A Journey of a Thousand Miles

The running feels so easy, even on the hills, I am delighted to the point of ambitious optimism. I will do this every day, I predict (without pressure). The neighbors will see me and wave and smile. They will know me.

The mixture of emotions threatens to drown me, swirling, stinging. As I head down into the first valley where the stream is, I welcome the green cool, the humid gathering. The memories of J on her bike here just last month cause my heart to constrict. It's OK, though, right? As soon as the house is gutted and the rebuilding starts, we can bring her here with her bike all the time. It may be cold by then, but I want her to think of this as her neighborhood. I don't want her to get attached to the townhouse circle, packed with possible playmates though-it-may-be. To have her miss another house a year from now will be too much for me, for all of us.

Leaving behind the bramble and ferns, I crest the second hill on the loop and take in the smell of pines. I scoot under their shade and enjoy the crunch of dead needles under my slapping shoes. I gaze up the next hill, looking for the familiar giant poplars on my left. I memorize their gray trunks, wanting the feeling of belonging to greet me. I think of the discomfort of mosquitos, the disquiet of a house dreamed up by a couple who exploded their lives apart, and I pray I can find home in the remains of a tragedy - a tragedy on the end of which God stuck an exclamation point by introducing a lightening strike to a gas line with a pinhole leak.

I look up into the trees that hug the houses along the road. Gypsy moths have set up their tents in boughs that now droop heavily overhead. Their population is sparse compared to the parasitic bag worms I used to see in Woodbine, the interlopers who killed their hosts, and ruined their homes by living there. While I note that, in contrast, the gypsy moths simply mar the lush landscape, and only for a time, I refuse the impulse to dismiss them as unseemly. After all, who am I to disdain a creature who can only survive by opportunistic means?

I turn down 'my' lane. I stop at the turnaround point, bending to pull up delicate weeds protruding from among the wet mulch and shards of glass. The generator prods me to check on the fish pond before I turn and resume my run back....home.

Realization

"Mommy, when are they going to call us up?"

"What?"

"The band! When will they call the little kids up?"

J is barefoot on the basement floor. Her socks are balled up between the cushions of the leather couch in the corner, now occupied by a 40-something couple. The naked black lights have replaced the incandescent bulbs normally scattered over the ceiling of the 1500 square-foot unfinished area. Some of the card tables set out for dinner have been folded up and put away to make room for additional chairs and a dance floor. Christmas lights are strung around the ceiling where the band is playing, behind a row of microphones. Extra guitars are lying in wait against the wall, and against the drum set. A projector sends alternating psychedelic images against a wall as the strains of Iko Iko float through the room.

I stand behind her so she won't feel self-conscious if she wants to dance. Other children are pouring into the room from locations in and around the house. The dozens of adults milling about smile and let them through as they spin and swing blankets and stuffed animals around them. It is J's first house party with a band, and she has assumed that the kids will be called forth for an activity, as with all other parties she has ever attended. She has no context. I shake my head and smile.

Just a few hours before, I'd met Kevin. At that point J was in the moon bounce, and Kevin and his 11 year-old stood outside it with me, chatting. Eventually Sarah could resist no longer, and tumbled into the moon bounce with the smaller children. Kevin and I chatted on.

He has four kids, and Sarah is his youngest. She is a direct (and unusually tall) girl with earrings and a first attempt at makeup. Blue eye shadow. Her hair is cropped short, even in length all over her head, as though it had been shaved some time ago. None of the kids in the moon bounce comment on the anomalous style. She lunges over to the net facing us from time to time to connect with her dad. "I see you!" she grins. "I see you!" he laughs back.

Kevin lives - as many northern Virginians do - a substantial distance from his work, and laments the lost hours he has spent commuting on top of long work days. "Not anymore," he says, "I've cut way back." I nodded appreciatively, volunteering how happy I am to work from home most of the time. We discuss being 'done' with early childhood years. I complain un-seriously about K's teenage tendencies. We compare and contrast home schooling, public schools and private. We bond over other shared experiences, and I am surprisingly comfortable considering he is practically a stranger. I divulge insecurities and challenges surrounding my job as a stepmother. His voice is gentle and his eyes are kind, encouraging me. A smile barely leaves his face as we speak.

He even half-smiles as he lets on about Emily. His now-13 year-old was 11 when she was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Brain cancer.

The phrase punches me in the stomach. How could I have set aspects of my circumstances out for pity or appreciation when this man experienced such a thing with one of his children? My face crumples into concern as I listen to the story of months spent at Kennedy Krieger. Of relief now that the cancer has been conquered for the time being. He expresses through his easy demeanor that the hard emotions have been processed, and he is grateful that he and his family have come out on The Other Side. Blithely he changes the subject just as the party's hostess grabs me to make introductions to other friends. I wave to Kevin as I walk away.

A short time later Kevin and his wife pass. "I'd introduce you," he says with a conspiratorial smile, "but she'll talk your ear off, and we have to get going for Sarah's sleepover party!" Kevin's wife is talking to someone else as he disappears into the house one last time. I note that she has the same short-cropped haircut as her youngest, and is wearing a hoodie with cargo capris and Berkenstocks. A circular dragon tattoo adorns the outside of her right ankle. I shrug as the whole look assimilates in my mind. Then I turn to see Kevin coming down the deck steps with Emily.

She is frail and still nearly bald, and immediately it occurs to me that her sister and mother shaved their heads to match hers. My heart constricts as I absorb her effort to get down to the walkway, even as her dad gently guides her shoulders from behind. They approach me, along with Jon who is now at my side. I hope that my face registers the same normal, congenial smile as his.

"This is Emily," Kevin says. I quickly take in her earrings - studs like her sister's - and green eye shadow. I glance over her stylish skinny jeans and Converse Chuck Taylors. Uneasy with the yawning silence, I do what I always do. I talk to fill the void.

"Bon Jovi!" I remark, indicating her concert shirt.

"Not only did we see Bon Jovi," pipes up Kevin, "he actually signed her shirt!" He pauses to let us express the appropriate approval and appreciation. "Emily has actually been to lots of concerts. It's sort of her thing." For her part, Emily continued to look down and into the distance, holding her head still with an obvious effort.

All smiles now, I did what I always do with kids. I asked about something I hoped would make her happy.

"What's been your favorite concert so far?"

"Well," she replied slowly with a voice like that of the elderly Katherine Hepburn, "I wouuuuuullllld havvvvvvvvvve to sssssaaaaaayyy (long pause) alllllllllllll of themmmmmmm." She lifted her eyes almost to meet mine and let them drop again. Jon and I made murmurings of approvals, letting our smiles drift over her and up to Kevin. His look was almost apologetic, but strong. He then began walking Emily slowly down the long gravel driveway. His wife broke off her conversation to gather up Sarah and follow her husband down to the car. As they walked away, I noted a scar snaking up the back of Emily's head, from her nape to almost level with the top of her ears, and thicker than my thumb.

And I shook my head, realizing I have no context. I have experienced loss, and I have struggled to be a better person for both my girls. But I have no way to understand the depth of strength required to love a child through and after dealing with such trauma. Every day for the rest of their lives, Emily's cancer will be there like another person in the room, and will have to be dealt with whether or not it ever re-inhabits her body. Sometimes it may fade enough to be ignored, and clearly the family has done everything in their power to minimize its importance. But it will always be there.

Back in the basement, I watch J dance with her peers happily in front of the band (even without being called up). Occasionally she stops to catch my eye, making sure I am watching, that I haven't left. I soak in her healthy, shining joy. And I pray.

Lessons learned, the professional version

Boy, when I think about my plans to be done this government agency contract in February, I laugh and laugh. As of now, the first week of May, they have just told me they are pulling the plug, and I am not within sight of the finish line. I'm more like at mile 11 of this half-marathon, and the finish shoot is way over the hill behind a bunch of buildings (plus, those idiots on the sidelines screaming, "Keep going! You're almost done!" are liars of the highest order... but I digress).

It should be noted that only during the month of April did I begin to exceed the estimated number of hours expended on the analysis. That just tells you how much less I have worked on this than I planned. That said, I should have done a better job separating the forest from the trees.

I think mainly what I have learned is that I am not terribly good at just plowing ahead without planning, and really, no good consultant should be able to work that way. So it's no surprise.

I sincerely hope I can continue to work on on (smaller, finite) analysis projects because they stretch my brain in ways that make me happy. I have to say anonymously though that this particular agency has by far the most toxic, negative atmosphere of any organization I have ever worked with (8+). I will not miss that.

Anyway, I have '10 hours' to spend, though I will likely double that and eat the overage, to get my document to some presentable state. In all likelihood I will have to be done by next week at this time.

I wonder what it will feel like to not be frantic every morning when I wake up...

Irritating Things

Today I am irritated. I woke up exhausted, and struggled through the morning before succumbing to a power nap of insufficient duration. I think the smell of fabric softener kept me awake last night.

You see, since our house has sold, things have been breaking. First it was the hot water heater (confusingly named, as a friend pointed out, as hot water should not need to be heated). Then it was our RO system. There are probably several other things that went awry, but the most notable was the dryer. So what? Hang the clothes out on a clothes line, like they did in days of old. No big deal. But clothes that haven't been through the dryer with its accompanying dryer sheets are not soft and fluffy. No. They are coarse and crinkly.

But I, being a woman of vast and varied experiences, recalled my mother using liquid fabric softener, so requested that JBL procure some at the Ace where he also picked up the clothes line and pins. Following the directions on the Downy bottle, I put half of a cap-full in the washer's dispenser. The first time. This load smelled vaguely of fabric softener. For the second load, I was feeling emboldened and followed the instructions more closely, 'topping off' the softener in the dispenser with water. I basically took the softener cap and ran it under the water filling the basin and dumped it into the dispenser. This rinsing-out effect of the cap somehow quadrupled the amount of softener, or somehow magically enhanced the strength of its perfumes. The shirt I slept in (and am still wearing, because that's how I roll on days when I work from home) smells so powerfully of softener that I want to pass out. I want to, but I can't because the scent is so strong. See my conundrum?

At least the shirt is incredibly soft.

(And don't get me started about the crackers I ate for lunch - from a box that apparently was dropped several times - that broke into crumby shards every time I tried to schmear them with peanut butter. Or the fact that I have this for an earworm today.)

What I didn't miss

What I didn't miss by running outside today:

PERFECT SPRINGTIME

Last week in D.C. they celebrated the cherry blossoms, but it was still fairly cold and gray just a few towns north, up here. Today we caught up. Pear and cherry trees were in full bloom. I could barely comprehend the color of the spring grass on the fields around me, electrified by the sunlight. The air was balmy with the slightest of breezes. On the roadside there were bright yellow forsythia and unintended patches of grape hyacinth. Small white butterflies meandered with great intent but without great efficiency toward some goal just over the hill.

At the bottom of the road lay, of course, a river, and it moved thick and slow in the afternoon sunshine, its banks strained though happily containing the bounty after the recent rains. In fact everything around me appeared grateful.

A HILL TO QUELL THE INNER CRITIC

Though my overall pace was less than impressive, my run downhill on Gillis Road truly felt like flying. The return trip was more challenging, to be sure, but gave me time to appreciate the quiet and placid day. Above my heavy breathing I observed a Canadian goose staring motionless at a small pond bordered by cattails - still brown from the winter - but with reed shoots fresh and green enough to - maybe - protect a small nest of hatchlings.

On the south side of the hill there was a large swath of tall pines, under which grew the first of the may apples, unfurling their leaves like little beach umbrellas. Closer to the stream were the beginnings of tiger lily leaves, bright and hopeful.

As the minutes dragged on and my legs began to burn with my lungs, I observed the cornfield on the north side of the road. Its trimmed dead stalks from last year were softened by the grass and weeds filling in the lanes between the rows. What just a week or two ago appeared like a graveyard of sorts now looked like a renewal, or a burst of something about to happen. I pictured pulling on those stalks to get me to the top of the hill.

A REMINDER OF THE SOCIO-ECONOMIC CONDITION OF MY ZIP CODE

As I neared the crest of Gillis, I heard a chain saw making short work of trees felled by recent storms. Its smoky, oily scent carried me quickly back to my childhood, and I could see my dad, sweaty and dirty in his t-shirt and shorts, cutting through large chunks of poplar, queuing them up for chopping on their inevitable journey to becoming firewood.

Further on I noticed a teenager pushing a lawnmower for perhaps the first time this year. He was fish-belly white and shirtless, and his capri-length baggy denim shorts covered the front of his privates (though precariously low) while allowing his entire ass to be exposed. Lucky for his boxers. But the effort to keep his pants from falling off entirely made his gate bow-legged and awkward. In front of his trailer, his progress was slow.

Closer to 94, I noticed a young woman emptying out a storage shed behind a squat and square cement house. Next to a mangled bike of unknown vintage, in place long enough to have grass growing tangled through its bent spokes, she set a poorly framed airbrushed rendition of a lion's head, tinged lavender. An older woman (her mother?) sat bra-less inside her red car, door open so her feet could rest on the ground. They spoke in animated tones.

GIFTS UNCLASSIFIED

As I approached my neighborhood, the sun's angle became low enough that its rays illuminated long spider webs, recently laid then liberated from the grass and floating like baby's hair in the afternoon air.

All the houses in my development sat prim and clean, nestled in their freshly-mowed lawns and landscapes trimmed with willows and knockout roses. Their cookie-cutter visages seemed excited for the weather like three-year-olds at a princess birthday party. They welcomed me.

Days like today make me want to name crayons and hug strangers and kiss the sun. Runs like today make me deliriously happy and thankful for my strong legs and lungs and heart. What a treat that I didn't miss any of it by taking myself for granted. Amen.