Greater than old

He was handsome. With horn-rimmed glasses, bright eyes, shiny black hair and a smile to melt your heart.  And he stood there looking fervent but free, leaning against his brand new Studebaker in a button-up polo shirt and black trousers, grinning up at me from a yellowed scrapbook page resting on the kitchen table. I turned my head toward the man showing me the photo. He was frail now; his black hair thinned and grayed; his glasses a little more practical.  But then he smiled and the young man was both in the picture and by my side.  His eyes glistened and it was almost like the shiny Studebaker was right there in the living room begging to be driven.

He was not an old man, I realized as I looked at more yellowed scrapbook pages.  He was an added-upon being. He was a small toothless boy sitting with his mother in a living room in Holland. He was the father proudly wrapping his arms around three giggling little girls. He was the grinning groom holding hands with a beautiful curly-haired bride. He was the soldier in uniform at a camp in Vietnam.  He was the cheerful man with the accordion, playing the tune of a place and time long gone, but not forgotten. He was the smiling person by the sea, in the desert, in a castle, in a garden, in a small apartment. He was the grandfather in a fishing hat, chatting with a grandson at the lake.  And he was here on this page before me, the proud owner of a brand-new car, ready to take on the world.  

And all of these people – the boy, the soldier, the father, the grandfather, the handsome man in a polo  – they look out at me when I look into his eyes.  They sing to me when he whispers an old melody.  They beg to not be forgotten, even when the body they live in has grown frail and the laughter that comes out of it isn’t as loud as it used to be.  They plead with me to remember all the people inside this one man, so that when I look at him, I will not see an old man, but a great man; a collection of so many experiences that looking at his stature does not do him justice.  To see the boy soldier father grandfather handsome man, you have to look at his soul. Look in his eyes.  And then when you hug him, you know you’re embracing decades of memories and experiences and darkness and light and pain and beauty and love. 

 And you feel so very glad you came.

On miscarriage.

The following is a description of something I went through months and months ago. I didn't tell many folks, so it took a gutsy surge of "I don't care"-ness for me to finally post this.  Let it be known that I am doing GREAT! But I'm publishing this so that maybe it can help someone else who has gone through the same thing. If you have, I'd love to hear from you.  We warrior girls gotta stick together! xoxo

It started with a dream.

I saw the blood and tried to scream, but my voice died with my unborn child, a curly-haired barefoot little girl that danced away into a vast nothingness, looking over her shoulder to grin at me just once before disappearing completely.

But it was only a dream.  I woke up and snuggled closer to my curly-haired, barefoot man.  In the morning I told him. “Lucky thing,” he said. “It was only a dream.”

But it was more than a dream.  Later that morning there was real blood. Real pain.  All that was missing was that ghostly, curly-haired little girl. 

I drove around the block before calling the midwife office to confirm that what was happening to me was what I thought it was.  I was brave on the phone, but when I hung up I sat on the far end of a large parking lot and cried.  My curly-haired man left work. I came home to him with puffy eyes and a heavy heart and he held me and let me cry some more.

I wanted to always remember the tear-jerking combination of physical and emotional pain. I wanted to remember what it felt like to close my eyes and try to ignore the reality, but knowing it was impossible, because behind my eyelids were images of so many things that could have been. That were so close to being.  So instead I just counted: “1, 2, 3, 4…” until the pain passed. And then, for another moment, at least, I could breathe.

I wanted to remember how much it meant when somebody understood.  When they just let me talk and nodded and touched my arm and put their hands to their mouths, wide-eyed, at just the right times. I wanted to remember the hurt and anger I felt when people ignored it or brushed it off with the increasingly cliché statement, “Everything happens for a reason.” I wanted to remember the sinking hope that I was wrong, that everybody was wrong, and that I would wake up the next morning and it really would only be a dream. 

I held on to the memory of crying into my pillow, then forcing myself out of bed, then crying into the stream of a burning hot shower, willing it to cleanse me into an older version of myself – a happier, more naïve version; the version that wanted to wait until we’d done everything before we even considered the possibility of a curly-haired, barefoot little person. 

I wanted to remember the number of ways I found to blame myself: That processed chicken salad. My trips to the rock climbing gym. Tickle fights with the curly-haired man.  Not making myself healthier before we dove blindly and recklessly into a decision we knew almost nothing about. 

I hated myself for wanting to remember. But I couldn’t help it.  And in my eagerness to remember every part of my shattered dream, I tried to forget just one.

This part happened as I shivered in my car in that empty parking lot, feeling cold and lonely, sobbing loudly for no one to hear. “Why?” I cried at my dashboard, at my steering wheel, and then at God. And then one of them answered me with a thought: “You need this experience. For someone else.”  And I told the thought to go away, to leave me alone with my pain, and it did.

But it came back later, when I was able to help someone else. It came back when I thought of the day I might really have a curly-haired little girl who really grows up and might really experience the same thing herself.  And now I know why I tried so hard to remember.  If I can tuck these memories away someplace safe deep inside me, I can pull them back out when someone I love needs them.  I’ll show that someone that I remember. That I understand. 

And knowing this helps me move forward.

My dreams get better all the time.

Spring

This week I planted some seeds.

I tenderly tucked them into a bed of fresh, rich-smelling soil, humming a Simon and Garfunkel lullaby and giving them a bedtime drink. I strained my ears to hear them, perhaps whispering the foresty fairy tales of their grandfathers, or asking for more water, or kicking off the blankets.  I poked my head in to check on them hourly that day, hoping to see one of them peek its tiny green head out to catch a glimpse of the sun.  None of them did.  And then I realized there was one more thing I hadn’t done for them.

Somewhere inside of me there grows a wild jungle and a struggling vineyard.  The jungle is my imagination; the vineyard is my dreams. And in between them rests the barren wasteland; the cemetery where I bury my insecurities. Occasionally I visit this in-between place to check that it remains still and desolate, for many times horrible things have grown here and tried to suck the moisture from my jungle and choke the branches in my vineyard.  It’s cold here: a perfect place for burying my winter, for keeping my baby seeds away from the cold negativity that sometimes flurries into my soul. 

And so, on the day I tenderly tucked in my seeds, I buried a deep, frigid grave for my fears.  I buried my doubts in my abilities; my discouraging thoughts of 5,000 unfinished projects; my guilt at not being a better friend; the pain and remorse for the miscarriage I still don’t talk about.

And I carved with my finger over that grave, “Here lies winter,” and I walked away. For my seeds – for myself – I walked into a new beginning.  Then the smell of blossoms and fresh soil and the taste of sunshine on my skin awakened my vineyard and my jungle into a lush frenzy of growth.  And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of my garden, I swear I heard a hundred baby seeds whispering tales of springs long gone by.

The ghosts of "me" past

We were driving home yesterday when a strange thing happened.

We stopped at the light on the corner of University and University. We were holding hands, as usual, and I looked up at the Riviera apartments across the street.

Then suddenly I saw myself five years ago, passing this very light, driving to see a friend at those apartments, not knowing that when I met her boyfriend a few moments later I would be meeting my future husband.  Not knowing that, five years later, we would be driving home to our cozy little cottage from a Friday night date to Jason’s deli, stopped at that same light, holding hands and laughing at each other’s jokes.

Time is an interesting thing, is it not? I wonder what I’ll be remembering five years from today. I wonder what, in five years, will make me marvel yet again at how perfectly the little pieces of life put themselves together.

On maturity

Being a grown-up is neat.

For example, if I want to have butterscotch pudding from the fridge before dinnertime, I can just go ahead and have it!  And if I don’t especially feel like putting my dirty socks in the laundry bin, I can just fling them any which way without a single repercussion.

Sometimes the whole grown-up thing really amazes me too.  Like the fact that (most weeks) we remember – out of all the grown-up things there are to remember –to take the garbage out to the road the night before garbage day.  I always give Kendon a high-five when we take the garbage out to the road.  It’s an activity that reminds me that I really am 25.

There are times, though, when I feel the opposite of 25. Like last night, when I really just needed to have a good cry, and my grown-up husband held me and wiped my eyes and told me everything was going to be OK.  It’s nice having another grown-up in the house for times like that.  And sometimes the husband needs to be a kid for a little while too, and then I get to take my turn being the Bagley house grown-up.

Being a grown-up is neat. But having someone to take care of you when you feel 10 years old is even neater.

Happy new new year!

Good morning, world.


I just woke up and discovered it’s the last day of January.

Turns out my mind has been asleep during the very time of year that everyone else’s is wide awake.  At this point in the year, 2012 is still wearing a preposterously loud and colorful party hat with fake fruit and a real tropical bird on top. He’s walking around, so to speak, giving everyone high-fives for keeping their resolutions so fantastically. And everyone’s laughing right along with that good-humored 2012, because before the ink has dried on their 2012 goal lists, they really have lost ten pounds, or won a Pulitzer, or hiked the Alps by now.

For some reason, 2012 didn’t give me a high five like everyone else. It’s like he just strolled on by me, whistling distractedly, straightening his party hat to avoid looking at me.  Maybe it’s because I slept through the fireworks on his birthday? And I just sort of shrugged my shoulders and played another round of Mahjong on my dumb smart phone, because playing Mahjong on your dumb smart phone is about all you can do while you’re waiting for your mind to wake up.

But never fear, world, for my mind has yawned and stretched and at last left its hibernation cave!  And my mind has asked me to hereby proclaim this day as second New Year’s.  We start fresh right now, my mind and I, on January 31, and I’m going to celebrate by making up a song and dreaming up a novel and deleting Mahjong from my smart phone and, of course, by writing in this lonely blog for the first time in over a month.

Happy new new year, world!

Sincerely, me and my mind

Lessons from hikes

Life is a hike.

A miserable, grueling, pain-inflicting hike.

This is the conclusion I drew yesterday after embarking on one of Hawaii’s most difficult hikes: the Crouching Lion.

Actually, come to find out, we went above and beyond the Crouching Lion hike. We missed a turn that would bring us back the happy safe way, and found ourselves wandering for six hours in a dark and dreary wilderness.

At least that’s what I thought for most of the second half. My legs were shaking. I was out of water. My skin was lobster-red. We had to balance narrow ridges, climb rock walls, and grab onto trees to stop gravity from pulling us straight down the mountain all at once. Sounds fun, yes? Only when one is in shape. And folks, this hike confirmed that I do not at present fit in this category.

It was during the most difficult parts of this journey that I had to remind myself now and then to look up from my muddy, cut-up, quivering feet. Doing so rewarded me every time with the most breathtaking views on Oahu’s North Shore: views that many who live here their whole lives will never witness. A lush, green, uninhabited valley stretched out below us, comfortably sheltered from the rest of the world by the watch of the towering tree-filled mountains around it. At other points I could see where the blue of the ocean turned dark before kissing a bright, cloud-free sky. I saw a mountain goat grazing on an opposite cliff. I saw moss-covered paths and stairways so perfect they looked like they’d been constructed by fairy-tale creatures. I discovered plant life that seemed to know it was too wonderful and strange to allow its seeds to spread past these mountainous ridges. These elements combined in my most grueling moments to assure me that there was still much to be appreciated; that beauty still existed; that God still loved me.

And so it is with life. When we least expect it, we are certain to be met with rocky ridges and wrong turns and, at times, unimaginable pain. Our weaknesses will slap us in the face. And it is in these moments that we need only look up. When we look beyond the pain, we find beauty. We find it in the people who love us, in the experiences we’re gaining, and in the promise of increased strength when it’s all over. We find beauty, most of all, in the constancy of a loving God.

I thought of all this on that punishing, merciless trail. And when Kendon and I emerged and slowly limped, hand in hand, back to the car, I had a flash-forward to the future of us doing this very thing together, on some distant day, when the long hike of our life begins to come to a close.

Beauty

I went running the other day and watched the sun set from a secluded hill in the mountains that overlooked the ocean. The pinks, oranges and purples bounced down from the sky and reflected in the still water. Birds sang overhead while the trees danced in unison.

Now I'm back home for the summer, in my native Utah. On a bikeride today I passed a bunny rabbit, sharing a green pasture with a small herd of cows and some sand cranes. All stood lazily in the sun, nibbling on grass and dandelions as the majestic snow-capped mountains towered above us all.

Nature is a wonder I can never wrap my head around. Everything works together to form something so complete -- from the tiniest bug to the tallest mountain -- that its majesty is impossible for any human language to do justice. I've seen some of the many wonders it has to offer. I hope to see many more. But one thing nature has taught me is this: I am only an insignificant speck.

I've learned that if I do nothing, the sun will still rise in the mornings and set in the evenings. The turtles, fish, whales and sharks will still form an entirely different, breathtaking world underwater. Lilacs and plumerias will still smell sweeter than anything else I know. Snow-capped mountains will stand their ground and giant trees will continue to sprout from seeds the size of a grain of sand. And I, the speck, can choose to sit it out in waves of self-pity or choose to be a part of it -- a contributor to the beauty that is everywhere. Because the other thing I've learned is that the most beautiful of nature's gifts are not found in the heart of a distant jungle. They are all around us. They are in a baby's innocent eyes; in a giant hug or shoulder to cry on, in a child's laugh, in a moment of inspiration, in a beautiful song or story. The beauty is in knowing that maybe you helped someone the way God would have. It's in improving a life, even if for a moment in the smallest way. It's in expressing gratitude when it's deserved, and in giving love even when it's not. It's in doing the things we do best in a way that will benefit another. It's in sharing a smile with someone even when we don't feel like it, because maybe that someone needed it more.

Being a part of the beauty isn't always easy. Sometimes in giving of ourselves we get disappointed, discouraged, disheartened. But stepping away from it and dwelling on pain and regret only makes a person more of an insignificant speck than he was before.

Nature is beckoning us to be part of its perfect flow and rhythm by giving of ourselves. Not doing so won't make the sunset less vivid, but making an effort could prove more beautiful than the most orange of evenings atop a tree-laden hill.