Jumping the creek.

The destination was unknown, as it always is with adventures.  Trekking through the dry, dusty cornfields that surrounded my childhood neighborhood in neat rows of swirls and lines, our ten-year-old selves passed over land that was meant for a farmer’s boots alone.  I liked walking on the tractor prints, hopping across the raised bubbles of wet dirt on my tiptoes, keeping my hand outstretched to feel the crinkly husks against my fingertips.  We scurried under barbed wire fences and walked past no trespassing signs.  We ran through a pasture where cows stared at us with their beady black eyes and picked through a pile of junk speckled with bullet holes.  But then we came to a creek.  One about 4 feet wide.  I stood back and watched my friends swiftly leap over the gurgling water to land with both feet planted in the long damp grass on the other side. 

“Come on, Ker!” they chanted urging me to jump.  I did that thing where you start to propel your body forward then at the last second hold it back at least two dozen times.  Close to tears, I listened to them tell me how easy it was, and I shook my head vigorously.  I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.

“I will make a bridge for you with my body.  You can walk across me to the other side,” one of my friends offered generously. 

I agreed without a thought, and so she lay down, outstretched, her hands against one side of the creek bank, her sneakers planted on the other.  And I stepped onto her body.  Onto her back between her shoulder blades, down her spine, onto the squishy flesh of her butt.  And she sank into the cold water, belly first, my feet to follow.  We squealed and scrambled out of the creek in a frenzy, my fear lingering in the air above us, chilling my feet, her body, the entire march back home.

The fear I felt on the creek bank that day as a child was real despite the fact that even if I had jumped, the worst outcome would have been landing in the water like we did anyway.  It was real for me in that moment, a feeling I let paralyze and trick me into sacrificing my friend just to feed it.  That day, after we made it home, I didn’t think much more about the creek and my fear.  And in fact, the next several hikes we did, I managed to somehow avoid jumping whether it was leaning on my friends or walking the long way around to a narrower spot.  I succumbed to the fear and didn’t ask questions and simply moved on.

Over the course of my life, I have collected all kinds of fears.  They are moments, feelings or experiences I store in little capsules, some in my body, others in my heart, many in my mind, a few small but potent ones in my soul.  This year, from 32 to 33, has been quite a pivotal year in my collection process because this year, I have ripped many of my fears from their comfortable resting places.  I’ve shuffled them, tossed them in the air, torn them open, dumped them in front of myself, and waded through the mess.  It is the start of a long piece of work, but I’ve started challenging old and new fears, interrupting patterns to pay attention and ask questions.  By no means have I conquered my fears, but I’ve created a (messy) map toward doing so.

Part of my journey this year has involved saying goodbye to my twenties.  I haven’t been there for a while now, but I was still feeling the spillover of the protective bubble.  In my twenties, I wouldn’t have ever admitted it, but I felt somewhat invincible.  Now, I am faced almost daily with stories that rattle me to the core.  Stories of infant death, school shootings, and abductions.  These are stories that are dangerous for a person like me who spends a lot of time in her head spiraling about this or that.  What I know now is that the protective bubble is an illusion and that pain is something that everyone feels.  And while we may do our best to avoid inner friction and pain at all costs, feeling it, truly allowing it in, may open up moments of clarity about our inner world we would have never known otherwise.  Pain has taught me valuable lessons in living in the present moment, something I struggle with every single day and every single time I am with my phone and kids at the same time.  Instead of fearing it, can we embrace our own pain?  Or the pain of others? 

In opening a painful wound and exploring it, I have learned about one of my deepest fears.  This is a fear of dying from cancer.  Of experiencing what my dad and so many others are forced to.  It has always lurked within, but it resurfaced this year after having a health scare I won’t go into too much detail about.  Within this particular scare, there was a period of “unknown,” as there is with most health-related situations.  Have the tests, wait.  Wait.  Wait some more.  During the waiting time, I found my mind spinning to the worst possible scenario.  It barely even touched on “everything will be just fine” and went straight to “holy shit, I’m dying.”  I stopped eating, writing, sleeping.  I holed up, clung to Angus’s body every chance I got, and prepared for the cruelest possible fate.  And then after the waiting time, I found out answers.  Answers that in no way were even close to what my imagination had conjured up.  And this is when the work began.  There was no way in hell I could live my life how I did in those two weeks.  I had to get some kind of grip on this fear because it threatened to ruin me.

Since, I’ve spent a lot of time with this fear, learning about why it might exist and who and what inspire me stay alive even while dying – a stranger being one of the most powerful examples.  I’ve chosen to talk about it instead of stuff it somewhere deep and let it eat away at me.  I’ve been open about my dad’s experience and understand that his process does not have to be my own.  I’ve been working on trusting my body, the same body that endured two natural childbirths and nourished two children, to understand its vulnerability but also its strength.  I am being proactive with the food I eat and the way I move, but trying not to make these things obsessive weapons against cancer but more a positive way of life.  In the opening and receiving of my own narrative and the stories of others, I have healed in many ways especially in understanding that this fear deserves to be acknowledged but does not warrant a leading role in my life. 

In facing the unknown, by inviting fear to course through my veins, I have grown to understand what fear looks and feels like.  I can recognize it a mile away.  And even when I don’t, when it sneaks up on me and takes hold, I can better negotiate with it.  Instead of moving through my days fearing what my kids will one day say about me, I am generous and loving with them and notice beauty in the simplest of moments.  I try (key word: try) not to beat myself up for having a bad moment or day, for exploding with rage when Calvin pees in the trashcan instead of the toilet.  Rather than letting the darkness of my past haunt me, I write about it or speak it to listening ears, small victories I can revisit and feel proud of.  I fear often that I will be misinterpreted through my writing as “too this” or “too that,” but I keep writing, because it’s what keeps me alive.  Even as simple as in my yoga practice, I’ve let go of some fears.  I’m most definitely not the inversion type, but through the meditative flow, I’ve pushed my body and mind to find new places of growth or fall into child’s pose without judgment.  This year has been about facing fears and getting real with myself, and it’s a massive work in progress.

Angus and I went to dinner on my birthday and talked (uninterrupted) about what this lifetime is for each of us.  “What do you feel your soul has to learn in this life?” we asked each other.  We both agreed that this feels like a significant lifetime.  (Goodness, I hope everyone feels this way.)  But beyond that, for me, this life feels like a passage to something else, a discovery of some kind my soul yearns for.  I have been given so much, and what I choose to do with it all seems significant.  The thing with adventures is that the destination is unknown.  I understand that there will be more barbed wire and warning signs and glaring bystanders and junk to sift through.  And that one day, I will come to another creek, a really wide one with water that rushes fast and loud.  And instead of letting someone else be a bridge or taking the long way around, I will take the leap and cross it myself.  

33!

A Lesson from my Father.

*This is a piece I wrote for Mama Moderne in honor of Father's Day.  I'm reposting it here because today is my dad's birthday.  Today I celebrate the fun he brought to every situation.

When my sister and I were little girls, my parents would take us to amusement parks for summer fun.  Mostly, we loved the ride with the little cars, trucks, and planes that went round and round and up and down.  Inside the vehicles there were small red buttons, and when pushed, they’d send out a loud “beep, beep” or “buzz, buzz” sound.  While we rode, my parents stood on the perimeter, and every single time we rounded the curve and approached them, my sister and I would press our red buttons and wave frantically.  And every single time, my dad would make silly faces at us or fall to the ground, pretending to be shot by our invisible beeping and buzzing lasers.  This would inevitably send my sister and I into fits of giggles as we positioned our fingers to do it again in 2.5 seconds.  My dad never quit, and when we’d hop off the ride full of energy, he’d run with us to the next line, laughing all the way.

In elementary and middle school, my dad coached my basketball and soccer teams, and he might as well have coached my high school teams too because he was always along the sidelines cheering me on.  He wasn’t one of those embarrassing dads who yelled a lot or disagreed with the ref, though.  Rather, he was the life of the party, making jokes with my coaches, and lifting up my teammates.  He was one of the only parents who came to the “away” games, and as I’d sprint past him, he’d holler, “Get ‘em, Ker!”  My friends were constantly telling me how “cool” my dad was, and inside, my heart soared. 

Growing up, we went to the beach every summer for family vacation.  When we were young, the sand and seashells were entertaining enough, but as we approached the “too cool” high school years, that kind of simplicity just didn’t cut it.  One year, my dad bought a water balloon launcher and taught us how to launch balloons off our balcony onto the rooftops of other beach homes.  Looking back, it was probably extremely unsafe and irresponsible, but oh how we loved it when that balloon would smash onto a rooftop down the block.  When the other grown-ups shook their heads in disgust, it was my dad who yelled, “YEAH! WOO!” as he high-fived the launcher. 

As I moved into adulthood, my dad moved right along with me, remaining my biggest fan.  On my wedding day, he went to the salon with my bridesmaids and me.  Let me say that again: HE WENT TO THE SALON.  Not because my mom roped him into it, but because he wanted to be there with his baby girl on the most important day of her life.  He gave me a card that day, and in it he wrote about how much he valued our father-daughter relationship.  He wrote, “Your happiness means everything to me,” and we wept over the card together.

The greatest day of my dad’s life was when he became a grandfather (“Poppy”).  The week he spent out in Colorado with us after my son Calvin was born, he began to relive his days as a young father only this time from a new vantage point.  Day after day, my dad would sit in our loft, Calvin’s tiny body swaddled in his lap.  When my dad wasn’t watching Calvin sleep, making up sweet songs for him, or demanding to take over diaper changes, he was making nutritious lunches and running errands for us.  When I went through the post-partum emotions and nursing difficulties, my dad told me over and over again how proud he was.  “You’re a great mother, Ker,” he said, and he meant it with every ounce of his soul. 

Today, I know that I am a great mother largely because of what my father taught me about parenting: Be in the moment WITH your children.  Read with them, laugh with them, play with them, and live with them.  It sounds so simple, but I’m still working on ways to put it into practice as genuinely and naturally as my dad was able to do. It’s the small things  - Calvin’s amazement over an ant crawling on the sidewalk, his desire to chase a dandelion puff blowing in the breeze, or when he says, “Yay, Mommy!” as we pull into the garage after a bike ride – that remind me to be fully present.

Last year, a few weeks after Father’s day, my dad passed away after a courageous battle with cancer.  My husband, Calvin, and I, along with my sister and brother-in-law, were lucky enough to be able to live with him during the last few months of his life; each of us can bear witness to the fact that my dad continued, even while facing his worst fears, to exude all that made him an amazing person and father.  His greatest joy as well as his greatest gift was being present with us every day of his life, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

Happy Father’s day, Dad.

Dear daughter.

After my dad died this past summer, my mom, sister, Angus, Mike, and I had to take on the ugly task of cleaning out closets, donating clothes, organizing the office, locating important paperwork, and making the necessary contacts to take care of financial and logistical issues. Digging through the personal items of someone so close to us was an odd experience. We learned some things about my dad those few days - he saved EVERY bank statement, received $.49/month in royalties from his father's brief music career, and bought into the healing power of magnets. And, what we already knew about him - his immaculate fashion sense, matching colognes and deodorants, and plethora of golf gear - was reaffirmed.

Many of his belongings still remain in the house because it just didn't seem right to get rid of it all - especially the lefty golf clubs, his prized possessions, which are propped in the corner of the garage just how he left them, now collecting dust and waiting for the next lefty in the family to pick them up. For me, it was his contact lenses and glasses that I couldn't dispose of. Part of me hoped he'd come back and knew he'd need them when he did.

Over the holidays, we were back in my parents' house for the first time since the summer. A few more "secrets" were uncovered like the Rubbermaid tubs of Beanie Baby bears my dad collected for his future grandchildren. As we searched and rummaged, I kept daydreaming about finding some sort of written letter from my dad, a sort of documentation of his love. (I watch way too many sappy movies.) This would be a bonus, I realize, because anyone who knew my dad understood that his love for his family trumped all else. And, I know that, too. I think the part of me that longs to hear from him, talk to him, and hug him, other than in the occasional dream, has conjured up these fantasies to fulfill those desires.

I'd like to think if I did find a letter, this is something how it would go:

Dear daughter,

If you are reading this, I am probably gone from this life, and while that makes me sad, it also brings me peace because I am no longer suffering. To be honest with you, I don't really want to talk about those days other than to say, thank you - for being there with me, for holding my hand, for comforting me and Mom, for being you.

When we found out we were pregnant with you, we were ecstatic. I still remember the moment Mom told me she was pregnant; I cried tears of joy. And then when you turned out to be a little baby girl, I couldn't contain myself. I had always wanted to have all girls, and when it was time to name you, "Keri" seemed just perfect. (I thought of your name, by the way.) I loved your big eyes, chubby cheeks, and contagious smile. I loved seeing you splash in the yellow plastic bathtub and laying with you on the floor surrounded by stuffed animals and toys. I made silly faces at you, talked in funny voices, and watched you light up. For the first time in my life, I felt truly purposeful and needed, and I vowed I would protect and watch over you always.

Watching you grow up and become a child, so curious about the world around you, was breathtaking. Even though I traveled a lot for work, I tried to become involved in as many areas of your life as I could. I remember coaching your basketball and soccer teams and cheering you on. "Hustle, Ker!" I'd yell from the sidelines as you pushed yourself to be better. I meant to cheer you on, but sometimes you frustrated me. All the time, my actions stemmed from my love for you and only ever wanting the best for you. You wanted me there and were proud of your dad, and I felt that. I don't know if words can explain how it feels to know that your daughter thinks her dad is cool.

One day, when you were around 10 years old, we were shopping at Staples. Mom needed crates for her classroom, but they were on a really high shelf. I thought I could reach them, and when I did, I lost my grasp, and the crates came crashing down on your head. You were alright but had a slice of skin hanging from your cheek and were bawling. I looked at your face and felt sick; I did this to you. I cried that day. I'm not sure if you saw me, but I felt terrible. I had hurt my baby girl. We went to the video store later that week, one of your favorite things to do, and I let you pick out three movies. You smiled and touched the scab on your cheek as if remembering then letting go.

When you got to high school, you went through the typical teenage drama. Looking back, I probably should have stepped in more often, but I didn't know what to do. I had a rough childhood in some ways, so I didn't do much of the discipline with you and Katy for fear of being too harsh. I always tried to tell you how proud I was of you and that it wasn't worth worrying about the petty things in life. I'm not sure how much sank in then, but I think telling you this advice over and over again into your adult years had to help somewhat. I was amazed at your perseverance, hard work, and goal-oriented attitude as a high schooler. You always seemed to have it together, whether in school, on the field, in the pool, or on the track. You gave it your all, and I stood and watched and was so proud of you. I remember standing at the end of the lane of the pool with my stopwatch trying to contain my excitement as you'd come close to winning a race. The timers weren't supposed to cheer for anyone in particular, but I always gave you a thumbs-up or high-five. Man, those were the days.

When you were looking at colleges, I drove you up to Connecticut in the fall of your junior year. The colors of the leaves were vibrant, and I watched you worry about what it would be like to be that far from home. When we went to Elizabethtown, I saw you immediately feel at home, and I just knew you would be accepted and go there. Tuition was more expensive than we wanted to pay, but I decided that I'd pay a bill for the rest of my life to see you happy and embarked on your chosen path. Even though Etown was 45 minutes from home, we didn't see you all that often. I loved coming up to visit you, but I hated leaving and knowing you were homesick. I remember feeling that way the summer I was 15 and worked in Wildwood, NJ at the sub shop. It was fun and exciting to be out on my own yet lonely at times, too. I could see this in you: a desire to be independent yet an intense longing for familiarity.

You graduated and moved to Baltimore, and I was scared shitless. My daughter, the one I vowed to protect and watch over, was moving to inner city Baltimore full of crime, and God knows what else. One night, your cell phone called our house. It must have been in your pocket or purse. It called our house over and over, and all we could hear on the other end was screaming and loud music. I frantically tried to call you back again and again, but you never answered. I knew you were in trouble, and I couldn't do anything to help you. I cried and laid on the bed and envisioned all the horrible things that must have been happening to you. In that moment, I thought I lost you. It was the worst moment of my life. I started putting on my sneakers and was about to drive to Baltimore when our phone rang. It was you. You were happy, probably drinking, and asked what was going on. I couldn't even talk to you, so you talked to Mom and told her you were at a concert with some friends. I curled up and cried and thanked God that you were OK.

You got your first job at Hopkins, and I loved telling people that you worked there. "Wow," they responded, just in awe of you as I was. You had been through your fair share of high school heartbreak, and apparently were dating someone you met through work. I met him, and I didn't like him. I could see from the way that he looked at you that he wasn't in love. He wasn't the one. He left you and moved to California, and you were distraught. I told you over and over again that summer that you deserved better. "The man you will marry will think you walk on water," I said. I knew that there was at least a shred of you that believed me and hoped you would hold out and never settle for less.

Then, you met Angus. We met him for the first time at Woody's Crabshack in Maryland for dinner. I knew from the moment I saw you two together that this was it. He was special, and he looked at you like you were the only person in the room - the only person on Earth. You were yourself that night, smiling and happy, very proud to introduce us to Angus. On the way out of the restaurant, you walked to our car with Mom because she brought you a bunch of her old clothes. I stood with Angus, and we shook hands. I hoped and hoped...and hoped that you wouldn't let this one get away.

Angus drove up to Lancaster one night without telling you. Mom and I had a feeling there was something up. He told us he wanted to take us to dinner. My heart was pounding that night as I got ready for his arrival. Could this be the moment every father fears/dreams of? Before going to dinner, we sat in the living room, and Angus started his speech. His voice was a little shaky, and he was nervous, but he told us that he loved you, wanted to be with you forever, promised to take care of you and asked us for your hand in marriage. Mom cried, and I tried to hold back my tears - you know, to play the Dad role - and asked him if he knew what he was getting into. He laughed, said yes, he was sure you were the one. We had dinner together, and I really felt in that moment that I had gained a son, and you had gained a husband who would be your soulmate and friend.

I loved Angus's parents. They were some of the nicest people I had ever met, and they embraced you as their daughter. I thanked them for that in my toast on your wedding day. The day you got married, I was in my glory. I danced and sang and partied my ass off. It was one of the highlights of my life. A lot of fathers feel sad to "give away" their daughters, but I felt only joy. I had no doubt that Angus was the man for you; you finally got what I'd been saying you deserved. That said, you'll always be my little girl. ;)

In your adult life, you called me a lot for advice or to chat, sometimes in tears, other times with good news. I am a man of few words, and our phone conversations were never lengthy or drawn out. But, I promise you, I was listening. I always had faith that you would figure it out, whatever it was you were going through. You and Angus were careful with your decisions, and though you didn't really need me, I was flattered to be involved.

The day you Skyped Mom and me to tell us you were pregnant goes down in history as being one of the most exciting of my life. Then, I found out I was going to have a baby boy grandson, and my heart soared. Those 9 months were the longest of my life. By the time your due date drew near, I had to resist calling you every day to find out if it was "time." When you finally did call us, early in the morning, to let us know, every ounce of my body wanted to jump on the next plane and see you in the hospital. But, you told us you needed some space, and I understood that, although you felt guilty for feeling that way. We arrived when my baby boy was only a few days old, and I remember climbing up your stairs, meeting you halfway down the hallway, and holding you and Calvin in my arms as you cried tears onto my shoulder. That week I will cherish forever. Staring into his tiny face as we sat together day after day on the chair in your loft, I fell in love. I found myself reliving my days as a new father, only this time from a new vantage point. If I thought I felt pride as a father, this was a million times more intense. Calvin and I were connected, there's no doubt about it. When Mom and I left after that week, you held onto me for a long time, not wanting to let go. All the feelings of "needing your space" melted away, and you felt homesick. I looked at you and said, "You can do this, Ker. You are a great mother," and I meant it.

I was not perfect. I know you thought I was for a long time and maybe still do. But, I was not. I was just a father who did his best to love his daughter with every bit of his heart and soul, support her goals and dreams, and pick her up when she fell. I hope that was enough for you. I hope you can always hold onto who I was and how much I loved you and still do.

I'll see you soon, baby girl.

Love,

Dad