Complacency and minnows

If we labor under the illusion that we have limitless years ahead, complacency can drive us to put off the most important of experiences. And complacency is something in which I have a master’s degree.

I think about complacency and about the need to get things done “before I go” during my walks in the desert sunrise. Every day is a sea of possibilities and, for me, those possibilities dart in and out of my mind like schools of minnows caught in the currents. Knowing my shelf life is limited, I feel deep pressure to focus on just one of these limitless possibilities.

And, for God’s sake, literally, just finish one thing.

It is a family trait to be incapable of focusing on one thing, though. And set free to explore everything with ample time and few responsibilities, I seem to flounder most days with the decision of which direction to head.

There are novels that need to be finished, and a song that needs a melody, and a menu needs to be planned in case the migrant caravan comes through, and weeds that need to be pulled, and…and…and…and…

The to-list is endless.

In the process of trying to mentally narrow my choices as I walk, a white cotton tail of a bunny flashes in the bushes of the wash, and I stop to have a conversation. A coyote cries in the distance, and I change direction hoping to have a personal encounter. A family of javelina scurry below me through the thick brush of another wash, and I am transfixed by their repulsive beauty.

And so, once again, the list of tasks will remain unfinished as if I had all the time in the world.

Because the world awaits, and I want to be a witness.

I already know that here in this desert I have grown incapable of closing my palms to the promise offered in each sunrise. Now set free to listen to the whispers of my own heart, I am starting to wonder - what if what I have labeled as complacency is, in reality, nothing more than discarding a “to do” list and embracing a “to be” list?

Because as I write these words, the sky is still dark, and it makes my pulse quicken to ponder the awakening sun.

Somewhere, an owl is settling in for the long day ahead in the shelter of a saguaro. Somewhere, javelina are still sleeping under the cover of brush, and the coyote’s cry becomes silent. And over in the corner, my hiking boots await the day’s walk, filling me with restlessness to see what the birth of this day holds..

These morning hours insist on contemplation. I know, I am closer to the end of my life than the beginning, and yet, the knowledge of my impending expiration date does not seem to affect my behavior. The novels are still unfinished, lying dormant in a computer file. The weeds have not been pulled.

But I did not miss the barn owl screeching and hiding almost invisible in the branches above my head yesterday morning. And when the unexpected rain drops fell in the canyon, large and hard, I did not miss how they sounded on the thirsty canyon floor, and I felt alive as I traveled, soaked shirt and skin, to the safety of my car..

So, it is enough, I think, to encounter this day with open palms. It is enough to be a witness to the swish of a dove’s wing in the Palo Verde tree, the winsome cry of the quail in the wash, the gathering of thunderheads in a desert canyon. It is enough to fully embrace all that life holds for me here.

And so I lace up my boots and stride out into the desert morning yet once again to swim with the minnows. Perhaps one will catch my attention and slow down long enough for me to capture it and take it home.

Or perhaps I am destined to be a minnow myself, surrendered to the current of a vast ocean, inconsequential and oblivious,

fully at home in this moment,

and yet hungering for a life beyond the sea.

The other side of the coin

Fierce independence was a trait deeply ingrained in my mother. It had to be, or she would not have survived her dangerous, challenging life. So no one was more surprised than I was when, after yet another illness at 94, she declared it was time to move in with us…that she shouldn’t be alone.

In two weeks, when her health returned, all of her glowing thoughts about being with us disappeared, and she began a daily ritual of calling her list of friends to engage in loud conversations about how horrible her situation was to have to be with us.

In the daily care of my mom, the spiritual discipline of holding my tongue became my most necessary work. Remaining positive in a situation where your character is impugned every day and where your every motive is questioned, was an arduous inner battle.

My younger brother Bob called one day and during our debrief, he didn’t give advice. He did the best thing a person could ever do…he asked what I needed.

I just need to be able to call every day and say the things I can’t say out loud .

True to his word, my brother made himself available every single day…sometimes more. He gave me space to be angry, to be sad, to be wherever I was in the process of caring for an elderly parent slipping into dementia. He never judged, he didn’t try and and problem solve, and he didn’t try and talk me out of the work.

But he also knew when to speak, which came into play one day when mom called to disparage her situation yet once again. I could hear her in the other room when suddenly she became very quiet for a very long time.

I found out later that my brother had assisted her in having a “come to Jesus” moment and had spoken at length about legacy, about how she wanted to be remembered and about a little thing called gratitude.

Whether it was the call or the slow slide into dementia, a switch got flipped, and she began to slowly change.

This stoic, emotionally unavailable woman began to greet me every morning with her hands on my hips and a straightforward, soft eye contact. She embraced me with a happy smile and chatted like an old friend over all the mundane details of our nights and days. Every night, she tolerated my good night hugs, and the one time I forgot, she asked my husband if I was mad at her because she hadn’t received one that night.

And then one day, when we were sitting on the back porch in the summer sun, she spontaneously announced, “Why would I ever want to leave here? It is so beautiful.”

She lived her last five months in our home. She spent her last night across the hall from me. And her last words to me, before the EMTs discovered she was having a massive heart attack were,

I am dying. Don’t be sad.

But I was. And I called my brother that morning to process her passing. And I called him the next day and the next and the next after that.

It is now seven years since she passed. My brother and I are still having almost daily phone conversations. In essence, we are the keepers of the family memories- the good, the bad and the ugly. We reflect on them and exchange perspectives of our shared childhood experiences.

But mostly, I think, we strengthen a bond forged in the wild, inexplicable and often unsafe life we shared being raised by a German immigrant, war-survivor mother and a World War II veteran father, and living with torturous older brothers.

In a way, we were both in the trenches in our youth, fighting side by side for acceptance and understanding. We stood by each other when explosions happened all around us.

And when I entered this final battlefield, he was,as always, right beside me,

So often the one who cares for an aging parent gets all the attention and accolades. It is an arduous work for sure, and not for the faint of heart.

But behind the scenes, it was my brother, supporting and encouraging me and saying the hard things to mom at a critical point in her care that made it possible for us to complete the mission. I may have been on the front lines, but he was the supply chain and the medic.

And he was the unsung hero in mom’s final journey, of whom my husband Tim often says,

He saved our lives.

Puppy is tired

“Drink yourself of all of the beauty of this world as much as your eyes can hold.”

Irene Mitchell

quoting a famous poet, or philosopher, or Goethe,

or one of the many writers whose work she memorized .

Losing her husband in her forties did not damper my mother’s adventurous spirit. It did, however, rob her of a travel companion, which over time, I became, as I knew how her spirit loved to travel and explore.

After I moved to Seattle to start my life with Tim and our daughters, Mom and I slowly eased into a yearly travel experience, usually in the summer, and almost always just the two of us.

Though I am an incorrigible planner and researcher, these trips were often by the seat of our pants. We always had a vague sense of destination, but routinely did no advance planning. How could you when every mile provided rich opportunities to discover something new.

We stopped at every roadside marker and every sign that promised a short hike. If billboards promised for miles some unusual roadside attraction, it required a visit. Only once in all the years of unplanned travel did we arrive at a destination to find literally only one room left, a grungy cabin with a lumpy full sized bed.

Along the way, the miles disappeared as we listened to Garrison Keillor stories, cackling and commenting as the miles cut through the landscapes as varied as the stories weaving their way through the confines of our car.

She canoed with me at 75 in Glacier National Park. We took a photo of my brothers with us on her 85th birthday on an Oregon road trip and took it into every restaurant so they could celebrate with us. In her early 90’s, we flew into Calgary and did a road trip to Jasper so she could get one last picture of herself standing on a bridge over her beloved Maligne Canyon.

The fact that we were trapped in a devastating flood there and could not get home by plane did not deter her. We literally raced the flood waters to drive to the border in a rental car that was supposed to be returned to the airport in Calgary… only there were no roads to get there. She declared, as she always did, “It was the best trip ever.”

Though her desire to adventure never waned, her body often did not cooperate, so we would take off on some desired hike only to have her announce, “Puppy is tired,” which usually meant we slowed to a crawl with me often pulling her up the rises of the trail and guiding her down the slippery hills.

Today, as Tim and I hiked the Echo Canyon trail in the Chiricahua Mountains, I thought of her. The other worldly rock formations would have pulled her deeper and deeper in the canyon, just as they did me. The tantalizing sound of water over stone in the distance would have sent her around just one more corner, just as it called to me. The bird song, the light through a crevice, the lazy lizards showing off their iridescent scales…each would have brought moments of delight and commentary.

And just as certainly, three miles in and facing a climb out of the canyon in the ever deepening sun, I channeled her spirit and announced to Tim, “Puppy is tired.”

Not wanting to saddle him with pushing and pulling duties, I slowed down and began rewriting lyrics to well known songs in my head. These Boots Aren’t Made for Walking, I Could Have Sat All Day, I Won’t Walk, You Can’t Make Me were just a few. Then, I counted my steps in groups of ten. Somewhere along the way I sang old campfire songs about bears and mountains and bottles of beer on the wall.

But mostly, I thought about my mom, the intrepid adventurer…the woman who stole a bike and rode from Czechoslovakia to Germany during the war, traveling by night and sleeping in ditches by the day. The woman who arrived in America with nothing in New York City and launched into a new life. The woman who canoed from Colorado to St. Louis, Missouri and lied about her age to do it just so she could retrace the steps of Lewis and Clark.

I am now the age she was when we first began to take our adventures. I thought through all those years of travel, I was taking these trips for her benefit…so she could still experience the thrill of discovery.

But I wondered today if she may have been taking them for my benefit.

Maybe she wanted to help me step out of my regular mundane life and into the world of adventure she loved - full of majestic views, unparalleled hikes, and the ever present surrender to the call to stand in icy mountain lakes and rivers just to marvel at the beauty of the earth.

I reflected today that I spent much of my life focusing on all she wasn’t. Because of a perceived lack of a maternal instinct, I often joked I was raised by wolves. She was not a protector, or a nurturer, or an encourager.

But she was a survivor who showed courage and initiative and strength beyond anything I think I would ever be capable of. She was fearless in adversity, and she met life with enthusiasm and wonder, especially in nature.

That desire to suck the marrow out of life with gusto is her legacy, and I think today I realized how much it is an integral part of my own.

I just had to heal and forgive a wilderness of childhood experiences to realize it.