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August 24, 2018 No Comments

In so many ways, this is my place, my home. I’ve been traveling to the north shore of Kauai for 40 years and spent my childhood summers there. It’s changed so much in the decades since, but the breathtaking landscape and wonderful locals remain. Thinking of those affected by Hurricane Lane this week. I remember when Hurricane Iniki hit Kauai in 1992. My family and I had been visiting shortly before the devastation of Iniki. Hoping Lane will take its lumbering self and veer far away from the Hawaiian Islands before more destruction occurs.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Hula

August 17, 2018 No Comments

She always wanted to learn hula, admired hips swinging, grass skirt swaying. Bare brown feet, toes kissing the earth, arms outstretched, calling out a narrative. As a spectator she pieced together a story told long ago, tethered to form and melody.

The girls wear magenta lipstick, long hair swept to the side with a plumeria, a hibiscus, an orchid for adornment. She longed to be made up too, tell a story with her movements, with her hands raised heavenward.

Ballet never appealed to her; such delicacies were not in her constitution. She did like tap dance, clipping the hard floor, reverberating sound. Tap, though, still possessed a harsh edge: a clank of form, of function. Not a gentle sway, like the hula, like this place: fluid, fragrant. Here she relaxes into her bones; the breeze, the rolling waves smooth and synchronous to her heartbeat, to her soul.

Ramblings

Deadlines

August 11, 2018 No Comments

I have several deadlines looming this week, so my regular posts have gone by the wayside. In addition to a final rewrite of this essay for an upcoming anthology, I also had a big assignment due for my Hugo House Finish Your Book class this week, as well as putting the final touches on my AWP Writer to Writer application. Not to mention a new narrative medicine program I’m getting off the ground this fall, modeled after Dr. Suzanne Koven’s Literature & Medicine program at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.

I wrote about grace with the blogging schedule and the importance of fluidity here, but I also want to stay true to my regular writing practice. Sometimes though, deadlines take precedence. Come back Monday, with deadlines in check and blissfully on vacation, for a new Narrative Medicine post!

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Swing Set

August 3, 2018 No Comments

The swing set in their their backyard was evergreen, angled legs buried among the smooth stones of a playground’s gravel. Their mother would shoo them out the sliding glass doors, the house couldn’t contain two growing boys and their spirited sister.

She’d scamper down the grassy hill, passing the roses, transplants from their previous rambler in another affluent suburb. That house was too small for their growing family but she remembers the room she shared with her baby brother fondly. The tiny dresser with yellowed fabric, decorative flowers and overlapping plaid; just flashes, fragments of memories.

This new house was bigger, each child their own room, a greenbelt bordering their backyard. She liked to explore among the sticker bushes, pretend to make a meal from the salmon berries that lined the creek each spring.

Two swings hung from the top bar of the modest play set and she usually started here, choosing the one on the left if she beat her brother to it. Skinny legs pumped high, leaning back and letting go at the top of the arc; just the right timing to jump far, ever farther, trying to beat her previous sneakers’ impression in the gravel.

Then she’d move on to the face-to-face glider, tiny backed seats allowed swinging with a friend. They’d hold on to chained ropes on either side, leaning back, leaning forward, mirrored and synchronized.

Eventually they’d grow too big, knees touching. Other activities took precedence as outdoor play receded into childhood. Green paint peeled, rust emerged. Too many years neglected in the damp Northwest air.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Campsite

July 27, 2018 No Comments

I like waking up in the tent, shadows from evergreen trees looming, voices from the adjacent campsite echoing as if through a tunnel, muffled and yet amplified. I took a nap, youngest child restless the night before, waking up in her crib every couple of hours whimpering, unable to articulate what was the matter. I sang to her from just above, hanging over the opening of the the Eurovan pop top, coaxing her back to sleep. “Shhhhhh,” I pleaded, “it’s sleepy time.” She’d suck her tiny thumb dutifully, nestle her chilled toes back under the blanket and fall into a temporary slumber.

We spent the morning on the trail, a 1.2 mile hike to the falls; unambitious I thought, but the way there all uphill elicited whining and necessitated cajoling and stops for snacks of peanut butter sandwiches since I couldn’t find the jelly. We carried the toddler in the hiking backpack, secured by straps, covered by sunshade. The other two discovered perfect walking sticks, treasured for a bit, then tossed aside in search of more appealing finds.

In the evening we ride our bikes around the campground, sampling different loops with unexplored hills and towering trees. Then we settle at the amphitheater for the kids’ ranger program. Khaki-clad speakers with wide brimmed hats talk about native wildlife, the history of the park, admonish about safety and recycling. We dissect owl pellets, we search for huckleberries and signs of animals scampering in the nearby bushes.

After s’mores we sit by the fire crackling. Does it cackle? The flames burst up from the pit, leaping to their destiny, unable to reach their desired height. Instead they are confined, sequestered. I look up to see the black outline of the trees, pine needles fuzzy against the dusky sky, bluing to black. The shadows are spooky and comforting. A paradox of sensibilities.

A gaggle of preteen girls stroll by our campsite, gossiping loudly. My husband remarks, ”That will be M soon.” A troupe, a pod. That’s how she’ll survive, how she’ll thrive or shrink, the passageway to adulthood. For now, this stage, she sleeps silently in the tent as we watch the embers flicker and pop, sip drinks, read books by the rising firelight.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Rocks

July 13, 2018 No Comments

One day, before the cancer resurfaced, before the papery pale skin that transformed her into a childhood memory, she told the young girl that stones with a complete circle were special. She taught her how to search for them along the rocky shore, barnacles and seaweed camouflage carpeting like a mold.

They’d stroll along the Sound, down a woodsy steeped path, down from the musty cabin, faces groundward, searching for the wishing stones. Sometimes a clear white ring signaled upward, demarcated from the the concrete grey base of an oblong rock.

Decades later she teaches her own daughter: look for the one with the ring, the sign of infinity round and round. Hold it in your hand, warm it, keep it. Or return it to the ocean; give it a new life among the rolling waters.

They like to collect the different stones, squat and oblong, granular and smooth. Such varied colors from the surface of the earth. They turn them over in their hands, so different. One small and delicate with a child’s tensile skin; the other spotted, weathered from decades of existence. They each make a wish, the girl tossing into the sea, the woman holding on, relegating her hopes to her pocket.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Beach Run

June 29, 2018 No Comments

I step onto the sand, fine and sinking under the weight of my upright frame. Feet imprint as sand spills over my running shoes, mesh fabric not immune to the elements. I hurry to where it is more compact, recent tide receding to give way to damp beach, level and accepting to the jogger.

A quarter mile down, I reach my stride, rushing Pacific to my left, chilly and predictable in the June morning fog. I like that the sound lures me to its wake, wary seagulls, dormant sand dollars waiting just ahead. The Pacific teases with its name, as if it would be peaceable, cooperative. Instead, it is a force to be adhered to, to acknowledge fully.

I nod at other joggers as we pass, feet wet, gait off from the usual city asphalt run. I don’t wear headphones, don’t rush my cadence. Running on the beach is a gift to the senses, to the muscles, sinewy body substance aligned with nature.

Ridges appear from waves past, uneven ground bumpy beneath my feet. Shallow water from recent tides remains in places. I’m used to hopping over puddles, formed after a midnight Seattle rain. But this is different, diffuse, a slight impediment, a refreshing coolness.

I pump my arms, lift my legs, admire the burn of the muscles, the arc of the tree line in the distance, knobby evergreens gesturing to the sky. At a mile and a half I turn, make my way back down the coastline. Salty sea air igniting my lungs, the gentle cushion of compact sand accepting my footprints, my mark as I travel back from where I came.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Vaporetto

June 22, 2018 No Comments

I crane my neck to see the plastic sign mapping out the boat’s destinations as it pulls up to the dock. Circular markers dot stops marching along a primary color, like a linear road. It takes me a day to realize the N line only runs at night, the 5.1 and 5.2 don’t always drop me off at the stop closest to my hotel.

I climb aboard, daypack pulled snugly to my side, and finesse my way to the opposite railing. There is seating down below, past the nook reserved for large suitcases, for strollers. But I prefer to stand above, let the wind whip my face, my wide brimmed straw hat. Down below the sticky air suffocates, bare legs adhere to the plastic seafoam green seats. Summer vacation is no time to confine oneself to the bowels of a water bus.

Tourists on the deck lean over to capture a selfie, to catch a glimpse of the picturesque narrow canals, balconies brimming with wisteria, with dangling vines. It’s a dying, decaying city, a vestige of extravagances past. The city is sinking, its permanent inhabitants driven out by high costs and impracticalities. There’s beauty and sadness in the grandeur, in the loss, in the transformation into a spectacle for outsiders.

The more helpful attendants announce the stop as we arrive, shouting “Zattere!” “Ferrovia,” maybe even a helpful “San Marco” or “Piazzale Roma – Bus Station!” for the tourists. Usually, though, you simply have to scan your way through the crowd to find the bright yellow banners, black lettering painted on each stop, indicating the location. Much in Italy is charmingly lackadaisical. This is both refreshing and irritating to high strung Americans.

I read in a guidebook that in the evenings the vaporettos thin out: less people, less tourists as visitors return to their massive cruise ships in the harbor. But I found crowds at almost all times of day and night, the sticky sardine feeling of being packed in with weary travelers, shimmer of sweat trickling down their backs, each odor distinct but difficult to pinpoint. The evening breezes at least provide relief from the glaring sun, from the thick air. The lights of the baroque buildings bounce off the Grand Canal, reflections disrupted by gliding vaporettos.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Campo San Polo

June 15, 2018 No Comments

Young children scamper across the square chasing balls, bold pigeons and unsuspecting tourists. I sit on a lacquered red bench under a low leafy tree, oblong salmon colored berries just beginning to sprout from its branches. The cover from the high afternoon sun is welcome.

Tourists stroll past with their Burano lace fans, their high-end shopping bags. A man with a walker all dressed in white leans forward as if about to fall over, as if about to kneel in prayer. A child sleeps in his mother’s arms as she reclines on the steps, a yellow bike leaning against the stone structure.

I should move on, get going. But it’s pleasant here, if a bit too noisy. I hear Italian and Russian dialects, I think. The occasional English words from a British or American tourist are too distracting but a foreign language doesn’t have the same effect; the musicality of their native tongues almost a background nicety.

Grey stones of irregular shapes make for uneven ground. The two boys jostling for a soccer ball, bouncing it against the sepia brick buildings, don’t seem to mind.

An elderly man shuffles across the square wearing cushioned sandals, a sky blue plaid cap. He turns, just barely, and shakes his head at something, I don’t know what. Maybe the crying child, maybe the rushed tourists. Maybe his own arthritic knees that are clearly causing him pain. He pauses for a moment as he looks over his shoulder, as if he’s taking it all in, as if he’s remembering something. Then he straightens, and hunches, and realizes it’s time to move on.

Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Trapeze

June 8, 2018 No Comments

I arrive first, check in. Dark paneled walls open into a large central space. Elevated platforms flank either end, steel ladders climb toward the beamed ceiling. A roped net cradles the entire space, bordered by a balcony for onlookers. I imagine a medieval theater, a galley of spectators, gaping at the show below. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, remade in London along the Thames, just meters from the original.

It is a show, after all, a novel experience. I see a group of girls taking turns, climbing the ladder, swinging on the suspended bar, hanging upside down by their knees, then letting go, trusting they will be caught by the professionals mirroring their trajectory. My friend appears at my side. We watch them in awe for a moment, then agree: they must’ve done this before.

Our turn. We line up with our fellow students, five of us inching into middle age: mommas and businesswomen, divorcees and professionals. On the wooden bench in front sit five preteen girls, emerging into adulthood, a Girl Scout troop on the rise.

They fit us with belts, like corsets. (“You wouldn’t want to slip out of it,” the instructor warns as she pulls the belt tighter.) I can’t breathe but I can’t tell if it’s the mental anxiety or the physical constriction causing my respiratory distress.

The women make nervous chatter as the girls listen attentively to the instructors. Why didn’t we just go wine tasting? We haven’t swung on monkey bars in decades. “Listen up!” One of the teachers admonishes us. They review how to hold onto the platform scaffolding with one hand and grip onto the trapeze bar with the other. We stand barefoot on a wooden beam a foot off the ground to simulate the platform. We learn to lean forward, bend our knees, take a leap at command.

“As soon as we say ‘hup,’ you jump.” I wonder why they don’t say “go” or “jump,” but “hup” does seem fitting somehow. It’s how I feel: a quick inspiration, like I’m about to dive underwater, like I’m sucking in to get that corset on, like I’ve just been frightened or surprised to an extent that breathing in and out in normal cadence is no longer possible. “Hup.”

She explains that really all we need to do is follow their commands. Do the right action at the right time and all’s well. “Hup!” We jump, we swing. “Knees up!” We pull our knees up and over the bar. “Hands down!” We let go, arch our back, squeeze our legs to the bar. “Hands up!” Grab the bar again, swing our legs back through. “Then you just tuck your knees when I tell you and you’ll naturally go into a backflip, landing in the net.” I think: natural and backflip are not two words I’ve ever used in the same sentence.

We shift nervously from side to side, glance up to the net, to the platforms above as she speaks. It seems unlikely that we’d accomplish all she suggests with the right timing, the correct cadence. “If you do everything at the right time, in accordance with our prompts, you’ll hear this sound.” She rings a cowbell attached to a large beam. The sound reverberates through the hall. My mouth is dry. “If you get a cowbell before the last half hour of class, then you can try for a catch with the instructor.” One of her colleagues, wearing a T-shirt and short leggings waves her hands at us amicably.

“Well, that’s it. Let’s get started.” We look at each other, confused, mouths still gaping from the prospect of “catch.” We’ve had about five minutes of training. They want us to just get up there and do that?

Thankfully, they’ve already assigned a lineup, with the Girl Scouts going first. I figure, we’ve given birth, we’ve survived medical school, we’ve cared for multiple tantruming toddlers; we can do this.

I thought the height would be the issue, looking down from above, the prospect of having to let go. But it’s not the height that gets me; it’s the performance, the need to listen, to follow directions, to do what she says – the expert – holding the rope far below, tethered to the belt that constricts, that saves.

I climb the ladder, sweaty palms, beating chest. I make small talk with the instructor on the platform who unhooks the carabiner attached to my belt from one rope and secures it to another. She hands me the bar. It is weathered, wrapped in white tape, frayed all around from gripping hands over months, maybe years.

“Lean forward.” She’s holding onto my belt from behind. I’m to grab the bar with my other hand, let go of the platform scaffolding. Trust. I hesitate, then follow the command. “Good, now belly forward.” I protrude more, the safety belt digs in.

“Okay, now bend your knees… Hup!” Knees bent, I hesitate. Can I do this, just jump? “Hup!” She says it again, into my right ear. I hear her. It doesn’t compute. Something doesn’t compute. I look down at my red toes, freshly pedicured on an outing with my seven year old daughter the day before.

“Hup!” This time I leap, free flying, not falling. I’m soaring forward, arcing across the air.

“Legs up!” I hear it from below but I’m already moving, too early. I jumped the gun, didn’t wait for the command. I did that at track meets sometimes in high school. Spiked shoes aligned just so in the starting blocks. At the ready, all set, then GO! Too fast, too jittery, I anticipated and missed.

In trapeze, anticipation is to your detriment. The timing off, the trajectory all wrong, I struggle to get my legs up and over. Finally I do, muscles burning. “Okay, hands off!” My hands loosen, then drop unceremoniously. I am a wet noodle. I am hanging, undone.

“Okay, grab the bar again. Legs down. When I tell you, you’re going to tuck your legs and you’ll backflip into the net.”

Still skeptical, I consider rebelling, like one of my predecessors. Just let go and fall straight down, as if into a river from a rope tree, feet first, nose plugged. But instead I follow directions this time, tuck in my knees and, wonder! I’m flipping! I fall back into the net with a smile on my face.

***

I’m one of only four to achieve the coveted cowbell, the last of the group to do so. One of the instructors quickly pulls me aside to go over the drill. All the same sequence, but after I let go of the bar with my hands I arch my back, thumbs out, hands shaped like an “L,” and look behind me, towards the instructor who is swinging from the other platform, ready to catch. When she says so, I straighten my legs and fly. No reaching for her, nothing left for me to do. All I need is to follow instructions, release from the bar when it’s time.

It sounds so simple, so elementary. And when I watch the girls before me do it, arms chalked up, faces eager, it is. As I climb the ladder, I sense eyes on me, I sense heart pounding, I sense performance, a desire to succeed.

My first attempt I fall. I don’t arch my back enough, I’m looking down, not behind me where I should. My left calf hits the bar on the way down. Instead of grasping me, the instructor’s hands splay open, empty and reaching. I fall into the net, disappointed.

“We have time for one more try each.” I rub my sore Achilles as I tumble off the net. I have to try. Just one more.

As I climb the ladder, I think: Is this stupid? What if I’m really injured? What if it’s my Achilles? I have a long-planned trip to Europe, leaving the end of the week. What if I need surgery? But I can’t let it go.

I empty my mind. Everyone is watching. I’m the last one. One of the Girl Scouts yells from the galley, “Go, Birthday Girl!” I let it all go. I listen. “Hup!”

And it’s seamless, the flying. “Knees up!” “Hands off!” “Legs off!” I don’t reach. I don’t worry. She catches me and I soar.

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