exhaustion, even after such a day. I'm healing. I can feel it.

Try to remember the last time you were sick, your body laid low by the pain and enervation. Now, feel your body, and do a little dance. Enjoy the cold.

Love,
Shauna

2004-02-07T08:34:00.000-08:00

from the middle of January...

There's something scouring about the pain I was in, something beautiful. Since the accident, the physical reality of death has been sitting in my chest. And it has left me in a little isolation, because I feel like I have an understanding of the preciousness of this life that I never had, that most people don't have. I don't feel like I'll lose it, not after all this pain. I know that I will see this all as a beautiful gift when I am through with it. I know that this has changed my life.

Everything feels simple right now. I feel an enormous euphoria at the start of pain diminishing. I have hurt, constantly, since December 14th. And since December 20th, this sciatica pain has grown worse every day. Yesterday was the first time it hurt a little less. And today, a little less too. And now, I know, that every action I take will be to heal my body. Standing in the kitchen and doing my dishes is actually therapy for my back. The mundane feels miraculous, for so many reasons. And so, I'm going to dive into physical therapy, massages, acupuncture. Eating right--if I lose some weight, it will help the pain disappear as well. Every mouthful feels like a chance to take care of myself or add more pain. Easy choice. When I can, I'm going to return joyfully to yoga, and every time I take a pose, I'll remember when I was scrunched into the bed in a fetal position, trying to find a place without pain. The world is so enormously beautiful.

Of course, it's more beautiful when I'm just on the other edge of it. This morning, I woke up after an almost-full night's sleep. I slept from 11 to 4:30, without waking up. I took my Vicodin, waited a half hour for it to kick in, then slept until 9. This is the most sleep I've had since the accident on December 14th. Sleep is an enormous gift. When I woke up, I could feel another lifting, the steroids working to clear out the inflammation, and thus the pain retracted, just a bit. I have an image of a wave that has crashed onto the shore, enormously, and then starts the sure drift back to the ocean.

Today was the first day I could stand up straight while walking. How many times have you done that today? It felt like a victory in my body. I took a long shower, feeling the water on my back. I dried my hair, lifting my arms to do that for the first time in weeks. I smiled when the weak sunlight broke through the clouds to enter my bathroom window. I heard a loud whistling outside, and I walked slowly to see the sound. All the traffic on Queen Anne was stopped on McGraw by a policeman on a big motorcycle. He held up his hand to stop them all so a procession of cars could leave the cemetery two blocks from here in a continuous stream. I did a quick bow to those people suffering with grief, then turned back to my bedroom. Put on my blue Merrell walking shoes. Grabbed my keys. And walked to Macrina, half a block away, to buy a cup of coffee.

It was the first time I had left the house for a week, other than to crawl into a car to go to doctor's appointments. The air felt damp on my cheek, and I started to cry at the joy of it. The sky, the chipped paint on the crosswalk, the feeling of my feet walking evenly on the pavement. I walked into Macrina and closed my eyes to smell everything. The people who work there know me by name, since I used to come in nearly every day: the guy with tattoos and black, horn-rimmed glasses and sweet face; Jennifer, who bustles behind the counter and greets everyone with a big smile; Claire with a Victorian face, brown hair draped around her soft eyes. They all asked me where I had been the last two weeks, and I told them about the pain, the scouring pain, and the glory of the lifting of it. I told them how wonderful it was to be there. They poured my drip coffee in a to go cup, and I felt the warmth of it in my hands. It felt good.

I pulled out a twenty to pay for the coffee, and spontaneously, I made a decision. "Claire, keep the change. And whoever comes in next, let the change pay for their coffees. Buy people coffees until the money runs out." She stared at me. "What?" When she finally understood, she smiled. I hobbled out slowly, smiling. The woman behind me in line had been grumpy when she walked in. I could tell. But as I was leaving, I heard Claire say, "She paid for your coffee." The woman turned to me, and I could see her face lifting, her grumpiness leaving.
"Thank you," she said, in this wondering voice.
And I said, "I so enjoyed getting this cup of coffee this morning. I wanted everyone else to enjoy it as much as me. Have a good day." And I walked home, slowly.

Later in the day, Vanessa, one of my favorite students, came over to see me. So alive. So loving. She had missed me, and she wondered if she could sit with me. I've been sending my writing class exercises by email, even on the nights when I was in the most pain, because I wanted to give them the experience of writing fiction. Someone from the class has been printing the sheet off, then copying it for everyone. And they've been conducting class, every day, without a sub in the room. Eighteen seniors sitting in a room, having class, even without a teacher. Vanessa told me today, "If you had just been gone, we would have blown it off. But we knew that you were writing us from our sick bed, and that you were working for us. We had to stay." So apparently, yesterday, they had a fabulous, spirited discussion about what kinds of fiction they like, about when to use first and third person, and they all were involved. That made my day, to hear that.

About an hour into her visit, I was an hour into my pain pill, when the pain is the most contained. So I said to Vanessa, " I need to walk around the block. Would you go with me?" And so, I went outside again. And we walked slowly, in the warm air, so slowly, talking all the time. Mindful walking, all the time. It took forty minutes to walk around the block, because that's all I could do. But halfway through the walk, the pain, which had flared up when I started walking, settled down. And since this is exactly what the doctor told me what would happen, that walking and moving are my best therapy, I felt another lifting. It's going to work. I am going to heal.

At the end of our walk, we walked by Macrina. So I went inside again, to buy Vanessa a coffee. The same people were still working there, and they greeted me with huge smiles. "You!" they all said. "You are so kind, to buy coffee for everyone." I just smiled, knowing that the joy had bounced back to me. But Claire turned to me, after starting to make Vanessa's latte, and said, "People commented on it all day. Everyone said that you had made their day." I left there with tears in my eyes again.

It's so easy to love people. We just put up all these barriers, and think that we have to focus our energies on loving certain people. All wrong. I can see that more clearly than ever after this accident, this scouring pain. I feel cleared out. I want to heal my body, so that I can be as well and energetic and free of pain as I can be, so I can love other people.

That's it.

Love,
Shauna