The Chief and I have been lucky in love. Vacation, on the other hand, has been a beast.
From arguing our way through Ecuador to falling prey to a flu (oh, and also to arguing) in Mexico, our last two vacations have left a lot to be desired. So, after two years of being cooped up in a cabin in the woods (we jumped the gun on 2020 and deemed 2019 our Year to Stay at Home. Little did we know…), we found ourselves planning vacation number three. Third time is a charm, no?
Now, right off the bat, let me address the elephant quietly plodding about the room: Julia, you’re complaining about vacation?! No, no, no. Bear with me a moment.
This morning, as I sat down to write, The Chief handed me my morning lemon water in a different vessel. This one:
I picked it up without recognizing it and was about to take a sip when I noticed the dust. Dust it held from hanging, waiting, undisturbed for a year. My grandmother Gam’s cup. I had avoided the cup since her death, memorialized it, for if I was drinking from it, certainly she was not and if that was the case, she truly was gone. She is gone. That simple action of handing me her cup brought that reality forward.
Sometimes, it takes someone shaking you up to see what’s right in front of you. That seems to be the theme lately. So, as I sip from my Grandmother’s now clean cup, I’ll tell you another tale of a shakeup.
A few weeks ago, I went to Town to see my new niece.
After our lovely long weekend together, The Chief swooped me up and we switched gears towards the reason he had driven in: our first prenatal appointment. We had found out we were pregnant the day after our first wedding anniversary. This was a gift no money could buy, the best we had ever received (no offense, paper) and we were excitedly jumping into our new roles of Mom and Dad. It was finally happening.
We were going to be parents. On the way to the hospital, you could feel the excitement. Even Leto was charged by it. We arrived and bid him adieu, telling him we were off to meet his baby (I’ve never met a dog more into kids than him so, from the get go, the baby was “Leto’s Baby”. Even our friends call their kids “Leto’s baby. It’s amazing). The excitement continued as we entered the OB’s office. Everyone was smiling, congratulating us, laughing with us as I answered their questions.
“Nausea?” “Constant” “Tender milk jugs (OK, they called them “breasts”, obviously, but milk jugs is far funnier)?” “Like balloons ready to pop!” “Any other changes?” “Well, I pee 4 times a night and can’t sleep in between. ‘Mom-somnia’ I’ve dubbed it. The other night I woke up at 3 am and organized our medical supplies then ate 7 packets of fruit snacks, which I’ve never liked and I can’t suck in my belly to save my life. So, no, nothing’s changed.”
We all laughed. Pregnancy had turned my world upside down. The day I found out I was pregnant, I laughed when I saw the test. Pregnant?! Couldn’t be. It took me 7 more tests (What if they had frozen last winter? What if they were faulty? What if I was hallucinating?) to be convinced and one walk by myself to know for sure. As I strolled along the river we were married next to that bright Fall morning, I suddenly felt as if my belly had sun rays coming straight out of it. There was a glow inside of me, a little light to let me know that I was finally a mother. My whole heart smiled. It was a tranquility I’d never known.
Every night after that, I slept my with my hand on my belly, feeling the warmth of that little light and the deep peace I felt for the first time in my life. Now, almost 10 weeks into our pregnancy, after months of bonding with our little beam, we were set to meet them.
The nurse began the not-so-fun-but-who-cares-we-are-having-a-baby-so-poke-and-prod-as-you-will process, all of our excitement building. We had all talked so much that The Chief was about to be late for a dental appointment so we did the ultrasound first. The whooshs and whirs whisked about until finally, the image became clear. The Chief excitedly said “Is that it?! Is that our baby?”. The nurse and I were silent. I squeezed his hand and hoped I was wrong. I prayed I was wrong. When next the nurse spoke, she confirmed I wasn’t. There was no heartbeat, just a sweet little being floating within me. Tears erupted but I kept my pain quiet, turning only to The Chief to tell him I needed him to skip his appointment. “Of course, baby.”
I’ve read about miscarriage, heard stories and lore. None of it prepares you for your own or for the added insult to injury you’ll endure.
“I’m sorry but I need to take some measurements now, if that’s OK?” the nurse said, the ultrasound probe still inside of me. “OK” I whispered. And so I lay there, The Chief and I squeezing one another’s hands, holding one another’s gaze, tears steadily streaming, until she was done and we could be alone for a moment. The door latched behind her and I broke. The Chief went into savior mode, a role we’ve traded countless times in the last three years. He told me it would be OK, we would have a baby, just not this time. I was numb. I cleaned myself up and dressed, my actions mechanical. The nurse returned, telling us she thought our babe had been 8 weeks but wanted to verify. I’d need another ultrasound. Could I go right now? I agreed, not knowing I’d agreed to spending another hour looking at our babe with its perfect arms and legs and fingers so tiny. Our dead child, embryo to be exact, if that matters to you. It doesn’t to me.
On our way out, I handed the nurse the New Mom Gift Bag they’d given me as I’d walked in. So much happened in that small gesture. Motherhood, stripped away.
We spent the rest of the day in appointments amongst pregnant mothers, pregnant phlebotomists (she was on her 3rd but her husband wants 5), everyone, pregnant. At the second ultrasound, they confirmed the baby had been dead for almost two weeks. My body, once a place of light and love, a growing garden, had become a graveyard.
At the second OB appointment that day, they explained I’d experienced a Missed Miscarriage. This is where the growing babe is no longer alive but your body fails to miscarry. Fails. I felt my body had failed me. That I had failed me. That I had failed our baby. Without me saying a word to hint of my feelings, they immediately assured me there was nothing I could have done differently, that this happens, that it’s very common for first pregnancies. That it happens to a lot of women. None of that matters. It truly doesn’t. Not to me at least. I don’t want anyone to feel what I felt and to know so many do only broke my heart more.
I felt as if I’d been playing a brutal game of Chutes and Ladders and suddenly, I found myself back at the start. All I had focused on was making it through the first trimester, making it safe, getting to home base and here we were, struck out. The worst part?
A few weeks before our appointment, the day of the baby shower we threw for my girlfriend, in fact, I started spotting.
I panicked. I rushed inside and asked my girlfriends if they had experienced that. I’ll never forget the look on their faces. It was gone in a flash: fear. It was probably the same look on my face. They immediately assured me it was probably fine but something to keep an eye on. The next morning, I awoke, hand on belly, ready to greet my babe and I felt…nothing. The light had gone out. I rolled over to The Chief and told him and thus the mindfuck began.
Excuse my language, but pregnancy is a mindfuck. I have seriously good intuition, like intuition so good that I’ve been called a witch (thank you) on many occasions. Premonitions, gut instincts, call it what you will, I knew the light had gone out. Yet pregnancy, even the getting pregnant part of pregnancy is all about positive thought. Even the straightest arrow, least woo woo type of woman will tell you that. You have to just move forward, assuming things are fine. It never stops, or so I’ve heard. Not when you pass the first trimester, not when your baby is born, not when you baby becomes a toddler, teen or adult. I once heard someone say that having children is like having your heart living outside of your body. So, despite knowing that something was wrong, and after a day long uphill attempt to get medical care to check if I was right, I finally gave in and gave myself up to positive thought. I’d wait for the appointment and hope I was wrong, despite what I deep down knew to be true. See, pregnancy is a mindfuck.
Next on the list of Terrible Things To Do was to decide how we would have our miscarriage. Oh joy! Would we like to take a little pill? Go under the knife? Wait it out? The third option was mentioned and then immediately taken away, given our proximity to medical care were we to go home. So, two options. The pill which causes cramping so severe that you expel the baby, or surgery.
As with most choices, it wasn’t that cut and dry. The pill cost somewhere around $5. It promised pain and a 48-hour long window in which the miscarriage would occur, who knows exactly when, like a sniper laying in wait. I’d be up close and personal with the blood and byproducts of our child. The surgery was the polar opposite. So sterile, so…surgical. I’d go to sleep as a walking grave for our babe and wake up hollow. Both sounded terrible but when the quote came in for the surgery at over $2,000 (this is with insurance, mind you), the choice for me was made. Plus, I think I wanted to feel pain.
The Chief kept asking about the surgery, in fact, he was the only one asking questions. I was in a haze, a daze of disbelief. The nurse suggested ice cream. OK. Ice cream, for being such a good girl. We got ice cream and went to the dog park, two surefire fixes for a bad mood (for me). I cried the whole time.
I went home with the pill that night and took the dose. The bottle warned of horror stories, of the slight chance of irreparable damage. I swallowed bitterly.
The cramps started 15 minutes later. I put on my game face and prepared for the worst and all through the night, I writhed in pain but still, nothing. 20 hours later, I realized they had never given me pain meds for the true pain that was set to arrive any minute. 5 hours later, after countless phone calls, The Chief was finally able to pick them up. I waited at home, a shadow of myself. Unable to read or write or watch TV, fielding phone calls like a secretary for my body. I just stared into nothingness. The following day, back at the doctor again to discuss next steps, I decided I wanted the surgery. My body was holding onto this baby and I knew it would never let go unless it was ripped from its grasp. We scheduled my COVID test and pre-op appointment and put down the down payment of $1000 with the warning that our quoted price of $2000 didn’t include anesthesia and they had no ballpark figure to give us. “It just depends on the person.”
That night, after two days of cramping and anticipation and fear for what was to transpire, I prayed for my body to wait until the surgery. I was beaten down and exhausted from lack of sleep, from building myself up to handle the pain each time I thought the time had come. I couldn’t summon the strength to miscarry. I slept for the first time in a long time, through the night. The next day, as I signed the forms stating I knew the risks and to whom to distribute my assets should the risks become reality, I held back tears. The staff were all so kind, so gentle. They wrapped me in a blanket that pumped warm air and slowly I counted back from 10. It felt like I had just been on 7 when I woke up again.
The tears I had held back before came pouring out as the nurse asked me how I was. Her next question was a saving grace. “Would you like a hug?” Despite COVID, despite what might be considered appropriate, that woman saw my pain and offered all she could to help me. I’ll always be grateful for her. She told me later, after The Chief had arrived that the first thing I had said after coming out of surgery had been that “At least the place we are staying has a bed on the ground floor so our dog can cuddle with us. He really loves that. So that’s good.”
So, that’s good.
The next day, in pain and exhausted again, I had my post-op appointment. We had scheduled it in person the day before at our pre-op but the computers had been down and it got lost in the technological swap between the handwritten analog and the digital brain. We waited. Finally, a nurse came up to me and asked if I really wanted a vaginal ultrasound because she didn’t think it necessary, in front of the entire room, full again with happy couples ready to burst and babes newly born into this world. Want? Hell no. I’m here because I have to be. It only got worse from there as she escorted us into the farthest room in the office, the room I dubbed The Crying Room because it seemed to be the room bad new was dealt. Safely within the privacy of The Crying Room she told me point blank she was “Sorry that our appointment had gotten confused. You see, the appointment was marked as a prenatal appointment, but you aren’t pregnant anymore, so we canceled it.” I broke again the moment she left the room. Our doctor came in soon after and we wrapped up the story of our short time together. She promised me again it was nothing I did that caused this and that, contrary to what I’d always heard, we “could start trying again as soon as I felt ready”. Those words have floated around my head ever since. So have these.
Ruin. Failure. Breakdown. Miscarriage.
Mis-carriage. I was the carriage for my baby, the safe vessel. Adding mis-, meaning “mistakenly, wrongly or badly” to this word, how do we not somehow, even subconsciously assign blame? I think it’s time to call it something different.
The day of and after surgery, we shopped like mad, gathering supplies for months on end, since we would no longer be coming in for monthly doctor’s visits as we had planned. In between aisles I would rest on the cart, faint, bleeding into a pad the size of an adult diaper, cramping and dizzy. Despite my need for rest, I didn’t want to be alone and so I slowly followed The Chief through our chores.
Since we’d been gone for a week longer than planned, our friends had to keep our house from freezing in the deepening cold of October. The drive home was lonely and solemn, minus the time where somehow Leto’s window started to open, nearly catapulting him out of the car into oncoming traffic as we careened down a deep decline.
The Chief pulled over and I wailed. Everything felt so precarious, like all things I loved were in danger. I felt I was losing my grasp on sanity and a part of me felt like just letting go, surrendering.
We returned to a house in disarray, quiet and austere. The Chief had installed flooring and painted the living room while I was away, since we hadn’t wanted me around the fumes (something we didn’t have to worry about now) and thus, the house was in boxes. My plants, a pure luxury in Winter and now over a year old, were holding on by a thread, despite a neighbor’s attempt to rescue them.
Everything felt dead. Nothing on the walls, no books, television for distraction, no comfy setup and all of the reminders of what was. Prenatals. The foods I had been craving. The pregnancy test I kept in my underwear drawer to pull out and smile at from time to time. The names we had brainstormed, the plans we had made. Everywhere, everything reminded me of what wasn’t.
And so, we set to distract. From the moment we landed, it was work. Work to put the home back together, work to unload and assemble and organize all the newness we had brought home. Work to ignore what had just happened.
And that was that.
After all we’d already been through, losing our Cinda, The Chief’s Mother, Grandmother and Father, my Godmother, and Grandmother and our friend, Jason (less than a week after our wedding), I wasn’t going to let this take me down. I wouldn’t be “that” woman who couldn’t get past it. Oh the disdain we have for her. So, after all the housework was done, fully unrested, back to work I went. Case closed. Start again.
“You can start trying as soon as you feel ready.”
We started right away. I was fine. We were fine. Everything was fine. I ran through the stages of grief, collecting badges along the way. Denial? Check! Anger? Check! Acceptance? Fuck yes! I gave myself an A+ in grief and a gold star to boot. Done. After two weeks of prescribed abstinence due to the risk of infection, we were back in the game. Square one. Home base and up to bat.
So far, our stats are 0 for 4. We aren’t exactly getting called up to the Big Leagues and for once in my life, at least in retrospect, I’m glad to have failed because a few weeks ago, I broke. For real this time. Like I said in the beginning of this entry, sometimes, it takes someone shaking you up to see what’s right in front of you. That clarity came by way of a trip to meet my new niece.
Leona is her name, born exactly one month to the day after my surgery (we’ve had a lot of painful parallels like that) and she’s perfect.
The last night I visited her, we held a ceremony for my girlfriend to honor the journey she’d been through.
After describing the massage we’d give her to recalibrate her body my friends turned to me and offered to do the same. Honor what my body had been through and help to recalibrate. Me? I said, as if we didn’t all know why they were offering. I accepted, hoping this would be the saving grace to make the creeping up sadness vanish. The moment they started, I let out a wail I could no longer contain. I wanted so badly to just fall apart. I promptly stopped myself.
The reality is, rather than put me back together again, that massage, that sitting in the house we both had been pregnant in together, holding my sweet neice who was to be my babe’s buddy, that focus on my body, my womb that never came to be, broke me instead of mended me. I needed that.
I couldn’t be put back together until I had fully fallen apart and finally, I fell the hell apart. Fully. Awkwardly. It was messy and bitter and angry and it’s not over but I am so grateful for it. That visit made me realize I was not OK and the only way to get closer to OK again was to go through it. The girlfriend I had traveled to Town with saw right through my veneer and before we knew it, we were both sobbing over Pop Rocks Jell-o shots (because we are amazing like that). “I see your pain. It’s right there, Julia. Ready to bubble over. You have to let it out.”
For the first time in months, I could breathe. I didn’t have to pretend I was OK. I wasn’t. I’m not. I will be.
That night we purchased an armload each of candles and went home, lit them and laid on the floor melting along with them to music. The next day, we both bought flowers on our way out of Town. Homeward bound. When we reached home, after driving 300 miles and braving road glaciers, we parted ways with a promise.
A release, we would help me find a release. As I walked in the house, The Chief could tell all was not right and I confessed it was true. I couldn’t pretend I was alright anymore. I spent the next few days comatose, unable to make the simplest decisions. Tea or coffee? I don’t know. I don’t care. Grief makes you numb, dumb to your needs.
A week ago today, as I write this, my girlfriend and I had the release. A ceremony. In preparation, I had reached out to all the women (plus my Pops) in my life who knew about the miscarriage and asked them to light a candle between during our ceremony and then, to blow it out afterwards, a letting go. As the clock struck two we packed up our witchy goodness, candles, sage, crystals, the flowers we had purchased, into a sled and made our way down to The River. The river that has held so much happiness and so much pain for me here. I wore a flower crown my girlfriend had made me and a flower jumpsuit under my winter bibs. She wore a flowered dress over her warm clothes. We were bringing rebirth to the darkness.
For the first time ever, Leto didn’t follow his Dad when he left that day on the snowmachine. He instead stayed right with us. He knew where he was needed.
We found the perfect spot, out in the middle of The River and set to it, our brains working in tandem without words, laying the flower petals in a huge circle, facing the West.
As the sun set that night, we bid farewell to the little being. The babe who had kept me up all night partying in the womb, who had surprised the hell out of us by arriving just when we had decided to stop trying so hard for a baby, who had been such a bright light and then, so dark.
“Goodbye, sweet soul.” I whispered and then, as we looked up, the sky broke into light. Beams shone through in a dance only the Earth knows how to perform. Leto snuggled into both of us as a single bird flew overhead and chirped a goodbye.
That night, we made a necklace and looked at beautiful pictures friends from all over had sent of their candles, their love. When my friend was preparing to give birth, she had asked everyone to bring a bead and from it, she had strung her birth necklace. This was my miscarriage necklace, to honor the journey. It was built of healing stones. Quartz for the heart, a piece she had tried to use many times before and always felt that the person who needed it hadn’t yet come into her life. Serpentine to ground me and Tiger’s Eye to release fear and anxiety. The moment I put it on, I felt a warmth in the coolness of the stones. A comfort.
Since that day, I hear that sweet soul in the whispers of the trees, the songs of the birds and the dances in the skies.
As I write this, one week later, I’m fully healed. Call it a wrap.
No. Not this time. One week later, I am moving through grief, a grief nearing four months old that I’ve only just admitted to myself exists, that I’ve only just now let myself feel. I tell you this story, not so you’ll feel pity or sadness for me. I tell you this not as a rulebook to follow, some universal truth explaining what all women feel. No, it is my own, individual experience. Instead, I tell you this in case you need to hear it, in case someone in your life needs you to hear it. I tell you this to bring to light a bit of the secrecy, guilt and shame around miscarriage and to help us, together, recognize that they are not helpful.
I should be over this by now. It was only two months. Maybe it was my fault. Don’t be hysteric. Don’t be jealous. Don’t be an asshole. Will I ever be a mother?
We have all heard about miscarriage. I had steeled myself against it, hoping we’d skip past its grasp. I didn’t make it and so many before me didn’t either. So many more will follow. That doesn’t mean it’s not hard every single time.
We know about miscarriage, but we don’t know the depths and the shallows of it, not until we’ve swum its waters. We don’t think of the small injustices that pull you back to your grief when you’re fighting so hard to stay ahead of it.
We don’t talk about how you’ll need to update your pregnancy app to say “No longer pregnant” and how because of that, you’ll be bombarded with miscarriage articles, despite your letters to the app developer.
Or how your next shipment of prenatals will arrive a few days after you get home, reminding you that you don’t need them in the same way anymore.
We don’t talk about how you’ll have to explain over and over and over again, phone call, after phone call to medical providers you don’t know, what happened and still, despite your grief, summon the strength to advocate for yourself to get the doctor on the line to get the help you need.
We don’t talk about how your social media will still be all baby ads, all the time or that your body will still think you are pregnant for weeks afterwards. How your boobs will still be swollen but now, without reason. That you’ll have the weight gain, the symptoms and none of the reward. How you’ll still be nauseous. How you’ll feel hollow and full, all at once, like a coffin.
We don’t talk about how unbelievably expensive a miscarriage can be. How the bills will roll in for months, coming in on just the days you were starting to feel solid. All said and done, our miscarriage cost $4000 and we have insurance. How is it that one must have privilege, be it on one’s own or with the generous offer of a parent as in our situation, in order to be able to have surgery when the other options don’t work?
We don’t talk about how convoluted sex becomes, from something that brought life to something that could again bring death.
We don’t talk about how, suddenly, you’re able to eat anything, drink anything and if you’re anything like me, you drank because you could, and you got drunk because you didn’t want this paltry consolation prize in the first place.
We don’t talk about how some days, all you want to do is talk about what you went through and other days, you can’t even admit it happened.
We don’t talk about how being around children, no matter how much you love them, can make you feel like you’re dying inside, falling behind and how at the same time, you want to prove to everyone that you’re OK with kids for fear of being outcast or avoided. How you’re simultaneously so genuinely happy for them and so sad for yourself and how that’s hard to manage at times.
We don’t always talk about these things, and like I said, not everyone experiences these things the way I have, but I did and I think we should talk about them.
I hope as you read this it’s your first time being so close to miscarriage but chances are, it’s not. I hope that wherever you are in life, you can take a moment to pause and realize that we never truly know where someone is in life which is why we should do our damndest to be kind. I hope you never have to go through something like this but that if you do, you know that I see you and I’m here for you, always, whoever you are. And I promise you, you will smile again.
To everyone who has been there for me, reminding me it’s OK to not be OK, thank you. Thank you from the deepest part of me. I will always be grateful. To my husband, my moon, thank you. It has not been easy, I have not been easy. Thank you for your steadfast love and support. I love you.
For those of you who are reading this, learning of it for the first time, know that I didn’t hold it from you because I don’t trust or need you, rather that for the time we talked, I got to just be me. The old me.
Not Julia who has had a miscarriage. Just me. Thank you for that, always.
And so, after all that, I leave you with this: be kind to one another. You never know where someone is in life, what they are struggling against. Hell, as in my case, they may not even know. Sometimes that kindness will break someone open, sometimes it will help them heal their wounded heart. Either way, we are all a part of one another’s process. May you have peace in yours.
P.S. If you want to share your thoughts, experiences, anything, please do so. Leave a comment or send me an email (email@example.com). I’m an open door, an open book. That being said, please be gentle. If reading this was hard or uncomfortable, I get it. Writing it was hard. I hope that in doing so, in sharing this, I can help shed a little light on this historically hidden, uncomfortable subject. Like her.And her. And I’m sure countless others I’ve yet to stumble upon. I’d love suggestions.
P.P.S I’ve written this post dozens of times in my head before taking pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. There are things I’ve missed, resources I haven’t used, groups I’ve not yet joined. I’m at the beginning. I’m sure there are things I’ll come back and add but if you take away one thing, take this: your pain is your own. You don’t have to justify it, rush through it, bury it. It’s incomparable to someone else’s. Be gentle with yourself in your pain, be gentle with others in theirs. I’m learning this, slowly. I think we’d all be better for it.
P.P.P.S Here’s a playlist I made on Spotify, same title, Carriage Ride, because this miscarriage has been just that. A ride. It’s filled with everything from serious to silly, all the songs that have helped me through, held me down and brought me back up again. Enjoy.
Well, it turns out I was right, I’m terrible at relaxation. Well, terrible at relaxation with one, rather large, caveat: I’m terrible at relaxation as I thought it was meant to be. You know, lazing about, not a care in the world about what day or time it is. Napping at will. Leisurely meals throughout the day with cocktails poolside.
Yea…that’s not me.
Now, while some aspects of the aforementioned relaxation style aren’t even available to me (hint: the nearest pool is 8 hours away. The nearest poolside cocktails?! Who even knows), even if they were, that’s the type of relaxing I can do for a day or two. Any more spells A-N-X-I-E-T-Y. But that’s vacation, right? No rules, no worries, no restraints! A smorgasbord of decadence and overindulgence.
Again, not for me.
I’ve tried it before only to come to the conclusion that I’m terrible at relaxing. The reality? I’m terrible at relaxing as I think others do (and as I “should”). The reality? I had to find my own swing of things. One of the best parts of my vacation? Learning this about myself (and even, eventually, finding this swing) and were it not for cues from you, amazing readers, I don’t know that I would have.
Relaxation to me has often been this sort of unattainable nirvana. I’d see other people doing it or hear their different ways and think “I’m doing this all wrong!”. I’d go back to the relaxation drawing board, setting different relaxation parameters for myself (sounds relaxing, right?). Now, if you’re thinking, “Julia! You were doing it wrong!”, I’d wholeheartedly agree. Not because I wasn’t doing one person’s form of relaxation or another correctly but because I wasn’t relaxing in the way that worked for me. I was doing it wrong because (spoiler alert!) it turns out the art of relaxation lies within each of us.
Looking back, my girlfriends and I like to laugh at our 5th grade selves who all wore the exact same jeans, socks and shoes to school (I love how socks were included in this list of lemming-like fashion).
Similarity meant safety. We fit in with one another. As I’ve grown, however, I’ve become my own self, as have they. I have no idea what socks they are wearing today but I’m certain they are perfectly perfect for them.
Still, my relaxing self hadn’t quite caught up. I live off-grid in Alaska, a life more wild and more independent than I’d ever dreamed, and still I was looking around for someone, anyone to tell me how to relax. Thankfully, you, the readers, came to the rescue with your tales of relaxation.
So, I started copying all the forms of relaxation mentioned above, right?!
Not this time!
Finally, it sunk in: the art of relaxation is uniquely your own.
So I tried my hand where I felt most drawn. Mostly, for me, it meant being out in nature and watching the comings and goings of the day. I took morning walks to greet the rising sun and bundled as could be, laid down in the snow to watch it rise. I took moonlit strolls, watching that glowing orb come up over the mountains. I skied long stretches and even hooked up the little Leto beast for skijoring.
Sometimes being outside just meant chores but with all the time in the world to do them, it was more pleasure than pain. I chopped wood outside till my fingers froze and smiled with delight at the stockpile I’d provided us. I got back in tune with the chores The Chief had so kindly taken over when I was at work and it made me feel reconnected to our life.
I won’t lie, some days I felt the panic of inactivity or lack of production come over me. I had nowhere to be, no time to keep. What would I do next?! And then, if I got quiet, my heart (or sometimes my stomach) would tell me where to go next. I’d pick up a book or unearth a craft, find a snack, tidy a corner of the house or meet a girlfriend for an epically long impromptu ski. Time marched on, as it does, some planned, some filled with random tasks.One day I talked for almost two hours on the phone with a girlfriend, the entirety of which I spent scrubbing our tea kettle back to life. Some days went so fast, I could barely recount the day before it fell dark.
Some days lingered ever so slightly as the light started to come back. Once, I spent the entire day in jammies watching TV and once we took an epic nap after both falling asleep reading. And speaking of sleeping, I actually let myself sleep in for the first time in Winter since my first Winter in 2015.
As I write this, my vacation comes to a close. The morning greeted us with a twenty below “hello” and a long list of to-dos for an impromptu trip to Town for The Chief. A flurry of activity will fill our day as we cross off the list and work our way through the cold. In some ways, it’s the perfect ending, revving up to help me ease back into the world of virtual places to be and people to see. Moving forward, the clock will decide my comings and goings again and my phone, mostly shut off during my time away, will become more of a presence. Routine will return and appointments will be kept and in some ways, that’s relaxing too.
Plus, I am extremely grateful to be employed, especially over this last year, but we all need breaks, even from the best of jobs.
So, the art of relaxation? Turns out, it’s yours to decipher, yours to learn. For me, to feel relaxed, I need a combo of time alone, time outside and time getting things done. Even if I found myself poolside with cocktails, I’d still want to wake up in the morning to journal and do yoga. I’d still want a semblance of routine and continuity. A little bit of planning mixed with a little bit of spontaneity. To me, that’s relaxation. Finding a feeling of calm in one’s soul, whatever that looks like. Perhaps it’s not yet my forte but thanks to you, I’m learning my way.
May you find yours.
P.S. Anyone else finding their way towards their own version of relaxation? I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment below.
In 8th grade, I had a teacher who truly saw me. Despite the polished pre-teen veneer I carefully constructed, he saw what was underneath. In a poem I wrote in his class, I exposed a small crack in the disguise, though I think he had known long before the poem hit his desk. He had me read it to the class. The only line I remember is this: “Deep beneath my sugar shell, there’s the girl I long to be.” It went on to describe this girl, the girl I long to be: someone who wasn’t constantly worried or stressed or trying to fulfill the roles she thought others wanted her to be. He saw her.
Every Friday after that, instead of assigning me the class homework, he would assign me my homework: to take a bath and relax.
Every Monday, I’d look at the floor as I admitted I hadn’t done it.
Eventually, he let it go because he could tell, I think, that it was stressing me out that I couldn’t complete the “assignment”. Still, he would give me a knowing look every Friday and say “Be good to yourself”.
I think it embarrassed me that someone could so obviously see me, see what I needed to do: to relax. I was a perfectionist, extremely hard on myself, and under intense pressure to perform. How could he see that I was drowning under all of that? My sugar shell had cracked.
Over the years, things have improved…a bit. I’ve found my way into the bath to let the worry soak away but it creeps back in. When I’m busy, I think I’ve made progress, that I’ve truly learned to relax. Small chunks of time, like weekends, where I sleep a little later and read a little more fool me into thinking I’ve actually done it, I’ve actually relaxed. Then reality sets in. Like today.
Today marks the first day of my two-week vacation and instead of elation, I felt panic. What would I do today to feel accomplished? How would I know I was good if I wasn’t producing something of value? Earlier this year, I faced a similar conundrum when I had my first month off since I started working as a teen. In the past few weeks, in anticipation of the upcoming two, I’ve prepped for the time off, getting bills paid and loose ends tied up pretty so I could truly just relax. Not produce, not perfect, just relax.
This morning I realized I truly don’t know how to. The Chief agreed. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever seen me do it (though he’s utterly certain I can). So, I’m setting to work these next two weeks: my mission? To learn how to actually relax. Thankfully, my body is already on the project as the exhaustion has finally set in and it requests my presence in bed (in lieu of a bath) with a good book. So, I’ve jumped off the production train. Now, which direction do I go?
I’ll let you know where I end up.
Wishing you and yours all the best in this holiday season.
With love and (hopefully) relaxation,
P.S. Thanks to you, Mr. B for trying to teach me to relax, even if I haven’t quite gotten there yet. I’m working on it. P.P.S Have you mastered the art of relaxation or do you struggle as well? Share your story in the comments section!
Well, I think we all know what the soundtrack for this blog (replacing “boy” with “girl” though, obviously)…
This past week, I’ve had the honor of helping one of my best friends move. Now, while the shuffling of boxes, the loading of a U-Haul and the inevitable pot of gold in the form of pizza and beer at the end of the helping a friend move rainbow are familiar to us all, this move was different.
Because, this friend was moving for a different reason than I’ve ever been a part of before: she was moving to give birth.
“Moving to give birth?!” You might be thinking? To which I’d reply one word: Alaska.
Of course Alaska has a special birth plan!
You see, out where we live, the nearest medical care is hours away. There’s a very small clinic around 2 hours away, a hospital 4 hours and the big city with its plethora of options 8 hours away. So, lest a woman choose to have a home birth 8 hours away from substantial care (which HAS happened in our Town and a serious hats off to those tiger mamas), Town is the option and thus, so is a move. Most women who move tend to travel to Town about a month before their due date, as their appointments at that time have become weekly and a 16-hour round-trip every few days on an endlessly bumpy road is, understandably, less than ideal.
So, this mama has been a busy birdie, nesting in two places simultaneously and this week, we flew the coop at home and roosted up in the big city. You might be wondering, “OK, sure, a move, but why a move with you, Julia?” to which I would answer: Good question. My girlfriend and her husband are building. Their little cabin has bloomed into a beautiful big house and her husband is staying behind (only for a week, don’t worry) to button it up in preparation for baby. So, that’s why (lucky) me!
Now, while moving at nearly 37 (out of 40) weeks, from a construction zone, no less, is no small feat, I have to say, this mama has made it look easy. As someone who nests even without a bun in the oven, moving to me seems overwhelming at best, especially when carrying a tiny human, but she has moved through this time with true grace. The landing pad, her new nest, is also, thankfully, as ideal as it gets. A house on a hill overlooking Turnagain Arm in the bottom floor (an apartment of sorts) all to itself, underneath her “Alaska Parents”. If a move had to happen, this was as ideal a place as could be and so, we set out to move this mama.
The drive out was beautiful and we were lucky enough to see the Chitina Buffalo as we reached the end of our 60-mile dirt “driveway”.
My girlfriend, at nearly 37 weeks made the entire drive herself because I, super helpful mover that I am, am not comfortable enough carrying such a precious package with my slightly dusty stick-shift skills (I know, I know, I’m working on it. She’s giving me lessons!). So, that badassery, obviously, called for ice cream. When we were an hour outside of Anchorage and seeing the first real signs of “civilization”, we stopped at the Queen and got some dairy-filled goodness to fuel us through the last hour. We were there: the land of food!
For a hearty eater like myself and a quite pregnant lovely lady like my friend (who, in her non-pregnant life is also a huge fan of food) we had arrived in heaven. Fresh fruit, fun snacks, buying just one of something instead of twenty to haul and store for Winter made each purchase feel so fun and curated. We stocked up and arrived to her new nest an hour later and there we’ve cozied down since. The weekend has consisted of eating, talking about eating, doing a few baby things, eating, a hike, and planning to eat again.
All eating jokes aside, it truly has been an honor to be here in this time. To wash and fold and sort the tiny little clothes that will keep this baby cozy and warm. To prep the house to make it feel like home. To write endless To-Do lists (and even check off a few items). To talk about what lies ahead and mentally prepare. It’s a beautiful time of anticipation and wonder and I feel so lucky to get to be a part of it.
It’s an odd life, this Alaskan life, full of surprises and Alaskan-isms I never would have dreamed up, but it’s beautiful. To get to share this time, an intimate bond between girlfriends, is something rare to experience in our often isolated world. It feels a little ancient, tied into our past when women were a band unto themselves, a community to guide and support one another through all that life offers.
I love it and feel grateful to have been afforded entry into this special time and for all the joyful times to follow.
So, let’s hear it for the girl! And by the girl, I mean this full-grown woman I am lucky enough to call a friend. You’ve helped me countless time in life and I am so grateful to know you. Now let’s meet this little lady!
As a child, my mother always referred to me as a “voracious reader”.
I relished the title.
It felt energetic, powerful, and important.
Like the first blooms of Spring. Hello, Anenomes!
I consumed books like I consumed pancakes: hungrily and with a happy heart.
As the second child of my family, born nearly a decade after my brother, I often felt more like an only child as I spent a great deal of time alone. Yet alone I never really was, not when in the company of the most steadfast of buddies: my books.
The local library was where all of these buddies lived and thankfully, by the time I was old enough to take myself on outings, we lived a mere 5-minute walk from this literary haven. It was a place of absolute wonder for me. I can still remember the room’s intoxicating symphony of smells all those books created together; pages worn by time, lovingly thumbed through over and over.
Walking into the library felt like a warm embrace, which I needed at the end of each school day. Life at a new school where I was the youngest student in my 3rd, 4th, 5th combination class, was inhospitable, to say the least. I was teased and taunted and spent most of my time in the nurse’s office pretending to be sick in order to be rid of my classmates.
Leto, you captured the look perfectly! Let’s get this pup an ice cream.
The library was my respite, my reprieve, the place where I could be nameless and safe as I jumped into the lives of the characters I read about. I spent most days picking up or dropping off books on the way home from school. My only deviation in between the library and my bedroom was a quick stop for ice cream. It was a routine I loved and figured I’d always have.
Then, we moved.
I realize now, more than ever, that ease of acquisition makes all the difference. Not being able to simply pop-in to check on my book besties as I was beholden to the schedules of others in my very young, very driver’s license-less state was devastating. Over night, the library was no longer a part of my day-to-day. With our move so too came a change of schools (and finally, the addition of friends!) as well as the addition of homework.
Don’t be jealous of our outfits. Best friends still today.
Suddenly, reading was not solely for fun, it was also for work. As a slower reader, in order to get my homework done on time, the books of my choice were no longer front and center but cast aside, waiting in the wings.
As it does, the increase in schoolwork continued exponentially. By my last stint in college, I was reading (read: skimming in a panic) hundreds of pages every day. My late teens and early twenties found me reading less and less for pleasure and more and more for grades. That is until, schooling Gods sufficiently satisfied for the time being, I found myself a graduate. The passing of that diploma into my hand meant suddenly, I was free to read anything I liked.
The voracity returned.
Bookstores and the library became places I could actually utilize again, not just browse for “when I had time in the future”. The future had come. I made time for reading and my appetite returned, strong as ever. I’d spend whole weekends in bed with my newest book, lost in the tale, entranced by the intrigue of what would happen next. I even found myself a member of a book club, which was a truly sweet full circle: friends and books (and ice cream)?! Oh my!
All was well.
Then, I moved here, to rural Alaska where the nearest library is 4 hours away, at best.
Luckily, the books here are bountiful. It seems I have found myself amongst a whole town of voracious readers. A book is always being borrowed or recommended or returned. I love thumbing through the pages, knowing a friend has also has sat up at night, unable to sleep for the curiousity of what lies ahead on the next page.
At first, the books seemed endless. The Chief very proudly introduced me to our own neighborhood library, also known as the old outhouse. Yup. You read that right.
Pretty cute, ain’t it?
Yet, after a few years, the pages of books I intended to read have already been turned. Thankfully, yet another resource lay at our fingertips: the local library, The Tony Zak.
A local resident (you guessed it! Tony Zak) left his house to the community upon passing and since then, it has been filled to the brim with community gatherings. We have held events for everything from community yard sales to the annual Naked Lady party (an amazing clothing swap) to Christmas dinner. It also is chockfull of books, floor to ceiling.
First Christmas at Tony’s (circus games included).
Still, I’ll admit, there was a part of me that missed a library like the one of my childhood. The smell of it, the sheer possibility of it, perhaps most of all, the knowing look of a librarian about to unearth in you a world unknown. Here, the selections have already been made by others, like rooting around in a friend’s closet. It’s delightful, but it doesn’t always fit. Sometimes, you need picked especially for you.
Aren’t there libraries in Alaska?
Certainly. Yet every time we go to Town, a leisurely stroll through the library is the last thing on our mind, despite both of our deep love of books (I’ve married a man who consumes books at a rate greater than anyone I’ve ever known. If my voracity is a 5-course meal, his is a non-stop Las Vegas all you can eat buffet. Get after it, babe). Amidst the hustle and bustle of non-stop chores, time to read feels very far away and a stop at the library would expel luxurious time we often simply can’t afford. Plus, then there’s the whole issue of actually returning the books. There was nothing worse to me than the disappointed look accompanying the phrase “Would you like to pay your late fee now?”.
So, I set to rest the idea of libraries for the time being.
Until one day.
“Oh, these? I got them from the library.”
“No, the library.”
“The Tony Zak?”
“No, Julia, the library.”
It seems, my girlfriend had discovered an unknown magic portal to the library!
Lead the way, Buddha!
As you may well already understand, though I certainly didn’t before moving here, Alaska is massive. Utterly massive. Yet this mass is inhabited by endlessly curious souls, industrious to the bone and so, they deciphered a way to satiate the need for knowledge: the mail.
I don’t know why, but I had never thought of it as an option for borrowing before, just buying.
I got online and registered and immediately, it was better than I had hoped.
“Would you like us to curate a collection for your first order or order on your own?”
A curated collection? Yeeesssss, puhhhlease!
While I was able to request certain books, the librarian also handpicked books he thought I might like after personally calling me to discuss my interests. I felt like I was back in my childhood library, looking up into the librarian’s bespectacled eyes with admiration as she inquired to my interests: “Hmm…so you loved A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, have you read The Diary of Anne Frank?”. How special.
A few weeks later, a beautiful red package arrived with my name on it (for freeeee – insert Oprah’s intonation here – faaaarrrreeeee, people!). It felt like Santa’s giant red gift bag had been flown in by plane versus reindeer and they were all for us.
All dem books, plus a new rug from an oh so special friend! Love you, D!
Amongst the goodness was a letter to us from the librarian who had curated our shipment, a Mr. Giant (best name ever).
Greetings, Señor Giant!
As fate would have it, I had also just received a shipment of books from my new job and those, like homework of the past, required my attention first (though they are much less like homework and much more like reading I would have picked for myself, luckily). Still, in the nights, I dove in. Building and gardening and fiction, oh my! My 8-year old self beamed with happiness.
I wrote an email thanking Mr. Giant for the bounty of goodness and, star lender that I am, asked for an extension ahead of time, realizing the work/life book balance would need more time.
Grandma, Mom, Julia, Frida, the radio, and books? Pretty good combo for this lass.
Soon thereafter, the books were mine for a month longer. Oh, happy days.
Who would have thought that in the middle of nowhere I would land, lucky enough to be surrounded by beauty everywhere and…
Yet another return to childhood goodness, in the wilds of Alaska.
Happy reading, all!
P.S. What are you reading these days? Comment below to let me know!
My latest nighttime adventure. Loving it.
P.P.S. Follow BTB on Facebook (you’ll see the “Like” button at the top of this page) for weekly goodies and up-to-date details.
A few years ago, I was talking to my nephew about our beloved dog Cinda. I was telling him how every morning, after her breakfast, she would set off on her neighborhood rounds. Around the ‘hood she would trot, bidding good morning and begging for treats, eventually returning home to stand guard of her kingdom.
My Lou, my love.
He was amazed.
For her persuasive puppy ways? Her treat-seeking ingenuity?
For her ability to get through the fences.
He evaluated her, a regal dog lady in her later years, and remarked:
“Oh wow, Auntie Juju! How does she get through all the fences?!”
He lives in a sweet little wooded area himself and is no stranger to vast open areas of land but even the largest plots of land still have fences.
In a town where I could probably count on one hand the number of fences I know of, I had completely forgotten about them. Fence-less life had become so normal to me that his sweet surprise brought me back to reality: these dogs have it good.
No fences, no leashes, sometimes without so much as even a collar to hinder their wild spirits, with millions of acres to roam.
13+ million acres to roam.
Cinda had it good and trick or treat her way through the neighborhood she did all the way up until she passed. So, when we found our new ball of fluff and welcomed him home, we assumed he’d have the same fence-less life.
Well, kind of.
The poor pooch came down with Parvo before I was even able to pick him up. Then, once he puppy powered(!) his way through it, we were sequestered to the house for 6-weeks. Never once did he go outside without me and always attached to a leash. This grated against his punk rock Papa who made Cinda wear a collar, which he dubbed her “City Clothes” only when we went to Town. Eventually, Leto’s quarantine ended, and off from the leash he went, collar-less, mildly leash-trained, and ready to roam.
Leto, when he was just a wee one.
Free to be.
Until a few weeks ago.
Among the multitude of COVID complications, I never would have guessed that puppy love would have become a problem. You see, Leto is a lover. He’s one of the most social dogs I’ve ever known. He LOVES people, big and small (though he’s especially fond of babies). Yet in the time of COVID, despite his fence-less life, physical contact with his neighborhood besties, both furry and fur-less (well, maybe just less furry) has been notably challenging for this playful pooch. No going inside for his good morning rounds, no fun. And despite his fence-free life, he’d never wandered farther than the neighborhood houses he knows. Until…
Oh, what a joy.
You see, just as Leto hit the prime time for neutering, COVID-19 swept in. Not only was our trip to the vet on hold due to travel bans, but our banned travels would have been futile, as our vet had gotten stuck out of state and wasn’t allowed back in.
While puberty was a bit, umm, obnoxious (think: newfound possessiveness over his body-length moose bone, constant grumpy face instead of the happy to see me puppy of the year past) it wasn’t any worse than anything we’d already dealt with from our little Leto beast. It turns out, however, that puberty attitudes were nothing compared to the next hurdle his steadfast testicle friends posed:
A friend’s dog we’d dog-sat last year named Piper, is one of Leto’s favorite girlfriends. She chewed on his face so much that she gave him hotspots and still, he went relentlessly back for more. He was enamored. I would look out the window and there he would be, on his back with her dragging him by the neck through the mud. Leto was the ultimate pushover for her (are you also having flashbacks of your twenties right now? Eek!). The puppy love bug was strong.
Although they hadn’t seen one another in months, every time The Chief would return from seeing Piper’s Dad he would go crazy. Still, he stayed home. Until one day when he decided that if his girlfriend wouldn’t come to him, he would go to her. It was the farthest he’d ever wandered but I figured the isolation was getting to him and this behavior would be a one time blip on the radar.
You see, it turns out he discovered something on that visit, something I wasn’t aware of:
Piper was in heat.
His courting started coyly, with Leto greeting each early morning with a long and lonesome “Hello” howl to her. Unaware of the cause of the howling, I assumed it was just a new phase, he’d found his voice. It was cute and a daily reminder (though 13 hours early for the 8pm Howl) that we were all in this together, this quarantine life.
Apparently, the message wasn’t for us, nor was it getting through.
A few days after his howling Hello’s had begun, I got a call: “Leto is here” Piper’s Mom said. Miles away he had gone, again. I went to retrieve him and Piper’s Mom said: “I think she might be in heat”.
Still, to be honest, I didn’t think much of it.
Leto, on the other hand, did.
Transformed by the visit, his morning howls grew in intensity and frequency.
Our neighbors love us.
So, we brought him inside more often than not and listened for hours on end to his lonesome lullabies.
His once cute and mournful cries were now hoarse from exhaustion. He would howl so hard his voice would give out, howl so hard he would knock himself over.
It was lovely.
Working from home was even more lovely. I’d watch longingly as The Chief would set out for the day. “Bye! Let me know what life without earplugs is like!” I’d think.
Three walks per day still weren’t cutting it. When he wasn’t howling, he was sleeping from the sheer exhaustion the howling caused.
Finally, one night at 2 am, we broke. By 3 am, I had consulted every puppy resource I had and the verdict was out:
This won’t end until her heatwave does.
More good news?
Heats can last from 2-4 weeks.
It turns out that in comparison to the horror stories I read online, we actually had a pretty cush situation with our Leto.
So cushy, huh?
About as cushy as sleeping on a pinecone.
Two weeks and 74,000,000 howls later, we’ve discovered a semi-successful Ignore and Reward system but boy oh boy has working from home with a howling 1-year old Malamute been a pleasure. Thank goodness for the mute button in online meetings and noise-canceling earphones. Sometimes, they even work!
And so, in his first year around the sun, we’ve come full circle: quarantined again. Every move he makes is attached to a leash, except for the few times I’ve given him the benefit of the doubt and been sorely reminded that no amount of treats can dissuade nature’s call. Again and again, I’ve made the drive over to Piper’s house to retrieve him, tail wagging.
“Mom! So good to see you. Thank goodness you’re here. Can you let Piper out for me? We have some, uh, business to attend to.”
Two crazed puppies in love.
One night, he stayed under their stairs all night long. A real Romeo, you know.
One of his best tricks. Peek a boo!
Finally, we are staring down what must be (please, oh please) the last week of her heat. The howling, so loud it rattles the walls, has become ever so slightly less frequent and his manners have improved. He is, however, on a seemingly love induced hunger strike this weekend but, as I’ve been reminded time after time, this too shall pass. Leto has finally accepted his tied up fate (something we vowed he would never do to a dog) for the most part and has even become a bit of a gentleman on the leash.
A few months ago, at a Ladies Night, back when such things weren’t relegated to Zoom, I mentioned that Leto wasn’t as leash trained as I had wished.
Be careful what you wish for.
Despite the fact that we live in a leash-less, fence-less place, my goal had been to train Leto to acceptable standards. What were those standards? The Chief and I had different ideas of what acceptable meant and without an agreed-upon agenda, things got confusing for the young lad. Enter: puberty and things started getting messy.
“Shake it off, Mom” – Leto, in the lower left.
Lucky me, I got my wish, and training became a must, as did a family plan. Forced by the piercing cries of our oh so lovesick pup, we had no choice but to land on the same page and for that, I am grateful. I’m also grateful for understanding neighbors and for trees to somewhat bury his lovesong sounds.
Oh, Alaska, you sneaky beast, always lying in wait to serve us up the lessons we avoid best and need most.
Despite the frustrations of the last few weeks, the family fights and the utterly “I’m going to lose it” inducing cadence of his howls, Leto has provided us with an opportunity to grow as a family. I’m not saying it was pretty but it was worth it. Hopefully, someday soon, to the vet, we will go.
Cheers to you. May your unexpected COVID conundrums be few or if many, may they soon subside. Best wishes in these strangely trying times.
Last month, for the first time since my first Winter here, I had significant time off at home, in Alaska.
Not just time, an unprecedented amount of time: an entire month.
Aside from a few months in my first Winter (which I spent nearly paralyzed by all I had to learn in order to live and thus, not very much enjoying my unemployed freedom), I’ve always worked at least one job, most often two or more, while living here. Before that, I worked consistently since age 14, always carrying at least one but often closer to three. Even on “vacations” in the last few years, I’ve always worked at least a chunk of the time off.
So it came: A whole month off, for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Well, yes, eventually.
Work, to me, is security and purpose. I like to work (maybe a little too much) and so the idea of not working, of not having a schedule or deadlines or responsibilities or (especially) cashflow felt very overwhelming. I also knew it was exactly what I needed. The past few years have been a lot, to say the least, and I desperately needed a reset before jumping into my new job (the impetus for the time off). Thankfully, my new boss agreed – scratch that – actually, encouraged me to take the whole month off before I started my new job (thank you!) and so…I did.
“What will you do with your time off?” was the question I received most often.
“Don’t waste it!” was another common sentiment.
Yikes! I could feel the pressure building. So, I set out to quell the panic with my most favorite of lists: a To-Do list
Watch the sunrise and sunset every almost every day
Exercise every day
Write every day
Train Leto to skijor (become professional skijorer, obviously)
Leash train Leto to police dog status
Become a seamstress
Become a collage artist
Embroider onesies for all of the newest babes in my life
Finish all remodeling projects on our house
Bring the large washing machine inside and do all Winter laundry
Bake every other day
Go to the doctor and the dentist (a full trip to Anchorage)
Become a fermenting pro
Learn to play the guitar
Learn to play the keyboard
Record a few songs
Oh yeah, relax
The list went on and on so I won’t bore you with the details but I will say this:
I completed every single To-Do!
No, I didn’t.
Of course, I didn’t.
In retrospect, I see how fast a month flies by and how utterly over the top my ambitions had been. I chuckle to think of my therapist trying to slow the runaway train of my month off ambitions so I’d finish the month in a realistic, rather than a disappointing state. Yet try as she might, I was unstoppable.
In the first two weeks of my vacation, I spent my time waking early and working on any and all business I had at present or had neglected in the past. Taxes, property searches, car insurance, titles, oh my! My heart beat far too fast and my adrenaline surged from the moment I awoke each day as my need to fill time and “not waste” my vacation jumped in the driver’s seat. I did my best to suck all the fun out of those two weeks but in retrospect, it was exactly what I needed so that the third week, I could relax.
By week three, I had finally allowed myself some time to just chill. While sleeping in eluded me for the entirety of the month (though I was able to wake at 8 am once versus my 6 or 7 am daily rooster routine). Eventually, my anxiety waned as I found the rest I desperately needed in ways I normally wouldn’t allow myself. I read in bed, which to me, is perhaps the most luxurious thing one can do, made only more luxurious by The Chief bringing me tea in bed as well. I watched trashy TV in the middle of the day (before doing so, I stopped to look over my shoulder as if to say “Am I really allowed to do this?!”) and had phone conversations with friends and family I hadn’t been able to catch up with in ages. I read magazines I’d received months earlier and never even opened and baked scones and biscuits and other buttery bits I wouldn’t normally let myself whip up.
“Muffin tops”. Apparently, I didn’t fill them enough to get the full effect but you get the idea. Ha!
I also implemented a hint of a schedule via parameters: before I looked at my phone each day, I needed to complete my morning ritual of reading and journaling. It was surprising how hard that was at first but instead of waking and obsessing over everything on my To-Do list via phone from the moment I awoke, it gave me a moment to connect inwards and check in with what I needed. It allowed me to let go of my To-Dos for a moment and just listen to what my body needed.
Not an exercise regime but instead a long, rambling ski (and snacks. Lots of snacks).
Not a sunrise/sunset agenda but a snowshoe hike or a walk whenever my body needed it.
Not a concrete daily schedule but time to be open to whatever came next.
What my body needed was a mixture of play and work, a mixture I had been missing for a very long time. So, when my body asked for a timeout, I took it and when I started getting anxious from too much downtime, up I went.
I baked and tidied the house and started long overdue organizing projects and skied and worked on skijoring with Leto a bit too.
Organization in progress. What floor?!
Everything on my list was given a nod though not necessarily the full processional. I never even got out my sewing machine but I did go on many an unplanned adventure. New To-Dos came up that trumped my original plans. Things shifted and priorities swayed with my inner tides by simply asking myself: What do you need?
This. I needed this.
What do you need?
So often, we forget to check-in with ourselves. So often we forget that we can provide what we need. Once I had focused on what my body and mind needed, I realized there was something else I needed: a desk. The Chief and I realized that in order to accommodate the command center my work was sending me, I certainly had a need: a new desk.
So, I went online and…
We built one. All too often, I think of something I need and go to procure it rather than manufacturing it myself. If nothing else, this virus has brought me back, full circle, to the realization that I’m often far more able to meet my material needs than I realize (and doing so myself is often far, far cheaper) So, I didn’t buy one online. I certainly researched ideas and designs online but instead of clicking “Buy” The Chief helped me manufacture a beautiful cream-colored lass made especially for me.
Work in progress
Half of the shop
Gorgeous as she was, she inspired us to finish our bedroom (finally) with trim and even (gasp!) actual walls. I know, I know, fancy, right?
My time off ended in a flurry of warming the work tent in the morning, working long days that carried into the night, then stoking the fire for hours afterward to protect our painted pieces against the suddenly cold outside temperatures that threatened to cool the tent. We went to bed that last week with sawdust in our hair and paint on our hands and the joy of making something, together. Down to the wire we were nailing in trim and navigating the plethora of connections my new computers required. I finished out my month off in a scurry, in true Julia fashion, but the job was done and done well. All in time to start my new job.
The command center!
Last week, as my vacation came to a close, my therapist and I laughed at my overzealous To-Do list. “This is why Europeans take a full month off every year. In the first two weeks you are detoxing from work, the third week you relax and the fourth you prepare to go back to work. There’s not really much time to start a million new hobbies. You have to pick a few”.
And I had (though not the ones I would have guessed I would have prioritized).
It was just as she said, my European vacation. Full of decompression, relaxing and then re-compression in a mindset anew. Full of hopes, reality, daydreams and dust bunnies. Full of surprises. Perhaps you find yourself in a similar surprise situation due to an unplanned virus-induced vacation of sorts. Perhaps your mountain of a To-Do list is overwhelming you. Perhaps the vacation doesn’t have an end in sight and monetary pressures loom over you.
Yet still, I implore you to dig into this moment of reprieve from the daily grind. Give yourself whatever time off you can and if possible, find the calm after the decompression. I promise you, it’s a beauty. I don’t say this as someone who is comfortable not working or as someone who would be alright financially not working for weeks on end but I do say this as someone on the other side of four weeks who didn’t realize how badly I needed them until I reached their end.
Mountain play date. The only thing on the To-Do list that day.
Despite the intensity of this COVID situation and the different challenges we all independently face, there is beauty in a necessitated slowing down. A moment to take stock of what we do have, what we can do and DIY (and save money doing so), without looking outward. Take a bath (please, for me, take a bath. Is there anything better for relaxing than a bath? Someday…), take a nap, phone a friend, build something you’d normally buy or bake a pie for no reason other than you are alive (and what a reason that is).
Turkey Pot Pie deliciousness
Give yourself a moment in this mandated moment of pause to do just that.
Cheers to you, wherever you are sequestered. May your troubles be few and your time off from our persistent reality calming. May work come back to you if it has fled and if not, may financial security find you in some other way. May you find yourself a moment of calm.
Tools & Tips to Weather the COVID-19 Storm from Off-Grid Alaska
The other day my girlfriend, who lives in California, said to me: “If anyone is ready for this, it’s you guys.”
“This” being the COVID-19 pandemic. “This” being hunkering down in our days of social distancing. “This” being living off of and making do with what we have for an unknown amount of time. Normally, I would have thought to myself with pride “Yes! We are so prepared!”. However, as fate would have it, the past few months we have flip-flopped our tendencies as we have significantly tightened our belts around here. With that tightening went away any non-essential purchases and the well-worn habit of always buying a little extra. We weren’t preppers by any means but for the last five years, we’ve always had enough stocked to last us a few months at a time.
New reality versus old reality:
The past few months we’ve whittled down our freezer stores and eaten all the things we tend to forget (read: aren’t interested in eating) are in there (hello random fish filet. You weren’t exactly delicious but you got the job done). For the first time ever, we’ve run out of things and not immediately ordered them again without having a family discussion about it. Do we need this? Really? Or do we just want it? Chocolate didn’t even make the list you guys. Chocolate. Serious budgeting (and serious regrets).
You see, normally, we actually have it pretty darn good out here, despite being 4 hours to the nearest and 8 hours to a variety of grocery stores. Friends and family are constantly surprised to hear about all the fresh veggies we are lucky enough to have during the Winter, often due to the kindness of neighbors. Yet even that we have pared down. Wasting nothing has been our goal and so we’ve pared down all around. For the past five years, I’ve shopped to satisfy our needs for months at a time and so we’ve rarely run out of things. Yet in the last few months, vowing not to go to Town unless we needed to, we’ve let ourselves run out. We’ve been diligent in paring down just in time for…
Okay, okay, it’s the not the Apocalypse (It’s not, right?) but it certainly feels a bit doomsday-ish right now. Just in time for everyone to have cleared the shelves, we too have cleared out our freezer and pantry and now find ourselves at a bit of a loss in replacing our stores. Our first Town trip in months was scheduled for last week but was canceled indefinitely due to the virus. So, I ventured onto Amazon to try to replenish some basics. I found a 12-pack of pasta in the totally “normal” price range of $56.72-$326.69.
Oh no, you don’t.
Being gluten-free, I’m used to higher prices but pasta over three hundred dollars? It had better be made with gold dust (it wasn’t). So, yes, price gouging is real. As I sat on my computer, trying to purchase the basics I hadn’t planned on needing to replenish via the web (beans, pasta, polenta, shelf-stable almond milk), panic started to crawl over me. Everything was either out of stock, exorbitantly priced or wouldn’t ship to Alaska.
I looked at our less than packed pantry, our dwindling freezer bounty, our single large package of toilet paper (a 48 pack we had started on February 13th. Yep, we have been budgeting that hard that we wrote it down on our family whiteboard to track how much toilet paper we actually use and try to pair it down, pre-COVID-19. FYI, over a month later we still have PLENTY) and our fresh food nearly fresh out and realized it was time to take action. No, we were not going into this prepared as we normally would. In food alone, it was not true that if anyone was ready for this it was us. However, we did have a trick up our sleeve: we live in rural Alaska.
While our stockpile may be lackluster at just the wrong time, our tricks and tips for making do with less are tools we use year-round. They are seasoned and ready. While we live with more than people typically assume, we are also well versed in living with less and making do with what we have. So, without further ado, here are some Apocalypse Tips (aka Apocatips) for weathering the COVID-19 s-storm we all find ourselves in:
Get Used to Living With Less, Going Without and Substituting (Spoiler Alert: It’s Actually Fun): In these past few months of paring down, living with less has actually been more enjoyable than living with more. Certainly, when I found that I wasn’t able to get what I “needed” the other day, I panicked. However, this is where substitutions shine. It’s a real cup half full moment to step out of focusing on what you don’t have and instead look at what you do. Dig deep into your pantry and freezer and you might be surprised at what you do have versus what you don’t. Plus, the surprise is great an all but the pride I feel when I make something from improvised ingredients is the real cherry on top.
We ran out of almond milk for tea and coffee, baking, cooking, etc. so for my tea, I blended some coconut cream I had in our pantry with some water and voila! It was delicious. For baking, I substituted some powdered buttermilk I rarely use (and didn’t know existed until the grocery store didn’t have liquid and they gave me the powdered for free. Thanks, Freddy’s!) for some cornbread and again, delicious! Once the coconut cream is running low, we will make almond milk in the blender and save the almond meal produced from it for flour. While I know fresh is best, think of things that can replace what you might normally consume fresh (i.e. powdered buttermilk, milk, etc.). Step out of your usual tendencies and switch it up when you run out. Use maple syrup for sugar or make your own red sauce from scratch versus the can. The possibilities are endless. Also, if you have too much of something and it might go bad, share it. If that’s not an option preserve it! Pickling, fermenting, etc. scared the heck out of me but guess what? It’s so, so, so fun. You got this. Waste not, want not.
Ombre sauerkraut. The new Starbucks unicorn latte or…whatever.
Find Yourself a Handkerchief: Toilet paper a little low? No, no, don’t worry, I’m not suggesting hankies for your heinies but for your schnoz, it’s a different story. Here, we often use toilet paper to blow our noses (and in Winter in Alaska there is a lot of nose-blowing going on) but what we did recently (and what we should have been doing all along) was switch to handkerchiefs. They are durable, less wasteful and a fun little snotty accessory to brighten up your daytime jammies, er, outfit. No handkerchiefs laying about? Perhaps make one out of old shirts or other clothing you’ve been meaning to donate. The same can be said for paper towels. We haven’t bought paper towels in years (I’ll be honest, I missed them dearly at first) and use rags and cloth napkins instead. It works, I promise (plus, it makes me feel oh so fancy when I use a cloth napkin).
Let it Grow: Winter is certainly a time we all help one another around here and right now is no different. Most often, anytime someone has come in these days they’ve checked to see if others could use some fresh vegetable or fruit supplies. However, even with people willing to bring things in, empty stores mean we have way fewer freshies than usual. Thankfully, I put up a ton of greens from our garden this year but frozen isn’t the same as fresh so…let it grow.
If you are able to get green onions you can put them in water and they will continue to grow as you cut them for use. You can also do this with ends of other vegetables by submerging the base in water (here’s one site about it but there are tons. Just search for “growing vegetables from kitchen scraps”). I’ve had great luck with lettuce.
Green onions and celery.
Another option is to start some sprouts (you know, those things your hippie parents always had growing in the window? Yea, they were geniuses)! Lately, I’ve been super into sunflower sprouts. They are hearty and a bit sweet. Currently, I have lentils and alfalfa sprouts going.
Thanks, Dolly. Will do. Sprouts on scrambled eggs with tomatoes.
Start your garden. While in Alaska it’s a bit early to start the entire garden (though I did spend a few hours yesterday shoveling our garden out so the ground would thaw faster. “Faster”, however, was not my personal speed as our snow shovel was at the fire department and I aimed to concur the few feet of snow with an avalanche shovel. I wouldn’t recommend it), microgreens are the way to go. Yesterday I brought my soil inside to start defrosting and I plan to start as many seeds as I have space for and then transfer them into containers to grow. If you live where you can garden outside this time of year, go for it! Even if your space is limited you can make do with windows (read: hanging plants) or windowsills or do some container gardening even in the smallest of outdoor spaces. Think vertically when space is limited (a true Alaskan tip).
Swiss Chard kissing Marigold.
Being Sequestered: Ok, admittedly this is not as much of an issue for us out in the woods. While we are essentially following all shelter in place rules we admittedly have the luxury of a lot more area to roam. Still, y’all remember January? I do. In January this year, I was more or less housebound. I went for very cold walks when I could but overall, I was inside watching the cold crawl through the cracks in my wall. It felt tight and a little claustrophobic. It also made things a whole lot simpler. My options were limited.
While you may not have to stoke a fire every 30 minutes or haul water, there are certainly ways to fill your time when you can’t go outside. As an ex-personal trainer, I love to exercise (though sometimes you wouldn’t know it by my “I wore yoga pants all day without working out” approach I sometimes take. Ebb and flow and whatnot) and my body and mind love me when I do it. YouTube has a TON of workout videos for anything and everything. I love Yoga with Adrienne (she’s a gem. Even The Chief does her classes and raves about how much better he feels when he does). Classes make me feel like I’m around other people even when I’m not (and in all honesty, it’s what I prefer). Join a 30-day challenge or create a schedule for yourself and stick to it.
If you miss the camaraderie of your close pals, set up some virtual cocktail hours or start/continue a book club. Come mid-Winter this year, my California girlfriends and I started weekly phone calls and it made my night every time. Being alone can also be a good time for some soul searching. It’s one of my favorite aspects of living here is not being distracted from the work I need to do on myself. Melody Beattie’s book Codependent No More is amazing. My guy friend, upon listening to the book said with a chuckle “I wish I had listened to that ten years ago. I could have saved myself from having to go through my last 7 relationships”. It’s a keeper. Worried about money? I get it. I can’t recommend Tosha Silver’s book called It’s Not Your Money. Thank me (and my girlfriend who recommended it to me) later when you find 100 bucks in your pocket.
Iron Chef It Up: Growing up, my brother and I used to watch Iron Chef and then we would aim to make dinner out of our own limited store. We pretended we were competitors on the show. We made egg drop soup one night when all we could find were eggs and broth. We’d scour the pantry and freezer and come up with the most random of meals but guess what? They were amazing. Plus, making the meal together, coming up with ideas from very little was extremely satisfying. Without a nearby grocery store, I often still feel like an Iron Chef. So, in addition to discovering recipe substitutions, step completely out of your dinner rut and create something altogether new. You might love it, you might hate it (we certainly had some kitchen fails) but either way, you’re getting creative in the kitchen and again, focusing on what you have versus what you are lacking. At a loss for ideas? Look at what you have and decipher which thing will go bad first. Plan a meal around that. If you don’t have any inspiration consult the oracle (aka Google) for ideas.
Cabbage is a great long-term vegetable to purchase when possible as it stores for a long time but you don’t want it to go bad (trust me, it smells ungodly) so use it up as it nears its end! Make cabbage rolls, sauerkraut or soup. I’ve made peanut chicken using the last bits of peanut butter and coconut milk, green soup using frozen veggies, smoothies using anything and everything. Go for it!
Conserve What You Already Have: When we are used to being able to get whatever we need whenever we want, we waste more. Moving here, I found so many ways in which I was using far more than necessary and not utilizing what I had.
The easiest way to have more is to use less. The Chief and I love to eat but sometimes (read: far more often than I’d like to admit) we take an extra serving (or two) that we don’t actually need. Now is the time to decipher between want and need and it actually feels really good to set some boundaries around it. Instead of snacking post-dinner, try some tea. Harvest some wild herbs like mint, yarrow, goldenrod or chamomile, etc. if you can and dry them for your own tea.
Spruce tips for tea and a tired puppy.
Stretch it. Have you ever been making dinner for two and suddenly friends drop by? You stretch whatever you’re making to accommodate. Do the same here. Add a little extra broth to your soup (broth that perhaps you’ve made from the last time you roasted a chicken…hint, hint), add a filling side like rice or polenta or simply chop everything smaller. The last one may sound ridiculous but we found that we used far less when we chopped everything smaller.
DIY: Just like with the almond milk example above, there are tons of things we buy on the regular that, with a little effort we can simply make. Pickles, sauerkraut, mayonnaise, broth, yogurt (this recipe for coconut yogurt is made by mixing probiotics into coconut milk and letting it do its thing on your counter for two days. It’s so yummers and truly simple), etc. are all things we’ve made versus bought. I’m not saying you have to make everything (nor do we all of the time, trust me), but the more we can self-sustain on what we already have, the better off we all are.
Coconut milk yogurt doing its thing.
Next up: DIY what you would normally have done for you (warning: results will vary).
On our canceled Town trip last week one of the highlights for both my girlfriend and I was the idea of a haircut. Often here I simply go without certain beauty perks for months on end but if I really get a hankering for a change, I simply do it myself. Again, results do vary. I may or may not have (I absolutely did) given myself a haircut that resembles a mullet BUT, I did it myself and it feels pretty darn good to at least get some weight off.
Plus a mullet.
I was going for the “A Star is Born” look…
Next up? Highlights. I’ll keep you posted. Fingers crossed that I won’t be able to win a Joe Dirt lookalike competition.
More DIY: Used to getting pedicures? Give yourself one! Waxing, dying your brows, facials, etc. You can do all of this from home and in a time of uncertainty such as that which we currently find ourselves in, a little self-soothing is certainly called for. Be nice to yourself, get creative and DIY yourself anew.
Overall, despite what a wild time this is, we can find the good in it. We can focus on what we have versus what we don’t have. We can get creative and brainstorm together. We can spend time with our loved ones. We can focus on the positive.
Like frittatas! Frittatas are positive.
The reality is, no one is unaffected. Even here in remote Alaska, we definitely feel the intensity of the situation. People are returning to the valley from travels all over the world. Social distancing is in full effect even for our dogs and most are in agreement that two weeks quarantining upon arrival is a must. All of this reminds me so much of when Leto was shedding Parvo and he and I were quarantined at our house for six weeks. Six weeks! If we can do six weeks with a puppy who thought (read: knew) I was his chew toy, working full-time plus cleaning every surface he touched, not leaving our property and sterilizing everywhere he pooped, we can all stay away from one another for two weeks.
It seems most everyone feels a little on edge as our rural town with very little medical resources braces to protect our inhabitants. Our challenges, throughout the world, are different from one another but the reality is, we are all in this together. My health is your health is all of our health. It is my responsibility not just to keep myself safe but to keep you safe. Every single one of us holds someone dear to them who is at risk. Treat the loved ones of others as you would want your loved ones treated.
Think outside of just yourself.
For goodness sake, do not hoard.
Keep you and your local and global community safe.
This reality came tumbling all the way out of my subconscious during a walk the other day and it’s been on my mind ever since.
In the woods.
Mostly just the two of us.
Sometimes all alone.
Cabin fever anyone?
I have the Fever, Dad. Put what you’re doing down and pet me (Note: The Chief is already using his left hand to draw but that was not good enough).
I mean, I’ve physically left my house. I ski or walk daily though mainly the same variations of loops. Yet, the farthest I’ve ventured out in three months has been 15 miles down The Road to two different friends’ houses for a total of three trips “out” since November.
Christmas, New Years Eve and a dinner party.
Aside from that, we’ve done dinners and parties in the neighborhood often enough for all of us introverts to meet our personal levels of social overload. Yet leave our house, shut it fully down and be away overnight somewhere?
Not for three months.
When I quantify it, as in “Oh girrrrrrl…you haven’t left the house in a quarter of a year!” It seems insane or at least a little closer to shut-in status than I ever thought I’d venture. Yet when I think of the time in increments, in weather, in months and happenings, it doesn’t seem that long.
In November, the at-home novelty was fierce. I’d been back and forth to Town more times than I could count. In October, I took my last trip out, or so I thought until a kidney infection had me on a rushed 4-hour trip to the closest clinic. Two doctor visits in two weeks added to all the travel of the Summer made me feel like the calm would never come. I longed to pull into our driveway for the long haul and finally, we did.
I spent Halloween, my birthday and Thanksgiving here at home for the first time ever in all of the almost five (five?!?!?!) years I’ve spent in Alaska. Through Fall into Winter, we whistled the months away, looking alternately at the ground and the sky, praying for snow and watching as the final trickle of people leaving for Winter came to a close. Those who were staying were here, those who were going were gone.
December was jovial. We finally got some snow and the holidays were sweet and intimate, unrushed and unscheduled. Seasons greetings filled our little home and cookies and cakes (and tighter pants) were aplenty. Winter had finally arrived and we settled in to enjoy it.
Our itty bitty backyard tree.
January arrived with a little more light and a lot more cold. Almost the entire month was spent heads down trying to stay warm in near 50 below temperatures. We were deep in the thick of it: Deep Winter.
This pretty much captures January.
Then, in danced February, warm and cheery. It felt as if the days have been flying off the shelves like hot, fresh donuts (mmm, donuts). The light has brightened and lengthened and finally, after all this time, my cabin fever has finally arrived.
Skiing in the middle of the river
For the past week, it’s been sunny and warm and not just the “Oh yay, I don’t have to bundle up like the kid in A Christmas Story every time I go outside” kind of warm. It’s been the “Oh no, all of the snow has fallen off of the trees, the ground is melting and the rivers, so nicely frozen into highways have been ripped open” kind of warm.
A river runs through the old river highway.
With the warmth and the sun comes a new energy, a different energy, and for the first time in four months, I wanted to leave. Cabin fever, right?
You see, as beautiful as Cabin life is, Cabin Fever is a thing. In the darkest of days and for months on end, I’ve drooled over the idea of a long, hot bath or the simple luxury of ordering an overpriced cocktail in the appropriate barware from someone I don’t know. Other times, the idea of being surrounded by strangers and spending dollar after dollar sounds suffocating. Sometimes I walk or ski our local loops and feel closed in. Other times I feel the expanse of thirteen million acres spread out before me. There are days when either The Chief or I (or god forbid both of us) are in a bad mood and these four walls feel awfully tight while other times we dance in our “spacious” abode.
Sometimes, your woodshed is full, your water is hauled, your batteries are charged and you’ve just gotten a replenishment of freshies from a friend in from Town and life is good. Other times, your batteries are dead, the house is cold, you’re out of water, wood isn’t chopped, you have to pump gas (and of course you’re at the bottom of the barrel) and the generator, which holds the key to most of these problems, is frozen.
There are days when all you need is to see a girlfriend (yes, there are other women here, thankfully) but the only other women around are 15 miles up The Road and at 40 below, going anywhere is out of the question. So, you sit with yourself, your emotions, your needs and tell them they will all simply have to wait until the weather moves out.
Puppy cabin fever. Leto took to the drink.
Feeling feverish yet?
The funny thing is, honestly, I wasn’t.
Of course, I can think of a day or two throughout the last three months when it felt like the walls were a little closer to my personal space bubble than I was comfortable with. There were days when I just wanted to be clean with clean clothes for more than twenty-four hours at a time. But the quiet? The calm? No one around for miles? I was OK with that. In fact, I loved it. The other things were just creature comforts I experience less in the Winter but miss year-round. The truth is, I’d never felt cabin fever this Winter in the way I felt it the other day when I realized I’d been here for three months straight. The “fever”, however, wasn’t about being stuck in the cabin, it was about our being “stuck” coming to an end.
Don’t get me wrong, Winter is hard but I think the hardest part about Winter, for me, is letting it go.
We’ve all grown accustomed to it. Even Leto’s paws pray for more Winter.
This past week with its temps in the low 40’s (read: everything is melting) it really hit home. For three months, leaving felt like the last thing I wanted to do. Now, it feels like the first. I want to outrun the change. To find another place to cozy down for just a few more months of a good Winter’s rest. I feel like a kiddo sleepily asking for “just a few more minutes” of shuteye every morning as the alarm goes off. I want to hit Snooze on Spring.
I’ve never been good with change. Especially change I didn’t choose (read: you know, most of life). Sure, the weather might shift again. Even as I type this post this morning the boards of the Ramp of Doom let out a crack as The Chief descends them, signifying a drop in temperature to below zero. The paths that are now icy might again be covered in snow, the river might again freeze. Yet the shift woke us all from our Winter slumber and there’s no way to dismiss it: Summer is coming…slowly.
Once the Winter spell is broken, you can’t go back. The reality is there. As snoozing pales in comparison to deep sleep, we too feel the end in sight. You know there’s no going back to the quiet calm you came from.
So long middle of the river skis…maybe.
Until next Winter.
Until then, I’m grateful for the stretch we’ve had and pray to the skies for a little more snow, just as we did those three months ago in November.
Only time will tell.
Cheers to you and yours wherever you may be. Whether you are ready for Summer or Spring or still clinging to the depths of Winter. Wherever you are, may you be happy.
Our pensive pup.
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