Waking up today, I could hear the birds and I knew that the sun was going to fight to come out today. The clouds were going to remind me today that there are going to be times when you have to be grateful for the things you can’t see; even when the sun is obscured, there is warmth.
When I finally took off today for my run, I kept thinking how every step of this journey….I am doing it for me, but I am also carrying my mom. She didn’t get this life, she didn’t get to age, and see herself in the mirror with freckles and wrinkles, and didn’t get to anticipate turning 50 with some of her best friends by her side.
My mom never got so much of life that I have the opportunity to do, so I need to do it well. I am lucky and loved, and blessed, and rich with things that won’t translate to wealth for just anyone, but it does to me. I had the chance this morning to have coffee with one of my favorite people, even if it was virtual…I got to talk to my Number 6…and I got to run, and feed my spirit and my soul with the sights and sounds of the city I love.
By the time I set out on my run…I hadn’t even cried today. I hadn’t even needed to fight it back. But, I got to the halfway point of my run, and had stopped to take a picture of the water and the flowers…and I felt it. Heavy, sharp and familiar…grief. I could feel it wash over me. And, deep down, I was feeling more than my own grief. I could feel grief like the thread that ties us together, the familiar sense of loss that is perhaps the second great human connection…second only to love.
I let myself feel the grief, and the loss, and the pain. And, as I continued to run, and the tears slowed, and I felt the sun on my shoulders…kissing thru the clouds…I was reminded of how lucky I am that even in the enormous length of 33 years since she died, I am alive, and I am here, and I am Sherry’s daughter…full of flaws, and love, stubborn and surviving, kind and crass…but, I am here. And, she would love this journey.
I sure love you, Mom. Thanks for sending me that sun to kiss my freckles.
In January, 2014, I started writing this blog. At that particular moment in my life, I was in the year where I would turn 40. Turning 40 felt absolutely monumental. I was trying to process what entering my 40th year on the planet looked like.
Welcoming my 40th Birthday, Montana chill and my friend, Iz.
Reading back on my first post, I was trying to make sense of the anxiety and fear….“Here’s why…when I was 16, my mom died. She was 42 years old. I can remember thinking that was very, very old, but at the same time, oh so young. I can remember thinking that I would never live long enough to reach that number, because after all, how would I live without her for one day, let alone 8,760 days? I couldn’t envision my life past the next day when I would have to get up, and think about planning a funeral for someone who was NOT supposed to be dead.
So, here I am…almost 23 years later…and getting closer everyday to the age that she was when she died. I couldn’t understand why my heart was so heavy on my 2013 birthday. I usually love my birthday, those who know me know I like to make it a big deal, with my own set of birthday rules and tiaras…but, this year…every time I thought of it, I felt panic in my chest. And when I finally figured it out, it was a hard realization. I am almost as old as she was when she died. I am almost 40, which means 41, which means 42…and moms, women with way too much life left to live, die at 42.“
As I reread it today, I can feel the anxiety and the nervousness of what I thought turning 40 meant. I was filled with dread. I couldn’t envision myself as a forty year old woman. And, as I have processed at length, the absence of my mother casts a long shadow on my own experience of aging. Because I don’t know exactly what I expected, I can only look at the last 9 years as a period and season of growth. I could not have predicted just how much my life would change in the last nine years.
In January, 2014 these things were true: midway thru my 14th year as a classroom teacher, living and working in Billings, Montana, and surrounded by familiar people and experiences. I was committing to working on my physical health finally, had “run” a 5K or two, and was yearning to explore. When I hit my 40th birthday, in November of 2014, I was happy. But, I could feel the fire burning inside of me…a longing, a yearning for something…I didn’t know exactly what it was, I just could feel it.
The best I could pinpoint was that I was finally ready to leave Montana. I have processed at length, both quietly and aloud here in this blog, about what was driving me to find different avenues. I knew then, and know more certainly now, that leaving Montana would come with consequences. Like any decision, there are anticipated outcomes, and unanticipated outcomes.
In the nearly 9 years that has elapsed since my 40th birthday, my life might look very different, but I want to believe that at my heart, I am more truly ME now than I ever was then. And, here I am…49. I am in my 49th year, streaming towards my 50th birthday. In the upcoming year, I fully intend to find truth and beauty, to laugh outloud, to watch the sun rise, and to run a few miles…and, I am committing to write 50 posts in the next year. Between this post and my 50th birthday, there are about 52 weeks. My blog has been a landing spot, a place for me to record moments, and for me to share with the people who choose to read, my thoughts. In the next year, I am going to commit to myself a reflection and a roadmap.
I could not have know that when I turned 40, I would find my internal brave…and I would embrace more fully the life that I wanted, not simply accept the life I was in. I don’t have the playbook on turning 50. I don’t have the answers to the questions that are bumping around in my brain. But, I am going to stay transparent, and accountable to myself.
Celebrating my birthday this year…I am so incredibly grateful to the people in my life that helped to make it special. I am looking at aging from such a different perspective today. I am not filled with dread. I am not anxious. I am embracing my life, I am wrapping my arms around myself, looking at my life with excitement and possibility…I am ready for and open to the joy of living fully.
Birthday Dinner, 49 in Washington, DC.
And, if you have read my blog for any of the last several years…thank you. Thank you for being a witness to my journey, and thanks for sticking around…cheers to the next chapter.
In the last several years, I have written often of the ways that running changed my life. Becoming a runner changed me in more ways than one, physically, mentally, emotionally…and it changed my orbits, and the celestial bodies around me. I have relationships in my life that I would not have without running.
In early 2018, thru the algorithms of Facebook, I kept seeing a fellow runner posting in the run streak group. There were many times when her posts would appear, and I would think to myself…I wish I was her friend. Trephene exudes joy, and also a heart that when you see her eyes, you know…is full of love, and pain, and joy, and curiosity. And, I was drawn to her light. I was in awe of her poise, how she seemingly did not sweat, and how her red lipstick was always so flawless. But, I was sure…no roads would ever bring me to the same spot as this world class marathoner. So, from afar, I liked her posts. Until the day I got a friend request from her. Whoa…I wasn’t sure if I was being pranked. Eventually, we started to chat over Facebook…a friendship started to form. We talked of running, and of life, and challenges, and adventures, of aches and accomplishments. And finally, on a whim of a trip to New York City in October, 2019, we met for the first time in person.
My NYC trip that time was for a long weekend with a few of my YaYas, and we were very touristy, double decker bus, and a cruise to Lady Liberty. But, my flight home to Houston that Monday morning gave me enough time to meet Trephene for breakfast. Meeting at a popular spot off the corner of Central Park, I arrived with my small suitcase and a bundle of nerves. I was so nervous to meet this woman. I wanted to be her friend in real life, but was certainly sure she was too cool for me. That morning, Trephene had messaged me what she was wearing, and where in the restaurant she was sitting…as if I could miss her.
Suffice it to say…it turns out, we liked each other just a bit. That first breakfast has turned into dinners, hugs, holidays, shared beers, shared tears, laughing over ridiculous things seen and done, marathon weekends, quiet moments, big questions, more than I could have ever predicted. Somewhere along the way, Trephene told me she fell in love with my freckles, hence…a nickname was born for me. And…I’ve taken to calling her Boo Boo.
Boo Boo turns 50 this August. And, nearly a year ago, she invited me to be a part of her grand adventure, her “Back to Africa” trip to Kenya. After some thinking, and planning, I took the plunge and said, fuck yes. Some time elapsed, a group chat of names like Clover, and Pansy…due dates and packing lists, questions and direction…until finally, it was time to go. For Trephene back…but for me…the first time, to Kenya.
I departed DC early on a Thursday morning, for a one way flight to New York’s JFK airport. After clearing international security, and getting to the correct terminal, I found some of the amazing group of women I would adventure with for the next 11 days. International flights are tough, too much sitting, and too much food, but after a long 14 hours in the air, we landed safely at Nairobi. Trephene, and her beautiful niece Bri were there to greet us. It was luggage, and laughing, hugs thru tears, and lots of clamoring for showers…and of course, I needed to run. (No way was I prepared to let my streak die.)
The first hug at the airport was bittersweet. I was so very happy to see Trephene. But my heart was heavy for her, as the trip had nearly been cancelled due to the death of her father just a few days prior. Wrapping my arms around my sweet friend, I had so many things I wanted to say, but also…not say. I wanted to hug her hard, so she would feel my love after stepping out of my embrace. I was filled with joy at the possibility and the excitement of being with her…in Kenya.
Kenya is an absolutely stunning place, an assault on one’s senses. The traffic and noise of Nairobi, the vast still of the Great Rift Valley. The smiles and warm eyes of the Kenyans, speaking a Queen’s English as evidence of the history of colonization. The sun setting over the plains of the Massai Mara. Clouds and mist surrounding Kilimanjaro. Red dirt on the feet of the children who are herding sheep, goats and cattle along the roadside. Dust, birds, zebras…cars honking, Swahili, elephants bathing…the sun coming up over the Indian Ocean, the crashing waves and the white sands at Diani….Kenya. For 11 days, I found myself immersed in a place that almost immediately became familiar, while being so very different from anything I’ve ever seen.
On our first full morning in Kenya, we headed off for a safari adventure. For the next several days, we traveled in two Land Rovers, equipped for safari. Moses and Joseph, both Nilote men from neighboring villages, would drive us, protect us, care for us…I rode “shotgun” or “Chair Lady” as I would find out, with Moses. Like creatures of habit, our seats on that first day would become our places. In Moses’ rover, Trephene’s cousins Sonia and Alecia, her sister Nadia, her dear friend Lina, and me. In Joseph’s rover, Trephene, her momma “Auntie Niecy”, her cousins Frida and Pansy, neice Bri, and sister Jacqui. From Nairobi, we adventured to the Massai Mara.
The Mara is a national reserve in the southwest region of Kenya, nearly directly west of the capital city of Nairobi. Driving to the Mara, up the steep hills and down into the Great Rift Valley, I began to ask Moses what would eventually be a million questions. I asked about the vegetation, the places, the cattle, the people, words…and every question was met with a patient response. Eventually, I took to calling Moses “Mo”. I never asked, but he always responded…and when I hugged him the last tearful goodbye over a week later, he said….”come back and see your Mo.”
We crossed through terrain that reminded me so much of the dry plains and foothills of my Montana. The vegetation was distinct, but the horizon with the mountains in the distance and the corn and wheat fields…familiar. Eventually, we arrived at Zebra Plains. Near the Mara, we would sleep, eat, drink…and in my case, run…at a beautiful “camp” along a river adjacent to the Mara.
From our arrival at Zebra Plains, we were met by a group of helpful and kind Kenyan people. Ruth, the head of the “hotel” would give me many hugs after that initial side eye when I asked if I could run outside the fence the next morning. My question was met with a solid no, I would need to stay inside the encampment. We settled into our beautiful “tents”, were served a delicious lunch, then it was time to load up, we had a safari to embark on. We headed up the dusty, dirt road, and crossed into the gates of the Mara. From early on that first afternoon, I started to understand this was going to be unlike anything I had ever seen before. Along the road, it was the zebras, and the wildebeest, the emus and the hyenas…and the sky. This massive Kenyan sky stretching out endlessly in front of us.
That first afternoon, we would see more zebras than I ever thought possible, and beautiful giraffe; we passed by animals I only had seen in pictures and film before. After a few hours, we knew we had to depart before 6PM, as the reserve has rules about how long trucks and humans can be in the park. A rain cloud was moving in, and I wasn’t sure what was ahead, but as Mo took a turn off the main road, crossed a small valley, and came to a stop, the rain started to come down. And as I looked to my right, nearly 10 elephants, some big mommas, and a few small babies, were coming our way. I lost my breath. We sat, engines off, and watched these majestic, beautiful creatures walk seemingly silently by. But, we could hear their breath…the steps on the ground, and the pushing of the earth under their trunks. As the group crossed in front of us, one stopped to my left and began to throw dirt onto its back, another laid down. The babies took their opportunity to play, piling on the mother who had laid down to cool. And the rain…the rain wet the ground, and their backs, and my left arm and shoulder as I leaned out the window, silently observing. My cheeks…those were wet with the tears that I found I could not hold back. Whose life was this??
After leaving the Mara that evening, we enjoyed an amazing dinner, drinks by the fire pit, stories and dancing, and so many laughs. By this point, I had been in country for a bit more than 36 hours, and was already settled on my love of the Kenyan beer, Tusker. So, that evening, I enjoyed a few Tuskers…and marveled at my day. Bright and early, due to our 6:30AM safari start, I rose before the sun. I had previously visited with Ruth, the keeper of all things at Zebra Plains, and told her I would be running about 5:30AM.
When I stepped out the door of my “tent”, there was a tall, silent Massai man, stick in hand, wrapped for the dawn chill. I quietly said good morning in my amateur Swahili, and started off on my run.
He ran with me.
I stopped. He stopped.
I stammered, I’m okay, you don’t have to run with me. He smiled, cupped my right elbow gently, and said, let’s run.
So, in spite of my protesting, we ran. For .30 of a mile, we ran along the dark stone path, past the main lodge, and to the opposite side of the encampment. Along the way, other silent sentinels, wrapped for the cold, and with protection in mind, lit the way with their small fires and flashlights. After the path ended, we turned, and ran back. I continued in this fashion until I had finished my mile. Streak intact…after I finished, several of the Massai protectors gathered around the front of the lodge. I was stopping to get some coffee, and thanking my particular running guide, and one of the men said, will you run again tomorrow?
I said yes, and he said, very good, we will go rest now. Those men had stayed awake all night to protect the lodge and the guests against any sort of danger, and extended their night watch to protect a silly, chubby American girl with a streak to protect.
That morning, the sun would rise over the edge of the river, and we would head out for a full day of safari. A stop along the way for lunch in the shade of an umbrella tree, safari style, and a “run” into Tanzania. And animals…a big, dark male giraffe ambulating along. Elephants. And baby lions lazing in the shade of the croton bush.
Eventually, with the sun high in the sky, we had stopped because word on the CB radio was that a large male Lion had been spotted. We arrived to a spot, several other land rovers full of tourists, everyone craning to spot the “Simba” (the Swahili word for lion…thanks, Disney). Ahead of the end of the rover was a patch of brush, and in the air…a large leg and paw. We silently watched this paw bat at the air, flick lazily at the flies, and stretch. Mo had cautioned us to be silent. So, we sat.
And like a too full teen, raising from a Netflix binge, that leg swung up and over, and up popped a massive mane ensconced golden lion. In profile, that Lion sniffed the air, stretched, licked his lips, and shook his mane. I was stunned. He was huge. I could barely breathe. I was afraid to make a sound to disturb the peace and laze of his day. After several minutes of stretch, and sniff…that Lion decided he was ready to move. And he turned, and stood up, and ascended from that patch of brush out, and directly towards the door of the rover. I was mesmerized. As he got nearly to the rover, he turned to his right, and lazily walked past the end of the vehicle. Reaching the larger pride, he muscled his way into a spot of the lounging females, dropping back down…apparently tired from showing off for all the cameras.
Mo said his frequent, “you good?” more comment than question, and I couldn’t choke out yes. I was overcome with emotions. I was sticky and hot, dusty, and needed to pee, but I had just come face to face with a Lion. In Kenya. I had watched the sun rise, run with a Kenyan man, hugged and laughed with an amazing group of women, and breathed the same air as the king of the beasts. Was I good? No. I was fucking great.
Just a short time later, after a bouncing, dusty drive across the roads and plain, we would arrive at a river. Adjacent to the river stands a stone pillar, marked with KE on one side, and TZ on the other. A boundary marker designating that we had reached the border between Kenya and Tanzania. I looked at Trephene, smiled and said, come on Boo, let’s run to Tanzania. So, off we went, towards the river. What I didn’t know at that moment, in my glee to “run” to Tanzania, was how angry I made Moses. Mo would later tell me that he was angry because I scared him. He would chide me about remembering that any animal could be nearby, and that I can’t just go running off…he was correct. It was impulsive and reckless. But, after a quick “free the nipple” moment in Tanzania, we returned to the clearing of the border marker. And I took my chiding. I deserved it. But, I don’t regret it.
After a third morning in the Mara, we left the reserve that next afternoon, to head back to Nairobi. On our way out of the Mara, we stopped along the way to “visit” a Massai village. The Massai people are true pastoral herders. They survive primarily on a diet of “barbecued” meat, cow’s milk, and the blood of cattle. The village is arranged on the family of a “chief”, they are predominantly polygamist, and live with no running water or electricity. (If you know me…not. My. Jam.) However, we spent some time that afternoon jumping with the Massai men, meeting the 105 year old mother of the chief, and touring the village. Our guide that day was a 25 year old son of the chief, LaShawn. He explained his people’s ways of living, answered our questions, gave us opportunities to learn, and then guided us thru economic tourism, where the women and men of the village provided us with ample opportunities to stimulate the village economy. Several dollars lighter, I returned to the rover, Mo smiled and asked, you good? I responded, Sowa-Sowa…and again we were off.
After a day in Nairobi, complete with a trip to a giraffe sanctuary, a mall, a meat restaurant called Carnivores, great beers, and a night out…we would again meet Mo and Jo early in the morning to head to Amboseli National Park. Moses had communicated it would be dusty, and recommended we wear masks once we reached Amboseli. Driving to Amboseli, we weaved thru traffic, passing truck after truck, along a steep, narrow two lane stretch. Driving in Kenya felt like a fever dream. Scary. And exhilarating…with a dose of dangerous. The road to Amboseli is heavily traveled, as it leads eventually to the coast. So, the truck traffic and transports of workers, commuters, humanity, was heavy. Eventually, the shift in the landscape was noticeable. What had been shrubs and dry turned into more green, more fields, and out the window…the base of Kilimanjaro.
For a girl that grew up with the Rocky Mountains always to the west…Kilimanjaro was just different. Unlike the Rockies…Kilimanjaro rises out of the plain like a lone sentinel. Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano, and the highest free standing mountain above sea level on the planet, as well as the tallest “peak” on the African continent. Noticing the way the vegetation and water was changing, how the peak was creating it’s own weather, and how imposing it was…I was mesmerized. As we changed direction on the road, Kilimanjaro was out my window, and I couldn’t help but tear up as I watched it grow. Finally, we would arrive at the “gate” of Amboseli National Park.
Kenya thrives on tourist dollars, so nearly every stop along our routes, there would be women coming to the windows of the rovers. The gates of Amboseli was no different. Many of our group got out to “shop” while Moses and Joseph headed to arrange our entry, and payment into the park. After an opportunity to pee (not on the side of a road), I walked over to where Moses was standing visiting, and had the chance to meet one of his cousins, who worked for the Park. Meeting a member of Mo’s family…that was awesome. We finally loaded back up, and into the rovers, headed into the park to reach our accommodations, and for safari.
Moses was correct. The dust…was stifling. It seems incongruous considering that unlike the Mara, Amboseli is rich with water. Lake Amboseli shines on the horizon, full of birds like flamingoes and herons, hippos grazing along the banks. There are spots of marshy, green land where the elephants are nearly sunk, bathing and grazing. And trees…a veritable jungle of trees. But, the white, fine dust that every vehicle throws up creates clouds, and the wind moving down the slopes of Kilimanjaro creates whirling dervishes that mark the horizon line. It is a sight to see. But, to breathe? Not so friendly.
After a few dusty miles, my head on a swivel with all the elephants, giraffes, hyenas…animals for as far as I could see…we reached the imposing gate of the Ol Tukai lodge. Ol Tukai is a lodge with cabins, spread across acreage peppered with trees. The main lodge is resplendent with lush colors and deep furniture, polished shining floors, and a round bar. Of course, I had to first stop at the bar for a Tusker. So. Much. Dust. (and it was past happy hour). Our cabins were on “Elephant view”. Can you even prepare for that? Could I have even imagined what it would mean to look out the window of the cabin I was sleeping in to see elephants bathing and grazing? To see a hippo wandering past? And, the monkeys and baboons, ready to come in to the cabin if you didn’t bolt the door. (This wasn’t the only spot that we would have monkeys visit a room or two, and even walking from the lodge to the cabins…carrying food became a blood sport.)
After freshening up, we headed back out into Amboseli. The amount of animals that we saw was stunning. But, it was the moment when Jo’s rover stopped, and his arm pointed, causing Mo to stop. We all looked, and what we saw…a break in the clouds that were shrouding Kilimanjaro’s peak…showing us a sliver of the snow cap, exposing just a fraction of the huge top. I asked Mo…how many times have you seen the peak, he said..only a few, and that it doesn’t happen as frequently as pictures might make one think. I consider myself lucky…to have witnessed a fraction of that majestic beauty.
The next morning, after a lovely dinner and drinks around the fire…I rose early. Trephene, Lina and I were on board to watch the sunrise. I slipped out of my cabin, and found Trephene. We didn’t need to talk, we just walked, and looked. The sun was coming up, Kilimanjaro was shrouded. The animals were moving around, zebras and elephants as far as you could see. Lina would join us, and we would drink coffee with amarula (a liqueur), and marvel at the beauty. Finally, I left the two breathing beauties to get my run done. Unlike my Mara run, I had some acreage inside the high electrified fence, and it was daylight…so, I set off.
Midway thru my run, it hit me. I was running in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, elephants to my left, wildebeest ahead, zebras munching…and the sun shining on my face…in Kenya. That is a run I will never forget. Even working to avoid the spongy spots or to not disturb the “cheeky monkeys”…I loved every step.
When we arrived in Kenya, Trephene had gifted us each a lovely bag with a combination of items inside. One of the things in our gift bags was a tshirt. Now, I’m not much of a matching tshirt kind of girl, but when in Rome…or Kenya…we were instructed to pack our shirts for day two in Amboseli. So, that morning, after breakfast and showers, I put my shirt on. When I had first unfolded my shirt, the front design celebrates Trephene’s “Flirty 50”, is lovely and fitting. I unfolded it, and saw on the back, “Who Runs the World”. And I thought, how cool…girls. We run the world. It made sense. But, in a conversation over dinner that first night in Nairobi, I mentioned how I loved what the shirts said. Trephene looked at me and said…what do the shirts say? I was confused…until I realized that everyone’s shirt said something different. Trephene’s shirt said, “I am the birthday girl.” And everyone else…something unique, something special to them, and to their relationship to Trephene. So…for me, the one who runs the world. How fucking cool. For that afternoon, there are so many pictures of all of us in our “matching” shirts…but, what a beautifully unique group we are.
In spite of Trephene’s insistence that we would run on her father’s sense of time, which was scheduled and punctual…we had some trouble that day, and were running out of time. I was starting to sense something was off, Moses was anxious, asking me questions about how long did I think it would take everyone to eat lunch, looking at his phone, checking some paperwork. After a few quick photos, and eat and go lunch, we headed to get OUT of Amboseli.
Unlike other days…Moses led Joseph. And…we were flying down roads meant for low speeds. We were not stopping to take pictures or follow paths. We were moving. Moses was sweating. The dust was flying. For the first time…he wasn’t entertaining my questions. And I figured out that I needed to shut up and hang on. At one point, we nearly hit a large giraffe. A few giraffes were crossing the road, and as we barreled down the road, one large giraffe remained split from his friends…I was sure Mo was going to slow down as the giraffe ambulated onto the road…Mo didn’t stop, neither did the giraffe. But, at the last moment, that giraffe ran along side of us, all assholes and elbows…I only laughed AFTER we got past the startled giraffe. At one point, Mo made a quick phone call, speaking Swahili, and certainly not more relaxed at the end.
Finally, the gates of Amboseli rose in front of us. Moses slowed down considerably, we pulled through the gate, Mo pulled to the left of the main road, threw the rover into a stopped position, opened his door, jumped out, and jogged back towards the entry office. We had met our exit time by four minutes. What I didn’t know at that moment was our entrance into Amboseli the day before had cost 60$ US dollars…per person. And, that we had paid for a 24 hour entry. That if we did not exit in the constraints of the 24 hours, we would have to pay again…for every person, plus a fine for breaking the law. I didn’t know the phone call that Mo made was to his cousin, asking what HMFIC was in charge at the gate, and what if we didn’t make it…apparently Mo’s cousin said…don’t be late. What a wild ride….
A wild ride was the theme for our day, as just an hour or so after leaving Amboseli, with Joseph’s rover leading the way, we would again run into a snag. The clutch pedal snapped on Joseph’s rover. Moses would kick the chair lady out, that’s me, and I would wander the road, laugh while Trephene gathered sticks with kleenex protecting her from slivers, while we waited for Mo to return from the nearest “town” with a mechanic. Finally, after the mechanic finalized the repair at his shop, and we wandered down the street to drink a Tusker like a local…we got back on the road to Nairobi. That was a long day, the darkness flattening out the hills until we saw the lights of Nairobi ahead.
When we arrived that evening at the Boma, our Nairobi spot…it was tough. I was sad, and didn’t want to say goodbye to Joseph and Moses. I cried. What an absolute joy those two men were for us. I had teased Moses that no one was as much fun as us…and he reassured me that we were certainly unique. My Kenya will always be wrapped in the warmth of the Nilotes.
We were nearing the end of our trip, and after a helluva flight to the coast, we would land for our last hours at the Indian Ocean, in Diani. Diani is a coastal city, built for leisure…the white sand and the turquoise water, the music and the people, the tides, the stars, the trees, and the roar of the ocean crashing against the shore. I had been telling all the ladies, when we get to the beach, if you need me, I’ll be on the beach. And, like Ken from the Barbie movie, I beached like it was my job.
The first afternoon, my bikini, my book and some beer spent a whole bunch of time belly down, listening to the waves crashing. Even a little rain, only the second that I had seen the whole trip, didn’t drive me off the beach. We eventually settled into the beachside bar, to drink, dance and cheer on the nightly entertainment. I can’t promise the videos that exist from that evening depict my best behavior…but damn…we had a time.
The next morning, I arose early to run on the beach. The sun coming up over the horizon, changing the color of the sky, and the water….the tide high, and the sand soft…well, that is just a particular version of paradise that I know exists. Trephene and her sister Del negotiated a boat trip for us, and eventually we would head off in a “tuktuk” for the spot where we would board a “glass bottomed” boat. Reaching the sand bar exposed by the low tide, we wandered around, snorkeled and swam, people watched, and laughed alot. Eventually, we had to get back to the shore, as the tide was coming in, and really changing the landscape. After our foray, I headed back to my book, and my belly.
On our final night in Kenya, Trephene has planned for us to have dinner together, on the beach, with stunning views of the sky, under the care of a team of professionals. So, the Red Party would be the result. Trephene wears a red lip, always. She is known in the running community as “Bibandredlipstick”. In our packing list was a red dress for the red party.
We each arrived at the meeting spot in some shade and shape of red, in honor of our Trephene. And, after making it to our destination, we were treated like royalty. Multiple courses were served, drinks, dancing between courses, toasts and tears, hugs and so much joy…and we all looked stunning in our red. The hosts of our party treated us to so much goodness, bringing out a birthday cake with sparklers, and singing and dancing with us to celebrate Trephene. I took my sparkly shoes off to step into the pool to hold the float that would hold Trephene as she took a float out on the sparkling water to cheers her 50th, with a plastic glass of bourbon in her hand. (She was originally going to jump in, but once we discovered the float…it was a better choice.)
Arriving back at our hotel late that night, Trephene and I decided that a beachside nightcap was in order. With a cold Tusker, I settled on a lounger, dressed in my red, with my stunning friend settled next to me on the adjacent lounger. We laughed, we cried, we talked deeply and frankly. I said some things, she listened. I listened while she shared some things. We breathed of the ocean, and of Kenya, the salt and sea air, the stars overhead, and a Massai man standing wrapped against the chill of the night air, keeping watch.
Just a few hours later, after running on the beach, and holding hands with Trephene’s momma over coffee, we would depart Diani, return to Nairobi, weave our way through terminals and so many layers of security, and eventually…I would hug and kiss each of these beautiful women, and board my return flight on British Airways, destination Washington, D.C. Sitting on the plane, alone for the first time in nearly two weeks….I missed the hearts, hugs and humans that I experienced Kenya with.
As I said earlier, Trephene’s father, husband of over 50 years to her beautiful momma, Daddy to her sisters and brother…died on the Saturday preceding our trip. She told the story of how her father would speak of being “giraffe elated” and “hippopotamus happy”. His presence was with us on that adventure…and the moments of his family, and the people like me, who love them…being elated and happy, will carry me for many days. Kenya is a special place.
There were so many times that my heart broke from the beauty of the place, the people and the experiences of Kenya.
A friend said to me that they read once that Africa breaks your heart, and the only way to piece it back together is to return. I can confidently say…I left a piece of my heart with the elephants, and the people like Moses, and my Massai running sentry.
For now, I’ll let the rain soothe me…it really does rain in Africa…I’ve seen it. On the backs of elephants…
Kenya….Nakupenda, and Assante Sana. I love you and thank you.
And to my dear Boo Boo, my life is better, more rich, and the sun shines brighter because you were born. Happy (Hippobottomus) Birthday. Love, Freckles.
Waking up on my birthday was always my very favorite day. I loved it more than waking up on Christmas. Perhaps it was the selfishness that comes with it being all about me, but almost always, it was the smell of cinnamon in the air…and knowing when I went into the kitchen, my momma would be there, and fresh coffee cake would be cooling on the stovetop.
I don’t know why I have never learned to make coffee cake. I’ve never even looked up how to. And, it’s not because I don’t think I would know how. I just….don’t know if that is something that my heart would be able to do. Perhaps some things are just better left as memories.
In the last few weeks, I have been grappling with some of the things about my growing up that left their mark on my brain and heart. It isn’t something I have previously spent much time processing, but a whole lot of time avoiding. I have made excuses for people that have disappointed me, I have made excuses for people that injured me, I have found reasons to remove myself from situations and relationships that just bring too much to the surface.
And through all of that, I think about how the whole world could be different. What if I had told the truth when I was asked? What if I had put my hands on my momma’s cheeks and said, please….help me out of this? But, I didn’t. I protected her, in an effort to not hurt her.
In one of those “if you know, you know” situations…anyone who really knows me, or has spent any time around me, knows….I don’t ask for help. I will carry all the bags I brought, I don’t need you to clean up my kitchen, I will make my own bed. It is the blessing of independence and the curse of stubborn will. And, I am starting to peel back that place it roots inside of me. My inability to accept help, to ask for help, even when the weight is crushing me, comes from a place of survival, and protecting others.
My mom was so good at making me feel loved. She was so good at making me feel special. She loved me so deeply, and I have never, ever doubted that. But, the reality is, like any parent, she could not protect me from all the injuries.
When I started baking cookies, or brownies, or whatever I would be undertaking, she was always very specific about what I would need to do to be safe. I understood the rules about not standing on the counter to reach things in high places. I had oven mitts, my favorites being the ones that fit best on my small hands, to protect me from burning my fingers. I had several lessons on making sure the beaters were locked into the mixer BEFORE you plugged in, and pushed that slider switch up. The first house that we ever lived in that had a microwave created a whole new set of lessons about what could or should be microwaved, and how to make sure safety was a priority.
But, in all of those kitchen lessons, we skipped the part about how to keep my body safe from the persons that would want to harm it, and had proximity to it.
Stranger danger.
Strangers.
Don’t get in cars on your walk home.
Don’t take candy from a strangers.
But, what if the person who is hurting you isn’t a stranger? What then?
What then do you do to protect yourself?
I didn’t know how to stop that. No amount of Afterschool Specials could prepare me. And, I didn’t know how to ask for help.
In the last few weeks, I have been trying to walk through some of the realities of what it means to be the victim of someone’s injurious choices. Like most victims, it is my silence that I have had to grapple with. The choice I made to never tell the adult I loved so very much, because I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to look at her, at this human who loved me so deeply, and tell her how much hurt and pain existed in the spaces around me.
I have thought about the why so many times. I know I wanted so much to protect her, and that seems like a strange thing to say, but I loved my mom more than I loved any other human on the planet. I think in some ways, that remains true. I love my mom. And I love that when I look in the mirror, I see her eyes and face, in the shape of my chin and the fine lines around my eyes. I couldn’t hurt her. I could not be the source of pain for her.
From the time I was aware of other people’s feelings, I felt my mother’s pain so deeply. When she was happy, I was happy. When she was hurting, I was hurting. I would look to her for the cues of how to take surprise, disappointment, resignation…all the things.
Just like she taught me how to bake, she also taught me how to feel. And, for as big as Sherry’s feels were, she carried the weight of loss and pain, disappointment, and sadness, and I can’t count the number of times I ever saw her ask for help….because they didn’t exist.
The take care of it mentality of my mother might have been because of the ranch work that built her back, it might have been the her against the world that she lived in from the time she was orphaned in the plane crash that killed her parents, it might have been the abusive marriage she only walked away from just hours before her own death. I was witness to glimpses of her pain, the raw and real moments when she couldn’t stop the pain from bubbling up.
When I was about 9 years old, I was the witness to a conversation between my mom and her daddy, the man who had stepped in as her protector and teacher when her parents were killed. We were at my Grandpa’s ranch, and my mom was standing at the sink doing dishes. The conversation between my mom and my Grandpa was about business in relation to the ranch, and while I don’t remember all the details, I do remember a moment when my Grandfather pushed the conversation a bit in relation to a family member, and my mom’s dislike of that family member. At that moment, I saw her pain. I saw her turn towards the man who I know she loved more than any human on the planet, and yes, I mean more than me…and reveal her moment of pain, and the victimization at the hands of the family member in question. I watched her throw the dish in her hands down into the porcelain sink basin. I watched her pull back in her pain, and walk out of the back door. My instant reaction was to run to her, to soothe her, to protect her…and as I pushed my chair back to get up from the table, my grandfather very calmly said, “Sister, stay put.” And, I watched the tears falling on his cheeks, and the quiver of his chin, as he very calmly pushed himself up from the table, leaving through the same back door that just moments ago, my momma had slammed out of.
I have no idea what the conversation between them was that followed when I know he found her. I don’t know if she was sitting on the riverbank, or walking down the road near the corrals or chicken coop. I don’t know where he found her, I don’t know what words passed between them, I don’t know how I’m sure he would have pulled her to hug and hold her. I don’t know if she cried or screamed. I don’t know of the questions he asked. I don’t know of the answers she gave. But, I know it felt like an eternity passed before the two of them returned to the house through the front door, my mom calm, my grandfather’s hand touching my shoulder as he passed me in the same chair he had instructed me to stay put in.
No amount of parenting can protect a child from every hurt. No amount of oven mitts, seat belt conversations, tie your shoes, look both ways…it just isn’t possible. And, I know that what I couldn’t do was hurt my mom.
So, for much too long, I hid all the ways I was being hurt, because I couldn’t hurt her. I knew in revealing my own pain and trauma, I would cause her pain, and of all the things, all the ways that I would sass her, my smart mouth so much like hers, I couldn’t cause that deep pain I had seen in the faces and looks passed between my momma and her daddy the day I was witness to her “telling”.
There are so many missed opportunities. The cliche is true…you never know when you might say goodnight for the last time, you never know when you watch the car drive away, or you send that text…if it’s the last one. I didn’t know. There were so many final things that were never said between us. And I have to figure out how to just be okay with that.
I didn’t know that the last time I would wake up to the smell of cinnamon coffee cake on my 16th birthday would be just months before I would have to say goodbye in the absolute worst way to the person who felt like my whole world. And, in her death, I have never had to tell her of the weight that I so desperately wanted to shed and lay down.
So, now, it’s up to me. And a pretty great therapist…to work through the ways that I carry the weight of my trauma, that I protect myself, that I refuse to accept help. I have to figure it out. And, I have to have a conversation with someone who’s face I can’t see, who’s tears I can’t wipe, who won’t be able to wrap their arms around me and say anything. I have to figure it out. Because I’m so very tired of carrying it.
Tomorrow, I will celebrate my 48th birthday. I cannot believe that I am going to be 48 years old. I don’t have a blueprint or a roadmap. This is such uncharted territory. I have to take the cues of aging from the women around me that I love, that I admire and respect. I have to navigate the grey hair, and the aging lines, and the accomplishments, and the pain, and the joy…without sharing those experiences with my mom. And, I have lived for so many birthdays without cinnamon coffee cake that I sometimes wonder if I would even remember what it tastes like.
Happy Birthday to me, tomorrow. Cheers to 48 fucking years…so much to celebrate, and still so much to navigate.
In a difficult conversation today, someone that I love said to me, “Your (sic) the person stuff happens to.”
What the actual fuck? I am still processing what that actually means. And, I’m not going to go into context or detail about this person, because at the end of the day, this isn’t about them, it’s about me. I will say..it is someone I love, but our paths are very different. And maybe our differences are too big for the things that could have tied us together.
But, being told that you are a person stuff happens too….well, yes…I have had some shitty stuff happen to me. In the last thirty plus years…I have struggled to process how to heal from being the child of parents who were unequipped for healthy parenting, and for whom, circumstances far greater than me, life ended much too young. I struggle with what it means to be a victim of sexual abuse. I struggle with the choices made by others that set destinies that are not my choosing…but, I have never thought of myself as someone that things “happen to.”
Several years ago, I was facing a difficult situation at work with a student. This student had missed several, several days. And after finally getting ahold of his mother, I had a conversation, in which the mother and I agreed on things we could both do to help her son, and we had a plan. The next time I saw the student, I talked to him about the conversation between his mother and me. He understood that we both wanted him to be supported. A few weeks passed, the plan was mostly working, and the student went M.I.A. again…after another couple of weeks, and unreturned phone calls from the mother, I sent an email to the attendance clerk, begging for any information on this student. What I got back from her took my breath away….the mother of this student had died a few weeks before, from breast cancer. And, for all the district knew, the student might be living with the father. After gathering my breath, and clearing some tears, I attempted a call to the father. The only number we had for the father turned out to be a bank in downtown Billings, Montana.
The conversation with the father was not good from the start, his first question, after I identified myself was “what the fuck do you want, calling me at work?” I patiently explained to the father my concerns about his son, my student, and asked what he would like me to do to support the student. The father’s response was to inform me the student’s mother had died in the last few weeks. I acknowledged that, said I was truly sorry for the situation, and explained to the father that I had spoken to the student’s mother several weeks ago, and also explained our previous plan for supporting the student. After a long pause, the father said…”didn’t you hear what I said, his mother died?” I replied, yes, I had heard him. And I was doing my best to plan with HIM, the current, available parent, any plan for supporting the student’s success.
When I tell you I will never forget this conversation…it is because of what happened next. The father said to me…”Can’t you just give him a break? Can’t you just pass him? I mean, what kind of cold bitch are you? I told you, his mom died.” I took a deep breath, and said “Sir, I know that you don’t know me very well. If you knew me better, you would know, that when I was just a few years younger than your son is right now, my mother died. And no one ever gave me anything because of that. I didn’t get to graduate high school because of it. I didn’t get into college because of it. I didn’t get a degree because of it. I didn’t get my first job because of it. I have never been given anything because of it. And no one really cares. I can’t just give your son a passing grade because his mom died. So, if you would like to talk to my administrator, I invite you to call him. Have a nice day.” And I hung up the phone.
I was transported right back to that moment today…to feeling that pit in my stomach, that gulp of ache in my throat. I hate that I don’t have the family I deserve. I know the immature parenting of broken people put me in a position in which I am not always good at being a partner. But, I have never once thought to myself…pity me. Feel bad for me because after all, I am just the girl that shitty things happen to.
I am not that person. I am as responsible right now for the good in my life, as I am for the bad in my life. I am an expert at picking impossible relationships. At 16, watching Julia Roberts portray Vivian in “Pretty Woman”…it wasn’t the shopping spree or the happily ever after that would stick with me…it was the part where Edward says…”My special gift is impossible relationships.”
I knew it then, as much as I know it now….I pick impossible relationships. I have lived with the ghost of my mother for longer than I ever had her physical person. I sunk myself into someone who, while is a wonderful human, was not meant to love me. I have fallen in love with people who are truly unavailable…and I don’t mean my unrequited love of the brown Micheal Jackson at 11 years old. I mean completely unavailable to me, no matter my dreams or wishes or wants, unavailable. I admit it. I make terrible choices.
But, I also choose. I have chosen to not live the life that so many around me don’t have the want or desire to choose. For the second time, in less than four years, I have moved…thousands of miles away from most people I know. I am in a city that would chew me up and spit me out….if I let it. I chose to live in my truth, at 40 years old. To embrace the things that were most unique to me…the need to wander, and to adventure, and to talk to strangers, and to throw off the expectations of marriage and motherhood…I chose to be the woman that I am today. With all the scars and the tattoos, and the smile, and the wrinkles, and the freckles. I am choosing to live MY truth, to love and to run, and to lay in my bed on a Sunday morning with coffee in my hand, and no clothes on.
I choose. To eat what makes me happy, to drink beer because I love the taste, to touch and explore the limits of passion…and to streak, even though so many people around me wonder…what is the matter with her?
I don’t know much. I don’t have good answers. But I do know this. I am choosing to be happy, to live with joy, and with passion, and to be a good person, even when the world says there isn’t good left. I am choosing good for me.
As much as I am the product of dysfunction and bad choices made by others…I am also the beautiful result of my own choices. I am not the girl, nor the woman, that life just happens to. I choose to be me, to be the woman that is okay with going to bed alone, running on rainy days, being someone that is not every one’s cup of tea…because at the end of the day…I choose me. I choose love. I choose my life. I choose.
I’m so grateful that I can.
Take care of you, and choose the things that bring you joy.
And, happy almost November…birthday month, here we come….
The last couple of weeks have been difficult. I have found myself overly emotional at things that generally, I handle like a champ. But, right now, the upheaval feels so real. I have these waves in which I wonder…am I always this emotional? Honestly…it is probably a yes. But, the normal clichés of “rolling with the punches”, and “rubbing some dirt in it”….well, I am struggling. And, I know some of the why. But, some of the things that I thought weren’t so full of pitfalls and fraught…I just am surprised at the gaps right now.
Last week, on my Saturday run, I had to stop, with my hands on my knees, and sob. The snot mingling with the sweat, and the tears burning my eyes…real, deep sobs…it caused a few of the people that frequent an area of town that I was running thru to look my way with some concern. I staved them off, and worked hard to pull myself together. How was I going to try to explain to someone who with so much less than me…my heart was breaking? And, maybe some of the wounds…well, they just haven’t healed, still? How was I supposed to explain…the podcast I was listening to, in which an author was being interviewed about her newest novel…felled me.
I can’t barely understand it myself. And, I would break down again, trying to explain to Lynnie how I was feeling. In the conversation with the interviewer, the author was asked about her own experience with her mother, and how that influenced her writing. As always, I listened with more intent ears, as this woman spoke to her relationship with her mother. It is what I heard that would nearly fell me, causing me some 500 yards later to stop and sob.
The author spoke of the bond between a mother and a child as one of “forced intimacy”; that the mother was forced to create these intimate bonds with their child, and essentially learn to love this being, who inhabited their body, relied on them, and spent so many of those formative years being needy and ego-centric. I completely understood that, and it made sense to me. But, it would be in the thought that would follow in my brain…how in some cases, we as children truly do not know our mothers. And in some cases, never form the knowledge of who they are, or were, in some cases, outside of the forced relationship of our dependency. And it would be that thought, that moment…that would stop me, and bring a sob into my chest, uncontrollable behind my sunglasses.
I don’t know my mom. I don’t know her favorite color. I don’t know what her favorite food was. I don’t know the thoughts she had that kept her up at night, nor those that soothed her aches. I don’t know her favorite gift, or what her favorite smell was. I don’t know what touch left her breathless. I don’t know if she ever truly felt loved. I don’t know what made her laugh to tears. I don’t know how she saw her 5’10 frame, or how she felt about fresh sheets. I don’t know so many things. I don’t know.
I don’t know.
For anyone who has read my blog before, you know that I have spent so many entries trying to make sense of numbers and dates, of birthdays and death days, of loss and love, and what it means to be a “motherless daughter”, and to be Sherry’s daughter, without Sherry. And I realize, in so many things…for as many memories as I pull tightly to me, I know so little of who she really was. Not Sherry, Amy’s mother. But, Sherry, the woman.
I can think of so many things, and moments, and memories in which her presence is prominent. I can see her in her anger, and her frustration. I can feel her touch on my shoulder as I play the piano, struggling to find the correct notes with my small hands. I can smell the chocolate chip cookies that were baked by her especially for me. I can hear her singing in the car to Elton John. I can close my eyes and smell the cigarette smoke from the Marlboro Lights. I can hear her, saying my whole name when I was in trouble.
But, I can’t ask her…what hurts? What makes it better? What did you love? What was your favorite book as a child? Where do the demons that live in your head hide….I can’t ask her for help. I can’t…and today, that hurts. Surprisingly, it aches, deep and raw inside of a chest that to the outside is healed, or at least seems healed.
I know there are people like me on the planet…who don’t know their mothers…and those mothers might be living. They might be a phone call or a FaceTime away. They might live in the same town, or across the globe…and this isn’t advice to pick up the phone. It certainly is not a ploy to guilt anyone into being falsely grateful. There are so many reasons why the bonds between a mother and a child get broken, or in some cases…never form beyond the sustaining of life.
I just didn’t know how much it would hurt to realize that my connection and bond to a beautiful, fierce warrior of a woman might be more mine than it ever would have been hers.
Tomorrow, I will eat strawberry ice cream. I will let the sun kiss my cheeks, and think about the blessing of her life. I will hug my friends. And I will be so fucking grateful that on July 15, 1948…Sherry Ann Smart was born, because without that day…I would have nothing to be so grateful for…even in the thoughts that there is so, so much that I will never know of her life.
And, in the puzzle that has so many missing pieces, I will try to honor her by not forcing to fill in pieces that would not fit. I will be grateful for the forms and images that can’t be seen, because I know that I am a piece of what she left behind. I know that in the profile and face of my niece…she lives on. In my love of Levon and road trips, she lives on. In me, she lives on.
GratitudeThroughChange 