I'll Go With You

Earlier today I was perched on the edge of a precipice, my heart racing, my breathing rapid. Water raced down the cliff into a pool far below, the sound rushing in my ears. There was no turning back. In the blink of an eye I was over the edge, heart in my throat, eyes closed tight, quickly plunging toward that pool.

Sounds dramatic, right? Downright dangerous even. Truth? I was at the Mustang Water Slides at Lake Lopez in Arroyo Grande with a group of middle schoolers and a handful of intrepid parents. But for a risk averse person like myself, that half pipe water slide was pretty darn scary. In fact, I never would have been on it were it not for Jo, another mom on the trip. She knew I was on the fence about taking the plunge and she said the words that we all long to hear when we face a challenge, big or small. She said, "Come on. I'll go with you."

As I drove home from the water park this evening, I got to thinking about all the people who have said, "I'll go with you" in one way or another to me over the years. And I realized that I have people I can count on to go pretty much anywhere with me. Just last week my friend Rick held my hand as I sang at my first open mic. And the entire congregation of my church came along as we celebrated my daughter and her cohort's Coming of Age. In countless ways, mundane and grand, my people come with me every day.

It's like walking around wearing an invisible life vest, knowing I have people who will climb in the raft behind me, ready to take the plunge. What a gift. I just hope the raft is big enough.

A Dog's Life

Zeke after a hard day of backpacking in the Sierras

About this time of year I start to envy the dog. As I add twelve new things to my to do list, Zeke stretches, yawns and takes another nap. As I write yet another check to the kids' school for one more year-end activity, he crunches kibble and begs for treats. And as the kids and I frantically grab lunches, back packs, permission slips, and school projects, rushing out the door, he grapples with whether to take his morning nap on the couch or in the backyard sun.  Some mornings it's all I can do not to growl at him as I walk out the door, late again.

But when I get home from work he does a series of things that secure his place in the family: First he greets me with a full body wag. Believe me, no one else in the family is ever that happy to see me. (I recently told the kids Zeke was my favorite child.) After letting me put the groceries away or order the kids around a bit, he gives me a look that says, it's time for us to get outside. He waits patiently while I change my clothes and put on my walking shoes. As I reach for the leash, the full body wagging begins again. And then we are out the door. 

Zeke is a not stroll around the neighborhood on a leash kind of dog. He wants wide open, leash free spaces. He wants to run and get dirty. Most days we head down to the end of our street and up to the Ellwood Mesa, the beautiful open space that is our backyard. We walk along the bluffs looking for dolphins or whales. Well, I look for dolphins or whales. Zeke prefers rabbits, lizards, and fresh horse droppings. Sometimes we go down to the beach. As I breathe in the fresh air and feel my blood pressure drop, Zeke chases birds and runs through the waves. It's a bonus day for me if we catch a beautiful sunset. It's a bonus day for him if there's a dead seal to roll in. 

Today we drove to Kiwanis Meadows and walked the trail to the dam. This is our weekday trail walk. The trail is shaded by Oak trees, the stream crossings are gentle in May. People we met were smiling. Dogs were wagging. When we got to the dam we sat together, Zeke and I, looking out at the beautiful view. There were a pair of ducks in the water which he uncharacteristically left alone. A hawk circled above us and sparrows darted about. There were bees on the wildflowers and the evening sunlight made the mountains glow. And I thought, wow, am I the luckiest person in the world or what? For an hour or so I get to live a dog's life, reveling in the outdoors and letting Mother Nature work her magic on my body and soul. Thanks, pup. You've more than earned your keep. 

Who's On First?

sister, step sister, niece

This past weekend I attended my ex-step sister's second wedding. I call her my ex-step sister because, technically, we are no longer related. When we were children, my father married her mother. Voila, we were a blended family. When we grew up, her mother and my father divorced. End of family. On paper anyway. Legal definitions of marriage and family may not recognize us as family, but legal definitions do not include the woven histories of our lives together: The family dinners and vacations, the sibling rivalries, the family jokes, the grieving when our parents divorced, the joy when we married and had our own children. Oh, we're still family alright.

My parents have each been married three times. In addition to my mother, my father, and my sister, I have had two step mothers, two step fathers, and thirteen step siblings. People tend to give me a blank stare when I try to explain the complex web of my family. 

When I was ten and my sister was six, our mother married Michael. He had three daughters. That same year, my father married Linda. She had two sons and a daughter. These are the people I grew up with: The step father who taught me about photography, played the guitar and mandolin, and introduced me to curry dishes and paella. The step mother who took me to get my ears pierced, helped me throw a party with boys in junior high, and was always willing to lend an ear. And six step siblings. We had dinner with one set on Wednesday nights, and the other set on Thursday nights. On Friday nights my three step sisters spent the night at our house. And on Saturday nights my sister and I spent the night at our dad's house with the two step brothers and the other step sister. We divided up holidays and had two summer vacations every year. It was a complicated, rich, sometimes painful childhood.

Years passed. A lot has changed. My mother is married to Owen now. My father is married to Nelda. And my step sister just married a second time (I think this one's a keeper.) At the wedding, Nelda (my dad's current wife) and Linda (his 2nd) sat together drinking wine and talking. My sister and I joked with my dad that we should call our mom to come join them so all of his wives could share a glass of wine and a story or two. Then we offered to get my dad another drink! He just laughed. And he pointed out something that made me love my crazy, complicated family more. He said, we may have many layers in our family, but we all get along pretty well. And you know what? He's right. We've had our share of anger, heartbreak and sadness, but we can all come together to celebrate each other's lives. AND, if the warm feelings we shared at this most recent wedding are any indicator, we all still have faith in love.

me, step brother, sister

Two Birds. Three Stones.

My dog Zeke and I walked on the beach earlier this evening. I found three heart shaped rocks for the collection in my front yard. Zeke befriended two young boys who couldn't get over the fact that he would eat dog treats right out of their hands, and a man who ruffled his fur and got his whole body wagging. The air was the perfect temperature, one of those days when you're comfortable with or without a sweatshirt. Everyone we met was smiling.

As we walked I wrote a song. I haven't written a song in over twenty years, but today I wrote one while walking the dog. It's about silence. I've been thinking a lot about silence lately, how restful and healing it is. And how it seems to be in short supply in our busy, noisy world. Last October I was in the Sierras snow shoeing with a group of friends. When no one was talking, the silence felt like a soft down blanket. I was with five women, so not talking was a challenge, but I made everyone sit down and be quiet for 10 minutes. I think I actually felt my ears relax in that total quiet. I could have curled up in that down blanket for hours.

But I digress. Today I took a walk on a beautiful stretch of beach and wrote a song about silence. Things like that happen on long walks, especially when your companion is better at chasing birds than conversing. You spot heart shaped stones among the "I Spy" arrangement of rocks and sticks on the beach. And if you listen, you just might find you have a song in your heart.