Samain Thanksgiving Moon
This may turn out to be a pivotal week for our family. Jon’s coping well with the aftermath of his court hearing. And, ta dah, we have likely uncovered the reason for Kate’s problems with eating and weight loss. Stenosis of the superior mesenteric artery. Obviously not something you want, but now, after 18 months or so, we have a reason. And there are possible treatments, too.
This diagnosis came quickly. We went in yesterday morning for the imaging work. It was the ultrasound that found it. Dr. Rhee called in the afternoon.
If Jon and Kate can find ways to move on from their respective difficulties, life on the mountain will take on a different tone. And, a welcome one. In neither case is a positive outcome assured, but in my view both of them may have altered the direction of their lives. This week. Wow.
Yesterday evening I drove in to Swigert Elementary for Gabe’s 5th grade concert. The drive in is always an ordeal because Stapleton, the new urban neighborhood built on the grounds of the former Stapleton Airport, is all the way across metro Denver from the foothills. The concerts are at 6:00 pm which means driving on city streets during the height of rush hour. Big fun.
But, I made it just as the 5th graders filed into the gym and mounted the stage like scaffolding. After a drive of an hour and twenty minutes. Whew. I was there not only for Gabe, but for Jon who was prevented from going by a more restrictive version of the restraining order generated during his court hearing on Tuesday. I found a front row seat and Gabe saw me right away. They sang four songs, beginning with Bob Marley’s, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Given the new information I had the song went right into my heart.
The third song, the name of which I don’t recall right now, involved twenty fifth graders coming out front to do a short dance piece from the musical Hairspray. Swigert will put on Hairspray in the spring. They danced and in their movements, their eagerness, their smiles radiated the innocence, the possibility of childhood.
It was a surprisingly powerful moment for me as was the thought that came as I watched. “We’ve failed these kids.” Though that sentiment is true of all generations to some extent, the world we hope for for our kids is not the one we’ve created, in this case I meant it literally and profoundly. Climate change. These kids, 5th graders, are ten years old. If they live a normal life expectancy, let’s say 80 years for convenience, they will be alive in 2088. Here’s the problem in a single for instance: “Most cities might be too hot to host the summer Olympic Games after 2085 because of climate change, according to an analysis in The Lancet1.” Nature
This is what we’ve done, allowed to happen. They will, of course, be responsible for how they handle the challenges we’ve left them. Maybe they’ll do really well at adaptation and mitigation. Maybe not. In either case their world and ours will be so different as to be almost unrecognizable. We should all bow our heads in shame.
Last night, as the kids and I were making pizza over at CBE, I got a call from Kate. Cell service is dicey in the mountains, but I finally understood. The door blew open, again, and all three dogs escaped. Uh-oh. That meant I put on my hat and left, telling Tara on the way out, “Our dogs escaped. It’s more important.” Drove home. Kate tried to call me three times but for some reason I didn’t hear the calls. The neighbor had brought the dogs home while I was on my way. Since it’s 30 minutes each way by the time I got home and found this out, it was too late to return. I’ve not been a reliable teacher this first semester.
Happy to have some good news to report about Jon. Went to his court date yesterday. His inner attitude seems to be shifting away from anger about the divorce (understandable, but not helpful) toward getting on with his life, accepting the constraints of the restraining order (unreasonable, but legally enforceable, as he just discovered). He wants to get his art in a gallery or up for sale. This is big because it’s a key part of his identity that lay fallow during the twelve years of his marriage. He needs positive reinforcement and he’s had more than his share of negatives over the last few years.
He’s a very talented, smart guy who can handle all the work necessary to remodel his home, replace an axle in his car, ski a great line down an A-basin bowl, teach elementary age kids how to express themselves. I hope he can organize his life so these thing line up, move him forward, and make him feel good about himself.
I’m feeling a bit stressed, a lot going on. Religious school tonight. I’m taking pizza makings and teaching a unit on holidays, especially winter holidays. The kids will reimagine, reconstruct a new winter holiday. Tomorrow morning Kate has two imaging studies, looking for zebras. Tomorrow evening is Gabe’s winter concert in Stapleton. A sequelae of the hearing yesterday is that Jon can’t, for the moment, attend. The old protection order carved out an exception to the 100 yards rule for events with the kids, things like parent-teacher conferences, concerts, doctor visits, but the law is a blunt instrument. Yesterday by default it eliminated those exceptions. Jon wants me to go to represent our side of the family. Important for Gabe. I’ll go.
Got reinforced shortly after the move out here when I had to deal with prostate cancer. That shook me. I worked hard to keep myself upright and maybe, in the process, began to consolidate a lot of learning. A major part of that consolidation came from the support I got from family and friends. Oh. Life can be good, even when it’s bad. Weird. Since the move, it’s been one damned thing after another, or it feels that way right now. Those things forced a going deep, being honest, being grateful a lot. Now, four years later, our move anniversary is the Winter Solstice, my Colorado Self, the one born in the alembic of all those insults, has asserted itself.
Warmer, 31, and cloudy. The waning Thanksgiving Moon lit my morning walk to the loft through a veil of patchy cumulus. The neighbor in the rental put up an inflatable turkey with a pilgrim hat a week or so ago. Now there’s a Northpole sign on their mailbox, a Santa Claus and Christmas lights. They did wait until Thanksgiving was over. Most of us on our stretch of Black Mountain Drive have less glam. We have lights on at night all year, but just a strand in the front and along the walkway up to the loft. Holiseason brings out the inner kid. That’s Eduardo and Holly’s lights in the distance.
I’m finding a peculiar satisfaction in domestic work. Dishes in the dishwasher right after use. Throw a load in the washer when I get up in the morning. Cooking what we have. There’s a thread through the day, things to do that are active and loving. I’ve come to like it. One of the things I noted a long time ago was that women’s work (in a stereotypical sense) dealt with life’s basics. Eat. Clean. Support. Repetitive. The clothes always get dirty. The dishes come after cooking. No matter what groceries and other supplies have to be purchased. Rinse and repeat. It makes sense to me now how homemaking is a noble art, a task unfairly distributed by past gender roles, yes, but so important to the well-being of a family.
Interesting. First, on Dec. 6th I will join all teachers in the religious school, board members, and staff for an emergency response training evening. Stimulated, as you might expect, by Pittsburgh, but always an active consideration.
Black Friday. Should be a dark observance like so-called Good Friday. But, no. It’s a flood the needy capitalists with your money by pretending to save money on deals that still allow them make even more money sorta day. I mean, geez, I guess it is a dark observance after all. Yeah. Black Friday.
We rise from the tomb. Break out of captivity. Care for the memories of our dead. Do penance and reorient, return to our best selves. Celebrate a month of fasting and giving.
We put out our best aluminum tins from Tony’s. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, sage stuffing, green beans almondine. I plunged the plastic bag of turkey gravy in boiling water. The turkey breast went in a shallow pan with a 1/2 cup of water. We have two ovens and the top one, the smaller of the two, did its job well for the potatoes and the stuffing.
On the table sat our finest paper plates, a big turkey printed on them saying gobble, gobble, gobble. The napkins had pumpkins and vines and stuff. The meal was very good and aside from the now suspect ovens (I won’t mention that the other one went wonky, too.) exceeded my hopes.
Kate’s two months from hell. A modest amount of this excellent meal sent her straight to bed. Not sure where we go from here. Smoothies and Korean food, maybe.
Woke up this morning and did my gratitude practice. At night I consider all the gifts I got during that day, all the gifts I gave, and any trouble I caused. In the morning I start out with what I’m grateful for right now. Both practices seem to soothe me, put me in a place to receive and accept blessings. Life’s a hell of a lot better when I’m in that sorta space.
There is also a more general, vaguer issue for me. As Kate’s life continues to revolve around pain and nausea, weight loss, it restricts her movements. She’s in the house, often in bed or in her chair or on the bench upstairs at the table. This has a centrifugal force for me, too, pulling me in, keeping me here. No, I do not resent it, that’s not my point. I’m speaking now of a more subtle influence, a coloring of the spirit, a darkening of it. I find myself tired, sleepy, more than makes sense to me unless I factor this in.