June 2014

We buried Gram’s ashes in Arlington Cemetery two weeks ago, more than a year after she passed. It was the first time I’d been back since I was three years old. Two of Gram’s three kids were at the service, four of her five grandchildren, and three of her five great grandchildren. Dan and I left Kalvin and Grace at home, but I brought photos of them and a small toy bird to be buried with Gram’s ashes. She loved brightly colored birds and the cardinal’s song.

The cool morning would turn into a hot day, but as we walked amongst the white headstones under a crystal clear bright blue sky, a light spring breeze brushed our faces and the smell of fresh cut green grass wrapped itself around us, promising not a sad ending but infinite beginnings and growth.  I stood next to Gram’s burial site, next to my grandfather’s headstone and the site of my own first memory and felt a deep settling; a peace I didn’t think had been missing.

Gram was almost home.

Home had become a beautiful word with layers of meaning. In that moment, it meant that Marina, Kevin, and Nessie Krim had welcomed a healthy baby boy named Felix; an extradition hearing had been set for justice for the Noyen babies; and Dallas’ mare had given birth to a healthy foal she named Weltmeyer’s Fayte, aka, Willy.

In our home, Kalvin and Grace are becoming sweet hilarious joyful little people, full of their own passions, desires, and humor. Kalvin is all boy, his world revolves around Dan, Matchbox cars, tractors, and trains. He loves to go for rides in the Ranger to look for tractors on construction sites. His favorite color is blue and his best friend is Grace. And Kalvin clearly inherited my sweet tooth, which I got from my dad, which he got from Gram. When presented with a gummy bear or jelly bean, Kalvin jumps up and down and screeches with wild anticipation. Sometimes, he’ll even clap his hands while folding himself in half in a strange downward-dog expression of joy while saying, “I can’t believe that,” and I hear Gram laughing. She felt the same way about candy.

I love to watch the way my little boy physically inhabits his world. His face is all smiles as he runs full speed down the deck stairs, or purposefully flips himself off the couch onto his head, or belly flops in the bath, splashing water all over the walls and ceilings. We have to watch him around water, because he also loves to fling himself off the side of the pool into our arms, or not. In which case he kicks himself to the surface in total trust that we will get to him in time. But what truly scares me about Kalvin, what eats at the edges of my contentment, is his innocence. Those big earnest blue eyes, his yearning to be liked, his sincere questioning anytime he meets someone new, be it a server or bus driver or random person in the airport: “What’s your name? Are you nice? But are you nice?” His little soul is so open and so vulnerable, my heart aches in anticipation of the day I can no longer make everything right with a kiss and hug and new matchbox car or jelly bean.

Grace is a feisty, sweet little nudge of a soul. Nudgelette, we call her. I worry less about her in the world. Already, she loves to steal Kalvin’s cars and watch him descend into upset. When he chases her, screams ensue, as if she doesn’t deserve two minutes in the penalty box for instigating. But her nudgelette side is balanced by an active sweetness and excitement that overwhelms everyone in her sphere. The little girl’s eyes literally sparkle. And she is more physically active in her affection than Kalvin, always wanting to be held or snuggled or stealthily finding her way into my lap such that she seems to have appeared their by magic. When she rubs her face on my face, my world stops. She loves to talk and sing to Timber, Acorn, Dan and me. She loves to be a “pink momma Woody horse,” or “pink momma duck,” and will only respond when called by those names. She adores all things horses, Woody in particular, and Dora the Explorer. And her favorite fruit is blackberries.

Today, when I put Grace down for a nap, she said, “I love you so much, Momma,” and I started crying. “I miss you when I’m sleeping,” she said. “I kiss your tears better, Momma?” Obviously that didn’t have the intended effect of stopping my tears.

But what really slays me lately is the way she says, “Oh really?” just as Gram used to say. Gram retained a childlike giggle and way of being surprised and joyful in the world that I find not only completely remarkable and touching, but also a reflection of a soul that I can only hope to emulate. One of the hallmarks of that quality was how she would say, “Oh really?” when I told her a surprising or joyful piece of news. I swear I stored up stories just to hear that exclamation of awe, wonderment and tender excitement.

“Gram, I booked a flight, I’m coming to visit next week.”

“Oh really!?” she would say.

“Gram, Gracie has the hiccups today.”

“Oh really!?” Her smile came right through the phone, brightening my room. It was even better in person.

“Gram, I brought you a pint of blueberries.”

“Oh really?”

Now my sweet feisty little Gracie girl says it and looks up at me, head tilted with a curious expression on her face when happy tears appear in my eyes. She doesn’t yet understand happy tears. But she will.

“Grace, I have a treat for you.”

“Oh really?”

“Gracie girl, we’re going to fly to Boston.”

“Oh really?”

“Grace, I found your little pink horse.”

“Oh really!?” Good God, it’s enough to make anyone weep at the circle of life.

Home.

As we stood waiting to bury Gram, I also felt at home, and a profound, deep gratitude to be part of that circle of life, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of lives that came before, each marked by a headstone, each with their own infinite number of stories. The grassy hillside in Arlington is the perfect place for Gram, it is truly sacred ground with meaning that can only be felt, not understood. To say I was proud doesn’t even come close.  To say I felt sad and happy and grateful is also appallingly insufficient. I felt alive, deeply deeply alive.

Then Jon joined me in front of the green covering.

“Nice dress,” he said. My long bright pink patchwork flowing dress contrasted sharply with the prevalence of somber dark suits.

“I wore it for Gram.” Jon just nodded in response. But I could hear Gram exclaim and clap her hands together, “Oh Sarah, it’s beautiful.” Jon, himself, wore a dark blue suit. While we waited, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Gram’s memorial service program.

“I haven’t worn this suit since her memorial.” He handed it to me. “I guess some things are meant to be.”

On the back were three photos of Gram and a summary of her life under the title, “An Extraordinary Woman.” Inside was the celebration program and a poem about which I had forgotten. As I read, I swore Gram was talking to me, reminding me, and telling me to pass it along to Kalvin and Grace: “You are special. In all the world there is nobody like you…your smile…your eyes…your voice…your beautiful uniqueness designed for a purpose.” Gram lived it, lived it.

Then Dan magically appeared and handed me a white and pink handkerchief.

“It matches my dress,” I said wiping at my eyes.

“Of course,” Dan smiled. Gram smiled too, That Dan, he’s good for you.

I handed the program back to Jon and stood just feeling the weight of the moment.

“Did you guys see this tree?” Dan broke the silence.

Jon and I looked up. Then looked at each other.

“Blackberries,” we said in unison. It turns out they weren’t blackberries but mulberries which look exactly like blackberries.

“Do you think that’s why she loved blackberries so much, because they reminded her of grandpa?”

“Absolutely,” Jon said reaching for a berry.

*

I still miss Gram everyday, but I’m also happy she’s home. And I know that when I die, hopefully many decades from now, one of the great pleasures of my life will have been being her granddaughter. She makes me proud. She makes me strong. Her grit and faith and love and tenderness, her stubbornness and sense of service, they all remain, if not in me, then certainly in my kids.

In the past few months, I’ve noticed a burgeoning phenomenon, foreign and surprising both in its appearance and comfort. It is the word God slipping from my mouth or moving through my fingers onto the page. I don’t know what it means, but I know it has something to do with Gram, as if a gentle steady force is pulling me out of my mind, away from the questions of why, and into the unfolding moments of my life; inspiriting me to dance in harmony with the details of what is present, right in front of me, as if that is where she and God reside. There, the word appears again, and it feels like a sweet surrender to let it stay.

Because why not? God? Miracles? Lately, I’m also startled by the simple fact of my life. For some unbeknownst reason, I am suddenly acutely aware that my existence, in this time and place, is a statistical anomaly of epic proportions bordering on the miraculously impossible. And if that’s the case, if I am completely insignificant while simultaneously uniquely rare, perhaps I should relax more and enjoy the ride.

Why did Aubrey happen? I don’t know, why does anything happen?

Why does evil exist? I don’t know, why does goodness exist?

Why us? I don’t know, why not us?

Could it, or some other trauma, happen again? Possibly. Probably.

The Doctrine of Chances is a legal term used in our case, but it originated as the title of the first book on probability theory, subtitled “A Method of Calculating the Probability of Events in Play.” Probability theory is the mathematical analysis of random phenomena. The exact probability of the events leading to January 30, 2012? I will never know. That is, the probability of life emanating from gasses, evolving to humans on this insanely beautiful and welcoming planet; then tens of thousands of generations of two humans meeting and surviving to give birth to the next generation that resulted in me and Dan meeting to create Kalvin and Grace, the endless possibilities and moments of chance that add up to them and to that moment are so astronomical as to be impossible to understand.

So why not call life a miracle? And more importantly, why not live as if it is.

And that is what I will tell Kalvin and Grace someday when they ask about what happened.

I don’t know why, I’ll tell them. I’m sorry that it happened, I will forever be sorry. But there is no why.

There just is.

There is just this moment, in front of us now.

And our only choice will always be what to do with this moment.

That said, I hope my son and daughter love the world. I hope they fall in love with as many things as possible. I hope they remember how to melt into the moments in front of them, as they do so naturally now; how to be present with the stars in a clear mountain sky, the spontaneous laughter of a great friend; the yearning regrets of a parent, the curiosity of toddler seeing snow for the first time, the resilience of a mother lion, the intricate details of a butterfly’s wings, the dog who will not leave his injured owner’s side, the rainbow rings around the sun, the warm breath of a horse on their chest, the snow crystals that hover suspended in the air, as if we all lived and breathed amongst billions of tiny diamond fairies. I hope they’ll melt into the magic and worship at the altar of their own experience.

Laugh, dream, cry, play, break, weep, despair, love, fight, hate, dance, and do it all again. Stand up, fall down, get back up, forgive yourself. Forgive yourself, I will tell them.

Because they are responsible for their own lives, not for each other’s, or mine, or Dan’s. Embracing that responsibility will come with mistakes, accountability and forgiveness.

Live. Create a life of purpose and meaning. Use your unique gifts to be an instrument for the good in life. Let unapologetic intuition and vibrant appreciation guide the journey. Honor yourselves and the lifetime that is exclusively yours, but that is also shared with so many others.

In some ways, the last year has been a stubborn fight to protect the way I look at the world because of what I want to pass along to the both of them. I want to live from abundance, not scarcity because that is what I want for them. I want to live in beauty, wonder and awe. I want to be an optimist and realist, because of them. I want to live married not just to Dan, but in unity with the irrationally beautiful, powerful force of creation that is manifesting and unfolding every second of every day; because I want to teach that to them.

But I also know they will have bad days.

They are part of life.

When they ask me about depravity and pain, I hope I will be able to convey with empathy and compassion that they too are part of life. But it is our job to show up anyway, to make life as big as possible, to carry the contradictions and confusions gently in our hearts, alongside respect, awe and gratitude.

Yes, evil exists, I will tell them. And yes, knowing of evil is different than experiencing its existence.

But the same is true of love. And I know so much love. And they know so much love. And so I hope they will have the fortitude to choose, despite human depravity, to see beauty and live in a way that is a tribute to overcoming the existence of evil, hurt, and suffering. I hope they will have the confidence and grit to know they can handle anything life throws at them. I hope they will have the courage and the resilience to stay open, vulnerable and porous, such that even when they feel like a lonely drop in a vast ocean, they will remember they are not alone, for they are also the ocean themselves. I hope Dan and I can teach them that life, all of it, is the teacher, the path, and the destination.

Because even the people and things they love will break their heart. And that’s okay. Sometimes they break it to let the light in. Sometimes they break it so the heart can heal stronger. Sometimes the things we love break our hearts so we know just how strong we are. And sometimes, the heart just breaks. Like mine did.

But therein begins the challenge, path, and light all in one. Can we stay open when fear, heartache, or darkness threaten to alienate us from the magic. Can we stay alive? Can we continue to honor the life we’ve been given? If so, we get to fall in love all over again, deeper, with more meaning, texture, strength, fortitude and enlightenment.

Because more than anything, I want them to know that how they react to life and the choices they make will determine the quality and course of their lives. Their choices will define them, not what happens to them, not the darkness, not the hard, not the evil, not what anyone else does, but them. Life simply unfolds. And we have all have the choice to jump in, to lean in, to learn and grow and evolve. Or we can shut down, resist, and close. We can be the victim. We can live in tight little boxes of comfort and fear. We can blame, justify, rationalize, we can fold.

But I hope with all my heart they embrace the choice to stay open, to stay alive, to be a survivor, and to see God in nature, the human condition, and the tiny in-between moments that make up a life. I hope they understand they are never alone. My guess is they will, they have Gram T’s spirit, grit, and grace running in their veins.

*

This morning started as it usually does with the sun painting the sky over the Uintas various shades of yellow, orange and red. Timber and Acorn are beginning to stir in the quiet morning while the muffled sounds and the aroma of brewing as Dan prepares his morning coffee wafts up the stairs. I reach for my glasses.

Suddenly, the stillness explodes. “The owl turned green Daddy! The owl turned green!” And then Grace starts in as well, “Momma, the owl turned green!!” I rush out of bed and wait outside the kids’ door for Dan and together we enter. It is still Christmas morning, every morning, when they reach out their arms and bury their head in our necks in complete joy that we are all together again. Then we bring them into bed where they lie and jump on, tumble, wrestle and snuggle with Dan and me.

This morning, Grace was super chatty. “There’s Timber, right there,” she said. “And there’s your water, do you see that Momma, it’s right there.” She says everything with a strange over-articulation, in rapid-fire fashion. “And when you’re sad, you need Starbucks, that will make you feel better.”

Kalvin also begins with two liters of coffee already humming in his veins. “What are we doing today, Momma?” He is ready to go for whatever adventure awaits. “Can I play with cars? Can you go get them for me? Can we ride the trolley? Can I have candy?” These are our mornings right now, simple and busy and changing at a dizzying pace with our little unfurling souls.

A few hours later, my parents arrive so Dan and I can take the horses for a ride. Together we step into the cool mountain morning and hold hands as we walk to the barn while Timber dashes ahead of us, wagging not just her tail but her entire back end in joyful anticipation.

The horses are awake, sticking their heads out of the opening in their stall, waiting for us.

“Hi boys, how was your night?” Dan sings.

“Hi my Woody boy, are you ready to ride?”

I take my time brushing Woody’s coat. It’s redder now than it is in the winter, his hair shorter and thinner. I brush his long black mane and tail. I should put them in braids but I’m eager to ride and so I leave his hair flowing free.

Next is the saddle. I let Woody sniff at his new red and black saddle blanket before I place it on his back. I do the same with it, savoring the smell of the leather and the warmth of Woody’s breath. I’m trying to take my time, but Woody’s alert ears, wide open eyes, and jerky movements tell me he is ready to go. We’re both too excited for patience.

“Okay good boy, we’re going.”

When I hold the bit out for Woody, he Woody lowers his head, reaches out his nose and quickly takes the curb bit into his mouth. The copper roller pings and tings as Woody rolls it with his tongue. I run the headpiece over his ears and buckle the throatlatch, then we walk outside where Dan and Summit are waiting.

“Ready?” Dan asks.

“Yep,” I step up onto Woody’s back. Immediately I feel the familiar settling of being home. My legs relax into the stirrups, my jaw releases into a gentle smile and I let out a long exhale.

We follow Dan and Summit away from the barn and down our driveway before they cut off into the woods. The horses are alert and happy, they seem to love being outside as much as we do. I inhale and feel cleansed by the fresh smell of conifers in the morning and the earth giving us a new day.

Timber is rushing up from behind us; I pick up a feel so Woody isn’t startled. Regardless, Woody pins his ears as Timber crashes through the brush and trees around us. Timber has to be first, always. And we’re grateful for our four-legged scout for she flushes our critters and birds that would startle the horses.

“It’s just Timber, good boy.” I reach down, rub Woody’s neck and immediately he lowers his head in response. “Go on Timber, go on.” I tell her. We wind through the woods of spruce and fir interspersed with quaking aspens, enjoying the quiet until Timber returns. She is chasing something, a chipmunk I think, as she darts in front of Woody. Woody is less amused than I, he pins his ears and tries to nip at Timber. Timber jumps sideways in response. Safely off the trail and away from Woody, I swear she smiles at us, mouth open, tail wagging, before turning to run ahead once again.

I laugh out loud and I suddenly realize I am happy. Gratitude spreads throughout my body, gratitude to be in the mountains, bathing in the rich scents of the forest sounds and smells, with my husband and dog ahead, and me atop Woody. I look up and say thank you. Then I reach out to touch the pale bark of a quaking aspen and say thank you to it. The smooth bark is cool to the touch, interrupted by rough black scars. Woody senses my shifting weight, stops and looks back at me with his happy eye.

“It’s okay good boy, just Momma saying hi to the trees. Let’s walk on.”

Up ahead, Dan and Summit have dipped down by the seasonal stream that runs through our property. It is running now and as we approach the dip, the temperature drops ten degrees, the air becomes wet and heavy, and the forest becomes permeated with the gentle sound of water over rocks.

Four years ago, Dan and I saw the stream begin its spring flow. He was walking the recycling barrels to the gate at the end of the driveway when he called.

“Come quick, the stream is starting.”

“What?”

“Just come quick, down the driveway.”

The urgency in his voice drew me out the door and down the driveway without grabbing a coat.

“Look,” he said when I got to him. Then he unzipped his coat and wrapped his arms around me as we stood in the amber evening, Kalvin and Grace somewhere yet in our future, and watched as the stream slowly made its way over dry rocks, picking up twigs and debris in its path. When the stream reached the conduit under us, we unfurled.

“Amazing,” he said.

“Unreal.”

Then we walked to the other side of the driveway and watched the stream flow down and away. It was only a few minutes, but I felt as if we were witnessing a small piece of the beginning of creation itself.

“Well, that will probably never happen again,” Dan said.

“The timing, I mean, what are the chances?”

“That I happen to be walking by at the exact time it reached here?”

“Right. Thank you baby, thank you for calling me.”

We held each other in the dusk, reluctant to let the moment go.

But the gently running water would always bring back the memory, it was part of me and part of us. I smiled to myself and rubbed Woody’s neck.

Up ahead, Dan and Summit had popped out of the woods onto a dirt service road. As we approached the road, I felt Woody sit back on his haunches. I was ready as he jumped forward and up the gentle embankment. I started laughing again.

“And there it is—I love to hear you laugh like that baby,” Dan said as we joined him and Summit. Timber was already gone, fifty yards up the dirt road and had stopped to look at us as if to say, Are you coming? Are you coming?

“Want to run?” Dan asked.

“Sure.”

We leaned forward, kissed at our horses, and Woody and Summit took of under us, racing each other up the mountain, gaining speed, adrenaline surging, me laughing, Timber running ahead, Dan and Summit flying beside us.

From somewhere inside and yet all around, I could hear Gram laughing, “Enjoy the ride sweetheart. Enjoy the ride.”

For that is how she would want me to honor her, in the joy of living. And so I will try.

My cup runneth over.