Inspired by the Relationship Advice Column

8/19/17

I came across a column that intrigued me in the Saturday paper today, titled "The Art of Knowing Yourself" by marital therapist Neil Rosenthal. His column is one of three things I typically skim in the Saturday paper. I also read "Dear Abby" and the engagement/marriage announcements. A couple got married last month at a presbyterian church. They both graduated from the University of Northern Colorado. She is employed by the university while he works for their church skatepark (did I read that correctly?). Their reception featured a pancake dinner and a magician, who was a good friend of the groom's. I love reading about other people's lives, whether it's their somewhat comical problem (that, for whatever reason, they are seeking guidance for from a longwinded grammarian who attests to have the answer to everything, which is more often than not to "seek the counsel of a licensed therapist") or their jovial nuptials featuring flapjacks and card tricks. The thought of a pancake dinner and a magician as opposed to chicken parmesan and an open bar sort of warmed my soul this morning, even though it's nothing Adam and I ever would have entertained as a possibility for our margarita fest of a Tucson wedding. But I looked at the picture of this couple and thought, yes, that fits them. They looked completely happy.

Neil Rosenthal sometimes gives advice to people with relationship woes, and other times, like today, he shares tidbits on self-help or personal reflection. I'm almost arrogant in this category because I feel like I know myself pretty well. I was drawn to the title, though: "The Art of Knowing Yourself." I've never put much thought into the process of getting to know myself. I just feel self-aware, and I'm proud of that. I think it's because I'm more than willing to admit my faults; in fact, I like talking about things I'm bad at. I think Neil would say there's more to self-awareness than bemoaning my impressively uncoordinated cartwheel abilities, though. He shared some questions - journal prompts, he called them - in his column today. He suggests trying to answer them in three or four different ways, if possible. He says, "Hopefully these questions will assist you in knowing yourself in a deeper way." I'm going to answer a handful of them, because there were twenty five and some of them just made me feel annoyed when I read them (i.e, "Where in life do you feel abundant? What would help you to feel even more abundant?" I mean, I guess it's a nice question to consider, but the wording of it just makes me picture some token therapist asking it in that knowing, elevated tone that really makes me cringe). Feel free to bear with me as I plunge into a journey of self-discovery, the likes of which I probably haven't explored since my freshman year of college Honors seminar of the same title (yes, I took a class called "Self-Discovery," and I likewise treated the content like I was above it all, as I am doing right now with Neil. I think the first thing I'm learning about myself, before I even begin, is that I can be a little closed-minded).

8/23/17

I didn't start answering the questions on Saturday, like I intended to. Since starting teaching again, I find my mental energy to be a bit zapped. Teaching special education is like being a super secretary to 25 kids and also being responsible for teaching them how to read. And do math. And write a sentence. The little things. My left eye has been twitching since the first week of August and now the right one is beginning to flicker. Adam also heard that his job is up in the air. Him having an incomprehensible amount of student loan debt paired with my teacher's salary (with a pension!) makes this fact impossibly clear: We both need to work. Here comes that eye twitch again.

I've gotten so much better over the years at pushing stressful thoughts about things I can't control onto a shelf for later. I've been able to sleep. I've been able to get out of bed and believe in myself, in Adam. But this kind of stress, the what-if-we-have-to-move-into-my-parents'-basement kind of stress, is horribly unpleasant. And yet - I can appreciate how small these concerns are in the grand scheme of our lives. Today, a little Zywicki was born. Adam and I are an aunt and uncle (I joked, Aunt B and Uncle A-Hole). I'd never held a newborn before tonight, never seen one other than in pictures. I looked at his little face and was mesmerized. His life began today. Soon enough, there will be things that cause him worry. But today - he slept. What an exhausting ordeal we all have to go through to come into the world. Maybe that's the hardest thing we ever have to do: transition from the safety and consistency of the womb to the craziness and unpredictability of the world.

9/12/17

I keep pushing this entry to the back burner. I've been busy, yes, but I think I'm also intimidated by the questions Neil Rosenthal asked in his column. I'm worried I don't yet have the wisdom to answer them. Tonight, I have to try, because this has gone on long enough:

Questions to Know Myself Better

• How would you describe how to be genuinely happy? What is your secret to happiness?

First Response: I think being happy starts with being proud, or at least content, with who I am and what I am doing with my life. Being content, for me, starts by spending time with the people I love. I know there are people who re-charge with solitude and time to reflect away from social settings, but I believe my secret to happiness is surrounding myself with family and friends who energize me.

Second Response: To be genuinely happy, I have to let go of things I can't control. I have to focus on the present moment and all there is to be thankful for in it. I don't think I have a secret to happiness, but in order to be happy, I know that I must realize and accept that things won't always go my way - and this is ok.

• What strengths have you developed over your lifetime?

I was always good at following instructions as a kid. Memorizing formulas for math and turning every project in on time, with every single criterion met. As I've gotten older, entered adulthood, I've developed a different strength. I challenge things that don't align with my beliefs. I don't always do what people tell me to do - only if I feel it is the right thing to do.

• What does the critic inside your head say to you?

"You didn't handle that situation very well at all. Your co-workers probably have very little respect for you - you don't provide any meaningful input for them in regards to how to work with 'your students,' and 'your students' are struggling because of it. Because of you. You don't look like a 'real runner' when you run. Real runners are much leaner. You didn't say enough at that meeting. You said way too much at the brewery and people find you obnoxious. You talk too much about yourself. You're not good enough."

• What have you done that you thought you couldn't do?

Run a marathon. Run 20 miles by myself. Teach. Drive on the interstate. Navigate an airport and get on an airplane by myself. Make friends. Fall in love. Eat an entire sweet potato. Fall asleep at night. Leave work at work, on occasion. Cope.

• What are you looking forward to?

Seeing Aunt Kay and the rest of my family at the ALS Walk in Tucson next month. Watching the newest family members, Ryder and Reagan, learn and grow and laugh each day - wishing they didn't change so much so quickly. Drinking a glass of wine and watching Lost with Adam. Breweries with friends and my dad, sometimes Aunt Dana and Uncle Greg - just sitting, talking, having a beer. Racing in the Longmont Oktoberfest Triathlon on September 24th with Adam, the very race where we met while volunteering in college. Being competitive with myself but really, just so happy that I can participate in the race. I can swim. I can bike. I can run. Trivia with good friends. Do I look forward to beers too much? Probably. There's beer at trivia. Going out to eat, ordering whatever looks best, and having people prepare it for me and bring it to me and clean up after me. Baking a cake for Erik's birthday, if he want me too. I will anyway because I look forward to eating cake. Time with my mom while she's in town, bike rides or tennis or walks with Joni, or just sitting on the back porch talking over rosé. Having a laugh with Mimi over something honest but rude that she said. Sleeping in. Being with the people I love. 

• What could you do to feel more peaceful, less worried and less anxious?

Never open my school email at home. 

• The things you are currently doing that do not further your goals or truly enhance your life:

Opening my school email at home.

• What are your guilty pleasures - things you shouldn't do, but enjoy doing anyway?

Binge watching television shows on Netflix (often shows that I've already seen). Eating out at restaurants we can't really afford. Shopping sprees at Old Navy. Tearing at the skin on my cuticles. Re-watching Hairspray any time that I am sad. Social media-stalking people from the past just to see if their lives are more or less successful than mine. 

• What in your life is precious, sacred, or very special to you, but that you tend to take for granted?

Time with my family and loved ones. 

• Complete this sentence: I love...

Tacos. Beer. Adam. Mom and Dad. Erik. Aunt Kay. Mimi. Aunt Dana. Karen and Karl, Ryder and Reagan. Everyone in my family. Racing. Winning. My friends. Running. Riding my bike. The mountains. Leaving work for the day. The feeling after a really good workout. Weddings. Dancing at weddings. Open bars at weddings. Long weekends. Hiking. Taking pictures while hiking. Writing. Learning new things. Going to dinner at my parents'. Getting compliments. Giving compliments. Having good days with my students. Tennis, if I'm playing well. Cheering for Roger Federer and Serena Williams. Reading Harry Potter over and over again. Taking weekend trips with Adam. A really good cheeseburger. Baking. Long walks. Falling asleep to Inglorious Basterds or Django or La Bamba with my dad. Fires on my parents' back porch with Dad and Adam and Joni. Holding Joni, when she'll let me. Deep water aerobics with Mom at Sunset Pool. Bike rides to lunch at the Sun Rose Cafe. Being myself. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

I'm ready to close this out. What I'm left with is a feeling that my answers to these questions will likely change with time...and to me, that feels completely liberating. Thanks, Neil. 

Make Your Own Kind of Music

I've starting tearing at my cuticles pretty enthusiastically again. There is never much of a reprieve from this, but August is one of my worst months. I really can't stand starting new things. It would be so nice to escape my thoughts for even an hour. Then I could be ok with the knowledge that the school year is starting and give myself permission to enjoy a current moment. But living in the present is just something I chatter at my students to do, maybe even something I'd print for a poster on the wall, all the while experiencing constant inner turmoil that is heavily rooted in a fear of the future. It's very difficult to not make hypocritical statements in my attempts to teach my anxious students coping skills when my own abilities in the area are highly hit or miss.

I had to see my psychiatrist last week. I was listening to the comedy radio station as I drove there because my psychiatrist is the most horrible conversationalist I've ever encountered. But I really need the medication he prescribes so I can achieve what others affectionately call, "falling asleep." My mind won't quiet down for this type of drifting off to happen on its own; hence, I have to talk to this man twice a year so he can take his little notes and file them away while not even pretending to care about how I'm doing. It's important for me to have a laugh on the way to my appointments with him because I have to produce literally all verbal elements of our conversation. Well, all verbal elements other than, "So?" and, "Ah, ok, what else?" Our appointments have an average duration of 4 minutes. This costs me $127, but at least I get to fall asleep at night.

When I was driving there last week, Emily Heller came on the comedy station with this bit from "My Brain," and I had a glorious moment. I understood that I'm not original at all - tons of people feel the same things that I do - and got to laugh my head off by myself in my car:

"I guess, ok, if I did have to change one thing about my body it would definitely be my brain. My brain is like a radio DJ who does not take requests. I'll be like, 'Coming up next, we've got a full hour of just the first verse of 'Mambo Number 5', followed by an imaginary argument with someone you love... The Greatest Hits of Your Mistakes From the 90s, 2000s, and Today... After that, we've got a full hour of just the first verse of 'Mambo Number 5.'" 

As of late, my brain has been playing an eclectic mix of hypothetical parent emails (cc'ing the principal) blasting the various ways I am not meeting their student's needs, a crowded room of 6th graders ignoring any and all of my basic requests, a disastrous first cross country practice with 80 kids running wild in the streets, and a vision of myself hunched over my desk at 6:00 at night while the janitor vacuums the vacant halls. I have glimmers of today's hits as well, however, where I actually get to nod along to the positive counterpart of the first tracks (thank-you emails for my painstaking efforts with students, budding young 6th graders smiling and eager to please, me enjoying an opportunity to coach one of my favorite pastimes after working efficiently all day long and not needing to stay a minute after practice). But then the temporal lobe makes a request for other worries I've been neglecting, such as an accidentally offensive comment I made in a social setting and the awkward silence that followed. "Awkward Silence That Followed" gets played on repeat, followed by the chorus of Cass Eliott's "Make Your Own Kind of Music" and Neil Young's "Sugar Mountain" (just to try to get, "Even if nobody else sings along!" out of my head). And then the tape repeats each track all over again (but sometimes in a mismatched order).

This playlist is not to say that I don't actually enjoy my job. I like talking to kids. There's something so energizing about their raw, visceral nature; it's fascinating how quickly they throw logic out the window as soon as any minor hurdle is placed in their way. Next week, the 6th graders will have to learn how to open their lockers in a crowded hallway, and many of them are going to struggle immensely with this. There will be tears. I try to teach them the logical response to locker issues: If you are unable to get it open before class, it's ok, you can ask a teacher to help you open it; if you forget your combination, you can go to the front office where the secretary has every combination recorded; if it gets jammed, don't worry, that happens all the time - just let a teacher know and they'll get the janitor to come pry it open for you; no matter what, you're going to be ok, even in worst-case-locker-scenarios. Maybe the reason I am drawn to middle school is because my own ability to reason with myself in situations that make me anxious is no better than the tearful 11-year-old whose locker is jammed two minutes before Period 3 Social Studies. I can't deny how deeply I understand her tears, how horribly well I identify with feeling inadequate in front of my peers (peers who always seem to be able to handle things much better than I can). And I certainly can't pretend to forget my own partially insane reaction to my first locker in the 6th grade. I was convinced the verbal commitment of my locker partner would go kaput come first day of school. We had to choose our own locker partners, and if you didn't have one, you had to wait until the teachers determined what other forlorn loser was left partnerless to pair you with. I remember making my mom bike over to my locker partner's house to accost her on a summer afternoon before 6th grade: "Do you still want to be my locker partner, like you said on the phone?" I still recall quite vividly her light laugh and assuring response, "Beth, relax, you have a locker partner!"

Everything turned out fine with my locker, just like it will for the crying girls next week, and just like it will for me once I settle into the grind. The trouble is, the crying 11-year-olds and I don't know that right now. We are stuck with our radio DJ brains that don't take requests. A part of me disagrees with Emily Heller, though, when she says she would change her brain because of this. I suppose it would be nice to be more carefree, but then I wouldn't understand the students who walk through my door, and I wouldn't get the satisfaction of overcoming obstacles. I'm not looking forward to the stress I will undoubtedly experience in the coming months, but I'm thankful for my frantic mind nonetheless. "Make Your Own Kind of Music" never fails to make me smile, and I know at least some middle schoolers will sing along.

"Make Your Own Kind of Music"

Mama Cass

Nobody can tell 'ya

There's only one song worth singing

They may try and sell 'ya

'Cause it hangs them up to see someone like you.

But you've gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along.

You're gonna be knowing

The loneliest kind of lonely

It may be rough going'

Just to do your thing's the hardest thing to do.

But you've gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along.

So, if you cannot take my hand

And if you must be goin' 

I will understand.

But you've gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along.

  

Rock Thoughts

Adam and I attempted another portion of the Colorado Trail at the start of July. I'm not sure why I like "attempted" for the verb there, other than I suppose "attempt" is an action I identify with more strongly with than "complete" or "conquer." This time we were joined by our nervous friend, James, and his likewise nervous dog, Sully. I do enjoy when humans and their dogs resemble one another (often unbeknownst to the human). They were great to have along, and I am certain they toned down the possibility of me having a conniption. Maybe I should always travel with a buffer for Adam's sake. 

On our second day out, we pulled over to a look-out point on Kenosha Pass, to rest a bit and because James wanted to throw out some of his trail mix to reduce weight (I meant to ask him if that really made a difference). I perched up on a rock, Adam climbed below with a roll of toilet paper to, you know, and James was tossing peanuts. I believe Sully wanted to see what Adam was doing, which was making James nervous because the drop off was fairly severe. I should mention my trail name is "Moss," because I enjoy hanging out on rocks. On my large sitting rock were several small rocks, displayed in a cairn of sorts. But they weren't signifying a trail. They were covered with words. It may be assumed that anyone who carves words into rocks and poses them as a cairn wants someone to read their work. I only found two of them to be picture worthy: 

"Expectation of Perfection" 

"Anger"

The rest of them were disturbing but relatable to anyone who's ever tortured themselves with a good dose of self-deprecating internal chatter:

unworthy

self-hate

shame of my family

disappointment to everyone

I thought about the rocks for a long time. I even brought them up to a complete stranger, another thru-hiker who arrived at our resting spot and paused to wait for his wife, who was lagging a bit behind. We made a little small talk: yes, they were doing the full trail, took 6 weeks off from work; no, we're just going to Breckenridge; oh, that's nice, what a beautiful segment you chose to hike. I warned this stranger, "Don't come over here by these sad rocks!" and described what we'd found. We joked a bit, him chiding, "Did you look over the edge to see if anyone's down there?" We all chuckled and when we saw him and his wife again a few hours later later we chuckled again. Adam had forgotten speaking to them before, asking, "Are you doing the whole thing?" The man responded, "Yeah, remember, we talked before? By the negative rocks!" Ha, ha, ha, negative rocks. 

We started walking again and were quiet, keeping our thoughts of discomfort with our packs or even bliss with our simple quest of walking to water and setting up camps and resting and eating...quiet like this, and I think I even forgot about the rocks for a bit until James said, "Are you guys feeling any of the rock thoughts?" Adam didn't understand what he meant at first, the rocks weren't as much a part of his journey down to the wilderness toilet, but I was instantly pleased: "No, I'm not, not at all!" James didn't think he was either, and we were both pleasantly surprised with this state of being. The trail was good for us, and I don't think either of us are strangers to rock thoughts. 

I've always wanted, to some degree, the ability to control my world, and this is the kind of desire that gets people stuck in rock thoughts. But I know that I will always be afraid to not know what's coming. When I don't know what to expect, I go through every comprehensible way for the situation to go horribly in my head until I work myself into a mental paralysis of sorts. Then the thing happens, and I breathe, and do, and reflect, and go home, and run, and all is well with Adam and some dinner and mindless television. It hasn't been until recent years that I've learned I have the ability to cope. I think the most destructive rock carving was the one that said, "Expectation of Perfection." Because if maturity or therapy or common sense don't step in to alter this impossible expectation to fit reality, the world is a pretty torturous place to live in.

I now feel really badly about chuckling. What does it say about the stigma of mental illness when four happy hikers happen upon a collection of stones with suicidal messages and chuckle about it? I'm disturbed by our own flippancy. I hope he or she had a healing walk...I'm drawn to the trail now, because for the first time in my life I found backpacking to be the retreat those other crazy people keep talking about. That must be why the stone carver was out there, right? To heal. It was a pretty serene location for some cathartic rock carving (and pooping, if you ask Adam). 

I wanted to say something about last year.

It's strange how profoundly people can end up impacting each other, without even noticing it at the time. Days, months, years can pass before the impact is fully noticed. I can't believe all that happened in 2015. I can't believe how long this blog post has sat unfinished, a "draft" I haven't had the energy to complete. In January, I wanted to write a year-end reflection, to look back on the previous year's reflection, and see: Have I changed? It feels stale now that it's already July, almost August and I'll be a first-year teacher. At least I know this much: the thought of teaching special education makes me feel some form of purpose in a career goal for the first time in my life.

I started writing this at the beginning of the year - January of 2016. Now 2016 is over halfway through and I'm saddened and surprised by how quickly it's passed. 2015 was a hard year, just like 2014. It was a joyful year, just like 2014. It was full of love and family, like always. In January, I substitute taught and worked with beautiful, charming Sarah on the weekends. February I started a full-time caregiver position with her. I'd say her voice is not one anybody could easily forget, sing-songy and pure, innocent like a child's, "I'm wearing LIFE IS GOOD today!" "You wear Life is Good every day, Sarah." "Purple socks! P-U, a skunk! Nasty! What a nasty, nasty skunk!" Her eyes, though, have this light to them. There's knowledge in them. I can't help but shake the feeling that, even as I helped her to complete every day-to-day task, the joke was somehow on me. She has entire books memorized, Cinderella and 101 Dalmatians and Droofus the Dragon, which I bought her in November for her 27th birthday. I had never read it with her, never seen it in the house, but when I opened it up and started to read the first page, she began reciting it word for word with me, looking at my face, not the page, with this toothy, mischievous grin. I wonder how many years it had been since someone read Droofus to her? Her mom thinks maybe 10. She confuses her pronouns, I think, or she is just so used to speaking with them misused that it's too unnatural to change. I know she knows the correct ones, though. "You did SUCH a good job at basketball today!" she'll chime. "Who did a good job, Sarah?" I'll ask. "I did, I did a good job," she'll quickly mutter back, as if annoyed that I wanted to hear it that way. She has her language and people who know her understand, so why change? "You LOVE tacos!" ..."It's true, Sarah, I do love tacos, do you?" Oh, why bother.

 

I love working with Sarah. There is something more inspiring to me than any other work-place scenario I've had so far in seeing the un-contained joy in a person with a developmental disability. I think there is really something we all can learn from a person who simply shoots a basket, makes it, and has this be make-my-day-worthy.

In February, Adam and I moved into "Dog Poop-ville," as my mom and I so affectionately call it. It's one of the cheaper apartment complexes in Longmont, and apparently this class of people is incapable of picking up their pet waste. After snow has fallen snow on snow, the poop becomes perpetually frozen-thawed-frozen-thawed and smeared permanently on the sidewalk, along with the smell. It wasn't the best place I've every lived, but it's the only place I've lived solely with my now husband, no other roommates, so that's something, I guess.

March was the only month we skied last year. I always enjoy skiing, once I can physically cram my foot into the God-awful boot and successfully mount the chairlift and make it up the mountain without falling off and dismount without an unskilled snowboarder wiping out on the ramp before me  and find a run without any children or yellow ice or moguls and really, once it's all over and I'm drinking a beer feeling grateful that nothing is broken. We went to Ski Cooper - me and Adam, Erik and my dad and Aunt Dana, and Grandpop, stayed in a really quite adorable old house in Leadville, where the tourists don't flock, so that's good - and participated in the Ski to Defeat ALS at Eldora. Every year from now on we will Ski to Defeat ALS. It was just me and Erik and Adam who skied, the conditions were terrible, but we all did Corona, the first black diamond I ever attempted and the only black diamond I go down now. Erik says it's really a blue/black, which makes sense. I asked Adam how he would describe my skiing skills and he said, "beginner at best."

 

April in Tucson was hard. My mom got the stomach flu on her birthday, and Kim and Phil were there with this delicious birthday meal planned for her, pork roast I think and all of these vegetables all chopped and prepared. Instead I went out for Mexican food with them and Mimi. Ryder of course had a big birthday, #1! Poor guy had to have his party re-scheudled because people kept getting sick.

May is ALS Awareness month. To say we all were inspired by Aunt Kay's video for her ALS representatives doesn't come close to how powerful she is with her words, her spirit. Fund promising research. Support accelerated access to promising new drugs. Support ALS patients and their  families. They went to Boston, my mom and her amazing sister, my dad and Uncle Rob, donated blood and skin cells for ALS TDI's Precision Medicine Program. Then Mother's Day, and Aunt Kay wrote the most beautiful letter for Karen and Karl.

It started to feel like the hard things would never let up. Adam had had this lump in his arm since I'd known him, in college the CSU clinic told him it was likely a calcium deposit from working out, but the thing got bigger, and it started to make certain extremities go numb when pressed on, his fingers. Doctor's appointments. Tears. Fear and despair - that's me. A nerve sheath tumor, that's what he said. It came right out and "did not seem aggressive in appearance." Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Benign. Pause - breath - calm - relief - joy. Adam and I missed the family reunion in San Diego while all of this was going on, which was heartbreaking. But thankfully, it's never too far between that we all get together again.  

Adam and I attempted a portion of the Colorado Trail at the end of June. I read Wild and everything, gave some thought to my previous (horrible) experiences trying to fall asleep in tents, and actually tricked myself into thinking this time I could do it. What was I thinking?! I didn't even bring sleeping pills. Poor Adam. I knew, too, or at least had a strong hunch that he was planning to propose on our daunting week-long venture (Look, I'm no Cheryl Strayed. Any shower-free venture longer than one  day is daunting to me.). I wonder what he pictured? Two young thru-hikers, happily tuckered out from the daily average 14-mile hike toting 40-pound packs, relaxing by the fire with steaming bags of freeze-dried chicken and rice... Don't get me wrong - I actually pictured that at one point when we were planning the trip! How naïve. The trench foot really took me by surprise, and progressively ruined any chance I had of being a pleasant backpacking companion for my wonderful Adam. My fancy new hiking boots were very comfortable, lightweight and extremely waterproof...extremely waterproof also meaning "not at all breathable." Paired with my wool hiking socks and unseasonably
warm temperatures, my feet broke out in flaming red heat rashes and excruciating itchiness. Combine that with a down sleeping bag at night in a tent that most comfortably sleeps one, but this time there are two and one is a disastrously inconsolable insomniac with very itchy feet (that's me). Poor, poor Adam. I think after the second night - this was the one where I don't think either of us slept more than a few minutes - Adam had one of those moments where his Mellow is outmatched by my Crazy: "I CAN'T SPEND ANOTHER NIGHT WITH YOU IN THIS TENT." At this point, I'm sure the proposal wasn't on either of our minds. Survival mode kicked in. I just thank my lucky stars he didn't throw the lovely ring off the mountain! Miraculously, he DID spend another night with me in that tent, just one more, and my tears were more limited than the first two. My dad picked us up on some dirt road near South Park the next morning and they got a beer and a burger in me by lunchtime. Pleasant Beth resurfaced with that medicine. Adam proposed that next Friday, the 4th of July, just like he was planning to, but at Devil's Backbone in Loveland instead of Kenosha Pass on the Colorado Trail.
Below: Emo thru-hiker
Right: Hungover proposal
 


The second half of 2015, or at least up to November 7th, for me, blew by in a blur of frenetic wedding topics, including but not limited to: a $37 Audrey Hepburn-style Swing Rockablity Evening Gown in white; discussions on whether or not not hiring a florist would make for a "horror story," as emphasized in my wedding planning text book from "The Knot"; intensely detailed catering conversations between Tucson's own Casa Molina and my dad (who did end up with their margarita recipe in the end); and the imperative question of, "What are your colors?"(I'm still not entirely clear on that last one.)

With everything else that was going on, that has been going on, it was a beautiful time to plan a wedding. To actually attach much emotion to flowers not being perfect or bridesmaids looking mismatched or even wedding guests getting diarrhea after eating (delicious) Mexican food catered from a restaurant not known for passing health inspections was... trivial. Trivial to the point of comedy. We had the most beautiful wedding I could have ever dreamed of.  Don't ask me if my color scheme looked nice, because look what we had on November 7th, 2015:

Karl read that verse from Corinthians that is often read at weddings, we chose it - Adam and Aunt Kay and I. Love is patient, love is kind...there is nothing to celebrate at a wedding if it's not love. Love for each other. Love for our families. Love for the beautiful desert so many of my favorite people call home, where Aunt Kay can look out at her backyard and be in awe of the world, where a brilliant red cardinal can be Papa, can fly by to check in.

Papa died November 8th. It was the night after the wedding. I remember being worried the wedding night, that something had happened to Papa and no one was going to tell me. He waited for all of his grandkids to say goodbye the next day. To see our cantankerous Papa, one of the most stubborn and strong and willful men on the planet, like he was... There are sometimes no words - only tears.

I like some verses later in Corinthians, chapter 13 still, but a few after the ones we chose for the wedding: "And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." Corinthians 13:13.

Mimi and Papa looked beautiful at their wedding.

Adam and I were just in Wisconsin for his grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary. Mimi and Papa would have had their 60th on May 20th. They were married almost exactly a year before Aunt Kay was born. Their smiles right here look just like the smiles I know. Mimi says she can't smile for a camera, but there it is, and I've seen it just so in person. 

I saw a cardinal in Wisconsin and I hope it was Papa, checking in. Pana was within driving distance. I was on a bike through the trees, reminiscent of the woods surrounding Beyers Lake. I kept making comparisons to Pana and I think it bothered Adam a little, that I couldn't just be in Wisconsin and see it through his lens. We are a little confined to our own eyes, our own memories, is the thing; to be in the midwest is, to me, to be in Pana. To be with Mimi and Papa. People golfing every day. Telling stories and showing off grandkids. To my mom and Aunt Kay and Uncle Rob and Mimi and Papa and so many interesting small-town characters: Home. Seeing that cardinal, cruising on a bike like Bob and Marie's through the trees and the thick air - I had to make it feel like home in my head. I have a sense of pride about Pana, and Papa was the proudest man I've ever known. 

Erik just sent an email for the 4th of July about Pana, and I think I'll just close this out with the quote from the Wonder Years. That's how he closed the email and it's the quote just yesterday I wrote in different colored markers for my dad's birthday card. It's the quote of the summer: of time passing too quickly, of the comfort we find in our memories - - - of home:

Growing up happens in a heartbeat.  One day you’re in diapers, the next day you’re gone.  But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul.  I remember a place, a town, a house, like a lot of houses; a yard, like a lot of other yards; on a street, like a lot of other streets.  And the thing is, after all these years, I still look back, with wonder.

A Wonderful Life

I stole the title for this post from my brother, from the email subject line for his beautiful message about Papa. It's been really difficult to process the events of our wedding weekend, everything that happened being so heavy, so meaningful, so joyful and then so sad. For the record, November 7th, 2015 will forever be one of the best days of mine and Adam's lives. Aunt Dana kept saying, still keeps saying, "It was magical." The gorgeous mountain view, saguaros sprouting up everywhere around us, our Nebraska-native friend wanted to play "Whack-a-Mole" with them, it was such a sight. Tucson has been such a part of me for my whole life, I had forgotten for a second to notice the sheer, unique beauty.  Aunt Kay wrote the most perfect, personal and loving ceremony I have ever heard, let alone been a part of, and Adam was tearing up a little from the very beginning. I didn't until Aunt Kay said, "Don't look at me!" I couldn't look at Adam because the desert sun shone right in my eyes. Tucson lit up below us at dark, Katie the photographer running around like a chicken trying to get in all of the photos before light faded. People say the photos are so important because the memories will fade, but I know they'll never fade for good. This was one of the most poignantly emotional weekends of my life.

Erik wrote so well about Papa. How Papa did admire his piano playing. It doesn't make me jealous. It was so funny, even to me, that time not long ago at Christmas I think, Papa was bragging about Erik to some neighbor he'd caught on his fishing line, and I was sitting there, too, either in the garage or the living room, and he said, my grandson, oh boy what a scholar, such a beautiful piano player, and here's Bethy, she's just a schlooser! Never could figure out the best way to spell that. No one has quite the way of talking that Papa did, what a colorful man. I used to be so scared as a little girl staying at Placita North Fuente, see, I always clogged the toilet. It was a terrible little toilet, and I didn't want Papa to get mad at me. I'd have to run and find Mimi or my mom to help. I think one time it happened right before Mimi and Papa were going to drive us to the airport.

I especially loved when Mimi and Papa would come to Colorado, usually for mine and Erik's September birthdays. I'd request a meal for Mimi to make, the unforgettable year that I made her slave away all day while I was at school, she made homemade fried chicken. Was that the last time she made it? What a spoiled girl was I, am I still. Papa loved Buster and vice versa, just like Rockie. It was so exciting getting home from school to Mimi and Papa in the living room. I love having these memories. They make me feel so happy, even as tears spring to my eyes, because Erik's right...maybe what's special about them is we know that we can never go back and live them again.

Papa loved his family in the most steadfast and devoted way a man can, and what a wonderful family we have. There are no better times for me than when we're all together. What I picture immediately is all of us in Tucson - Christmas Eve at Aunt Debbie's, a fajita cookout at the Groll house, singing "We Need a Little Christmas" loudly and horribly to Uncle Larry on the phone. Playing Scattegories at Mimi's, Papa yelling at us to keep it down over Fox News blaring. Chicken tetrazzini and Texas cake. Cheese and crackers, white wine, Papa's bright orange cheesy spread, every night a party.

It's like our motto:

"Live in the present, and make it so beautiful that it will be worth remembering." -Ida Scott Taylor

I think we've always done a darn good job of this. Thank you for accepting Adam into our family with open arms and making our wedding day so wonderful, so perfect. I love you all forever and ever.  

"It's YOUR day."

Adam proposed at the keyhole of Devil's Backbone in Loveland and this was not perfect. It was 97 degrees without shade and I had a hangover. Let me second that complaint with a certainty: I love Adam and he is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Girls grow up dreaming of perfection. I think this is fairly universal in America. Many dream of a tear-jerkingly romantic proposal and stunning, huge wedding where everyone turns, stands to look at how beautiful they look. I've been raised primarily by my mom and her sister, my Aunt Kay, and I admire and love them infinitely. Their dreams are far more practical.

Try as they might to teach me, I am not a practical girl. I have intense mood swings. I rarely dress up but resent being told this means I am not someone who would wear a traditional wedding gown. "It's just not you." I regret every decision I ever make at least slightly, because I never stop thinking about other options. I'm not excited about getting married. I'm devastated like we all are. My mom is run thin. She told me yesterday Kay having ALS had dropped to number three on her stress list after the facts that I'm getting married and we don't know how to plan it and her dad is in a psychiatric ward after falling on his head.

I haven't been able to feel much of anything about being engaged. Aunt Kay will officiate. This was a no-brainer. Expediency is required. The ideas are flowing and I'm drowning in them to the point where none of them sound right because nothing is right in a world where people get ALS. Aunt Kay told my mom she would just be the fun aunt at the wedding drinking too much wine, of course she would, but she is ordained because of ALS, because of Cindy and Linda, and she is the only one Adam and I could imagine writing our ceremony. That is all so full of love, of meaning, but I. I'm sad. Adam and I will get married at a time that will just be so...real-life. There's no fantasy about it. It will be nothing any little girl has ever dreamed about for "her day." Our jobs are unstable and stagnant, in my case. My family is in the midst of our greatest struggles and sadnesses.

I have never believed in fantasy. I actually never believed I would ever meet somebody. Here is the dream, girls: a man who loves you unconditionally to spend the rest of your life with. I have that. I have Adam. Through it all he has never faltered, never stopped loving me for who I am and who I want to be. I used to think our wedding would happen at some penultimate time in our lives: great jobs, maybe a house and a dog, ready for anything. That's not going to happen. We are going to have a deeply important ceremony with a deeply important person. And we are going to stick together forever. It's NOT my day; it's the start of our lives together. It's not going to be easy.

Another Poetry Writing Attempt

"My Thoughts on Politics and Gum-Spitting"
Open-mindedness is a comforting identity to hold on to
in the midst of hating Christians for what they believe in.
I scroll through social media and get so sick of obnoxious
honesty, everyone intent to say, "Look, I'm being myself."
I sometimes spit my gum on the sidewalk and hope that
no one's looking because then they'd decide something true
about me that I'm not proud of. I don't hope that someone
steps on it, but I am honest, too, and the truth is, I'm not
even thinking about that at all after the tasteless blob is
finally out of my life. If I saw someone do the same,
I would be disgusted by the laziness and apathy of it all.